by Lisa Wingate
In the backseat, Teddy started humming along, occasionally chiming in on “sunshine,” “gray,” and “away.”
Clearly, he knew the words. My father wasn’t singing that song to me, remembering the special, private moments of my childhood we’d shared. He was merely replaying a tune locked somewhere in the neurological tangle of his memories. Teddy knew the song because they’d sung it together.
The tenderness inside me whiplashed into jealousy, and even though I didn’t want the sensation, I felt it burn hot and bitter in the back of my throat. Even that one little thing—that one song—he couldn’t have saved for me?
Teddy and Hanna Beth got everything—even “My Sunshine.”
Leaning down to look in the side-view mirror, my father stopped singing. “Let’s stop off for a snow cone, like we used to.” His voice was clear, no sign of the tremors that had slurred his speech before he went to the hospital. Dr. Amadi had been pleased with his progress. The doctor was hopeful that, when today’s sedative wore off, and with some time for the new medication to work, at home among familiar surroundings, my father would continue to regain his grasp on reality.
His clarity of speech was an improvement, but it didn’t feel like a victory. There was no snow cone stand on the corner when I was a child here. My father and I had never stopped on this corner to listen to the Good Humor tune and buy a treat.
He was talking to Teddy.
“Okay, Daddy Ed,” Teddy said, licking his lips and swallowing. “I like red.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said, and drove on, frustrated with the situation and with myself. Would there ever come a day when my thoughts, my emotions toward my father, toward Hanna Beth and Teddy, weren’t bound in a sticky web of past transgressions and remembered pain? The memories were slick and black, agile and blood-thirsty, operating with the deftness of a black widow. They quickly grabbed anything new that fluttered by, wrapped it in sticky silk, and drained it of life.
How could I make it stop? How could I leave behind this childishness and let the future be . . . whatever it was meant to be? I wanted to heal. I wanted to stop dredging up the anger, the guilt, the pain. My stomach had been clenched in a churning knot for days. At night, it burned into my throat, waking me from a fitful sleep that was filled with strange dreams and half-conscious thoughts.
In the seat beside me, my father sighed, sank against the armrest, and sat looking out the window. We traversed the remainder of the streets in silence, then pulled into the left lane waiting to turn onto Vista.
Rubbing his knuckles across the glass as if he were trying to clear away condensation, my father craned close to the window. “They’ve torn down your old blue house.” His voice was almost too faint to be audible. In the back, Teddy gave no indication that he’d heard.
A softness bloomed inside me again, like an early daffodil probing the winter chill. The absence of the blue gingerbread-encrusted house with its wraparound porches was the first thing I’d noticed, arriving back on Blue Sky Hill. I’d never imagined the place would be gone. “I always loved that house,” I heard myself say.
My father turned to look at me then, the movement coming slowly, purposefully, as if he had something fragile in his head and was being careful not to shake it. He studied me for a long time, his lashes slightly lowered, his hazel eyes curled upward at the corners, mirroring a smile that was in his mind but hadn’t found his lips. “It always let you know where the turn was.” Chuckling softly in his throat, he extended a hand across the space between us, patted my arm. The haze lifted from him, so that I felt as if he were seeing me, really seeing me. Rebecca, a grown-up version of the little girl whose Cinderella castle was the towering blue gingerbread house on the corner. “You always wanted to know where we were going,” he added, then turned back to the window, his lips trembling with some sentiment I could only guess at. He drifted away, seeming to fade slowly from himself, until he was just a shadow, sitting there. Head nodding forward, he gave in to the sedative again and let his eyes close.
“Don’t fall asleep, all right? We’ll be home in a minute,” I said, then shook his shoulder. A gap in traffic presented itself, and I gunned the engine. The tires squealed as we rocketed through.
“Good Lord!” My father snapped upright, coming back to life as we whipped onto Vista Street.
“Wooh-weee!” Teddy made motor sounds, then imitated the squeal of the tires. As we passed the construction sites, he described the heavy equipment while waving at the workers. “There my friend,” he observed as one of the men returned his greeting. “There my friend, Daddy Ed.”
Daddy Ed didn’t answer. He was fading again. I hurried through the neighborhood, past the remainder of new construction, around the corner onto Blue Sky Hill Court, where the old houses with their iron fences and stately yards sat drowsy and faded beneath the graceful patinas of time. The man with the art portfolio was just arriving home again. Teddy waved, but the man pretended not to notice.
My father was oblivious to his presence. His head nodded forward as we reached the end of the street and pulled into our driveway. By the time the garage door closed behind us, he was almost completely asleep. Teddy led him into the house, carefully, up one step at a time to the cloakroom.
Setting down my purse and briefcase, I watched as my father stood there, seeming lost, like a guest in his own home. “I have some roast beef sandwiches for supper. It’ll only take a minute. Why don’t you go on in and sit down in your chair? It’s been a long day.”
He cocked his head, momentarily perplexed by the statement, then turned and shuffled across the coatroom, disappearing through the door without a word. Teddy’s brows formed a worry knot.
“It’s all right,” I said. “Just let him go sit down and rest a while. He’ll feel better when the medicine Dr. Amadi gave him starts to wear off.”
“Ho-kay.” Teddy’s reply conveyed complete faith in my ability to have all the answers. “I gone go my plants.” As usual, he waited for permission.
“That sounds fine. We’ll have supper in a little while.”
“Mary gone come eat supper?” He scanned the front window.
Apprehension kinked the muscles in the back of my neck, squeezed like a fisherman’s knot, causing me to wonder if a migraine might not be far behind. I realized, dimly, that I hadn’t had one since the evening I arrived in Dallas. Perhaps my body knew there just wasn’t time for it.
I hoped this arrangement with Mary worked out. Right now, it felt as if I’d invited overnight houseguests at the worst possible time. The apartment needed cleaning. There was the issue of buying more groceries—we hadn’t even talked about who would pay for what, or which responsibilities Mary would assume, or when and how Ifeoma would come and go.
The plan suddenly seemed ill-advised and likely to end in disaster. “I don’t know exactly when she’ll be here. In a little while, I think. I don’t know how much packing she has to do at her old apartment.”
“She gone bring the boy and the udder boy?” Teddy’s level of enthusiasm far surpassed mine.
“I imagine so.”
Teddy clapped his palms together, fingers stiff and outstretched.
I felt the need to rein him in, to make sure he understood the parameters of the situation. “It’s only a little while. You remember, I told you that at the nursing center? Mary’s just doing this until we can find someone to live here all the time.”
“Uh-huh.” Teddy nodded, while looking over his shoulder toward the door. The practicalities of the situation didn’t interest him. “I gone my plants.”
“All right.”
Teddy hurried off, and I proceeded into the house. My father wasn’t in the living room. A mild note of panic struck me as I checked the kitchen, the maid’s pantry, the bathroom, his office.
I found him in his bedroom, curled up atop the covers in nothing but his underwear. The clothes he’d left the hospital in were hung neatly on the dressing rack that had held his daily business suit fo
r as long as I could remember. He’d tucked his slippers underneath, where his black wingtips had always been.
Watching from the doorway, I vacillated between waking him up, insisting he eat supper, or leaving him to sleep until the sedatives wore off. Finally I covered him with an extra blanket. Supper could wait. I needed to check the supply of groceries, maybe transfer a few starter items to the apartment kitchen, scan the e-mail from my office, let Kyle know that if my father continued improving, and Mary worked out, I could fly back to California for a few days, do a little firefighting at the office, then return here when Hanna Beth was closer to coming home. By then, perhaps, through some phone interviews, I could have a permanent caretaker lined up.
I carried my father’s new prescriptions in from the car and arranged them carefully in the back of an unused silverware drawer, where I was fairly certain he wouldn’t find them if he went looking. I left the bags and slips on the counter with his discharge papers so I could apprise Mary of all the instructions. I hoped that when she realized what she was getting into, when she actually saw the apartment over the garage, she wouldn’t run away screaming. Teddy and I had picked things up and moved out various stored boxes, so the apartment could be shown to prospective employees, but, like most of my plans, finding a housekeeping service to give the place a wall-to-wall cleaning remained on the to-do list.
Glancing at the clock, I realized it was later than I’d thought. Mary could arrive anytime. The sink was full of dishes, the counter cluttered, so I hurried through a cursory cleanup, stuffing the dirties in the dishwasher. My cell phone rang as I was putting soap in the dispenser. Bree was on the other end with some questions about a meeting for an upcoming Immigration Court hearing. I’d checked the client’s application for asylum that morning and e-mailed it to the office. Bree sounded frustrated. She was quick to divulge that Kyle was on a rampage because he and my paralegal would have to cover the meeting at four o’clock. My clients had already phoned in with questions he couldn’t answer, immigration not being his area of expertise.
“I’m sorry,” I told Bree. “Let him know it’s my fault. I didn’t see his e-mail until this morning. I should have checked last night.” Somewhere between the shower and computer the night before, I’d made the irrational decision to lie down for just a minute before logging on to take care of my in-box. I was out like a light the minute my head hit the pillow. When I awoke, it was after midnight, the house was dark, and Teddy had covered me with a blanket, then gone to sleep.
“It’s all right.” Bree emitted a frustrated sigh, as if she were considering giving up legal work altogether. “The file didn’t download right, though. The last half is some kind of encrypted garbage. Can you send it again, real quick?”
“It’ll take a few minutes.”
Bree sighed again. “All right. Sorry, Mrs. Macklin.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.” It seemed strange to be comforting Bree, considering that not so long ago I’d been upset about Kyle letting her listen in on our private conversations. “Things happen.”
“It’s not easy filling your shoes,” she lamented, then seemed to think better of the comment. “Sorry.”
“I’ll have the file to you in a minute,” I promised, taking the phone with me on the way upstairs. I balanced it between my chin and shoulder as I unpacked my laptop on the bed and turned it on. “Thank you for going after Macey earlier, by the way. She called and told me all about the big adventure at school.”
“Sure,” Bree answered. “I don’t mind picking her up. She’s always real sweet.”
I was focused on the computer, trying to hurry the Windows screen along by watching it. The word “always” took a moment to cause a ripple in my thoughts. Always? “I didn’t realize you’d picked her up before.”
“Just once when the kid she was supposed to ride with got sick at school, and another day, when her ankle was hurting, and the nurse couldn’t reach her grandma, and her dad was . . .” Bree hesitated, a tiny pause in the stream of singsong communication, during which I imagined all sorts of things. Finally, she finished with, “Out of the office.”
The computer logged on, but all I could think was, Out of the office. . . . Out? Out where? If he was in court or had gone to a meeting with a client, why wouldn’t Bree just say that? Why the careful, cagey response? Was she protecting him? Did she know things she didn’t want to divulge? “Hang on a minute,” I said, then focused on the computer long enough to attach the file to an e-mail and let it upload into cyberspace. “All right, the file should be on its way.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Macklin. I’d better go.”
“Bree?” I said, even though I knew she had work to do.
“Yes, Mrs. Macklin?”
“Do you know why Kyle was out of the office when the nurse called about Macey?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t.” Her response was quick, almost an apology, as if she’d considered it ahead of time. “He just called and asked me to pick up Macey. That’s all I know.”
“He didn’t say where he was?” Stop it, Rebecca. Stop. This is inappropriate. It’s pathetic. It’s unprofessional.
“I didn’t ask. Listen, Mrs. Macklin, I know—”
“It’s all right,” I cut her off before she could say anything more. Downstairs, the doorbell was ringing. “Call me back if the file doesn’t come through.”
“All right, Mrs. Macklin. Thanks.”
“Good-bye, Bree.”
I hung up the phone and hurried downstairs. Mary was on the porch. Brandon stood shyly holding her hand, and Brady was asleep on her shoulder. “Sorry,” she said, cuddling his head with her chin. “I tried to wake him up, but he’s out.” Brady’s lips pursed, his shoulders rising and lowering as he exhaled the long, slow breaths of childhood.
“He looks tired,” I agreed, remembering the days when I would get Macey out of the safety seat, carry her through a shopping mall, put her back in the car, and drive home without waking her up. “My daughter always slept like that when she was little.”
Mary fluttered a slight smile, as if she sensed the invisible language of motherhood between us. “They didn’t get much sleep the last couple nights. Normally, he’s pretty independent.” She glanced pointedly at me, indicating that she wouldn’t have a preschooler attached to her hip all the time.
We stood in awkward silence. “I guess you all would probably like to see the apartment, maybe get settled in, huh?” I offered finally.
“Whatever you want to do first.” In one practiced motion, Mary hiked Brady higher onto her hip.
I pointed toward the side of the house, pulling the door closed behind me as we started in that direction. “There’s an inside door to the apartment in the upstairs hallway, but it’s probably easier to just go up the stairway by the backyard gate.”
Brandon shot a glance upward when I said backyard. “Is Teddy there?”
“Brandon,” Mary scolded, giving him a reminder look that told me she’d instructed him to be seen and not heard.
“I think so.” I crossed the driveway and started around the side of the house. “Let’s go upstairs for a minute, and then we’ll find Teddy, and he can help you bring in your things.” I flinched apologetically as we walked through the gate and started up the wooden stairs to the garage apartment. “I really have to apologize for the condition of things up here. I wanted to have it cleaned before anybody . . .” I was about to say “moved in,” but that seemed too much an indication of permanence. “Stayed here.”
“It’ll be fine,” Mary answered, almost too quickly. “The boys and I can clean it up. They’re good helpers, aren’t you, Brandon?”
Her son shrugged, trudging unenthusiastically up the stairs, with an eye toward the backyard. I wondered where Teddy was.
Opening the apartment door with Mary and Brandon next to me on the tiny landing, I felt the need to apologize again. Compared to the grandeur of the house, the apartment was terribly Spartan. “I checked to make
sure everything was working out here, but I have to warn you that it’s very bas—” The last syllable, “ic,” slipped from my lips and disappeared as the door fell open.
The upstairs apartment was anything but basic. In fact, it was a sea of color, a bouquet of scent, and light, and texture, a masterpiece of living treasures. Brightly blooming moss roses and vincas trailed along the tabletops and the arms of the sofa and chairs. On the empty bookshelf, tiny seedlings stretched upward in a carefully arranged rainbow of plastic cups, and along the windowsills, iris and daylilies waited in colored glass bottles that caught the evening sun and showered the room with tiny prisms of painted light.
In the time I’d been downstairs fretting over the dishes, Teddy had filled Mary’s room with growing things, creating a welcome card of life, and hope, and possibility. Where there had been only a silent, dusty space, suddenly there was a home.
CHAPTER 20
Hanna Beth Parker
There are times when you awake, and sense the coming day hovering just beyond the edge of the world. Your heartbeat quickens, anticipating the blinding brightness of it, grasping its awesome possibility. You await the first rays of dawn, feeling that God must have whispered something in your ear just before you roused from sleep. You can hear the voice, not quite the words, but you feel, you know with everything in you, that a promise has been made. The dark night of your soul is fading and dawn will soon arrive.
Claude, already moving around in his room, must have felt it, too, or perhaps he was just restless, a bit lonesome with Mary and the boys not coming to wash up for several mornings now. He was happy that they were settling in so well at my house, but still he missed them. Mary promised that on the weekend when she was off work, she would bring the boys to see him. Claude said she didn’t need to bother with him on her day off, but it was clear that he wanted the visit. I felt sorry for him, having no one to come see him in his old age.
He wheeled himself to my door, hesitated there. “Pssst. You awake in there, Birdie?” He kept his voice low, because if Betty heard him prowling around this early, she’d put him back to bed.