A Sundog Moment

by Sharon Baldacci

  “That lady had no sense of humor,” Adrienne scoffed.

  “Neither did the police, they agreed with her,” Ian reminded her. “They let all of them go with a harsh warning,” he told Elizabeth, and then grinned. “I have to admit, she wasn’t nearly this much of a daredevil before she got this thing,” he added, patting the steel chair.

  Adrienne pushed his hand away. “How quickly he forgets. Elizabeth, will you come to the first one? It’ll be at the health club over near the hospital. It’s all accessible, and they’ve got a big meeting room we can use for free.”

  “Let me know when it is, and I’ll do my best to be there,” Elizabeth promised.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Elizabeth arrived at her own river home later that afternoon. Inside, she looked over the brochures Adrienne had insisted she take, chuckling. Maybe this support idea would be fun. Michael, she was sure, would have a hard time understanding. She glanced at the wall clock and saw that he and Kellan would be arriving within the hour. They had picked this weekend, the end of May, to come and officially open the house.

  Last summer they had rarely used this place at all. It had been a hectic and busy time for everyone—even Elizabeth. Her hours at the library had increased, and since they desperately needed her to fill in for the vacationing regulars, the city was where she remained. Michael had continued to travel and expand his business, so it was also hard for him to get away.

  She already knew the next several months would contain international travel for him; Elizabeth had taken a leave of absence from volunteering, but she didn’t want to tag along with her husband. She wanted to spend as much time as she could with Kellan, which was looking to be precious little.

  Kellan had decided to enroll in a six-week artists’ workshop in the mountains of North Carolina. Although she wasn’t planning on pursuing painting as a career, it was very much an avocation. Kellan had loved watching her mother create visual feasts on canvas when she was growing up and enjoyed trying to do the same.

  Elizabeth thought she might visit her daughter at least once while she was away, and then Kellan would come to stay at the river. Elizabeth sighed, thinking even those casual plans were always subject to change. She wouldn’t be surprised if Kellan decided to join her father for a jaunt across the ocean. But that still held no allure now that Elizabeth had met the Moores; the river held much more interest.

  She checked the refrigerator and smiled. Thank God for Mehalia. For years, Elizabeth had used a relative of her housekeeper in Richmond to help during the summer, as well as to clean and check on the house during the times it wasn’t in use.

  Mehalia King was conscientious and unflappable—nothing fazed her; she was supremely capable of getting any and all jobs done. She helped keep the place sparkling on the inside and cooked food plentiful and delicious when needed. Like today.

  For the last six years, a granddaughter had also come with Mehalia: Serenity Brown. The child, taken to Jamaica by her mother when she was very young, had come back to live with her grandmother when she was eight years old. After years of living closer and closer to the edge, her mother had finally slipped and landed in prison for drug distribution and prostitution.

  Serenity had grown elegantly tall and slim, her features exotic. And according to Mehalia, in the last six months her attitude had become insufferable. It was that treacherous middle ground of no longer being a child yet not an adult, all coupled with newly raging hormones. Elizabeth commiserated with her when they talked last week, wondering how society could get rid of those years. Everyone she had ever known had disliked that time of life. Except for the ones who made it insufferable for the rest, the so-called popular ones.

  Elizabeth poured a glass of tea and waited for her family to arrive.

  By the middle of the summer, Michael was so encouraged by what he didn’t see, he couldn’t keep it to himself.

  “She’s doing great!”

  Michael sipped the wine, his happiness bubbling from the inside out. God, he was happy. Jubilant. The long weekend he had spent with Elizabeth had left him deeply satisfied that whatever his wife was doing was working. Kellan had also been there, and it had been a perfect weekend.

  Stunned, Carol, who was seated on his left, looked at Gordon. They had just been talking about Elizabeth before Michael arrived and the words out of this man’s mouth could not be further from the truth.

  “She’s hardly using her cane at all. I don’t know what it is about the river, but Elizabeth is thriving. I really think she’s got this thing beat,” Michael enthused.

  Gordon listened in silence as Michael spoke at length about how great his wife was looking—her energy level was up, she was even painting a little. “I think my Elizabeth is coming back. It may take a little bit more time, but I believe she’s going to be able to throw that cane and the brace away.”

  There was a small pause. “Michael, you haven’t been to the river very much this summer, have you?” Carol tried to keep her voice neutral and failed. Her disbelief twanged like a fiddle string. She kept her eyes on her salad.

  “I’ve been there often enough,” Michael said, his voice clipped. When he had invited Gordon to lunch, he hadn’t known Carol was going to make it a threesome, but that’s just what happened. (Gordon had arrived early for a change, ran into Carol coming to grab a bite to eat by herself, and had insisted she join them.) Michael knew good manners dictated he be gracious and include her in their conversation, but the two always grated on each other. They could be talking about the weather and end up arguing.

  “But you have been traveling a lot for work, right? I mean, that’s what Elizabeth told me,” she pointed out carefully. How could he not get it? He was allowed to see only what Elizabeth wanted him to see.

  Annoyed, he glanced impatiently at her. “What exactly are you getting at?”

  “Nothing. Not a thing.” How, she wondered again, could Michael be so successful in business yet so dumb in life? She chewed the spinach with crumbled feta cheese and concentrated hard on not talking.

  They were eating lunch at a Greek restaurant near the hospital. August was keeping its tradition of being as hot and humid as the inside of a sauna. No one who had the choice ventured very far from manufactured coolness.

  Gordon was finishing up the last of his Greek omelet, trying to quell misgivings over what Michael was saying. In the ten minutes since the food was served, Michael had dominated the conversation. He was on a roll, his pleasure at how well things were going in his family’s life, and particularly with Elizabeth, was too immense for him to notice his friend’s silence. And except for Carol’s few comments, there had been no interruptions.

  “How’s Kellan?” Gordon finally asked during a break.

  “Great, great; she’s staying busy and having a blast at Virginia Beach with friends. She’ll be home next week and then go on to Charlottesville.”

  “I’m glad to hear about Elizabeth. I hope she continues to do well,” Gordon said mildly.

  “Same here,” Carol mumbled, trying to keep her attention focused on finishing this meal as fast and as quietly as possible.

  It was finally over when Michael stood to leave. Gordon insisted on picking up the tab for the whole table. “It’s the least I can do. I love hearing good news,” he insisted to Michael, who grinned. It was not just good, it was the best news.

  Carol waited until Michael cleared the exit. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! She’s not doing any better. I’ve seen what she does when he’s around. Instead of using the cane, she walks around touching everything so lightly it doesn’t look like she’s doing anything out of the ordinary, like maintaining her balance. She uses that brace almost all the time! She says she’s gotten used to it enough she doesn’t need the cane all that much, but try to get her to walk several feet without anything around to touch—she can’t do it.”

  “I know.” She blinked as she heard Gordon’s resigned tone.

  “Then why didn’t
you set him straight?”

  Gordon shook his head. “Carol, he sees what he wants to see, just as Elizabeth does what she needs to do. It’s called coping.”

  “It’s called denial,” she insisted hotly.

  He held up an admonishing hand. “Which you yourself have experienced, so you know what it’s like. The coping will change when they are ready, not when you or I think they are.”

  Brought up flat against such common sense, there wasn’t anything she could say. But she tried anyway. “How did you get to be so smart?” she grumbled.

  “I’m not saying I’m smart, just realistic and empathetic,” he said mildly. “There’s no reason to be anything else.”

  She looked at him again sharply and then sighed. She hated it when she was wrong, especially when it felt so right.

  The heat was unbearable. Intense. Draining. Elizabeth was smothering even as she fought to take another breath. She was struggling and couldn’t understand why. She felt like a hose that had sprung a leak; every bit of energy had dribbled out.

  Could she move? It was a question that had no sure answer. She struggled to take in a deep breath. Eyes closed, she prayed her eyelids wouldn’t burn. That it was ridiculous was beyond thinking, but couldn’t it happen?

  Why had it seemed like a good idea to come out here like this? Because sunbathing was something she’d done hundreds of times, thousands of times. It was something she had always enjoyed.

  After a lazy, late breakfast, the lure of relaxing in the sun to get more color had been enticing.

  Since spending the last few months living here, she’d learned to laugh at the idea of anyone coming to this place to retire. Initially, that’s why she and Michael had bought this place, and now she understood what a joke it was. You didn’t come to the river to retire; there were simply too many things to do. There was always something going on, some worthy cause, a parade, a fund-raiser for the library or for the restoration of a historic building, something that could take up all your free time.

  So this Tuesday was hers. The river house was slowly being put to bed for the winter months, but on this day she was completely alone. No visitors, no housekeeper, no one. Summer was ending, but the weather was still downright hot.

  Relaxing was the only thing on her agenda. Except now she didn’t think she could move.

  She was covered with sweat. The heat was baking her, no, steaming her, the moisture in the air suffocated like a wet rag. It made breathing hard. She felt drugged and weak and very, very scared.

  Fighting back panic, she slowly, oh so slowly raised the watch she had taken off her wrist and with dismay saw she must have literally fallen asleep. It had been almost three hours and with that slight movement she felt the tightness of her skin: Her flesh had shrunk.

  Mentally, it took long, comforting minutes of convincing her body that indeed she could get up; she must get up and she could make herself move. Eventually, she finally forced herself to sit up and then almost dropped back on the beach towel because she felt so dizzy.

  Please, God, no more of that. No, this can’t be happening. It just cannot. So. All right, I’ll be okay. God, I was such a fool to do this, too much sun isn’t good for anyone, I know that. Oh, please, please, let me be fine, please, please, please . . .

  Her prayers were as disjointed as her body felt. Moving very, very slowly, almost crawling, she eventually made it back into the house and collapsed on the rug in the family room. Thank God for air-conditioning.

  Although it had taken what seemed like hours to crawl the small distance back into the house, it took only about ten minutes to cool down once she was inside.

  What was remarkable was that after her body cooled, she was back to normal. She really was fine. No dizziness, no weakness. Still moving thoughtfully, she took a cooling shower and actually felt chilled. She dressed quickly and then tried to go back outside with a small lunch. It took scant moments for her to begin wilting like a parched plant. She retreated inside.

  For several days afterward, she was very conscious of the heat and slowly realized that this wasn’t going to change. Sun and heat had never bothered her. Never! Before this summer, she was the only one in the family who was a self-described sun lover; there were a vast collection of memories to support this. The many times she had switched the air conditioner off, enjoying the warm breezes, feeling it was so much more natural. Wholesome was a word she remembered using to Michael and Kellan, who had both strongly disagreed, but usually acquiesced to her desires.

  Now she got up in the mornings and checked the indoor thermostat, making sure the temperature hovered at a cool sixty-five degrees. She was deeply puzzled that this sensitivity to the sun had only happened now, after nearly two months of hot weather. Puzzling and distressing, this new observation was one she kept to herself.

  It was fairly easy to rationalize: She was getting older; perhaps menopause was on her doorstep. This was certainly something she didn’t feel was worth mentioning to anyone, so she didn’t. Then some literature came in the mail one day that discussed heat sensitivity and MS. One more change on top of all the others, she thought, wondering how many more there might be to come—but no, surely God wouldn’t let anything more happen. Surely.

  God, thank You for . . . Elizabeth stopped, wondering what exactly she should be thankful about. After a long, thoughtful moment she finally concluded, for not letting it be even worse. And could this be the end of it, please?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Elizabeth was leaving to go back to Richmond, Kellan was already in Charlottesville, and Michael would be flying home this weekend.

  Before pulling away, though, she was taking Adrienne and Ian a gift basket of cheeses, breads, and wine. She had discovered an excellent wine shop in Kilmarnock. She wanted to surprise them.

  Because of them it had been a wonderful summer. She didn’t know what she was going to do without their almost daily conversations. She did know she’d be back next month for the meeting, that support group Adrienne wanted to start.

  Once a month would have to be enough. Of course, there was always the telephone. She wished idly that the Moores could come visit her, but the city house wasn’t accessible, not at all. As she pulled into their driveway, she wondered how hard it would be to put in a ramp. She’d have to look into it.

  She left the basket in the car, thinking she’d ask Ian to run out and get it for her, but when she knocked on the door, there was no answer. She rang the bell once, then twice. Nothing.

  Odd. They knew she was coming. She walked back down the ramp and looked around, wondering what to do. The trees made a canopy over the house that blocked out the sun’s heat, making it bearable, but she didn’t intend to stay out long.

  She was turning back to her car when she heard a muffled noise. The door was opening and there was Adrienne, tears streaming down her face, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth as if to contain her grief. She didn’t say anything, but motioned Elizabeth inside. Alarmed, Elizabeth tried to walk quickly back to the house, but the quicker she tried to move the more disjointed her movements became.

  She stopped, took a ragged breath, and then moved to a self-imposed slower tempo and finally was inside. By this time, Adrienne was sitting at the table in the back closest to the glass wall overlooking the river. Her head was in her hands, and Elizabeth could see her chest rise and fall spasmodically, enormous sobs wrenching her body.

  Speechless, Elizabeth sat down next to her and laid a gentling hand on her friend’s back. What on earth had happened? Had Ian suddenly taken ill? If so, why was Adrienne still there? But if she was still here, Ian must be all right, so then what on earth had happened to break her into pieces like this?

  Ian suddenly appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. It was obvious he had been crying, too. His eyes and face were red and puffy, but he was in ragged control. “Elizabeth.” He nodded, and ever the gentleman, said, “May I get you some . . . thing to drink?”

  Numbly, she shook her he
ad. The incongruity of his appearance and polite gesture while his wife was sobbing offered a surreal sense of the absurd. It was disorienting.

  “Ian, what happened?” she begged, rubbing and patting Adrienne’s back helplessly. He raised his hand and then dropped it. Slowly he walked into the room, a man shrouded in disbelief, haggard with the weight of horrific news. Suddenly, Adrienne’s head came up and she took a deep, noisy breath and blew her nose, mopping up the tears again with the wet cloth. “Ian,” her voice sounded strained, as if it had just been sanded and scraped, “c-could you get me some m-more tissues? I think . . . I’ve used up all these.”

  She was still trembling, but the weeping seemed to be slowing. The breathing was uneven, and there were irregular catches of her breath, but Adrienne had calmed down. Ian brought a large box of Kleenex, grabbed several for himself, and sat down heavily on the other side of the table.

  “It’s Thomas.” The words dropped like a stone on the table with a heavy thud, and Adrienne pressed a clean tissue to her eyes. Elizabeth felt a cold finger of dread. Thomas was their godson. They had talked about him so many times this summer. The child had been away at different camps, so he had not appeared at the river. But Elizabeth had seen all the most recent pictures, heard their pride, their love . . . What could have happened?

  “What about Thomas?” Her voice was almost a whisper, as if a quiet question couldn’t hurt as much.

  Ian shook his head, struggling.

  Silence draped a cloud over them, and Elizabeth’s thoughts conjured up all sorts of ugly, horrible possibilities. Instinctively, she knew she wouldn’t speak; when they were ready, they would talk.

  Outside, the sun was embracing all it saw, caressing the river, making it dance and sway with a constant melody that played ceaselessly and soundlessly. Looking on such a scene, Elizabeth was unsettled by the beauty outside and the hurting inside. How often was this same incongruous drama played out over and over in houses each and every day?