Finding Miranda

by Chacon, Iris

  Shepard was in the bathroom, easing carefully into loose-fitting shorts and a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt for the drive home. Miranda was closing his suitcase when Rebecca knocked on the doorjamb and entered with a small suitcase and overnight bag. The luggage was elegant. Miranda had never seen it before.

  “I took the liberty of packing your things from the guest suite, miss,” said Rebecca, setting the luggage down inside the door. “Hanson will be here momentarily to carry yours and Mister Shepard’s things to your car.”

  Miranda took a deep breath. “Wow.”

  “We have had Mister Shepard’s house and lawn cleaned, and the refrigerator and pantry are stocked with fresh groceries. The neighbors have worked out a schedule whereby someone will bring over a casserole every afternoon for the next seven days. Madam should have engaged a new chef and chauffeur for Mister Shepard by then.”

  “No, madam should not,” Shepard interrupted, emerging from the bathroom. “Thank you for everything, Rebecca. You and Hanson have been more than helpful, and I appreciate your dedication and thoroughness.”

  “It is our pleasure entirely, sir,” said Rebecca, blushing. Her schoolgirl reaction to the man’s attention proved yet again to Miranda that Shepard “Adonis” Krausse affected women of all ages. “Shall I convey your wishes to madam as to the hiring of servants, then, sir?” asked Rebecca.

  “I’ll speak to her myself, thank you,” said Shepard. “No need for you to face the wrath of the Medusa on my account.” He smiled in her direction, and Rebecca’s face glowed in response.

  The next quarter-hour was eventful as Hanson came to take luggage to the car, Rebecca left to attend to secretarial duties, a discharge aide delivered the wheelchair required for Shepard’s departure, and Hermione returned from the business office with appropriate discharge papers for the nursing station. Shepard requested a moment alone with his mother, so Miranda withdrew to the hallway and closed the door of his room.

  Miranda walked down the corridor to a water fountain, and when she returned the nursing staff were all frozen in their tracks at the station nearest Shepard’s room. All eyes were on the closed door. At Miranda’s arrival, the nurses and aides averted their eyes and quickly busied themselves or took themselves off to attend to something down the hall. Standing outside the door, Miranda could hear the shouting that had attracted the employees’ attention.

  “I will, that’s who!” shouted Shepard. “Give me a little credit! I can run my own life, for pity’s sake!”

  The voice of Shepard’s mother was an indistinct murmur through the thick door. Either Hermione was farther away from the door, or Shepard was yelling much louder than she. Miranda suspected the latter.

  “No! I need to be on my own! Alone!” he was shouting.

  Hermione responded insistently.

  “It isn’t like that with Miranda,” he vowed. “We’re friends. We had a traumatic experience together. She’s been there for me. She is not my nurse! She is not my servant! She is not moving in with me! I am not moving in with her!”

  Hermione’s intonation rose in a question.

  “Mother, I’m an adult! I have a home and a job! I don’t need a caretaker!”

  His mother seemed to state an opinion with considerable conviction.

  He, of course, disagreed. “No, I do not! I’ll decide that for myself if and when the time comes!”

  Miranda felt a chill begin in the center of her chest and spread throughout her body. Her mind emptied itself of warm emotions and sunny imaginings. She had been at his side for days, never thinking past the hospital door. He wanted her to drive him home; he had said so. But for him, it ended there. She saw them together; he saw himself alone. She thought they were soul mates; he said they were friends. She had assumed a relationship that he wasn’t even considering. In fact, his own words were clear on the subject. He didn’t want or need anyone. Certainly not an invisible librarian.

  The hospital room door swung open, jolting Miranda out of her reverie. Shepard wheeled himself into the corridor. “Let’s go,” he snapped at Miranda. When his mother stepped into the open doorway, he said to her, “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’ll call you.”

  No one said anything else. Miranda fell in behind Shepard’s wheelchair and pushed it toward the elevator.

  They had a drive of more than two hours from the hospital to Minokee. The new car was quiet and comfortable; the two passengers were quiet but not comfortable.

  After the first half-hour, Miranda said only, “Hurting?”

  He replied only, “I’m okay.”

  Another half-hour passed. Miranda said, “The car is lovely. It rides so smoothly. Thank you. Again.”

  “You’re welcome. Again.”

  About ten minutes later, Shepard added, “I know you’re not ... you don’t like receiving gifts—no, don’t say anything. I hear you drawing a big breath to contradict me, but just ... just listen for a minute. When you get home, you’re going to notice some things.”

  “What things?”

  “Listen, please.”

  “Sorry.”

  “A new kitchen and a new washer and dryer. Oh, and your killer clothesline is gone.”

  “What!?”

  “Miranda—”

  “I can’t accept those things from you!”

  “Miranda—”

  “You can’t go around giving people whole rooms and, and, and major appliances!”

  “Yes, I can. And a few minor appliances, too. Your toaster was toast.”

  “But you can’t do that—”

  “Miranda!” He raised his voice to a level that shocked her into silence. “I have a lot of money. Phyllis was my friend, you are my friend, her house—your house—is a special place to me. I wanted to repair the damage to your kitchen. And I was afraid your clothesline would decapitate me one day. It made me happy to do these things for the house—and for you. And I won’t miss the money. And there are no strings attached. I mean, you know, I don’t expect you to do anything in return. Except say thank you – one time only, please—and then forget it. Okay?”

  Miranda swallowed a huge lump in her throat. The lump settled behind her sternum and lodged there, aching. Say thank you and forget it. That’s what he wants, she thought. It doesn’t mean anything. We’re friends, nothing more. I want to be alone. I don’t need a caretaker. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.

  “Miranda? Okay?”

  Miranda cleared her throat and forced a smile onto her lips, because she was convinced he would hear it in her voice. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Okay. Now, let’s forget it.”

  I’ll try, she thought, with little hope of success. She would always remember every second she had spent with him, from the first glimpse of him jogging toward her out of a summer sunrise. She could stay away, as he said he wanted, but she couldn’t forget.

  For the next hour, Miranda’s mind raced up and down alleys of possible futures. Growing old alone in Phyllis’ house. Selling Phyllis’ house and moving to Alaska. Changing her name and appearance and moving to Peru. Moving to Sicily and tracking down Carlo for old times’ sake. Becoming a recluse and owning forty-one cats. Learning the violin so she could play sad melodies in the middle of the night, because she couldn’t sleep, because she had nightmares about Viking funerals where cars burned instead of boats.

  Miranda might have been both encouraged and dismayed if she had known what phantoms and dreams swept through Shepard’s mind during that same silent hour.

  Shepard clinched his stomach muscles against the pain at the top of his diaphragm. His throat ached and his eyes burned. His hand twitched, fighting a compulsion to reach out and hold Miranda’s small hand. For days now he had maintained a strong facade. The occasional tear had escaped, barely noticed, but he had not permitted himself to collapse in a flood of grief. Miranda’s strength had become his when she held his hand or when he felt her at his side. But he knew his time was running out. His self-control was unraveling
and would soon fall away like a broken string of beads. Then the pain would overtake him, and he was afraid he would start screaming and never stop.

  The wall of denial he had built between himself and a future without Dave or Pietro was crumbling like ancient mud bricks. His imagination had been buried, but it was struggling to the surface. Soon it would force him to envision complete solitude — days and nights and weeks and months and years of it. No one to select his clothes, trim his beard, prepare his meals, collect his laundry, produce his program. Worse, no one to laugh with him and at him. No one to nag him to do better, to try harder, to take care, to get over himself.

  How would he stay sane if he began to imagine running with no furry companion-and-guide? Sleeping with no warm, fuzzy beast beside the bed to guard, protect, and amuse him? Showering with no bubble-covered bear shape sharing the spray? Having no 24/7 shadow to read his thoughts, send him signals, telepathically give advice, accept blame for any foolishness?

  Shepard had fought to stave off the emotional pain, refused to admit the loss, declined to experience the grief, but he was reaching the end of his strength. Soon he would lose it completely, go (at least temporarily) insane, and weep for days or weeks. He wanted no witnesses to that fiasco when it happened. He needed to get home as fast as possible, lock himself in, and lock everyone else out.

  When Miranda pulled the car to a stop in Shepard’s driveway, she broke the hour-long silence with an unnecessary, “We’re here.”

  Shepard swung open the passenger door. The smells of earth and plants hovered in the humid breeze. The susurrations of shifting leaves and mosses whispered high above. Delicate melodies of mockingbirds floated down from the trees. He was home in Minokee, his heart had fractured, and he could feel the pieces spreading farther and farther apart. He had to hurry and hide himself away before the crashing began.

  Miranda retrieved his suitcase from the trunk and carried it to his door. Even slowed by his injured legs and forced to walk with a cane, he was already crossing the threshold when she reached the doorstep. She leaned in far enough to set his bag in the foyer. He seemed distracted, his face turned away from her. She had been preparing herself for this moment.

  “I know you need some alone time,” she began, hoping that miraculously he would contradict her and ask her to stay.

  He didn’t.

  “I hate to leave you,” she said. It was only the truth. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “What?” he said without turning. His voice was low and hoarse.

  “Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous? You won’t do anything that could, you know, harm you?”

  “No, of course not,” he said, nodding. “Thanks for everything. I’ll call you.”

  He turned only enough to shut the door quickly.

  Miranda turned and ran to the car.

  By the time she had the motor started, her vision was blurred by tears and her body jerked with sobs. Carefully she backed out of Shepard’s driveway, praying she could drive around the block to her own house without hitting anything.

  Had she remained on the doorstep two seconds longer, Miranda would have heard the desperate keening of a lost soul. Shepard had indeed abandoned all sanity and vented his pain in uncontrolled weeping, yelling, moaning, and pounding of fists.

  He stumbled to his room and fell face down across the bed. There he remained, crying piteously, until, at least an hour later, the physical agony of his burns forced him to get up and seek his pain medication.

  26 THE FACTS

  Miranda was grateful for the opportunity to return to work at the library the following Monday. She was unable to sleep at night and unable to find enough diversions for her mind during the day, if she remained at home.

  The commute was certainly more pleasant in her new car than it would have been in her tin-can toy car, but parking was more of a challenge. She coped by positioning her baby blue behemoth at the farthest corner of the library parking lot, where there was nothing for her to hit—or to hit her. Of course, she would have to walk a half-marathon from her car to the library door, but that was no problem. Miranda always wore sensible shoes.

  Annabelle had maintained the status quo in Miranda’s absence. The result was a week’s worth of returned books still piled on piles of piles, waiting to be shelved. After all, there was no question that Annabelle’s delicate manicure took precedence over mere service to the reading public.

  Since Miranda arrived early, even after walking ten minutes from her car, no one was there to see the smile with which she piloted the first of many overstuffed book carts out into the stacks.

  As early morning gave way to mid-morning, Annabelle made her entrance and took up her throne at the checkout counter. There she would reign over her literary serfs as they brought their check-in offerings to her like taxes to the manor’s lord. There she would dispense checked-out volumes like a regent dispensing boons to the peasantry. Most of all, throughout the day, she would bewitch all mere men with her sultry beauty, like Morgan Le Fey.

  With so much to do, it was no wonder Annabelle had little time to devote to other aspects of the library: books, shelves, fellow employees. So it was that when Miranda returned to the counter to deliver an empty cart and pick up another load of books for shelving, Annabelle was oblivious.

  “Hi!” bubbled Miranda. “How’ve you been?”

  Annabelle seemed confused and spent a second seeking the source of the voice chirping at her. Her eyes settled on Miranda at last. “Hello, Marianne. How’re you?” Annabelle looked away again.

  “Well,” Miranda chimed, “not sure if I’m good or bad, but at least I’m back.” She chuckled at her feeble, attempted humor.

  “Back from where?” said Annabelle.

  Some things never change, thought Miranda, but she said, “Doesn’t matter,” and rolled her book-laden cart out of Annabelle’s sight and definitely out of mind.

  ….

  At one ‘clock that Monday, when Miranda was eating her tuna salad and reading Finding Your Own Way to Grieve in the park near the library, people were stirring in far-off Minokee.

  Martha Cleary trundled up the front steps of the Krausse house carrying in a basket her famous broccoli-chicken-cheddar casserole, steaming beneath a thick towel. She balanced the warm bundle on one forearm and knocked loudly on the front door with the opposite fist.

  She waited.

  She knocked again, louder.

  More waiting.

  She pounded hard enough to rattle the glass in the living room windows.

  “Who is it!?” snapped an unfriendly baritone some distance from the other side of the door.

  “It’s your neighbor with your dinner, boy! Open up!” shouted Martha.

  “I’m comin’, I’m comin’. Hold your horses,” the same grumpy voice responded.

  Moments later the door opened. Martha shoved her way past Shepard, who maneuvered his cane to keep his balance as she barreled through. He shut the door and turned toward the kitchen. Martha had gone straight to his refrigerator with the confidence of a long-time family friend. She plucked an empty jelly jar out of the refrigerator door and tossed it into the trashcan across the room. Then she rearranged the contents of the refrigerator shelves so she could insert her casserole.

  “It’s right out of the oven, but I can see you ain’t ready to do justice to a decent meal at the moment, so I’m putting it away. You kin put some on a plate an’ nuke it when you want it.” Martha shut the fridge and turned to look at the man waiting in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. “Dang, ya look like the very devil,” she said.

  “Thanks for the food, Miz Martha,” he said with more etiquette than enthusiasm. “Smells really good.”

  “Course it does,” she said. “Consider the source!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.

  “Look at yerself!” Martha ordered.

  “Ma’am?” he said.

  “I know ya’ve had a hard time, and I’m truly
sorry fer yer loss and all. But, dang it, boy, if yer Grandma and Grandpa Krausse could see you now, they’d have a hissy fit! There’s no excuse fer lettin’ yerself go like this! It ain’t healthy! Boy, I can see I need to take you in hand, fer yer Grandma’s sake if fer nothin’ else.”

  Shepard backed away and tottered into the living room as if to show his visitor to the door. “I’m fine, Miz Martha, really,” he said. “Nurse comes by once a day, physical therapist comes four times a week. Got plenty of pills. Thanks again for the food.” He actually reached for the doorknob, but he was overly optimistic.

  “Jest git away from the door, I ain’t leavin’ ‘til I’m good and ready,” Martha asserted. “Now sit yerself down here. There’s things gotta be said.” She sat on one end of the couch and slapped the middle couch cushion a resounding whack.

  Shepard Krausse had known Martha Cleary all his life. Even though he was tired, in pain, and incapable of complex contemplation or elegant articulation, he was lucid enough to know when there was no alternative but surrender. He hobbled to the couch and sat, easing his burned legs into a nearly comfortable position.

  “You say you’re doin’ okay?” asked Martha.

  “I get the feeling you’re about to disagree,” Shepard said with a sigh.

  “Yer durn tootin’!” she said. “Look at ya! Yer hair looks like raccoons been nestin’ in it. Ya got food and some kinda pink or red liquid spilled in yer beard. Yer shoes don’t match. Yer shirt don’t go with them shorts—lord, ain’t no shirt ever been made that’d go with them shorts, they’s hideous. Yer shirt ain’t buttoned right, neither. Yer eyes is sunk like ya ain’t slept since Lincoln was president. Yer pants is hanging on ya all scarecrow-like, so I know you ain’t been eatin’—prolly since it happened. By the way, you ain’t smellin’ like no rose, neither.”

  She stopped and seemed to await his reaction.

  “Yeah. So?” he said.