Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  She reached for the discarded hoe and I noticed her difficulty in grasping the wooden handle with her fingers.

  “I have been.”

  “No you haven’t. You’ve gone plenty of times with Sylvia, but it’s time you went for yourself.”

  “Sylvia has been taking me. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Are you serious? Something’s wrong and you haven’t told me about it? You can’t just keep things like this to yourself.”

  “There’s nothing to tell. Growing older isn’t necessarily a generous process, Stevie. The doctor says it’s only my age catching up with me,” she said, chopping at the earth with the hoe as though the previous few moments had never taken place.

  “Will you please just let me finish this? Ash can help.”

  My mother chuckled, once more sounding like her normal self. “If Ash comes over here, little work will get done.”

  And I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a certain sense of pride over her insinuation.

  “Stop it Ash, my mother will see you,” I protested most unconvincingly as he came up behind me, pushing away the curtain of my hair and brushing his lips against my neck.

  “I hope she does,” he grinned, returning to the business of cultivating the square plot of earth designated for my mother’s flower garden. “You wouldn’t want her to think I’ve lost interest already, would you?”

  “Heavens no. She’d never survive such a disappointment,” I laughed, all at once remembering something she’d said not long ago.

  “If you want to know the truth, she told me she didn’t understand how you put up with me.”

  “Hum.” He didn’t seem at all surprised. “And what did you say to that?”

  “I don’t remember. Probably something about you not knowing any better,” I smiled as I said it, attempting to mask the quivering shadow of vulnerability creeping up around the edges of my thoughts.

  “You could’ve told her that after looking at nothing but cows and cornstalks all day it doesn’t require much effort on my part to find you particularly enticing.”

  “That’s not funny.” I kept my eyes on the dirt as I raked, unwilling he should detect the hint of tears gathering behind my lids–annoyed by, but unable to shake off, the grim mood that had so unexpectedly settled over me.

  And all at once he was there in front of me, taking the rake from my hands and dropping it to the ground. “What’s wrong, Stevie? You know I was only teasing.”

  “I know.” I kept my eyes cast toward the ground, willing myself not to cry.

  “Look at me,” he said quietly, the pressure of his fingers tightening on my arms. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Have I done something?” He lifted my chin with a gentle firmness, forcing me to meet his gaze.

  My voice clung against the inside of my throat like swallowed dust, reluctant to leave my mouth. Ash waited.

  “I’m worried about Mom. Just really worried,” I said at length. “I know she never stops agonizing over what really might’ve happened to Aunt Smyrna and whether or not Cal will ever turn up, but this feels like something else. She looks so–I don’t know–fragile,” I said, attempting to turn away, reluctant to confront my fears in the full light of day.

  “Has she been sick?”

  “No … yes, well, she nearly fainted a couple times. She’s never had anything like that happen before,” I said, a tear tumbling over my cheek in defiance of my resolve. “That’s why she’s letting us finish her garden.”

  “Stevie–”

  “I can’t help thinking that she’s sicker than she lets on.”

  He folded me against his chest, holding me in the comforting circle of his arms as my tears soaked a damp patch into the front of his worn flannel shirt.

  “Sometimes it just feels like I’m a curse to anyone unfortunate enough to get close to me.”

  “You can’t believe that. It’s nonsense,” then taking an audible breath, “Stevie,” he said softly against the crown of my head, my cheek still resting against the steady beat of his heart–a rhythm so strong it felt as if it might be my own. “Do you love me?” His arms tightened ever so slightly with the question.

  “Do you love me, Stevie?” he repeated when I hesitated from answering.

  Yes, I wanted to tell him. Yes, I do love you. And I felt the words all the way to my core. Felt them waiting in my mouth to be said. And yet, I couldn’t release that forever promise.

  Was I that afraid of saying what I’d never spoken to any man before? Or was it the uncertainty of whether I could trust myself with another person’s heart.

  His arms dropped to his sides and it was as though my silence had worked to hurtle him a continent away, an undetermined expression descending over his features as he turned his face into the distance.

  I watched as he picked up the garden tools, still feeling his protective strength and its underlying tenderness, his heartbeat against my cheek, the scent of him even then leaking its way into my nostrils.

  I knew my hesitation had hurt him deeply and fully, just as I knew I’d continue to hurt him unless I abandoned my unreasonable fears.

  “Ash ...” I uttered haltingly to the wall of his back.

  “I have some things to finish up before I leave this afternoon,” he said without turning back.

  And I couldn’t seem to find either my voice or the words that held the power to keep him there, instead, standing mutely as he headed across the yard to the tool shed.

  Run after him. Hurry before it’s too late. If I explain, he’ll understand.

  But my foolish deceitful body refused to obey the desperate plea echoing through my head like a scream, instead, wooden limbs plodding my feet back toward the house; angry as I was afraid of whatever it was denying me from keeping what made me happiest and touched me deepest.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  It was all I could do to keep from falling apart.

  I remember staring at the pleasantly smiling face of a woman I didn’t know, attractively matted in an unobtrusive black frame on the desk in front of me. I nodded occasionally at the body behind the desk speaking in a soft monotone, my vision blurring then clearing when I shifted my eyes to the clock on the wall–a face whose hands never seemed to move.

  Again, I attempted to focus on the innocuous smiling visage in the black frame then back to the doctor’s slender hands neatly folded on the polished surface of the desk, the same man whose gentle voice now wedged a fiery spike into my brain.

  “Your mother’s stroke was the result of a hemorrhage,” he said, standing and walking around the side of the desk to lay a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  “I know how difficult this is for you, dear. My own mother died from a stroke several years ago. It’s a terrible tragedy whenever we lose a loved one, but there’s nothing any of us could’ve done to change things, Stephanie.”

  I rose to my feet, nodding when my voice failed to come.

  “Go home and get some rest. If you think you’ll need it, I can prescribe something to help you sleep.”

  Again I nodded. Yes, sleep. I wanted to sleep for as long as was physically possible and then far longer.

  “Is there someone to help you with the arrangements?”

  Another nod. Would it have mattered if I’d said there was no one, only me?

  “Good. That’s good. This is one of the most difficult things any of us ever has to face in life and it’s a true blessing when we have someone to shoulder some of the responsibility,” he said, moving to open the door.

  It was the longest journey I’d ever taken–the walk from the doctor’s office to the hospital parking lot where I’d left the car. The details of which I could later not recall, except to know I’d somehow traveled a distance of decades along hollow corridors leading from one oblivion into the next, feeling something of the activity moving around me, but unable to see or even believe it truly existed; no
thing real beyond my own yowling pain.

  Despite the coolness of the evening, I rolled down the car windows before backing from the parking space. And once on the empty highway, deserted even though it was a Saturday night, I pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  The night air rushed through the open windows, whipping my hair around my face in a wild dance and sweeping away the scent of my mother’s perfume still lingering where she’d sat slumped in the seat hours earlier when I’d raced her to the hospital. And while the biting chill of night could temporarily erase the faint sweet smell of her fragrance, it could not remove the taste of salty tears from my lips or ease the dull ache gnawing at my heart.

  The farmhouse had been quiet before, but this was a different sort of silence, a bottomless stillness reminding me that I was thoroughly alone. As much as I hadn’t wanted to come back here there was no place else I might’ve gone.

  I poured a glass of iced tea then left it untouched on the kitchen counter, all at once mindful that my mother must’ve made it sometime the day before when she was still here living a life.

  What do I do now? My legs moved me slowly down the hall to the living room. And for the span of an eternity I stood there in the darkness without reaching for the lamp, morbidly afraid that should the room be flooded with light I would again see her there, a crumpled rag doll dropped on the rug, glassy staring eyes looking past me to nothing at all.

  Far away, a telephone was ringing. Why wasn’t Mom answering it? My irritation piqued as the sound continued and I forced my eyes open against the painful white light of morning; turning my head to glance at the clock on my dresser at the very instant a sharpened blade of recollection sliced through my consciousness to remind me of the terrible truth I hadn’t been able to dream away.

  Once showered and dressed I called the funeral home, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice as I detailed what I thought would’ve been my mother’s last wishes, gratified the tears didn’t come until after I’d replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  I considered calling Ash, knowing that regardless of the fractured state of our relationship, I should be the one to tell him about my mother. But each time I reached for the telephone, holding the receiver in my hand and studying the sequence of numbers circling its face, mentally recalling which ones I needed to dial in order to reach him, my courage flagged. What difference would it make if I told him now or later? Because at present it was easier to cry alone.

  My mind refused to focus on whatever it was I needed to do next. And if the sun weren’t so bright, the birds nesting amongst the faded purple blooms of the lilac bush beside the porch not singing so joyously, I almost might’ve succeeded in convincing myself that this was an ordinary summer day. Instead, the emptiness yawned wide and deep around me, turning the house impossibly cold despite the warmth of the morning.

  Libby Pearson Burke. I wrote her name neatly on the line just below her own entry recording Daddy’s death, my fingers gripping the pen tightly to keep from shaking. It was all there, registered within the exalted pages of the bible, a meticulously kept record of my family’s history. Births, Baptisms, Marriages–exacting entries in black ink–joyous occasions inevitably finalized by death. Now there was only me. And I wondered then, who would dutifully print my name once my own time had ticked away.

  The gay blooms ripening abundantly in the flower boxes on the porch nodded briefly in the gentle breeze stirring the morning’s oncoming heat. The marigolds had blossomed early this year, ordinarily not showing themselves until the fragrant blooms of the lilac had long faded. And I found myself thinking that quite possibly their preseason arrival was intended as some sweet and final tribute to their caregiver.

  From inside the house, the phone rang sharply. I suspected the news would’ve reached my mother’s friends in Callicoon by now, and although I understood the details of tragedy and death were a large preoccupation for the people here, I wasn’t yet ready to face the polite questions and condolences. After a forever, the ringing finally ceased.

  More than anything, I longed to get in the car and drive away from everything. This house, this town, everything and everyone that had ever shadowed my life here. None of it felt real anymore. Nothing except the emptiness. Yet leaving would have to wait, at least until after I’d buried my mother.

  Again hearing the shrill ringing of the telephone, I numbly pushed myself up from the porch swing. But instead of going inside to answer the call, I headed across the yard, resolute in my need to get away to any place that wasn’t here.

  Judging by the sun’s gentle slide overhead I knew it must’ve been late afternoon when I started back toward the house, following the trail of bent young stalks I’d deliberately left along my path through the cornfield. How strange it felt to have all of this belong to me now. This farm and everything on it–a far too vast parcel for someone who wanted no part of it.

  I filled a glass of water from the kitchen sink, trying to remember where I’d left the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed. I’d taken one that first night, never expecting to drop off as quickly as I had (convinced that no medicine could successfully dull the acute edges of profound grief), and I calculated that if I took another one now I might possibly sleep for the remainder of the afternoon. It was a temporary escape at best, and there would still be the night ahead to contend with–but then, what was the alternative? How else would I ever manage to crawl through the rest of this day?

  “Stevie ...”

  I spun around at the sound of Ash’s voice.

  He pushed open the screen-door and stepped into the kitchen. “Are you alright?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, certain of the tears that would come if I did; the weight of water already building up behind my eyes at the sight of him.

  “I couldn’t believe it when I heard.” He lifted a hand as though to reach out toward me, but instead letting it drop again to his side.

  “I know. I can’t either.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I couldn’t,” I whispered, feeling my voice dissolving inside my mouth. “We haven’t talked in awhile and I know you’re angry with me ...” Against my most determinate intentions the tears now slid loose from my eyes, swirling his features together in a distracting blur.

  “Come here,” he said, and his arms closed around me gently. “I told you once that I’d always be here for you. Didn’t you believe I meant it?”

  I gulped the air in a broken attempt to swallow back my tears, Ash cradling my head against his chest as I wept. “It’s a necessary thing to let yourself cry when you need to. You’ll feel better if you let go.”

  And he had no way of knowing that I was weeping as much for myself as I was for having lost my mother.

  The day of the funeral was appropriately grey. I stood surrounded by a modest gathering of friends and neighbors in the neatly manicured cemetery feeling strangely removed–like a mild acquaintance experiencing a distant loss.

  It was the twin granite headstones adjacent the freshly dug grave that brought the full sense of horror hurtling back through my brain like a runaway locomotive, causing me to gasp involuntarily. I felt someone clutch my arm firmly but I didn’t turn to acknowledge the reassuring touch, my eyes unwilling to leave the names engraved before me: Eleanor, Clinton, and soon Libby–my family.

  It was finished quickly, the minister having hurried his words under the threat of rain. My mother’s friend Sylvia approached, kissing my cheek (and most certainly leaving behind a smear of her bright red lipstick). “Can I drive you home, honey?”

  “No thank you, Sylvia. I came with Ash.”

  I noted that her eyes were wet, rimmed in pink, and somehow it made me feel better; reminding me that my sorrow wasn’t an altogether solitary purgatory. After a dozen embraces and consolatory exchanges, Ash led me away toward the car.

  On the drive back to the farm, we sat beside each other saying little–neither touching, nor exchanging gla
nces.

  Reaching the house, I waited for Ash to walk around the car and open the door. Not because I expected such chivalry, but because the debilitating weight of emotion avalanched over me like a collapsed mountain these past several days had left my senses dull and limbs hesitant to act.

  “I don’t want to go inside yet,” I said, walking slowly to the porch, dropping the heavy weight of my sorrow beside me like an unwanted parcel as I sank onto the creaky porch swing.

  Ash followed, saying nothing as he seated himself in the chair opposite.

  A light sprinkling of rain had begun to fall, gleaming on the grass and settling the dust in the driveway.

  “I don’t want to stay here.”

  “It’s going to take some time to adjust to all of this.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I can’t live here,” I said, tilting back my head and closing my eyes. “I can’t run a farm. I don’t want to.”

  “You don’t have to do it alone. I can still work here for awhile if you want me to.”

  I stood and walked to the porch railing, my back turned to him.

  “Stop trying to figure everything out at once.”

  “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

  “You’re pushing yourself too hard, Stevie,” Ash said, coming up behind me, cupping my shoulders with his hands. “You have time. You have time to think about what you want to do.”

  He couldn’t seem to grasp my meaning. But then how would he have understood that I was still fighting old ghosts–the shadows of things I’d believed to be rested, only to have them resurface in the wake of this newest tragedy.

  “Will you stay here tonight?”

  “Yes, if you want me to.”

  “Thank you,” I said, then, “Come inside. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

  The clock on my dresser was ticking loudly, a sharp metallic tap reaching out into the darkest most distant corners of the room. It was a tempo growing increasingly pointed with each passing minute, pulsing in marked unison with the rain steadily washing away the night. I listened intently for some sound of Ash moving about downstairs, but there was nothing to be heard beyond the tapping clock and the weeping rain.