“I’m okay.” Her legs twitch and move as if she’s pedaling. “How’s Colton?”
“Mike’s with him now.”
“What a fine man. Don’t let him slip away.”
I fluff her pillow and stroke her hair, realizing a subtle shift has occurred. I am now the caretaker. “I won’t.”
“Colton needs–” Her face turns deep crimson as she coughs and shudders.
“Don’t try to talk.” I lean over her and tuck the sheet up around her shoulders.
Pale once more, she shakes her head and pushes the sheet down to take hold of my hand. “Colton needs to know you’re capable of forgiveness. He’s afraid you’ll shut him out for killing Jack.”
I stand up straight. “I’ve told him already.”
“He’ll never believe your words. You must live your forgiveness.”
“How can I do that?”
“I’ve showed you all along. Now go and do it.”
The room feels very small and close, as if we have entered a capsule, disconnected from the rest of the world. I caress her forehead. “Get some rest.”
Angelique smiles at me, the way she did when we first met, as if she was interested in me, and me alone. She tells me what I need to do because she knows I can’t figure it out by myself. She makes me promise. It is the only way, she assures me.
I feel small and unable to reach what floats away from me on a vast and empty sea. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She shakes her head. “Take Colton with you. I’ll see you both when you get back.”
I kiss her cheek.
She grips my hand tighter while her eyes drill holes into mine, as if she can’t surrender touch and sight.
“What else?” I ask.
“Tell Mike to go by my house.”
I wait until her coughing stops. “What do you need?”
“My pink coral lipstick.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
She frowns. “You’ll be busy, remember?” Her chest heaves and her breathing stops for a moment. “He’ll find it in the top drawer . . . of my dressing table.” She relaxes and lets go of my hand, then grips it again.
“What?” I lean over her. “Is there something I can get you?”
“My mouth is dry.”
I search the room for a pitcher or a glass. “Be right back.”
By the time I return, Angelique lies still, too still, while a nurse checks her pulse. Even her legs have stopped jerking.
“Is she–?”
“Just resting.” The nurse squeezes the bag connected to the IV, then looks at her watch. “She’s comfortable now.”
I stare at Angelique. Did she grow paler while I was out of the room? She told me she’d be fine, but now I realize she lied. She is moving through the house of her body, the way she described it to me when my mother died. Which room has she reached?
The nurse turns to leave and hesitates. “I’m very sorry. Are you her daughter?”
Everything inside me wants to scream YES. As tears prick the edges of my eyes, I shake my head. “But she is my other mother.”
How will I endure the loss of my comforter and my compass? Tears slide down my cheeks and drip onto my sweater. I back out of the room with the sense that Angelique is shrinking, growing smaller until soon I won’t be able to see her at all.
ONCE I REACH MY HOUSE, I can’t remember having driven there. All my motions seem mechanical, as if I have no reason for them except to follow routine. Unlock the front door, drop my purse and keys on the table, pick up the mail, plod to the kitchen for something to drink. I drain my glass before I realize I wanted apple juice instead of water.
From the patio, Mike’s voice drifts into the kitchen through the open back door. I lean against the doorframe and watch him spread his arms wide as he tells Colton a story about fishing.
When Colton jerks his head toward me, Mike turns around and jumps up. “How is–?”
“Resting comfortably for now.” I hope the expression in my eyes fills in the blanks for him.
Colton heaves a sigh. “Can I go see her?”
I shake my head. “Not today. They put a ‘No Visitors’ sign on her door. I got in only because they thought I am her daughter.”
Mike pats the cushion next to his chair, and I sit down.
I try to smile. “What have you two been talking about?”
Frowning, Colton looks at his feet, but when he looks up again, his expression has relaxed. His eyes meet Mike’s and a slight grin ripples across his mouth.
Mike shifts his gaze from Colton’s face to mine and back again. “Colton asked me about his grandfather.”
I cross my arms. “Have you been to visit Big Jack today, too?”
“Not that grandfather.”
My reflexes rev up and I start to tell Mike to mind his own business, but I hear Angelique’s voice and the promise I made. I sit up straight and turn to Colton. “How’d you like to take a little trip?”
Mike cocks his head toward me. “Where to?”
Colton slouches in his chair. “School starts Monday.”
Mike puts his hand on my arm. “The judge says he can’t leave Mason’s Crossing until we settle a few things.”
“You talked to the judge already?” I pull my arm away.
“I had to get some answers. He handed down certain conditions, without much leeway.” Mike stands up. “You can’t take Colton anywhere.”
“Colton, go pack your bag.” I point at his feet. “You’ll need your boots.”
My son raises his eyebrows and looks at me as if he doesn’t recognize me. “We should stay here and take care of Angelique.”
“She made me promise to take you with me now to this particular destination. We’ll leave right away. She’ll be disappointed if we don’t, well, it’s the best way to honor her wishes.”
Without moving his head, Colton glances at Mike from the corner of his eye. After a moment, he stands up and ambles toward the kitchen door.
Once he goes inside, I rise and move close enough to Mike that the tips of our shoes touch.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Sally, you can’t disobey the judge.”
“You’ll have to arrest me.”
Mike puts his hands on my shoulders and peers into my face. “You want me to drive you?”
How did he know that is exactly what I would like, but it would be breaking my promise to Angelique. “I have to do this on my own.” I stretch on tiptoes to kiss him, more friendly than passionate. “Will you be here when we get back?”
“Count on it.”
BY NIGHTFALL, Colton and I reach the outskirts of Kerrville, where we stay in a Holiday Inn. He doesn’t ask questions, and I wonder if he has any idea about my planned destination. After a late breakfast the next morning, we head west on Interstate 10, and I enjoy the change from flat terrain around Mason’s Crossing to the rolling hills, which grow higher as the day wears on.
Shortly after one o’clock, we exit the highway for lunch in Ozona at a little café in the center of town. It reminds me of the Hot Crossed Buns Diner in Mason’s Crossing, but I don’t mention it to Colton. The memory of our last meal there with Angelique is almost more than I can bear.
After I pay the bill, I am tempted to turn the car around and head home, but there is nothing I can do to help Angelique now. I shove my sunglasses back on my face and go outside.
During the afternoon, we talk intermittently, mostly one-sided. I tell Colton about my childhood, what I remember of my parents. He had already heard from local busybodies that my mother was considered the most beautiful woman in five counties. And my father the smartest man.
“We get our blond hair from her and our height from him.”
Sometimes I think he isn’t listening, so I let my voice trail off. After a few minutes of silence, he asks how Jack and I met, and he snickers at the stories about Jack’s pranks at his college fraternity, especially the one involving purple underwear. Colton shares a few hazy memories of Saint Trixie, a
nd I fill in the gaps so he will regard her as a generous hostess who treated everyone with kindness.
We stop at a Dairy Queen for an ice cream about four o’clock. As I lick the chocolate swirl, I begin to relax until he asks about Nate and my mother. From habit, I want to say nothing, but choose my words carefully instead. Colton might be mature enough to understand loss, but it won’t help him to hear that insanity circles like a shark in the deep end of our gene pool. The grisly details could send him into a tailspin.
“My mother seemed like a frail butterfly. And Nate was stronger and much older.”
“How much older?”
“Not quite fifteen years.”
“Why did she marry him?”
Good question. If she had known he would abandon her, would she have chosen another? She was a young bride, like me, and crystal balls were still in short supply when I became engaged. Maybe no one else would have married her, once word of her mental state circulated, but there’s no point in raising that specter with Colton. “She loved him, I guess.”
“How did they meet?”
“He worked for my mother’s father, Amos Cobb, in the oil field machinery business.”
“Nate’s rich, isn’t he?”
“Very.”
“Are we rich?”
A stack of bills awaits my return. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted us to be independent of our parents.” How can it harm anything to include Jack in my philosophy? “We never asked them for help or money because we knew the importance of standing on our own two feet.”
“But Dad took money from Big Jack all the time. I used to overhear them arguing about it.” He chews on the tip of his straw. “Nate never gave you money, did he?”
“No.” Not directly. I frown, hesitant to take the next step. “Have you ever wondered why you’ve never met your grandfather?”
“You hate his guts.”
“I don’t hate him, I just–” The ugly truth is, I do hate him for what he did, but it feels wrong to admit it, even to Colton. Especially now that I’m trying to see Nate in a different light.
“What happened to make you hate him?”
I sigh. “When my mother got very sick, he sent her far away to a private hospital. He could have afforded to build a hospital in Mason’s Crossing and hire the right specialists to care for her. I needed a mother, not a sickly aunt or a hired nanny.” I swallow hard. “And she needed me, too, but he ignored us. She might still be alive today if he had–” I choke out the words, “–taken better care of her.” After a moment, our eyes meet and I watch for his reaction.
Colton shifts in his seat and fingers the sugar dispenser. “At least it wasn’t his fault she did what she–” He bites his lip.
Will he and I ever speak about the untimely deaths of my mother and Jack without the dam breaking? How will I find the words to help Colton see the change I feel compelled to make? I pray he will believe me.
I push my coffee cup aside. “For the longest time, I blamed my father for causing my mother’s death. My only consolation, if you can call it that, was to cut him out of our lives and refuse to have anything to do with him. In my youth and inexperience, I believed I was the only one who suffered from her loss. For whatever reason, he never shared his feelings with me, about her or anything else. I never understood what he went through.”
“Was he embarrassed that she was crazy?”
Colton must have also heard that from the local gossips. “Probably.”
“So what difference does it make now?”
“I’ve finally realized I have to try to understand things from his perspective, for all our sakes.”
“What does this have to do with me? It’s ancient family history.”
I can’t let him wiggle away. “Well, family relationships are complicated, even when things are going well. People often do or say things without realizing how much they wound others. I can’t undo the hurts I’ve caused your father, but–”
Colton winces.
I hesitate a moment, waiting for any sign of meltdown. “Taking responsibility for what I’ve done or failed to do is appropriate.” Too adult for him? I lace my fingers together, as if ready for prayer, and rest my hands on the edge of the table. “Colton, you’re worried I’ll blame you for Jack’s death forever. You’ve seen me as uncompromising and unforgiving, and rightly so, but I’ve been wrong about some things. Especially concerning Nate. I can try to do better.”
Silence.
I venture a weak smile. “A little forgiveness will do us all some good.”
“Maybe Nate just did the best he could, under such difficult circumstances.”
“Angelique told you that, didn’t she?” I squint at him. “Did she explain anything else about Nate?”
“She said it about both of you.”
I sit up straight and glance over the back of the booth, as if Angelique might come through the door any second.
Colton remains silent for a few moments, and I wonder if his thoughts return to his own troubles. He turns his head to stare out the window. “Angelique said he sent your mother away to protect you.”
“There’s some truth to that.”
“But didn’t your mother love you?”
“I always believed she did, but when she became a danger to herself, and to me, Nate had to make a hard decision.”
“Do you think it was the wrong one?”
“For many years, I believed so, but I also didn’t know that about her. Lately I’ve seen that it was his only choice.”
“If he loved you, he had to do it. He couldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”
“I never thought of it that way until right now.” How had I failed to realize Nate loved me? In a strange and distant manner, detached and silent, but protecting me was his way of loving me. The only way he knew.
“You’re his daughter, his only child. He must have been scared every time he left town. What would he find when he got back?”
“Recently he told me he never knew what to expect other than upheaval, chaos, and conflict. I guess he tried to love her anyway.”
Colton sighs. “Maybe it hurt him too much to see her like that.”
My father loving, but also heartbroken? How can Colton already understand him better than I ever did?
I reach across the table to pat his shoulder, and for once he doesn’t shake off my touch. “Sometimes you amaze me.”
Our eyes lock, and something dark and heavy melts away, and the air feels lighter.
As we leave the Dairy Queen, a tiny Mexican woman squatting against the wall in the sliver of shade on the side of the building beckons us. She has spread a red-and-black striped blanket on the sidewalk facing the highway to display silver jewelry and leather belts with fancy buckles. Colton continues toward the car, but I stop to look at her wares. The infant bound to her chest in a serape sleeps gape-mouthed like he’s drunk on breast milk.
When I pick up the largest dangly earrings in her collection and step back, the silver shimmers in the sunlight. A light breeze makes them flutter like a wind chime. I can almost see Angelique’s head turning to make them sway.
“Para usted, señorita?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“Maybe un regalo?”
“Yes, a gift.” I hand her the earring. “Cuánto?” I feel the moisture, by now familiar, build up in the corners of my eyes.
She writes a number on a brown paper bag, wraps the earrings in crumpled tissue, and hands them to me as I pay her. She lays her bronzed hand on my arm and holds it for a moment before she speaks. “You are a good daughter.”
We stare at each other and I try to smile. Finally I nod. “Gracias.”
As I walk to the car, I glance at the sky, clear and endlessly blue, and wonder if Mother has greeted Angelique yet. Surely the two of them sent the little Mexican angel to encourage me on this last leg of the hardest journey of my life.
We ride the final two hours
with the sun glaring in our faces. In Fort Stockton, I consult the map Mike drew and turn off the main highway onto a county road. Just before sunset, we cross the cattle guard and enter the Rocking W Ranch.
The wooden two-story house rises against a backdrop of mountains still white-capped from a late spring snow. I steer my Jeep into the circle drive and park near the front steps. My hands grip the steering wheel. From the corner of my eye, I search for movement, a word of support, any hint that Colton understands why we have come.
For a moment, I am frozen by dread. Is anyone home, busy inside the house? What will I possibly say? I have traveled all this way for nothing, because I am too weak and cowardly to get out of the car and climb the steps to the front porch. But then I would break my promise to Angelique, and I’d fail to show my son how far I am willing to go. If I stay in my seat, nothing will change.
“Here we are.” I pull on the handle and push. Without waiting for Colton, I stand up, straighten my pants legs, and close the door behind me.
Colton slides out of his seat and hesitates. He waits on the driveway, draping his wrists over the doorframe. Does he think he needs a shield? We look at each other until the front door handle of the house clicks.
As an electric wave shoots through my torso, I catch my breath. First one step along the gravel sidewalk, then another and another until I reach the bottom of the stoop. When I look up, he already stands there, smiling, as if he expected me all along.
“Hello, Daddy.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book never would have been started if my dear friend, Kathleen Niendorff, hadn’t said, “Go and write that novel.” It took longer than I imagined, and therefore I’m grateful to the many close friends who encouraged me and believed in me: Pan Adams-McCaslin, Ann Arnett, Paula Damore, John Fincher, Beth Fowler, Dr. Wylie Jones-Jordan, Gloria Moore, Dr. Suzanne Novak-Nemeth, Sylvia Simpson, and Betty Trimble, among others. Lucky me.
Every writer should belong to a critique group, for strength and help, and to keep you from falling into blind traps and using cheap tricks to get out. My El Gee pals–Rick Bolner, Ray Fuentez, Tosh McIntosh, Muriel Perkins, Laura Resnick-Chavez, and Brad Whittington–deserve medals for the innumerable battles they’ve fought on my behalf.
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