Heart and Home

by Jennifer Melzer

  HEART

  AND

  HOME

  By

  Jennifer Melzer

  Heart and Home

  Copyright 2013 Jennifer Melzer

  Cover Design by Jennifer Melzer

  Formated by James Melzer

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the expressed written consent of the author.

  All names and places in this book are drawn solely from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, as well as to actual places, is purely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  Home. It’s not a complicated word or concept. Yet sometimes a part of who we think we are gets tangled with where we believe we belong. We get lost, our sense of home disappears, and no matter how we long to settle into a place, comfort and peace eludes us. My mother once said I was born with itchy feet, but I knew the truth the first time I set my foot on concrete. My dreams were too big, I was too big for the small town I grew up in, and the day I left for college I never looked back.

  Much to my mother’s chagrin, I didn’t come home for holidays, and eventually she and my father started to drive into the city just to see me. After graduation I stopped referring to Sonesville as back home, and begged my mother to stop updating me on all the town’s happenings. Important marriages, divorces, gatherings and functions… I was done with them, even if she had turned the details of my life in the city into small town tabloid fodder.

  I was practically a celebrity after she began plastering my grades beside copies of Dean’s list certificates on the bulletin board at the local Super Duper. Eventually the articles I wrote for the Tribune-Review replaced my grades until Bob Randall, who owned the market, gave in and made the paper available to anyone interested in following the life of that rare bird who’d managed to fly the coop.

  And I was darn proud of that rarity. I was one of the few who had actually managed to escape Sonesville, not that many others bothered to try. The majority rarely made it longer than a year before the call of small-town convenience and familiarity lured them back, but not me.

  Eight years gone and living the big life.

  I was never going back. Long-forgotten neighborhood faces faded one by one from memory, and the term scot-free had become synonymous with my very existence.

  Then the call came.

  You know, the one you’re never expecting despite the fact that an inexplicable sleeplessness has had you tossing and turning all night long.

  “Janice?” The voice itself was familiar, but lost among the many faceless beings I’d forgotten.

  Sleep was a precious commodity I couldn’t afford to waste. I rolled toward the glaring red numbers on my alarm clock and swallowed against the throb of uncertain doom. “This is Janice.”

  “I’m so sorry,” the voice seemed shaken and unsure. “I know it’s been ages, and I do wish it wasn’t under such dire circumstances that I had to get in touch with you, dear.”

  “Who is this?”

  “This is Miss Rogers,” she said slowly, as if offering time for recognition. My mind grasped at the straws of that name, trying to form them into some kind of meaningful face I might recognize. Was she someone I’d recently interviewed for a story? “I live across the street from your parents.”

  A long face and gap-toothed smile accompanied by a sloping nose flashed through my mind as I stifled a yawn. Chestnut hair streaked with silver. She’d lived alone as long as I could remember and had about a dozen cats that roamed the neighborhood. Her eccentricity had contributed to the mass childhood notion that she was a witch, and we avoided her like the plague—especially at Halloween.

  “Your father didn’t have much time once the ambulance came, so he asked me to call and see if you might come home.”

  “My father. . .”

  An ambulance? Home?

  “It’s your mother, dear. They think she may have had a stroke.”

  After she spoke those words I entered into a sort of frenzied non-existence. I couldn’t remember later if I even hung up the phone. I packed haphazardly, stuffing whatever I could grab into the suitcase without a clue about what I might need or how long I’d have to stay. The only certain thought in my mind was that my mother needed me.

  For the first time since I’d left Sonesville I felt an urgent need for home, and though it had been years since my last visit I navigated my way out of the city without map or direction.

  Bleary eyed, but driven by the fact that my cell phone hadn’t made a single sound since I’d left my apartment, not even a call from my father, an overcast dawn and I both arrived simultaneously in Sonesville. The highway exit took me straight to the hospital, though the road that crawled toward it was somehow different. I blinked a couple of times to make sure I hadn’t taken a wrong turn at the Dunkin Donuts that hadn’t been there when I left, but soon the hospital itself rose into view. The addition of a new wing made the building seem bigger, but aside from that it hadn’t really changed. I parked facing the old miniature golf course and paused for a moment to pull myself together.

  It had been so late when I left I hadn’t called my boss, Cal, to let him know I wouldn’t be at work. I drew in a breath, my head numb from lack of sleep, but buzzed from coffee and anxiety. As I released the breath I flipped open my phone and dialed in to my boss’s answering service to leave a message. Once I finished, it was time to face what I had driven all that way for. I locked up the car out of habit and charged through the emergency room entrance without a clue about where I’d find my family.

  The check-in desk was empty, but I could hear the sound of a television news program blaring in the empty waiting room area.

  I slouched against the counter, and a long exhale drained the last bit of life from me.

  My breath signaled a series of movements in a curtained room just behind the check-in station, and then a heavy-set woman with large gold curls and round blue eyes appeared in the doorway. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for my mother,” I explained. “Chandra McCarty.”

  “Chandra McCarty,” she ran her finger down a chart on her desk, and then tapped mid-page. “They moved her to ICU about two hours ago.”

  ICU was bad, I realized. I was nodding at the woman behind the desk, and didn’t even realize it until I started to back away. “Thank you.”

  I had no idea which way the intensive care unit was, but I didn’t look back after I darted quickly down the hall. Occasionally I glanced up at the various directional signs pointing out elevators or stairs, X-Ray, the Laboratory, Family Planning, Neonatal. I turned down this hall and that one, and actually started to feel like I was walking in circles because the multi-colored brick walls all looked the same. I turned left and saw a small admissions desk in the distance and rushed forward to ask for help.

  “You look lost,” a stunning, silver-haired woman behind the desk noted. “Can I help you?”

  I lifted a hand to the back of my neck, “I’m looking for Intensive Care.”

  “Well if it isn’t Miss Janice McCarty.” She tilted her head just a little to the left. “I just knew I’d recognize you the minute I saw you.”

  Her face was only vaguely familiar, and with my mind numb from travel and too much caffeine I just nodded, but made no commitment to memory. I glanced down at her name tag. Emma Williams. Suddenly my mind reeled backward sixteen years and found me sitting at the Williams’ dinner table beside my basketball teammate, Amber. Much to Emma’s dismay, Amber’s older brother Stacy spent the entire meal talking about popping pimples.

  “Mrs. Williams,” I nodded.

  “As much as I’d like to say it’s good to see you, I wish the circumstances were better.” She
pushed her chair away from the desk and stood. “I promised Hank I’d bring you to him the minute you arrived.”

  “Good,” I nodded.

  She began walking, and despite the fact that I felt numb and disconnected from my own body, my feet seemed to follow on instinct. We walked several feet before I realized the petite woman beside me had been talking the entire time about her daughter and grandchildren. Her words seemed to run together in a way that I couldn’t pry them apart, and I was surprised when I actually made sense of the words, “Boy, I bet Amber would just love to see you again. The two of you used to be such close friends.”

  Amber Williams and I had never been what I’d consider close friends, not even in grammar school. We’d played basketball together in sixth grade, but even that was short-lived. The following summer changed us all, and as we settled into junior high school a new set of boundaries dictated by household income, bra size and boys separated us into our neat little cliques. From then on out, those boundaries determined how Amber and her friends treated the rest of us, and I wondered if they were still clearly defined, if Amber Williams was still good to talk to Becky Raynard and Stephanie Haywood.

  As if she finally discovered my distraction, Mrs. Williams cleared her throat and pushed a button that allowed us entry into an isolated area marked “Intensive Care” on a little black plaque. Inside the compact hallway, the constant mechanical whir of machinery assaulted my senses as we passed by bleak room after bleak room. At the sound of our footsteps approaching, my father looked up and it felt as if his eyes stared right through me.

  “Brought her straight in, just like I promised, Hank?”

  The sound of his name sparked life behind his lost blue eyes, and then he looked at me. There were no words, nothing needed to be said. I came too late.

  My mother was already gone.

  For the first time since that call came, my heart tightened in my chest. Dad swallowed hard and reached for my hand, and though the comfort of the strong and familiar was exactly what I needed, I faltered at first, afraid that taking his hand would bring it all crashing down around us.

  He waited there for me, even after she was gone. He needed my help filling out the inevitable mounds of hospital paperwork. By mid-morning the very taste of coffee was numb to my taste buds, and my head felt both full and empty all at once. There was so much to do, all things that in the past my mother would have taken care of in such a way that it seemed easy from the outside, and yet standing in her shoes was harder than I ever dreamed.

  When I finally drove us home in a fog, I barely noticed the sense of calm that came over me as I stepped into the once familiar and comfortable sanctuary of my childhood home. I actually had to fight my exhausted father all the way to bed, but I knew how he felt. Sleep was a temporary reprieve, and as long as I could avoid closing my eyes, I skipped out on waking up only to discover it was really happening. My mom was gone, and I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

  “Come on, Dad.” I pleaded, “Just lay down for a couple of hours.”

  “Janice Claire,” he started to protest.

  The desperate tone of his voice brought tears to my eyes, and the combined wear and anguish were beyond my level emotional tolerance. I managed to live a rather detached existence for the last few years, readily disconnected from the world and my family, weighed down beneath my job so there were no feelings to feel. Work required a certain level of detachment, the long hours and lack of any real sense of social fulfillment were a must.

  Slowly I could feel that mock anesthesia wearing off, and the true horror was yet to come.

  “Come on, Daddy, I can’t lose you both at once, please.”

  “Now you’re talking crazy,” he insisted.

  The protest stopped there, however, and he sauntered into the den to curl up on the worn, brown sofa with the quilted throw that hung over it as long as I could remember. He turned on the radio, most likely to deaden the emptiness that now filled the house.

  Hefting my suitcase all the way, I climbed the stairs. I paused outside the door of the bedroom I spent the majority of my life in. I knew when I opened the door everything would be the same as I left it.

  I dropped the suitcase just inside the door, and then closed it behind me. It was near noon and the sun spilled in around the blinds, illuminating the room just enough that I could see it was as I suspected. The familiar abstract art pattern splashed across the white comforter and sheets on the full-sized bed, and lying in the middle of the two extra pillows was Mr. Bojangles, the orange orangutan I carried with me through much of my childhood.

  I reached out and lifted the small thing into my arms without a thought or a care about how it would look. If anything could understand how I felt in that moment, it was familiar comfort. Just seeing how well she maintained my room, as if there was some hope inside her that one day she’d find a way to turn back time and bring me home again…

  I sunk down onto the edge of the bed, the smell of clean linen wafting up to meet me. I wondered just how often my mother washed those sheets in hopes that I would come home, even just for the night. I hugged Mr. Bojangles tight against my chest and tried to breathe, but my breath quickened and I gulped for air as I broke down. Eventually it was all I could do to curl into the familiar comfort and smells of childhood lay down my head.

  Chapter Two

  Ask any resident, and they would likely agree that Chandra McCarty was the virtual hub of Sonesville. I guess I’d never realized just how involved and popular my mother actually was. In retrospect, the signs were always there. She more or less headed up every organization I ever joined as a child. In elementary school she was our Girl Scout troop leader, Sunday school teacher and Pop Warner cheerleading coach. She was a grade mother, a field trip volunteer and a banner member of the PTA. If something needed doing, my mother did it, and she didn’t complain.

  I always thought I was one of those unlucky kids with a mom who had nothing better to do than embarrass me at every turn, but the truth of the matter turned out to be much deeper.

  See, some people got addicted to drugs or alcohol, and others gambled. My mother was a habitual joiner, and by Tuesday morning it became clear just how many activities she wriggled herself into.

  The phone began ringing off the wall with condolence calls at precisely eight o’clock. I barely managed to drag myself from bed, much less into the day’s clothing when the doorbell started to chime. By noon friends and admirers began to forgo phone calls altogether and just popped by with steaming dishes of food to help us through. The local clergyman, Pastor Crane, stopped in right around the time my mother’s quilting circle brought us lunch, and made himself at home. He offered me grief counseling between shoveling bites of Mrs. Lumbarger’s hearty clam chowder into his mouth, promising between dabs of his napkin that his door was open if ever I needed to talk about the Lord’s plan.

  “You do still attend Sunday services in the city, don’t you?” Pastor Crane tilted an inquisitive glance across the table.

  I squirmed, uncomfortable under the spotlight of his question. Explaining to him that I had little to no time for church and even less motivation was going to be even harder than when I’d tried to explain it to my mother. Unfortunately, despite my lack in faith, I still found it incredibly hard to lie to a man of the cloth.

  “No, sir,” I pushed my soup away untouched, the brick of guilt quickly dropping into the pit of my stomach. “Sundays are usually pretty busy for me.”

  He clucked and shook his head, his sharp features defined by disappointment. “There is always time for the Lord, Janice. I hope you’ll keep that in mind during this dark time for your family.”

  Sure that I was flushed with awkward embarrassment, I nodded emphatically. “I will come straight to you while I’m here if I find myself in need of spiritual counseling,” I promised.

  This seemed to placate him, and he dug heartily into his soup while my bemused father looked on from the counter. I wasn’t surprised to see
him shaking his head. He had been a rare churchgoer himself, barely even coaxed to attend on Easter Sundays by my mother.

  All afternoon the women’s social scene, which must have spanned half the county, swarmed by in groups, dropping off casseroles, cakes, fudge and tins of cookies, determined to cure our grief with carbohydrates and fond memories. I was surprised at how many of them knew exactly where my mother kept the best coffee, and even more how to operate her industrial strength Bunn coffeemaker. Despite having grown up in that house, it wasn’t long before my mother’s vast social network had me feeling like I was just getting in their way.

  And the way they gawked and made sympathetic eyes made me feel all of six years old. While some managed to provoke tearful memories, others said nothing, their piteous eyes boring into me like nails of sorrow. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, someone would come up and rest a hand on my shoulder, remarking, “Your mother was just so proud of you,” or “I swear, Hank, doesn’t she look just like her mama?”

  It was nearly four-thirty when I finally shuffled the last well-wisher out the door and fell slumped into the arm chair.

  “God, I thought they’d never leave,” I reclined in the chair and nestled my face into the cushion. Eyes closed, I released a sigh of relief, but no sooner had that breath left my chest when the doorbell sounded again.

  “You have got to be kidding me.”

  “If that’s for me, I’m not here,” Dad called from the top of the stairs.

  “Like I want to be here,” I mumbled, straining my eyes upward with an unspoken curse. I pushed the chair back down with a huff and marched toward the front door with every intention of telling whoever it was that as much as we appreciated their generosity and well wishes, I’d had more visitors than I could stomach for one day.

  My intention was never spoken because when I drew the door open I was struck speechless by the sight that awaited me there.