He shook his head. “I’m expecting a business call. I’ll need to clean up first.” He gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes. She knew without knowing how that the business he would be discussing was Darrel. “I’ll call tomorrow,” he added. His hand reached out, the fingers dry from the past days of hard work, and touched the skin on the back of her wrist, barely showing beneath the long-sleeved T-shirt. A fluttering touch, unsure, apologetic. Images went through her mind: Darrel catching his first fish, Darrel holding Lucy. Lucy’s grave. Wayne’s newly red hair. Brandon at the swimming hole. Brandon kissing her so long ago.
Their eyes met and held.
She took a deliberate step backward.
With a nod, he walked away, and she watched him go.
Chapter 14
Diary of Mercedes Walker
June 20, 1995
Brandon hasn’t called. Is he waiting for me to make the first move? I keep thinking maybe he doesn’t know where I am, and that could very well be it. But why doesn’t he call our friends and find out? I talked to Sandra last week, and she hadn’t heard from him either, though she thought he’d been talking to Chad. I know Brandon’s silence must be partly because of his parents. I always felt there was something about them that he hadn’t told me. Or maybe he’s just involved in his work. He does get obsessive when he’s occupied, and I know he has a strong desire to prove himself. Maybe he’s working so hard he doesn’t realize how much time has passed. But that’s ridiculous. Surely he misses me as much as I miss him! I thought by now he’d wake up to how much we belong together. I want to call him so badly, but the memory of Momma won’t let me. Living here with Daddy these past weeks has shown me how awful her life must have been. I won’t live like that. If Brandon doesn’t love me enough, then I don’t want him to call.
Each step he took was torture, reminding Brandon of the other time when he’d felt such heavy despair.
He’d tried to stay away from Mercedes as Wayne had said, but he found himself helpless to do so. She had stood there with her basket of peas, looking so much like the woman he had loved—still loved? No, he couldn’t let his mind confuse the present with the past. She wasn’t the same, and neither was he.
What had possessed him to reach out to her, to touch her? Did he hope she would fall into his arms? Hardly. He was the enemy here, for all that Mercedes and Wayne had opened their home to him. Their intent was clear: to show him what he’d be taking from Darrel—the security of youth, the farm, his family. But what about the things Brandon had to offer? Surely those were worth something.
Where had he gone wrong? But he knew. His efforts hadn’t been enough, though at the time they’d seemed more than sufficient.
“Is Mercedes there? I’m a friend of hers. Brandon—from the hospital. We met a few times when she brought me out to your farm.”
“I remember,” came the gravelly voice of a man who had lived too hard and drunk too much.
“Look, I’ve tried calling her apartment, but she hasn’t been answering the phone, and now the line is disconnected. Is she okay?”
“My daughter is fine, but she ain’t here at the moment.”
“Could you give her a message?”
“Yeah. I guess. But don’t be surprised if she don’t call. She’s a purty woman and not one to sit home and mope.”
“Tell her I’d like to talk to her. Tell her I miss her.”
“Well, then maybe you shouldn’ta left.”
Brandon wished he could strangle the man. Only two weeks away from Mercedes, and it felt like a lifetime. “Just tell her, okay?”
Another week passed. Nothing. He called again, but Mercedes wasn’t there. Just the old man. The grouchy old man. Another two weeks. Same thing.
“Look, did you give her my messages?”
“What do you think I am, an idiot?” her father growled. “Besides, she lives here. She knows who calls. If she’d a wanted to talk to you, she woulda called ya by now.”
“Well, she might have tried. Like I’ve been doing.”
“If you were any kind of a man, you woulda married her months ago when you had the chance. Anyways, you’re too late. She’s going with someone else now. You had your chance.”
Brandon hung up the phone, smarting from the rebuke. He alternated between worrying that Mercedes was in her father’s clutches and feeling hurt from her apparent rejection of him. He should have talked things out with her before leaving Wyoming, telling her the truth about what awaited him in Massachusetts, but he’d thought it might turn her away from him. It probably would have. She’d have seen through the charade and insisted that he be honest with his parents from the beginning.
“I’ll write her a letter,” he said, his voice sounding loud in the quiet of his new apartment in Boston. Once he explained, he knew her heart would be big enough to forgive him and to help him make things right.
He wrote the letter.
No reply. So he wrote another.
Six months after he’d left Wyoming, he received the envelope.
His hands shook as he opened it. She’d finally written!
A wedding announcement fell onto the table, complete with a lovely head shot of Mercedes and some guy he didn’t recognize. The man was older but good-looking in a rugged way that Brandon knew he could never emulate. Jealousy formed a tight ball in the pit of his stomach. Apparently her father had been telling the truth about her dating someone else. Six months. Only six months to forget him.
He never learned who had sent the announcement.
Brandon sighed as the memory faded, leaving behind a sharp hurt. At the time he’d been sure of her rejection, but now he knew his perception to be twisted somehow. Mercedes had been expecting his child, had been expecting him to return. He hadn’t. The words she’d said that first day he’d challenged her about Darrel here on the farm returned to haunt him: When all was said and done, when you had broken my heart into so many pieces that I thought I’d never be whole again, even then I wanted our child.
That didn’t make sense with how he’d imagined the events after his departure. What about the calls to her house? Was she so hurt that she couldn’t just pick up the stupid phone? A wave of bitterness made him feel lightheaded. She’d made no secret about blaming him for leaving, and he admitted fault, but she also had some guilt in the failure.
He reached his rental car and practically fell inside. Blistered palms gripped the steering wheel until the lightheadedness passed. Then he started the car and drove away. He couldn’t help glancing out to the side after he passed the house, to see if he could spot Mercedes in the garden. She was still standing there where he left her.
Still standing there.
When he left.
He shut his eyes for an instant, feeling the hopelessness of the situation. The best he could hope for was to share Darrel. That was all. Weariness pressed against his eyelids.
So tired, he thought. I’m so tired.
Farming wasn’t at all what he’d expected. It wasn’t sitting on the tractor all day, though wrestling with the tractor was tough in itself. It was digging with the shovel when something was in the way, it was filling the seed drill or lying under pieces of equipment trying to fix them when they malfunctioned. Feeding the animals, riding out to check on the herd, doctoring those that needed help. Even pulling a calf or two. And so much more. He’d used muscles he’d only learned about in medical school, and every one of them ached.
But the real tiredness came from his emotional state. Mercedes, he thought. What have I done?
There was a loud honk of a horn and then the high-pitched squeal of engine brakes as a semi behind him closed the gap between them on the highway. Brandon moved over a little so the truck had more room to pass.
He thought of his parents. He’d called to get their attorney’s contact information so he could request a recommendation of a good custody attorney in San Diego, but he’d told them it was for a friend. It was an unspoken part of the promise he’d ma
de Mercedes when he promised not to tell Darrel until they decided what to do. If he told his parents, they’d be on the first plane here, suitcases full of presents for their grandson and questions about what color he’d want his room at their house so he’d be comfortable when he visited. They’d set up an account for his education and start collecting college brochures.
Yet didn’t Darrel deserve that? He had no living grandparents here. Grandparents were one more thing Brandon could give the child. That, and as many space camps as he wanted to attend, the latest computer, and the best schools. Fury built in Brandon’s heart, but he didn’t know where he should direct the emotion. Though he and Mercedes were guilty, neither had intended things to turn out this way.
So tired.
His cell phone rang, and after some searching he found it shoved in the pocket of his jeans, remarkably undamaged after his hard day at playing farmer. He checked the caller ID. His new attorney, Miles Graf.
“I think you have a case,” Miles said after their initial greeting. “Especially since you were not aware of the boy’s existence and immediately sought him out upon learning of his relationship to you. There will be hoops to jump through, and it won’t be cheap, but I’m positive I can get you significant access to your son. You’ll have to pay child support, of course.”
“That’s fine,” Brandon said quickly. From what he’d learned of the farm, any payments would help Mercedes and Wayne. Maybe money would soften their hearts, though he wouldn’t hold his breath on that account.
“I’m not guaranteeing anything, of course, but I’ll do my best. The rest will depend upon how good the attorney for the Johnsons is.”
Johnsons. For a moment, Brandon had trouble placing the name since he still thought of Mercedes by her maiden name, Walker. But she was Mrs. Wayne Johnson now, though they’d kept the Walker name for the farm. “Thank you,” he said. “I thought I’d have some kind of a chance. It’s not my fault she hid him from me all these years.”
“Well, it won’t be easy. Just possible. We should meet soon to map out a strategy—I have some openings next week if that works for you—and we’ll need an attorney there as well to work with us. They’ll know all the ins and outs of the state laws and have a pulse on the local judiciary. After I do some checking, I’ll be able to recommend someone.”
“Sure. Great. I can fly back next week.” Brandon felt a thrill ripple through him. Darrel was going to know who he was! He’d be able to take his son to the beach in California, to show him off to his parents in Boston. Maybe Darrel and Hannah would get along—providing they met at all. As long as Brandon didn’t think about Mercedes and Wayne, he could be happy with even a little time with Darrel.
Then why did he still feel so much despair?
He drove down the highway. Slowly, as though driving through water. He kept seeing flashes of Darrel’s face as he chose to stay with Wayne, of Darrel excitedly discussing nanotechnology, and of Wayne reading up on all the latest events solely to help Darrel learn. He thought of the sacrifice Wayne and Mercedes would be making to send him to space camp, to college. And Mercedes . . .
So much time wasted.
He missed her laugh, her unique way of looking at things, her kindness. Her touch. The way she’d loved him. How could he still miss that after so long?
How could he have lived without it?
His phone rang again. Hannah. He was feeling dizzy, so he put on his signal and pulled off the highway. Besides, Hannah would ask. She hated for him to talk when he drove, saying that too many accidents were caused by inattentive cell phone users. She was probably right.
“Hello?”
“Hi. You survived.”
He grimaced. “Barely.”
“Where are you now?”
“On the highway. Don’t worry, I pulled over to answer.” Then to assert his independence, he added, “I was feeling a bit dizzy.”
“I bet you haven’t eaten yet.”
“I ate a big lunch. But farming’s hard work.”
“So, I guess you’re not planning to quit being a doctor.” Amusement was thick in her voice.
“Uh, that would be a big no. But there is good news. I talked to my new lawyer. He says I have a chance.”
“That’s great! So what are Darrel’s, uh, parents saying?”
“We haven’t discussed it further.”
“What about your parents?”
“Not yet. You know them.”
She laughed. “Yeah. Good idea to wait. They’ll be choosing what college they want him to attend.”
“That’s not going to happen.” Brandon surprised himself at the fierceness of his reaction. He wasn’t going to let his parents control Darrel’s life as they had his. Mercedes had suffered enough at their hands. They all had. “I mean, they can make suggestions, but the choice is his.”
His head was pounding, and he felt like throwing up. Adjusting his seat as far back as he could, he lay down and closed his eyes. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t felt this way in a long time.
Not since the cancer.
Blinding, black fear struck him dumb.
“Brandon, are you okay?”
“Fine,” he managed.
“You don’t sound fine. You moaned.”
“It’s this stinking headache.”
“All that sun.”
“I had a hat.”
“You’re not used to it.”
He chuckled.
“What?”
“You sound like you did when we were married. When I worked too many shifts.”
She was silent.
“Not that I mind,” he added. “It’s good to have someone to worry.”
“I do worry. You need to take better care of yourself. I’m not sure what you were trying to prove with this farm stuff.”
“I’m fine.” He was actually feeling better now. “I just wanted to spend time with him in his environment. Get a feel for who he is and what he needs.”
“And what is that?”
Brandon couldn’t answer. The truth was that Darrel seemed to have everything a child could need or want. Except maybe the whole truth, which only Brandon could give him.
Hannah sensed his reluctance. “Look, you should go get something to eat.”
“You’re right.” He sat up, reaching for the seat controls. Blackness appeared at the edges of his vision. “Hannah, I’m going to—”
Everything went dark.
* * *
“Dr. Rhodes, can you hear me? Brandon?” Lights shone in Brandon’s eyes, forcing him to leave the soft, comfortable place where he was resting. Reluctantly his eyes blinked opened. Pain sliced through his head as images rushed to greet him: Dr. Peck from the hospital flashing a light in his eyes, concern evident on his narrow face; two nurses standing near the doctor; an IV tube snaking to his wrist; Dustbottom from the morgue leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching the whole scene.
“Stop that,” Brandon told the young doctor.
Dr. Peck straightened and switched off the light. “Welcome back, Dr. Rhodes.”
“What happened?”
“You passed out. Hit your head pretty good. We put in some staples.” Dr. Peck reached for the chart in one of the nurse’s hands and made a notation. His strokes were short, compact, and precise, in contrast to his tall, lanky stature. His balding head shone brightly, unpleasantly, reflecting the lights overhead.
Brandon looked toward Dustbottom, whose real name he couldn’t even recall at the moment. With a lazy smile the short older doctor shoved himself off the wall and walked toward the bed. “Your ex-wife called us. I thought you’d left Wyoming after the seminar, but apparently you had other business in town? We tracked you down on the highway.”
“Thanks.”
“What we don’t know,” Dustbottom continued, “is what caused the blackout. Hannah says you had stomach cancer, so Dr. Peck and I think you should undergo a few tests. You know the routine.”
Brandon sh
ook his head. “I had them all a few months ago. Not a trace of abnormal cells. I’m fine. Have been for a year.” He struggled to sit up, but the searing pain shot through his head again. Cursing, he lay down and closed his eyes until the worst of it passed.
“We know that,” Dr. Peck said, “but we have too many unanswered questions. Of course, the best thing would be to get you back to California and your regular doctor.”
“I can’t leave—at least not yet.”
Dustbottom regarded him, his eyes behind the glasses without expression. Brandon had never been able to say what color his eyes were—blue, gray, or perhaps even hazel. They seemed to change with his mood and the light. The man had aged in the past thirteen years, though not nearly as much as Brandon had expected. His hair was peppered with gray now, but the cheeks were unlined—probably due to the extra twenty pounds he’d gained. As always, his white coat was sprinkled with tiny dark spots and sat crookedly on his wide shoulders. He seemed the same old Dustbottom who had been willing to answer any question from the residents so they didn’t have to look stupid in front of the other doctors. The morgue had always been open to them—for those who could stomach it—and Brandon had spent more than his fair share of time there. He’d learned more from Dustbottom than from any other doctor at the hospital.
“Why can’t you leave?” Dustbottom asked. “Your seminar is over. And I know you aren’t hanging out here because I’m so good-looking. You’ve only come down to the morgue twice during your visit. What’s up?”
Brandon looked at Dr. Peck and the two nurses. Dr. Peck took the hint. “Let me know if I should order those tests.” He motioned to the nurses and together the three left the room.
“Well?” Dustbottom prompted.
“I have a son here. I’m just getting to know him.”
“Mercedes’ child.”
“You knew?”
“Not until this minute. I only met her a few times, remember? And I haven’t seen her since you left. But you talked about her nonstop for an entire year. It was hard not to remember her.”
“She remembers you, too.”
He smiled. “I hope you didn’t bore her with too many stories.”
Fields of Home Page 14