The Will of Wisteria

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  She got his voice mail and didn’t even bother to identify herself. “Tell me you’ve found something, Mike. Give me some kind of good news. And for the record, if you can’t come up with anything by Monday morning, consider yourself replaced.”

  She hung up the phone. At least there was one place in her life where she was still in control.

  Elizabeth watched from the sidewalk as Hazel Moses pushed the broom across the front sidewalk.

  The old woman turned in her direction and smiled. “I didn’t know I was going to get the pleasure of your company again so soon.”

  “Well, I have a few papers I need to get you to sign. Looks like you’re having a fun morning.”

  “Oh yes. I try to make it look presentable the best I can. I may not repair the house until I get all of this settled, but I can certainly keep it clean around here.” Hazel flitted the broom in front of her, smiling. “Could I offer you some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I wish I could, but I just came by to get these papers signed.”

  “Well, let’s get them signed then.”

  Elizabeth followed Hazel up onto the front porch, where the old woman rested the broom against the door frame and sank into one of the rockers. “What do we have here?”

  “Just a power of attorney—it gives me the right to ask questions and get information on your behalf.” She pulled the documents out of her briefcase and waited as Hazel read through the pages.

  Elizabeth reached out a hand and leaned it against the edge of the door frame, next to the broom. Beneath her fingers she could feel tiny grooves in the wood. “I bet you’ll be glad to get rid of all of this decaying wood around here.”

  Hazel looked up and smiled. “Are you talking about that piece of wood underneath your hand?”

  “Well, I just noticed all of these notches in the door frame. You think you might have termites or something?”

  Hazel chuckled, the creases around her eyes growing deeper. “Look closer.”

  Elizabeth leaned in. Beside each notch she saw small letters. She squinted and focused. Names began to come into view, followed by dates, scratched into the wood.

  “That is where we kept track of my babies and their growth. Each one has a notch for each year. Look how far up they go.”

  Elizabeth’s head tilted upward, all the way to the top of the door frame.

  “I have some tall children.”

  “I’d say you do.”

  “If I lost this house, I think I’d have to take that door frame with me.” Her voice shook slightly.

  Elizabeth looked at the old woman and saw tears gathering at the edges of her amber eyes. Hazel signed the paper and handed it back to Elizabeth. She felt inadequate to respond.

  “I’ll be in touch with you soon.”

  “I believe we’re going to win this battle, Elizabeth. I know you’re not here by accident. Not by accident at all.”

  Will leaned over the counter at the registrar’s office. He had slept at the frat house after they took his car and was still dressed in his rumpled clothes from last night. “Lucy, beautiful Lucy,” he crooned in what he hoped was a charming singsong. “Got it all taken care of today?”

  She did not smile. “Will, it’s been three months. I honestly don’t think it’s going to get resolved. This semester is almost over anyway. Why don’t you just quit worrying about it, go do something with your time, get a job or something? Maybe you can get this fixed over the Christmas holidays.”

  He gave her his best smile. “Just a little hiccup, that’s all,” he assured her. “I’ll come back Monday, and this will all be straightened out, you’ll see.”

  chapter twenty-four

  Jeffrey tipped the young man who delivered the filets mignons and baked potatoes in plastic containers. He never knew you could get steaks delivered, but Matthew had taught him all kinds of things.

  He grabbed a couple of glasses of sweet tea and some silverware from the cafeteria and carried the two sacks of dinner up to Jacob’s room. His spy-nurse stopped him as he came around the corner.

  “Dr. Wilcott, she’s in there right now.”

  “That’s okay. I want to see her, actually.”

  She shrugged her shoulders and gave him a look that said he had been warned. He spotted Claire through the glass, curled up in the lounge chair, sound asleep.

  Jacob’s lungs were getting stronger, and the doctors had removed the intubation tube, but it had still been a traumatic day.

  He set the bags and drinks on the rolling table and studied Claire’s face. So delicate, yet so strong. He really had loved her—at least as much as he had been capable of loving.

  She had resisted him at first. But once she had finally let him in, she had returned his love with something deep and fierce and totally different from anything he had ever experienced.

  He reached over and nudged her softly. “Claire.”

  She shifted in her seat.

  “Claire, wake up.”

  Her eyes opened. Deep eyes. Dark. Almost black. When she saw him, she closed them again. Tightly. “Leave me alone.”

  “Claire, I brought you dinner. Come on, you need to eat. The nurse said you haven’t eaten anything since you’ve been here. That all you do is get up long enough to go to the bathroom and get Something to drink. And I know she’s telling the truth, because you’re never gone for more than five minutes.”

  She rubbed her eyes and glared at him.

  “I’m not here to fight. Honestly. Please, I just want you to eat something.”

  She straightened up in the chair and crossed her legs underneath her. Her dark green sweater complemented her dark brown hair, still pulled back in a rubber band. He brought the rolling tray from the side of the room, wheeled it in front of her, and opened one of the plastic containers. The rich aroma of the steak permeated the air. She breathed in deeply.

  “Why are you here?” She shifted in her seat but kept her eyes glued on the steak.

  “I’m taking care of you tonight. You can’t survive on adrenaline, Claire, or you’re going to end up in a bed down the hall.” He laid out the silverware and began to fix her baked potato. He loaded it with butter, salt, and pepper, and laid the sour cream aside.

  Her brown eyes studied him curiously. “How did you remember that?”

  “Remember what?”

  “That I only like butter and not sour cream.”

  He looked down at her potato. He hadn’t even thought about it until now. “I don’t know. I guess it was locked up in my subconscious somewhere.” He laughed, remembering more. “And you hate it for no other reason than the fact that it’s called sour cream.” He shook his head. “Now eat.”

  She cut into her steak without hesitation. He sat down next to her, watching as she devoured everything on her plate. She didn’t speak again until the last bite was gone. When she finished, she wiped her mouth and looked up at him. “It was good.” She blushed slightly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He took another bite of his steak.

  “So what do I owe you for dinner?”

  “Claire, don’t be ridiculous. This is about me wanting to make sure you eat.”

  When she spoke again, the familiar accusation behind her words was gone, and her tone was simply matter-of-fact. “Where have you been, Jeffrey? How could you just vacate your son’s life for ten years?” Her brown eyes bored into him.

  He laid his fork down. “So much for small talk, huh?” He wiped his mouth with his paper napkin and folded it neatly beside his plate. She had every right to ask. And he had an answer. “Selfishness.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. This was obviously not the response she had expected.

  “Self-absorption. Stupidity. I could stop here.”

  “Why?”

  “Why stop?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No, why self-absorption? Why stupidity? You were a grown man.”

  “I might have been grown, but I wasn’t a man.”

  An expressi
on of surprise passed briefly across her face.

  “I never realized that being a parent could actually be fulfilling. To be perfectly honest, I thought it was trivial.”

  “Honesty would be a nice thing from you, Jeffrey, but not Something I’ve come to expect.”

  “Well, I am being honest now. I thought children were Something men gave to their wives to keep them satisfied, so they could just go on with their own lives, but . . .”

  He paused as his mind conjured up images of this past week with Matthew: the hot dogs, the cokes, the movies, the laughter.

  “But I’ve done so much and I’ve missed so much,” he went on. “And I don’t want to miss any more of my children’s lives.” He replaced the lid on his dinner and set it aside.

  “I need you to forgive me, Claire. I need you to forgive me for the way I deserted you years ago. For the way I vanished out of Jacob’s life and left you to take care of everything and be both parents. I need you to forgive me. If you can. Especially now, because I know all of this—” He motioned toward the hospital bed. “All of this is my fault.”

  Burning tears rose up and threatened to spill over. He tried to fight them, but he wasn’t sure it was any use. Wasn’t even sure he wanted to. “The dog. The fire. All these years. All my fault.”

  Claire’s frown softened. “Jeffrey Wilcott, in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you cry.”

  He reached a hand up and swiped at the tears. “In all the years I’ve known me, I’ve never seen it either. But I’ve been doing it a lot lately. I’ve turned into a freak. I don’t even recognize myself.”

  She laughed slightly, then pulled her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Jeffrey, it’s not your fault. I was just angry. All of this has made me so afraid.”

  She pushed herself up from her chair and walked to the glass, staring out toward the nurses’ station. Nurse Lookout turned back to her paperwork as if she hadn’t been spying on them the whole time.

  “I don’t hate you, Jeffrey, despite the things I’ve said over the last couple of days. That’s just my world lying there.” She turned toward Jacob’s bed. “And if anything—” Her voice broke. She couldn’t finish. Her shoulders began to sag and shake as she sobbed.

  Instinctively, Jeffrey stood up and took her in his arms. She let him. He held her tightly, gently. She should have felt like a stranger in his arms, but she felt so . . . familiar.

  She recovered her composure and released herself from his arms. “Jeffrey, I forgave you years ago. When I left you, I’ll be honest, I did hate you then. For two years I let that bitterness steal from me even more than you stole from me during our marriage. It stole friendships. It stole any joy I had in living. It even stole my ability to enjoy my son. And then one day I looked at him and assured him that he’d never have to lose another day of his mother to her own bitterness. That was the day I forgave you, Jeffrey. I’m a different person from the one that you married.”

  He smiled at her and ventured a joke. “Well, there were a couple of scenes at the elevator.”

  “Touché.” She laughed, running her hands over the top of her head. “There’s still that fire in me,” she said. “But I’m different. My life is different. My choices are different. I got to the place where I so desperately needed to be forgiven that I could finally forgive. It released me. And I released you.”

  “So all these years you haven’t hated me?’

  “What? Disappointed?”

  He shook his head. “No, relieved. I wouldn’t blame you, don’t get me wrong. But I thought you hated me, and if seeing me here added one more thing to what you’re already going through then I will walk away. But it’s not what I want to do.”

  Her eyes darkened, and she set her jaw. “Just don’t play with us, Jeffrey. Neither of us deserves that. If you want to be here and check on Jacob, that’s fine, but if you really don’t care, don’t pretend. Jacob has lived without a father for a long time. He doesn’t need false hope.”

  “You don’t have to trust me right now, Claire. I’m not even sure what has happened to me, or why I’ve been able to see things in a different way over the last few days. All I know is that when this boy wakes up—”

  He watched as her gaze shifted back to her son and her eyes filled with tears. “And he will wake up, Claire—completely, and not just in screaming pain. He will. And when he does, I’ll be there. I’ll do whatever I need to do, be whatever I need to be.”

  “Right now we just need a good doctor.” “Dr. Moss and Dr. Nadu are the best,” Jeffrey responded. “The absolute best.”

  “I thought you were the best.”

  “Yeah, I did too.” He ducked his head. “I might have been wrong.”

  The rain was falling in a gentle mist as Mary Catherine sat in the small booth catty-cornered to the large window at 39 Rue de Jean. The mirrored wall across from her revealed all she needed to know. One glass of wine, one bowl of soup, one Mary Catherine. Not another soul but her.

  She almost felt as if she were in Paris. The mist outside, the darkening evening, the scents around her. Over the last few months, she had found a growing enjoyment of the city she had never really discovered. She had toured gardens, ridden trolley cars, talked to strangers, and come alive, even while so much of the life she had known was dying. And for the most part she had done it alone.

  Bits and pieces of her day came floating back to her: the parent-teacher conferences, and the disturbing fact that Charmaine’s mother had not come. Surely with a daughter as intelligent as that, a parent would be vitally interested in her academic progress. But the woman had never shown up, never even called back.

  Nate hadn’t called back either. When he hadn’t answered his cell phone, she had left a message for him to meet her here. This little Parisian bistro had always been one of their favorite places for an intimate dinner.

  But he hadn’t come. Hadn’t called.

  The conversation from the women across the way arrested her attention. They were enjoying a night of freedom from husbands and children, over wine, bread, and much laughter.

  In the far booth, two older women were dolled up and shamelessly flirting with the young waiter. She watched as one of the women giggled and put her hand to her chest in an I do declare! gesture. As if she were a lady.

  “Shameless hussy,” Mary Catherine muttered.

  “Excuse me?” the waiter said as he reached to refill her wine glass.

  She felt her face redden. “Oh, nothing. Just chattering to myself. I teach kids all day, so I always have to talk over them to get them quiet, and sometimes I just forget I’m alone.” She stopped. “You don’t care about any of this, do you?”

  He laughed. “It’s okay, ma’am. I’ll be happy to listen if you want to talk.”

  She forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just fine. I’m just going to sit here quietly and enjoy my soup.”

  “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”

  Mary Catherine waited until he was safely out of sight, then leaned over her bowl and took a long deep sniff of her soup. For one moment she let the aroma transport her to a tiny café in Provence, where she and Nate had the most amazing onion soup.

  Music and laughter drifted in from the bar. She ate her soup quietly and studied the lines that ran through the aged mirror on the wall across from her.

  She thought of Nate and tried not to cry.

  chapter twenty-five

  Hey, Dad, stop! Stop!” Matthew yelled.

  Jeffrey’s foot connected with the brakes. “What? What is it?” They were on Edisto Island, driving past the Presbyterian Church, heading to the plantation for Sunday dinner.

  “You’ve got to see this! Really, stop!”

  Jeffrey pulled the car over into the grass parking lot. Matthew jerked off his seat belt, flung the door open, and ran toward the church, slamming the door until the car shook. Jeffrey made a mental note that they needed to talk about the proper care and shutting of his
car door.

  The tiny white building sat almost in the center of the tomb-stones that scattered the graveyard, a small clapboard building reminiscent of a life-size dollhouse. Matthew dashed up the green metal steps and opened the door. Jeffrey followed.

  It was a perfect November day. The morning had been cool, but now the afternoon sun warmed the air to a balmy seventy. Jeffrey’s eyes took in the hand-painted sign above the door: “Prayer Chapel, Open to the Public.”

  Jeffrey entered through the open door and felt a sharp drop in temperature. A tiny cross hung above the window opposite him. Two old pews lined the side walls, along with a wooden bench for three in the center of the room. There was just enough room for seven or eight people to gather—to pray, to reflect. Or, apparently on a day like today, to hear the memories of an eight-year-old boy.

  “Granddaddy use to bring me up here when I’d come visit. He said this was where he liked to come at night when he was lonely. Said he’d just sit here and talk to God. He’s the one that taught me how, you know?”

  “Taught you how to sneak out of the house at night?” Jeffrey was only half listening. On a bulletin board, ragged scraps of paper held the hand-scrawled prayer requests of strangers. Small wooden display cases hung along the walls, displaying a variety of tracts and religious literature.

  “No, Dad! Pray. Aren’t you listening?”

  “Yeah, I’m listening.” Jeffrey sat down on one of the wooden pews and turned his full attention on Matthew.

  “You ever prayed, Dad?”

  “Yeah,” he answered instinctively. “I’ve prayed . . . you know.”

  “When?” Matthew walked over to Jeffrey and lifted his weight up, bringing it down on top of Jeffrey’s leg. He wiggled his sharp little tailbone until he got perfectly comfortable. “When did you pray?”

  Jeffrey placed a hand across Matthew’s legs. He couldn’t remember having a child on his lap in years. “Well, for your information, young man, I use to say my prayers every night when my mother would come to tuck me in.”