“How amazing is that!” I said. “Let me wake Hannah, and we’ll come down right now.”
“I’ve already called Hannah,” Daddy said with a chuckle, “and told her the great news. I also suggested she go back to sleep for a little while. You should too. If you come down a little before ten, you’ll get here in time to see the doctor when he makes his rounds, and we can all ask our questions.”
I lay in bed, replaying the conversation, feeling something light and hopeful settle in my spirit. I had followed the Glasgow Scale every day, charting Momma’s progress or lack of it. I knew that the score of an eleven, after six days in the single digits, meant hope of possible partial recovery.
But go back to sleep? Totally impossible. So I crept across the hall into Momma’s chalet and sat on the floor, surrounded by all the snail mail from yesterday that I hadn’t had time to look through. As I opened each envelope and perused each letter, I thought of Henry, his pale blue glassy eyes and his straggly blond hair and his baseball cap and how he was reading Momma’s novel. I thought of all his questions, asked so sincerely, almost with a childlike desperation. So many of the letters Momma received from her readers asked those kinds of questions. But other letters were more like confessions, I thought with a quiver of fear, where readers literally poured out their hearts to her, told her their deepest secrets.
And one of them realized she’d revealed way too much.
There it was again, that thought that had infiltrated my mind the other morning. One of us would know too, if someone from the past few years had told Momma something super confidential. I had not remembered any such letter, despite Hannah’s prayers. Neither had she. But she was still praying that God would speak into the dark corners of our memories.
But Momma had opened her eyes! I wanted to think about that. Light! Not darkness. Not right now.
So I went over to a bookshelf where paperbacks were stacked vertically and horizontally, with photos of family and friends arranged on top. I picked up a photo of the four of us, taken by a professional five or six years earlier when we were at La Grande Motte. We were sitting in front of a sand dune, and the Lego structures were blurred out behind us. The sun hit the dunes in a way that cast halos over our heads, as if we were jeans-clad, barefoot angels, waiting to welcome Jesus, walking on the sea.
The photo next to that was of Momma and Milton. She had on jeans and a light blue fleece and her hair was blowing in her face, her head snuggled against Milton’s thick coat. That triggered a memory, and I tiptoed down to the ground floor and through the back of the house to Daddy’s study. He said he didn’t need breathtaking views of the Blue Ridge Mountains to distract him; he preferred a windowless room where he pushed his numbers. His study had a special aura to it—a mixture of business and sport, organization and plain fun. I stood in front of his desk, a French antique from his mother’s family, which he kept neat and organized. At the moment, a thin folder with a photo of a beautiful rainbow on the front sat in the middle of the desk. Some of my father’s clients delivered their financial information to him in strange ways. I fingered the folder, smiling, then looked around the room.
The shelves held hardback copies of financial tomes, but also biographies of Pelé and other soccer greats and a bunch of Daddy’s soccer trophies. On one shelf were perched six soccer balls, old and torn and filled with Daddy’s favorite memories of the sport. Another shelf was stacked high with all kinds of board games and brainteasers. When the youth group came for weekends, Daddy loved to engage them with his ever-growing collection of wooden puzzles. And of course, he had his favorite French novels and photo books of the Midi, where he’d grown up.
Interspersed on the shelves were photos; I was looking for one in particular. I found it on the shelf beside Liar’s Poker and several other stock-related books. I reached for the photo in a sterling silver five-by-seven frame. In it, Momma sat with Milton. The shot had been taken at the same time as the one in Momma’s office, but in this one Momma was looking directly at the camera, and the black-and-white photo made her dark brown eyes almost bewitching. She had her arms looped around Milton’s neck and a cross hung around hers, sparkling and catching the sun.
Momma always wore that cross. A Huguenot cross. Daddy’s ancestors had been Huguenots—the first French Protestants who were eventually forced to flee the country when Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes in 1685, taking away religious liberty in France. I knew the gory history of the Huguenots and how some had fled to the shores of South Carolina.
Daddy had given the Huguenot cross, made of eighteen-karat gold, to Momma for her birthday one year, and she rarely took it off. Like so many things in Momma’s life, it symbolized something—Daddy’s love for her, I think, and their love of France, and the strength of faith in the midst of persecution. But I knew for sure Momma was not wearing the cross when she was shot. The nursing staff had given Daddy Momma’s personal items on the second day—her wedding ring and earrings and watch, but no necklace.
I decided that to celebrate her progress, I’d take her the Huguenot cross. That would doubtless make her happy.
But though I searched through her jewelry box and drawers for the next hour, I couldn’t find the cross anywhere. I hoped that wasn’t some kind of foreshadowing of doom. Not right after Momma had decided to open up her eyes after six long days.
JOSEPHINE
Patrick was talking to me again in that soft, soothing way, assuring me that all would be well, as he had done from the very first time we’d met. “I can hear you, Patrick,” I tried to say. Maybe the words were only in my mind. But his hand, so large and comforting in mine, I felt that. I tried to squeeze it. Did he feel it? Could he hear me describe to him the depth of my love? Would he understand? I tried to open my eyes again, but I couldn’t. I wanted to come back to him, to the girls. I was trying, trying, trying. . . .
———
1995 . . . She didn’t know she could feel so much love, with Patrick holding her so tenderly, loving her so thoroughly, while little Hannah napped in the next room. “Shhh. Don’t wake her,” she giggled, out of breath from lovemaking. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her belly.
“And now I have a surprise for you,” Josephine said, her eyes twinkling. She reached over to the bedside table and picked up an envelope. She carefully retrieved the thick stack of folded papers, straightened them in her hands, and began to read. “Dear Mrs. Bourdillon, it is with great pleasure that we send to you a contract for your novel The Lonely Truth. . . .”
She handed the papers to Patrick, and squealed, “Can you believe it!” and then burst into tears. Happy, happy tears.
“Félicitations, mon amour!” Patrick cooed in his French as he perused the papers. “My sweet, sweet Feeny. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”
She wiped her tears, finding the depths of his love in those dark, expressive eyes. Love, kindness, trust. She gave a playful smile then and said, “Hmm? Now how should we celebrate this? Seeing as we’re both naked and in bed . . .”
His eyes lit with desire, and he kissed her again.
———
1996 . . . Patrick found Josephine lying on their bed in tears. He rubbed her back softly and whispered, “Bad news from the family?”
She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. “No. Not that. Just a rotten review.”
He frowned. “Feeny, don’t pay attention to reviews.”
She flashed anger. “Wrong answer, Mr. Sexy Legs! This is my first novel, Patrick. You know what that represents for me. So when my first review is bad, well, at least let me wallow a little.”
“Can I see it?”
She shook her head and sniffed. “He called it ‘sentimental drivel. ’”
Patrick’s face broke into a smile. “Why, that’s a compliment, Feeny. That’s just that snobby reviewer’s way of saving face instead of admitting that he cried through the whole book.”
Patrick took the letter and speared it next to the many rejections
she’d garnered throughout the years.
———
1998 . . . “Another girl, Feeny. A beautiful little girl with a shock of reddish-gold hair.” Patrick kissed her lightly on the forehead as he placed the newborn in her arms. Josephine stared into her daughter’s little face, slipped her finger in the tiny fist. “Well, bonjour, my precious little Paige Mariette.”
She looked up at Patrick. Tears streamed down his face just as they did hers.
“Another miracle,” Josephine whispered. “The Lord’s seen fit to grant us another miracle.”
———
When I opened my eyes, I had no idea where I was, but I saw Patrick leaning his face so close to mine. I couldn’t read minds, but I could read eyes. And in his eyes I read a mixture of relief and foreboding.
“Can you hear me, Feeny?” he was saying, excitedly, loudly. Then he said to someone else, “She’s got her eyes open again!”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Perhaps I hadn’t opened my mouth after all.
“Can you hear me, Feeny?” he repeated.
Why were my hands not moving? My mouth?
Patrick read eyes well too. “Don’t be afraid, Feeny. You’re okay. You’re in a hospital. There was an accident.”
I must have blinked because he hurried on. “Yes, blink if you can hear me. Can you understand what I’m saying?”
I had never thought before about the weight of a blink. Spontaneous, uncontrolled, split-second. Now I tried, and I could not tell if I succeeded until he cried, “Thank God, Feeny!” Then, “Can you feel my hand in yours? Can you squeeze my hand?”
My head wouldn’t move, although I was nodding as hard as my brain would let me. I was still concentrating on the blink, still asking my brain if I could feel Patrick’s hand, when he let go, and I heard, as in a fog, “Nurse, nurse! She’s opening her eyes and responding to me again!”
Then I went back to the darkness, somewhere in another place in time.
HENRY
They chased me out of the ICU at midnight while the nurses kept scurrying around, assuring me, “He’s doing just fine, Mr. Hughes. You go on and get a little sleep.”
So I got a ride back to the Rathbun House, feeling all fidgety and alert. At some point I must’ve finally fallen asleep, because next thing I knew, Libby was sitting on the side of the bed, all wrung out, her face so pale and her hair all tangled. Didn’t look like she’d gotten any sleep at all.
Jase!
“You seen him, Libs? How’s he doing?”
She shrugged, not looking at me, which wasn’t ever a good sign. “I got in at two. Sweet nurse let me sit with him for a few hours.” She was wiping her eyes, and I felt my chest tighten. “He’s stable.”
“Thank God,” I whispered.
Then she started talking in her professional secretary voice, all business. “My boss said I can have today and tomorrow off. You go on and take the truck to work today, Henry. Then head on back here tomorrow after work and we’ll be together over the weekend.”
“All right,” I said, going into the bathroom. I came back out, pulled on my jeans, and gave Libby a kiss on the forehead.
As I pulled away, I saw Libby’s face, all streaked with tears, and she was turning her hands over and over in her lap, like she did when she was real worried. She managed to look up at me, sniffed a couple of times. Her thin body trembled, and when she ran her hands through her hair, they were trembling too.
“Henry,” she said, and she motioned for me to sit down. “Henry, I found your guns in the truck.” She was shaking all over. “The pistol and the rifle. You promised you wouldn’t carry them in there anymore.”
“Sorry, Libs. I must’ve forgot or something.”
“When did you forget, Henry? Those guns weren’t in the truck on Sunday when I drove to church. Why’d you put them back in there?”
“I don’t remember, Libs. Sorry.”
“You’re sorry! That’s all you can say? You’re driving around with guns in the truck, and you haven’t taken your meds. You’ve been off your meds for over two weeks! Why’d you pretend you were taking them?” She produced the brown pharmacy bottle, filled with the pills.
“You’re asking me too many questions, Libs. Leave me alone now. You go on to sleep. Lemme get on the road.”
I went into the bathroom and cursed under my breath. Hadn’t even thought about the Glock and the Remington. Hadn’t thought about the pills either. We’d gone to the restaurant and then Jase started choking, and there wasn’t time to think about the guns or the meds. I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth and came back out.
Libby was holding Miz Bourdillon’s book. “And why in the world are you reading another one of that lady’s novels? You never read novels.”
“Just getting my mind off of Jase is all.”
Libby was crying real hard now. She threw the book on the bed and pulled her arms around her the way she did when she was afraid of me, like she might curl into herself and be safe. And she was looking at me like she didn’t believe me.
“I went to the library yesterday after work, Henry, to get some books to read to Jase here in the hospital. And Miss Garrison asked me if I liked the book. . . . I said, ‘Which book is that?’ and she said, ‘Why, the one Henry got you, the one by Mrs. Bourdillon!’ Why’d you tell Miss Garrison that I wanted that book? What’s going on, Henry?” She shivered, her eyes just as deep and sad as a doe’s, and then she went into the bathroom and shut the door.
I felt the anger building, the rage, and couldn’t do nothing about it. While Libs cowered in the bathroom, I put the pillow over my face and yelled, then punched my hands hard back and forth on the mattress, but I left her alone.
Once I’d calmed down she came out of the bathroom, her face all screwed up. “What have you done, Henry? For God’s sake, what have you done?”
My mind went racing real fast and everything went blurry, and then I got all panicky and blurted out, “I’ve done something really terrible, Libs. Gonna be the end of me.” I went over to her, and she backed away, a horrified look on her pretty face. “No, Libs, I won’t hurt you. I won’t.” And I grabbed her tight and held her so close where I felt her heart just ramming into my chest, and she cried for a while and then I said, “I gotta be going. You tell Jase I love him, and I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
I picked up the book and the brown bottle of my meds and tossed them both in my bag and left the room with Libby just standing there, eyes wide and trembling, like a deer before the kill.
I went out the front door of that fancy guest building, and I sure was glad that old couple wasn’t there to greet me. Kept telling myself to chill, because the surgery went okay and wasn’t nothing to worry about, even if Libby had found the guns. No one else knew. But when I got shaken, well, it took awhile to get my presence of mind back.
Thought maybe I should go ahead and start taking the pills again. Maybe. Drove right past a few police cars and for a while I thought one of them might be following me, but every time I glanced in the rearview mirror, all I saw was a long curvy highway.
I didn’t know what Libby was thinking, the way I left her there with bad news, not explaining anything. But I felt like one of those leaves outside my window at the guest house, quivering back and forth and then just floating to the ground. Could almost hear the crunch of it getting crushed under my boot.
I flipped on the radio and sure enough, it was one of Libby’s religious stations, playing a real melancholy-sounding song. But something in the tune pleased me enough that I didn’t flip the dial, just listened. And the more I listened, the more I got this tingling sensation, like when my hand or foot goes to sleep, except this time it was inside me, in my heart, the tingling. Because the words that man was singing were the very same words I had read in Miz Bourdillon’s book. Except I knew they weren’t completely her words; they came from somewhere in the Bible.
“I’m leaving you well and whole. That’s my parting gift to
you. Peace . . .”
He was singing almost exactly those words, and then he kept repeating, “I leave you peace, peace, peace.”
And there I was careening along that curvy highway, glancing in the rearview, afraid of some cop following me, and then I was bawling my eyes out, listening to that music about peace. Face it, I’d never really had a moment of peace in my life. Don’t even know what that would look like, but I wanted it. Right then, I did. And it made me think about Miz Bourdillon’s first book and how that’s what that poor down-and-out kid was longing for, but also that real rich society lady in the other book whose life was crumbling around her. They both were wanting peace.
And strange as it sounds, I just ended up saying out loud, “Okay, I’d like to have some of that peace too. Don’t know how, so please, whoever you are, could you show me how to get it?”
And my heart just kept quivering and the music kept on playing, and soon it was some other song, lots more upbeat and all. But I just kept hearing those words over and over in my mind. I give you peace.
PAIGE
On the way to the hospital I asked Hannah, “Have you seen Momma’s cross?”
“No. But she rarely takes it off.”
“Yeah, I know. But she wasn’t wearing it the day she was shot. The nurse gave Daddy her wedding ring and watch and earrings, but no cross.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s at the house somewhere,” Hannah said.
My cell phone beeped with a text, but I didn’t reach for it. “No, it’s not. I just spent an hour looking. You know how much that cross means to her. It’s so symbolic.”
“Hey, just about any gift she ever received became symbolic. It’s no big deal. The big deal is that she opened her eyes.”
“True.”
“You don’t sound very convinced.”
I shrugged. “It’s just, I don’t know . . .”
“Ah, I get it! You think it’s a clue to the assassin.”
“Maybe.”
When I Close My Eyes Page 14