Moondust Lake

by Davis Bunn

  “Where did you hear about it?”

  “From Kimberly.” He waited for a rejoinder, but the hall had gone silent. Buddy ventured, “How did it go with you?”

  “I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  “Sure.”

  “Maybe someday. But not yet.”

  “I understand.”

  “But it was nice. No, not nice.”

  Buddy zipped the satchel shut, grabbed his jacket, and came out to where his sister leaned on the wall. “Important?”

  “Very.”

  “I’m glad.” He kissed the spot where her temple met her hairline. “The place is yours.”

  * * *

  Moondust Lake fronted the ridgeline separating it from Miramar Bay. The retreat center contained a chapel and meeting halls and a string of cabins, each with a broad veranda overlooking the still waters. The springtime forest stretched out verdant and dotted with early blossoms. The world was so silent Buddy could hear the ocean’s distant murmur.

  The main house rose on the lake’s opposite shore, a massive structure built to model a log cabin. Only this one was three stories tall and rimmed by a porch larger than Buddy’s entire home. The actor had built it after his second heart attack, and in his will he had turned it into central California’s first hospice center. His estate was large enough to ensure that no patient was ever turned away for lack of funds.

  Buddy could not have asked for a finer or more fitting refuge. The day and place both seemed designed for him. Clouds gathered at sunset and formed a soothing blanket of pearl luminescence. His was the only occupied bed in a cabin designed to hold fourteen. The electric heater ticked in the corner of his little room. The retreat’s eleven other guests were spread all over the place, and appeared as intent upon silence as he. They all took their meals at the same long table, but none of them spoke. Most brought books to read while eating. Buddy carried just two mostly blank pages. The headings were all he had written thus far. The first read, What friends and loved ones will say of me in five years’ time. The second was even simpler: The definition of my team. Some might have considered it a harrowing experience, having no idea what to write. Buddy considered the titles a triumph. He had found a new compass heading. The first step had been taken. That night he slept deeply. The dream with his father’s face did not assault him until dawn, and even then the monster’s roar was muted.

  The day passed in splendid solitude. He walked along forest paths and sat at his narrow window and he spent hours doing nothing whatsoever. He ate his dinner and then stood by the lake and watched the day fade. The clouds turned a magnificent shade of rose before evening took hold. When the cold began to bite through his clothes, he returned to his cabin. He slept and again confronted his father, and yet there was no fear to the dream, not even when he woke gasping. Instead, Buddy sensed that he was gradually drawing away. The change was neither instant nor easy. But it was coming. The assurance carried him through a dawn run and breakfast and departure. It was only when he rejoined the highway leading back to San Luis Obispo that he knew the first taste of uncertainty.

  He did what came most natural. He turned on his phone and called Kimberly.

  She answered on the first ring. “Buddy?”

  “Is it a bad time?”

  “I’m about to go in with a patient. Can I ring you back in fifty-five minutes?”

  He liked how she said that. Not an hour. As though she, too, would be counting down the time separating them. “Absolutely.”

  “No, wait, wait. How was it?”

  “Thank you, Kimberly. For the gift.”

  “That’s so great.” If a farewell could carry with it a hug, it was hers. “I can’t wait to hear everything. Bye for now.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The traffic congealed and left Buddy feeling trapped—that was how he put it when Kimberly phoned him back. She sat in her bright new office with the big window overlooking three ancient oaks. She faced a green wall, minty and fresh in the midday sun, and listened to a strong young man confess to weakness and fear, and felt her heart turn over with each word he spoke.

  “It’s ridiculous to worry about my father taking away what I found up there,” he was saying. “I know it’s just my response to returning to this world. I mean, my head knows it. But in my heart all I can think of is how great it was to get away, and how hard it is to come home.” He paused a moment, then asked, “Does that make any sense at all?”

  “Preston and I went up there to recover from the death of my second father,” Kimberly replied. “I lost my parents when I was young. Preston’s family took me in. His father died last year. Preston is still recovering. They were close in a way that makes me weep to think about. They were more than just father and son. They were best friends.”

  Buddy was silent for a time, then said slowly, “I can’t imagine what that must be like.”

  “Preston heard about this retreat center at his seminary. He suggested we go. I went because I was in my own trapped space. My husband left me.”

  “Kimberly, wait. Wait. Just hold on a second.”

  She felt the words grow trapped in her throat. Clogged with regret that she had mentioned her own broken past. She expected Buddy to come back with some self-centered comment. Then corrected herself. Why should he say anything at all, except ask why she was talking like this. After all, he wasn’t the one who had experienced that ludicrous concept on the church stairs, the message of a love she never wanted, the thought that just would not let go.

  “All right. I’m taking the exit. Wait. Okay, I’ve pulled off the road. Now go ahead. You and Preston went up to the retreat center. When was that?”

  “Nine months ago.” His words registered. “You’ve pulled off the highway?”

  “I need to concentrate. Do you want to talk about your own reasons for going?”

  Of course she didn’t. But this wasn’t about what she wanted. The words rose like a lament she had been waiting years to sing. A plainsong of regret and loss and yearning she had trained herself to ignore. “I got married right out of university. I got pregnant. My ex left me. For my best friend. I lost the baby.”

  “Oh, Kimberly.”

  She wiped her face, and realized she was weeping. “Hold on a second.” She rose from her desk and walked on unsteady legs across her office and locked her door. “All right. I’m back.”

  “How long ago did all this happen?”

  “Almost four years. On one level I’m fine. I got my counseling degree. I’ve made a new life. I accepted this new job. But on another . . .”

  “You’re still just going through the motions.”

  “Preston found this retreat center and we went. It was a glorious time. A week that felt like months. For the first time since Jason walked out, I felt like maybe, just maybe, I might have a future.” She opened the top right drawer and pulled out the box of tissues intended for her patients. She blew her nose and went on, recalling. “Preston accepted the job here and came down. When he left, I felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. Everything I had thought I might claim for myself was gone again. I was back in that same dark space. Four months later, Preston told me about this position at the same clinic where he was working. I applied for this job, thinking I could move in with him and we could start rebuilding our lives. But now . . .”

  “But now that you’re here,” Buddy finished for her, “you feel like you’re trapped again. Not moving forward. Back in the cage. With no way out.”

  Kimberly made a fist and struck her thigh. Willing herself to stop this ridiculousness. “We were talking about you.”

  “We are talking about me. What does it mean, to go away and feel restored and find hope, then come back and worry about losing it all?”

  She wrecked another tissue. “I wish I knew.”

  He went silent for so long she managed to regain control. Finally he said, “Before I went, your cousin said I needed to make a list of what I wanted people to say about me in
five years. People I cared about, and who cared about me. Should I be talking about this with you?”

  “I doubt seriously,” she replied, “that there are any guidelines in all my professional texts that would possibly cover this conversation.”

  “All I managed to write down up there was the heading. But it still felt right. Then and now. I feel as though . . .”

  “Tell me,” she pleaded.

  “It’s not the list that is important. It’s how I’m already taking a new direction. Just because I’ve found the right way forward doesn’t mean I’ve arrived.” He hesitated, then said, “Maybe it’s the same for you. Maybe the important thing is, you know what you want.”

  “But I don’t. I don’t know anything.”

  “I think you do. You want to heal. You want to leave behind the bad days. You want to free yourself from the chains of pain and regret. You want a future that is yours.”

  She pulled out another tissue. “And so do you.”

  “More than anything I’ve wanted in my entire life.”

  * * *

  The conversation with Kimberly left him feeling not so much prepared as able to accept the welcome he received upon arriving home. Buddy locked his car and carried his satchel up the town house’s front walk, when a man rose from a battered Ford and called, “Mr. Helms, do I have that right?”

  “Yes.”

  The man had an odd way of walking, bent slightly to one side, as though listening to a smaller person walking alongside him. He wore his clothes in clownish disarray, rumpled trousers and pale yellow shirt opened to reveal a T-shirt the same color. Poorly knotted wool tie at half-mast. The end of his belt dangled and bounced with each step. His lumpish body jiggled as he walked up and handed him the envelope and said, “Sorry, Mr. Helms. Have a nice day.”

  Buddy did not drop his satchel from the shock of being served. He set it down because he needed both hands to open the envelope, and he did not want to taint his home with whatever it contained.

  “Buddy, why are you standing out there?”

  He unfolded the bulky document, and said, “Fifty million.”

  Carey walked down his front steps. “What are you talking about?”

  “Pop is suing me.”

  “Oh, Buddy.” She tugged on his arm. “Come inside.”

  Buddy entered his home and allowed Carey to settle him on a stool at the kitchen counter. She fussed about, making him tea and a sandwich. It was something his mother would have done, offering him this comforting presence, dancing around the space in front of his eyes, reminding him that there were people who cared for him and treated his needs as important. Good people.

  “I’ve been going about this all wrong,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Dealing with Pop.”

  “There is no deal.” She pointed at the envelope. “You should know that by now.”

  “No, what I mean . . .”

  When he didn’t finish, she did not press him. Carey clearly had no interest in discussing their father. “I was about to leave. Kimberly had a cancelation and invited me to come in. I thought it could be important to keep going with, you know, whatever.”

  The name alone was enough to draw the kitchen back into focus. “She’s nice, isn’t she?”

  “She’s more than that. She’s beautiful, and she’s wise.” Carey glanced at her watch. “Maybe I should cancel.”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  She was already gathering up her keys and jacket. “You want to meet at Mom’s after?”

  “Can’t. I need to do something.” He decided there was no reason not to get started, and hefted his satchel and followed Carey out.

  “You just got home and you’re leaving again?”

  He kissed his sister. “Tell Mom I’ll call.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Buddy waited until he dumped his satchel back in his car to say, “To find answers to questions I’ve spent my entire adult life not asking.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Within the first ten minutes of their appointment, Kimberly knew she was going to have difficulty with this patient.

  It was not that Carey was proving hard to treat. Rather, Kimberly found herself unable to look at the lady and not see her brother. Buddy was a presence inside the room, made ever clearer by how Carey continually drew him into her conversation. Kimberly disliked this sense of boundaries dissolving. And yet she could not stop her thoughts from wandering, drawn by the man who was not even there.

  Carey described how she had spent the previous several hours changing the locks on her apartment, then stopped in midsentence, waved aside her own words, and said, “Man problems. Do I need to go there again?”

  “Not unless you want to.”

  “My problems didn’t start with Ricardo. And he wasn’t the issue. I was.”

  “That’s a very healthy attitude, Carey. Could we change the subject, please? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”

  But three sentences into Kimberly’s explanation as to why Carey should shift to Preston, she interrupted with, “Buddy likes you.”

  There was no reason why such a declaration should leave her feeling giddy. “He told you that?”

  “He said you were beautiful. Inside and out. He hasn’t spoken about anyone like that since Shona broke his heart.”

  Kimberly resisted the sudden urge to ask about the former flame, the woman whose name she now knew. “Which brings us back to the point at hand. There are any number of reasons why you should see another therapist.”

  “I don’t want to change.”

  “Carey, if you stay, and if I go out with your brother . . .”

  “That would be so great.”

  “I have no idea how I could respect the confidentiality issue.”

  “Then don’t bother with it. Buddy knows more about me than anybody, except Mom. He’s also better at keeping secrets. And Buddy respects me. Nothing you two discuss is going to change that. Do you know how special it is to be so confident about someone that they can be trusted with the darkest parts of me, and I can still be certain he will always love me? Always be there?”

  “It would be very special indeed,” Kimberly replied.

  “Right. So tell him what you want, don’t worry about what slips out.” Carey had an infectious grin. “And have fun. Buddy deserves that. Fun.”

  “I think so, too.”

  Her smile slipped away. “But be careful around Pop. Word to the wise.”

  “Why is that, Carey?”

  “Because he’s a dangerous enemy.” The light had gone from her face. “And that’s what Buddy is now. His foe.”

  Kimberly resisted the sudden urge to tell Carey about her conversation with Jack Helms. She was too much a professional to cause a patient unnecessary distress. “You’re saying Buddy is in danger?”

  “I don’t . . . Buddy has been handling Pop’s attacks his entire life.” She sounded like a little girl now. Resigned and helpless. “Unlike me and Sylvie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was seventeen when Sylvie left home. Buddy was nineteen, Sylvie almost twenty-one. Sylvie had been in and out of trouble, I don’t know, probably since birth. Pop punished her all the time, Mom comforted, life went on, you know? By that point I was already the house turtle. The first hint of Pop going manic, and I retreated inside my shell.”

  Carey drew herself inward until she was seated like one of Kimberly’s teenage patients. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. She stretched out the sleeves of her shapeless sweater so as to hide all but the tips of her fingernails. She hid the lower half of her face behind her thighs, like the words weren’t supposed to ever be spoken, and she was afraid of what might happen. Even here.

  “Buddy called it my secret life. I hated it when he said that. Like he could see inside my shell. Which I didn’t want anybody being able to do. It was too dangerous.”

  “Was your father often, as you say, manic?”
>
  “Before that awful summer, hardly ever. Things were mostly great in our family. My mother was a peacemaker, and whenever the storm clouds gathered, Mom always seemed to know what to do. But then Sylvie went through what Buddy called ‘the change of life . . .’”

  Carey’s face came back into view. Her features held the abundant mix of emotions that signaled a breakthrough. On the one hand, Kimberly desperately wanted to help this young woman forge a new path. On the other, there loomed all the reasons why Carey should be seen by another professional. Before she could speak, however, Carey announced, “I’ve just thought of something for the first time ever.”

  “Do you want to tell me?”

  “Pop wasn’t the first to go through a dark transition. It was my sister.” Carey rocked back in her seat. “Why haven’t I ever seen that before?”

  Kimberly felt such a sense of inner conflict she had difficulty shaping the words. “What reason for this comes to mind?”

  “Because Pop is always there. The angry elephant in the room. Sylvie is a thousand miles away . . . No, that isn’t it.” Carey frowned with her entire body, the arms wrapped around her legs clenched up as tight as her face. “Sylvie was never what you call happy. She always took a delight in getting away with things. My first clear memory of my sister is her sneaking in our bedroom window around dawn. But something happened that summer. She stopped sneaking. She . . . It was like she baited Daddy. See how mad she could make him. Like she knew she was leaving, and she wanted to wreak as much havoc as she possibly could in the process.”

  Kimberly decided there was no reason not to be straight with this woman. “Some people with severe emotional issues seek parental connection in whatever manner they find predictable. Yes, it is possible that Sylvie recognized the dark side to your father’s nature as being who she saw herself to be. He sought to hide this component of his character even from himself. Perhaps he sought to claim that it did not exist at all. Sylvie had chosen to embrace it. She saw these confrontations as the most honest way to connect with your father.”