by Lisa Wingate
That day on the tractor, Dad had rested his hands over mine on the steering wheel, forming a physical connection between us. “I want you to listen to me, Heather. A lot of people out there are like those cows, and they can go along that way their whole lives. They get comfortable in one place, even when it’s small and dirt bare, like that pasture. You know why they do that?”
I shook my head, thinking, Because cows are stupid? But I knew he was probably looking for a better answer than that.
“Because they don’t use their minds,” my father said. “Because they make assumptions. Those people don’t change the world, Heather. They just live in it. They’re like those cows who’ll stand all their lives behind one strand of barbed wire, not because they can’t get out, but because they’re convinced they can’t. You keep your mind sharp, all right? Always look for yourself. Never let other people tell you where the fences are.”
“Okay, Dad,” I answered. My nine-year-old mind only grasped the fringes of meaning behind his comment, but I understood the thing that mattered most. My father thought I was capable of great things. He believed in me.
When we started down the lane again, he put my hands on the wheel and pulled his own away, resting them on his knees, so that his arms were like steel bars on either side of me, holding me in place. “You drive,” he said. “You’re big enough.”
All of a sudden, I felt ten feet tall.
That was one of the things I missed most about my dad, I realized now. He’d made me feel like I was capable of anything. I wished he were here now. I wanted him to tell me what to do about Clay, to make me believe that I could somehow solve the problem and have everyone in the family come out of it in one piece.
Watching Blaine on the tractor, I tried to conjure up that connection to my dad, to decide what he would be thinking, what advice he would give if he were with me. He loved Moses Lake so much. When we’d moved so he could bring the new Proxica plant online, he was so happy. But the longer we stayed, the more he’d been preoccupied, distant, lost in his own thoughts. Something was very wrong those weeks before he died. Moses Lake was wrapping itself around him, dragging him down in a way I couldn’t understand.
Was history repeating itself? Was this place trying to claim my brother, as well?
Blaine glanced my way as he jumped down to unhook the chains from the Ladybug. He did a double take, cocking his head to one side as if he wondered why I was staring grimly into space. “Want me to drive the truck up the hill for you?” he asked Uncle Herbert.
Uncle Herbert shook his head. “Naw, that’s all right. We’ll get it. Doesn’t look like too much damage done, except to my fig tree. Can’t imagine how this truck ended up rolling off like that, though. Lucky it didn’t make it to the lake.”
I shuddered, thinking of my brother plunging into the icy water, sinking below the surface, passed out, unaware, trapped in the car. I remembered the dream that had awakened me last night. I saw Clay’s face pale and gray, his body in my father’s coffin. Even the warmth of the midmorning sun couldn’t keep the chill off my body as the uncs studied the front of the truck like a couple of golfers gauging a putt, and Mom checked the inside of the cab, looking for something. What? I wondered, but there seemed to be no point in asking, so I started up the hill toward the house, instead. I needed a cup of coffee and a chance to clear my head.
The tractor passed by me on the way to the house, and Blaine parked on the pavement, then cut the engine. He was waiting when I reached the top of the hill. We went into the house for coffee.
“You all right?” he asked, leaning against the counter, his hands wrapped around the steaming cup. “Where’s Clay, anyway? Seems like since he’s the one responsible for the truck, he ought to be out there with the rest of us.”
“He’s still sleeping.” I felt myself sneering when I said it. “And no, I’m not . . . all right. I . . .” My voice trembled, the admission cutting close to the core. “I don’t know what to do, Blaine. I really just . . .” Tears pressed harder, and I blinked, stuffing down the emotion. Crying wouldn’t do any good. What I needed to do was think. Think of a way to solve the mess my family was in. I needed help.
Blaine’s hand slid up my arm, into my hair, offering comfort, solace, sympathy of a sort that made me want to fall into his arms and give into the need to lean on someone. “Hey, what’s going on?”
I stiffened against the tears—not against his touch, but against the helplessness of the situation. My brother was in trouble, and I couldn’t fix things. “That truck didn’t roll down the hill on its own, Blaine. Clay was in it. He begged me not to tell anyone. He’s lucky he didn’t end up in the lake.”
Blinking, drawing back a little, Blaine looked out the window. “Did you ask him how it happened?”
“I asked him, and he says there’s nothing wrong, that I’m out of my mind for thinking he passed out in the truck because he was stoned or drunk when he came home. He says I’m crazy for wondering if he has a problem. Mom told me the same thing. Everyone just acts like I’m nuts.” Even you. “But a normal, healthy, sober person doesn’t fall asleep in a truck, in the cold, and roll down a hill. He passed out. He must have.”
Blaine squinted toward the cottage. “Your brother’s an adult, Heather. If he says . . .”
“Ffff!” I spat, rolling my eyes. “You don’t know Clay very well. He’s an overgrown adolescent, and every time he flakes out, my mother comes to his rescue. She makes excuses for him over and over again. That’s why he is where he is right now.”
“You don’t give your brother much credit.”
The frayed thread that had been holding my composure in place snapped with a twang, and my emotions rushed forth in all directions. Anger took the lead. “You know what—I’m tired of everyone making me out to be the bad guy! I’m not some kind of harpy with a sibling-rivalry issue, trying to pick on poor Clay. I love my brother. I’m worried about him.”
I flailed a hand in the general direction of the path that the vehicle might have followed, if not for the fig tree, and thank God for that. There was no other way to explain the series of events that had saved my brother’s life last night. Divine Providence had intervened, sparing Clay and all the rest of us. Watching Blaine move the truck, I’d also become aware that there was a gas lamp to the left of the fig tree and a gas meter to the right. If the truck had run over one of those on its way down the hill, the whole place could have gone up in a fireball. I wasn’t even ready to put forth that possibility. “We could be fishing my brother out of the lake right now. Dead. We’re just lucky we’re not.”
The vision from my dream came back, and all of a sudden I couldn’t stand there any longer, thinking about what could have happened. “You know what, never mind.” I pulled away, hurt that even Blaine didn’t seem to be on my side.
“Heather, wait.” He stepped toward me, but I moved out of reach, raising a hand to stop him.
“No. I’m tired of waiting for someone to finally tell me the truth around here. Whatever game they’re playing, and whatever game you’re playing, I’m sick of it. I don’t want anything more to do with it. I’m done. I quit.” I spun around and headed out the back door, hoping he wouldn’t follow and perversely wishing he would.
He didn’t, which was undoubtedly for the best.
Roger bounded off the front porch when I turned the corner to the cottage. Taking one look at me, he ducked his head and veered toward the woods, no doubt perceiving that a storm was underway. My anger dulled to a slow boil as I climbed the steps, and exhaustion followed, along with a sense of dread at the idea of talking to Clay again. After last night, I lacked the energy for sorting through more of his excuses. I wanted to curl up in a dark corner somewhere and forget it all. I wanted to get on a plane and go home and leave every bit of it behind.
Something collided with my toe and skittered across the decking—one of Roger’s finds, no doubt—a stick or a bone. Opening the door to the cottage, I glanced down, stopping in m
idstride. In a ball of leaf-covered goo lay a small, square object that looked suspiciously like . . . my cell phone? I extricated it from the leaves and stared at it in awe. It was my iPhone, and thanks to the heavy-duty OtterBox case that Richard had given me for Christmas, it appeared to be in remarkably good shape. Awed by its reappearance, I stepped inside with an inordinate sense of relief, as if this were an omen of sorts. The connection to my normal existence had come back at the most opportune of times, reminding me that my mother, my brother, and Moses Lake had done just fine without me for years. Real life—a life I could predict and control, measure and plan—was just the touch of a button away.
In the space of a few minutes, I could book a flight home. I could tell Clay that, whenever he was ready to talk, I was ready to listen, but I couldn’t play this cat-and-mouse game anymore. Maybe he would wake up. Maybe he would finally understand how serious his situation was.
But when I turned toward the sofa, it was empty. The shower was running, steam seeping underneath the bathroom door and dancing in the hallway light. Apparently Clay was up. He was doing better than I thought he’d be. Hopefully I could get some more coherent answers while I had him here alone.
Even as I thought it, I was afraid the answers would be the same today as they had been yesterday. Wherever the truth lay, I was powerless to bring it into the open. Ultimately, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.
I wiped off Roger’s latest treasure in the kitchen and then went to the bedroom to unearth my charger and plug it in. When I did, the phone came to life as if nothing had ever happened. The sound of its awakening was music to my ears. Some measure of sanity returned to me as I scanned through the list of missed calls. Scores from Mel and a couple from Trish. Nothing from Richard. Mel had called five times this morning, already. Something must be up. I did a dial-back on the last call and looked out the window while I waited for Mel to answer his cell.
Oddly enough, Mel’s newest underling, Rachel, picked up instead. She breathed a sigh of relief instead of saying hello. “Oh, Heather, thank goodness!” Rachel was twenty-nine years old, fresh out of a mini-cubicle in the design department, and hungry. Right now she sounded uncharacteristically frantic.
The tone of her voice made hairs prickle on the back of my neck. “Rachel, what’s up? Why are you answering Mel’s cell phone?” Typically Mel and his phone were never more than two feet apart. As far as I could tell, he slept with the thing. Even I didn’t touch Mel’s phone.
“He’s been in the hospital, but he got out this morning. He went home to shower and pack some clothes,” Rachel rushed out. “Itega wants another meeting, at their headquarters in Tokyo this time. Mel says for you to get your rear on a plane, tonight. He’ll leave a package for you at LAX with your passport and anything else you need. I’ve already checked flights for you. It looks like the nearest airport is in Waco, right? I think I can get you out of there around five o’clock. I’ll call you back with a flight number. Mel’s leaving as soon as he can get packed. I just emailed everything to you for the Itega meeting. . . . Is there anything else you can think of?”
Is there anything else you can think of? I couldn’t think at all. The world outside the window went out of focus. “Mel was in the hospital? What’s wrong?”
Rachel snorted impatiently. “Something about blood sugar and ketoacidosis. But anyway, he says if you want to be his second on the Itega project, you better get out of Toad Waller, Texas, and show up in Japan by tomorrow. That’s a direct quote, by the way.” She breathed the words second on the Itega project with obvious awe and a back draft of envy that said Yeah, I’d jump into your shoes in a heartbeat.
Tossing my carry-on suitcase on the bed, I started grabbing clothes off the wooden chest and tried to propel my mind out of Moses Lake, to the airport, onto an international flight. “Well, but is it okay for him to travel? All the way to Japan?” I passed by the bathroom door, heard Clay drop something in the shower, felt my concentration veer off.
“Guess so. Must be,” Rachel answered blandly, her tone seeming to say, How is that my problem? There’s a project at stake, for heaven’s sake. “Anyway, he didn’t say. His mind’s on the deal, of course.” She stressed the last words, silently pointing out that my mind should be on the deal, too. “Okay, you’re confirmed for the flight. I’m texting you the information. What do you need me to send with Mel?”
Rachel’s words, her complete lack of interest in anything but the deal, made me stop for an instant. I heard an echo in the words, had a sense of déjà vu. They reminded me of someone. Was that me? Is that who I’ve been?
The shower turned off across the hall as I told Rachel to grab a couple of clean suits and blouses from the stash of I-slept-at-the-office clothes in my closet there. After making a list and promising to send everything with Mel, Rachel reiterated the flight time and hung up. My mind sputtered, refusing to fully kick into gear. A flight to Japan on the red-eye. I’d go to sleep on this side of the world and wake up on the other, thousands of miles from Texas. Maybe that was the best thing. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise. I was driving myself crazy in Moses Lake, getting nowhere, hopelessly outnumbered.
Every muscle in my body tightened, adrenaline streaking through me like an electrical current, making my breath come in fragments and my pulse speed up as if I were preparing for a race. Bracing my hands on the bed frame, I took in moist, cool air that smelled of lake water and damp wooden window frames, the scents pulling me back to the here and now. The flight out of Waco wasn’t for hours yet. I could at least try to talk to Clay one more time.
I heard the bathroom door open as I was zipping my suitcase, and a moment later Clay poked his head into the room, his chin dropping when he saw me lowering the carryon to the floor and clipping my laptop case in place. “Listen, Hess,” he said. “About last night. It was no big . . .”
I lifted a hand, held it out like a stop sign. “Don’t. Okay? You know what, Clay? I love you. I can’t even really express how much, but if you won’t face the truth, if you’re not ready to admit that you’ve got a problem, there’s nothing I can do. You need help, and you need it now. Before something terrible happens.”
Combing wet curls from his face, he gave me an earnest, perfectly sober look. He’d washed the blood away, smoothed his hair over the cut to hide it. Everything looked perfectly normal. “It’s not like that. I promise. I just fell asleep—burning the candle at both ends too much lately. I’m sorry I scared you. Don’t go, all right?”
I closed my eyes, turned away, then grabbed my wallet and stuck it into the computer case. “I have to go. I’m flying to Japan this evening.” My thoughts sped forward through the day, demands and expectations pulling and tugging, at war with emotions and needs. I tried to focus on the practical. “I want to go over and visit Ruth before I leave. I’ll cut over to Waco from there and leave the car locked at the airport with the keys under the seat. You and Mom can just bring an extra key and pick it up, okay? That will be easiest.” I didn’t want some long good-bye. I couldn’t handle it.
“Okay, sure, but Hess . . .”
A long breath spilled from me as I looked at my brother and saw all the years and experiences, heartbreaks and changes we had experienced together. Tears welled, and I swallowed the sentiments before they could seep out. “You need help, Clay. When you’re ready, call me. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you what you need. I’ll pay for it. I’ll arrange it. I’ll help you find the right resources. Anything. I want you to be okay. I need you to be, but I can’t do it for you. Please, please, whatever’s going on, don’t drag the uncs into it. They don’t deserve that. They’re too old to recover from it. Just think it all through, Clay, all right? I’m only a phone call away. Tell Mom and the uncs I’ll be in touch in a day or two. Hopefully we can still figure out something about the property deal.”
Even though I told myself I was doing the right thing, guilt burned in every part of me. I pushed it back, hugged my baby brot
her, held on until it was too painful to cling any longer, and then gathered my things and walked out the door.
Clouds gathered on the horizon as I hurried up the hill to the driveway and loaded my things into the sedan I’d driven the day before. Inside the house, the family was probably having breakfast, but I didn’t go in to check. I couldn’t handle some emotional scene if they tried to talk me out of leaving. I also had the sense that it would be even worse if they didn’t. Suspecting that your family doesn’t want you around is much better than actually knowing it for sure.
It’s better this way, I told myself as I started the car and rolled down the driveway. We all know it, really. I don’t belong here.
I’d call later, after I’d left Harmony House behind. No hard feelings, I’d say. A project came through at work. I had to fly to Japan. . . .
I’d try, long distance, to convince Mom that Clay needed help.
Maybe that would be enough. I couldn’t keep beating my head against a brick wall any longer while my life, my career, went down the tubes. It was too painful. Beyond that, it wasn’t logical. Sooner or later, when a design isn’t going to work, you have to scrap it and start over.
Could you scrap your family, leave behind the places you came from?
I tried to convince myself that it was possible as I passed the Moses Lake sign.
Welcome to Moses Lake.
If you’re lucky enough to be at the lake, you’re lucky enough.
Come back soon!
I wouldn’t be back soon. Or ever. This time it was really good-bye. The thought lay like a lump of stone in my chest.
How about a pair of cricket killers? Blaine’s voice whispered through the car, flowing over me like the draft from the heater. We got your steel toes, your stacked heels, your Mary Janes, flip-flops, wool socks, boat shoes, whites, browns, and blues. What’s your pleasure?