They hadn’t a clue. She looked at them and saw shallow, pampered souls who would never have survived the eight years she spent with her mother in Jamaica. They had no sense of actual deprivation. They had only book knowledge, which had nothing to do with the knowledge of the gut. That was reality; this stuff they wanted her to create was fairy tales and spiderwebs.
She and her granny, an invincible duo, were also unimpressed with all they had seen and the people they had met. They liked Carol, but their complete trust was only in each other.
For really the first time, Serenity had come to appreciate the solidness of her grandmother. She was a rock that could not be swayed or intimidated by how many utensils decorated a plate or how much money slipped out of someone’s wallet—all the fancy window dressing designed to impress.
Serenity kept a distance between her and all these new fragile people. Only with her grandmother was she beginning to come to know herself. And to slowly realize that she, Serenity, was worthy and, consequently, all the self-important people around her were no better—maybe not even as good. Mehalia, simply by surrounding her granddaughter with the security of her love, allowed her granddaughter to ponder what she had done to get to this place.
She had lied and she had cheated a very nice woman, all because she had this want burning her up inside. She had grieved her grandmother, and for the first time she was feeling the twinges of guilt, perhaps even remorse. These were odd, foreign sensations that made her feel unsettled, vulnerable.
If Serenity had been a little older, she might have understood why she was having these sensations: Her heart was growing bigger. If she’d had the words to even explain to Mehalia, the wise old woman would realize the prayers she had heaped over this child from the moment she knew of her existence were finally growing into an answer.
She and Mehalia shared a whole lot of laughter about their new lives, the kind of inbred humor only their closeness would understand.
In the spacious apartment Carol had provided them, they encountered their first bidet. It was one of many mutually shared jokes. At odd times they would catch each other’s eye and without warning they would both think the same thing and begin to snicker: Can’t these people do anything for themselves?
Chapter Thirty-six
At the preliminary hearing, as promised, Kate Wilkins tied up all the loose legal ends and Elizabeth, relieved, accepted it as a gift. They left court after Elizabeth entered a guilty plea and accepted a sentence of probation, with stipulated drug awareness classes to be taken at the community college. They walked outside and Elizabeth inhaled her first worry-free breath of air.
For the first time in several weeks, Elizabeth felt free enough to actually go out and be seen in public. She also felt sanctified enough to know she could return to church the next Sunday.
“Thank you.” She shook Kate’s hand, chatting for a few more moments before they left, each heading in different directions.
Elizabeth joined Adrienne for lunch, marveling at how lightened the absence of stress made her feel. Before entering that guilty plea, she had felt far too conspicuous to venture anywhere. And oddly ashamed. She knew using that drug was wrong, even if it was for the right reason; guilt had kept her isolated. Now, absurdly, after saying a few words, promising to do a few things, simple penance had set her free.
And on top of that, there was such good and exciting news to tell.
“You’re beaming,” Adrienne said, “it must have gone just right.”
“Yep. You’re looking at a free woman. And if I do what the judge says and stay out of trouble for a year, my record will be free and clear, too.”
“I hope this means you’re coming back to church.” Adrienne shook her head. “I’ve never understood why you stayed away. Hardly anyone has said one negative word about you. Besides, church is for sinners, after all, not saints.”
“I can think of more than one saint-in-training there.” Elizabeth’s mouth thinned, recalling a few phone messages from those souls who had been vocally astonished . . . outraged. . . . disappointed . . . and other words that were less than kind.
“Well, now it doesn’t matter,” Adrienne said happily, glad things were finally over. “Carl’s nephew sent the nicest thank-you note about the funeral. He said he was very sorry he had no idea what was happening to Carl. He thought it was very kind of his friends to take care of the arrangements. He also sent a check covering expenses. His estate is being settled.” She said nothing else, determined to keep things positive.
“And it was very nicely done.” Elizabeth still couldn’t believe the man had died in the hospital. She also couldn’t believe they still didn’t know why. The doctors had all agreed it had to be from natural causes. Elizabeth hated that they didn’t know which one.
Elizabeth sighed briefly, then looked up with a broad smile aimed at Adrienne.
“Guess what?”
Adrienne looked and blinked. Elizabeth’s smile was sparkling with sunshine. She wondered what had happened to make her friend so happy; she could probably light up a dark alley with that smile.
“I promise you I can’t guess, so just tell me. No, wait, you’re moving back to Richmond because you’ve made up with Michael, right?” What else could light up her face like that, Adrienne wondered, watching this make the smile dim.
“No, not that,” Elizabeth said. Funny, she had found herself missing Michael a lot recently. Or, more precisely, missing what they once had.
“Well, then what?”
“They’re getting married! Kellan and Gregory!”
“You’re kidding!” Adrienne looked blank. “They’re getting married? But that’s wonderful.” Adrienne was still shocked. “How did this happen? I mean, how long have they known each other?”
“Obviously long enough.” Elizabeth chuckled. “They spoke to Michael earlier in the week. Gregory told him everything about his medical condition, about his financial situation, how he intended never to be a burden to Kellan.”
“That must have taken a lot of guts.” Adrienne’s respect for him rose a few notches.
“Kellan said Michael listened to Gregory for a while, then held up his hand. ‘Gregory,’ he asked, ‘do you love my daughter?’ And of course, Gregory dropped the papers he was holding and said emphatically, ‘Yes!’
“Then Kellan said her father turned to her and asked, ‘Do you love this man? Do you want to marry him?’
“She said, ‘Absolutely!’ and he gave them both his blessing, provided, ‘your mother agrees.’” Elizabeth laughed. “Gregory told her later he was so nervous he felt like he was coming out of the closet, really. She said he did a great job, though.”
“I’m surprised but pleased Michael gave his blessing.”
Elizabeth thought about what Kellan had told her. “If he’s feeling any misgivings, he also knows his daughter has a mind of her own. And he does want her to be happy. Kellan was very relieved.”
“‘When is the wedding?”
“June fourteenth.”
“You’re kidding?” That was a little more than a month away. “That’s just weeks,” she said out loud. Adrienne thought of her own wedding, simple and small, and yet it had taken at least six months to get the details firmly under control.
“They want just family and they want to have it at the river, at our house. That’s where they met, after all. I’ll just arrange for the catering, and flowers. She’s already bought a dress, and they’ve used the computer to design and print their invitations, so there isn’t much to do. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“I’d say so.” Adrienne shook her head. High tech could certainly make things faster and easier, but in her admittedly old-fashioned way of thinking, taking away the stress from such an undertaking took away some of the magic. She smiled as she heard what Ian would say to such a thought.
“You’ve turned into a real old lady fuddy-duddy,” he would harrumph with disapproval.
“Anything I can do to help?” she offered, smi
ling.
Elizabeth reached out and touched her hand. “I was hoping you’d ask.”
That Saturday night Elizabeth slept hard, making up for the fitful snatches of slumber she’d chased and lost during the last few months. She had been tired and gone to bed early because she wanted to get up early. Sunday would be the first time since this whole mess started that she would enter church.
As she slept, a dream began swirling closer and closer to the edge between what was real and illusion. It churned closer and closer, until she heard something clattering in her room, inside the closet. Along with the sound came the awareness that something was very wrong. There was no fear, but concern made her careful. As she moved closer to the door, she was relieved to find a flashlight in her hand. She opened the door slowly.
At first there was nothing to see as she chased away darkness with the light. Everything looked normal but the concern grew larger.
Something was not right. She heard this snipping sound behind her and turned quickly, but as soon as she did, the noise stopped. It started again from a different direction and this time she very slowly turned toward it, not wanting to surprise it. A seam-ripper was methodically destroying the threads that held her clothes together. Pieces of pants, sleeves, a jacket bodice littered the floor. Another sleeve from a coat joined the pile as the seam-ripper continued. She immediately pushed forward and grabbed the coat, trying to knock away what should be an inanimate object with the light she held. It dodged and immediately launched into another shirt. She pulled that away and for the next several minutes, she was panting and yelling, grabbing clothes and screaming at this thing to stop and suddenly she was amazed to hear herself yelling for Michael.
Michael?
The light extinguished, the room fell to darkness, and sleep filtered out images, allowing Elizabeth to rest easily, peacefully, until the glimmers of the early morning sun broke through the night.
Her awakening was gentle. Eyes opened to the small normal sounds of day beginning. She stretched while in bed, knowing it was the safest place to pull out the muscles that had been still for hours. Hands clasped over head, muscles were pulled luxuriously from one side to another. Thank You, God, for stretching. She enjoyed the pleasant sensations a while longer before she focused on the day.
It held mostly empty spaces, which was fine with her. But this morning included church, something she’d missed like an old habit. She got up, put on a white robe, and hummed her way to the kitchen.
Breakfast was a bowl of cereal and apple slices. She ate while looking through the paper that had been left on the front porch. She was relieved to find no mention of anything to do with Michael Whittaker’s wife. Any story about her had died of disinterest because she wouldn’t talk. Kate had managed to steer any interest about her away to something else she was working on. Elizabeth wondered if the media were always so easily herded in one direction or another. Kate Wilkins sure made things happen, so of course people would listen carefully to anything she had to say. Elizabeth was just glad all this legal mess was over for her and she could slip back into boring anonymity.
When she got up from the table and set all the dirty dishes in the sink, she stretched again, carefully leaning against the counter, keeping her knees slightly bent, keeping the balance steady.
She couldn’t remember a time when stretching had ever felt this good. She was so glad she could still do this. A deep, cleansing breath and then she headed back to her room, slowly touching the furniture, walls. Thoughts glided into seamless, easy venues as she prepared the shower.
Pricks of water splattered as she stood under the soothing spray of at first hot and then more moderate temperatures for a long time. The lesson of being heat sensitive was not forgotten.
Finally, when the water was almost temperate, she pulled out the body gel and applied it to a sponge. She knew she had plenty of time to get ready for church; she detested being rushed.
It wasn’t until she moved the sponge to her legs that the feeling that something was not right finally splintered into reality. When she first got up this morning she hadn’t noticed anything being immediately amiss; it was more like haze on the edges of consciousness.
She dropped the sponge, staring down at the water drenching her legs. Everything looked normal.
Maybe she was imagining it? Gathering up courage like a weapon, she ran her hand down each leg lightly.
This didn’t make sense.
She touched harder, sliding a fingernail up and down first one leg and then another, back and front, side to side.
She stopped and thought hard, looking for a reasonable solution. If she could only think clearly. Her thoughts were already jumbling with the emotions she was trying hard to ignore . . . Surely it had to be something simple, rational. After all, she’d just gotten up; she wasn’t fully cognizant.
Impatiently, she turned off the water, sat on the side of the tub and let sharp fingernails rake up and down again slowly and then faster until, finally, she knew she wasn’t wrong. Ribbons of feeling around her legs had been sliced away during the night. First there was feeling and then nothing, then a sliver of feeling and then nothing. Elizabeth’s mouth dried, her breathing became ragged.
No, God, please, no, no, no! She got up and stood, shivering. What could she do?
Get dressed for church, her mind suggested. That would be a normal thing to do; yes, she could do that. She carefully stepped out and grabbed her robe. She hugged its warmth about her as she took tiny, uncertain steps to the bedroom.
She saw the clothes she had placed last night on the small valet. She clasped the top of the robe around her throat, thoughts whizzing around too fast for logic. What if . . . ? What should . . . ? Could it . . . ? How bad . . . ?
God, don’t let this happen to me; please, not now, her heart was pleading, and suddenly the sky shifted and light tumbled through the patio doors leading out onto the deck. Ripples of fear swept up and down as she tried to walk the few steps toward the light and discovered with horror her legs didn’t exactly belong to her. “No, please, no,” she heard her voice murmuring incoherently.
Please don’t let this happen, she begged again, pleading to a silent God. Please, no, not anything else. Please, no. . . . The refrain suddenly mocked. She wondered how much more she could take. The fear was horrible enough, but this one-sided conversation, this sense of isolation, was . . . unbearable.
If this new ugly thing was going to happen to her—if she was once again going to have to live through the knowledge that her body was breaking apart—then maybe it was also time to stop believing in anything. Maybe it was time to let go of a faltering faith that had done so little for her.
Maybe it was time, or past due time, for this child not to believe in fairy tales anymore. This was real life at its worst. But as these thoughts flickered, she emotionally recoiled. When she slowly understood what this meant, coldness seeped inside like a death; she had never felt so completely alone in her life.
If she didn’t, couldn’t, believe in anything, what on earth would she do? How could she live? Memories swept over and in her, swirling around her, fragments of pictures that held the past. Her history.
Her marriage, the formal and holy ceremony embraced within the church, kneeling at the Communion rail, having first Communion together with her new husband . . . the christening of her tiny baby . . . glimpses of the hours, of the weeks, of the years she had spent helping and nurturing and laughing and praying . . . This was the fabric that held her life together. A sob pushed out, and it tore her heart in two to think that it had all been for nothing—no purpose, no reason.
In anguish she sank to her knees, ignoring the silent scream in her legs and squeezed her eyes shut. She had reached the patio doors, vaguely aware of the light outside.
The child who was the woman realized the danger, the grave danger, of moving the wrong way at this crucial moment, and she remained still, letting her heart pray for her, letting it utter a song she had never
before been desperate enough to sing.
God, please. Please listen to me. I realize . . . now . . . there isn’t a choice. I believe—I have to believe—You are real because if You’re not, I think I would, no, I know I would die. Because if You don’t exist, if You aren’t real, it’s worth nothing. My life is worth nothing.
The mere contemplation of the possibility that God didn’t exist had touched her briefly with a darkness, a despair, that was even worse than discovering the numbness encircling her legs. She shivered violently and knew with certainty this wasn’t a choice, not for her. She could no longer dangle precariously on this fence. Her only choice was to jump into a world that demanded a stronger commitment than she had ever made in her life.
God, thank You . . . I believe . . . I have no doubt because it is not possible to live in this world without You. I believe . . .
Blinking away tears, Elizabeth, resolute, slowly stood, pressing her hands on the patio door for support, inch by inch, until she was finally standing. She kept one hand on the door for balance and brushed her hair away from her wet face. Looking out over the river, her eyes were drawn to something shimmering in the distance and she caught her breath. She blinked and there it was again.
A sun dog!
Chapter Thirty-seven
Michael woke up shivering. After a moment of disorientation his rigid body relaxed against the bed, a sigh burst from his lungs loud and hard, like the whoosh of an airplane landing. He looked at the clock and saw it was early. And yet the angle of the sun would suggest it was later. Odd.
A hand scraped through his hair, and he pondered what he should do. It was Sunday. Go to church? Sleep in? Go out? Stay in? He shrugged off aimless thoughts, righted himself, and waited for everything to become solid again.
A Sundog Moment Page 37