Leaving Scarlet

by J. Lynn Bailey

  I started to laugh, and she did too.

  Her laughter added life to me.

  “Well, you’re in luck because I have something.”

  In the picnic basket, I pulled out Delveen’s deviled eggs and my mom’s homemade caramels.

  “You did not!” she squealed.

  “I did. Well, I didn’t. I just put in a favor,” I said as I pulled the lid off of Delveen’s container and displayed her famous deviled eggs.

  Scarlet’s eyes grew big as she took out the first one. She took a bite and got lost in its creamy flavor. A sound came from deep within her.

  “Mmm. Oh my goodness, I’ve missed flavor.” Her eyes closed as she put the rest of it in her mouth.

  I took one, too, and did the same.

  “Nothing like Delveen’s deviled eggs. I don’t care how big her mouth is,” Scarlet said. “Besides, she has a good heart.”

  She turned to me, her eyes heavy. “I’m tired, Cash. Take me home?”

  We both ate two more and grabbed two caramels for the trip home.

  I packed up and slid in front of her on the four-wheeler.

  She wrapped her hands around my middle and rested her head on my back, and I realized there was no other place I’d rather be.

  I revved up the engine, turned on the headlights, and took her home.

  When we got back to the Brockmeyers’, I walked her to the door. From my pocket, I pulled out the list we’d created last summer.

  Scarlet’s List:

  Visit the Eiffel Tower.

  Feet in the Atlantic Ocean.

  See the northern lights.

  Swim with sea turtles.

  Ride the Orient Express.

  Forgive someone.

  Swim with sharks.

  Send a message in a bottle.

  Spend the night in a tree house.

  Drive Route 66.

  Adopt an animal from a shelter.

  Name a star in the sky.

  Learn to juggle.

  “I hope you’re ready for my next surprise tomorrow.” I pulled her in for a hug, like two old best friends, and realized again just how much weight she’d lost. I promised I’d never allow myself to wear the fear on my face or show the heartache for what she was going through. I needed to be strong for her and her only.

  “Thank you, Cash,” she said weakly into my chest. “Thank you for everything.”

  She pulled her head up, and I looked into her tired eyes. Without another thought, I kissed her lightly on her lips—something I’d dreamed of doing for an awfully long time.

  She didn’t pull away; she didn’t flinch. She melted into me—not in a sexual way, but in a needful sort of way.

  Several seconds went by before I gently pulled away. “Did I make this awkward?”

  Bashfully, she smiled and looked down and then back up at me. “No.”

  “Can I be completely honest?”

  “That’s the only thing I ever ask of you, Cash.”

  I didn’t dare let go of the grip I had on her, for fear she’d walk away and never come back. I held on to the moment as long as I could. “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”

  “I’ve wanted you to do that for a very long time.”

  I saw the flecks of bright blue start to shine again in her eyes. Signs of life. “Another confession?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “I’m afraid to let go.”

  Her eyes met mine in a longing sort of way. “We all have to let go at some point, Cash,” she whispered. “We all leave at some point. That’s just the way life is.”

  And with a soft, small kiss, as if we’d been doing this for years—kissing and hugging and touching each other more intimately—she walked to the front door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  With that, she gently closed the door behind her, and I left my heart on the porch for her to pick up in the morning, when the blinding light brought on reality and seemed more like a monumental task than a state of being.

  I put a blindfold over Scarlet’s eyes and took her by the hand but not before I put her soft hands to my lips.

  I watched as the pink passed through her cheeks.

  “Where are we going?” Scarlet laughed.

  “You’ll see. No peeking.” I did a funny dance in front of her, and she didn’t laugh, so I knew the blindfold was doing its job.

  I led her two blocks down Main Street.

  First Christian Church was on Main—not on the heart of Main Street, but two blocks down. Built in 1876, it was a beautiful, big white church. It had been our church since we were kids.

  It was for Pastor Mike.

  When we got to the front steps of the church, I opened the front door and watched Scarlet take a deep breath and saw her smile when she registered where we were.

  “We’re at church? But it’s Monday.”

  I gently pushed at the small of her back, and the door quietly fell shut behind us.

  Pastor Mike was at the front pew. “Scarlet and Cash, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  I removed the blindfold from Scarlet’s eyes, careful not to move her hat.

  “It’s so good to see you back home, Scarlet,” Pastor Mike said.

  “It’s good to be home.” Scarlet’s eyes danced from me, to Pastor Mike, and back to me again.

  “Did you get the goods?” I asked the pastor.

  And with that, he took out a black box and opened it. He handed two hard balls to Scarlet and me, and he took two for himself. “Today, we’re learning to juggle.”

  I saw the excitement in Scarlet’s eyes, the flecks of blue that shone brighter than they had last night. “You did not!” She pushed me playfully.

  “I did.”

  Pastor Mike took us on a journey on the history of juggling, the act of juggling, and the application of juggling while he moved from two balls, to three balls, to four balls, to six balls, all in a matter of minutes.

  After two hours, Scarlet took to juggling far better than I did. And I saw her smile and laugh and learn.

  My best friend was smiling through the dark circles she wore under her eyes. She was laughing through probably one of the most difficult times in her life.

  And I got to be a witness to that.

  It allowed me to see life through a different lens. A life not taken for granted. A life and the longevity of it proved that miracles did exist.

  I’d heard my mom speaking to Erla on the phone the night she told my mom that the cancer was more advanced than doctors had initially thought.

  I didn’t cry, nor did I pray too often or make it to church on time on Sundays. It was said that deep down in every person was a fundamental idea of God. As far as I could see, God wasn’t so bad.

  That night, I’d prayed to God real hard. I’d told him that if he was to take anyone, he should take me. Scarlet had too much left to do on earth and so much good to do and love to give. That he should take me because I’d probably sinned a lot more than Scarlet ever would in her whole life. That the world deserved her light.

  And here she was, standing before me, laughing at herself and me, and I savored the time we’d been given together.

  I just wondered if God had answered my prayer or if we were living on borrowed time.

  32

  The Ladybugs

  Present Day 2020

  “Well, were you able to find the note?” Clyda asks Mabe, who just sat down at The Rusty Nail.

  “No,” she huffs. “Scarlet has that house tighter than a flea’s butt over a rain barrel. She’s so organized. Just like Erla.” Mabe shakes her head.

  “How long were you there?” Clyda asks.

  “Getting arrested for trespassing wasn’t on my to-do list today, I’ll have you know.” Mabe takes a sip of her coffee, sets it down, and says, “I could just tell Scarlet what I saw.”

  “And turn her up with worry? We shouldn’t do that. Why put that question in Scarlet’s head, leave her with a bad taste in her mouth with her grandmother
and how she died? I’m sure all that girl needs right now is just a little peace.” Clyda shakes her head.

  “You’re right there.”

  Mabe quietly takes Clyda’s simple agreement deeper than most would. Chief McBride was right. Why tell Clyda and those who loved Conroy and Tripp about who was driving that night when it would cause avoidable pain that could have just been left unmentioned?

  “I mean, think about it,” Clyda says. “Would you want to know? Would it really matter when the outcome wouldn’t change?”

  “No, probably not,” Mabe agrees, and her heart slows down a bit. “Then, I say we order lunch and forget about it.”

  “Forget about what?” Merry, one of the owners, approaches the table.

  Mabe panics, but Clyda is cool. “The fact that we live in a society where young people just aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Tell me about it. Our little Pepper is a walking, talking encyclopedia for dinosaurs.” She shakes her head. “Apparently, there’s an app she uses. So says her mother. I think kids nowadays just get too much screen time. But that’s just an opinion from a woman who’d rather fill people’s bellies than their heads.” She laughs. “Can I get you two anything?”

  “Two peach cobblers, please.”

  “Coming right up.” Merry walks away.

  Mabe leans in closer. “It was the right decision, right?”

  “Erla’s note? Mabe, of course it is.”

  “No, no, no. The hiatus for The Ladybugs.”

  Clyda sits back in her chair. Takes a long sip of her coffee and stares across the table at her old friend. “You know, Mabe, I’ve been unsure about a whole lot in my life—if I raised my boys right, if I taught them everything I should have, if going on without Borges was the right move. To open my art studio. Carl.” She pauses. “There are things I’ve always been absolutely certain about. To have children. Marrying Borges. To join The Ladybugs all those years ago. God. Faith. Grace. Quite honestly, in my gut and after some prayer, I think putting The Ladybugs on hiatus was the best decision we could have done for our group. It might not be the best thing for our community, but I know in my heart that another group will pick up where we left off. Our community is full of love and full of service, and I’m certain the right person will continue our legacy. We just need to give them a chance. We have to have faith.”

  Mabe smiles. “You’ve gone soft in your old age, friend.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.”

  Clyda holds up her coffee mug, and Mabe follows suit. “To the end of an era.”

  “To the end of an era.”

  33

  Scarlet

  Present Day 2020

  I’m back in the attic, taking inventory once again. In the Goodwill section in the corner, the fake Christmas tree sits along with Grandma’s Christmas decor. With a sigh and a smile, I hear the ongoing discussion of Grandma and Granddad about fake Christmas trees versus real Christmas trees. Granddad was always a champion of real Christmas trees. We’d head over to Sandy Ale’s Christmas tree farm, called Fred’s Firs, and pick out the biggest Christmas tree on the lot while Grandma always asked good questions.

  Will it fit?

  Is it too big?

  What about the needles all over the place?

  But when my mom and I moved to Chicago, somehow Grandma got Granddad to cross over to non-fragrant plastic but with less the hassle. She had some great points, however. There’s no mess of pine needles. No lights needed, as it’s already pre-lit. No need for water. And it takes two minutes to assemble.

  You should get a Christmas tree, Scarlet. The house looks so bare.

  I didn’t enjoy Christmas after we moved to Chicago. It reminded of a time of loneliness. Sure, Marmie was there. But Christmas in Dillon Creek was always so magical. Dillon Creek had their annual window-decorating contest on Main Street. Christmas carols and hot chocolate throughout the month of December. The Christmas tree lighting of the World’s Largest Living Christmas Tree on the first weekend of December.

  With a sigh and day of contemplation, I move the Christmas decorations out of the Goodwill pile and into the Keep pile.

  But when I move several totes of Christmas decorations, I notice a box with my mother’s name on it, hidden deep within the shadows of the attic. With the attic light not hitting the box perfectly, I would have completely overlooked the box. Sure, when I had everything cleaned out, I probably would have noticed it.

  Unease settles in my bones as I reach for the box.

  The box isn’t heavy or large. It isn’t particularly a box of abnormal size, but it’s definitely odd in shape. Like a box you’d find in a different country.

  I take the box and sit in the old rocking chair, and a soft patter of rain starts, as if the rain has come to send comfort to my insides, saying, Sit and stay a while.

  I pull the lid off the box.

  Inside are papers. Neatly laid papers. Some in envelopes, some loose.

  But I find two important-looking papers with seals. Two birth certificates. Two of my birth certificates.

  The rain begins to grow louder, and my face grows warm with uncertainty. I thought I had the only official birth certificate. My mother had given it to me when I moved from Chicago to Boston for college.

  On one certificate, it just lists my mother with nothing written in for the father. The other lists, again, my mother’s information, and in the father’s information is nothing but a signature that I can’t read. Nothing else. Just a signature.

  My body begins to vibrate internally.

  This is the closest thing I’ve ever come across to finding my father. Sure, I didn’t look hard. Part of me didn’t want to find him. Part of me was angry with him for not coming to look for me. Part of me felt if he wanted a relationship, he’d do his part as a father. But I also proved to myself that I didn’t need a father.

  When I was learning how to ride a bike, it was Granddad who taught me how.

  At the father-daughter dance, Granddad flew to Chicago in time to give me a corsage and take me to dinner.

  At my wedding, Granddad walked me down the aisle.

  The rain pours louder and louder and louder against the roof, not bringing calmness, but questions. Questions that I set aside for years, for fear of rocking the boat, causing stress on my mother or thinking I’d hurt my granddad’s feelings for wanting to know who my father was. So, instead of searching, I pushed my curiosity to disappear.

  But now, with Granddad gone, I have questions. Not because I need a father at this point, but because I want to know where half of me comes from. The pieces that don’t match my mother or my grandparents.

  Maybe I’m more like my mother than I’d like to admit. Maybe this is where she stood when she found out that Granddad wasn’t her biological father. Maybe I can understand a piece of her grief. Grandad didn’t just have one daughter he helped raise, but two. And he was damn good at it.

  With the birth certificate, I find handwritten notes from the same person who signed the birth certificate, barely legible.

  Sorry I haven’t called.

  Things are better this way, right?

  I got busy at the office. This should make up for it.

  Meet me at our room tonight in Eureka, and you can tell me what you need to tell me.

  And the last one, which hits me straight in the gut.

  I’ll tell my wife tonight. It’s you and me and our unborn child. Don’t worry. I’ll get us out of this mess.

  My mind teeters somewhere between reality and a world where I don’t know who I am. But do I even know who I am? I worked so hard to build a life around who I am—Scarlet Brockmeyer. Built walls to protect my heart so it wouldn’t get broken again. The one thing my mother always told me was that I loved too much, too purely. That I was bound to get broken one day if I didn’t toughen up. I did. I toughened up and pushed everyone away, just like she did.

  The lightning
flashes through the window.

  The thunder starts.

  All my life, I’ve secretly questioned who half of me is. Is my biological father left-handed? Does he have unruly auburn hair? Is he tenacious? Is he outspoken?

  All the things my mother didn’t do or didn’t have, I had a habit of quietly asking the universe or God if there was another person in the world with the same DNA that did those things.

  And I have the answer now. I’m a product of an affair that went on far too long. Built on lies and deceit and bitterness.

  My heart begins to pound, and my ears begin to ring.

  Would life have been as lonely as it was?

  Could I have had the childhood I longed for if the man who had helped make me wasn’t married or if he’d left his wife for my mother?

  Would my life have somehow turned out differently?

  Did my grandparents know who my biological father was?

  Did we really live a life built on secrets?

  I realize I’m in no shape to put on this dinner tonight, so I text Junie and cancel. Tell her I’ll do it a different night. I also text Cash and tell him that the dinner is off.

  He responds with, Okay.

  I just need to be alone. A voice in the back of my head says, That’s your comfort zone. That’s what your mom always did, and see where that got her? Money and no friends who want to spend time with her.

  I try not to allow Cash’s simple response to push my mind into overdrive.

  I text back.

  Me: Rain check?

  Cash: Okay.

  Oh. I get it. We had sex, and now, I’m getting the cold shoulder. But instead of leaving it at that because maybe a bomb has just exploded in my life, leaving me with so many questions, I text back out of anger and hurt—not because of Cash, but because of my own expectations.