The 45th Parallel

by Lisa Girolami

  “What about leaving Hemlock?”

  “That wasn’t possible.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  Cam looked down at her plate and then looked back up with a frail smile. “No.”

  The way her one-word answer came out reminded Val of air slowly escaping from a bald tire. She had no idea why Cam had never left town, but the thought tugged heavily in her chest.

  “Would you like some more?” Cam said, pointing to her plate.

  “No, thank you, I’m full.” She put her fork down. “If I had more room for another pound or two of bacon, I’d take you up on it, though.”

  “Applewood bacon. It’s the eighth deadly sin.”

  Val stood with her plate. “I don’t want to keep you. And I need to get back to the house.”

  “Of course. Here, let me get that,” Cam said and stood quickly, taking Val’s plate with hers to the kitchen.

  “Thank you so much for feeding me.”

  “I was happy to find you.” Cam placed the dishes in the sink and reached for her keys.

  “There’s no need to drive me back, Cam. Your store’s open and I can walk. It’s not far.”

  “You’re not walking. I can lock up, drive you to the motel, and be back in five minutes.”

  It wasn’t that Val couldn’t argue the logic; she just didn’t want to. Cam was a refreshing, unexpected surprise.

  “Would it be okay if you dropped me off at the house? It’s almost ten, and I can get my rental car and drive over to the motel to check out later.”

  “Deal.”

  *

  Back at her mom’s, Val walked up to the front door and opened it about an inch. She sniffed the air, hesitated, then stuck her head in, sniffing again. If a neighbor was watching they’d think she was immersed in some weird hallucination that she was a bloodhound on the hunt for a missing person.

  She didn’t smell anything and almost went inside, but just the memory of the dizziness and nausea made her sit down on the front steps.

  The gas-company truck pulled up about ten thirty, and she waited while the service technician went through the house. After about ten minutes, he exited and approached her.

  “I found the problem and turned the gas back on.” He paused as he wrote a note on the clipboard he held. “You left your burner on.”

  “The burner? On the stove?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He continued writing.

  “I haven’t cooked anything at all.”

  “Maybe your husband or kid did.” He tore off a copy of whatever he was writing on. “I shut the knob off and found no other leak. The house is fine to reenter.”

  “But I didn’t use the stove.”

  The technician’s interest in her story was akin to a politician’s concern for the little guy. He handed the form to her and told her to have a good day.

  *

  Val went back to the front door, and this time she threw it open. Closing it behind her, she looked around the rooms. She wasn’t really searching for anything; she just needed a minute to collect her thoughts.

  The stove burner had been on. How could that be? Had she accidentally bumped into the knob the last time she was in there? Even if the burner hadn’t ignited, she would have heard the tick, tick, tick of the starter. Wouldn’t she?

  Val walked into the kitchen and turned one of the knobs. It ticked until a flame caught and rolled around the circle of metal. She turned the burner off and tried the other three. They all performed the same way.

  Testing her theory, she twisted a knob, but just barely, as if she’d just bumped it. It ticked at the slightest turn.

  Unsatisfied, she turned it back off and stared at the stove. Finally, she said “To hell with it” and went into the garage to get in her rental car.

  She’d be happy never to touch that stove again.

  *

  As Val was parking at the motel, she noticed something hanging from her door. She got out and walked up to a little brown bag, tied around the doorknob by a string. She untied it and peeked inside.

  The colorful assortment of taffy could have been a real rainbow in a bag. She grinned, thinking that Cam was probably the nicest person she’d ever met. Plucking a piece out, she unwrapped it and unlocked the door.

  With a short throw, her keys landed on the unmade bed. She checked her watch and looked at the motel card on the back of the door. Checkout time was eleven thirty. She had thirty minutes.

  Val chewed on the taffy, which started out with a vanilla taste but ended with a burst of cinnamon that made her grin.

  “Cozy as it is,” she said, looking around the room, “I must leave you.”

  She had nothing to pack so she walked over to scoop up the manila envelope when she stopped cold. Someone had gone through the paperwork. She remembered stacking the sections neatly before opening the door for Cam, but now they were askew, the sections fanned out just slightly.

  She snatched up the pile and sorted through it.

  A frantic jolt of concern shot up her neck. “Who’s been in here?”

  She looked around the room. Maybe it was the maid. Val dashed into the bathroom, but her towel was still on the floor and the soap by the sink was wet. She came back out and stared at her keys lying on the unmade bed. Her body went rigid in confusion.

  “Shit,” she said.

  Picking up her belongings, she dialed a number on her cell phone and left the room.

  *

  “Thanks for meeting me, Donna.”

  Val sat across from her at the Halfway Cafe.

  “I still don’t understand.” Donna sipped on her glass of water.

  “Someone’s going through my things. My drawer in my kitchen, my nightstand. It’s really strange.”

  “But you had people visiting during Nedra’s open house. I wouldn’t call a few things out of place strange.”

  “And someone went through my things at the motel.”

  Donna paused, studying her. She reached over and put her hand over Val’s. “You had a gas cocktail last night, Val. I wouldn’t be surprised if you saw little green men, too.”

  “I’m serious, Donna.”

  “Okay, okay.” She thought for a moment. “What about the maid in the motel room?”

  “The maid hadn’t even started cleaning yet.”

  “Look, I was the only one who knew you were at the motel. Just me.”

  “Cam knew.”

  “Cam? Nelson?”

  “Yes. From high school.”

  Donna began to say something but just shook her head.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, Val. She’s been trouble ever since we were young. There’s a reason everyone used to call her the bad seed. Still do.”

  “This is so weird.”

  “Listen. I just think a couple of random things happened and you’re connecting them. I wasn’t joking about the gas. You were just in the hospital, for God sakes. You’re dealing with your mother’s death and selling her house. I think you’re really stressed, Val.”

  Val stared into her coffee.

  “Still,” Donna added, “I’d stay away from Cam. No one in town trusts her.”

  Val’s head still hurt. Donna was right. It had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d been in the hospital. How long had it been since she took some aspirin? She reached up to rub her head.

  “You miss your mom, don’t you?”

  Val looked up at Donna. “Yes.”

  “Kris was a wonderful woman. I wish you could have gotten back here more often. She was involved in the little community theater. I saw a couple of articles in the local paper about her, too. Did she send them to you?”

  Val started to cry. It finally hit her. Her mom was dead. She wanted to wail out her grief but tightened her chest, trying to hold in as much as she could.

  “Val, honey, I’m sorry I brought it up…”

  “It’s okay,” she blubbered. “Up to now, I guess I’ve been too busy to cry much.” She wiped h
er eyes. “You’re right. I should have come here more often. Mom and I hardly spoke…but I always thought we’d have…more time.”

  “Don’t blame yourself.”

  “It’s easy to get too busy with your life.” She began to cry harder, the guilt slicing through her like an arctic wind on bare skin. “I never told her enough how much I loved her.”

  Donna rubbed Val’s shoulder and then gently coaxed her out of the chair. She left some money on the table and led her outside.

  Donna had her arm around Val and was guiding her.

  Val pointed. “My car’s over there.”

  “I know. But you’re coming with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just shut up.”

  *

  Donna pulled up in front of a church. Val caught the sign out front just as they were passing it. Carved out of wood, the sign was painted white and light blue. It read, The Seeds of Light Church.

  “What are we doing here?”

  Donna parked near the entrance. The church lot was half full.

  “Come on.”

  Donna got out of the car, and after a beat, she followed.

  When they stepped inside, a man stood at the pulpit and a service was underway.

  “We think of light as bright and obvious,” the man up front was saying. “But the existence of candles, and even fireflies, demonstrates that just a little light can make a great difference. An intriguing image is found in Psalm 97:11.” He raised his hand. “Light is sown for the righteous, and gladness for the upright in heart.”

  He had altered his voice for the passage, making it almost quiver, and Val found it a little phony.

  “Light is sown,” he said, “like little seeds being scattered over a field. Can you see it? We are asked to live in a way that pleases God. We are those little seeds of light.”

  Val listened as she looked around the room. She was surprised at how plain it was. The pews were simple rows of wooden benches with simple backs. The windows were void of stained glass but were covered with light-brown drapes instead. There was a beautifully made wooden pulpit and a low table-like altar, but otherwise the area was relatively unadorned. And only one very simple cross hung on the back wall.

  The pastor raised his voice. “When our brothers and sisters bring their young to the steps outside this holy place and encourage them to walk by themselves, to talk to the pastor by themselves, they are sowing the seeds of light. When the parents of a five-year-old entrust the Sunday-school teacher to keep him at the church, even late into the night sometimes, they are sowing seeds of light.”

  “That was weird,” Val said under her breath.

  Donna leaned toward her. “What?”

  “Nothing. Hey, what are we doing here?”

  The pastor’s hands flew up and he almost yelled. “We are spiritual beings in flesh. Worship…is the touching of one spirit with another. We touch each other and see our seeds being sown. Go in peace to love and serve the church and one another.”

  “It’s what you’re going to do.”

  “What is that?”

  “This was your mom’s church.”

  Val looked away and watched the parishioners rising from the pews and start filing out. They passed them, and Val tried to picture her mom among them, sitting in one of the pews or walking down the aisle. She felt the dull ache of loss wash through her body and wished she could see her right then. The ache of missing her amplified the regret that she had never mended their relationship. As the tears came again, she wondered if she’d ever run out of them.

  “She came here all the time,” Donna said. “She was at services, and she even volunteered here.” Donna gave Val a gentle push. “And you’re going to sit down and talk to her.”

  Val took a seat, and Donna quietly walked off somewhere, leaving her alone. The last of the parishioners were leaving, and the echoes of footsteps leading out the door finally faded, leaving Val in silence.

  The drapes of one window were drawn open. The sky was gray, and though she couldn’t hear it from where she sat, the wind rustled the pine trees, making them look as if they were huddled together, gossiping.

  She turned to face the altar and closed her eyes. She wasn’t a church-going person and rarely called to a higher power. She lived as good a life as she could and figured she didn’t need to sit in an organized meeting and share her private beliefs. She never really prayed, per se. She often talked to herself, playing the mother and the child, discussing her actions and righting her wrongs. It helped guide her and allowed her to see what was best. But it was more like meditation than praying.

  Still, since she was sitting here, she tried.

  “I miss you, Mom,” she said to herself. “I really miss you. I wish I had come back more often.” Tears freely flowed down her face now.

  “Your house is so…empty. Part of me wants to move in just to be closer to you. I know it’s too late, and I’m sorry. I don’t think I had much of a choice when I graduated from high school.”

  She wiped her closed eyes. “I know you needed to have your own life and that Chuck was—”

  A calm voice spoke beside her. “You must be Val.”

  She opened her eyes. A man in a collared shirt stood over her. He also had on jeans and tennis shoes. His dark hair had a crisp and conservative crop, the kind meant to either control unruly growth or convey a style choice that wasn’t quite hip. He wore a leather necklace tied to a small silver tooth that hung below his white collar band and an ecology pin fastened to his shirt. He had to be in his late thirties or early forties. Funky would almost describe him.

  “I’m Pastor Kind.”

  “Hi.” Self-consciously, Val wiped her tears.

  “You don’t have to do that. Crying is allowed here.”

  Val sniffed and nodded.

  “I have to confess, Donna sent me out here.”

  “Hi.” She put her hand out, not sure if she should shake his hand or kiss a ring or something.

  He grasped her hand and placed his other one on top of theirs. “Donna cares about you and said you’re feeling a little punk right now. I’m so sorry your mother was called up. But if I may tell you, Kris had a magnificent, full life. She was doing what she wanted. And so were you, don’t forget. I know you feel badly that you weren’t here when she died. That’s the way it was meant to be. And you can’t change that now. What you can do is still talk to her. She’ll hear you.”

  “I just was…kind of.”

  “Consider her your connection.” He released a hand and pointed toward the ceiling. “Up there!”

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you taking care of her affairs?”

  “Yes. It’s just that it seems so…strange, coming down here to get rid of her things and close out her bank account.”

  “I guarantee you, she doesn’t care. As a matter of fact, I’m sure she’s glad you’re staying at her house.”

  Val took in his words.

  “Have you decided what you’ll be doing with the house?”

  “It’s for sale.”

  “Again, she won’t mind.”

  “I know, I guess.”

  The pastor looked up as if he were contemplating something. “Say, tell me the last thing she said to you.”

  “Ah, we talked on the phone maybe a few months ago.” It felt awful to admit that much time had passed without contact.

  “And what did you talk about?”

  “We…I think we talked about my work. And a play she was just finishing.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She…was concerned about something.”

  “What?”

  Val paused, not really sure why he was asking these questions.

  “I don’t quite remember. It had something to do with some people she knew.”

  “Friends?”

  “I suppose. She named them, but I can’t remember now.”

  “Was it a bad thing? Was she worried?”

  Awkwardne
ss began to permeate the conversation. Did men of the cloth usually talk more than newscasters after a political scandal? “She was concerned,” Val said slowly. “I’d say she was worried.

  “What did she say was bothering her?”

  “I’m not sure why you’re asking me this.”

  The pastor smiled. “What I’m getting at are two things. First, whatever was bothering her, no longer is. She’s in a place of rest and serenity. Second, I want you to remember as much as you can about your mother. Relive all your moments with her. Keep her alive in your heart. Heed the advice she gave you growing up and laugh again at the funny things she said.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder. “And even cry when you want.”

  *

  Val found Donna sitting in the pew with her eyes closed.

  “I’m ready to go now.”

  Donna jumped slightly and then rose to walk with Val out of the church.

  “How was it?”

  “Talking with Mom or the pastor you sicced on me?”

  “Didn’t he make you feel better?”

  She wasn’t sure because she wasn’t used to churches, or pastors, or even praying, for that matter. He was nice with a soft-spoken voice whose volume was probably always set on soft, except for his turn at the pulpit. “I suppose.”

  “He’s a good ear, if you ever need one.”

  *

  Donna dropped Val off at her car.

  “Thanks for caring, Donna,” Val said as she closed the door and leaned against the frame of the open window.

  “What are friends for? Hey, do you have plans later?”

  “I think it’ll be a quiet night at home for me. I’m still pretty tired from the whole day.”

  “Okay, have a great evening. Call if you need anything.” Donna waved to Val as she drove away.

  Val lifted her hand unenthusiastically. Her grief was probably catching up with her. Thinking about her mother—spending conscious thought and deliberate consideration about her mother’s life, their strained relationship, and her untimely end—had taken a lot out of her.

  She was really beginning to dislike the empty house. And she was equally unwilling to go to bed early because she knew she’d wake up at one or two in the morning. If she did, she would stare at the ceiling as if it were a blank screen on which she would picture more of her confusing and frustrating childhood and her life since, spent without much contact with her mother, until the sun broke free of the Oregon coastal fog and pushed her out of bed.