“Well, will you look at that!” Dad said, his gaze switching between my eyes.
“Holy mother of earth! I don’t know what that means, but it must mean something. I’ll call my friend Bettina — she does tarot and iridology — and get her expert opinion,” Mom said.
“Please don’t,” I retorted. “The doctor says it sometimes happens after accidents.”
“Is it permanent?” Dad looked worried.
I shrugged. “Don’t know yet. We’ll have to wait and see. Keep a close eye on things.” I elbowed him in the ribs, and he laughed, as I’d hoped he would. My father worried too much.
“What are your plans for today?” Mom asked between mouthfuls.
“To start clearing out your shop.”
“I haven’t decided whether I want to close it.”
“Yeah, well, we need to have that discussion sometime soon.”
“There’s no rush.”
But there was; I wanted to get out of town as soon after Christmas as possible.
“Besides,” Mom continued, “you should take it easy today. The doctor told you not to overdo it. And tomorrow you could visit some old friends, catch up with Jessica. She still lives in town, you know. She’d want you to touch base.”
“And you’ll want to visit Colby’s family, I suppose,” Dad added.
I felt a pang of something, guilt maybe. Or dread. Politeness dictated that I visit them to pay my respects, but I knew it would depress me and stir up things I’d rather leave be.
I sipped my coffee. “How’s Cassie doing?”
Through my father’s updates, I’d learned of her struggles with kidney disease over the years, poor kid. Poor family.
“Still in remission,” he said.
“Remission? So it was cancer?” Somehow I hadn’t grasped that.
Dad nodded, Mom tutted and I grimaced, even less enthusiastic now to pay that visit.
Dad patted me on the shoulder and said, “Eat the frog, kiddo. Do the hardest thing first—”
“—and the rest of the day will be easier,” I finished. The saying was one of Dad’s favorites. And it was good advice.
“Alright, I’ll go see them. Tomorrow.”
I spent the rest of the day resting, drifting in and out of naps, watching reruns of Law and Order on TV, and catching up on my parents’ news while I helped them dress the Christmas tree in the living room. Apart from her broken ankle, my mother seemed to have no lingering effects from her ischemic attack. Her face looked fine to me, and I hadn’t noticed any neurological deficits other than the ones she’d always had – a belief in the impossible and a habit of getting words and sayings mixed up. But for perhaps the first time, I was aware that both my parents were getting older. They moved more slowly and carefully, had more liver spots on their hands, and reminisced about the past more than they spoke about the present. They took a nap that afternoon, and apparently it was a daily habit.
Perry was right — they weren’t getting any younger.
That night I had a series of such bizarre dreams that I wound up taking a sleeping tablet and didn’t wake up until ten the next morning, with dread for the scheduled visit to the Beaumonts a heavy weight in my stomach. Realizing that it was the nineteenth of December — the anniversary of the day they’d found Colby’s body — I wished I’d gone the day before after all.
My mittens and scarf had been lost in rescuing the kid. Worse, my trench coat was a bundle of shrunken wet wool draped over a rail in the laundry room, and one of my Doc Martens had gone missing — swallowed by the pond or lost en route to the hospital. So I dressed in the only other footwear I’d brought — my running shoes — and grabbed my parka for warmth. On my way out, my mother called me over to where she sat, foot up on an ottoman, in the living room.
“Here, dear, this will help,” she said, handing me a small bottle.
“I’m not interested,” I said, glaring suspiciously at the label.
“It’s Rescue Remedy drops, Garnet. Goodness, you’d think I was trying to poison you! It’s just a little essence of Rock Rose, Star of Bethlehem—”
“What’s it supposed to do?”
“It’ll settle your nerves and help if you’re feeling teary.”
I gave her a skeptical look.
“It’s a very popular and powerful homeopathic remedy.”
“Then it’s the opposite of powerful, Mom. Homeopathic stuff is so diluted that it has no detectable active ingredients in it.”
“It retains the memory of the ingredients, the patterns. And the more diluted it is, the more powerfully it works.”
“Well, that makes complete sense.”
“It works!” Mom said mulishly.
“It’s a placebo,” I replied. “It’s just expensively packaged, plain old water.”
“Then you won’t mind having a sip. Of plain old water,” Mom said, smiling triumphantly.
Clever old devil, she’d outmaneuvered me.
“Ten drops, straight onto your tongue.”
Perhaps there was something to my mother’s remedy, because I felt calm as I arrived at the Beaumont Golf Estate just outside of town. The housing development was located on a hill that sloped gently down to a golf course at the bottom and the Kent River beyond, and was crowned with a forest of tall firs, spruces and pines. Enormous two- and three-story houses — different enough to give a semblance of individuality, uniform enough to ensure a cohesive look — were set at generous intervals. Discreet signage advised residents to stick to the speed limits, keep their noise levels down, be on the lookout for stray deer, and to pick up their dog’s poop. A gardener clipping a hedge in the front yard of the Beaumonts’ new residence — more mansion than house — nodded a greeting as I walked up the path. What would Colby have made of all of this?
At their old house in town, there’d been a doorbell which had played a cheerful ding-dong, but here a big brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head was mounted in the center of the oak door. At my rap, loud barking sounded from inside. Mrs. Beaumont, alerted to my arrival by the security officer at the estate’s gate house, opened the doors almost at once.
Mom! The word was in my head.
Yes, this was Colby’s mom, even though she looked very different than the last time I’d seen her.
A bunch of emotions surged through me at the sight of her. Surprise, relief, anxiety. And something that felt a lot like love.
Mom!
“Garnet McGee — goodness me, you’re all grown up!”
“Hi, Mrs. Beaumont.”
“Please, call me Bridget. Come in, come in. This way,” she said, leading me through an entrance hall with Persian rugs scattered on its marble floor, a wide staircase sweeping up to the second floor, and what looked to my untrained eye like superb modern art on the walls. The Beaumonts’ fortunes had clearly prospered in the last decade.
“I put on a fresh pot of coffee, and there’s still half a rhubarb cheesecake left that we can tuck into.”
I followed her into a kitchen which was probably larger than my entire Boston apartment. And brighter, too. Burnished copper pots hung from a rail along one wall, a lavish crystal chandelier hung above a central island, and stainless-steel appliances gleamed their promise of gourmet food.
I trailed a hand over a black granite counter top which sparkled with flecks of blue. “This is lovely.”
“It’s called Blues in the Night — it comes from Angola, in Africa. The granite from Pitchford’s quarry is a little dull.”
A lot like the town.
She extracted a steaming coffee pot from a hi-tech machine and placed it on a tray, along with cups, plates, forks and the promised cheesecake.
An old Dalmatian dog limped into the kitchen, barking frantically at me. Its hackles were raised and its ears flattened.
“Is that– That’s not still Domino?” I asked.
Baring its teeth, the dog gave a low, menacing growl, and then it rushed at me.
15
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Tuesday December 19, 2017
With a squeal of fright, I leapt onto the central island, bringing my legs up to my chest, out of the way of the dog’s snapping teeth.
“Domino! Domino! Be quiet!” Bridget Beaumont grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to a corner of the kitchen, ordering him to “Stay!”
“He used to like me,” I said, speaking loudly above the dog’s continued protest at my presence.
“Don’t take it personally. He’s an old man now, aren’t you, Domino?” She rubbed behind the Dalmatian’s ears, and he calmed down a little. “He’s half blind and mostly deaf, and he’s probably forgotten you. It has been a while since we saw you.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that,” I said, suddenly uncomfortably aware that I’d abandoned this family as suddenly and completely as Colby had left me. “I was just …”
Just what? Utterly smashed by grief, too cowardly to face the Beaumont’s pain, too set on forgetting the past to risk coming back to Pitchford?
“I understand, truly I do,” she said, with more compassion in her voice than I deserved.
“Here, let me get that, you lead the way.” I took the laden tray from her hands and carried it through to the living room, because she didn’t look strong enough to carry it.
Bridget Beaumont had aged. Although she’d always had a trim figure, now she was so thin she looked frail. Her hair, swept into a neat chignon, was entirely gray, and she looked bone-tired. Dark smudges the color of my bruises cradled her eyes. Shockingly, she looked older than my mother even though she must’ve been a good ten years younger.
I was flooded by a sudden and completely inexplicable urge to hug her, to lift her right up off the ground and swing her around in the air and tell her I loved her. I squashed the crazy impulse and carefully placed the tray on the low coffee table in the living room. When I looked up, I saw that she was studying me. What changes in my appearance struck her, I wondered.
“Please, help yourself,” she invited, gesturing to the coffee and cake.
I poured myself a cup, and my hand automatically went to the sugar bowl, hovered over it for a moment, and then withdrew. It seemed like I’d lost my sweet tooth in the pond yesterday, and I was in no hurry to reclaim it.
“Cake?” Bridget offered.
“Maybe later.”
I took a seat on the right-hand side of a long leather sofa. At least my seating preferences hadn’t changed. I’d always preferred to sit on the right side of other people. Whenever Colby and I had sat side by side, he’d always been on my left. Colby, who was left-handed, said that suited him just fine. Back then, when the two of us sat together on a couch in his house, Domino would jump up and try to squeeze between us, eager for a tummy rub. Today, the dog stayed in the doorway to the room, growling at me.
Bridget whistled and then called, “Come, boy. Come have a piece of cake.”
Domino took a step forward, barked once, and then retreated to the doorway with his ears flattened and his tail between his legs.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Bridget said apologetically. “Domino, quiet. Down!”
The dog lay down, rested his gray muzzle on his paws and kept his rheumy eyes fixed on me.
“How are you, after your accident on Saturday?”
“You heard about that?”
“My dear, this is Pitchford. Everybody heard about it. There was a ‘local heroine’ write-up in The Bugle. What a blessing for Nicholas Cooper that you were there to save him!”
“I’m just grateful Ryan Jackson was there to save me.”
She glanced at my bandaged fingers. “And are you fully recovered? They say it could have been serious.”
She didn’t say, “You could have died,” or “I believe you almost drowned.” Died and drowned are words that she no doubt took care to avoid.
“I’m fine. How have you been these last years?”
“It hasn’t been easy.”
A psychologist, or even someone temperamentally suited to be a psychologist, would surely have known how to respond. But I could think of nothing to say. I sipped my coffee while Bridget cut a tiny bite off her slice of cake and ate it without any sign of pleasure. Over in the doorway, Domino whined softly.
“Mrs—” I began, just as she said, “There’s a box—”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“I have a box with some of Colby’s personal belongings. I donated his clothes to Goodwill some years ago, but I didn’t know what to do with his other things. I couldn’t just toss them in the trash.” She looked down at her plate, mashing cheesecake with her fork so that creamy ridges squeezed up between the tines. “I thought you might like to look through it. Maybe there’ll be something you’ll want as a keepsake? You can take the whole box home with you and go through it in your own time. Keep whatever you’d like and then let me have the rest back.”
I so did not want to open a box of painful memories, but I could tell it was important to her. She wanted me to want something of Colby’s.
“Sure, that’s very kind, thank you,” I said.
“I’ll get it after we’ve had our coffee.”
I looked around the room, not letting my eyes linger on the framed photographs of Colby. My gaze instead rested on a picture of his sisters, Vanessa and Cassie.
“How are the girls?” I asked, forcing brightness into my voice.
“Vanessa got her master’s in politics and philosophy at BU, and now she works for Amnesty International. She lives in Boston with her husband and their darling baby daughter. I’m a grandmother, can you believe that?” Bridget said, smiling.
“Wow.”
In my memories, Vanessa was a young college student, eager to debate politics with the older generation. But now she was married and a mother. And though Cassie must be about twenty years old, I still pictured her as young and mischievous, her hair — the same blond as Colby’s — swinging in pigtails as she chanted, “Garnet and Colby sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
In my mind’s eye these last ten years, everyone in Pitchford had stayed the same as the day I’d last seen them, like the villagers in Brigadoon. But coming back had broken that spell. Everyone here had changed almost beyond recognition.
“Vanessa’s coming home for the holidays. I’m sure she’d love to see you. Why don’t you join us for dinner on Christmas Eve? Tell your parents we’d love to have them, too.”
“I’ll do that, thanks. And how’s Cassie doing? I was so sorry to hear about her health troubles. But my father says she’s in remission?”
“You don’t know?” Bridget asked, her face grave.
“Know what?”
“It’s back.”
I stared at her, uncomprehending.
“The cancer’s back,” she said.
No!
That’s when the first flash of color happened. Like an explosion of mustard gas, a sickly yellow clouded my field of vision. No, not my vision, precisely. It wasn’t happening in my eyes, but rather inside my mind. Another symptom of concussion? I shook my head, trying to clear the yellow haze.
Bridget must’ve thought I was rejecting the fact of Cassie’s condition, because she said, “I’m afraid it’s true. She’s been fighting this for years, but … she’s not winning.”
I blinked several times as the yellow faded, and tears welled up instead. How much tragedy could one family endure? I wiped my eyes with the heel of a hand. I didn’t want to cry, I wanted to rage. I blew out a slow breath, trying to calm myself down.
“That’s just terrible. I am so sorry to hear that,” I said, all too aware of the inadequacy of the words.
She set her plate of mashed cake down on the table. “When it started, all those years ago, we didn’t know for the longest while. It’s a silent disease in its early stages. You feel tired and more thirsty than usual, but Cassie always loved drinking water, so we never thought anything of it when she drank more. It was only when she complained of serious back
pain and smelly urine that we had her tested. She’s had the whole gamut of treatment — surgery, targeted therapy, radiation. Even a transplant when she was seventeen.”
I already knew some of this from my parents, but I listened without interrupting. It seemed like she needed to tell me the whole sad story.
“For about a year and a half, she did really well on the new kidney, but then her body rejected it, and it had to be removed. She went back on the waiting list, but then they discovered the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes, so she no longer qualified for a transplant. It’s been one kidney and dialysis ever since.”
“And … now?”
“The cancer’s at stage IV, and it’s metastasized to her lungs and liver.”
“That must be so hard for her. And for you, too.”
“Philip handles the medical side of things; he has since the beginning, thank God. After losing Colby, I was very depressed — ‘out of it,’ I think you young people call it. A hopeless mother to my girls. But then Cassie got sick and she needed me, and that pulled me out of my funk of self-pity. I didn’t have the energy to deal with doctors and medical insurance, so Philip took care of all that, while I took care of Cassie. I try to make sure she doesn’t suffer more than she can bear.”
From the pain in Bridget’s voice, it was clear that her own suffering was almost more than she could bear. I nibbled on the Band-Aid on one of my fingers, biting lines into it, pinching the sides together to form a sharp corner.
“Soon she’ll be free,” Bridget murmured, as if to herself, then she pinned me with an unexpectedly intense gaze. “I wish I could be free, too. I can’t stand this place, this house, this town. And most especially do I loathe that pond,” she said bitterly.
“I hate it, too.”
“Having to drive past it all the time … Why, it just about kills me.”
“Then why did you stay?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just leave town after — after Colby?”
The First Time I Died Page 9
