“What you need is a strong hand,” Cliff said, mistaking my tears for regret, “not encouragement to follow paths to who knows where.” He paused and barked a laugh. “What have you accomplished since our breakup, besides quitting a good job and strapping yourself to a farmer and a kid?”
I smiled, forced myself to look normal, carefree. “Following paths to who knows where.”
Chapter Seven
AT ELEVEN THE FOLLOWING morning, I sat in a lounge chair on the back deck of my Menlo Park home with a mug of black coffee cradled in my hands. I still wore my fleece robe and furry slippers, adequate protection against the lingering chill. A low-branched fig tree stood nearby. At night, strategically placed up-lights illuminated its gnarled trunk, but even by daylight, it possessed a wizened charm. Rose-colored buds filled the flowering quince adorning my backyard fence, the first shrub to bloom each year on leafless stems with needle-sharp thorns. Later, hard and astringent fruit the size of golf balls would load its branches and release an apple-pineapple scent rivaling any chemical air freshener. I’d already clipped a branch to display on my kitchen table where the tight buds would soon break into bloom.
I loved my home, proud that I’d purchased, decorated, and landscaped it on my own. Outside, it appeared simple and unassuming, set in a suburban neighborhood of look-alike, single-family homes from the 1940s and ’50s. But thanks to the help of my now deceased adoptive father, Gerardo, the inside had a personality of its own. We’d removed most of the interior walls but left the ceiling heights varied, preserving each living area’s own defined and sheltered space.
Coffee gone, I got up and opened the patio door for Gabriel, my backyard stray, to enter for his pre-noon snack. So far, no show. Nothing new. The cat directed his own life via his own schedule. He’d spent time on the farm with Joshua and Morgan during my six-month stay in Big Sur and Pacific Grove, adapting to what would soon become his new home. On my return to Menlo Park, Joshua had lent him back to me. “You’re going to need him,” he said. And since he often knows more about me than I do, I believed him.
My attention strayed to the phone on the kitchen counter, wondering what my sister Veronica was up to, a woman so determined to achieve success with the DEA that all her behavior was directed toward that aim. She had completed a written assessment and panel interview at the San Francisco Recruitment Office and was now clearing the rest of the multi-step hiring process. Which could take another six months! After finishing DEA basic training at Quantico, she planned to go back to school for instruction in mental health nursing. Yeah, in addition to long and odd hours as an agent. Her goal? To team up with another special agent and help people in need of medication and treatment instead of or in addition to jail. Thanks to Maya, Veronica now viewed many drug-related problems as mental health issues that, if caught and treated early, could prevent criminal acts. “Sometimes more is needed to fight the war on drugs than a badge and a gun,” she’d said over Thanksgiving dinner, over a month and a half ago.
I’d assumed that Veronica’s kick-ass personality would rub off on me during our nine-month acquaintance, but, as I’d quickly discovered, I’d assumed wrong. There was no way of implanting her confident, aggressive, and sarcastic self into passive-aggressive me. What I could do, however, was line her up as a guest speaker to deliver some gut-wrenching facts to my students about the use of alcohol and drugs. I grabbed the phone, slid into the cushioned seat of my breakfast nook, and punched in her number.
“Hey, Sis,” she said after five rings. “How’s it going?”
“I miss you,” I said.
A chuckle. “It’s only been five weeks since our last meet up.”
“Seems longer. And it’ll be longer still when you get accepted with the DEA.”
“If I get accepted.”
“Which means weeks of training, followed by long hours as an agent, assigned to who knows where.”
“Mobility is a condition of employment—”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Silence. Just enough to scold myself for trying to lay a guilt trip on Veronica for doing exactly what I intended to do—control my own narrative. The very qualities I admired in her—her power, her strength, her independence—guaranteed to keep us apart. “Veronica…”
“Yeah?”
“I also miss Maya.”
“Me, too…”
Jeez. Quit longing for something Veronica can’t give you and Maya took with her to the grave. Getting reassurance and approval from Veronica was like squeezing water from a rock. For crucial decisions, commitments, and action, however, she had my back. She’d proved that during our stay in the Los Padres National Forest when she’d risked her life to save mine.
“I got a part-time job at West Coast Middle School.”
“That’s great…I think. You sound kind of glum.”
“I’ll be teaching a class of seven students with special needs.”
“Disabled?”
“The opposite, really. They’re extremely capable and talented, which creates its own set of problems.”
“Gifted, then.”
“They’re Indigos. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”
“You’re one up on me, girl. Gen Y, Nexters, Boomlets, Baby Busters, the Millennials, kids with ADD, ADHD, junkies, crackheads, crackpots, yes. Indigos, no.”
“According to the school principal, they’re highly susceptible to alcohol and drugs.”
“Most middle school kids are. So, let me guess. You want me to drop by and provide your students with some research-based alcohol, tobacco, and drug prevention tips.”
I ran my fingers over the soft buds of the thorny branch on my table and smiled. Tender and spiky, just like Veronica. “Uh-huh. Since you plan on getting into mental health nursing and are applying with the Drug Enforcement Agency—”
“Administration, Sis.”
“And you know so much more than I do about—”
“Practically everything, except generosity and love. When do you want me to come?”
“The second week in March. And I was hoping you could bring Ben along. To introduce my students to the Native American Medicine Wheel, as he did for me.”
I thought back to my first meeting with Ben Gentle Bear Mendoza, eighth-generation descendant of the Esselen tribe. His name certainly fit, with his long, black hair held back by a bandana headband and the way his chest expanded like Paul Bunyan’s beneath the black tee he wore with jeans and beat-up cowboy boots. His casual manner contrasted sharply with that of the men I knew in Menlo Park. Try as I might, I couldn’t picture any of them in the wilds of the Los Padres National Forest, nor would I trust a single one as my spiritual guide. Ben had helped me appreciate the gifts of nature and had encouraged rather than ridiculed my quest for self-worth and meaning. Once Veronica’s fate with the DEA was decided, Ben would become my brother-in-law. Unlike me, however, Veronica had no qualms about choosing a career over life as a stay-at-home wife and mother. Granted, she wouldn’t be entering marriage with a built-in child. But working for the DEA meant committing way into the future. How would this affect Ben and any upcoming children?
“If I haven’t heard back yet about my acceptance into basic training, I’ll be happy to meet with your students,” Veronica said. “And I can probably convince Ben to come along, too.” A pause. “Are you sure you won’t get into trouble for including Native American spirituality in your curriculum? Some people might accuse you of promoting the occult.”
Gabriel rubbed his head against my legs, and the vibrations of his soft purr traveled through the fabric of my jeans. “Hey, fella. Welcome home.” I scratched his back, something he wouldn’t have allowed only nine and a half months ago. He’d hiss and run away whenever I ventured too close.
“Marjorie?” Veronica said.
“Umm… This will be ‘an alternative educational model,’” I said, quoting Dr. Matt, “‘that won’t compete with the rest of
the school or cause the teachers to feel personally threatened or challenged.’ Dr. Matt gave me free rein, and… Everything works in circles, Veronica, the earth orbiting the sun, the annual cycle of the seasons, the liturgical year, the Medicine Wheel—”
“I’m not the one who needs convincing, Sis. It’ll be the parents arguing that the course you’re offering is religiously based and that you’re not a licensed mental health professional. Ben’s been there, done that, and sometimes the results aren’t pretty. Make sure you have the parents’ written consent before you step too far over the line.”
“Dr. Matt’s taking care of all that,” I assured her, despite my unease over the possible ramifications of the project. What if I failed? Who, besides me, would suffer in the process? “Anyway, the school’s mascot is a buffalo, the totem animal associated with the North. Isn’t that a wonderful coincidence?”
“You sound hyped, that’s for sure.”
“Actually, I’m scared.”
“We all are,” she said.
“Not you.”
“If you say so.”
“Your presentations may take more than a day.”
“Which means you’ll be setting us up at Marjorie’s Comfort Inn, right?”
“It’ll give us a chance to catch up.
Was catching up even possible after twenty-eight-years of separation? We were adults now—strangers—with different life histories, different expectations. Maybe strong, independent Veronica didn’t need catching up to feel complete. Maybe we were destined to go our separate ways. Again.
Chapter Eight
IT WAS TIME TO call Morgan, the love of my life. Our future home was under construction on a corner lot of the farm, a ranch-style house, which I’d helped plan. It would be a comfortable, spacious home, backed by fields of corn in the summer, oats in the winter, and bare dirt in between. However, each time I tried to imagine life in the country instead of here in Menlo Park, I drew a blank; as if my mind refused to go there. From freeways, high rises, and crowded streets, to pastures, barns, and cows. Could I handle the transition? As if to muddy the waters, a picture of my former fiancé, Cliff, would come to mind, his handsome face, his trim body, his designer suits—his spiteful comments. “What have you accomplished since our breakup besides quitting a good job and strapping yourself to a farmer and a kid?”
Peering through the kitchen window at the darkening scene outside—blacktop and sidewalks, streetlights and manicured yards—I assured myself that my love for Morgan would carry me through. Seeing him prosper in his own environment would only add to the respect and admiration I already felt for him. We first met when I was eighteen and he was twenty-one, but we hadn’t come to know each other until ten years later. Even then, I’d seen little of him. Just enough to fall in love.
His nephew and our soon-to-be-adoptive son, Joshua, would also help me adjust. I’d met him in Dr. Mendez’s office, back when the poor child couldn’t speak. He was seven at the time compared to my advanced age of twenty-eight, and we’d ended up going through a lot together.
It was 6:00 p.m., which meant Morgan would be home. Yes, even on a Friday night. Cows don’t know about clocks and schedules, weekends and vacations. They give birth in their own due time, often in the middle of the night and during holiday meals. They require twice-a-day feeding and milking. Though a crew of employees carries out these duties, the “boss” is called in when the cows get sick, the milk barn equipment fails, or the tractor needs servicing. There are also electrical failures when the generator has to be fired up to keep the whole process going. Add to that the evening phone calls and paperwork. Then comes spring harvest, when the oat crop is converted into silage as feed for the cows, followed by the disking of fields and planting of corn for harvest in the fall.
There would be benefits to farm life, however. I would always know where to find my husband in case of an emergency, within walking distance, only a Nextel call away. Plus, I would have a built-in babysitter. Morgan’s mother had already volunteered for the job, her two-story ranch house and spacious back yard providing plenty of room for future children to play.
Anyway, I’d committed weekends to Morgan and Joshua, the reason for my call.
“Van Dyke residence,” Joshua said after only two rings.
“Hey, sweetie, it’s me.”
“Marjorie!”
“Tell her Morgan’s in the shower,” my future mother-in-law called in the background.
“Morgan’s in the shower.”
A charge ran through me at the mention of Morgan, all showered and clean, smelling of soap and Gillette aftershave instead of Burberry Brit Eau de Cologne.
“How are you, sweetie?” I pictured Morgan’s nephew as I’d first seen him in Dr. Mendez’s office, with his intense brown eyes and straight black hair. He’d been alert and observant and had spoken to me without saying a word.
Instead of answering my question, he asked, “Are you coming over?”
“Yep, Gabriel and me, first thing in the morning. We miss you”
“I know.”
Of course, he did. His telepathic powers exceeded my own, though his family acted as if this is no big deal. On a farm, so close to nature, telepathic intelligence comes in handy.
“Here’s Morgan,” he said.
“Marjorie?”
My heart took on the special rhythm it always did when I spoke to Morgan, a powerful churning. This man, and only this man, loved me in the way I needed to be loved, unconditionally.
Could he say the same about me? “I miss you.”
He grunted. “Not as much as I miss you. Can’t wait to—”
“Watch it. Joshua and your parents are listening.”
“My parents? You should hear them when they get going.”
“Morgan. Stop.”
The charge of his laughter circled the length of my spine. “Okay, I’ll keep my feelings for you a secret. My family will never know that I love you beyond reason and think about you to the point of distraction.”
“Yeah,” his father said in the background, “that’s why this place is going to hell.”
I felt a wave of unease. I loved Morgan and I missed him, but I didn’t think about him to the point of distraction. Love didn’t require that, did it? “Keep the place running smoothly until I get there, so you’ll have a little time left for me.”
“Will do,” he said. “Love you. Drive safe.”
Thinking of the class I was about to teach brought a sense of expectation—and guilt. For me, the months ahead would fly by, while our wedding and the resulting transition in my life remained on hold. I promised myself not to burden Morgan with ideals and desires he couldn’t fulfill, as he was doing for me. When we joined in marriage, we would love and hold each other gently. “Love you, too, Morgan. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Nine
IT SEEMED LIKE A good idea to take an alternate route to Morgan’s farm, passing through Rio Vista and taking the levee roads to the I-5 overpass and on to Elk Grove. This would allow me glimpses of the Sacramento River, with fishing boats and barges floating at an easy pace and speed boats slicing through the water, creating wakes like strokes of a wizard’s wand only to disappear like dreams on waking.
Too bad about the fog.
I could barely see ten feet ahead let alone take in views of the river. And this on a winding levee road, with traffic coming from the opposite direction just as blinded by the fog as I was. My entire concentration focused on staying on the road, except for occasional musings of plunging into the river below. I mentally rehearsed what I knew about escaping the car while sinking into the murky waters, which, sad to say, wasn’t much. Something about waiting for the water to stabilize before opening the window and climbing out. I shivered at the thought.
My Jeep crawled forward, windshield wipers slapping, while I used the faint yellow lines on the center of the road as a guide. I prayed that any other drivers stupid enough to be
on the road under these conditions would at least be smart enough to drive slowly. Every few yards, I saw images in the fog, some shaped like animals, some like people, others like cars, when in fact, they were only mirages created by my busy mind. I hunched over the steering wheel like a myopic old lady, teeth clenched, breath coming out in spurts.
What a way to start my reprieve, surrounded by debilitating fog. I would be a nervous wreck by the time I reached Morgan and my future family, if I reached them at all. In no shape to combat my doubts about marriage and life on the farm. What I needed was the sun, darn it, a guiding light, not a misty veil to further confuse me. But since when did life ever go according to plan? I should have known by now that its lessons never come easily.
The road passed through the small town of Isleton, but before I could relax into the temporary release from the fog, I was out of town again, back on the levee road, back into the murk. Crossing the narrow metal bridge over the river nearly did me in. I imagined meeting a semi—head on—meaning one of us, namely me, would have to back up, something that would stump me even under normal conditions.
I made it over the bridge without mishap, but before I knew it, there came another, shorter and wider this time, leading into the small town of Walnut Grove, crouched and withdrawn in the soupy mist. I checked the time: 9:15 a.m.
I’d been on the road for nearly three hours.
When I pulled into the van Dyke Dairy, which also looked rather crouched and withdrawn in the fog, I wanted to slide out of the Jeep and kiss the ground. Instead, I planted my feet on the paved parking space, took Gabriel out of his carrier, and aimed my weak-kneed self toward the light streaming from the ranch house windows.
Even before reaching the door, the heavy, sweet scent of maple syrup, fried bacon, and butter made me realize I was hungry for food as well as a warm place to settle in. Though many conditions were uncertain on the van Dyke farm, the Saturday morning menu never changed. Dutch pancakes with all the trimmings. My mouth watered as I lifted the knocker and tapped three times. The response was deafening. Dogs barked. Joshua shouted, “It’s Marjorie.” Racing feet on linoleum.
Between Now and Forever Page 4