Where the River Runs

by Patti Callahan Henry

  I entered the room, whispered, “What’s wrong? Are the girls okay?” All I identified was something completely amiss.

  Sissy looked up with swollen eyes, a red-blotched face. “Penn has a mistress. An honest-to-God-lives-in-a-condo-he-bought mistress.”

  I placed my hand over my mouth. “Oh, Sissy.”

  She lifted a crushed lace handkerchief to her face and blew her nose. “You want to know how long?”

  I shook my head. No, I did not want to know how long. I glanced at Mother sitting upright in the green velvet chair, a glass of sherry in her hand.

  “Five years. Five shitty years,” Sissy said.

  A laugh bubbled up from my throat. Mother gasped. Sissy had never cursed in her life as far as I knew.

  “It’s not funny.” A sob broke free from Sissy’s distorted face.

  I stood amazed at how much of the McFadden family’s facade was falling away, as if some seismic shift had taken place. I went to Sissy, wrapped my arms around her. “No, it’s not funny.” I hugged her. “I’m so sorry. What happened? How did you find out?”

  Mother stood. “I’m sure it is much too painful for her to repeat.” Her face was blanched. It would be better if this were happening to me—at least that, Mother could understand. But not Sissy.

  Sissy’s stare bore into Mother. “I can answer for myself, Mom.”

  Mother placed her hand over her mouth.

  “I found his skinny blond girlfriend on top of him in the back of his BMW in the parking lot of his office complex.” She shivered. “Could you throw up? I’d gone to drop some papers off for him that he’d forgotten at home. There they were in the parking deck. My God, you’d think if he’d bought her a condo, he could’ve at least made it there, not the parking deck.”

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Sissy.”

  She lifted her own glass of sherry. “What are you doing here?”

  “Didn’t you tell her I was coming?” I said to Mother.

  Mother took a long sip of her drink. “I forgot to mention it—Sissy is having a crisis here. We have to figure out what to do. . . .”

  I sat down on the couch. “Doesn’t matter why I’m here. What can we do? Where are the girls?”

  Sissy softened; her shoulders slumped forward. “Upstairs. I think they’re actually scared to death. I didn’t tell them what happened. I just threw them in the car and came here. They don’t need to know. . . .” She burst into sobs again. “It’ll ruin them forever.”

  “No, children do not need to know disgusting things like this,” Mother said.

  I stared at the ceiling, seeing the similarities in the way we protected our children, shielded them. “So we just let them think we’re all perfect and then they never understand why they’re not?”

  “What?” Mother’s and Sissy’s voices said in unison.

  I waved my hand in the air. “Okay, what can I do to help, Sissy? What do we do now?”

  Sissy wiped her face with the handkerchief. “I can’t think straight—I don’t know. Right now I’m going to go talk to the girls. Then . . .” Her voice cracked. “Then . . . I have no idea.”

  “We’ll figure it out. We will definitely figure it out.” I patted her knee.

  “What are you doing here? Beau’s not . . . ?”

  “No. I just have some things to take care of. And—” I glanced at Mother, who definitely could not take one more shock today; the symptoms of a hysterical fit were etched all over her tight face and listless eyes. “I’m going to go get my bags. . . . Are the girls in my old room?”

  “Yes . . .” Sissy stood, then sat, then stood again as if she couldn’t figure out even the simplest motions. “I’ll move them to the guest room in the attic cove.”

  I nodded, almost feeling the unopened wooden box under the bed in my hand, my tattered quilt over my body.

  “Meridy, don’t be so selfish. Let the girls stay where they are,” Mother said.

  Sissy rolled her eyes. “Mom, let Meridy have her room. For God’s sake, there are a lot more things to worry about than that. The girls don’t care and neither do I. They don’t like sleeping in the same bed anyway.” Sissy stood, walked out and slammed the door.

  Mother and I exchanged raised eyebrows. “Okay, then. I’ll be getting my things. Do you have any more news about Tulu?” I asked.

  “I think she’s fine. I heard they let her come home this morning.”

  “You didn’t go see her?”

  “Well, I was going to, but I heard she’s okay.”

  “I’ll go see her tomorrow.” I glanced over my shoulder as I moved to leave the room.

  “Oh . . . how come my family is falling apart now . . . and Dewey not here?” Mother lifted her glass, then set it on the side table. “I never thought these kinds of things would happen now. . . .”

  “Why not now, Mother?”

  “Because I felt as if I’d already got through the worst parts. . . .”

  “The worst parts?” I left to grab my suitcase, laptop computer and papers. Yes, the worst parts.

  My bedroom swallowed some of the loneliness and battered emotions. But a deeper fear arrived—Cate and now Sissy. Was I better than them? No, much worse. So why would Beau be any different than these men who had seemed so . . . devoted?

  I slipped on my tennis shoes, walked down the hall and knocked on Sissy’s door, not knowing what I could or would say, but knowing I had to try to find some words to comfort her.

  She opened the door in her white cotton gown. “What are you doing?” she asked, glanced at my shoes.

  “Want to take a walk on the beach?” I whispered, nodded down the hall.

  She backed into the room, slumped onto her bed. “Meridy, I don’t even have the energy to take a walk down the hall. No.”

  I sat next to her. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Sissy. I really am.”

  She looked up at me. “See, here’s the problem—I just don’t get it. I’ve tried so hard to do everything right, to be so good, and look where it got me. You never tried that hard . . . and you’re fine. It’s so backward and unfair and—”

  “I don’t know you’re talking about. . . . I try too.” Anger attempted to rise, then sank in the empathy I felt for my sister.

  “Maybe now you do . . . but you didn’t when we were kids.” She lay back on the bed, sighed.

  “Why do I feel like you’re picking a fight?” I said, but smiled and tousled her hair.

  Sissy rolled her head toward me. “I’m sorry. . . . I’m just so pissed off. It’s not you. You walked in the room at the wrong time. I’m sorry. . . . Your life is so . . . perfect and mine is all screwed up now.”

  I laughed. “Maybe it’s time we had a little sister-to-sister chat.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I grabbed Sissy’s hand, squeezed it. “Nothing . . .”

  “I really thought that if I did everything right, nothing like this would happen to me. Isn’t that ridiculous? Like being good is insurance on love.”

  “Maybe the love we need or want isn’t the kind we deserve. . . . It isn’t a prize or . . . something. I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure it out myself. Let’s just find out what would help you right now.”

  “Sleep, sleep would be good.” She closed her eyes and curled into a ball.

  I lay down next to her and held on to her hand. And at that moment there weren’t words to be said, or platitudes to offer, or even a parable to quote—only a hand to be held. After a while, her breath softened, then evened out into the rhythm of sleep I’d heard from her my entire childhood.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I have a lot of songs for children, but I have no child.”

  GULLAH PROVERB

  The long overdue desire to see Danny’s parents awoke with me the next morning. I called B.J. on the way to the Garretts’—the thought of losing my only son had been more than I could fathom when I was eighteen years old, but now it was unimaginable.

  “Hey, M
om.” I knew his sleep-soaked voice.

  “I woke you.” I stopped at a red light before the bridge.

  “That’s okay. I wasn’t sleeping well anyway.”

  “I just needed to hear your voice,” I said. A car behind me honked as the light turned green.

  “Where are you?” He sounded more alert.

  “Crossing the bridge in Seaboro.”

  “That’s my favorite part of the trip to Grandma’s. . . .”

  “Me too,” I said with the slightest tickle of relief that I had handed down something sacred, something of beauty, to my son along with the things I regretted.

  “What are you doing there? Didn’t you go home yesterday? I’m confused. . . .”

  “I did, but an old family friend is . . . well, was in the hospital and . . . enough about me. How are you doing?”

  “Feeling pretty bad about all of it. Such an idiot. But I talked to Dad and he said Mr. Finnegan’s brother would be my lawyer and was planning on proposing that I pay for my DUI by giving educational training at the local high school, on the dangers of drunk driving, taking a defensive-driving class and losing my license for a year—and the worst, being benched for the first three baseball games of the season. He says that if we show I’m willing to pay for what I’ve done . . . well, you know the deal.”

  “I do.” I focused on the road; I would not cry on the phone with my son. I was driving toward a family who’d paid the ultimate price.

  “I’ve gotta go, Mom. Thanks for waking me up. . . . I’ve got to meet with Coach.”

  I hung up and drove until I reached Sun City—a retirement community forty minutes from Seaboro. The clusters of homes seemed to squat and protect themselves from the open sky and sun and were arranged so that everyone had a golf course view. I rechecked the address and then stood in front of number 206. I knocked on a door exactly like the twelve others running down the sidewalk.

  Bee Garrett opened the door with a smile that dropped as recognition spread across her face. She had changed, but not beyond remembrance. Her face was much thinner, her body fuller and her blue eyes faded, as if the tears had washed the deeper colors away. I was ashamed. Yet she still stood as straight as the columns on her old front porch.

  She whispered. “Meridy?”

  My gaze dropped to the WE ONLY PLAY GOLF ON DAYS ENDING WITH Y foot mat. I couldn’t look her in the eyes.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh, my dear.”

  “I know—I should’ve called.” Then I felt her arms around my neck and her cheek next to mine, and Chris Garrett appeared in the doorway. Bee’s hug made my knees buckle, my heart leap from my chest. I think I hugged her back while Chris squinted at me through his bifocals.

  “Is that you, Meridy McFadden?”

  Bee released her grip on me, but grabbed my hand. “Yes, it’s her. Do you believe it? Look at this beautiful woman. . . .” She beamed at me. “Look at you. We’ve wanted to see you for so long . . . and look at us—we’re a mess.” She ran her hands over her hair, which fell to her shoulders in thick silver waves. “We didn’t expect guests at all.”

  “I’m sorry. I should’ve called,” I repeated.

  Chris stepped forward, placed his hand on my shoulder; I thought I might collapse beneath its familiar weight. I tried to speak and a childish sound came out that sounded something like “Sorry.”

  They glanced at each other; Bee wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “Come in, come in. Please.”

  I walked into the house and noticed some of the same furnishings, picture frames and knickknacks I’d once known—in a different place, in a different home. I said to Bee, “I’ve been in town and I just wanted to stop by, say hello . . . I’ve been thinking a lot about you and—”

  “Sit, sit.” Bee patted the couch. “Chris, go get her some iced tea, please.”

  I took a seat on the beige cotton muslin couch. Bee sat next to me. “How are you, my dear? We think about you so much. Please catch us up on your life.”

  “I’ve been good, really.” Then a strength I must have been garnering through the weeks, through each truth, came over me and I sat up straighter, fuller. “Until a few weeks ago when I sort of . . . woke up.”

  Bee nodded as if she knew what I was going to say and just waited. Chris appeared at the side of the couch, but I couldn’t look at his face—the face Danny would have if he were alive now, wide, full, handsome in that way that makes you stop to figure out why.

  I squeezed Bee’s hand. “You know they’re reconstructing the Keeper’s Cottage? The foundation was still intact and—”

  Bee spoke. “We’ve tried to stay out of it, dear. We have to be . . . done with certain things.”

  “I wasn’t trying to say you should help. . . . I’m messing this up, aren’t I? I just needed to tell you something.”

  “Tell us what, dear?” Bee wrapped her arms around me again and I wanted to stay there for a few minutes longer.

  I took a deep breath. “That night was all my fault. Danny and I were lighting firecrackers. . . . I lit the one that hit the roof. It wasn’t the bonfire like they’ve always thought.”

  Bee gasped. Chris jumped up, then sat.

  I stood as well. “I know you must not want me in your home and I’ll leave, but I had to tell you in person—it’s part of the . . . way it should be.”

  Bee looked up, but she smiled. In the face of this woman’s pain and loss of her only son, my petty accomplishments and concerns over what happened to my family reputation and marriage felt hollow and inadequate.

  “Sit, Meridy. Please.” Bee’s voice cracked and I had no choice but to do as she said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Chris followed his wife to the end of the hall, leaving me alone. I looked around the room, but the details blurred. I covered my face and waited for what Bee had for me, or wanted to say to me.

  She returned with a large black book, sat next to me and dropped it in my lap.

  “What is this?” I held my hands up in the air as if it might burn me.

  “Danny’s scrapbook. Take a look at it.”

  “No, I can’t.” I turned my face away. “I just came to tell you about what really happened that night. I didn’t want you to blame Tim or Danny or . . . anyone else but me.” The weight of the book on my lap felt heavier than my entire body. I grabbed Bee’s hand. “I have an only son too, Bee. I would die if I lost him. . . .”

  “Look at the first page, Meridy.”

  I opened the top and flipped open the first page. Danny and me at the prom—I wore a baby blue dress of raw silk that rippled to the floor in waves. Danny wore a white tuxedo with blue ruffles at his chest.

  “He loved you, Meridy,” Bee said. “He made a choice to go into that burning cottage. I’ve prayed, since the day he died, that you carried no guilt. I didn’t think I should contact you if you didn’t want to see us. Now I see I should have. If you’ve carried this guilt with you—it must have killed you.”

  No, only my heart.

  “He was always the strong one . . . I wasn’t.”

  Chris sat on the other side of me and grabbed my hand. “Strong one? Who came to my front porch and stood up to Danny Garrett at twelve years old? You were always strong, Meridy. Bee’s right. . . . It was Danny’s choice to go back in—we are proud of him. He did the right and terrible thing.”

  I whispered and held Chris’s hand. “I loved him so much . . . and I forgot and then I remembered, and when I remembered I couldn’t think about anything else. It all came back to me when I heard they were trying to make Tim pay to renovate the cottage. I wanted to do something, anything.” I looked at Danny’s parents, whom I had once thought I loved more than my own.

  Bee tapped her finger on the edge of the scrapbook. “That book is as full of pictures of you as it is of him. He loved you too, Meridy.”

  I turned the pages: Danny in his football uniform, Danny standing in front of his Camaro in bell-bottom jeans with a lopsided grin, Dann
y and his dad on the back dock holding a whiting up for the camera. Then I turned the page to Danny’s senior picture—we’d stood in line in the cafeteria, which had smelled like spaghetti and bland tomato sauce with a slight twinge of chocolate milk. Danny had winked at me right before the picture and in the photo his left eye was half open.

  “It smelled like spaghetti and chocolate milk.” I tapped the picture.

  “What?” Bee asked, touching the scrapbook.

  “That day we took our senior pictures . . . in the cafeteria. I’d forgotten about that.”

  Bee nodded, squeezed my knee.

  I took in the pictures—ones I’d thought I’d forgotten, but remembered with each turn of the page, each beat of my heart. Bee whispered, “You have lived a life since then, Meridy. Please tell me you have not lived with guilt all this time.”

  “I’ve tried to live the best life I can. . . . I’ve tried so hard to make up for it, do . . . good.”

  “Oh, child. Do you think Danny died so you could live a good life or a full life?”

  “Full,” I whispered, and understood this truth.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Any kind of crying will do for a funeral.”

  —GULLAH PROVERB

  I drove the car faster than was necessary down 278, gambling that the cops weren’t out for their daily quota of tourists driving four miles over the speed limit. More of who I used to be drew me forward: the box beneath my bed.

  I ran up the stairs of Mother’s house, dropped to my knees next to my bed and grabbed the box. I lifted the lid; rust dust scattered on the flowered carpet and the back left hinge fell off. The box was no bigger than a postcard—intricate in its design for a boy of sixteen who’d once carved it and now built houses. Yellowed pieces of paper and two upside-down photographs rested inside the box, wavered in the light of my overhead pink crystal chandelier. This was the first time these papers and photographs had seen the light in twenty-six years, and they danced as if they wanted to jump from their coffin of dead dreams.

  I closed my eyes as the feel of the day Danny and I had written on these papers rushed back at me. The rain had come in torrents all day, sideways and twisting with the odd green light of a Lowcountry storm. It had been the kind of day when the latent smell of mildew leaked from the house, and Tulu seemed frantic with her lemon cleaner in case Mother wrinkled her nose. Danny and I had stared out the window like the two kids in the Cat in the Hat book, not knowing what to do when almost everything we usually did was outside in the dense nature—away from Mother, away from criticism.