A Flicker of Light

by Katie Powner

  Bea chewed her top lip. She wasn’t that far from eighteen herself. “That’s a big decision to make at that age.”

  The same words Dad had used to protest her marriage to Jeremy.

  Aunt Gladys sighed. “I wish I knew what happened to him.”

  She wasn’t the only one. Bea fumbled for something to say. Had Grandma really kept a secret this big all these years?

  Before she could speak, Aunt Gladys began questioning her about other family members, trying to catch up on all the family news. Bea did her best to answer for several minutes, then said good-bye. Her eyes were wide when she turned to Jeremy.

  His eyes were bright and sharp. “I think I got all the information I need.”

  “All the information—?” Bea’s face twisted in confusion. “For what?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “To find him.”

  She sat back. Him. Grandma kept saying she was looking for “him.” But why had she never said anything before? Where was her firstborn son now? Did he know about any of this?

  Bea pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. It was unbelievable. Somewhere out there, she had an uncle. He could have kids. She could have cousins! And Dad . . .

  Dad had a brother.

  The moosevine was going to have a heyday with this one.

  “What are we going to do?”

  Jeremy twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. “There are a lot of ways to search. I’ll start with the hospital records and birth certificate.”

  “Are you sure that’s the right thing to do?”

  He grew still. Solemn. “You know I lost track of my dad when my parents split up. And you know he died before I could find him.” His eyes flashed, begging her to understand. “I have to do this.”

  Her mind raced. There was no talking him out of it—she could see that. “Should we tell Dad?”

  Jeremy rubbed his chin. “We should wait until we have more information. We might not be able to find him. Or something might’ve happened to him, and he could be dead. There’s no telling.”

  Bea nodded. The longer they could keep it a secret, the better. Dad had enough on his plate already. She leaned into Jeremy again and considered the possibilities. There were so many questions. What would Dad think of all this? What would Grandma do if she had the chance to meet her firstborn son? Who was the father?

  Bea’s heart sank a little. Did Grandpa Rand know about the baby? And the most unsettling question of all was . . . what if her uncle didn’t want to be found?

  THIRTY-FIVE

  I don’t like Ponderosa. I don’t like driving to Ponderosa. I don’t even like talking about Ponderosa.

  Rand and I used to load Mitch up and make the drive once a month to stock up on supplies, but now that our ranching days are over and Mitch has his own place, we try to stay away. It’s too crowded. Too city. But here we are again.

  We were just here for a test or a scan or whatever. Why did we have to drive all the way back to talk about the test? Or scan. Or whatever. Our telephone is perfectly functional.

  I peek over at Rand from the corner of my eye as we wait in a quiet, sterile room for someone to call us back. He looks tired. He looks like an old man. I reach over and tuck my hand in his. He turns his head to me in surprise. Like he doesn’t know who I am. But I’m the one losing my mind, not him.

  I find the penny in my pocket with my other hand and rub a finger over it. Will I stick my hand in my pocket one day—and will it be soon?—and wonder why there’s a penny in there? Will I pull it out and toss it in the cupholder of Rand’s truck with all the other change? I can’t imagine that. Can’t fathom not knowing what this penny means to me. But Rand’s face when he looks at me makes me afraid.

  A young woman in green scrubs appears. “Juniper Jensen?”

  Mitch raises his hand. “That’s us.”

  Rand helps me to my feet, and we follow the woman to a small room that looks more like an office than an exam room. The woman tells us to sit, and we shuffle around each other like chickens settling in to roost.

  I used to have chickens. I raised them so they would recognize my voice and come eat out of my palm. I used to have a lot of things.

  The woman in green stands in the doorway. “Dr. Wilson will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you,” Mitch says.

  She closes the door behind her, and I turn to my son. “Why are we here?”

  He puts on his patient face. “I told you, Mom. The doctor wants to talk to us about the results of your CT scan.”

  I know this already. “But why are we here?”

  It seems like a reasonable question to me, but Mitch’s face twists like he bit into a sour apple. Doesn’t it bother him to have to drive all the way back here just to talk? Doesn’t he wonder about Dr. Wilson’s aversion to using the telephone?

  He works his mouth as though he’s searching for the right words. Rand says nothing, but when I start shifting in my seat and wringing my hands, he pats my shoulder.

  A crisp knock and the door opens.

  Dr. Wilson comes straight to me. “Good morning, June. It’s good to see you again.”

  I shake the hand he offers me. “I suppose that’s probably true.”

  After all, it’s like walking into a room and finding stacks of money sitting in chairs waiting for you, isn’t it? If I were him, I’d be happy about it, too.

  We’ve never had much money, Rand and I. Like many people in the valley, we were land rich and cash poor. Now we have some money from selling the fields, although not enough to pay specialists as fancy as Dr. Wilson. Rand worked too hard all those years for us to throw money away on a man who doesn’t even know how to use a phone.

  I realize Mitch and Rand are answering Dr. Wilson’s questions for me. What had he been saying? The green woman returns with a large folder and hands it to him, and he flips a light on some sort of screen contraption on the wall. He pulls something from the folder and props it up on the screen.

  My stomach wobbles. I think that’s my brain. He sets a couple more pictures up, like a kid displaying his crayon art on the fridge. Except his face is grave.

  He uses a pen to point at the lit-up pictures and begins to string together words I am not able to follow. It’s like he’s talking too fast and yet his mouth is moving in slow motion. Mitch nods while Rand furrows his brow and clears his throat.

  Dr. Wilson points at this bright spot here and that dark spot there. I stare at my brain and wonder if God took a piece of it away every time I sinned, and this is how I will pay for my mistakes. Here’s a chunk of my brain, God. Here’s another memory. And another. Until there is nothing left.

  Mitch asks a lot of questions, and I stop trying to keep up. He will explain everything to me on the drive home in a way I can understand. That’s what I’m hoping for. Eventually, Dr. Wilson and Mitch stand and shake hands.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Mitch says.

  It takes Rand a little longer before he stands, too. I wait until Dr. Wilson is gone before rising to my feet.

  “It’s okay, Mom. Don’t worry.” Mitch cups my elbow as he holds the door open for me. “We’ll figure all this out.”

  I love my son. He means well. But I’ve already figured it out.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mitch leaned against the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, and watched Bea flit around the kitchen like the queen of England was coming for Sunday brunch.

  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

  She wiped her forehead with her arm. “Yep.”

  Her face looked a little green, and he was pretty sure she’d been throwing up in the bathroom earlier this morning.

  “I don’t need a big to-do.”

  Bea added more ingredients to the Crock-Pot. “I already invited everyone.”

  A rather large hole opened up inside him, somewhere between his lungs and ribs. “Everyone” included his parents. The ride home from Ponderosa on Friday had been quiet and pensive. No
one had wanted to address the elephant in the room, or rather, elephant in the truck. No one had wanted to repeat the words Dr. Wilson had spoken: “Clear evidence of dementia.” Mitch hadn’t been able to think of much else since. But right now, he needed to focus on his daughter.

  He used his coffee mug to gesture at Jeremy. “You could let us help you.”

  The oven timer beeped, and Bea rushed over to look inside. “I got it.”

  “We could skip church,” Jeremy said.

  “No.” Bea pulled two round pans of chocolate cake from the oven. “I’ve got everything planned. Our lunch will be cooked in the Crock-Pot by the time we get back, and the cake will be cooled. All we’ll have to do is set the table and add the frosting.”

  Jeremy gave her a worried look.

  She pointed at him with a toothpick. “Which I already made.” She poked each cake with the toothpick, then set them on the stovetop. “Perfect.”

  Mitch sipped his coffee with a snort. She had a plan, all right. One would think a man should have some say in the goings-on for his own birthday, but what did he know?

  Jeremy checked the time on his phone. “Did you want to walk to church or drive?”

  Bea wiped her hands on a towel. “Drive, so we can get home right away and set up.”

  “Okay. Will you be ready to leave in ten minutes?”

  Bea gave Jeremy a withering look. “I am ready.”

  Mitch chuckled into his mug. The poor guy hadn’t yet learned that was not the kind of question you asked your wife. At the stricken look on Jeremy’s face, Mitch felt a touch of pity for him and cleared his throat.

  “Is there anything I can do while you’re gone, B.B.?”

  She turned on him. “You’re not coming?”

  “Haven’t been in two years. Don’t see why I’d start now.”

  “Because it’s your birthday. Everyone will want to see you. And I thought you and Pastor Frank were friends again. He’s coming to the party.”

  Mitch set his mug down and pushed off the counter. “No one will notice if I’m there or not. And we were never not friends.”

  “Then why are you still staying home?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She gave him a look. How could he explain it to her? He wasn’t too sure himself.

  “Fine.” She tucked her hair behind her ears and grabbed her purse from the back of a chair. “But don’t ruin anything while I’m gone.”

  She stormed out of the kitchen, Jeremy close behind. A minute later, the front door shut, and a small handful of ice cubes rattled from the fridge door. One skidded to a stop in front of Steve, who turned his nose up at it with practiced disdain.

  Mitch eyed the fridge with the same look. Now that he was alone in the house, maybe he could do what he wanted. It was his birthday, after all.

  “All right, fridge.” Mitch clapped his hands together once. “It’s just you and me. Let’s wrassle.”

  The moment the church service was over, Bea made a beeline for the door. She had no idea what Pastor Frank’s sermon had been about. Her mind had been preoccupied with her dad’s birthday party the whole time he was talking. Hopefully, the subject wouldn’t come up at lunch.

  Jeremy caught up with her and opened the passenger door of the Toyota. “What’s the big rush? Aren’t people coming at noon?”

  She slid in and buckled. “Yep.”

  “It’s 11:32.”

  “Which means we better hurry.”

  Jeremy walked around the front of the car and got in. Why hadn’t she told everyone to come at twelve-thirty? What had she been thinking? Pastor Frank never got out of the building by noon on a Sunday.

  Jeremy started the car and drove out of the parking lot, singing along to Alabama on the radio. Bea was too distracted to even tease him about it.

  He turned onto Town Road. “Why are you so stressed about a birthday party?”

  “I’m not stressed.”

  “You are.”

  She clasped her hands together and looked out the window. It was hard to explain. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to. He always got so sad when she brought up her mom. But maybe this was part of what he meant when he said he needed her to choose him.

  “My mom always made a big deal about birthdays.” She tucked her hands under her legs. “And was obsessive about Dad’s German chocolate cake. It was always perfect. I helped her in the kitchen a lot growing up, but that was one thing she insisted on doing herself. Something she wanted to do for him. I’ve never made one myself.”

  “I’m sure it will be great.” Jeremy turned onto Second Street. In front of them, a mass of stratus clouds cut the Bridgers in half, covering the peaks so the mountains looked like buttes. “How hard can it be?”

  Bea felt tears forming and fought them back. No. She would not cry again. He didn’t mean anything by it. The voice telling her he was dismissing her concerns was only her hormones trying to destroy her life. But what a thoughtless thing to say.

  “Pretty hard, actually.” The words erupted from her mouth. “Have you ever made a German chocolate cake?”

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Uh, no.”

  “Then you don’t know.” Her words were fast and sharp.

  His were slow and careful. “You’re right. I don’t know.”

  He pulled a U-turn and parked in front of the house.

  Bea covered her face with her hands. “I’m sorry. I just . . .”

  He turned off the car and gently tugged her hands down. “Hey.”

  She stared at her knees, unwilling to be undone.

  “Bea.”

  She chanced a look up at his face.

  He smiled. “We’re in this together, okay? We’re going to figure it out. All of it.”

  “But what if everyth—” She pressed her lips together. “What if the cake falls apart?”

  He squeezed her hands. “Then we’ll eat it anyway, and no one will give it a second thought.”

  It wasn’t that simple. She wanted to prove herself. Make her dad see she wasn’t wasting her life. Prove that she could be a good wife and mother and daughter and take care of everyone, just like Mom used to do. If she could bake the perfect cake . . .

  She took a deep breath, opened her door, and climbed out. Company would be here soon. She needed to make this happen. Jeremy would help. They held hands as they walked to the house. Though the low-lying clouds hovered over the mountains to the east, the sun shone on them from overhead. Jeremy held the door open for her.

  “Hey, Dad,” she called. “We’re home.”

  “In the kitchen.” His reply was muffled as if he were bent over something.

  She quickly hung up her coat and headed that way, eager to get to work on her final preparations. She turned the corner and froze, eyes wide.

  There were bags of frozen vegetables on the counter. Ice cream cartons and a Stouffer’s lasagna in the sink. The freezer-side door of the fridge was detached and lying across the table. Dad stood next to it, one arm crossed over his chest and the other propped on it, fingers drumming his chin.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice was shrill, but she didn’t care. “People will be here in—” she checked the time—“eighteen minutes.”

  “I think I finally figured it out.” Dad lifted the door off the table.

  She stuck her fingers in her hair. “This is not okay.”

  Dad stood the door on the floor and gave her a sheepish look. “I might’ve gotten carried away. But Jeremy will help me, and we’ll have everything back in place in no time. Right, Jeremy?”

  His mouth was hanging open a little, but Jeremy nodded. “Sure.”

  Bea pressed her lips together. Jeremy was supposed to help her.

  “You do whatever you need to do.” Dad’s sheepish look turned serious. “And don’t worry about us.”

  Bea pinched the bridge of her nose. What had he been thinking? This was not how her preparations were supposed to go. Not how she plotted it in her he
ad during Pastor Frank’s sermon. But crying wouldn’t change anything. Crying wouldn’t get her cake ready in time.

  She mentally blocked Dad and Jeremy out of her mind and picked up one of the cake pans. If she focused, she could still make this work. She had to. The plate she planned to turn the cake out on was already on the counter, so she quickly slid a butter knife around the edge and flipped the pan.

  Nothing.

  She shook the pan. “Come on, come on.”

  There. Out it came. Her heart lurched. Huge chunks were missing, still stuck to the pan. This was not good. But that was one of the best things about frosting, right? It covered up mistakes. Plus, her mother’s recipe called for both chocolate and coconut-pecan frosting, so there was twice as much frosting available for cover-up.

  She grabbed the two metal bowls from the fridge, along with a small rubber spatula, and dipped into the chocolate frosting. She gulped. It was as hard as a rock. Okay, maybe not a rock, but it was definitely not scoopable, spreadable, or any other -able. Was it too cold? There wasn’t near enough time to let it warm up to room temperature.

  Her chest tightened, but she choked down her panic. The chocolate frosting wasn’t required. It was just an extra bonus. She could skip straight to the coconut-pecan frosting, and Dad would probably never notice.

  Before she could get to the other bowl, her phone beeped. A text from Dorothy, Pastor Frank’s wife.

  Frank is meeting with a church member in crisis, so we’re going to be late. Start without us!

  Bea turned the screen off without replying and massaged her temples. Could nothing go according to plan? Don’t panic. They would be here eventually. She’d save them some cake.

  She wiped the spatula on a paper towel and dipped into the other bowl. The frosting was gooey and decadent, just like it was supposed to be. She plopped a glob of it on top of the first layer of cake to spread and growled to herself. Something was wrong with it. It was supposed to have more texture.

  Her heart clattered to the floor. The coconut. How could she have forgotten the coconut in the coconut-pecan frosting?