Commitments

by Barbara Delinsky

  He stopped writing to think about Sabrina and the country. He could see it; the image fit. It brought back the vision he’d had of her so long ago when they’d first met, when he’d thought of her as a flower child. Remembering it, he felt more peaceful than he had moments before.

  Then he sighed and resumed his letter. “Hold onto the notes you’ve taken regarding that other matter. You’re right; I don’t want them here. There are no safe-deposit boxes in the manager’s office. I have no guarantee that someday when I’m out my things won’t be rifled. That’s happened—not here, but in Parkersville. The sense of violation is infuriating. I tell you this so that you’ll guard what you write. Sending things through David offers privacy, but only to a point.” He paused, jiggled his jaw to relax it. “Keep taking notes, though. I know you won’t have much time, with moving and all, but anything you can do would be a help. I have only preliminary information on the matter. It will be wonderful to have something more to use as a stepping-off point when I get out.

  “How’s Nicky? I think of him often. I think of you often. You have me bewitched, y’know. Please write again.”

  He picked up Sabrina’s letter, read it again to make sure that he’d answered every question she’d asked, then focused on the closing. “Love, Sabrina.” A common closing. “Love, Sabrina.” Could be just a figure of speech.

  But he’d seen her eyes and felt her touch and he’d known. So it wasn’t just him. He had nothing to lose by being honest.

  Picking up his pen, he wrote, “I love you, too. Derek.”

  * * *

  “Dear Derek.” Sabrina wrote back on the very same day she received his letter. “You have no idea how much it meant to me to hear from you. I’ve been worried. David had assured me you were fine, but I wasn’t quite sure until I got your letter. You’re probably thinking that ‘fine’ is relative, and I know it is, but I’m thinking that ‘fine’ means healthy, and I’m relieved that you are. I had visions of black eyes and broken ribs and broken arms and legs. If they can keep you safe there, I’m glad.”

  She paused, pen poised above her monogrammed stationery. Her heart was beating faster than normal. She’d been smiling since she’d read his letter. Hearing from him had meant more to her than simply the matter of his health. There was the fact that he’d decided to write at all, and of course, there were those four special words.

  Shaking her head a little, she forced herself back to her letter. “In the two weeks since I wrote last, lots has happened. I found the most wonderful place in Vermont”—she went back to underline wonderful because she felt it was warranted—“a turn-of-the-century farmhouse that is in such a state of disrepair that you’d probably choose your cell over it—except, and I repeat, except that it comes with ten of the most beautiful acres you’ve ever seen. There are woods and meadows and streams. The house itself is located on a rise and looks down over grass and trees to the Quandahoosic River, which flows into the Connecticut, which means that it’s nowhere near Bennington. It’s on the other side of the state, about thirty miles north of Brattleboro.

  “I’ve hired a contractor to start work on the farmhouse—new roof, new electrical and plumbing systems, extra insulation, that sort of thing—but I’m thinking of doing some of the inside work myself. I’ve never painted walls or stripped wood moldings. I’m hoping the work will be for me a little like what your running is for you. I need the outlet. I hadn’t realized how hard it would be to learn to relax. I suppose I’m not making things easier for myself—I’ll be moving out of the apartment and into the loft within two weeks—but once I’ve done that I’ll be able to concentrate on the farmhouse.”

  She thought for a minute, then couldn’t resist putting the thought to paper. “Interesting how we find things to divert our minds—moving from one place to the other, renovating a third. I want to get back to writing, but no sooner do I clear my mind for that purpose when it is filled with thoughts either of you or of Nicky, and the emotions are too strong to concentrate on much else. I suppose time will solve that problem, too.

  “They tell me at the Greenhouse that I’ll come to accept Nicky’s living there. I hope they’re right. It’s still hard. As of a week ago Sunday, Nicky was fine, which, in his case, means the same. He recognizes me when I come—gurgles a little and smiles—and I end up laughing and crying, holding him and not wanting to let go.”

  The pen wavered. She hesitated, frowned, wrote on. “But I do let go. One part of me is really glad to let go. I feel guilty about that, but it’s the truth. I love seeing Nicky, and the mother part of me dies a little each time I have to leave, but when I think about taking care of him again, I get a knot in my stomach and I start to shake. I’m not knocking the staff at the Greenhouse, but they can afford to be wonderful; they only work eight-hour shifts, five days a week at most, and when they leave, they can go back to their nice, quiet, normal lives. The emotional involvement is different. A mother takes personally what her child does or doesn’t do. She can’t turn off those feelings after an eight-hour shift. She can’t just hand over her baby to someone else when he starts to fuss. A grandparent can, I suppose, but I’ll never be one, will I?”

  Putting down her pen, Sabrina turned away. She hadn’t had that thought before, and she found that it was as sad as any. Having children, then grandchildren, had always been part of the dream. Now what?

  She didn’t have an answer. Her life was still too much in a state of flux. Perhaps when things quieted down, perhaps when she got back to writing, perhaps with the simple passage of time she’d see the future more clearly.

  Turning back to her letter, she wrote, “I’m sorry, Derek. I didn’t mean to go off on a tangent like that. I think you’ve spoiled me. I’ve never talked to anyone the way I talk to you. I miss you, miss the questions you ask and your support. I’d gladly go back to Parkersville—or to any other prison—if it meant I could see you.

  “Three months, maybe less. Have you heard anything more about that? Will the transfer make a difference either way?”

  More than once, she’d allowed herself to imagine that Derek would get an early release, that she’d open her front door and find him there. She wasn’t optimistic; from what he’d said, he wasn’t getting any favors. The law was the law, she supposed, and if the law said that he had to serve at least two-thirds of his minimum sentence, an early release was a pipe dream.

  Three months, maybe less depending on when the parole board heard his case. But three months at the outside. That was all.

  It was too long.

  Feeling down, she picked up the pen and closed the letter by writing, “Please know that I think of you often. My love, Sabrina.”

  * * *

  At the end of August, Derek wrote back to say that the farmhouse in Vermont sounded perfect. He meant it. Woods, meadows, streams—and a river. He was familiar with the Quandahoosic. It was narrow at spots, where rocks taxed even the most experienced of paddlers, but at other spots it opened into a breathtaking corridor of fresh water lined with willows.

  He wasn’t surprised that Sabrina had bought into the fixing-up of a broken-down farmhouse. She had time for the work, and she had the energy. He agreed that it would be a good outlet. And not once did he doubt that she’d do that work herself. She wasn’t a snob. She wasn’t one to sit back and watch others work. Ironically, if she’d been that way, she’d have had an easier time with Nicky. She’d simply have hired more help.

  Repairing the farmhouse would appeal to her nurturing instinct. She would steam tired old paper from the walls and replace it with new with the same care that she’d shown when he’d been beaten up that time and she’d stroked him to sleep.

  He only wished he were there to help.

  * * *

  At the beginning of September, Sabrina wrote that she had finished decorating the loft and was in the process of moving the rest of her things to Vermont. Work on the farmhouse was progressing faster than she’d dared to hope. The new roof was on, as were
new windows and doors, loose fieldstone had been repacked and broken clapboards replaced—which meant that she could live there without fear of the elements. At first she’d planned to stay in New York until the electrical and plumbing work was done, but her need to be out of the city, closer to Nicky and involved in the renovation on a daily basis overrode any qualms she had. She could rough it for a while.

  Her last few days in the city were busy with the arrangements for the move north, yet she managed to squeeze in a fair amount of time at the library. More than ever, she wanted to talk with Derek. She wanted to know why he was interested in Lloyd Ballantine, who, as far as she could see, was one of the least notable of the Supreme Court justices to occupy the bench in years. She learned that he had, by and large, voted with the majority, and that the opinions he’d written were thought to be competent, though far from inspired. Off the bench he was just as bland.

  Derek had written that her notes would be a stepping-off point for him when he got out—but a stepping-off point for what?

  Since Sabrina couldn’t put the question to him, she simply gathered what new details she could find on Ballantine, then filed them with the rest of her notes for transfer to Vermont. She intended to install a computer once the farmhouse was functional, and a modem would give her access to a broad range of resources. Between that and use of the library at Dartmouth—which was less than forty-five minutes away—she hoped that by the time Derek was released, she’d have a full dossier to present to him.

  By the middle of September, Derek was discouraged. It had been nearly two months since he’d seen Sabrina, and there were times when he wondered if she was real. Sure, he had her letters. He read them so many times that he could replay them in their entirety in his mind’s eye. But it wasn’t the same. She wrote that she’d moved into the farmhouse, but he’d never seen the farmhouse, so he couldn’t picture her there. She wrote that she was literally camping out on the bedroom floor, that she was still without lights and a stove, that she’d picked up poison ivy in the woods—and he couldn’t imagine any of it because he’d never seen her wearing anything but a skirt!

  Letters couldn’t take the place of flesh and blood, and that was what he craved—flesh and blood, warmth, smiles, the kind of sunshine that could light him up inside, the kind only Sabrina produced.

  His everyday life had fallen back into the same tedious existence he’d known before she first came to Parkersville. There were no visits to look forward to. One day dragged into the next. There was no one to bring him from a sour mood, no one to diffuse his anger or offset his frustration.

  His running helped some, as did the sight of his calendar with more and more X’s and fewer and fewer blank spaces. But without Sabrina’s letters—real or not—he’d surely have gone mad, because she signed each with her love, and he needed that.

  * * *

  At the beginning of October, Sabrina wrote that her family had descended on the farmhouse. “All three of them, all the way from the Coast, totally without warning! I was sitting on the floor of the front porch, filthy and exhausted after a day sanding woodwork, when a honking car barreled in. It seems that they’d conspired at the last minute to see for themselves where I was ‘hiding away’ (their term, not mine). It’s actually a miracle they made it in one piece. My dad is a terror behind the wheel (horses are more his style), but he’d insisted on driving the rental from Boston. My mother was furious with him by the time they got here, and J. B. was as pale as a ghost (poetic justice there).

  “I had honestly thought I’d reached the point of not feeling in a state of crisis. Then they showed up. They do something to me, Derek—stir me up, put me right on the defensive, make me feel inadequate. If it wasn’t Mom telling me that I couldn’t possibly live so far from civilization, it was Dad telling me that the plasterer was using the wrong mix on the ceilings. Thank God, J. B. didn’t say much. He just kind of stared at everything, then went out back to the barn and stared at that.”

  She didn’t write that—later that night, when they’d been having dinner at an inn in nearby Grafton, where Amanda had insisted they all spend the night—J. B. had made a point of asking about Derek. Sabrina hadn’t previously mentioned him to either of her parents, but her brother gladly filled them in on what they’d missed.

  Amanda and Gebhart both felt that Derek’s story, when fictionalized, could be a hit. But Sabrina had no intention of fictionalizing anything. And in that spirit, she took them to the Greenhouse the following day to visit Nicky. She did write to Derek about that.

  “It was a mistake, Derek, an awful mistake. I never should have taken them there. They said that they wanted to see their grandson, and since I’d spoken of the Greenhouse only in glowing terms, I had no choice. But no amount of glowing terms can disguise a home for the handicapped. My mother grew very pale and very quiet. Worse, my father, who has a macho thing about control, seemed to crumble inside. J. B. was surprisingly good—probably because Mom and Dad were both so clearly upset. He carried Nicky while we took a tour of the grounds, then played with him a little. Nicky was himself. He is as beautiful as ever, but the bigger he gets, the more noticeable the discrepancy between his physical age and his mental age. It was very hard for my parents to see. And for me.”

  * * *

  Derek’s heart went out to her when he read that. He’d always felt a soft spot when it came to Nicky, perhaps from the time so long ago when he’d held the child. He’d always felt Sabrina’s pain. More than anything he’d have wanted to be with her then.

  Then again, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be with her family. When he thought of them, he felt out of place. He came from a very different sort than they were. His life experiences had been altogether different. He wouldn’t fit in.

  Especially now.

  He was a convict, and the countdown had begun. Word had spread that the parole board would be hearing cases at Pine Island on the ninth and tenth of November. With little more than a month until then, tension was up throughout the prison.

  Derek felt it as keenly as he ever had, because this time his own future was on the line. During daytime lockup, he would sit against the cinder-block wall of his cell and wonder where he’d be five weeks from then.

  At night he would lie on his cot, stare at the ceiling and know that he wanted to be with Sabrina.

  David was sure that his release was a safe bet. Derek had learned not to bet on a thing.

  * * *

  By the middle of October, Sabrina was able to write that the farmhouse was nearly livable. “I haven’t begun on the decorating, but the dusty work is almost done, and once that’s finished, I’m home free. My kitchen is already functional. One more bathtub has to go in, but other than that the plumbing’s done. I can’t wait till you see it!”

  She agonized over that last sentence. Not once, either during her visits to Parkersville or in the letters they’d exchanged since, had Derek committed himself to any post-release plans. She knew that he feared the release wouldn’t come, and she feared it too, but she needed to be hopeful and, therefore, she dreamed.

  She wanted to believe that he loved her. She did believe it when she thought back to the way he’d been during their last few visits—and he wrote the words in every letter—but it wasn’t the same as having him there with her, being taken in his arms and hearing the words whispered with the force of their meaning.

  The problem was that other than his love, she didn’t know what she wanted from him. She knew she loved him, and that meant she wanted to be with him, but where and on what kind of basis was unclear. She had needs of her own. He had needs of his own. Whether the two could mesh was anyone’s guess.

  “Nicky is having seizures more frequently,” she wrote. “The Greens aren’t alarmed, but they suggested that I may want to take him back to his regular doctor for an evaluation at some point. I think they’re right, though I don’t look forward to the trip.

  “On a lighter note, my friend Maura was up to visit this week.
She said that she wouldn’t believe I was living on a farm until she saw it. I tried to explain that I’m not living on a farm, per se, just living in a farmhouse, but she took one look at the barn and decided that I should raise sheep, then spin their wool into gold.”

  Maura had actually said that in disgust, when Sabrina had been evasive about Derek. Maura made no secret about wanting her to write, and, in fact, Sabrina had several ideas for articles she was toying with, but Maura had her mind set. She wanted Derek’s book. Since Sabrina had no intention of mentioning the book to Derek when he had so much else on his mind, she put Maura off as best she could.

  * * *

  By the end of October, letter writing was growing harder. Sabrina could tell Derek that she’d just finished papering the bathrooms, that the autumn foilage was breathtaking from her front porch or that she’d met an interesting pair of transplants from New York who had opened a nearby inn, but she knew that his thoughts were on far more consequential things. As were hers.

  She enjoyed the work she did. It exhausted her in a satisfied way, giving her something to show for her time. And the exhaustion helped at night, when pangs of loneliness could be swept under the carpet of sleep.

  The mornings were tougher. Dawn. Shortly after dawn—when she awakened with the sun, feeling refreshed, wanting him. For someone who had never defined herself in sexual terms, it was an awakening in more ways than one.

  Derek, on the other hand, hadn’t needed any kind of awakening. He’d been wanting Sabrina for months. On more nights than he cared to count, he had suffered the pain of arousal, but that pain told only half the story. His longing encompassed everything she was, and became so strong as November approached that there were times when he bolted up from a doze in a cold sweat to find that fear and longing, even in his semiconscious mind, had combined to produce panic.

  He couldn’t write Sabrina about that. True, he’d told her many times that he loved her, but he didn’t want to sound totally obsessed. He didn’t want even to think that himself, because he’d never been a man of obsession. Determination, perhaps, and ambition, but never obsession. He knew that he loved Sabrina, knew that it was strong, but he wondered whether his feelings were magnified by the situation.