Like a Love Song

by Camille Eide

  Sue closed her eyes and leaned back. Since Joe didn’t seem too chatty, she could catch a cat nap. Lately, sleep had come in precious short supply. But after several minutes, the silence in the truck rattled her. It wasn’t like Joe to be so quiet. She peeked at his profile.

  Wearing a grim look, he breathed deeply of the air rushing in his window.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His hand jerked on the wheel.

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you. Guess you were kinda lost in thought there.” And maybe it’s none of my business.

  But Joe didn’t seem to hear her.

  Sue fished a water bottle from her tote bag and took a long drink. Something had upset him; she could feel it. Did he resent spending the day bringing her to town?

  No, not likely.

  She took another sip and gave in to the nudging in her gut. “Joe, are you okay?”

  He checked the rear-view mirror as they neared a passing lane, veered to the right, and let a four-by-four pass them like they weren’t moving. “I’m good.”

  Sue studied the unusually stony look of his jaw and chuckled lightly. “Sorry to break it to you, but you’re a terrible liar.”

  “I know.”

  A few more miles of silence made it clear he didn’t want to talk. And why should he? The man had a right to his privacy.

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, but her leg throbbed too much to let her sleep, and Joe’s dark mood filled the cab like a coastal fog. The urge to ask tugged at her again, but before she could speak, Joe cleared his throat.

  “Remember me telling you about the family who adopted me?”

  “Yes. Jacobs, wasn’t it?”

  Nodding, he checked the mirror again. “I’ve been looking for them for a long time. Turns out they live in Bend. While you were at therapy, I went to see them.”

  What would have possessed him to do that? The ache she’d felt when he’d told her about being separated from his brother burned through her again.

  Clearly, his visit with them hadn’t been a jolly reunion.

  “So how did it go?” she asked.

  “It didn’t. I mean, when I saw where they live …” His hands strangled the wheel. “I couldn’t do it.” A silent struggle played out on his face.

  She could only guess what demons had driven him to find them in the first place. “What couldn’t you do?”

  Eyes fixed on the road, he said, “I thought they needed to hear the truth. I’ve been planning this for a long time. But when I saw where they live, telling them off seemed … pointless.”

  Out of all the people she could see confronting someone in anger, Joe wasn’t one of them. She had dreamed—fantasized, actually—about visiting one particular foster family from her past and unleashing a verbal hurricane on them. And bulldozing their house to dust while she was at it. But there was no point, nothing to be gained by it. She’d survived. She had no need for revenge or retaliation. She’d moved on. “So you went to confront them but then changed your mind?”

  He nodded.

  “Why?”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “Not a clue.”

  “Maybe you felt sorry for them?”

  His lips formed a line. He nodded.

  If sympathy had rendered Joe unable to follow through with a confrontation, then he had more compassion than anyone she knew, including herself. How ironic, and how unfair. It proved to Sue, once again, that so-called family had more power to inflict damage than anyone else.

  Her mom’s voice broke through her thoughts. You’re coming home with me, Suzy—isn’t that cool? We’ll be together again! We’ll have a blast, sweetie. I promise. Hey, let’s go to the beach and have a party! Just you and me. We’ll stuff ourselves with shrimp cocktails and chocolate and build sandcastles—

  Sue shifted in her seat and focused on the dusty, dry desert outside her window, but memories of that cold, gritty weekend at the beach swept across her thoughts like frigid sea foam. The chocolate and castle-making and silly laughter as she and her mom chased each other in the waves was short lived, coming to a silent halt by her mother’s sudden absence. But by age twelve, Sue knew her mom well enough not to be surprised. To Mom’s credit, she’d hung around longer than usual before sneaking off to the nearest bar.

  It wasn’t until Mom returned after midnight with some guy and “accidentally” locked Sue out of the musty cabin, leaving her to spend a wet night alone on a dark beach, frozen by the wind and pelted by gritty sand, that Sue had finally faced the truth. Love was a joke, a fantasy, nothing more than a castle of sand dissolved by the incoming tide.

  The memory of her mom’s betrayal had also dissolved over time, but the scar had not. It served as a practical reminder that longing for love was too painful. It left her feeling even emptier than if she’d never known it.

  When you don’t need love, no one can hurt you.

  Joe, still focused on the highway, seemed lost in memories of his own.

  Hearing about his struggles with his adoptive family made Sue even more convinced that the best kind of family was the kind she now had. The Juniper Ranch kids didn’t let her down, because she expected nothing from them; they had enough struggles of their own. She could provide shelter, encourage and equip them, and give them what they needed without needing anything in return. She could handle a family like that.

  Sue looked out her window at the white-capped peaks of the Three Sisters. Faith, Hope, and Love. Too bad those qualities weren’t as solid as the mountains bearing those names.

  Joe slowed for the junction and downshifted, then headed east.

  “Joe, are you having second thoughts about leaving without talking to that family?”

  “No,” he said, his voice oddly quiet. “It was the right thing to do.”

  Her pulse quickened at his solemn tone. What was it about him that continually threw her off?

  “You’re a good man, Joe.” Where did that come from? “I mean, for a roughneck.”

  With a weak laugh, he met her gaze for a moment before turning back to watch the road. “Not that good. I get a lot of help from God. But even with His help, it’s taken me a long time to forgive them.”

  Forgive? No. She couldn’t have heard that right. Forget—maybe. Dig a mental hole, toss them in, and bury them until their faces eventually faded from her mind, sure. But forgive? Sue massaged her aching knee. “Have they even bothered to apologize?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Then why waste energy on them? You’re a hardworking, responsible man. You came out on top with no help from them. You don’t owe them anything.”

  He uncapped the water in his cup holder and took a drink, then wiped his lips with a sleeve. “Forgiveness is rarely deserved. It’s more like a gift. And you’re right—I don’t owe them. But I do owe my Heavenly Father.”

  With a snort, Sue turned to watch the blur of slender pines along the roadside. “Every father I’ve ever known either bailed or wielded the title like a club.” She swallowed her rising bitterness. “The idea of being beholden to a father of any kind makes me want to vomit.”

  Joe kept his eyes on the road, but his grim look melted into something she couldn’t stand.

  Pity.

  His hands loosened their stranglehold on the wheel. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Nope. Nothing to talk about.”

  Fascinating topic, Sooz. Next time, just go with the nap.

  Chapter Twelve

  After a second round with the Psychotic Torturist on Monday, Sue had a little better handle on the pain and was ready to do some therapy at home. And her reward—she could lose the crutches. Sue’s neighbor, Mrs. Stewart, had driven her this time, which must have come as a relief to poor Joe after the last trip to town. One minute she was marveling at the man’s scruples, and the next she was spewing long-forgotten stuff he didn’t need to hear. Maybe the less said about fathers, the better.

  Getting back into routine on Tuesday felt good. As
she sorted through junk mail and some envelopes addressed to Joe, everything came to a halt.

  Letters from both the tax assessor and the bank.

  Sue rested on the edge of her desk and read the bank letter again and again, the pounding in her temples increasing each time. She’d gotten late notices before, but nothing that threatened the loss of her ranch with this kind of in-your-face finality. Combined with the tax bill, the amount due was staggering. Even if she solved her monthly income problem, the fundraiser needed to do insanely well, or the property would go to auction and she would lose her home.

  Jasmine and Haley passed by outside the office window, engrossed in lively conversation.

  No. She wasn’t just losing her home—she was losing their home.

  “Sue?”

  She spun around.

  Joe’s broad shoulders nearly filled the doorway. His hair had filled in, dark, like his eyebrows, and was gelled into a nice-looking style. He smelled really good—warm and woodsy. Must have gotten cleaned up for his errands in town. “Your Suburban is running. I took it for a test drive. Should run fine for you now.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You fixed it?”

  “Just needed the fuel injectors cleaned, lines flushed. A quick tune up, that’s about it.”

  Her mouth gaped. “The guy who worked on it before said it needed about nineteen-hundred dollars’ worth of repairs.”

  Joe shrugged.

  “Are you kidding? That’s amazing, Joe. Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  Joe chuckled. “Nothing. You pay me to do maintenance, remember? Chaz helped too.” His smile fading, he spoke quietly. “Listen, I want to help with the fundraiser.”

  The way he said it sent a little thrill through her. “Thank you. We can use all the help we can get.”

  “No. I mean with money. I have some saved, and I’d like to help.”

  Stunned, all Sue could do was stare. He seemed genuine, which was no surprise. What rankled was the idea of Joe offering his personal funds to help the ranch. She was the one who had lost income, the one who had foolishly depended on others. She could never let him part with his personal savings. “That’s very generous, but I can’t take your money, Joe.”

  He frowned. “You take donations, right?”

  From strangers, when I have to. But not from a man who I—Panic fluttered in her chest. “I really appreciate the offer, but to do any good at all, it would take far more than you can spare. Unless they get the full amount due, the property goes to auction, and everything you gave would be wasted. All down the drain.”

  Joe stepped closer, the look in his eyes unyielding.

  His nearness made her heart skitter, which he could probably hear.

  “What if I could get you the whole amount you need?”

  She had to replay his words to make sure she’d heard right. “I could never pay that back.”

  “It’s not a loan.”

  On impulse, she sniffed him. Maybe what she’d smelled when he came in wasn’t aftershave. Because, for a sober guy, he wasn’t making any sense. “That’s very generous, but—”

  “But what?”

  “But it’s ludicrous. Because no matter what happens to the ranch, you would never see that money again. I can’t take your savings knowing that.” And I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.

  Joe folded his massive arms and studied her.

  A girl could just about drown in those eyes.

  “Do you always have this much trouble with gifts, Sue? Or just the ones from me?”

  Her mouth opened, but she had no answer. The way his eyes fell to her mouth and lingered there sent a tingle across the surface of her lips.

  “The offer stands if you change your mind.”

  She still couldn’t speak.

  Joe turned and left.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From the driver’s seat, Joe peered at the front doors of the clinic. Why did Sue’s Friday therapy sessions take so long? What were they doing to her? He’d considered waiting in the lobby, but being in town weighed on him like a half-ton drill pipe, so he hung out in the vehicle instead, reading a Louis L’Amour paperback, waiting for the steely heaviness to lift.

  It didn’t.

  He closed his eyes. The Jacobs family had hurt him, but that didn’t matter anymore. The fact that they had apparently fallen on such hard times had been gnawing at him since the day he had seen their place.

  He needed to go back.

  Joe checked his cell. He probably had enough time. He started the Suburban and drove to the apartments on Goshen Road. As he pulled to a stop across the street, he checked out the building, then watched number seventeen.

  No movement.

  He went up to the apartment, stepping around the broken wheelchair ramp to get to the front door.

  What am I doing, Father? I sure hope You know, because I have no idea.

  He knocked.

  After some bumping and shuffling sounds inside, the door opened and a thin, whiskered man in a wheelchair glared up at him. “What do you want?”

  “John Jacobs?”

  “Yeah?”

  Joe didn’t answer. The voice was similar to John’s, but this was definitely not the tall, slump-shouldered man Joe remembered. “I’m Joe Paterson. But you used to know me as Joey Jacobs. A long time ago.”

  This guy couldn’t be his former dad.

  This guy was a pasty, withered scarecrow.

  The old man took in Joe’s height and breadth, his brow creasing in a deep furrow, eyes narrowed.

  From somewhere inside, a woman’s voice whined, “Close the door.”

  John coughed twice, then suddenly lapsed into a deep coughing fit, doubling over in his chair. It sounded like he was ripping out a lung. Beads of sweat popped out on his balding head.

  When the fit subsided, Joe said, “Are you okay?”

  John wheezed several times, then tipped his ashen face skyward. “Does it look like I’m okay?”

  Joe peered beyond him into the apartment. From what he could see, nearly every inch was buried in clutter. “Can I come in? I won’t stay long. I just wanted to visit with you a minute.”

  John muttered something about what everybody wanted, then pivoted his chair and wheeled inside.

  Joe followed.

  The combined living room/dining room was heaped with boxes, newspapers, and all kinds of junk. A thick, foul stink filled the air. To his left, a half wall separated the tiny kitchen. A mountain of crusted dishes filled the sink and counter, spilling over to the floor. In the living room, one torn upholstered chair sat in the shadowy corner, piled with rumpled bedding and stuff Joe couldn’t distinguish. A wooden chair in the other corner held a small portable TV topped with teetering stacks of cartoon videos. A small table in the dining area was heaped with papers, pots, pans, and a carton of generic canned beans. With all the clutter in the room, there was a path just wide enough for a wheelchair to pass from the door to the table to the kitchen and down a hall where he guessed the bedrooms were.

  A frail woman in a wheelchair emerged from the hall. “Who’s that, Dad? Who’s here?”

  Though Joe’s former sister hadn’t changed as much as John had, something had aged her, altered her features. “Fiona?”

  “I’m Fiona,” she said, frowning. “Who are you?”

  More foul smells he didn’t want to identify assailed him, smells he suspected came from one or both of them. Joe fought off a shudder. “I’m Joe. Remember me? Ben and I used to play soldiers with you when we were boys.”

  “No,” Fiona said in her sing-song voice, shaking her lolling head. “That was Joey. My little brother. No, he—he wasn’t a big man. He was just a little boy. Joey went away. Mama went away too.”

  Joe nodded, but the movement left him feeling dazed. He turned to John. “How long have you lived here?”

  The old man eyed Joe before he answered. “Too long.” Turning away, he waved toward the buried chair. “Have a seat—if you
can find it.”

  Joe looked around and decided against it. “Why the wheelchair, John? What happened?”

  “Car wreck. Busted my back. Can’t walk. Can’t work, can’t do nothing but rot in this hole, getting sicker every day.” John rattled out another cough. “Yeah, I remember you. Scrawny kid. You sure packed it on, didn’t ya?” He hacked out another coughing fit that lasted nearly as long as the first one. He spat and swore.

  “Here, Dad, drink your water.” Fiona wheeled to him and offered a grimy travel mug.

  Joe winced. “Does anyone else live with you?”

  John shook his head. “My wife ran off about ten years ago with some trucker. Rube’s up at the state pen. Diana’s gone to Texas. The others—they’re gone too. All of ’em.”

  The walls and ceiling of the apartment sported overlapping water and mildew stains, dark and jagged from repeated moisture and leakage. No wonder the old man was sick. The place was probably crawling with every kind of mold there was.

  He could just about taste it in the air. He held his breath. I don’t want to breathe in this place, and yet they live here … “So it’s just you two taking care of each other?”

  “Yeah.” He sized Joe up and down. “What do you do?”

  “I’ve been working on an oil rig in Alaska for the last fourteen years. I’m heading down to work in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  The old man nodded. “Hope you got good medical. You don’t want to wind up like me. I didn’t have insurance when it happened.”

  “What about auto insurance? That had to cover something.”

  John shook his head. “Didn’t have any. I was laid up so long I lost my house.”

  “What are you living on?”

  The old man nodded toward Fiona. “She gets SSI. I’ve been trying to get it but don’t know if I ever will. We get a food card.”

  Joe studied Fiona again. Was her fragility from premature aging, or was she malnourished? How did people starve in a country where tons of food was thrown away every day?

  Joe took another look around the place. Rodent droppings littered the kitchen. He could just walk back to the Suburban and drive away. Put this place out of mind, make his visit with them a quickly fading memory.