Saving Tess

by J. Lynn Bailey

  But Erla Brockmeyer would have definitely never left two boys to die in a field.

  What kind of evil person would do that?

  Erla said to the chief, “I’m sorry, Chief, but any person who leaves two boys to die in a field deserves what’s coming.”

  Chief McBride nodded. “Well, sorry to disturb your evening, Erla. And again, if there’s anything you need from Sandy and me, you know who to call.”

  But a lingering thought has stayed with her since Chief McBride paid her a visit. If it had been so dark, how did the tipster know the woman was about seventy or so?

  A ringing telephone brings Erla to the present moment.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Brockmeyer. This is Bevie down at Dr. Cain’s office, reminding you of your doctor’s appointment tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow.” Erla tries to recollect making a doctor’s appointment.

  “Yes, tomorrow at nine a.m.”

  Erla doesn’t dare ask what the appointment is for so as not to create a stir of unwanted rumors. “I will be there. Thanks, Bevie. And tell your grandmother hello for me, would you, dear?”

  “I sure will, Mrs. Brockmeyer.”

  When she hangs up the phone, the pain starts in her chest again.

  Possibly, she thinks, it’s a gentle reminder from God that I’d better get my chest examined.

  But she knows she won’t make a peep about it because if the good Lord is ready to bring her home, well then, Erla Brockmeyer has her heavenly bags packed, which reminds her to start the letter for Scarlet and Devon. The good-bye letter.

  And a tiny thought in her head stirs—the thought of her smooth exit to heaven, so no one has to find her if these chest pains continue or are something more serious.

  Erla knows Mabe wouldn’t be able to handle it. Most likely, Mabe would start boozing again. Erla isn’t so sure Mabe’s heart could handle her losing her last living relative.

  Erla is certain most of her friends would have a hard time.

  Clyda though, she’d be okay. The woman used to slaughter her own cows, help run a ranch, mend fences, and raise boys. Clyda’s heart could handle it. But that doesn’t mean Clyda is supposed to.

  If she drove out to Eel River, tied her feet to cement bricks, and made her way out to the deep spot, nobody would think to look for an old woman’s body in Eel River. Oh shoot, but they’d see her unattended car. Chief McBride was a softy, but he wasn’t a dunce!

  Erla looks down at her wedding ring. How she wishes she could feel Don’s comforting arms around her once more. Smell the scent of his aftershave, his minty breath.

  And when Bevie called her Mrs. Brockmeyer, it made her think, just for a moment, that Don was still alive. That she was still a Mrs. and not a widow. But she highly doubts the town of Dillon Creek would ever refer to her as Widow Brockmeyer. But still, it feels lonely when she’s referred to as a name she’s worn for longer than she hasn’t.

  Erla glances down at the pad of paper where she wrote the appointment down on. “Oh shoot.” She didn’t get the time.

  Erla swallows her pride and calls Dr. Cain’s office.

  “Dr. Cain’s Family Medical Practice. This is Bevie. How can I help you?”

  Two things Erla loves about Dr. Cain’s office is that Erla can speak to a live person immediately, and she doesn’t have to hit several buttons to get to who she needs.

  “Hey, Bevie. This is Erla. I just need to confirm my appointment time tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Brockmeyer. It’s at nine a.m.”

  Erla writes the time down on her calendar. “That’s what I thought. Thank you, dear. And tell your grandmother hello for me.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Yes … yes, Mrs. Brockmeyer, I will do that.”

  “Wonderful. Good-bye, dear.”

  The next day at fifteen minutes to nine, Erla is in the waiting room, purse in her lap. She remembers the last time she was in here. It was with Don—when everything started. His memory. His balance. It makes her heart ache, her chest hurt, and she wonders if she’ll ever feel normal again. She wishes, just for a minute, not to remember the loss of her husband. Not feel the weight of grief against her chest.

  Bevie comes out behind the closed door. “Mrs. Brockmeyer, Dr. Cain will see you now.”

  In the sterile room, she sits on the chair against the wall as Bevie takes her blood pressure and her heart rate. “What brings you in today, Mrs. Brockmeyer?”

  Heck if I know, she thinks quietly to herself because she doesn’t remember making the appointment.

  “Medication change.”

  Bevie nods and looks at Erla’s chart. “Well, Erla, it looks like you aren’t on any medication right now.”

  “That’s right. We need to change that.”

  Bevie’s eyes meet Erla’s with a laugh. “All right then. The doctor will be in shortly.”

  “Thank you, Bevie.”

  A few minutes later, Dr. Cain walks in. Salt-and-pepper hair.

  The last time she saw him, he administered a drug to Don that allowed his body to finally rest. Before he did it, he looked at Don and Erla and said, “In Dillon Creek, we take care of our own.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Brockmeyer. How are you doing today?”

  Erla lies, “Doing just fine, Doctor.”

  She kept the appointment to see if the fine doctor might consider giving her the same medication he gave Don. Just so she can make her smooth transition to heaven. Planned. Well calculated. Less traumatizing for all parties involved.

  This, she thinks, is a possible alternative to the cement blocks, a rope, and Eel River.

  “What brings you in today?” He leans against the counter. “Looks like”—he looks down at her chart—“a medication change?” His eyes sit in question. “Erla, you’re not on any medication.”

  “Yes, that’s correct, Dr. Cain. But maybe I need to be?” She gives him a wink.

  “I … I’m not following.”

  “You know”—Erla winks again—“the medication we discussed in July.”

  He looks down at her chart again. “Erla, you haven’t been to see me in a year.”

  Clearly, Dr. Cain isn’t following Erla’s lead.

  “How are you dealing with the grief?” he says softer.

  “Oh, the grief?” She pushes down the lump in her throat. “Fine.”

  Dr. Cain looks at her. “Erla, one thing you are not is a good liar. You are many good things, but you are not a good liar.”

  Tears start at the corners of her eyes and slowly make their way down her cheeks. “I’m not …” she whispers and looks up at Dr. Cain.

  Dr. Cain sits down next to her in a chair. “You did the right thing, Erla. Don gave you his wishes, and you followed them.”

  “Why doesn’t it feel like the right thing?”

  Dr. Cain hands her a tissue.

  Erla dabs her eyes, the floodgates opening to all the sadness she’s felt in the last few months.

  “Because your heart aches. Sometimes, the right decision can feel like the wrong one when our hearts are invested in what we want and not what’s best for the other. Don didn’t want you to see him go down the path he was going. Now, he’s free.”

  Erla nods, trying to soak up his words. “I miss him so much.”

  “And you will for a long time. Because heartache is the price we pay for love.”

  “Do you want to know something?”

  “Yes.”

  “I keep his side of the bed, his glass of water that his lips last touched, exactly the same. I’ve left the same pillowcase on his pillow so that I still smell him. And when I’ve had a really tough day, I sleep with his T-shirt just to feel close to him.”

  Dr. Cain puts his hand on Erla’s shoulder. “These are all normal things, Erla. Do you talk to anyone about this?”

  “No.”

  “You should.”

  Erla looks at Dr. Cain. “Doc, I’ve spent most of my life in a happy place. Maybe it�
�s just my turn to hurt.”

  “What about Mabe? Can you talk to Mabe?”

  Erla shrugs. “I don’t want to. I live it. Every day, I live with the grief. It’s the last thing I want to do, Doc.”

  He nods and walks to the cupboard. Takes out a business card and hands it to Erla. “This is a grief support group in Eureka. They meet at noon on Fridays. If you need someone to drive you, I know Bevie would do it in a heartbeat.”

  “That’s nice. Thank you.” Erla takes the card and hangs on to it tightly as she stands.

  “About the medication?”

  “I don’t need anything, Doc. Thanks.”

  “I figured.”

  As Erla makes it to her car, she realizes that Bevie didn’t say anything about her blood pressure or heartbeat.

  See, she thinks to herself, you’re just fine.

  She’s just got a broken heart that’s tired of fighting.

  Patty meets Mabe out front of the Catholic church at fifteen minutes to seven, both dressed in scarfs, sunglasses, and big-brimmed hats.

  “Are you ready?” Mabe asks.

  Patty says, “I think so.”

  Mabe says, “What did you tell your husband?”

  “That I was meeting with a group of drunks.”

  “Good cover.” Mabe nods. “Did you drink today?”

  “No.”

  “Did you drink yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “How about the day before?”

  “I haven’t had a drink in six days, Mabe.”

  “And now, you’re at your first meeting. I’m glad you have the courage tonight.”

  Mabe takes Patty’s hand, and they turn and walk into the AA meeting.

  “If I told you that you never had to drink again, would you believe me?”

  “I don’t know. However, I know, today, I don’t want to drink again.”

  “That’s good enough, dear.”

  And the two women, with forty years between them, walk into an AA meeting.

  Because all they have is one day at a time.

  18

  Tess

  I wake up to the pitter-patter of rain on the roof and remember why I’m naked.

  The wind howls.

  And the old house cries against the wind.

  She’s strong—I feel it in her bones. The beams have provided solace against winter months for years.

  “Tell me a story, girl,” I whisper in the cool, still morning air and wait for her response.

  I slide my hand across the bare sheets beside me, and the old memories, the old feelings rise to the surface of my heart. A mix of emotions dwells somewhere deep within me at my memory of last night.

  Emptiness that I’m alone again.

  Longing for what we had as kids.

  Sadness maybe.

  And heat. I blush at the thought of our naked bodies lying next to each other. His arms that curled around my breasts—a simple reminder of the intimacy Casey knows how to give without expectation in return.

  Old feelings and new feelings, and somewhere in between.

  It’s Wednesday.

  Shit!

  I fly out of bed, unaware of the time but knowing Emmitt starts his work today.

  Quickly, I grab some clothes. I run to the bathroom and jump in the shower.

  “Hey.” I hear Casey’s voice.

  I peel the shower curtain back and see his ruggedly handsome face, a smile, and a cup of coffee in the doorway of the bathroom.

  “I figured you could use this.” He sets the mug down on the counter.

  He’s dressed in a nice button-up shirt. Jeans that fit him too well in all the right spots, and here I am, praying to God that yesterday’s mascara isn’t making its run down my face.

  Painfully aware of my own insecurities and the way he looks right now, staring back at me, I retreat back behind the curtain and say an uncertain, “Thanks, Case.”

  Hidden behind the curtain, I roll my eyes and mime the words, Thanks, Case.

  “Hey,” I call out before I hear the door shut.

  “Yeah?” His voice is smooth, like his dress shirt.

  “What time is it?”

  “Ten after eight.”

  “I’ll be ready before Emmitt gets here.”

  “Tess, I can handle Emmitt. Not sure he needs much direction.”

  My thanks is meager as I allow the hot water to run down my backside, and it reminds me of Casey’s rough hands.

  You’re not going to last, Tess, I tell myself.

  Still, I don’t hear the door to the bathroom shut as I begin to wash my face. Pulling my face from the water, I ask if he’s still there. When I peek out the shower curtain, he’s not there, but a pink towel now sits on the sink.

  He grabbed me a towel, and I smile with every single part of my body.

  After I’m done drying my hair, I add a little eye shadow but not too much. Lengthen my lashes with mascara and put on some lip gloss. Down my coffee like it’s life.

  I walk out into the kitchen a half hour later to a quiet house. Voices trail from the downstairs. Banging hammers.

  If Emmitt doesn’t need my help on the inside, well then, I’ll start on the outside. I remember the berry briars around the front of the house need to be cut back.

  I grab a jacket and put it over my new Ketchikan sweatshirt. I find some gloves in the wood box outside but shake them out just to be sure there aren’t any spiders. Throw a beanie on. Just as I’m about to head outside, Casey comes inside.

  My heart doubles over itself, and I see his eyes scan my body.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  “Where you headed?” he asks.

  “Clear the berry briars out in front of the house.”

  His subtle laugh is throaty, and I watch how his Adam’s apple bobs.

  “What?”

  “You just don’t give up, do you?”

  I change the topic. “What are you doing?”

  Casey looks back the way he came and pulls his thumb in the direction of the detached garage. “Do you know there’s a ride-on lawn mower in there?”

  But his question gets lost somewhere in the face he gives me. The way he used to look at me. When we were kids. It’s a face I don’t see him give anyone, except me, but then again, I haven’t been around him in quite some time, so maybe he has. I try to ignore it and elbow him as I walk past. My face meets the cool weather, and the drizzle touches my skin.

  “Mowing the lawn, Atwood?” I smile, putting on the gloves.

  “Something like that,” he says.

  Toward the afternoon, after the berry briars have had their way with me, my hands are ice-cold, even with the gloves, which, I guess, aren’t supposed to provide warmth, but at least it’s a cover. Sweat drips down my back. I wonder why I even tried with the makeup, the hair today. I pull a strand of hair from my face as I stare down at the beautiful surroundings below me.

  The view from the front of the house that overlooks the Tongass Narrows is breathtaking, but the water’s rough movements remind me of a chaotic time, a time I can’t really put my finger on; it creates a lonely feeling inside me, a sinking feeling. A feeling of fear.

  A distant thought prickles in the back of my mind. How can I have feelings for a place I’ve never been?

  “Hey, Morgan!” Casey calls from the garage. “You need food?”

  I glance down at my watch. It’s twelve thirty.

  “I could eat,” I call back.

  Morgan. We’re back to that?

  Casey nods in my direction, his hands on his hips. He turns and limps back into the garage.

  I wonder if the cold weather is harder on his body. The countless surgeries he’s had. Laurel always had a way of keeping me up-to-date whether it was at Tipple Motors or at Nelson’s or just downtown. I know she always had a soft spot for the two of us, even after Conroy and Tripp died. Maybe she knew the only person to console her son’s broken heart was the one who had broken it in the
first place. If she only knew what had happened between us, I’m not so sure she’d feel the same way.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow and walk up toward the garage. Removing the gloves, I set them down on an old wine barrel just outside the garage.

  “Shall we?” Casey asks.

  “I hope we beat the rain. Should we grab an umbrella?”

  Casey laughs. “Afraid of a little rain, Morgan? Never bothered you when we were kids.”

  “I’m smarter now, more prepared.”

  It’s quiet as the drizzle slowly comes to a halt while we make our way down the hill.

  “Which surgery is the limp from?” I ask. Blowing in my hands to keep them warm only for a second or two.

  He shrugs. “ACL repairs. A broken femur. Take your pick.”

  “Is it the colder weather?”

  “That, and if I don’t keep active, the stiffness will sneak up on me.”

  We walk.

  You ever think about walking away? My heart wants to ask. But I don’t dare allow the words out of my mouth.

  Every time Casey got on a bull, my heart would do a song and dance. He loves to ride, and I love—loved—him. It was that simple.

  He knew it scared the shit out of me, but he always came back to me with a, “See, not so bad.”

  Then, he’d pull me in for a kiss, and I’d forget all the fear, the last eight seconds, because he was alive and there and nothing else mattered.

  “What’s good in Ketchikan?” he asks.

  “No idea. Olive mentioned a fish and chips place. We could try that?”

  Casey nods.

  The stillness between us sits as we reach the bottom of the hill, and we veer onto Creek Street.

  “There.” I point to Addy’s Fish ’n’ Stuff.

  “Sounds about right.”

  We make our way inside. It’s a bar and a restaurant, and it smells like deep-fried everything.

  Divine, I think to myself.

  “Just two?” the young platinum-blonde waitress asks us.

  “Just two,” Casey says.

  “Window seat?” she asks, eyeing Casey up and down like a piece of meat.

  I roll my eyes. “Yes, please.”

  The waitress finally acknowledges my existence.

  There are several flat screens throughout the dark restaurant/bar.