On Blue Falls Pond

by Susan Crandall

  Her head came up again. “That’s impossible. Andrew was a fanatic about things like that, especially with the—the baby coming. He made me sell my old car and buy that Volvo.” She shook her head. “You’re mistaken.”

  Eric didn’t want to get into an argument with her over it right now. She needed to rest. “Well, it appears the Volvo did its job—you walked away.”

  Technically he was right, she thought; she had been able to walk, or at least crawl uphill, away from the wrecked Volvo. She had not, however, walked away from that fire. She’d been hauled out on Eric’s shoulder, then plopped on the wet ground.

  Suddenly that moment became crystal clear. But she felt none of the panic she had when Eric had triggered her first glimpse into the past. Rain had fallen on her face. He had told her she was safe; just as he had a few minutes ago. Then he had lingered over her even after the paramedics went to work—because I wouldn’t let go of his hand!

  “I remember!” she said as she sat up quickly enough to make her head spin.

  Eric sat up, too, and took her hand. “You do?” he asked quietly.

  She lifted their joined hands. “I wouldn’t let you go.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why did I freak out when you came into the emergency room?”

  He brought his other hand to hold hers between both of his. “Because by the time I came to the ER—” He stopped.

  “What?” She leaned closer, prompting. “What, Eric?”

  His hands tightened around hers. “You’d lost the baby.”

  Those words struck her like a fist in the chest. For a second she had trouble drawing a breath. “I shouldn’t still be such a mess,” she half squeaked. She struggled to find her voice; she was not going to cry again.

  Eric didn’t rush in with platitudes or empty assurances. He simply sat in the silence and held her hand.

  After a moment she asked, “I shouldn’t, should I? Is there something wrong with me?” She remembered that in the hospital she’d lain in the bed, a cold stone in her middle, unable to stop crying. Everything was gone . . . empty womb, empty arms, empty heart.

  It now came as a bit of a shock to realize that after all of these months, that same emptiness, in all of its intensity, still clung to her. She hadn’t made a damn bit of progress.

  Eric said, with a force that said he spoke from the soul, “It would be a terrible thing to lose a child . . . I don’t think I’d be in any better shape if something happened to Scott.”

  “But everyone tells me that I didn’t even know my daughter, I shouldn’t be missing her so much. Everyone seems to think I should act like she never was. I don’t know how many times I heard, ‘Better to lose a baby six months into a pregnancy than after you’d taken it home.’ I suppose that much must be true. I’m sure it would have been harder—but to act like she never existed . . .” She shook her head and said the words with all of the passionate incredulity she felt. “I just can’t.”

  Removing one of his hands from hers, he touched her cheek. “Have these ‘everyones’ been through what you’ve been through?”

  She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I try not to think about her, but it’ll hit me at the oddest times. Not just the logical milestones—you know, she’d be six months old now, or this would have been her first Christmas. But when I see the first hint of color in the trees in the fall, I wondered if the little girl she would have been would have liked to be tossed into a pile of raked leaves. When I drink a cup of hot chocolate I wonder, would she have liked hers with marshmallows or without? When I imagine what she would look like . . .”

  Eric reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her forehead against his. “Maybe you expect too much of yourself. Maybe you tried to forget before you allowed yourself to grieve.”

  The glaring truth in that simple statement shifted something inside her. She had focused on forgetting, almost from the start. She’d even refused to hear the details of the fire report. It had seemed the only way to survive. Maybe she’d gone about it entirely backward. It seemed safer not to think about it, especially since her memory of the day preceding the fire never came back to her. Perhaps she needed those memories to be able to move on.

  However, there was something dark bundled up with those memories, something frightening, something she instinctively knew she didn’t want to see. Perhaps that’s why the therapy hadn’t worked—she hadn’t really wanted it to.

  Now she feared that if she could open those floodgates, she might not like what churned out with the overflow.

  The sun was shining the next morning. Its heat caused a mist to rise off the saturated ground, lending an otherworldly aspect to the dawn. Glory sat across the kitchen table from Eric, daylight accenting her darkening bruises.

  He caught himself more than once just before he reached out to brush her hair away from her forehead and gently caress her injuries. There was something about her that drew upon his protective nature in a way that far exceeded what he should be doing for a woman who, in reality, was little more than an acquaintance. Her spending the night in his house was testament to that. He wanted to know her better, to understand her emotional pain. Not that he had anything to offer her. He was feeling rather emotionally bankrupt at the moment. And certainly her own plate was full. What a lot of good it would do her if he managed to draw her closer; she didn’t need all of his baggage too.

  Fortunately, the electricity was back on, and he was at least able to provide her with a cup of coffee.

  For several minutes, they both skirted any topic of substance, commenting on the clear sky and the robust flavor of the coffee.

  Was she running again? Had their conversations during the storm spooked her? Things had come out in the dark that he doubted she’d ever said aloud. And, he had to admit, he was as reluctant as she to open subjects that might be too difficult to face in the light of day.

  As she set down her coffee, Glory said, “I’ve got to get back to Granny’s.”

  “It’ll be days before Cold Springs Hollow Road is passable. The washout was big, and it stormed for hours after I saw it.”

  “Just take me as far as the washout, and I’ll walk from there,” she said.

  “You can barely hobble.”

  “I’m just stiff. I’ll be better once I move around a bit.”

  He’d already called the station, telling Donna he’d be late. He thought he’d get Glory settled for the day before he went in. He suddenly realized he had been happily thinking in terms of her being trapped at his house for a couple of days. “You can’t walk all that way. I suppose I could carry you . . .” He winked, and she tossed a wadded napkin at him.

  “Very funny.” She glanced over her shoulder, out the window to the bright, steamy morning. “I don’t want Granny to worry.”

  “Why would she worry? She knows you’re with me. You can call her anytime.”

  “What are the chances of her phone still working?”

  He couldn’t deny that had to be slim to none—considering the strength and duration of last night’s storm. He’d been surprised the lines were still up when he’d called last evening.

  Before he could respond, she went on, “What if she had trouble in the storm? I can’t just leave her out there alone.” There was genuine worry in her eyes.

  “Charlie’s just down the road.” He felt a little like a child arguing to get his selfish way.

  “Pffft. Charlie. Might as well count on a six-year-old.” She rolled her eyes. Then that green gaze fixed on him for the briefest moment before she concentrated on wiping a drip off her coffee mug. “Eric, I’m going home. You can help me, or I’ll figure out a way myself.”

  “Now you’re hurting my feelings,” he said. “Don’t like my hospitality?”

  She shot him a mocking look. “Oh, yes, that’s it. I was treated to the only bed in the house, and you made yourself miserable for my benefit. I cannot suffer this kind of treatment another night.”

  �
��I wasn’t.”

  Confusion crossed her face. “You weren’t what?”

  “Miserable . . . you said I made myself miserable.”

  She hid her expression under lowered lashes and took a long sip of coffee.

  He searched for a way to explain that wouldn’t scare her off or make her look at him with pity. “It was . . . comforting . . . to have someone here last night.”

  Her gaze snapped back to his face, her eyes questioning, but she didn’t say anything.

  He said, “It can get pretty boring alone when the lights go out.”

  “You heroes,” she said glibly, “always deflecting a compliment.” Leaning forward in her chair, she added, “But really, I have to get back to the hollow. That’s why I’m here, for Granny.”

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve got an idea. But if I decide getting around the washout is too dangerous, you’re stuck with me for another day or two. No more talk of walking miles on your own—and no arguing.”

  “Deal.”

  There was a glint in her eye that told him it was a deal only if it went her way. But he’d fight that battle if and when it presented itself.

  Twenty minutes later, Glory was pressed against his back as they took his normally garaged motorcycle up the winding road into the hollow. He felt her turn and look at the spot where her car had gone off the road. They’d called the towing service before they left his house. There was no reason to stop and let her look at how precariously her car had been hanging on the side of the mountain.

  He couldn’t deny his disappointment when he saw that most of the inside lane at the washout remained intact. After getting off and inspecting it, he took the bike as far to the left as he possibly could, skirting the hole with plenty of room to spare. As he picked up speed again, the wind blew away his pleasant fantasy of having another person in his house when he returned home after work.

  He stopped in front of Tula’s. Glory got off and removed her helmet.

  “Thank you . . . for everything.” She handed the helmet to him.

  As he was fastening it onto the rear seat, Tula came out on the porch.

  “Good gracious, Glory! Don’t you know those things are dangerous?” She pointed to the motorcycle.

  When Glory turned around, Tula gasped. “What on God’s green earth happened to you?”

  Glory walked to her grandmother and linked an arm through hers. “I’ll tell you over breakfast. It’s a long story.”

  Tula’s lips were pressed together in disapproval. “I suppose you know this story,” she said to Eric.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you knew it last night when you called me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Maybe you’d better come in here, too.”

  “Sorry, Tula. I’m late for work.” He started the bike before she could say anything else. As he drove off, he realized just how sorry he was; he’d have liked nothing better than to have lingered over breakfast with those two women—even if Tula was scolding.

  Late that evening, after Glory had soothed her sore muscles in a hot shower, Granny insisted on rubbing her back, shoulders, and knee with an ointment that smelled like a combination of old lard and camphor. Glory subjected herself without complaint as atonement for keeping her accident a secret the night before. She twisted her hair on top of her head, unsure what Granny’s concoction would do to it.

  Granny’s hands were surprisingly strong as they massaged her shoulders. “Now by mornin’ you should be feelin’ much better.” She finally put the cap back on the jar. The smell lingered—as it probably would long after Glory’s next shower.

  “Thanks, Gran.”

  Granny sat down on the bed next to Glory. “I didn’t thank you proper for them flowers. Nice as they are, you shouldn’t have spent your money on something like that. You need to think about your future.”

  Glory took her hand—for such strength there certainly wasn’t a lot of substance; it felt thin and bony. “I just wanted you to know how much I love you.”

  With a squeeze of her hand, Granny said, “That’s nice. Next time just tell me. It’ll be a lot cheaper.”

  Glory laughed and gave her a fierce hug. “You’re one of a kind.”

  “That’s what Pap used to say—but it didn’t sound so flatterin’ when he said it.” She leaned back, and her face grew more serious. “I don’t want you wastin’ your money on me.” Her back stiffened, ready for battle. “I still wish you’d contested that will. You had a right.”

  This was an old argument, one Glory had been surprised had waited so long to bubble to the surface. Andrew’s parents had been the beneficiaries of his will and, thanks to a change months before the fire, his life insurance. Glory hadn’t had the fortitude to face the legal fight—plus there was a part of her that didn’t want to contemplate what had prompted Andrew to do such a thing. There were things about her relationship with Andrew that she felt were best left buried in the murky past.

  Unbeknownst to Glory, all of their assets had been solely in Andrew’s name, with the exception of her car and the house. Once the mortgage had been paid off, there hadn’t been a lot left from the homeowner’s insurance settlement. But that didn’t matter to Glory. She hadn’t been able to consider touching the money. It felt . . . tainted. It was in the bank, waiting for her to decide which charity would receive it.

  “Granny, I really don’t want to argue about this. I didn’t contest the will. I never worked after we were married. I didn’t earn that money. Andrew always said it was his job to take care of me. Most of it was in a trust that Andrew inherited from his grandparents with a stipulation to pass to a blood relative anyhow. And the life insurance . . . I don’t want it.”

  “If it was Andrew’s job to take care of you, why didn’t he provide if somethin’ happened to him?”

  “He was young and healthy. He didn’t plan on dying. I’m sure once the baby came, he would have changed the beneficiary.”

  Granny looked doubtful, then said, “Nobody plans on dyin’. You did your part in that marriage.” Her gaze hardened. “More’n your part, I’d say. Even the law sees that. If you’d divorced, you’d have got half. You’re left a widow, and you get nothing? It just ain’t right.” She softened. “I just don’t want to see you without a place. You need a home.”

  Glory doubted she’d ever feel at home anywhere again, but instead of saying so, she smiled and said, “I thought I was home.”

  Granny chuckled. “Oh, darlin’, I love havin’ you here, but one woman in a house is enough. You’ll soon get tired of me. I’m used to living alone and you’ll be wantin’ your own place.”

  “I thought I might be a help. You can’t drive at night anymore. And with your sight—”

  “Don’t talk foolish. I ain’t goin’ blind. I got an impairment. Livin’ alone might take some adjusting, but I won’t need a nurse. You got your own life.”

  “Oh, Gran, that’s just it . . . I don’t.”

  Granny patted her hand. “Then you’ll have to find yourself one.”

  Glory flushed with shame; Granny’s vow for independence actually disappointed her. She realized that at some point since Gran’s call to Minnesota, she’d begun to cling to Granny’s “impairment” as a direction for her own life.

  Chapter Eight

  AS GLORY LAY in bed the next morning trying to figure out how she could be missing a man she barely knew, thinking herself sinful for the covetous way she recalled pressing herself against Eric’s muscular back on the motorcycle, there was a swift rap on her bedroom door. Granny’s voice called, “Time for church.”

  Glory paused in midbreath. Excuses or truth? She could claim herself too sore from the accident, or she could face Granny’s disapproval straight on. As much as she leaned toward the former, she realized that was just putting off the inevitable.

  She called through the still-closed door, “You go on, Gran. I’m not going.” The last thing she wanted was dozens of curious eyes on her. />
  The door opened a crack. “I reckoned you were hurt worse than you let on.”

  “It’s not that. I’m just a little sore. I . . . I don’t go to church anymore.”

  Immediately the door swung fully open. Granny stood there with a frown on her face and her fists on her skinny hips. “What do you mean, you don’t go to church? Since when?”

  “Since I left here.”

  “Dear Lord. No wonder you’re such a mess. A person can’t bear all of their troubles alone. You got to ask for help.”

  Glory turned on her side and pulled the sheet up to her ear. “Please, Gran, I don’t want to argue about this. I’m not going.”

  “Suit yourself.” She took one step toward the hall, then paused. “The Lord has a way of healing—you’re making a big mistake.”

  “It’s not the first one.”

  Glory heard Granny come back into the room. Her steps were soft and her hand gentle when she laid it on Glory’s shoulder. “Sometimes the mistakes that hurt the most are the ones you refuse to look at afterward.”

  Glory twisted to look over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  Granny looked at her as if she were a dull-witted child and patted her gently. “I think you need to take a good clear look at the past afore it lets you go on to your future.”

  “Now that sounds just as multilayered as a Bible verse.”

  “That’s the good thing about a Bible verse—makes you think.” She bent down and kissed Glory’s forehead. “You just go on ignoring the help being handed to you, and a day’ll come you won’t want to get out of bed a’tall.”

  As Granny left the room, Glory called, “I don’t need help.” What she didn’t say was that she’d been to that place already, where each day is too much of a burden to face, where the hours hiding in bed slide night into day and back again. The only way to avoid going back there was to turn her back on the past.

  Which was going to be very hard to do as long as she stayed in Dawson.