A Flicker of Light
Page 14
“It’s venison,” Bea said. “Deer meat.”
“Oh.” He picked the burger up and peered at it. “Oh.”
“Something wrong?” Dad asked.
“No. I’ve just never had . . . that before. Is it . . . uh, did you . . . ?”
“Kill it? Yes. Last fall.”
Bea eyed Jeremy thoughtfully. She’d grown up eating venison, elk, and even bison on occasion. Black bear once, too, come to think of it. She’d never given it a second thought. But she had no idea what Jeremy’s stance on hunting was. Or whether he even had a stance. It had never come up in Santa Clara.
Maybe she’d taken for granted that not everyone in the country had as close a connection to the food on their table as the people of Moose Creek. People who watched the potato fields mature over the summer. Smelled the wheat when it was harvested every September. Dragged the 175-pound carcass of a mule deer two miles to where their truck was waiting. Exchanged trout from the Madison River for honey from Miss Arlee’s bees.
“What do you think?” She tried to sound nonchalant. “Do you like it?”
Jeremy took another tentative bite. Dad pretended to be indifferent and absorbed in his own burger, but Bea could tell he had one eye on Jeremy as well, interested in his response. As if Jeremy’s feelings about wild game were awfully important to him.
“It’s different.” Jeremy winked at her. “Just like you.”
Her cheeks grew warm. It seemed like something she should smack him on the arm for, but the way he said it made her feel like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.
“Don’t just sit there gawking at each other,” Dad barked. “Eat up.”
TWENTY-TWO
Mitch strode into the kitchen Sunday morning, toolbox in hand, determined to win his battle with the ice machine once and for all. He stopped short at the sight of Bea sitting at the table, staring at a can of 7UP.
“What are you doing here?”
She’d said she was going to walk to church with Jeremy, hadn’t she? She’d even tried to convince him to go along.
Her face was pale. “I’m not feeling well. Decided to stay home.”
“Oh.” He set the box on the table with a metallic thunk. “You’re sick, and he just left you here alone?”
“I’m not sick.” Bea kept her eyes on the can. There was an edge in her voice. “And I’m not alone.”
“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “Seems like he’s always off gallivanting around without you, that’s all.”
“He has a name, Dad. And when he’s gone, it’s for work. He also doesn’t like missing church. His faith is important to him.”
Mitch tilted his head at the way she said the words. “It’s not to you?”
She looked up. “I’m still figuring that out, not that you have a right to talk to me about it. But it makes me happy to be around other believers. I actually like them.”
He bristled. “I like those folks, too.”
Her hand closed around the 7UP can as she eyed him carefully. “Then why do you avoid them like the plague?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the fridge. How had this happened? There were things he wanted to talk with his daughter about, but church wasn’t one of them.
“Ever since Mom died,” she continued, “you’ve been acting like it’s all those people’s fault or something. Pastor Frank told me about the incident with the chowder.”
He stifled a growl. What’d Frank have to go and do that for? He looked out the window. Barbara Currington’s ham-and-corn chowder had been the last straw. He’d continued to attend church after Caroline died for Bea’s sake, hoping the looks of pity, nosiness, and condescending platitudes would taper off. But once Bea left for school, his attendance had rapidly declined.
“I didn’t mean to dump it all over the pew.”
“But you did mean to tell her to—how did Pastor Frank put it?—keep her corn to herself?”
An old, familiar anger began to build up in his chest. He’d never asked for any food, yet someone tried to hand off a pan of pasta or bowl of soup every time he showed his face inside Moose Creek Community Church. He’d never asked for any of the pity or the inappropriate hints about single cousins or nieces or hair stylists people knew. He’d never asked to hear about the “words of comfort” God had allegedly placed in someone’s heart to share with him.
“I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
Bea’s eyes burned a hole through his skull. “Take what? The fact so many people cared about you?”
“No.” He searched for the right words like an outstretched hand groping for the light switch in the middle of the night. “The pressure to be thankful. The expectation that I should be grateful for whatever sympathy someone wanted to show, however they wanted to show it. No one ever asked me what I actually needed. They just shoved plates of muffins in my hands and expected me to be happy about it.”
Bea was silent. His neck muscles tightened. It sounded terrible when he said it out loud, but he was only being honest. It had felt so unfair at the time, like the whole church was asking him to carry the burden of pretending on top of the burden of grief.
“So you dumped out Barbara’s chowder?”
He scoffed. “It was an accident. I stood up too fast, trying to get away.”
A small smile appeared on Bea’s face. “I wish I could’ve seen it.”
“I’m told they found chowder over three pews away.” He didn’t stick around for the cleanup efforts, so he couldn’t confirm that. But it was impressive if true.
Bea folded her arms on the table. “They were just trying to help, you know. They all loved Mom, too.”
Her words scratched at a raw place in Mitch’s heart. A place he’d thought had scarred over by now. The words to “Sweet Caroline” came to mind unbidden, and he yanked the lid of his toolbox open to drown out the melody in his head. Caroline was gone. He couldn’t change that, and he couldn’t take back what had happened with his church family afterward. But maybe there was one thing he could still change.
“Have you thought about your plans for the future, B.B.?”
She wrinkled her nose. “What do you mean?”
The wariness in her voice should’ve been a warning. Nevertheless, he forged ahead. “I mean going back to college. Getting a degree. Choosing a career. You can’t work at the Food Farm forever.”
Some rosiness began to appear in her pale cheeks. “I don’t know if I’m ever going back to school, Dad. I’m not sure what the point would be. And you know the Food Farm is only temporary.”
“‘What the point would be’?” He pulled a screwdriver from the toolbox and waved it around. “The point is, you can’t just give up on your dreams. Jeremy’s ambitions are not more important than yours.”
Her nostrils flared. “It has nothing to do with that. He would support me going back to school if that’s what I wanted.”
“And why isn’t it? You always liked school.”
She pressed her lips together and didn’t respond. She looked so much like Caroline when her eyes sparked like that. Caroline had always wanted to give Bea the world. Before she died, she’d made him promise he wouldn’t let her death hold Bea back. He hadn’t done a great job of that. Hadn’t wanted to accept she was leaving him. That everything was going to change. But it wasn’t too late.
“I know it might not seem like it right now”—he dropped the screwdriver back in the box and leaned his hands on the table, facing her—“but there’s so much life ahead of you. So many opportunities. We didn’t name you after Beatrice Shilling and Beatrice Hicks so you could organize produce while your husband wanders around doing who-knows-what.”
She pushed back from the table and stood. “You know very well what he’s doing. He’s working on starting his own company. It’s going to take time—”
“I don’t know what it’s like in California, but around here, a man does whatever he has to do to support his family.”
A baby Caroline would never get to see. A fleeting image of Caroline holding a baby and smiling up at him flashed like lightning in his brain, and he took a step back from the table. It hurt. It hurt so much.
He had to make Bea see how much potential lay ahead of her. “You’re only twenty-one. I don’t want you to waste your life—”
“Waste my life?” She dropped her hands and clenched her fists. “That’s what you think about my being pregnant? Mom was my age when she had me. Did she waste her life?”
His voice rose. “No, of course not.”
She narrowed her eyes. He wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say. What he wanted. He just knew this was nothing like how he pictured his life, or Bea’s, three years ago.
“And what about you, Dad? You mope around here like an old man. Talk about wasting your life.”
“We’re not talking about me.”
“No, of course not.” Bea slapped the table with an open palm. “We’re not ever allowed to talk about you. But you don’t have a say in my decisions anymore. Don’t have a right to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.”
“I’m still your father, and I don’t want to see you give up. College is still an option.”
Her chin quivered. “You don’t understand. You don’t know how hard it was for me.”
His brow furrowed. She’d never shied away from hard work, and her grades had been good that year at Georgia State. “And you thought getting married would be easier?”
“No.” She flinched. “I don’t know. I missed Mom.”
“So you settled for the first guy who came along?”
Her cheeks were bright red now. He shook his head. That wasn’t what he meant. “I—”
“Real nice, Dad.” Her eyes flashed with fire. “You don’t know anything about it.”
“Because you never told me. I can’t stand how you never tell me anything anymore.” He took another step back and tripped over Steve, who yowled and ran off. “And I can’t stand having that cat around.”
“Well, that’s an easy problem to fix.” She spun around in a huff and called over her shoulder. “We’ll all be out of your hair as soon as possible.”
He held up a hand. “No, that’s not—”
She marched out of the kitchen and down the hall.
“Where are you going?” He hurried after her. “B.B., wait.”
“It’s Bea.” She pulled her coat from the rack and snatched the keys to the Toyota off the hook on the wall. “And I need some fresh air. Tell Jeremy I’ll be back in a little while.”
Mitch opened his mouth in protest, but she slipped through the door and slammed it behind her, leaving a blast of cold air and her angry words lingering in the hall. He hadn’t meant it about Jeremy. It wasn’t Jeremy he blamed, it was himself. And he hadn’t meant it about the cat, either. Steve hadn’t given him any trouble. He’d keep them all here forever if he could, but wasn’t he allowed to be concerned about his only child? About her future?
What about two years ago? Had he shown concern for her then or only himself?
He’d blown it big-time.
An elk bugle broke into his thoughts, and he realized he was still staring at the door. Shaking his head, he hurried to the kitchen to find his phone. Who would be calling him on a Sunday? It better not be the town office calling about another pothole emergency.
He saw his father’s name on the phone screen, and his throat constricted.
“Hello? Dad?”
“Mitch, it’s your mother.”
His heart dropped a beat. “What happened?”
“I spent the morning riding Rattler. I needed some time. I took the truck keys with me, in case she got any ideas, but I never dreamed . . .”
“What is it? Tell me.”
“Your mother.” It was the voice of a man who blamed himself. “She’s gone.”
TWENTY-THREE
The car jolted over a pothole as Bea raced out of Moose Creek, knocking the Toyota off track. She yelped and jerked the steering wheel to correct her course. What was Dad’s problem? How could he say those things? Ever since she and Jeremy had arrived, he’d been looking to pick a fight.
It wasn’t his life. She should’ve known coming back here wouldn’t work. Nothing had been the same since Mom died, especially her relationship with her father. He couldn’t even look at her the same way anymore.
The miles flew past under her pathetic little tires as she ignored the speed-limit signs. The farther from Moose Creek she drove, the better she felt.
The morning sickness had hit her hard this morning. Every smell throughout the entire house had wrenched her stomach enough to make her want to gag. She cracked her window and turned up Pass Creek Road. Ah, the smell of the mountain. That was more like it. Her life was coming apart at the seams, but the mountain? The mountain made more sense than anything else.
Tiny flakes of snow blew into the car as she drove. Why couldn’t Dad be supportive of what Jeremy was trying to do? And why did he have to keep pestering her about college? There was a baby growing inside her. An actual human child. She had a lot more important things to worry about than higher education. How dare he insinuate she married Jeremy because . . . what? She was sad about Mom and desperate for comfort? Is that what he thought?
That couldn’t be true.
She swallowed.
Could it?
When she reached the turnoff that would take her to her grandparents’ house, she hesitated. It should’ve been a no-brainer to head in their direction if she was seeking solace. In the past, Grandma June would know exactly how to make Bea feel better. A cup of hot cocoa. A sympathetic ear. An offer of a trail ride, maybe. But what would Bea find if she visited today? She didn’t know if she could handle being called Caroline or being asked to leave.
She stayed on Pass Creek Road. What would she say to Grandma and Grandpa anyway? She could never explain why she was so upset. Her hormones were raging out of control. Sobs welled up in her throat, only to be followed by laughter.
She was going crazy.
The flakes flying into the car grew thicker. She rolled up her window and glanced around. She’d been driving with her eyes pinned straight ahead, caring only about the road in front of her and the memories behind. Now she fixed a wary eye on the sky. Those clouds were heavy with snow. What was already falling was only the beginning. Not another soul was on the road. She checked her phone. No service.
This was foolish. She was nuts. Jeremy would be worried sick when he got home from church in—she consulted the clock on the dash—twenty minutes to find her gone. But she wasn’t ready to go back. She pulled up in front of the Pass Creek schoolhouse and put the Toyota into park. She needed to get ahold of herself.
She leaned her head back against the seat and took a deep breath. In through her nose, out through her mouth. And again.
What if Dad was right?
A figure passed by the passenger window, and she snapped upright. No one should be out walking right now. She leaned forward and peered out the windshield at the back of a wiry, elderly person marching resolutely forward as if late for work. It looked like . . . was that . . . ?
She flung open her door and scrambled from the car. “Grandma.”
The woman did not stop.
Bea raised her voice. “Grandma June.”
Grandma paused for a moment and cocked her head, then continued on. Bea dashed after her, cold snow stinging her face.
It was just her, Grandma, and the mountain.
TWENTY-FOUR
The snowflakes are gentle on my face. Reassuring me. Showing me the way. I won’t stop. Not now. Not when I’m so close to finding my son. Rand will never understand, but I can’t hide from the truth any longer. I can
only hope he loves me enough.
The wind howls all sorts of mysterious messages to me. It screams my name, Juniper. Juniper.
“Grandma.”
That’s not the wind. I clutch my chest as a young woman appears beside me. Where did she come from? I don’t want to talk to her. Don’t want to talk to anyone. This is a mission I must complete on my own.
“Grandma, stop. What are you doing?”
She grasps my arm, but I pull away. How dare she.
“Where are you going?”
I hurry on, but she is faster than me. I will my legs to move, but I cannot escape. She grabs my arm again, and I turn on her. “Leave me alone.”
Puffs of steamy air are spewing from her mouth. “Please, let me give you a ride home.”
How does she know I’m not on my way home right now? I eye her with suspicion. Something about her is unsettling.
“I can’t go home.” I march on, and she keeps step with me. “I need to find someone.”
The young woman remains at my side, matching my steps. “You’ll never find them on foot. Let me give you a ride.”
I stop and turn my gaze on Hardscrabble Peak, looming before me like a grizzly standing on its hind legs, daring me to come closer. She makes a good point. It’s a long way up the mountain, and these old legs have seen better days. But what is she going to do? Carry me?
“It’s freezing out here.” She wraps her arms around herself to prove her point. “And the snow is only going to get worse. Let’s go back to my car.”
Her car? I spin around and see a yuppie-looking silver vehicle parked in front of the schoolhouse. I’m almost inclined to say I have more faith in my feet to get me up the mountain than that thing, but the wind pushes against me, crying, crying, that it will not make it easy for me. It will fight back.
I plant my feet in the middle of the road and cross my arms over my chest while staring at the car.
The woman gets my hint and takes a tentative step away from me. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”
I give her my best glare but remain planted.