Marta's Legacy Collection

by Francine Rivers

  Fear melted away and loneliness won. Carolyn told Mary she had family, but they wouldn’t want her anymore. She told her about college, Chel, the protest rallies, the desperation to change the world before it was too late, and then Oma’s call telling her it already was. She told her about living in Haight-Ashbury and moving to Clement Street, the drinking and drugs, going to Woodstock and the long drive home wondering if Chel would make it.

  “Did she?”

  “Yeah. But she died of an overdose a couple months ago.” Carolyn put her hands over her face and cried. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you all that.”

  “I asked, Caro. Because I care.”

  The children raced up the slope again. The girl came over to Carolyn. “Hello.”

  Carolyn felt her face fill with heat. “Hello.”

  “Who are you?” the boy wanted to know.

  “Don’t be rude, Charlie. Caro, this is Sadie, my little lady.” She ran a tender hand over the little girl’s dark curls. “And this is Charlie, the man of the house.” Smiling, she pinched his nose. “Caro is our guest.”

  The little girl looked curious. “Is that why you made so many sandwiches, Mommy?”

  Mary laughed. “I guess so.” She patted the blanket and they sat down. They prayed together before she gave them their sandwiches.

  Charlie leaned closer to his mother and whispered loudly, “Why is Caro crying?”

  “Because she has had a very hard time.”

  “You used to cry a lot. I still hear you sometimes.”

  “Crying can be good for you.” She kissed him. “Eat your lunch.”

  They took their bread crusts and ran down to the lake, eager to toss them to the ducks. Sadie, the little lady, picked tiny white flowers from the grass while Charlie went frog hunting.

  “You should go home, Caro.”

  Carolyn hugged her knees close to her chest again and rested her forehead on them. “I don’t think I’d be welcome.”

  “Your mother and father would want you back. So would your grandmother.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Take my word for it. They would. They’d want to know you’re alive and safe, especially . . .” She turned her face away and watched her children. “They didn’t just lose their son that day, Caro. They lost you, too. I can’t even imagine what I’d feel like if I lost one, let alone both my children.”

  “They’ll never forgive me.”

  Mary faced her. “I’m a mother, and I can tell you no matter what one of my children did, I’d want them to come home. I would run to them and throw my arms around them and kiss them until they cried for mercy!” She gave a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t leave your mother and father wondering if you’re dead or alive. That’s the cruelest kind of torment.”

  Carolyn had a hundred excuses not to go home. She didn’t have a way to get there. She’d have to beg for money for bus fare. By the time she had enough, she’d be starving again. In truth, the thought terrified her. What would Mom and Dad say? What would Oma? They’d wish her dead if they knew half of what she’d done.

  Mary gathered the containers and put them back in the basket. She suddenly seemed to be in a great hurry. When she stood, Carolyn shifted off the blanket. Mary shook it out and folded it. She called Charlie and Sadie. They came reluctantly. “Do we have to go home?”

  “We’re not going home. We’re taking Caro to the bus depot. We’re going to buy her a ticket so she can go home to her family.”

  Carolyn gaped at her.

  Mary folded the blanket over the basket and picked them up in one hand. Smiling, she held out her other hand to Carolyn and helped her up. The children ran ahead to a van parked on the road.

  “Why are you helping me? Why go to all this trouble for a stranger?”

  “My husband has been MIA since Tet. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I may never know.” She gave Carolyn a tremulous smile, eyes awash with tears. “I can’t bear the thought of someone else going through the suffering I go through every day. Don’t you see, Caro? You’ve been MIA. You’ve been a prisoner of war, too. In your case, it’s just a different kind of war.”

  “Not an honorable one. It’s not the same.”

  “Oh, Caro. How could any mother or father not want their child back from the dead?” She grasped Carolyn’s hand, squeezing it. “I’ll pray they’re watching for you, and they run to you when they see you coming home. If they don’t, you call me. I’ll come and get you.”

  When the depot announced her bus was about to leave, Carolyn rose. Mary and the children walked with her. Carolyn’s heart pounded heavily. Her hands sweated. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “I’m not leaving until you’re safely settled on that bus and it’s on its way.” She scribbled her telephone number on a slip of scrap paper and handed it to Carolyn.

  When Carolyn found a seat, she saw Mary, Charlie, and Sadie waving at her. She waved back.

  14

  Carolyn got off the Greyhound bus in Paxtown and ducked into the restroom to wash her face, arms, and hands. She raked trembling fingers through her tangled hair, pulling it back over her shoulders. She didn’t even own a rubber band to secure it in a ponytail. Hoping no one would recognize her, Carolyn hurried out of the bus depot and walked quickly along Main Street with her head down. She felt people stare as she passed. She wanted to run, but knew that would only attract more unwanted attention.

  She breathed easier when she reached the end of town. It was a two-mile walk to Happy Valley Road, but she had been walking for weeks. Exhausted, sweaty, she headed for Oma’s cottage. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home from work yet. There was a car Carolyn didn’t recognize in Oma’s carport, but she didn’t answer when Carolyn knocked.

  Carolyn didn’t feel she had any right to go inside without an invitation, not anymore. She went back to the main house and lifted the flowerpot. Mom still kept the key there. She thought about going in, taking a long hot shower, washing her hair, getting something to eat. But what right did she have to go into their house? She put the flowerpot on top of the key and sat by the front door. She was so tired. If her family didn’t want her, where would she go? She awakened sharply when a car came up the gravel driveway. The hedge had grown high, and she couldn’t see whether it was Mom or Dad. Footsteps crunched in the pebbles, soft footsteps. Mom. Carolyn stood slowly, heart pounding.

  Her mother came around the corner, looking so familiar and professional in her white uniform and cap. Startled, Mom stopped. She stared at Carolyn and took a step back. Then her eyes went wide. “Carolyn?” Before Carolyn could speak, Mom dropped her purse and flew at her. Carolyn cringed, expecting a blow, but found herself in a fierce embrace. Uttering a sobbing gasp, her mother let go and stepped back. “I didn’t know it was you at first. You’re so . . . different.”

  Different wasn’t the word.

  “When did you get home? How did you get here? Where have you been? What happened? We’ve been—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes sweeping over Carolyn. She raised her hands. “Never mind.” She frowned in confusion. “Why didn’t you go inside? The key . . .”

  Carolyn didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s okay.” Mom spoke quickly. She unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Come inside.” She remembered her purse and went back for it. Holding her elbows, Carolyn waited just inside the door. “Come in.” Mom threw her purse on the breakfast counter and started to pull out the bobby pins that held her nurse’s cap in place. She headed for the back of the house. Mom always took a shower immediately after coming home from the hospital.

  Mom stopped and wheeled around. She looked scared. “Don’t leave, Carolyn.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise me!”

  “I promise.”

  Mom let out her breath. “Okay. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  A few minutes might be all her mother needed to change her mind about letting Carolyn into the house. And what then? Carolyn stood in th
e entry hall and raised her head. She caught her breath at the memorial wall in front of her.

  An eleven-by-fourteen picture of Charlie in his dress blues smiled at her. Two small potted palms sat on either side of the elaborate gilt-framed portrait sitting on a shiny black table. The wall above was covered with framed photographs: Charlie as a baby, Charlie as a toddler on his tricycle, Charlie and Mitch standing by their bikes, Charlie and Mitch in their high school football uniforms, Charlie showing off his varsity sweater, Charlie in black cap and gown holding his high school diploma and scholastic award, Charlie in his Trojan football uniform, Charlie looking handsome in Marine greens. The pictures surrounded a glass-encased triangular folded American flag set against black velvet. Below it were several colorful military ribbons, a Bronze Star, and a snapshot of Charlie grinning broadly, arms flung around two Marine buddies, a bunker and palm trees in the background.

  Carolyn’s throat closed tight and hot. If she lived a hundred years, she’d never get over losing Charlie.

  The foyer felt warm, sunlight shining in from the skylight. She glanced into the living room. Everything looked exactly the same as the day she had left home: curved beige couch and oval birch coffee table in front of the wall fireplace, two recliners with a table, the television set.

  “Carolyn?”

  She turned slowly, steeling herself for whatever her mother might do next. She’d changed into blue polyester pants and a red, white, and blue polyester blouse. Her mother had every right to scream at her and tell her to go back to whatever hole she’d been hiding in for the past thirty months. They stood staring at one another, both at a loss for words.

  Carolyn chewed her lower lip and gathered enough courage to speak. “Can I use the bathroom, Mom? Would you mind if I took a shower?”

  Mom blinked. “Yes. Of course.” She pointed as though Carolyn might not remember the way.

  Stripping off her tan leather jacket, tiered peasant skirt, and blouse, she stepped into the stream of hot water. It felt so good. She squirted Prell shampoo into her hand and scrubbed her hair. She lathered and scrubbed her body, washing until the water at her feet ran clear. Then she just stood and let the water beat down on her until it went from hot to lukewarm.

  After drying off, she wrapped the towel around herself and found a toothbrush and Colgate toothpaste in the drawer. How long since she’d brushed her teeth? Her gums bled.

  Gathering her clothes, she went into her bedroom. Nothing had changed in here either. She slid the closet door open and saw two dresses, a jumper, a few skirts and blouses she’d worn in high school, things she hadn’t wanted to take to Berkeley. She found underwear, faded jeans, and Charlie’s discarded purple and gold high school sweatshirt. He’d tossed it at her the day he graduated. “It’s all yours, Sis.” She could hear the echo of his voice.

  The jeans hung loose on her hips. She found a pink belt in the closet and cinched it to the last hole, bunching the denim around her waist. The sweatshirt looked huge on her. She put her arms around herself, thinking of Charlie.

  A brush and comb were still in the top drawer. Her scalp stung as she brushed the tangles from her hair. If she’d found scissors, she would have cut it all off, hacked it away in penance. It hung damp and limp to her waist, a curling mass of sun-bleached blonde. She couldn’t stop shivering. Ice ran in her veins.

  Charlie. Chel. Both dead.

  She went out to face Mom. Carolyn could hear the click, click, click of the potato peeler and followed the sound to the kitchen. Strips of potato peelings flew into the sink. Six naked white orbs sat on the counter. Did they have company coming to dinner? Mom glanced over her shoulder. “There you are. How was your shower?”

  “Nice.”

  “I put a roast on. Dad will be home in an hour. It’ll be a while before we can eat. Do you want anything now?”

  “A glass of milk?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Carolyn poured a full glass and drank it without stopping. She felt Mom watching her.

  “You look exhausted.” Mom bit her lip. She peeled another potato and then made a sound of disgust. Tossing the peeler aside, she scooped up the potato peels and dumped them in her compost bucket under the sink. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. Well, we’ll have leftover potatoes for a few days, I guess.” She gripped the edge of the sink and stared out the kitchen window. “Where have you been all this time?”

  “San Francisco.” Light-headed, Carolyn swayed.

  Mom had hold of her before she knew her mother had even moved. “Why don’t you lie down and take a nap? I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

  Time for what? To face her father? Time for Mom to get over the initial shock of having her daughter show up on the front doorstep like a filthy stray cat?

  “Come on.” Mom kept her arm firmly around Carolyn’s waist. When they went into Carolyn’s old bedroom, Mom let go of her and yanked back the covers. “Lie down before you fall down!” She pulled the covers up over Carolyn’s shoulders. Carolyn felt her mother’s cool hand on her forehead. “Sleep for a while.”

  She heard the sound of voices, but couldn’t quite rouse herself. Someone kissed her forehead. She thought she smelled her father’s Old Spice. More whispered voices. Then she sank into a dark pit and stayed there.

  Carolyn saw sunlight streaming in the bedroom window. How long had she slept? Her heart stopped when she heard Dad’s voice. She wanted to cover her head with the blankets and go back to sleep. But she couldn’t hide forever.

  She opened her door carefully and slipped into the bathroom while her parents talked in the kitchen. When she came out, she opened the door to Charlie’s bedroom and stepped inside.

  His bed still had the same blue spread. The red blaze roses bloomed around his window. His Monopoly game had been laid out on his desk, money neatly stacked on both sides of the board, as though he and a friend had just left the game. There were hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.

  A USC banner hung on the wall. The bookshelf Dad had built still held Charlie’s favorite sci-fi novels. She opened his closet. His shirts and slacks still hung there. She stepped inside and held a shirt to her face, breathing in the fading scent of her brother. She took it off the hanger and sat on his bed, holding the shirt to her face. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he still lived in this room, had just gone out for a drive in his red Impala.

  Gulping down a sob, she bunched the shirt against her mouth to stifle the sound. If she’d been anywhere else, out of sight, alone, she might have keened and wailed and screamed the way she had the day she learned her brother had been killed. She might have torn her clothes and ripped at her hair, might have slashed herself with a knife, anything to release the balled-up, tight-fisted, raging grief inside her.

  Jesus. Jesus! Why Charlie? Why not me? He had so much going for him. And I’m nothing.

  She thought of all the things she’d done in the last three years and wondered if a person could die of shame.

  “Carolyn?” Mom stood in the doorway, her face pale and strained.

  “I’m sorry.” Carolyn stood, legs shaky. She held Charlie’s shirt clenched in one hand. If Mom tried to take it from her, she’d hang on and fight for it.

  “Breakfast is ready.”

  Breakfast? Hadn’t she been peeling potatoes for dinner?

  Dad sat at the kitchen table. Charlie’s death had aged him. His hair had turned gray at the temples, and he had new lines across his forehead, around his eyes, and in his cheeks, lines carved by sorrow. She met his eyes briefly and bowed her head. He started to rise and seemed to change his mind. He put his hand flat on the table. “Sit down.”

  Mom set two plates on the table, one in front of Dad, one in front of Carolyn. Carolyn stared at the mound of scrambled eggs, four strips of bacon, a blueberry muffin. Mom filled her glass with orange juice. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had juice.

  Setting her own plate on the table, Mom sat. Dad said grace.

  “Y
ou slept thirty-six hours.”

  Carolyn raised her head and looked at her father.

  “You must’ve needed it.” He forked eggs into his mouth, not looking at her.

  “You need to eat, too.” Mom waved at the plate.

  Carolyn’s hand shook when she picked up the fork, and her teeth hurt when she chewed. Her throat felt so dry she had to swallow orange juice to wash down the muffin. Though they didn’t stare, she felt her parents’ attention fixed on her. What thoughts ran through their heads? What names did they want to call her? Druggie. Boozer. Hippy. Worthless slut.

  All true.

  They didn’t ask questions; the silence became excruciating. She’d prepared herself for anger, accusations, fury, fingers pointed at the door, but not this watchful tension, this nervous caution.

  She’d been sent home by Jesus, bus fare paid by one of His saints. Now what? What could she say? What excuses could she offer?

  She couldn’t eat any more. She put her fork down carefully, head still bowed. She put her hands on the table, meaning to push the chair back. Dad grabbed her hand, pinning her at the table. “We’re glad you came home, Carolyn.” His voice sounded rough and hoarse. “You know that, don’t you?”

  She raised her head and looked at him.

  “We’re glad you’re home,” he repeated.

  She pulled her hand away and covered her face. She gulped down a sob.

  How long had she been running on empty? Since she’d run from Berkeley . . . or long before that? She’d tried to fill the void, but nothing had worked—not alcohol, not drugs, not sex. All of it emptied her even more.

  She had one miraculous moment to cling to in all that mess. One single minute at dawn, the May flowers blooming like stars in the grass, and Jesus laying His hand on her head. Telling her it was time to go home.

  Jesus. They’d never believe it, not in a thousand years. They’d think she’d had some kind of drug-induced hallucination.

  A sound came out of Dad, ripped out.