Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  “It matters to me.”

  “Then hear what I’m saying. He was good to me. He bought me . . .” She scowled, and he knew she was struggling, reaching for words she should know. He’d seen it happen before, when she was stressed or tired or overwhelmed.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer,” he said, because he felt like a bastard for upsetting her when she’d been so happy.

  “Flowers.” She finally managed to get the word out. “He bought me flowers almost every week. And my favorite fudge from that place in town.”

  “Chocolate Haven?” It was the only place in Benevolence that sold fudge, and it sold the stuff in a big way. People came from all over the region to purchase Lamont family fudge.

  “Yes. But it wasn’t chocolate fudge.”

  “No. It wouldn’t be. You prefer peanut butter. Which is something I’ve always thought was strange.” He hoped to distract her. Maybe make her smile.

  But she was upset, and there was no shaking her from that. “He brought me fudge once a month and flowers once a week. He encouraged me to buy things for myself and the kids. It wasn’t like he was out spending money and telling me not to. He wanted me to have nice shoes and clothes and . . . stuff. I wrote about it in my journal. I’ll show you, if you don’t believe me.”

  “Sunday, you don’t have to explain, and you sure as heck don’t have to show me your journals,” he tried again.

  “You shouldn’t have asked, if you didn’t want an answer. Matt was good to me. He just wasn’t good with money. Or with work. Or with being . . .” She pressed her lips together, and he knew she wasn’t struggling for the words. She’d simply decided not to speak them.

  “What?” he prodded.

  “I need to call Bett . . . Bes . . .”

  “Beatrice?” he offered.

  “Yes.” She scowled, her eyes filled with tears.

  Dear God! He’d made her cry.

  “Sunday, I’m sorry.” He touched her shoulder, but she flinched away. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because I wasn’t here when I should have been. I wasn’t kicking my brother in the butt, getting him to do the things he should have.”

  “It wasn’t your job to do those things. We were adults. Living our lives. Just like you were.”

  “You were babies when you married.”

  “We were eighteen.”

  “Kids.”

  “We loved each other, and we were ready.”

  “You were ready,” he corrected. Gently. Because he didn’t want the tears to spill from her eyes and down her face.

  Not because he wasn’t good at dealing with tears. Not because he didn’t want to deal with them. Because he knew she hated crying. He knew she’d be embarrassed, and he didn’t want to make things worse than he already had.

  “You’re probably right, Flynn. I was ready. He wasn’t. But what does that matter now?”

  “You could have used a little help. A lot of help, and all I gave you was two visits a year and some presents for the kids.”

  “Yeah. Well, I could have asked for more, if I’d wanted it. I could have asked any one of you to talk to your brother or help out on the farm or help us financially, and you would have. But I didn’t, because Matt and I somehow always made it work.”

  He thought about Twila’s adoption and the money he’d given his brother. They hadn’t made it work. Not the way she’d thought. Matt had borrowed from him. Probably borrowed from Sullivan and Porter. He’d used credit cards and taken out a loan against the farm. Used part of that money to buy a car.

  They hadn’t been making it work, and he was certain she knew it.

  But he’d already brought tears to her eyes, and he wasn’t going to do worse. “If I’d known you needed me, I would have been here.”

  “How could you know you were needed, if I never let on that we were struggling? What you and your brothers found when you arrived after the accident? It was as much my fault as it was Matt’s. I could have talked to him about our finances. I could have asked him to meet with a financial planner or an accountant. I could have suggested reading material or classes. I could have done a lot of things that I didn’t do, because I wanted Matt to be happy. If I could do it over again, I’d handle things differently. But I can’t. So I’m here. Stuck with the knowledge that my marriage wasn’t what it should have been, because Matt and I weren’t what we should have been.”

  “Don’t blame yourself for my brother’s failures. You were here. You were working. You were in the thick of things while he was off doing God knows what in Seattle and Portland.”

  She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, and they were looking right into each other’s eyes.

  And he didn’t see what he’d expected—tears, remorse, sorrow, fragility.

  He saw strength.

  “Aside from me, you’re the only person who has ever questioned those business trips,” she said, and then she turned, a little jaggedly, a little off balance, and walked away.

  Chapter Seven

  It wasn’t easy to avoid a person who was sleeping in your living room, but for the past two weeks, Sunday had been making every conceivable effort to do it.

  Rather than spending sleepless nights in the kitchen or living room, she spent them in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the quiet click of the grandmother clock and listening to Rembrandt snore.

  Despite Moisey’s obvious love for the puppy, he seemed to have chosen Sunday as his person. Which might have been nice.

  If Flynn hadn’t been sleeping in the living room.

  And if she hadn’t been avoiding him.

  Like the plague.

  Two weeks, and she’d only seen Flynn in passing. A quick hello as they walked past each other in the hallway. A nod of the head when she saw him outside. From what Rosie said, he’d been spending most of his time on the far side of the river with his brothers, building a fence to enclose the back pasture.

  Not just the brothers.

  Several people from town were helping.

  Sunday couldn’t remember who. Despite the fact that she’d been told a dozen or more times, the names kept slipping through her mind and disappearing into the fog of brain injury.

  “I hate it,” she said, and Rembrandt stirred, rising from his puppy bed and jumping onto hers.

  He wasn’t supposed to sleep there.

  As a matter of fact, he had a crate filled with soft bedding. He’d been locked in there the first few nights. By the third night (or had it been the fourth?), he’d figured things out and would scratch at the bedroom door when he needed to go out.

  Now he was supposed to sleep on the bed Moisey had made for him.

  Or had Twila made it?

  She hated not remembering things that had happened eons ago, but she hated losing new memories even more. Names and dates and places slipped in and out of her mind, a confusing jumble of information that took an extraordinary effort to organize.

  Many days she felt too tired to try.

  As a matter of fact, if it weren’t for the kids, she wouldn’t try. She’d watch mindless television or play mindless games on her phone. Maybe she’d sit on the porch and stare at the world as morning turned to afternoon and then to evening.

  She wouldn’t make lists, that was for sure.

  Of dates and events and names and activities. She wouldn’t write details of the stories Moisey told or the books Twila explained. She wouldn’t scribble down the titles of songs Heavenly sang or snap photos of her shoe and clothes sizes.

  She wouldn’t count the heart-shaped rocks Maddox had continued to bring her. Seven to date.

  She wouldn’t remind herself every morning that Milo had been chosen for swim team or that Moisey had been invited to a special dance camp.

  If it weren’t for the kids, she’d stop struggling so hard. She’d accept her limitations more gracefully and with less dismay.

  Because it wouldn’t m
atter if she forgot things.

  It wouldn’t matter if entire weeks went by without her saying a word or putting together a coherent phrase.

  There’d be no expectations and no one to care if she failed.

  There were days when that sounded terrible.

  There were other days when she thought it wouldn’t be so bad. When the kids were grown and off living their own lives, and she was left alone. She didn’t think she’d cry for what she missed, but she hoped she’d remember enough to know what it was.

  She sniffed, and Rembrandt licked her face, his tail thumping rhythmically. He still had puppy breath and velvety fur, but he had a good nose and a keen desire to work. Yesterday, the kids had played hide-and-seek in the yard, and they’d included the puppy. He’d found each of them easily, nose to the ground and tail high, prancing along happily.

  Jolly . . .

  No. Jaunty.

  That was the word of the day. Twila had written it on Sunday’s palm, tracing each letter three times with her finger when she was done, because a therapist had told her that tactile involvement helped memories form.

  “She’s a good girl, isn’t she, Rembrandt? Smart, too.”

  Thump, thump, thump went his tail in response.

  “And you’re smart. You’re going to make a great . . .”

  What?

  The kids had told her something about Flynn training Rembrandt for a job. Not hunting. It wouldn’t be that.

  She closed her eyes, trying to picture the conversation, the faces of her children when they’d been speaking to her.

  She saw nothing but black laced with squiggly lines. No faces. No kids. No words floating toward her.

  “Dear Lord, I hate this so much,” she muttered, frustrated and not sure why. She dealt with it every day. She’d continue to deal with it for the rest of her life.

  She knew the drill.

  If she wanted to remember, she needed to go through the notes she’d taken, read every page until she found what she was looking for.

  She switched on the light, pulled out the notebook she kept in her nightstand. There was another one in the living room, tucked in a coffee table drawer. A third one was in the kitchen drawer closest to the back door. There was one in the glove compartment of the van. One in her purse. She liked to have one available wherever she went, because if she didn’t write things down, she forgot. She’d disappointed her kids one too many times. Forgotten shopping trips. Forgotten church events. Forgotten playdates.

  Thank God for Rosie. She kept on top of the schedule, made sure the kids didn’t miss out.

  Without her . . .

  There would be a lot of hurt feelings and tears. Sunday’s and the kids.

  She opened the notebook to the last page, skimming paragraph after paragraph, trying to find the correct information, because not knowing was bugging the heck out of her. She’d been the regional spelling bee champ three years in a row, for God’s sake. She’d memorized the first seventy digits of pi during her senior year of high school. She’d recited the Gettysburg Address and “I Have a Dream,” and at least a dozen other speeches whose titles she could no longer remember.

  She’d had a great memory.

  One that had served her well.

  She wished she hadn’t taken that for granted.

  She wished she’d known how wonderful and miraculous it was to be able to store facts and then retrieve them, how complicated the process of recall really was, and how easily it could all change. How quickly a person could go from remembering to forgetting.

  She flipped through a few more pages, but the information she was looking for didn’t jump out at her. Not surprising. Her writing, since the accident, was atrocious, the letters shaky and misshapen. She’d regained much of her fine motor control, but not all of it, and it showed. Skimming through nearly illegible writing wasn’t going to work. She’d have to read carefully, pick through the letters, and try to make sense of them.

  But not tonight.

  She tossed the notebook on the floor, wincing as it bounced and then skittered across the wood. It was past midnight. The house had been quiet for a while, the kids tucked into bed, Rosie sleeping.

  And Flynn . . .

  Flynn who was becoming a problem, because he saw too much and asked too many questions. She climbed out of bed and grabbed the notebook, knowing exactly where she could find the next bit of information she wanted. The page was dog-eared, the words underlined.

  You were in the thick of things while he was off doing God knows what in Portland and Seattle.

  She’d silently chanted those words all the way from the garage into the house and up the stairs to her room. She’d written them down, because she hadn’t wanted to forget. Flynn knew the truth. Or suspected it.

  At least, he seemed to.

  She hadn’t asked.

  She’d been too surprised. As far as she remembered—which, she’d admit, wasn’t always very far—no one had ever questioned Matt’s business trips. Even she hadn’t until those last few months.

  She walked to the end of the bed, Rembrandt beside her, the old floor creaking, the house settling, the night still and silent around them.

  An old quilt lay across the top of the hope chest, and she tossed it on the floor. A hundred years ago, her great-great-grandfather had made the chest for his daughter, hand carving a dove, a heart, and a cross on the top and a wreath of flowers on the front. She ran her hand over the satiny wood, imagining the hours he’d spent, the dedication it had taken.

  She could remember her mother telling her the story, could almost see her hand tracing the carved heart, the dove, the cross.

  She opened the lid, lifted out stacks of folded blankets and quilts, and pulled out a large leather-bound journal. A date had been written across the front. Calligraphy-style. Or her version of it—swirly open letters that seemed to skip across the leather.

  “Better days, huh, Rembrandt? When I could control a calligraphy pen well enough to make a go at fancy writing.”

  He was too busy peering into the chest to pay attention to what she was saying.

  “What? Not interesting enough for you? Come on. Let’s close the lid.” She patted the floor, but he was having none of it. Like any intelligent puppy, he was curious. Currently, his curiosity was focused on the chest and the stacks of journals inside it.

  “Okay, buddy. Really. You need to move.” She set the journal she planned to read on the bed, then lifted the puppy. He wasn’t light, and she nearly dropped him before she managed to set him down a few feet away.

  She grabbed the stack of blankets, was lowering them into the hope chest, when Rembrandt jumped on the bed and grabbed the journal. His tail wagged a high fluffy salute of pure joy.

  Game time.

  She knew this one. He loved grabbing unattended pens and books and pencils and racing through the house with them while the kids gave chase.

  Fortunately, her door was closed.

  There was no escape, and she figured she’d be able to snatch the journal back before he tore it to pieces like he had two of Twila’s library books.

  Three?

  Twila had told her.

  Or maybe she’d just heard her telling someone else.

  “Focus!” she muttered, because Rembrandt was backing away, puppy body vibrating with excitement. Remembering how many of Twila’s books he’d eaten wasn’t nearly as important as getting the journal back.

  “Drop it!” she commanded.

  He smiled. She was dang sure of it. His dark eyes gleamed with happiness. His tail thumped the mattress and the cotton sheets.

  “This is not the time for games, pup.” She eased closer, and he ran, leaping off the bed, scrambling across the floor, paws clawing hardwood as he tried to get purchase.

  She followed, grabbing for his furry nape and missing. Of course. Because he was young and fast, and she was old and damaged. At least, she felt old. Nearly thirty should be the prime of a life. The coming decade should be
the one where she found her groove, felt the most beautiful, the most vibrant, the most alive. Beatrice had talked about it when they went to buy puppy supplies. About how exciting it was that they’d both be turning thirty. And something about a party or a celebration.

  She didn’t remember.

  She hadn’t written it down.

  She didn’t want a party or celebration.

  She wanted life back the way it had been.

  “This is not the time,” she reminded herself, dropping to the floor as Rembrandt dashed beneath the bed.

  She tried again to grab him. God knew, she did. But her sluggish brain fired commands that her body didn’t seem to recognize. The dog was under the bed, tearing at the pages, and she was lying prone, arms stretched uselessly in front of her.

  She lifted the dust ruffle, peered under the bed.

  And there he was, the corner of the journal between his puppy teeth, chewing happily.

  “Rembrandt, let’s be reasonable about this.”

  His tail thumped, stirring up a cloud of dust.

  “Darn it, Rembrandt! That’s not a toy.”

  He glanced her way, thumped his tail, and kept chewing.

  “Rembrandt!” she hissed, reaching under the bed, her fingers grazing the edge of the journal.

  He scooted away, the leather still between his teeth, tail thumping wildly in joy at the fun new game they were playing.

  Only it wasn’t a game.

  She needed that journal. She’d made entries up until the night before the accident.

  She shimmied under the bed. Head. Shoulders.

  A page tore. Rembrandt’s tail swished as he moved to the far wall. She’d have to move the entire bed to reach him.

  “Why in God’s name did anyone think a bed this size was a good idea?” she muttered, trying to shove her body closer to the dog. Her shoulders were pinned between the floor and the box spring. She needed a Moisey-sized human to get farther under the four-poster bed.

  “Dog, really,” she said. “I don’t like this game.”

  He grinned, his tongue lolling out, the journal under his front paws. At least he’d stopped chewing on the cover and ripping out pages.

  Someone knocked on the door, but she was afraid to take her eyes off Rembrandt.