by Lisa Wingate
Clay’s grin was tired and lopsided, his lip swollen and bruised on the left, the oxygen tube bumping awkwardly under his nose. He waved at Mom and Uncle Charley, who were exiting the room to make space. “I think I’ve had . . . enough. . . . adventure . . .” His words grew raspy and trailed off. He swallowed, wincing with the effort, a little mischief twinkling in the eye that wasn’t swollen shut. I was almost glad to see that the mischief was still there, even after the beating he’d taken and the carbon monoxide inhalation in the trunk of the car. “ . . . for a while,” he added, and I wanted to smack him one.
Lips pressing into a line, Ruth turned to me. “You should talk some sense into him.”
“We could tie him to the bed,” Uncle Herb suggested. “Charley’s got an old lariat rope in his truck.”
We laughed together, eager to diffuse the tension in the room. For an instant—just an instant—I saw the image of Clay from my dream. We’d come so close to really losing him. We could have lost him. Watching him laugh now, then draw his eyebrows together, wincing, then give in and laugh again, I regretted all the petty thoughts, resentments, and fears that had kept me away from him, from my family for so many years. Our time together as adults almost ended before it began, and if it had, it would have been my fault as much as anyone’s.
I’d been so busy focusing on my self-determined parameters of what I felt my family should be, that I’d missed the beauty of what they actually were—fragile, flawed, heroic, imperfect, champions of lost causes. Each with things to learn and things to teach. God had knit us together like plantings in a garden—wild and unique above ground, blooming in different ways at different times, the roots intertwined deep beneath the soil. No matter who else passed through my life, no one would take the place of my brother. He would always be the only one with whom I shared the quiet beginnings of life, the awkwardness of growing up, the secret hiding places of childhood, the early hours of Christmas mornings waiting for Santa Claus, the arguments over space in the backseat of a car, the walk to school on the first day, and the rough times after things didn’t go so well.
I looked at him now, his scruffy blond hair in unkempt curls against the pillow, and I saw all of those things. He winked at me and smirked, embarrassed by all the attention as Ruth fawned over him some more, covering him with a knitted afghan she’d brought for him and telling him a story about a stray dog that had wandered into the dairy and wreaked havoc the day before. Mary and Emily were convinced that the dog was Roger.
Clay chuckled wearily and said it was a good thing there weren’t two Rogers, and then Ruth ordered him, in no uncertain terms, to rest and get well, before finally hugging him good-bye.
I walked her out, moving slowly to the end of the hall with her as her nephew tagged along behind. “Our Clay is a good boy,” she said, adjusting her prayer covering and smiling at me.
“A good man,” I corrected.
“There’s a strong heritage in him. A heritage of men who are not afraid.”
I only nodded, thinking that I wished Clay would knuckle under to fear a little more often. I was already dreading waving him off on his next adventure, whatever it might be. The idea that he wanted to settle down in Moses Lake had never been believable, and now that I knew why he’d come here, I knew he’d be moving on as soon as he was well enough.
“It’s in you, too,” Ruth pointed out, her fingers circling mine, squeezing and shaking gently. “Don’t be afraid to live your life, Heather. It comes and goes more quickly than you’d imagine.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” I admitted. I wasn’t sure what was next for me, but I did know that I wouldn’t be returning to my old life, to the people with whom I’d surrounded myself. That box seemed too confining now, too limiting. My time in Moses Lake had grown me in ways that wouldn’t allow me to fit back into the same container.
We stopped at the elevator door, and Ruth’s nephew pushed the button, then stood politely, pretending not to be listening to our conversation. The chime sounded, and the light flickered. We waited while a nurse wheeled a woman with a new baby off the elevator, as the husband followed behind, carrying a suitcase and a balloon bouquet, his face all smiles. I felt the sting of yearning again, but also the vague chill of uncertainty. Did I really have it in me to step from behind the clean glass and steel walls I’d constructed and take a risk on something that couldn’t be measured or calculated or planned? Was Blaine the one? Was there really something special between us, or was I just trying to see what I wanted to see? Was I as wrong about him as I had been about Richard?
“You’ll come visit me in a day or two, and I’ll tell you more stories.” Ruth’s comment tugged at my thoughts, but the deeper questions continued churning, a miniature whirlpool of conflicting emotions.
“If I’m here,” I answered. “I mean, I think I will be . . . for a while . . . until Clay’s well, at least.” Suddenly I felt lost, out of sorts, overwhelmed by the unsettled, unplanned nature of the future. “I quit my job . . . I think.”
But now that the Proxica scandal was about to be made public, Mel would be glad we hadn’t ended up being officially tied to the company. If I called him, he’d probably act like the whole take-this-job-and-shove-it text message never even happened.
Ruth’s fingers released mine as her nephew moved to hold open the elevator door. “Get a good night’s sleep before you decide,” she advised, shuffling into the elevator. “A tired mind doesn’t think well, you know.”
“I know.”
“And eat something. Whole food, not the processed sort.”
I chuckled. “I will.” Actually, a trip across the street to the bakery sounded like a good idea about now.
Her brows arched in a way that caused me to see the little girl who had yearned to peek under the circus tent. “You should think about that riddle. The one the tinker wrote at the Waterbird. We German folk are good with riddles. The Irish think they have the market, but they don’t. If you have the answer, tell me tomorrow.”
I nodded, but in reality, my tired mind was hardly in the mood to contemplate ancient wisdoms. It was just like Ruth, though, to try to use this as a teachable moment.
I rubbed my eyes as I walked back toward Clay’s room. In the hallway ahead, my family was exiting the room en masse, stealing nervous looks over their shoulders. I quickened my steps, forgetting about the riddle.
“We’re heading to the cafeteria,” Uncle Herb offered, shrugging in an indication that I should turn and follow.
“C’mon down there with us,” Uncle Charley added as he moved past me. “Your brother needs a little time alone right now.” Circling his lips, he flashed a wide-eyed look over his shoulder and sucked in air.
“What’s wrong with Clay?” My anxiety ratcheted up. The doctors had said that, while bruised and battered, Clay would be fine.
“Nothin’ that ain’t his own doin’.” Uncle Charley shuffled around and kept walking. “But that could change after she gets ahold of him.”
“She . . . who?” I turned to my mother, who was carefully closing the door to Clay’s room, leaving it ajar only a few inches before she stepped away and wheeled a hand in a let’s-move-on sort of way.
“His fiancée,” she whispered.
Taking several sideways steps, I peered through the gap and into the room. Someone was standing beside Clay’s bed. I could see the back of a pair of faded Levis and a sweatshirt. “Amy?” Surely Amy couldn’t be on her feet already. She’d been in worse shape than Clay. Just a couple hours ago, when I’d looked in on her, she was still on oxygen, and they were making plans to take her down to X-ray to discern the best course of action for a separated shoulder.
A little nudge to the door opened it a bit wider, increasing the view of Clay’s room. Behind me, Mom grabbed my sweatshirt and tried to pull me away.
Some . . . woman was hugging my brother. She was tall and slim, her medium-length brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She’d curled herself against
Clay’s chest, sobbing into the sheets as he rested his chin on her head.
I staggered backward, snapping toward my mother’s tug like a slinky, stretched too far. Who’s that? I mouthed, pointing.
Mom’s steepled hands touched her lips before carefully measuring her next words. “There are a few things we haven’t told you.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. Having already felt the world rock off kilter once that day, I didn’t know if I wanted to hear the rest of the family secrets. Suddenly my brother’s sexy text messages from Fort Worth made sense. There really had been someone else, all along. Was Clay’s supposed relationship with Amy all a ruse? An excuse to be hanging around Moses Lake and Proxica? Obviously my mother knew the answers, so I started down the hall with her. Ahead, one of the uncs was holding the elevator for us. “Was Clay stringing Amy along, or was there never anything . . . I mean, did she know it was all an act?”
Mom quickened her pace, jogging the rest of the way to the elevator, forcing me to run-walk or be left behind. Once we were inside, she tried to placate me. “Let’s get some coffee, and we’ll explain the whole thing.”
Frustration, exhaustion, uncertainty, and the remnants of a terrifying night welled up in me, and I smacked the Stop button, causing the elevator to jerk to a halt. “You know what? I just want the whole story all at once. I need to know what’s true.”
Mom and the uncs flicked sideways glances at each other, and Mom laid a hand on my shoulder. “Heather, just calm down. You’ve had quite a traumatic night, too, and . . .”
“Don’t mollify me!” I jerked away from her. “Just tell me all of it. Please! Clay was never involved with Amy, was he? That was all an act, right?” My entire family had been putting on an act, and I’d been left in the audience, with everyone else.
“They needed someone on the inside . . . someone who wouldn’t be suspected.”
“They, who?” I pressed. “Whose idea was this whole thing?” The connections were tangled in my mind. “Who came up with all that malarkey about Clay taking over Catfish Charley’s and you opening a bed-and-breakfast in the funeral home?”
“We had to make it look convincing,” Mom defended. “To have an excuse to be in town while Clay put his case together.”
Uncle Charley nodded enthusiastically but remained as far from me as the elevator would allow. “We had to get the drop on Proxica, see? Bait those slick suckers into the trap and shut the door before they knew what was comin’. Them Proxica folks got powerful friends in the government—state and national. It’s a big company. Every time someone’s tried to go up against them, a few phone calls get made, and that’s the end of it. Meantime, they’re makin’ money and they got poison leaking into water wells around here, and they know it. They’ve known it for a long time.
“Your dad figured what was happening years ago—how they were getting rid of that Armidryn. Your brother looked at some of your dad’s old papers in the cellar out at the farm. He also did some checking online and read about that lawsuit in Kentucky, and he started to put two and two together—Ruth’s husband dying from cancer, and then Ruth getting sick, and others around Gnadenfeld. He started talkin’ to folks and lookin’ into it some more. You done good getting out of the farmhouse with his backpack, too. They might’ve burned Clay’s computer in that fire, but there’s enough evidence in that backpack to prove it all. Everything it’ll take to bring them sorry suckers down.”
I turned to my mother, feeling as if someone had cut the elevator cable and we were careening downward, headed for a crash. “So it’s all true? About Dad . . . about the Justice Department? How could you let Clay get involved in that, after what happened to Dad?”
Mom braced her hands on her hips, her chest rising and falling. “He’s your father’s son. I couldn’t convince him to run away, any more than I could convince your father. All I could do was be here and try to keep him safe. By the time I found out what your brother was doing, he’d already been in touch with the investigator who’d worked on the case sixteen years ago. After what happened to your father, I never wanted to see that man again. I didn’t want him to have the chance to ease his conscience, to make things right. He was the one who pushed your father. He was the one who promised to protect your father, and then your dad was gone. One minute I had everything, and the next, everything was gone.”
My eyes welled, and I felt the heat of tears on my cheeks. “You had us. You still had us, and we needed you.” The little girl in me, the one who’d been locked away during the months following my father’s death, broke free, filled with desperation, unanswered questions, and unfulfilled needs.
“I couldn’t find my feet,” Mom whispered, her face flushed and red, the tendrils of hair on her cheek damp now. She smoothed them away impatiently. “I couldn’t find my feet, Heather. I was never strong the way you are, the way your father was. And Clay . . . he’s like you in that way. He’s like your father. When Clay came here, I didn’t know what else to do but come along and help him put this case together.”
I swiped tears away impatiently. “What case? What happens now, exactly?”
“They bring the case against Proxica. A class-action suit,” Uncle Charley chimed in, as if that much were elementary. “Your brother and that law firm he’s with are gonna make Proxica pay for all the people like Ruth, who’re sick because of the chemicals. Looks like the Justice Department is gonna get involved, too. Amy and your brother could get a big chunk of money from the whistleblower law. Proxica has a whole lot to answer for and a lot of cleaning up to do around here.”
“Clay is with a law firm?” Of all the information that had just come my way, that was the only bit I could really grasp.
I heard my mother sniffling, and Uncle Charley offering his hankie. “Yer brother passed the bar three months ago. He didn’t want anybody to know it, on account of the case.”
Something soft touched my hand, and Uncle Herbert said, “Here, dry your eyes now.” He pressed a button on the panel, and the elevator jerked and rattled as it resumed motion.
I was too exhausted for coffee, too exhausted to think anymore. I caught my breath and turned to Uncle Herbert as the elevator settled into position on the bottom floor. “So nobody is moving to Moses Lake, and you and Uncle Charley are actually looking forward to living in the retirement villas in Oklahoma? You’re selling everything?” Suddenly my musings about staying for a while in Moses Lake made little sense. The family was leaving, scattering to the wind.
“Well, we got a buyer for the funeral home, and Clay said he’d help us put the restaurant up for sale online,” Uncle Charley stated. “No way I’m sellin’ it to some broker, after this last mess. That restaurant has history. I want to pick the buyer so I know it goes to somebody that’ll take care of it.”
Uncle Herb nodded, indicating his complete agreement. “We thought we’d keep the old farm—bring the grandkids down sometimes. And maybe Clay would want to visit, since he’s working up in Fort Worth. It’ll be a family place, like it’s always been—for your brother, and our kids, and for you, if you want it. The little house is gone now, of course, but the two-story is still there.
“And when we asked you about doing the architecture work for the new school, that wasn’t a smokescreen, either. We meant it. The fella who bought the house at Harmony Shores might need some work done, too. He took it on as an investment—wants to turn it into a wedding parlor and make the barn and the gardener’s cottage into a bed-and-breakfast. Guess that old house has at least one more life in it, yet. Moses Lake isn’t that far from Dallas. You could hang out your shingle up there and live down here, drive back and forth when you need to. There’s the new fellowship hall at the church to build, too. They’re gonna need an architect for that.”
Shaking my head, I stepped off the elevator, trying to imagine myself staying here with all of them gone. “Why would I stay in Moses Lake? Everyone else is leaving.”
Uncle Charley laid a hand on my shoulder, stopping
me before I could turn toward the cafeteria. “Not everybody. Matter of fact, you might know the man who bought the house at Harmony Shores—some fella by the name of Underhill. He’s had his man there all week, cataloging things in the house and running the calculations.” He motioned toward the chairs outside the reception area in the lobby, where a familiar pair of cowboy boots was sprawled across the green flecked tile, the jeans leading upward to a tall, lanky body crumpled in a vinyl chair, the face hidden beneath a felt cowboy hat that looked like it had seen better days. “It don’t appear like he’s goin’ anyplace.”
I stood looking at Blaine, and my heart did that strange, queasy, fluttery flip-flop that was irrational, unpredictable, and completely undeniable. In spite of all the ways we were different and all the complications, the fact was that every time I looked at him, my pulse sped up and I couldn’t catch my breath. He made me want to believe in all the dreams I’d been too careful to allow, too afraid to hope for. With him, I wanted to risk myself, to let go, to believe in the romantic notions of fairy tales. He had, after all, done what heroes do. He’d kissed the girl, asleep in her own life, and awakened her to a world she’d never seen before. He stirred, as if sensing we were there, and Uncle Charley leaned close to me, whispering, “We’ll leave y’all alone to talk.” Then he gave me a nudge in the back, pushing me forward a few steps before he, Uncle Herb, and Mom continued on to the cafeteria.
Blaine yawned, clumsily lifting the hat from his face and blinking against the morning light streaming through the glass doors. For a moment, he seemed surprised to find himself in the hospital lobby.
“Hey,” I said, and he turned to look at me, his eyes warming.
“Hey, yourself,” he replied, stretching his neck side-to-side and sitting up in the chair. “Everything okay with your brother?”
I nodded, a smile tugging from the inside out. “Everything’s fine.” For the first time in my adult life, I felt the truth of that. I felt like that little girl, leaping from the fire escape, filled with a faith that strong arms would catch me. “Everything’s really . . . good.”
