The Taste of Air

by Gail Cleare

  Nell ended up back at the front desk where Doris sat. The bright light in the lobby sent a spike of pain flashing through her left temple, a sign that a migraine was on the way.

  Nell asked Doris to recommend a nearby motel or bed-and-breakfast, figuring she could quickly check in and grab some coffee while she waited for Mom to wake up. She received a blank look in response. The receptionist clicked a button on her computer and looked at the screen.

  “Thought so. Don’t you want to stay at your mother’s place? It’s just a few minutes from here.”

  Nell stared at her, dazed. “My mother’s place?”

  The woman clicked another button, and a page began to emerge from the printer behind her desk. It was Mary’s registration form. The address line read, “27 Lakeshore Road, Hartland, VT.” A phone number with the local area code was listed.

  “Beautiful old cottages down by the lake. She must love it there. Need directions?” Without waiting for an answer, the woman printed out a map and pushed it across the desk. She pointed out how to get to the lake, while Nell’s mind raced to the most logical conclusion. Mom must have rented a place on the water. The owners might know something about what happened to her. Nell would drive over for a quick snoop and see if anyone was around.

  Going outside with the map clutched in her hand, Nell fumbled with her keys and got into the car. Half a mile away was Lakeshore Road, which as she expected, followed the banks of a small lake. Rocky beaches were studded with mica that sparkled in the sunlight. A few sailboats tacked back and forth across the dark-blue water—another beautiful landscape painted in those glowing colors. A pair of cardinals darted across the road in front of her, the male a scarlet flash against the pines.

  Nell pulled up at number twenty-seven, which was across the street from the lake. The white cottage had a small yard in front, neatly mowed, and an attached one-car garage. The front door was fire-engine red, just like the one on the house where Nell and Bridget had grown up. Black shutters framed the windows too. Looking at the oddly familiar house brought the scent of cinnamon to mind along with a memory of getting off the school bus to find Mom in her apron and warm applesauce cake waiting on the kitchen counter.

  Parking in the driveway, she waited for someone to appear. Maybe the cottage belonged to friends and Mom had been visiting. Nobody seemed to be around. It was silent except for birdcalls and the barking of a small dog.

  Nell got out of her car and walked up the path. Leaning forward to push the doorbell, she tried to peek into the windows without being obvious. For some reason, the place was making her feel odd. Funny coincidence that it looks so much like our old house. The memory blurred and shifted in her mind like a dream from long ago. Nell’s brain began to tingle, anxiety building up in her chest. She looked around more carefully and saw her mother’s favorite flowering annuals, salmon-colored New Guinea impatiens, planted between the shrubs across the front of the house. Mom always planted them in early spring so they’d be in full bloom for the parade on Memorial Day.

  All the shades were positioned exactly the same across the front of the cottage, lined up like soldiers. Mom had always been a stickler for that, saying it was a habit she’d picked up in the army, where she’d been a nurse before she and Daddy were married.

  Nell leaned forward and rang the doorbell again then knocked. The sound echoed through the quiet neighborhood. There were no signs of movement inside the cottage.

  Almost without thinking, in a strange, dreamy state of mind, she stepped into the flowerbed to the right of the door and reached behind the shutter. A key hung from a small hook, exactly where it should be. Her hand found it with a certainty gained from years of experience.

  Whatever was going on, Nell didn’t like it. The place was a trip back to her teen years. It was as though she had slipped into a time warp.

  She looked at the key in her hand as if it was a bug that might bite her. Then she walked up the steps, put the key in the lock, and turned it. The red door swung open.

  She entered a narrow living room that stretched the full depth of the house. A clock ticked like a slow, sure heartbeat. Standing in the middle of the room, she turned full circle and examined the place carefully. The unremarkable furniture was old but looked comfortable. A worn Oriental carpet covered the floor in shades of blue and gold. There were silk flowers on the table by the window and shelves filled with cheerful ceramic tea sets. Over the fireplace hung a framed print of Mary Cassatt’s painting of two little girls playing at the beach, one of her mother’s favorite images. She’d always said it reminded her of Nell and Bridget. Nell had bought her a print at the Louvre Museum when she and David went to Paris on their honeymoon.

  Nothing else looked familiar, though, and Nell started to relax. It was a vacation rental, of course. Why would she recognize it? The key was just a fluke. It was a great hiding place, that’s all. Hopefully, the landlord wouldn’t walk in and catch her roaming around. Well, if Mom had rented the place, then it wouldn’t matter anyhow. She just needed to confirm that her mother had really been staying there, so she turned and continued to explore.

  Walking through to the adjoining kitchen at the back of the house, she found it clean and tidy with nothing on the counters or table. The room smelled faintly of toast. Probably from yesterday, unless somebody else was here.

  Passing a cozy den, she climbed up the stairs. Nell tried the bathroom first, looking for prescriptions, but the medicine cabinet only held some over-the-counter drugs. Her neck muscles crackled with tension, and her temple throbbed, so she took two painkillers and swallowed them with water from her cupped hand. The front bedroom looked like a guest room, an empty stage waiting for the next actor to appear. The larger bedroom, which looked out on the backyard, seemed inhabited. She noticed books and reading glasses on the bedside table and a white sweater hanging on a hook.

  Opening the dresser drawers, she found a woman’s nightgowns and underwear, size small, and then the kind of bra Mom liked, the brand Nell herself had recommended. She noticed a familiar scent floating up out of the drawers. Baby powder and lavender, the same fragrance she smelled whenever she put her arms around Mom’s neck for a hug. Touching the clothes reverently, she stroked the wrinkles flat and put everything away.

  Nell took off her jacket and hung it on the back of a chair. She looked over at the door of what must be a closet. Her throat ached with anxiety, and she hesitated, but then she stepped forward, swung the door open, and reached to pull the dangling light chain.

  Hanging right on the back of the closet door, a long garment glowed a bright hot red, spotlighted by the bare bulb.

  She blinked, but the uneven topstitching on one cuff was unmistakable. It was the red flannel bathrobe Nell had made for her mother in sewing class in high school. It looked as though Mom had just taken it off and would be right back inside it again that night for popcorn and TV.

  The robe smelled like Mom too. Nell pressed the fabric to her face and inhaled, tears leaking from her eyes. She felt stretched as thin as the skin of an overripe tomato, ready to split at the slightest touch.

  The closet was full of her mother’s clothes, way too many for a short visit. There were winter sweaters and summer shorts, parkas and snow boots along with T-shirts and sandals. The clothes were definitely Mom’s. Nell recognized them. It looked as if her mother had been living there for a long time.

  How could this be happening? Mom lived at Maplewood, where people looked in on her every day. They would have noticed if she was gone. And why hadn’t she told Nell or Bridget about this house? Nell’s calm dissolved, and the insecurity that was right around the corner most of the time came rushing into the place in her stomach where she held her fear.

  Her world had transformed from the orderly refuge where she always felt safe into a chaotic state of confusion. Nell’s head buzzed with a strange sense of betrayal
. The hurt child inside cried out for life to return to normal, but she had a feeling nothing would ever be that way again.

  Standing in front of her mother’s closet, she tried to imagine Mom sneaking off to Vermont. It wasn’t easy to picture. A wave of resentment swept through her, then she gasped for breath and clutched the left side of her head, where a steady pain burned. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, trying to accept the truth. The combination of worry and shock had left Nell stunned, the migraine blazing out of control.

  Shoulders sagging, Nell shuffled to the narrow bed that stood against the far wall and turned the white coverlet back from the pillow. A double window looked down on a lush garden filled with purple lupines and pink daylilies, which looked watery and Impressionistic through the aura of the headache. It hurt to look at the light, so she pulled down the shades.

  She checked her cell to confirm no calls or texts had come in, set the alarm for half an hour, and put the phone on the bedside table. Lying down to stretch out, Nell let her head melt into the pillow as it released a wisp of that same reassuring powdery scent. A rosy glow of nostalgia hung in her mind when she closed her eyes and drifted. The throbbing in her head began to dull as she let her muscles loosen.

  This was Mom’s cottage. She stayed here on and off for some unknown period of time, Lying in this bed with her head on this lavender-scented pillow. Napping in the long summer afternoons, with the hum of bees flowing across the smooth green lawn.

  And doing God knew what the rest of the time. That was a question to pursue later. But first, just a few minutes of blissful oblivion.

  Nell fell asleep, comforted by the scent of home.

  Chapter 2

  Nell ~ 2014

  Every Sunday when Nell and Bridget were growing up, the whole family got up early, dressed in their best clothes, and went to church. The Reilly clan was Catholic, and the sisters’ father, Thomas Reilly, had never missed a Sunday morning service in his life except during the time he served in Vietnam. Nell’s family sat in the same pew every week, and the highlight of the service for the girls was communion, when everyone took turns walking up to the rail in front of the altar, and they could see what their friends were wearing. Then the sisters could kneel in the pew and pretend to pray while they whispered to one another.

  Thomas always wore a suit and tie and Mary a dress with pearls, stockings, and pumps. The two girls wore the dresses their mother had made for them on her Singer sewing machine. Mom had learned to sew from her mother and had used the skill ever since to look stylish on a budget. Mom and her sister, Kate, prided themselves on their beautiful handwork. Their sheer blouses featured fine embroidery, pleated smocking, and tiny little hemstitches. They’d been the fashion leaders of their sorority house at the state university.

  But Bridget and Nell were different. They wanted to look like the other girls in their school, who wore only certain brands of ready-to-wear clothes. When the sisters described an outfit to Mom and she adapted a pattern to make it for them, the result was never the same. They were secretly ashamed to be seen in it.

  Mom had tried to teach Bridget how to sew, giving up after the first argument. Three years later, Nell surprised everyone by signing up for a high-school sewing class in Home Economics. Her mother did her best to keep out of it, and Nell persevered.

  That Christmas, a big box from Nell to her mother dwarfed the other gifts under the tree. Inside was the red flannel bathrobe. It was too big and too long, the seams wavered in and out, and the patterned white topstitching on the left sleeve was crooked.

  Mom loved it. She rolled up the sleeves and wore it every night that winter, dragging the ragged hem behind her on the floor.

  Despite the encouragement, Nell never sewed again after that semester. When the weather turned too warm for flannel, the red bathrobe disappeared into the back of her mother’s closet, never to be seen again.

  Until she walked into Mary Reilly’s secret house in Vermont.

  Nell lay on her mother’s bed and looked out the window at the garden, wondering if her father had known about this place. Perhaps her parents bought the cottage together. Or had Mom found it after his death? There were no signs of his clothing or belongings in the house so far.

  She dialed the number for Intensive Care, and while waiting for the connection, Nell went into the front bedroom and opened the closet door. It contained a few of her mother’s old winter coats, and the drawers of the dresser were empty.

  When the ICU answered, Nell learned that her mother was still sleeping. Checking the time, she saw only a little over an hour had passed since she’d left the hospital. She asked for the doctor’s phone number.

  Nell needed answers and was prepared to demand them. If she couldn’t immediately find out everything she wanted to know about the cottage, at least she would get all the details of her mother’s medical condition.

  For a moment, she thought of calling her husband and asking him to intervene—people always seemed to pay more attention to David—but Nell quickly dismissed the notion. Mom had asked for her, so Nell would be the one to protect her.

  Flashes of her mother lying in her hospital bed with the tube taped into her mouth flickered through Nell’s mind. She cringed as the horrible images registered, and her adrenaline began to pump. Then came a flood of anger and the need to blame someone. She was itching for a fight.

  Scowling, Nell thought of the administrators at Maplewood, who had been so reassuring when she and Bridget went on a tour before signing the contracts. They were paying plenty for the expertise and support the place claimed to provide. She would definitely discuss the matter with Bridget.

  But first, she dialed home. The connection got fuzzy and died, so she tried again. After a couple of rings, her son Ben answered the phone.

  “Hi, sweetie, it’s Mom.”

  “Hi, Mom. How’s Grandma?” At fifteen, Ben’s voice squeaked at unexpected moments.

  “She’s pretty sick, but they’re taking good care of her.”

  “I hope she gets well soon. We’re making her some funny cards to send to the hospital.” Ben was addicted to the Comedy Network and had memorized a wide assortment of jokes for all occasions. His grandmother was always a receptive audience for his stand-up routine.

  “I’ll tell her, honey. How was school?” If he had a test coming up, she needed to remind him. Nell tried to remember what was going on with his school projects that week, but her mind was suddenly blank. Maybe she’d have to let him practice being independent.

  “Lacrosse practice was cool. I scored a couple times.”

  “Great! No TV until homework is done, Ben.” She decided a generic warning would be good enough for the moment.

  “I know, Mom. Chill.” He sounded annoyed. Nell realized she had crossed the line again as she seemed to so often now that Ben was a full-fledged teenager. “Here,” he growled. “Talk to Lauren.”

  “Love you, honey,” Nell said as the phone clattered onto the table. She could hear the housekeeper’s voice and the vacuum cleaner. It was a relief to know that life at home seemed to be going on as usual despite her absence.

  “Mommy? Is that you?” Her daughter, ten years old, was still unabashedly a little girl and thought teenagers were dumb. Nell prayed she would stay that way for as long as possible.

  “Hello, Punkin,” Nell said. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m good, Mommy. Mademoiselle Blanchette brought some cool CDs to class, and we listened to this weird French music, and everybody danced.” She laughed, her voice crackling into a giggle. “She said I was good.”

  “You are a very good dancer, sweetie. I hope you’re good at learning French too. But ballet lessons are more fun, right?”

  “Where are you, Mommy? When are you coming home?”

  “Probably in a couple of days. Grandma is sick, and
I need to help her.”

  “Did you give her some tea with honey?”

  Nell smiled at the sweet, caring suggestion. “Not yet, Lauren, but that’s a great idea. I have to go now, but you be a good girl for Daddy and Mrs. Shelby, okay? Kiss Daddy for me.”

  They said good-bye, and Nell pushed the red off button as she pictured the small face on the other end of the connection. She loved her kids so much, more than anything in the world. The little details of their lives were the focus of her days. But honestly, getting away from them for a little while was a blessing, especially at the moment. There were just too many other things for her to worry about.

  She wanted to call David and Bridget too, but hunger pangs rumbled in her stomach. The headache was gone, but Nell realized she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A little food would help her cope with everything better, then she would call her husband and sister. She slipped her cell phone into her pocket and went down to the kitchen.

  Mom’s favorite coffee, hazelnut flavored, was in the fridge. There was also fresh milk, a loaf of bread, some vegetables, and a freezer full of meat and packaged dinners. Some of them looked ancient, coated by a furry layer of ice crystals.

  How long has Mom been coming here? Curiosity overwhelmed her thoughts. She started a pot of coffee, made a quick sandwich, and explored the kitchen while she ate, opening drawers and cupboards. She looked for a pile of mail or receipts that might have names and dates on them but found only dishes and kitchen utensils.

  She noticed a wooden key rack on the wall next to the door to the garage. From one of the hooks dangled a silver keychain with two keys on it. One of them looked like a house key, and the other had FORD written on it.