Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

  "That’s not true. I’ve been the one encouraging you to marry Henry."

  "So you could be rid of me." She blew smoke rings toward the ceiling. "Can’t you move to Paris after my wedding? I need your help."

  "Everything’s arranged. I’m leaving December 6. Le Cordon Bleu is offering classes in holiday desserts the next week. I plan to take them."

  "The last thing you need is to dabble in holiday desserts."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Since we started the catering business, you’ve gained weight. You’re supposed to sell your products, Becky, not eat them." She pulled back the curtain and stared out the window.

  Henry touched my shoulder. A question flickered in his eyes.

  I looked away. Had he guessed my secret?

  He walked over to Momma. "I’ve got a surprise for you, Helen."

  "Henry!" I yelled.

  "It’s okay, Becky."

  Momma’s eyes darted back and forth from her fiancé to me. "What kind of surprise?"

  "As her wedding gift to us, Aunt Velma is paying for everything. She’ll hire the best people in Palm Beach. You won’t have to lift a finger except to point to what you want."

  Helen squealed, put out her smoke, and threw her arms around Henry’s neck.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I slipped out of the room and returned moments later with a box wrapped in silver paper with white ribbon. "Here’s my wedding gift to you." I handed the box to Henry.

  "Let me open it, Bumblebee." Momma snatched the present out of Henry’s hands, ripped off the wrapping, and lifted the lid. A puzzled expression clouded her face as she retrieved an envelope from the box. "What’s this? My eviction notice?"

  I laughed. "Open it, but be careful not to tear it."

  She handed the envelope to Henry. "You open it."

  With great care, he tore back the flap, pulled out the papers and reviewed them. He grinned. "Becky, you shouldn’t have done this."

  "What’s she done now?" Momma asked. "What do those papers say, Henry?"

  "They’re roundtrip airline tickets from Palm Beach to Las Vegas."

  Her eyes grew big. "Las Vegas?"

  "That’s right," I said. "And there’s a voucher for a week’s stay at Caesar’s Palace."

  More squeals from Momma. More hugs for Henry.

  "Save a few hugs for Becky, Lovebug," he said.

  She looked at me. "We save our hugs for the men in our lives. Don’t we?"

  "Whatever you say, Momma." Henry mouthed a silent apology. I gave him my best don’t-worry-about-it smile. "If you plan to go to Las Vegas for your honeymoon, Robin suggested you make your reservations soon. It gets busy around New Year’s."

  "New Year’s Eve in Las Vegas," Helen said. "I can’t wait. Let’s call Robin."

  "It’s a holiday, Doodlebug. Her office is closed."

  "We’ll call her at home then. You have her number, don’t you, Becky?"

  "Robin is having Thanksgiving dinner with her family. I’m not going to bother them."

  Helen reached for the phone. "They’re finished by now. What’s her number?"

  Henry walked over, slipped his arm around Momma’s waist. "Why don’t I call the hotel and airlines direct, Butterfly?"

  She handed him the phone. "That’s a great idea, Bedbug."

  Having had my fill of insect endearments, I decided to retreat to the kitchen.

  "Wait a minute, Becky. We haven’t settled the matter of you missing my wedding. What am I going to tell people when they ask why my own daughter didn’t attend?"

  "Is that what you’re worried about?"

  "People will think you and I don’t get along."

  "You and I not get along? How absurd!"

  "Don’t be cute. This is serious. It concerns my reputation and my good name."

  I shrugged. "Tell them I couldn’t get a plane home, it being the holidays."

  "That’s not a good enough excuse. Eva had to cancel a trip once because she couldn’t fly due to an ear infection. We’ll tell everyone you’ve got a terrible ear infection." She rubbed her bottom lip. "Better make that both ears, okay?"

  Henry and I nodded. Once more, Momma had pulled us into her web of lies.

  I made it as far as the kitchen door before she hollered for me to stop.

  "When you get to France, you need to remember two things. First, watch out for those French bedbugs. I’ve heard they can be very charming with their French accents and fancy berets."

  "I’m not looking to find a man, Momma."

  "Nonsense. Every woman is looking to find a man." She grinned at Henry. "Unless she’s lucky enough to have already found him."

  "What’s the second thing I need to remember?" I steeled myself for another of her lectures on the sexual proclivities of men.

  She walked over to me and pushed my hair behind my ears. "You have an advantage I never had, Becky."

  "What’s that, Momma?"

  "You can always come home." She hugged me. Only a quick squeeze, but a definite hug.

  CHAPTER 38

  Flashes of light cut the early darkness of the December night. The strobe atop the Atlanta airport tower reminded me of the beacon from the Tybee Island Lighthouse. Both signaled a warning and a welcome to the adventurous and the weary. I stood at the huge glass window watching the planes come and go.

  "It’s too bad it’s nighttime," Johnny said. "You won’t be able to see the ground when you take off."

  I laughed. "That’s probably a good thing."

  "Are you nervous, Twig?"

  "Terrified, but excited too."

  "Just think, Twig, you’ll have breakfast in Paris."

  "And I know just what I want."

  "What?" he asked. "A croissant? An éclair?"

  "Nope. I’ve had this craving for a big bowl of chocolate ice cream."

  "But you don’t eat ice cream. Not since—"

  "Not since Papa’s accident. But I think it’s time for ice cream again. Don’t you?"

  He slipped his arm around my shoulders. "Yeah, Twig. I do."

  "Ever since Frank died, I’ve felt like I’ve been lost in a giant labyrinth with every twist and turn leading me deeper into some bizarre pit."

  Johnny pointed out the giant window. "Imagine those red runway lights are there to guide you out and you’ll be fine. You’re stronger than you think."

  "Frank used to tell me that, but I could never bring myself to believe it."

  "Believe it now." Johnny had worn his uniform. After seeing me off, he planned to transport a prisoner from the Fulton County jail back to Sugardale.

  We sat down on a gray vinyl bench and Johnny talked about the work he planned to do on Papa’s house. Clean out the gutters, scrape and paint it in the spring, reattach several shutters that had fallen off. All the things Frank had planned on doing.

  As I listened to Johnny rattle off his list of fix-it jobs, I thought of Frank. All the plans we’d made, all the dreams we’d shared. Plans and dreams that seemed so unimportant now. All that is except for one. I rested my hand on my fluttering abdomen.

  If Frank was here, if he knew my secret, he’d be overjoyed. Maybe he did know. Surely, he’s watching me from wherever he is because I hear him whispering to me, "You can do this, Ladybug. You can get on that plane, leave Johnny and the only world you’ve ever known behind, and make a better life for yourself and our child. You’re stronger than you think. Trust me, Ladybug. Trust the whispers of your heart."

  Lost in my thoughts of Frank, I hadn’t noticed when Johnny stopped talking. When I did, I found his eyes fixed on a little boy playing on the bench across from us.

  The boy looked about two, maybe three years old. About the age of Johnny’s son if he’d lived. This youngster had a stuffed palomino pony with flaxen mane. As he galloped his pony back and forth over the vinyl bench, the boy clicked his tongue to imitate the sound of a horse’s hooves on stone. His mother looked up from her magazine, ruffled his chestnut hair, and returned to her r
eading.

  I watched the expression on my friend’s face change from sadness to delight to sadness again. I knew he was thinking about the son he’d lost. How tall would he be now? What would his laughter sound like? How many times had I stared at a baby and wondered what our child would’ve looked like? Would it have been a boy? A girl? Dark hair like Johnny’s? Green eyes like mine? Such questions can drive you crazy if you dwell on them too long.

  I reached for Johnny’s hand. "I’m glad your mother came for Thanksgiving. Anna and Ruben make a nice couple, don’t they?"

  He nodded. "When I told mother we were seeing each other again, she started picking out names for our kids."

  "Do you think I’d be a good mother? Considering Momma’s legacy and all."

  "You’d be a great mother, Twig. You’re not anything like Helen."

  I shrugged. "I’ve seen flashes of her in myself. I wanted revenge against Donald."

  "You wanted justice. There’s a difference." He squeezed my hand. "When you do have a kid, the best thing you could do for it would be to move as far away from Helen as possible."

  "Funny you should say that. I recently came to the same conclusion."

  "Are you sure you can’t wait until after Christmas to leave?" he asked.

  "I’m sure."

  "But why the rush?"

  "I have a good reason."

  "Care to share it with me?"

  "Our first night together, didn’t we agree we’d each be allowed to keep a few secrets?"

  "I suppose."

  "I’ll tell you about it one day, Johnny. Just trust me for now."

  He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. "I thought it’d work out for us this time."

  "It’s too soon. I need time and so do you."

  "Yeah, I know. But I’d hoped . . ." He stood, turned and stared out the window.

  I unzipped my carry-on bag and checked the contents again.

  "What’s the notebook for?" Johnny asked.

  "It’s a journal." I pulled it from my bag and handed it to him. "Frank used to give them to me so I could write down my experiences, my feelings . . . whatever."

  "Did you ever write things about me?"

  "Sure."

  He flipped through the journal. "All the pages are blank."

  "I wanted to start fresh."

  Johnny handed it back. "I can’t believe Helen put a padlock on her door. Does she really think I’m a thief?"

  I tucked the journal into my bag. "You know how she loves to aggravate people."

  "Especially me. What was it your grandfather called people like her?"

  "Grandpa Eli called them Pickers because they like to hurt and manipulate others. They’re always looking for easy pickin’s."

  "Yeah, and Helen’s the queen. Queen Bitch if you ask me."

  "Momma’s not all bad. She and I talked and—"

  "Helen’s a monster. I can’t believe you’d forgive her for the stuff she did to you."

  "I used to think it was my fault Momma didn’t love me. Now I know better. She couldn’t love me because when she was a child, no one loved her. You can’t give another person something you never had." I rubbed my forehead, trying to find a way to explain the unexplainable to Johnny. "I’ll never forgive Momma for some of the things she did to me and to the people I loved, but at least now, I understand why. And that’s enough for me."

  "You’re too soft hearted." Johnny kissed my cheek. "That’s one of the things I love most about you."

  A woman’s voice came over the intercom. "Delta flight 122 to Paris is now boarding at gate nine. Delta flight 122 to Paris boarding at gate nine."

  I jumped up. "That’s me, isn’t it? That’s my flight?"

  "Calm down, Twig. They won’t leave without you." Johnny picked up my carry-on bag and handed me my purse. "Better hold on to this."

  A nervous laugh slipped out. "I’ll write as soon as I get settled. On second thought, I’ll call. Just don’t give my address or phone number to Momma."

  "I thought you promised her you’d write."

  "I promised to write, but didn’t say anything about including a return address. I don’t want any surprise visits from her the first time she gets mad at Henry."

  "You’re not going to tell Helen where you live?"

  "Eventually. If there’s an emergency, you can call me."

  "Good thinking," he said as we walked toward the gate.

  The ticket agent stood by the counter. I joined my fellow passengers in line. Johnny held my hand, squeezing it now and then for encouragement. When my turn came, I handed the petite blonde my boarding pass. Johnny started to walk the half-dozen steps to the gate with me.

  The agent stopped him. "Only passengers are allowed beyond this point, sir."

  Johnny pointed at his badge. "I’m Deputy Sheriff John Santo, ma’am, and I have strict orders to personally escort this pretty lady to the gate."

  The agent studied the badge and cast me a suspicious glance.

  Johnny bent closer to her and pointed at me. "Miss Cooper was a witness in a recent murder trial." He straightened to his full six feet and with great authority settled the Stetson over his dark hair. "We felt she should go abroad for a time. Understand, Miss?"

  I faked a cough in an effort to stifle a giggle.

  The woman’s eyes widen. She nodded and waved him through.

  "You should be ashamed of yourself, Johnny."

  "Yeah, but I bet you get great service all the way to Paris."

  We stood by the gate, talking softly as one by one my fellow travelers passed by. Johnny spoke of his plans to start law school the following September. As I listened to him talk about his future—a future without me—a barrage of emotions assailed my heart and mind. I felt an escalating desire to confess all leftover secrets to this man who’d been my best friend and first love. I wanted to tell Johnny about the small miracle growing inside of me so he’d understand why I had to leave now. Loose clothing wouldn’t hide my expanding abdomen much longer. Would he understand about the baby? About Frank? About my need for some time alone? I had to know, but there was no time for true confessions now. Still, I silently vowed not to let our destiny be ruled by the fickle whims of fate any longer.

  I cleared my throat. "According to Robin, many Parisians go to the shore in August to escape the summer heat. She said if I wanted to rent a house on the French coast for the month, she could arrange it. What do you think, Johnny? Should I?"

  "A month at the beach sounds like Heaven."

  Without the slightest nod to subtlety, I declared, "Before you begin law school, you should take a nice vacation too. Get some sun and fresh air."

  "Good idea." He lifted my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. "Do you think you could stand my company for a month?"

  My spirits soared. "Of course, silly. I’d love for you to come."

  Johnny’s face brightened. He brushed back my bangs, kissed the small scar at my hairline. "Maybe by then you’ll be ready to tell me your secret."

  "You can count on it."

  My baby would be born in May. In August, Johnny would visit and I’d tell him everything. All about the tragedies and the triumphs. All about the loneliness, the lies, and the love that had enriched my life forever. Yes, I’d tell Johnny the whole story. Where we went from there would be up to us. We alone would decide our future. What a heady thought, and one chockfull of possibilities.

  "I’m going to have to close the door in a minute, sir," the ticket agent said as the last of the passengers filed by.

  Johnny nodded, handed me my bag, and kissed me one last time. "I love you, Twig. Always have. Always will."

  "Love you too." I hugged Johnny, concentrating on the feel of him, the smell of him. Things I wanted to remember. Finally, I let go and started to walk away.

  "Can I ask you one thing before you leave?"

  I turned to face him. "Sure, Johnny, you can ask me anything."

  "Donald’s death. Was it really an accident?" />
  Finally, Johnny had found the courage to ask the question I knew he’d been silently struggling with for weeks.

  "Who’s asking?" I queried. "Deputy Santo? Or my friend, Johnny?"

  He pulled off his Stetson, kneaded the brim with both hands for a long moment before answering. "Never mind, Twig. I think I know the truth."

  I smiled, then turned and walked toward the plane.

  Grandpa Eli had been right all along. We all filter the realities of life through our own personal fears, individual experiences, and the human need to cling to hope despite the circumstances, regardless of the odds. And in doing so, we each determine our own truth.

  THE END

  About Deborah Epperson

  Deborah Epperson has a degree in biology and English and after working in the scientific field for twenty years, she turned her talents to writing fiction and nonfiction. Her nonfiction and poetry have been published in newspapers and magazines in Montana and nationally. A transplanted Texan, she likes to write stories and characters steeped in the lyrical traditions and mystical surroundings of the Deep South where she grew up.

  Deborah lives in beautiful Northwest Montana with her husband and two children. When not working on her next novel or article, she enjoys doing pet therapy work with her golden retriever, and volunteering in animal rescue.