She launched into a long description of the latest happenings with people we had worked with. Divorces, illnesses, transfers. Michael stood quietly by. He pulled out his car keys and began fiddling with them.
“Oh, Debra, this is Michael,” I said.
She nodded in his direction and then started another string of tales about politics in the office.
“I have to go,” Michael mouthed.
I nodded, raising my hands in frustration and watched him walk away, a strange sinking feeling in my heart.
The afternoon was long, made more grinding by a nagging fear in the back of my head. Something wasn’t right. Why did Michael come by just to be so taciturn?
That evening, my cell phone rang as I climbed out of the car in my driveway. It was Michael.
“Oh, hi,” I said my heart quickening. This was good. It was good to hear his voice. Maybe everything was OK.
“I’m sorry about that today,” I said. “I haven’t seen Debra for a while. She’s great but she is quite a talker.”
“Sure, no problem. Listen,” he said abruptly, “I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be away for a while.” His voice sounded so strained. His words fell like weights on my chest. I stopped just outside my door, trying to reach through the phone, to see his face and probe his mood.
“Away?” I asked, tension building in my stomach.
“I need to go to Alaska to work on a project. An architect friend of mine from Seattle needs some help with it. He’s working up there.”
“OK,” I said. “How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know. I’m afraid I won’t have cell service. I’m pretty sure there’s no Internet up where we’ll be. It’s kind of remote. I’ll be … I’ll be out of touch.”
“OK,” I said, my breath coming faster. What was wrong? Something was wrong. “When do you go?”
“Tonight.”
So soon? So suddenly?
“Do you need a ride to the airport?”
“No. I’m waiting for my plane now.”
“Are you taking Emma? Do you need someone to stay with her?”
“No. She is going to be with my mother. They are going to Boise to visit my brother.”
“Oh.”
There was nothing, not even the sound of his breathing. I paced on the porch.
“Well, I’ve got to go,” he said.
“OK. I’ll see you when you get back, then?” My voice sounded weak, hopeless, in my ears.
“Sure.” His voice was flat. “And … good luck finding your aunt.”
“My aunt?” My mind had gone blank with apprehension.
“Your father’s sister.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
And then he hung up. The click seemed to reverberate in my ears. I felt as if I knew what it was like to fall off of a very tall building. Falling, falling, waiting to meet the ground.
I pressed the end button on my cell phone and stared blankly at the screen. The picture of Michael and Emma at the festival in the park glowed back at me. He stood smiling behind her, his hand wrapped around her arm. The Carousel horse stood still in the picture, but my mind was spinning in circles. Michael sounded so distant. What had I done? Had I said something wrong? Had I missed a step somewhere? I felt like a fish, banked, gasping for air, mouth open wide.
I fumbled for my keys and tried twice to open the door with my car key. I finally found the right key, let myself inside and dropped my bag in the middle of the living room.
Alaska? Was it necessary for fate to fling him so far from me? As if she were determined to wrench him from my hands before—heaven forbid—we should grow too close?
I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I pulled out my leftover lasagna from the night before. I heated it in the microwave and stood at the bar, forking pieces into my mouth. It was tasteless. I couldn’t swallow. Finally, I scraped it into the garbage can.
My mind ran frantically across the last several days, searching for the error I had made. Some wrong word, some wretched mistake I had made to throw a wrench into the works. I should talk to him. I started for my car keys, then realized I couldn’t even get to the airport before his plane left.
I wrung my hands. Was it me that was the problem or was it his own struggles, his own ghosts rising from the past that pulled him from me now?
I saw Michael’s face—saw him helping Emma down from the vibrant Carousel horse. I heard his voice in the darkness; I felt his hand touching mine. Tears welled in my eyes. I choked them back and was suddenly angry.
“What is the matter with you, Michael?” I shouted at the ceiling.
I paced the room, trying to catch my breath. Why had he come into my life anyway? Just to evaporate, leaving me alone, keenly aware of my searing aloneness? It would have been better not to ever have met him.
I walked blindly into my bedroom and stumbled over a shoe. I picked it up, shook it like it was the cause of all my problems, and threw it against the dresser. A picture frame toppled onto the crystal jewelry box, sending the box to the floor, smashing it into pieces. Fragments spun across the floor in all directions. Earrings spun off under the bed.
Who was I kidding? It wasn’t Michael. It must be me.
In the rubble at my feet, a silver gleam caught my eye from beneath shards of glass. The sheen of it splintered into streams of light, fractured by my tears. I stooped and gently brushed the glass away from the silver Liberty coin Martin Harrison had given me. “For you there are infinite possibilities,” he had said. “You have the seeds of a beautiful life within you.” I heard his voice now, soothing me as I traced my fingers across the smoothly embossed sculpture of the woman on the coin, her light held high, her beautiful face set.
“Never give up,” I whispered.
I slipped the coin into my pocket and kept it there where I could feel it, like a talisman.
Chapter 34
dc
The next day, I called Bobbie and she insisted that I come over immediately. We worked our way through a double chocolate sundae and an enormous bowl of popcorn at her house while I talked. She defended me when I blamed myself. She agreed with me when I said defiantly that it wasn’t my fault. She nodded vigorously when I said men were idiots. She cried when I said I was afraid I would never see him again.
Days passed. Work. Eat. Sleep. Or not sleep. More days passed. My hopes were running thin.
Finally, one morning I got up early and went for a run. The air was crisp and smelled of dank, wet leaves. I ran until my chest ached and my legs felt like lead. When I got home, I showered and downed a green smoothie. The run had helped me sort through my murky box of troubles, and I realized that I needed to forget myself for a while. I thought now was a good time to check on Zee. I was worried about her being condemned to community service so to speak and wondered how she was handling the situation.
And clearly, I needed some kind of diversion from my thoughts about Michael. I found myself a victim of circular thinking, trying to figure out what had happened. I was like a dog chasing its tail. Stop, I commanded myself. Stop thinking.
Since I had the day off, I called Ann and asked if it would be OK if I visited Zee at the Dunrovin Ranch. She said, yes, and in fact Zee was volunteering that morning and if I went right away I would catch her there.
I drove to Lolo and turned onto a tiny lane lined with big barns. At the end of the road was a rambling house with an immaculate white fence. A large sign over the corral read, “Dunrovin Ranch, Home of Critters and Folks.”
I spotted Zee right away among a group of teens working with the horses in the corral. She was slowly leading a petite pinto by the reins, one hand on the leg of its rider. The little girl with Down syndrome who sat atop the horse beamed under her riding helmet. As I got out of the car, I heard a stout woman say, “That’s it, Zee. Hang on, Kiley.”
I somehow expected to see a surly face and dragging feet, but I was surprised—and pleased—that Zee smiled when she saw me. She
tied the horse to a pole, carefully lifted her charge from the saddle, and removed the little girl’s helmet. She trotted over to the fence.
“Hey, how are you doing?” I said. “I was worried about you after … the thing about the school. How are you doing?”
She frowned suddenly. “Awful.”
Then just as suddenly, she broke out into a smile.
“But this is great. We get to groom the horses and feed them. The other kids that are helping are nice and Diane is awesome.” She nodded in the direction of a stout woman in a cowboy hat. “The children we work with are so sweet. Kiley’s my favorite. She calls me Zeebers.” She giggled. “I don’t know why.”
Zee showed me inside the barn where other teens and adults were removing or putting on bridles and saddles. Some were helping younger kids brush down the horses, creating small spirals of dust in the air. A couple of children worked from wheelchairs, hauling small buckets of grain on their laps.
We walked around the big ranch house down to the river. Zee said she had four weeks of service to do after school. Ann drove her up every day.
“Diane said there is an opening for a part-time helper after we are done with the program. They pay you actual money. I think she likes me, and she said I might get the job if I keep my nose clean. What the heck does that mean anyway? Am I supposed to bring Kleenex?”
I laughed.
I met Diane and was dutifully inspected by the ranch collie. It was great to see Zee happy. Something about losing yourself in others does that.
I told Zee goodbye, gave her a hug, and walked back to my car.
It was refreshing to be outdoors for a little while, to clear my head, but still I had no idea what I could do about Michael. Was I supposed to fly up to Alaska after him? Track him down in the Danali wilderness? I’d look like an idiot. And I couldn’t call or text—no service, he said.
It was exhausting creating scenario after scenario for what had made him leave just to watch them evaporate in front of me, allowing more visions to march through the foggy mist of my thinking. I guessed I’d said something wrong. I guessed I’d been too pushy somehow. I guessed he wanted time to himself or felt I was bad for Emma. Guessing was only wearing my nerves into a long, thin line that trembled, ready to snap.
The one thing I knew for sure was that I missed him terribly.
I decided I had to focus on what I could do, what I could control. I had to keep trying to contact my aunt. An aunt I’d never met before.
A
I arrived back home and was just parking my car when Jack drove up.
“Hey, how are you doing?” He walked over to talk to me and leaned up against the car as I got out. He was dressed in his gray Nike sweats. “I was just headed over to play some ball and thought I’d stop by. I heard you went out to see Zee in prison. How’d that go?”
I laughed. “It looks like she’s surviving very well. In fact, it looks like she’s thoroughly enjoying the experience, although I’m sure she’d never admit it to Martin and Ann.”
Jack cleared his throat and then tugged at his ear. “So, this tall blond dude you brought to the wedding … What’s his name? Darin?”
“Derek,” I corrected.
“Well, FYI, there was a bit of confusion about him.”
“What do you mean?” My eyes narrowed. “Jack, Derek and I are not together anymore. We haven’t been for some time,” I said flatly. “I thought you knew that.”
Jack coughed. “I sort of thought so, but I … well … Zee came over with Ann more than a week ago. Michael was there. We were going to play basketball. Elizabeth was gone somewhere with the baby. Zee started going off about these flowers you got from the guy.” He rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat again. “Well, she said you guys were back together. He was so cool and la, la, la,” Jack rolled his eyes.
Suddenly the puzzle pieces slammed together in my head. “Michael was there?”
“Yeah. So, that led me to believe, well, that you were sort of taken. I mean, it was beyond me, the guy was a waste of air if you ask me.”
Annoyance, relief, and resentment collided in my chest.
“So, you just thought you’d tell Michael …”
“No, it wasn’t me, it was Zee,” he said, his hands raised as he deftly passed the buck.
“Well, that’s just great,” I said plunging my hands in my pockets.
“No worries,” Jack said lightly. “Elizabeth told me a few days ago that you told her you’d gotten rid of the flowers and you said you were done with Darin. Dustin. Whoever. So, we set Michael straight. He got back today and was over at the house so we talked.”
“He did? He was?” I looked up and down the street as if he might suddenly appear.
“Anyway, just thought you’d like to know.” Jack backed away and got quickly into his car. “I gotta go. The guys are waiting on me.”
He shut his door and drove away, leaving me openmouthed. Gradually, the cloud of dust lifted from my brain. Could it be as simple as that? An offhand comment throwing a wrench into a relationship? I wondered if I could be arrested for hanging Zee up by her toes.
But what was Michael thinking? Was this really the reason he left so abruptly? I wanted to explain to him, to call, but was suddenly angry that I felt like I needed to. Didn’t I have a right to my own life? Then just as suddenly I felt ridiculous for feeling angry. Would he call?
I shook my head. “I just can’t think about this right now,” I said out loud. An elderly man walking his schnauzer on the sidewalk jerked his head in my direction, then looked over his shoulder to see who I was talking to.
I went inside and slammed the door as if to keep out the confusion, the whisper of hope that might charm me, like a siren’s call, into believing that Michael—and Emma—could be a part of my life.
Yes, I would just put it out of my mind. I just needed a minute to breathe, a few minutes to gain a better perspective.
I went inside, ate a bowl of lentil soup, and decided to do some more research about my father. I sat down at my desk and dug into the files for the newspaper clipping I got at the library. I scanned the obituary for my grandfather and found the names of his surviving family members again. Barbara Morrison Newton, daughter. I stared at the screen on my laptop, took a deep breath, and typed the name into the search engine. I felt like this would take a miracle. The screen pulled up and I blinked in astonishment. Only two entries? One of them was a realtor in South Carolina and the other was a college girl who won a scholarship in Ohio. The realtor had an email and even a phone number. I quickly wrote it down.
I paced around the room for a few moments thinking what to say. “Hi, I could be your niece.” “Hi, do you think your brother had a long-lost daughter?” Blah. I decided to be a little more general in my questions. I didn’t want to give her a heart attack. I checked the time and ran through how many time zones between Montana and South Carolina. It was seven o’clock her time. I hoped being a realtor meant she would answer her phone after regular business hours. Maybe it was her cell phone.
I dialed the number.
“Hello, this is Barbara Newton, Summerset Realty. I’d be happy to help you with your real estate needs. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
I cancelled the call. How do you leave a message for something like this?
I pulled on my worn Reeboks and went out for a run. A light rain drizzled from a gray sky, plastering my hair to my forehead and soaking my hoodie. I thought how crucial it was to me that someone a thousand miles away would answer her phone and hand me a piece of my history. Sometimes the most important things hang on a thread.
At home, I dried off and hit the redial button on my phone. This time, a woman’s voice answered. “Summerset Realty, Barbara speaking.”
I froze.
“Hello?”
I cleared my throat. “Hello, my name is … Jenna Clark.” Or Morrison, just like your maiden name, I thought. “I’m doing some re
search on the Morrison family here in Missoula, Montana, and wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions.
“Oh?”
She sounded guarded. Well, at least I wasn’t trying to sell her insurance.
“I found your name in the obituary for Charles Walker Morrison. I’m actually trying to get in touch with Skip Morrison, your brother.”
“William? No one has called him Skip for a long time.”
I ran to my desk and found a scrap of paper. William. His first name was William.
“Yes, do you happen to have a phone number for him?”
A pause.
“Who did you say you are?”
“Jenna Clark. I’m … I’m doing some research … here in Missoula about the time when Skip, I mean William lived here as a young man. Is there some way I could contact him?”
“Well, I don’t know.”
My breath quickened. I was losing her.
“Things weren’t going well for William about then,” she said slowly. “I really think he’d rather not revisit that period in his life. He has done so well since then. His career is going well. He’s highly respected in his community.”
I could feel her thawing as she spoke of her brother’s accomplishments.
“But I don’t know.” She hesitated.
I balled my fist in frustration. This was like trying to capture a helium-filled balloon, bouncing just at your fingertips, dancing away at your touch.
“Well, do you think you could give him my phone number? Please?”
“Well, I suppose.”
I gave her my number and wondered if she wrote it down.
“It would mean a lot to me if you could have him give me a call,” I pleaded.
She hung up and I evaluated my winnings. A real first name. How did he get the nickname Skip anyway? He had an important career. Maybe I could find him on the Internet now.
I ran to my computer and began a new search. William Morrison. I found a famous dentist in the 1890s. An inventor in the ’20s. A man with a cocky expression—too young. An octogenarian marathon runner—too old. Page after page—nothing was promising. I was so close and yet so far.
Heartbeat of the Bitterroot Page 24