“How are you doing?” Cliff asked.
This change of subject matter baffled Vincent. In the next moment, though, intuition abounded in the space around the table. Vincent knew what Cliff meant. He meant Carolyn.
When Vincent didn’t answer, Cliff prodded gently. “What were you thinking just now?”
Vincent’s time with the jacket provoked the memory. He broke himself of sleeping with the yellow coat long ago, but he couldn’t prevent himself from becoming lost in Carolyn’s death. Not only her death, but the dying. The dying was worse.
Cliff got up and ran water into a glass for Vincent. He mumbled a thanks and swallowed some. He pressed his fingers tightly against the glass until the thumbnail he stared at whitened. Cliff’s offering, his sensitivity, deserved something in return.
Vincent and Cliff, a generation apart in years, nurtured an enduring friendship. Later, Carolyn’s presence only enhanced the relationship. Carolyn adopted Cliff on Father’s Day, with every birthday, and at Christmas. Despite the closeness the men shared, Vincent never told Cliff a certain story, the memory of which he struggled with on this evening in August.
Cliff Walker knew the story’s beginnings. Carolyn came to Larkspur to care for her uncle. With a name like Karl Weingarten, there was no question he was of German descent. Carolyn, with a knack for the language, was nearly fluent by the time her uncle died. After she married Vincent, she rarely spoke a word of German. There was no one to understand her.
Absently, Vincent slid the water glass over two inches on the table. “I spent a little time thinking about Carolyn today after Callie’s call. She’s still on my mind. I try not to dwell on the memories when she was so ill, but…”
A moment later, Cliff finished the sentence. “There is a memory.” His voice was barely audible.
Vincent pulled in air until the filling of his lungs set him higher in the chair. “There is one. Carolyn reached the point where she was unable to get out of bed. Two hospice nurses came to change her catheter. It was a miserable process. It hurt. She screamed and moaned. I waited at the foot of the bed. I could do nothing, but bite back screaming myself.” He felt his chin tremble. “One of the nurses held her hand. She quieted when the ordeal was over. The nurses went out to the living room to make their notes. Carolyn and I were alone. She gave me the strangest look and asked if there had been a little girl in the room, standing next to me. A girl with long, curly blonde hair.”
Cliff’s expression of astonishment was the same one Vincent assumed he showed Carolyn when she asked.
“I told her no, of course, but Carolyn went on. She said the girl spoke to her in German. I asked her what she said. Carolyn repeated the German phrase, then told me the English translation. It meant, ‘My dear God. My dear God.’ I immediately thought the phrasing Carolyn heard—her mind playing tricks—was associated with shock from the child at hearing and seeing such pain.”
“You changed your mind?”
“I left Carolyn to see the nurses out, and I told them what she said. The one nurse— It’s funny I can’t remember her name. She was so nice. Anyway, she said, at Carolyn’s stage—which was quite ill and close to the end—patients often reported seeing children in their rooms. They were hallucinations. Carolyn died five days later. Over the course of those days, I came to believe the little girl was praying.”
Around him, Vincent’s world slowed, matching the pace of his life after Carolyn’s death. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped water. Cliff said nothing, just patted Vincent’s shoulder.
The haunt of the little girl, the angel who prepared for Carolyn’s arrival in heaven, felt so close. She seemed to call to Vincent on the echoes of Carolyn’s remembered agony, knowing comfort was needed.
“We’ll need boxes,” Cliff said, by way of affirming his decision to pack up a portion of Abigail’s clothes.
Vincent wondered if that decision was made out of sympathy, simply to create a distraction for the grieving husband, who said, “I brought some.”
So very reticent, Cliff gave the slightest nod. “Of course. Good.”
Vincent and Cliff went to the car to retrieve the cartons. All the way there and all the way up the stairs to the second floor and the bedroom Cliff shared at one time with his wife, Vincent felt irrefutable tugs at his heart. Along with the tugs came a drilling whisper: Tell Cliff the truth.
The two men experienced a touching moment in the kitchen with its back door wide open to the neighboring cemetery. The bird on the feeder’s perch seemed to look through the glass with distinct captivation and reverence all the while the essence of Carolyn’s spirit lingered. Vincent felt a sensation of words on his tongue. The truth crept forward. He pushed it back.
Sitting the brown cardboard boxes on the checkered bedspread, Vincent felt the tug again and heard the whisper. The truth Cliff needed to hear surrounded that one burial in the graveyard when Ned McMitchell spoke solemn words and Vincent strained to keep a deathbed secret. That day was marked in his memory by the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat. He kept his eyes tipped toward the unearthed ground, but his conscience could not block out the man who stood back and watched from a distance. Cliff thought of himself as a grave keeper that day, apart from the burial scene. Vincent knew differently. Cliff was a widower of three days.
Behind him, he heard the rollers of the bi-fold closet door along its track, then the scrape of wire hangers across a rod. He swallowed a sour taste once more. Cliff selected clothes from another age, and Vincent folded them into the boxes, stockpiling hangers. An assortment of nursing tunics found their place inside the box, the fabric both printed and solid. They were made of lightweight cotton with little texture. In contrast, Vincent felt the weight and roughness of the battle gaining and losing purchase inside his head.
Could he—should he—sit Cliff down, right here, right now? The longer he argued with himself, the easier, he knew, he’d find it to delay the telling until Beebe arrived. That was, in fact, the plan he and Beebe agreed on. He invited her home for just that purpose. Even now, her return was imminent. But this was such an opportunity. Although if Cliff’s reaction was cataclysmic and Vincent’s response was lacking, then he might do more harm than good.
A blouse in a swirling pattern of navy and tan came into his peripheral vision for a half second, then disappeared. Vincent looked over. Cliff stared at the article, considering whether to part with it. Vincent reasoned it might have been a special gift for a birthday or Christmas. For Cliff, indecision reigned. Vincent knew about that. The ambivalence passed, and Cliff handed over the blouse. The memory Cliff just relived would be sewn into the quilt with many others.
Cliff chose a hound’s-tooth pleated skirt and lay it on the mattress. Its waistband was pinched to the hanger with special clips. The pleats made it difficult to fold neatly, and finally Vincent gave up trying to keep the alignment from possibly wrinkling during shipment. At the same time, Vincent’s willingness to bypass Beebe ebbed.
A pair of silky mint-green pajamas was laid in the carton. The fabric swished in his grasp. That filled the second box, and Vincent reached for the third.
From a bottom dresser drawer, Cliff lifted out several items. They were topped by an organdy apron already folded in a size perfectly fitted for the box. Vincent dropped them in. On top of that, Vincent added a lightweight rain coat. Just touching it clearly transmitted its waterproofing properties. The short coat was dove gray with slant pockets and large buttons. It looked new. Vincent wondered if Abigail ever wore it. The Terri he knew could have wrapped it around herself twice. With Terri invading his thoughts, his justification to delay telling Cliff until Beebe arrived was fully fixed. Terri wanted a permanent embargo. He could concede only a temporary one.
In the same instant, Clif
f said, “That’s it.”
“Yeah,” Vincent breathed, feeling battle-worn. “That’s it.” One by one, Vincent folded down the flaps on the third box, thereby closing the untold chapter of Abigail’s life inside.
They got the boxes to the car. Vincent bid Cliff a good night, but didn’t leave right away. There was enough light left to find Carolyn’s grave.
Staring down at the marble marker, he launched into a conversation at midpoint, as if Carolyn had been present inside the bedroom, aware of his thoughts. “I feel like I had to sacrifice a bit of the father to benefit the daughter. Beebe’s entire life for weeks has been built around her reunion with Cliff for just this purpose. To rip it out from under her now seems cruel. Plus, Beebe has training for these situations.” He paced, nervously rubbing his hands together. “And what if I told Cliff, and he assumed that meant Beebe was afraid or, worse, indifferent. They’re estranged, and this has brought Beebe back. I heard the conviction in her voice when she talked about telling him. How could I take it away from her? And why, in Christ’s name, am I beating myself up?”
The volume attached to that last question caused it to echo through the night. He looked up to the house, but saw no movement. In a few days, after Cliff learned the painful truth, he would hurl a belly-full of angry questions at Vincent. Along with questions would come hateful and indefensible accusations. Those were absolutely the reason Vincent was beating himself up.
Full moonlight went with Vincent a while later when he walked back across the cemetery to his car.
Baptism By Fire
Yates dragged tables and chairs to a central location in the main room at Crossroads. He debated whether the rainy Wednesday, a week into his stay, was the time to involve Vincent in his quest for background on Terri Miller.
Vincent decided to close the center for the day so he and Yates could paint the room. While Vincent rummaged in the stock room for painting supplies, a knock came at the door.
Through the door’s glass panel, Yates saw that a woman stood on the stoop. Her face was hidden by the CLOSED sign hanging from a suction cup’s hook. He opened the door for the shock of his life.
“I’m Beebe Walker. I’m looking for Vincent. Is he here?” With the rain as a backdrop, he stared at the conflicting aspects of the same stormy eyes and porcelain skin that belonged to the healthy version of Terri Miller.
“He’s back in the stock room. I’ll…huh…” His feet seemed riveted to the floor.
“Is something wrong?”
“It’s just that you, ah, look like someone I used to know.”
“Really. Who?”
With his mind already in debate mode, he decided to come out with it. Straightening his shoulders, he said, “Terri Miller.”
Behind him, he heard Barleycorn’s toenails tapping against the tile floor, but he didn’t spin around until he heard Vincent’s voice drill his back.
“You knew Terri? You never said that. Is that what this is about, getting me to let you stay? Has this been a hoax of some kind? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Each question took Vincent closer to the woman, who slipped two steps inside and closed the door. Each question hardened Vincent’s features more. His tone was harsh enough to slice through the trust Yates built with him, until that trust fell away, leaving Yates fully exposed with his less-than-truthful backstory.
Barleycorn’s concerned eyes shifted between his master and his new friend, then the dog surrendered to canine curiosity. The new person in the room drew his attention. While he slunk past Vincent’s jean-covered kneecaps to give Beebe’s gray cotton pant legs a thorough sniffing, Yates stammered through an honest explanation. “I thought you’d claim confidentiality or something if I brought it up, and I’d get the boot.”
“Vincent told me the, ah, Terri Miller story,” the visitor named Beebe said. “The woman you knew was, actually, my mother. And you are?”
Yates’s mind fumbled for a moment. This woman was Terri’s daughter. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’m Yates Strand.”
“You left her here.” Beebe’s words came across as more statement than accusation.
“She made me bring her that night. She wouldn’t let me stay. Once Vincent got her inside, she made me promise to leave. I had nursing boards the next day and a long trip back.”
“Mother was a nurse.” Beebe spoke as if she found herself somewhat adrift in her own mind.
“Yes, I know.”
“Yates, I can’t believe this—” Vincent revived his chastising tone.
“No, wait,” Beebe interrupted. “I want to hear everything he has to say.”
For the next two hours, they sat on folding chairs in a close-knit circle and shared stories. The rain outside was a curtain that kept the world at bay.
It seemed Terri talked to Vincent at length during her time in the hospice. She filled her last moments with summer memories, about braces, guitar lessons, and a drum set, about lawn care and ice cream businesses. “As she told those stories,” Vincent said, “I knew there was someone she was certainly fond of. That someone was you.” Yates’s eyes filled. “She died in the early morning,” Vincent added, “after the second night.”
“I was the one who played guitar,” Yates said, “wore braces, cut grass, and shared the ice cream business. She played the drums.” He smiled down at the memory. “That was my life. Those were my summers. She was an addict, yes, but she saved my father’s life. I knew that sometime before all that, she’d been a nurse, but I don’t know the rest of the story. Why she came back to Larkspur. What happened here? At thirteen, I thought it was great that she was on the lam. But now, I need more.”
“She didn’t tell me the truth about who she was,” Vincent said, “until she was very close to the end. The sickness took its toll on her appearance. But even so, I wouldn’t have known her. I didn’t meet Beebe until our senior year in high school. Her mother was gone by then.”
Yates listened, trying not to squirm in his seat. The rest of the story that he wanted knowledge of was not the recent past. Beebe knew what he meant. She told how it happened that her mother left Larkspur.
“Mother was seriously hurt in a car accident.”
From that first parallel with his own life, his father’s accident, Yates’s eyes never strayed from Beebe’s.
“She was hospitalized, then Daddy and I nursed her. Eventually, her injuries healed. But she became addicted to painkillers. Percocet. She hid it. Daddy didn’t know. I certainly didn’t.”
Yates tried to picture a younger Terri, struggling to recover, a loving family, and the unrelenting pull of chemical dependency. Beebe told how her mother returned to work at Lakeview General, the very hospital where Yates hoped to gain employment.
Beebe went on. “She pinched the patients’ meds to satisfy her habit. Someone caught on. She bolted from town to avoid an investigation and a felony conviction.”
He and Beebe shared another parallel, that of abandonment. His mind flashed on the night Terri sat alone on the bench, and he, alone in the Jeep. Terri completed her plan to leave him behind.
As Beebe talked on, another uncanny parallel entered the afternoon gloom. For years, Beebe’s father, Cliff Walker, worked at McKinley Hardware, a block over and two blocks down. Yates’s father owned a hardware store.
The similarities worked on Yates until they cast Terri in a science fiction movie, existing in a parallel world, trying to do nothing that would change the outcome of peoples’ lives, as if she hadn’t been there at all. The more he thought about it, the reverse was true. Terri was cast in a parallel world with a second chance to live her life and make a difference. She exceeded with the latter.
“Where did y
ou grow up?” Beebe asked.
“Three hours north of here,” Yates said.
“My mother lived there?”
“Only in the summers. The rest of the time, I don’t know where she lived.”
“She lived with you?”
“No. She wouldn’t. Dad asked her. She always said no.” Then, when Yates thought he wouldn’t, he told them about the year Terri did live in the house and her uncompromising devotion during his mother’s illness. “Learning all this must make you angry, or jealous,” he said to Beebe after the story was out. “That she walked away from your childhood, and mine with her was, well—something like a revolving door, is how it seems—but I loved her. I really did.”
“I’ve come to terms with a lot of things lately, Yates, especially my mother. I’m glad she made positive influences on your life. I’m glad she found the wherewithal to put your family first while your mother was sick. I’m proud of that. But, today, my father is my first concern. You see, I’ve decided to move back to Larkspur.”
“You don’t live here?”
“Not for a long time. But now I’ll work here with Vincent and do a little good for my hometown. I hope my decision to return cushions the blow for Daddy when he hears all this. I hope it does. We haven’t been close.”
Yates pieced a father’s and daughter’s estrangement with the worry lines around Beebe’s eyes. Then Beebe said the oddest thing.
“Of course, there’s the question of moving the grave.” Yates’s confused expression must have prompted Beebe to continue. “We’ve got to move her to the Walker family plot. She should be buried in her rightful place with Abigail Walker on the headstone. In the end, this will help Daddy heal. Me, too, I think.”
Yates bristled. He didn’t know this person, Abigail Walker. The name sounded foreign. But it did explain his run of bad luck around town when he searched for clues about Terri’s former life. He worked with the woman’s alias.
Proper Goodbye Page 11
