“No, actually, I can’t. But you shouldn’t marry him just for the baby.”
“I’m not. Grandma, I—when he kisses me, I just know it’ll be okay.” Mercedes blushed, like a young teen with her first crush, though Wayne had been a complete gentleman, and for the first time in a long time, she felt valued as a woman and a person. He cared about her future.
Grandmother studied her for several long moments and then nodded once. “He’ll make you a fine husband, child, no doubt about that. Let’s get started planning a wedding. You can’t hide that baby any longer.”
Mercedes smiled at the memories. At this moment her grandmother would be watching them from wherever she had gone, her heart full with their challenges. Help me, Grandmother, Mercedes thought. I need to get through this . . . somehow.
“But he won’t wait, will he?”
Mercedes looked at Wayne blankly. “What?”
His thumb rubbed the palm of her hand. They’d stopped walking now and were several paces from Lucy’s grave. “You told him to wait. What did he say?”
Mercedes swallowed with difficulty. She couldn’t look Wayne in the face. “I told him it wasn’t fair to tell Darrel, at least until he knew for sure about his cancer, but he kept saying it was his right.” She clenched her free hand, remembering how Brandon had looked at her when he’d tried to explain about the letters.
“I told him to go,” she added. “And he did.”
Wayne drew her into his arms, but she couldn’t find the usual comfort there. “Is that all? Did he say anything more?”
“No.” It was the first time she hadn’t been completely honest with Wayne. She lifted her face and kissed him with an urgency she hadn’t known since they’d been trying to have a baby before Lucy was conceived, as though kissing would make a difference in their lives. As though it might be the last time.
“Come on,” he said, voice low. “Let’s get back to the house.”
She went willingly and spent the night enfolded in his arms, comforted by their intimacy. Long after the children’s excited voices had faded into sleep, she lay awake, her cheek on his shoulder, her forehead pressed into his neck, his arm underneath her. Her body moved slightly in time to his breathing as he slept. She could smell the clean shirt he’d pulled on earlier when he had gone to spend a short time on the deck with the boys. She loved the fresh scent of clothes dried on the line, but even more she loved the underlying smell of Wayne, his skin—him. Arching her neck, she lifted her lips to the curve underneath his jaw, kissed him softly, tasted his skin with her tongue. Her husband. Hers. And she was safe in his arms.
Closing her eyes, she finally slept.
Chapter 18
Diary of Mercedes Walker Johnson
September 15, 1995
Wayne and I were married yesterday. Grandmother, Daddy, and a few of our friends were present. Only those who know about the baby. I’m getting bigger now—finally. The doctor says I still need to gain more weight. I already feel I’m huge, but Wayne laughs at me and tells me I’m beautiful. He picked me up and carried me to the car as if I were a child. We went to a place in Green River for our honeymoon. It was beautiful, and we had every comfort. I worried about the cost, but Wayne said he’d wanted to take me to Paris. I asked him why would I want to go to Idaho, and we laughed ourselves silly. He has a friend who lives in Paris, Idaho.
Wayne has been so tender and gentle and loving. I love to sit and look at him watch me because nothing is hidden. His emotions are plain to see, and I know he loves me. I’ve grown to care about him, too. I don’t know if it’s love yet—I feel so bruised even thinking about love and how Brandon hurt me—but I’m willing to believe it is. When Wayne kisses me, I’m certainly not thinking of anyone but him. We are going to make this work.
When Mercedes awoke early the next morning to drive to Rock Springs to see her father, Wayne was already out checking on the cattle. After making sure Darrel was up to milk the cow, she scribbled a quick note and left in the old truck. Usually, she’d take the boys along for the visit, but she needed to see her father alone today. She hadn’t even told Wayne because with the planting finished and the cattle taken care of, he’d have the day to spend with the family—and usually he only wanted to be somewhere that included her.
The thought made her feel even more guilty.
The drive always took nearly four hours, and she had to fight not to go faster. She was already pushing the speed limit. For long stretches there was nothing but flat land and sagebrush, as though this part of Wyoming had forgotten how to bloom. Then the highway would snake around a city where trees emerged stubbornly from the ground, strangely haunting and inspiring, proof that life fought to survive wherever it could.
When she arrived in the city, there was too much traffic, and Mercedes felt anxious, her empty stomach acidic and hurting by the time she walked into the assisted-living facility. She smiled at the receptionist, who knew her by name, turned right, went up one floor, taking the stairs instead of the elevator—she hated closed-in spaces—turned left and walked until she stood in front of room 214.
At her knock, her father, Jed Walker, opened the door so quickly she wondered if he’d been waiting, hoping this week she would finally show up. She was his only visitor besides Austin, who had come only twice in the past year, though she knew her father had made friends among the other residents.
Her father’s smile creased his face into a myriad of wrinkles. Not a few wide furrows like Wayne’s, but small, numerous dry fans, like toothpicks under the skin, lining his fathomless black eyes, forehead, and mouth, making her feel as if she were looking at death itself. He grew weaker every month, and she believed he wouldn’t be around to see another spring.
“Mercedes.” He fell on her in a hug, eager for human touch. She made an effort not to recoil—an effort not previously necessary on other visits. What had changed? Could the knowledge of his duplicity so long ago have a bearing on their present? She’d forgiven him for the past. Yet how could she forgive something of which she had no knowledge?
“Where is your momma?” he asked. “I need to see her. Tell her I’m back.”
Mercedes stared at him, her amazement at his sudden appearance in the barn turning into anger. “You don’t know?” she said. “You didn’t hear?”
“Where is she?” His face flushed. “Spit it out, girl! I don’t got all day. She didn’t go and get herself married again, did she? ’Cuz I ain’t dead.”
“No, but she is.”
He blinked, whatever evil words he’d planned to say next dying on his lips. Mercedes felt a sliver of satisfaction, followed closely by remorse that she could experience that bit of satisfaction only because her mother was gone. She’d trade that feeling and more to have her back again.
“Dead?” he asked dumbly.
She hated the way he stood there, all innocence and questions. “It was you!” she said in voice like ice. Then she was crying, sobbing without control. “You killed her! You killed her! And I hate you!”
Her father lifted his hand, aiming a blow, but Wayne grabbed his arm. “Lucinda’s gone,” he said calmly. “Come on back to the house, and I’ll tell you what happened.”
Mercedes watched them go, her chest hurting. “I’ll never forgive you, Daddy,” she whispered. “Never.”
Yet she had.
He was so frail that she feared to squeeze him too tightly lest his bones break. Had he been taking his supplements? The question died on her tongue. She didn’t really care about his supplements today. Maybe she would never care again.
“I wondered when you’d come.” Even his voice was raspy and ancient, a life used up by abuse. “I missed you the last time.”
She disconnected herself and walked to the brown couch. “I’m sorry.” The words were mechanical. She wasn’t sorry; she was furious. Heat rose in her face, but she clenched her mouth shut. Not yet. She had to decide how to begin.
“What about the boys? Couldn’t they come?” He s
lowly lowered himself onto the easy chair, pulling out the footrest for his slippered feet. “You should have brought them. Or maybe you’ve come to take me to the farm for a visit?” He looked at her, his dark eyes hopeful.
“We’re planning a dinner for Father’s Day. Austin and Liana are coming. Oh, I don’t know if you heard. She’s pregnant.”
“It’s about time. I thought that boy would never get married. He never comes to see me, you know.”
“He has good reason.” She wouldn’t let him pretend to be innocent. “You were a terrible father.”
His jaw twitched. “Are we back there again? I thought you forgave me.”
“So did I.”
His eyes narrowed, and the gray head angled back to look at her. “Are you gonna tell me what this is about? Or should I guess? We have no secrets between us now. I know I was a lousy father—no father at all—and it’s a miracle you and your brother survived. But you did survive, and you’re strong. Maybe you have me to thank for that.”
Mercedes’ stomach lurched at this glimpse of the man he’d been. “Brandon’s back.”
He frowned. “Brandon?”
“Darrel’s father.”
“Wayne’s Darrel’s father.”
“You know that’s not true. He said he wrote.”
“That’s what this is about?” His voice was flat, as though drained of all life.
“Did he?”
Her father cursed. “Why’d you want to go into that after all these years? It don’t make sense. You’ve got a good life. What you want to mess with that for?”
“He wants to share custody of Darrel. Says I should have told him.”
“Maybe he’s right.”
Mercedes rose, barely able to stop from launching herself at him. “You’re such a hypocrite! If I’d known he cared, I would have told him. He called, didn’t he? But you didn’t tell me. And what about the letters? Was that you? Or was it Wayne? Or was it both of you?”
“Wayne’s a good man.”
Mercedes’ short fingernails dug into her palms. “Did you see the letters? I want the truth.”
He sighed, a long drawn-out breath that rattled in his throat. He twisted the knob to put down the footrest and came slowly to his feet. “Wait.” His shoulders were slumped as he shuffled down the hall.
Mercedes paced as she waited. She passed the family picture she had taken at Easter; the books she’d bought him for Christmas tucked in a corner of a bookshelf, still untouched; a picture Scott had drawn on the small refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen; a half-finished puzzle on the tiny round table, his eyeglasses nearby.
He returned with two envelopes, the edges jagged where he’d opened them, the paper slightly yellow but otherwise looking like letters he might have received yesterday. “Don’t know what good this’ll do.” He thrust them at her. “I only saved them for Darrel. I thought his dad might help him in college when he’s older. I know the farm’s struggling.”
She ran her fingers over her name, read the return address. Brandon had written! She suddenly had to sit before she collapsed. There, the kitchen chair. There were two, but her father didn’t sit with her. He stood watching. His turn to wait.
She didn’t want to read the letters in front of him. She wanted to do it in a private place. Or maybe she shouldn’t read them at all. For an instant, she almost ripped them up into tiny pieces, knowing that what was inside would only hurt her further. But she had to know. Now.
Her hand drew out the first letter.
Dear Mercedes,
You were right, as usual. You said I’d miss you, and I do—more than I ever imagined possible. I’ve tried calling you to beg you to come here, but I just get your father. (He sure is grumpy—you’re right about that as well.) I wanted to make sure you got my messages, so I’m writing. I’ve been a stupid fool to think I could last any time without you. The months we’ve been apart already seem like years. I need to hear your voice. See your face. Hold you. Call me as soon as you get this. You do still love me, don’t you? Did I say I’ve been a fool? That doesn’t even touch how stupid I’ve been, but I know with your help I can make it all right. None of this means anything without you.
I’ve been working so much overtime that I fall asleep whenever I’m not moving, and when I do sleep, I see your face. Every time the nurse shakes me awake, I’m so disappointed to learn she’s not you and that we’re not in Wyoming anymore. What I seem to remember most is that first time at the river, holding you in the water when your hired man stumbled on us. You flushed clear down your neck—probably to the tips of your toes—and sprang away from me as if the guy were your father and you an underaged girl. I felt jealous that you even cared that he saw us there together. Stupid, huh?
I can imagine us growing old together. Maybe have a child or two in five or six years. Mercedes, please forgive me for the way I left. I will never be happy until I can right things between us. I love you—and will love you until the day I die. No, even after that. This kind of emotion doesn’t die. I’ve seen enough of death here to know that. Love endures forever.
Yours,
Brandon
The words blurred under Mercedes’ eyes. She was shaking so badly that she wondered if she was experiencing some kind of attack. Once again her father had stolen something infinitely precious from her. First her mother and her childhood, and then the man she’d loved. Had she read that letter any time before marrying Wayne, she would have been on the first plane to Boston. She would have married Brandon and pursued another life. But Jed Walker had let her suffer, had let her son grow up without his father. No matter that Wayne had given her a better life than she had ever thought possible—it could have so easily gone wrong. She had believed all these years that Brandon had abandoned her, and her heart had never fully healed. But it was all lies. Her entire life was based on a lie.
Her eyes lifted to meet her father’s. She wanted to rage and cry, but the shock had numbed her senses so that only one word escaped her frozen lips. “Why?”
He had his hands in the pockets of his overalls, looking as much the farmer as he ever had. “He wasn’t no good for you. He proved that by what he did.”
“It’s all a lie.” Tears came now, flooding her eyes, wetting her face. The futility of discovering this now when it could no longer make a difference was overpowering.
Her father took a step toward her, his face drawn. “You have a good life.”
“It’s a lie!” That tortured scream, could it be hers?
“Mercedes. Please. I was scared. I lost everything. Lucinda, Austin. You was all that was left. I didn’t want you to go.”
“This was for you?” She shook the letter at him. “For you? You have no idea what you’ve done. No idea at all.”
She started for the door, but he reached out, stopped her with his gnarled hand. “I knew I shouldn’ta given you those letters. I should have burned them.”
“What you should have done was give them to me when they arrived.” She flung off his hand and reached for the door.
“It wasn’t just for me.”
She hesitated but didn’t look in his direction.
“I saw where you and Wayne was headed. He was a steady man, and you belonged on the farm as much as he did. You wouldn’t be happy nowhere else. You still wouldn’t.”
She turned her head toward him. “Tell me one thing. Did Wayne know?”
Jed snorted. “He’d have made me give them to you.”
Her anger wilted marginally with that information, though she’d known it all along. Wayne was not a man to hide things.
Without another word, she left her father standing there. She heard him move to the door, imagined him gazing after her, his shoulders slumped in defeat, black eyes begging. Usually when he was irritable—which was often—compassion would compel her to return, to assure him it would be all right and that she’d be back. But this time was different. She hated him more than she had on the day her mother had taken those pills.
She drove from the town, letting the tears fall unchecked from her eyes. Try as she might, she still couldn’t wrap her mind around the enormity of what she’d learned, how her father had altered her life so irrevocably.
Irrevocably?
The tears slowed and stopped, leaving her face feeling tight and sticky. Outside the truck the landscape changed to empty land with scatterings of sagebrush—grays and browns smearing along the edges of her vision.
Next to her on the seat sat the letters, the one she’d read sticking out slightly. Pulling off to the edge of the road, she picked up the other letter, opened it. Her eyes devoured the words.
Dear Mercedes,
Why haven’t you written? Or called? I’ve been the biggest idiot ever, but I know you will forgive me and that we can go on from there. I keep worrying that you’ve met someone else, but knowing what we are to each other, I can’t imagine such a thing ever happening. My heart is with you, and I have to believe you feel the same.
But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I don’t know us at all. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. And did I say that I miss you?
Brandon
The words hurt. Little slivers of pain that pierced deeply, taking her back to a time when she thought she would die without him.
It was all a lie.
She read both letters again, seeing Brandon’s face. Not as it was then but as it had been in her kitchen the day before—vulnerable.
Eventually, she put the letters neatly back in their envelopes and set them deliberately down, the corners touching her leg. It was impossible to feel them through her flowered spring dress, but she imagined a heat that seared her.
She put the truck in gear and steered onto the road. Minutes slid into hours. She had no idea how much time had passed. The dash in the old truck didn’t have a clock, and she wasn’t wearing a watch. More blurred scenery streamed past the truck, mixing with images from the past that she made no effort to restrain. Some part of her craved this torture, the rehashing of the past. The past that could have absolutely no connection to her future. She wouldn’t let it. Couldn’t let it.
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