by Judy Duarte
She nodded as though he’d offered her what she needed to hear.
He hadn’t, though. Not really. There was a gaping hole in her life and her heart.
A hole nothing could fill.
Chapter 4
Claire might end her run each evening at Mulberry Park, but she made it a point to arrive after most people had taken their children and gone home for dinner.
So what was she doing here on a Saturday at noon, her car idling in one of only a few empty stalls?
She glanced across the console to the passenger seat, where a crayon-sketched angel named Erik rested. His gold halo was askew on a Bart-Simpson-style head of yellow hair, while big blue eyes with spiky black lashes looked up at her, and a crooked red grin tweaked her heart.
Yesterday, while peering up into the mulberry, Claire had spotted the picture on the lowest branch. Analisa’s depiction of Erik-the-Angel didn’t even remotely resemble her sweet, rough-and-tumble son, a boy with dark curly hair and golden-brown eyes.
In fact, Claire had reason to believe Analisa had drawn a male version of herself.
Erik looks a lot like you, she’d written in her response to the first letter. She hadn’t meant that literally, but had been suggesting a commonality, since both of them were innocent children who’d been unfairly separated from their parents by death.
She blew out a ragged sigh. If Ron were still a part of her life, he’d tell her she was crazy, that she’d been foolish to quit seeing the shrink. And she’d be hard-pressed to argue with him.
Again she had the urge to leave, but scanned the park instead. The only person she recognized was Walter, the white-haired Korean War vet who’d caught her in the tree several evenings ago. Today he was seated at a table in the shade, not far from the restrooms.
Would he recognize her in a crisp, ivory-colored blouse and blue linen walking shorts rather than running gear? She suspected he might.
If she ever decided to get out of her car, she planned to keep a low profile, sit a while and watch the children from a distance—something she’d been unwilling and unable to do after Erik’s death.
She remained behind the wheel a moment longer, then reached across the console and turned the angel picture facedown in the passenger seat. Next she climbed from the car and locked it.
Before heading toward the park grounds, she adjusted her sunglasses. It wasn’t as if she was trying to hide or planning to stalk anyone. She was just curious, that’s all.
Her gaze drifted to the playground, where several kids laughed and played. When Erik had been a preschooler, she used to bring him to the park whenever possible.
He’d loved the outdoors. She had, too.
Yet now the sight of happy children—even two preschoolers squabbling over the same red plastic bucket—triggered a rumble of grief.
She had the urge to bolt before her eyes filled with tears, but that’s what the sunglasses were for. To shield her sadness from the world.
Up ahead, Walter sat at a table, his chess game spread before him. She wondered if he was waiting for a friend.
Perhaps he wouldn’t mind having company for a bit. She certainly couldn’t very well hover near the playground. If she were still a parent, she’d be concerned about a childless woman hanging out by the swings and slides.
She made her way across the lawn, and when she paused beside Walter, her shadow darkened the chessboard.
As the white-haired old man glanced up, recognition dawned on his craggy face, triggering a crinkled grin. “Come by the park to climb trees again today?”
“I’m afraid not.” She pointed to her knee, where a bandage covered another scrape she’d gotten yesterday while retrieving Analisa’s picture.
“Oops. Did that happen the day I saw you?”
“No. The time after that.”
He let out a little chuckle. “So you really are a tree-climber.”
“Not anymore.”
“Too bad. A lot of fellows my age take to bird-watching, which I always figured was a boring hobby. But I didn’t realize they occasionally spotted pretty chicks.”
She offered him the hint of a smile. “Are you waiting for someone?”
“No one in particular.”
“Then do you mind if I sit for a minute or so?”
“Not at all.” He brightened, a spark in his tired gray eyes hinting at the life still in him.
Claire brushed a few leaves aside from the green fiberglass bench, then sat and studied the playground.
A dark-haired girl with pigtails walked along the wooden beam that bordered the sandbox, her arms outstretched for balance while she tottered along, placing one foot in front of the other.
On top of the slide, another girl perched, ready to shove off. The sides of her hair—white blond—were held back with red barrettes.
That could be her, Claire realized, but there had to be hundreds of other possibilities in a city the size of Fairbrook.
Finally, she voiced her question. “I don’t suppose you know a little girl named Analisa?”
“I generally steer clear of the kids, but I do know that one. She comes with her nanny nearly every day. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondered.”
Walter lifted a gnarly, liver-spotted hand and pointed toward the slide. “That’s her. The little blond tyke who just landed in the sand and is now walking toward the swings.”
“Cute kid.”
“Yep.”
Analisa wore a red cotton blouse, denim shorts with a ruffled hem, and white sandals. She appeared to be clean and well-cared for.
Claire watched as the child backed her bottom into the seat of a swing and began to pump her little legs, soaring toward the sky. “What do you know about her?”
“Not much. She used to live with her parents in a foreign country. I forget which one—Guatemala maybe. Anyway, from what I understand, they were missionaries and died. Now she lives with her father’s brother.”
Unkel Sam, Claire realized. A man who worked more often than a lonely, grieving child would like him to.
If Claire had a chance to speak to Analisa’s uncle, she’d tell him to find more time for the girl. To enjoy her while he had a chance to appreciate all he’d been blessed with.
“Why the interest?” Walter asked.
Claire shrugged. “I…uh…found a letter she’d written.”
“To who?”
Did she dare confide in a virtual stranger and tell him she’d entered a pen-pal relationship with a child who thought she was corresponding with God?
You need to go back and see that doctor again, Ron had told her over and over. There’s other medication they can prescribe.
If Claire had been able to take a magic pill to make the overwhelming sadness go away, she would have gladly done so.
People grieve differently, the psychiatrist had told her. Your husband has put the death behind him, but you’re not ready to. And that’s okay.
The doctor had also agreed that married couples ought to support one another, to respect their differences. Instead, Ron had begun to spend more time at the office and less time at home. His absence, along with the emotional distance that separated them even while they were in the same room, pushed her to agree when he finally suggested they divorce.
Claire searched the old man’s face. Something decent flickered in his eyes, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on exactly what it was.
“Just between you and me?” she asked.
“I’m good at keeping secrets, especially when I don’t have anyone to tell.”
Sincerity in his tone gave her cause for relief. Sympathy, too. It seemed they had more in common than either would have guessed, and she felt compelled to confide in him. “Analisa wrote a letter to God and placed it in the big mulberry in the center of the park.”
He arched a bushy white brow. “So that’s what you were doing when I spotted you in that tree.”
“Actually, the first letter practically fell in my l
ap.”
“How many has she written?”
“Two. And yesterday she left me a picture she’d drawn.” Rather, she’d left it for God and Claire had taken it home and placed it on the refrigerator overnight. Now it sat in her car.
Walter didn’t object or accuse Claire of doing anything especially odd, so she added, “I felt sorry for her. She wanted to know if her parents were happy in Heaven. I told her they were, but that they missed her.”
“You believe that?” he asked.
Claire shrugged. “Once upon a time I did.” And she wanted to now, but somehow it was difficult believing that a loving God had taken her son, leaving her to wallow in grief and trudge through life alone.
As a child, she’d believed angelic choirs sang in the clouds and walked along streets of gold. But the thought of Erik being anywhere other than in a satin-lined box under six feet of sod was hard to imagine, even though she’d tried.
Walter didn’t respond, and she was almost sorry he hadn’t.
“I suppose you and I are on the same page,” he finally admitted. “I’ve got a lot of friends who’ve passed on. Too many, actually. And I’d like to believe I’ll see them again, but the truth is I’m not so sure.”
A part of Claire had hoped for more from him, reassurance or some kind of confirmation. Yet she realized he’d probably had a few faith-busting trials of his own. Somehow, commiserating didn’t seem to be anything that would help either of them.
“I used to believe,” she told him. “Now I merely hope.”
“You’ll probably get a few brownie points for renewing a child’s faith.”
She chuffed. “Maybe so, but taking up a pen and claiming to be God could just as easily trigger a well-aimed lightning bolt.”
“Nah. From what I understand, God’s big on the Golden Rule.” Walter chuckled. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I would have done if those letters had fallen to me. Probably tossed them in the trash.”
Claire hadn’t even wanted to admit to Erik that Santa and the Easter Bunny weren’t real. She fingered the hem of her shorts, then brushed at the edge of the adhesive bandage that protected the scrape on her knee. “I hope I did the right thing.”
“Not to worry. In fact, I admire you for what you did.”
Claire turned, caught his eye. For a moment they shared some kind of connection, although she’d be darned if she knew what it was.
Walter tossed her a wry grin. “I have no delusions about the Ol’ Boy Upstairs being all that proud of me—even though I’ve straightened out my sorry life in the past couple of years. And I don’t pretend to have an inside track.”
Claire certainly didn’t. She watched the girl for a moment longer. Analisa now had a face. On the outside, she appeared clean and healthy. But if her uncle didn’t have time for her, were her emotional needs being met? And if not, to what extent did Claire want to get involved?
Oh, for Pete’s sake. She was barely taking care of her own emotional needs. What did she have to offer anyone else?
She got to her feet and excused herself. “It was nice chatting with you, Walter, but I’ve got to go. I have errands to run.”
“I’m here most every day. Anytime you want someone to spot you while you climb trees, I’d be happy to. ’Course, if you tumble, I’m not as strong or quick as I used to be.”
“My tree-climbing days are over.” She offered him a smile that held more warmth than the last. “Thanks for sharing your table.”
“Any time.”
She nodded, then headed toward her car. As she retrieved the keys from her bag, an old van pulled into the parking lot, the engine grinding to a halt. She stole a glance at the driver—a Latina who looked familiar.
For a moment, Claire had a difficult time recalling where she’d seen her before. Then she remembered. It was a woman who’d come in for a loan a week or so ago. Maria Somebody. Rodriguez?
Averting her head, Claire aimed her key at the car, clicked the button, and unlocked the door. Then she quickly climbed in and turned the ignition.
There was no need coming face-to-face with the woman she’d been unable to help. Why make either one of them feel uncomfortable?
But as she glanced into the rearview mirror, it wasn’t Maria’s gaze that she wanted to avoid.
Maria Rodriguez pulled the twelve-year-old minivan into the parking lot at Mulberry Park. From the sound of the motor, she suspected the transmission was slipping again.
Just what she needed. Another major repair.
“Analisa doesn’t always come to the park on Saturdays,” Danny said, “so I hope she’s here today. She likes the swings, too. And I’m going to show her how to jump out and land in the sand.”
“You need to be careful, mijo. I saw you do that the last time you were here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Don’t worry, Mama. I know what I’m doing.”
Wasn’t that just like a child? To feel invincible? To downplay parental advice?
Maria had said as much to Tía Sofía when she’d been warned about dating the children’s father. But did she listen? Oh, no.
“You’re very brave and strong,” she told her son, “but it’s important to be wise, too. Don’t confuse courage with stupidity.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes, when we have a reason to be cautious and ignore warnings of danger, it’s often because we’re being foolish, not brave.”
Her dark-haired, blue-eyed son flashed her a smile, reminding her of his father. “Don’t worry, Mama. I’m brave and smart.”
“I know you are, mijo.”
After shutting off the engine, Maria climbed from the maroon Plymouth Caravan, circled to the side door and opened it.
Danny unbuckled his seat belt. “I see Analisa’s car, so she’s here. Can I run ahead?”
“No, you need to help me.” Maria unfastened the harness that secured two-year-old Sara in the car seat. “You carry the lunch and place it on an empty table in the shade.”
“Okay. But can we sit next to Analisa and her abuelita?”
Actually, Mrs. Richards was Analisa’s nanny, not her grandmother, but Maria didn’t correct the boy. “You can ask Mrs. Richards if it would be all right if we share their table.”
Danny snatched the blue plastic Wal-Mart sack that had been packed with sandwiches, apples, and graham crackers. “Okay.”
Sometimes Maria worried that she expected too much from the boy, that she might be pushing him into a more grown-up role than was fair. But following his father’s arrest and conviction, she’d been determined to do whatever it took to make sure her children grew up to be more responsible than her husband had been.
“Down,” Sara said. “Peese?”
With those expressive blue eyes, Sara also favored her daddy, a handsome man who knew how to lay on the charm when he wanted to. Maria prayed his baby-blues and captivating smile were the only things his daughter and son had inherited from him.
When they’d separated for the final time, she’d taken back her maiden name, and when he’d gone to prison, she’d insisted the children go by Rodriguez, too.
The arrest and trial had been tough on Danny, who’d had to tolerate the whispers in the neighborhood, the taunts of kids who’d heard his father had killed someone. It had been tough on Maria, too. The pointed fingers, the knowing looks, the murmurs.
Maria placed her daughter’s feet on the lawn and, as she watched the child toddle after her big brother, rubbed the small of her aching back.
Babies were a blessing, or at least they should be, but it was hard to get excited about the little boy she was carrying and would deliver soon. Not that she wouldn’t love him once he arrived, but he’d been unplanned, a mistake she’d made one lonely night, when lust won over wisdom.
It wasn’t the child’s fault, but she feared this pregnancy would be a penitence she’d be paying for years to come.
While Maria approached the playground, she placed a han
d on her swollen stomach, feeling a little bump—a knee or a foot—that moved across her womb. Soon there would be another mouth to feed.
As Maria neared Analisa’s nanny, her steps slowed. She and the older woman had chatted a few times, but Mrs. Richards wasn’t very friendly. Still, as was her habit, especially with the children present, Maria conjured a happy face. “Hello, there. It’s a beautiful day for the park, isn’t it?”
Hilda rarely smiled warmly, but there was something especially lackluster today. Her expression seemed drawn, pale.
“Is something wrong?” Maria asked.
“It’s just this fool arthritis.” Hilda rubbed her knobby-knuckled hands together. “And it’s been acting up like old fury today.”
Tía Sofía, Maria’s aunt, had suffered with aches and pains prior to her death, and it had been sad to watch.
Hilda’s gaze swept over Maria, settling upon her belly. “I imagine you’re not too comfortable these days, either. I hope your husband helps out around the house.”
Maria didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to share the ugly details, either. “I’m divorced, so it’s just me and the kids.”
“Too bad.”
That might be true, but under the circumstances, she was much better off without a man, although that wasn’t a subject she wanted to broach.
She reached for the plastic spoons and cups she’d packed in the diaper bag. “Excuse me for a minute. I need to give Sara something to play with.”
Moments later, as the toddler plopped down in the sand and began to dig, Maria returned to Hilda and took a seat.
“You know,” Hilda said, “that little boy is always here.”
The elderly woman hadn’t needed to point out a child in particular. Maria knew she was referring to Trevor, who sat alone on the down side of a teeter-totter. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”
He was quiet and tended to keep to himself, although every once in a while, Analisa or Danny managed to draw him out.
Hilda clucked her tongue. “And he’s never supervised.”
Maria thought he might be a latchkey kid, left on his own each day. “Some children aren’t fortunate enough to have parents who look out for them.”