by Vivi Holt
The phone vibrated again. Still fuming, she answered it without checking. “Stop bothering me, Simon – I’m not coming back!”
“Issie?” Aunt Cindy’s confused voice echoed down the line.
Isabella sat up in bed and smiled. “Auntie Cindy! How are you? Boy, am I glad to hear your voice. You won’t believe the day I’ve had …”
“I’m sorry to hear that, honey. But I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Isabella’s eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. “What is it?”
Cindy sobbed. Her voice broke when she tried to speak, and she cleared her throat to start again. “There’s … your mum and dad were involved in a traffic incident on Highway 84. The police are telling me they lost control of the vehicle and rammed into the side of a cattle truck. I’m at the hospital now … I’m so sorry, honey – they didn’t make it.”
A clock on the wall ticked slowly in step with her heart. Her breathing slowed.
“Issie?”
“Yes, sorry … I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I said, honey?”
“Yes, I did. I …”
“I …” Cindy sobbed again, her voice trailing off.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Isabella’s head was spinning, but she knew what she needed to do. “I’m coming home.”
A gulp through the phone. “Good, honey. It’ll be good to see you. Just give me a call when you get here, okay?”
Isabella blinked back tears. “I’ll catch the first flight I can. See you soon. And Auntie Cindy?”
“Yes, honey.” Cindy sounded tired now.
“Thanks …” Her throat choked on the word and she couldn’t go on.
“Love you, honey – fly safe.”
When Isabella hung up, she sat on the side of the bed for several minutes while the tears snaked down her cheeks. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real. Mum … Dad … they were vital, strong, alive. There must be some kind of mistake. She’d fly home and discover it was someone else’s parents who’d died in that accident. Not hers. It wouldn’t be her life turned upside down, but someone else’s. None of this was real. It couldn’t be.
Isabella parked the red hatchback rental car beside the shed and twisted the key. The engine died and the blaring radio faded to nothing. She sat in silence, her eyes focused on the white wooden house in front of her. A wide veranda wrapped around the outside and the tin roof glinted in the bright afternoon sun. Summer in Heartstone was always hotter than Sydney. She’d forgotten just how stifling it could get.
How could she go inside? She knew what she’d find – empty, hollow rooms no longer filled with Mum’s laughter or Dad’s talkback radio programs. He loved listening to those programmes while he sat in his La-Z-Boy, kicked back, his feet up and his eyes closed after a hard day’s work on the farm.
She took a long breath and opened the door, stepping out of the air-conditioned car into the hot summer day. Her hair clung damply to her forehead as she traipsed across the uneven ground to the front stairs.
She heard a sudden patter of feet and turned just in time to be knocked backward by a blur of black-and-white fur with a long pink tongue. She giggled as the tongue found her face. “Hector, no, stop it! Ugh – what have you been eating?” With a grimace, she pinched her nose closed and struggled free. Hector’s tail wagged furiously, his tongue lolled from one side of his mouth as he watched her, his head cocked to one side.
“Holy Moses, dog, you’ve got to stop eating dead stuff. That’s disgusting!” She clambered up the stairs, Hector following close behind. “I’ll bet no one’s thought to come by and feed you, huh? Well, I’ll see what I can find inside. Anything would be better than whatever you’ve been scavenging.”
The front door was unlocked and she pushed it open and stepped inside, her stomach clenching. The place looked as though her parents had just stepped out and would be back at any moment. She exhaled slowly and went to the kitchen, the tic-tac of Hector’s toenails on the linoleum the only sound in the still house.
Washed dishes stood dry in the draining rack beside the sink. Unpaid bills lay in a stack on the end of the counter beside a half-drunk cup of tea. A magazine on the dining table was opened to the crossword in the back – almost complete – with a ballpoint pen resting on the page. She ran her fingertips over the table, a lump forming her throat. Where had they been driving to? It didn’t seem as though they were headed anywhere for the day, since they’d left so many things unfinished. They must have thought they wouldn’t be gone long.
Her chest ached and her eyes smarted. She still couldn’t believe they weren’t coming back, even after stopping at the coroner’s office in Milton, the closest metropolitan centre to Heartstone, and identifying their bodies. Just the memory of that made the bile rise in her throat. She swallowed and breathed deeply.
Isabella slumped onto a barstool at the counter, laid her head on her arm and sobbed, finally letting out all her pent-up emotions. Hector sat beside her, nuzzling her leg.
2
4 November
Heartstone’s main street hadn’t changed – not since she’d visited a year earlier for Christmas, and not since her childhood. Her thoughts wandered back, remembering that Christmas was now only a few weeks away. She closed her eyes for a moment and waited for her jittering heart to slow. Christmas without her parents … she didn’t know if she could bear it.
A woman’s voice brought her back to the present. “Is that Issie Proctor?”
She turned slowly and her eyes widened. “Meg?”
Meg Cranston threw her arms around Isabella and pulled her close. “Issie, it’s so good to see you. It’s been too long.”
Isabella buried her face in Meg’s long blonde hair, then pulled away and wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her wrist. Meg had been her best friend all through school, and even though they lived in different states now, they’d always kept in touch. She hadn’t seen Meg in a year, but they’d spoken regularly and knew everything about each other’s lives.
“How’re you holding up, hon?”
Isabella nodded, realizing Meg must have already heard about her parents, and forced a smile. “I’m … I’m surviving, I suppose.”
Meg sighed sympathetically. “I was so sorry to hear about your mum and dad.” Her eyes shone with tears. “I can’t quite believe it myself, so I’m sure you’re still in shock.”
Isabella nodded again, unable to speak for a moment.
Meg looped her arm through Isabella’s and they walked down the street together. “I was wondering when you’d get in. But now that you’re here, you’ve got to let me help. You can’t do this all on your own.”
Isabella combed her fingers through her hair. “Thanks – that would be great. I’ve got to get started on the funeral arrangements, but I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Well, I guess we should start at the funeral home. Have you thought about whether you want to have the service there or at the church?” Meg raised an eyebrow.
“No. I don’t know …”
“Well, I’d say the church, since your parents attended there.”
Isabella frowned. She stopped and faced Meg, her head tipped to one side. “My parents?”
Meg nodded with a crooked half-smile. “Um … yeah. You didn’t know?”
“No one in my family has ever set foot in a church. So no, I didn’t know. Are you sure it was them?”
“I’m sure. You know I go every Sunday, right? Well, a few months ago they started coming too. I saw them there every week – they never missed a service. I can’t believe they didn’t tell you.” Meg’s brow furrowed and she patted Isabella’s arm. “Well, never mind. Maybe they had a reason not to say anything.”
Isabella sniffled and continued walking. “I guess we’ll have the funeral at the church, then.”
“Which means we should go visit Baker Pritchard.”
Isabella arched an eyebrow. “Baker Pritchard? The boy a couple of years old
er than us who played on the high school basketball team – that Baker Pritchard?”
Meg chuckled. “Yep, the very one. Only he’s not a boy anymore. He’s the pastor at our church and has been for a couple years now.”
“Really? Wow. I mean, I knew he was into all that God stuff in high school, but I never would have guessed he’d become a pastor.”
“Yeah, he’s likely over at the church – let’s go see him.”
They strode along the footpath, side by side. “Does he wear the black robe and everything?” Isabella asked.
Meg laughed. “No, that’s a priest. He’s a pastor. He was married once and has two girls.”
“Was married?”
Meg’s voice softened. “His wife died a few years ago – cancer, I think. They lived in Brisbane at the time. He moved back home after she died – I guess to be close to his family.”
Isabella took a quick breath and blinked. Death, grief … it affected everyone. She rummaged in the pocket of her jeans for a tissue. She’d taken to carrying a bunch of them, wadded up and shoved into a pocket or purse, wherever she went because she never knew when the next wave of grief would hit her and she’d end up bent double and sobbing. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, dabbing gently at her reddened nostrils. As they passed a trash can, she tossed the tissue in, then shoved her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders.
The church was a small white building with a high steeple over the front entrance. It looked as though it had been built a hundred years earlier and repainted every twenty years or so since. Isabella followed Meg up the front steps reluctantly. She’d never been inside a church and hated that she had to go into one now. Why would she have her parents’ funeral here, rather than a park or even the funeral home?
But as hard as she found it to believe, Meg said they’d been attending for months. If so, she could deal with the discomfort for their sakes. She’d do anything for them.
If only she’d spoken to them about what they wanted – for their funeral, for the farm, for everything. But she hadn’t wanted to discuss it. Besides, by all accounts it should’ve been years away. It seemed morbid to talk about death and final wishes with people who were in the prime of life.
Inside the church the air was cool. The aisles were decorated simply, with sprigs of holly and a large Christmas tree on the stage with colourful baubles and a gold star on top. Isabella blanched – every decoration reminded her Christmas was on its way and sent a stab of pain through her heart. Surely it was too early for all that.
Meg rapped her closed fist against a door at the back of the room and a voice murmured from within. She shot Isabella an encouraging smile and pushed the door open. Isabella smoothed her flyaway hair back against her head. She hadn’t seen Baker since high school and wondered if he’d changed.
“Meg, what a pleasure.” Baker stood and hurried to Meg, embraced her, then smiled at Isabella over Meg’s shoulder. “Issie Proctor?”
She nodded and worked hard to smile. She could feel the tears still welling up, and tipped her head to one side in an attempt to hide them. “Yes, that’s me. It’s been a long time, Baker.”
He folded her into an embrace and the warmth of it was unexpected. He must be thirty by now, but he hadn’t changed except filling out what used to be a skinny frame – he was built like an athlete. His gray eyes found hers as he pulled away. “I’m so sorry to hear about your parents.”
The kind words made her eyes flood once more, and she mumbled her thanks as she searched for another tissue.
Meg took a seat in one of two chairs that faced Baker’s desk. He went around the desk, took his own chair and pushed a box of tissues across the desk toward Isabella. “Here you go – take as many as you need.”
Isabella nodded, slumped beside Meg and pulled a handful of tissues from the box. She used one on her face, shoving the others into her now-empty pocket.
“We’ve come to talk to you about a funeral service for Kathleen and Keith,” began Meg, her hands folded in her lap.
Baker’s eyebrows pulled low and he nodded. “Yes, of course. I was so sorry to hear about your loss, Issie.”
As Meg and Baker discussed arrangements, Isabella listened absently, struggling to focus on their words. She found herself watching the sides of Baker’s mouth crinkle or the way he ran his fingers over his stubbled chin while he thought something through. He wore a blue shirt with an open collar and faded jeans. His blonde hair was sun-bleached, bouncing back on his forehead when he combed his fingers through it as though it had a life of its own.
She remembered he was handsome as a teen, but they had run in very different circles. He was always the good boy – studied, got good grades, played on the basketball team and never drank or went to the parties and popular haunts around town. She’d skipped class whenever she could get away with it, drank hard, even experimented with drugs, though they’d never been much to her liking. She’d always felt he looked down on her, saw her as trouble and kept his distance. Now that same sense of unease, as though she wasn’t good enough, crept through her.
He glanced her way and smiled warmly. “Do you have any questions, Issie?”
Her cheeks flamed and her thoughts raced. What were they discussing? But when she spoke, her voice sounded calm and confident, as though it belonged to somebody else. “Could you speak with the funeral director about the logistics?”
He nodded. “Yes, I’ll do that. Bob and I are used to arranging these services together, so we’ll take care of everything. Really, it’s just about whether you want to add some kind of personal touch to the ceremony.” He and Meg focused on her, waiting for her response.
She hesitated. “Well, I do want that – I’m just not sure… do you mind if I have a word with Aunt Cindy first? I haven’t seen her yet and I’m sure she’ll have something to add.” She stood and ran her damp palms down the front of her jeans before shaking Baker’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Baker. It was good to see you, though not under the best circumstances.”
“You too, Issie. Don’t be a stranger, okay?” He held her hand a moment longer than necessary, and her gaze met his. His eyes were kind – he seemed to genuinely care about her and her loss. But he knew her, knew what she was really like. He’d seen the dark underside of the careful image she’d created since she finished school and escaped to the city.
She turned to leave, then glanced back over her shoulder. “Oh, one last thing. Meg says my parents were attending church here. Is that right?”
Baker put his hands on his hips and nodded. “Yes, they were here every Sunday. They started coming in August, I think – we had a conference with a guest speaker. They came one night, then every week since. Why do you ask?”
She turned to face him, her face burning with an unexpected anger. “It’s just that … well, they never mentioned anything to me about it. They’ve been … I mean, we’ve been atheists our whole life. They hated organized religion, and as far as I know they’d hadn’t been inside a church since they were kids. I just don’t understand why they were here and why they didn’t tell me.”
He tipped his head to the side and frowned. “I’m not sure why they didn’t say anything. I do know they had an experience with God that changed their lives. They were committed Christians when they died. You should find some comfort that they’re with their Maker in Heaven now –”
Isabella spun about and stumbled from the room. Hands outstretched, she ran down the aisle between the pews and burst through the front doors into the brilliant sunshine. She stood, hands on her knees, and breathed deeply, her lungs burning. Balloons of light floated before her eyes and her heart pounded.
It felt as though her life was being turned upside down. Everything she’d known to be true was coming unravelled. Her parents were Christians? And now they were gone and she couldn’t even talk to them about it, or anything else. She’d quit her job, and hadn’t returned a single call to Simon, who was still leaving messages on her cell phone
with frustrating regularity.
She raised her head and let her gaze wander across the street to a sign in front of a quaint storefront: Cindy’s Antiques. Aunt Cindy…
She lurched forward.
“Issie, where are you going?” Meg’s voice behind her faded into the background noise of the sunburned town: the tap of a ball being bounced from hand to road, the titter of birds as they dove upon a feline intruder, the growl of a motorbike engine revving to life.
Isabella kept going until she pushed through the flimsy strips of plastic that served as a door and heard the tinkle of a bell overhead. “Be right there!” sang a voice from behind the counter.
Isabella scanned the darkened room, her eyes adjusting to the diminished light. Chairs, buffet cabinets, lamps and side tables were arranged in haphazard fashion throughout, augmented by brightly-coloured pillows, throws, vases and rugs. At first glance it seemed disorganized, scattered, but she knew from past experience that each piece in Cindy’s collection was carefully positioned – and worth a mint.
Tight red curls appeared from beneath the counter, followed by a pale face replete with green eye shadow and perfectly plucked eyebrows. Only a faint redness around her eyes gave away her grief. “Oh, Issie, you’re here!” Cindy cried. She ran around the end of the counter and straight to Isabella, then wrapped her arms around her niece and held her head to her chest. “My darling girl. When did you arrive?”
Isabella squeaked, her voice muffled against her aunt’s buxom chest.
Cindy released her. “What? What did you say?”
Isabella chuckled, rubbing her cheeks with both hands. “I said ‘I can’t breathe.’ You were squeezing the life out of me.”
Her aunt threw her head back and guffawed, her cheeks round and pink with delight. “I’m so sorry, my dear girl. You know I can’t help it.”
Isabella wrinkled her nose. “I know. And I’m so glad to see you. No one else gives hugs quite like yours.”
