Evidence of Life

by Barbara Taylor Sissel

  She wanted to talk to Hank, and in the days leading up to Thanksgiving, she picked up the phone a half dozen times to call him. She wasn’t sure of her motive, whether she meant to question him or to berate him, and in any case, something stopped her. Some higher part of herself, and in one corner of her brain, one sane, lovely corner, she was grateful for that. Finally, she purchased a card and wrote a brief note expressing her sympathy for him and for Caitlin. Abby’s mother said that was sufficient, that Abby didn’t owe Hank one thing.

  “Not even forgiveness, Mama?” Abby asked, smiling.

  “Oh, Abigail.” Her mother sighed. “Only saints can walk on water, you know.”

  * * *

  It was after dinner on the Saturday following Thanksgiving; Jake had gone down the street to play basketball with friends, and Abby was headed into the den to read when the phone rang, and for a moment, she froze. Her stomach churned, but then she shook herself, half in irritation. Her mother had told her she needed time to mend, but Abby wondered how much.

  Glancing at the Caller ID, her breath caught. “Katie....” she said when she answered, and the name was carried on a sigh that was partly sad, but mostly love and gratitude and relief.

  “Oh, Abby, your mama said I should give you a bit longer, but I just couldn’t wait another second. I’ve been worried sick about you. Are you and Jake all right? Truly, I mean—” Kate’s voice hitched.

  Abby carried the cordless receiver to the table in the breakfast nook and sat down. She said they were fine and asked how Kate knew.

  “Dennis heard what happened and called me. He was going to come there, he was so concerned.”

  Abby’s heart paused. “Really?” she said and slid her finger along the table’s edge. Whatever anger she had felt against him, or embarrassment or whatever it had been, those feelings had evaporated now. She wondered if she would ever have the opportunity to tell him; she wondered if it mattered to him at all.

  “I can’t believe Sondra was stalking you, too.”

  “I thought it was Nadine. They drive the same color car.”

  Kate said, “It’s terrible, but I’m glad Sondra’s dead.”

  “You’re in good company,” Abby said. “Even Mama is having a hard time.”

  “I’m just so sorry about everything. I should have told you about seeing Nick. If I had—”

  “No, let’s not go there.”

  “But how can we not? You think I saw them together and I didn’t.”

  “I know. Sondra told me she was in the courthouse, in the restroom, when you ran into Nick. She said it shook him up.”

  “It should have.”

  A pause perched as light and anxious as a tiny hunted bird.

  Abby broke it. “Not all of it was a fantasy. He was with her, Kate, I mean, as in—”

  “I know what you mean, chickie.” Kate’s voice was full; she felt Abby’s pain. She would hold Abby’s heart while it broke or until it mended or both, if she could.

  “I finally talked to Hank the other day.”

  “Did he know where Sondra had been since the flood?”

  “Not really. He said she had friends in San Antonio and she had the cabin. Apparently, she didn’t say much about anything when she first came home, but she did see a psychiatrist, and he prescribed medication. Hank said she took it for a while, and it seemed to make her better. Clearer, at least, until she went off it. He said they talked in a way, were honest with each other, in a way they hadn’t been in years.”

  “How nice for them.” Kate was darkly sarcastic.

  “I know, but that’s when Sondra told Hank it was only twice that she and Nick were together. She said he wanted out after the second time. She told me the same thing, that Nick said it was a mistake.”

  “You didn’t deserve any of this, Abby,” Kate said, “any more than I did.”

  “Everyone says that, but I think maybe when a bad thing happens, it isn’t a matter of what we deserve.”

  “What is it then?”

  Abby thought for a moment.

  “You aren’t ready for that discussion.”

  Abby said she wasn’t.

  Kate said she thought Abby knew anyway, and Abby smiled because sometimes the way they could read each other was as if they were two halves of the same battered heart.

  Kate said, “I think what’s important to remember is that Nick was coming home. I think you should trust that. He made a terrible mistake, but he was getting his act together; he was coming home to you.”

  As if Kate could see her, Abby shook her head. It was another place she couldn’t go yet, and maybe she never would be able to look at it, the wonder of what might have been. She said, “I’m so glad you called.”

  “Me, too,” Kate answered, and the skip in her voice matched Abby’s.

  “I never can stay mad at you.”

  “You’re a better person than me, Abby. You’ve always been.”

  “No,” Abby said. “Don’t burden me with that.”

  “But you’re my idol,” Kate said, and the smile in her voice made Abby smile, too.

  * * *

  In the den later, Abby spread a bottom sheet over the sofa cushions, dropped her pillow into place and then, holding the coverlet to her chest, she stood looking down at the bed she was making for herself. Sleeping here was ridiculous. If she kept on, she would become permanently crooked. Still, even as she carried the spare bedclothes upstairs, her heart was anxious. She’d scarcely been inside the bedroom she and Nick had shared since last April, much less slept in their bed. She thought of Jake, that when he came home he would see she wasn’t on the sofa but asleep in her own room. He would be reassured, she thought. He would think things were finally getting back to normal, and imagining that kept her resolve in place.

  The freshly changed sheets were cool as she slipped between them and turned on her side. Moonlit shadows fiddled over the walls. There were small noises, the familiar night noises, amplified in the silence. She heard the owl; the branch of the old bur oak scraped the bedroom window. Nick had wanted her to call someone to take down the tree, but Abby kept forgetting. She loved it, loved the sound of the branch gently tapping as if it were a dear friend seeking to come in. She tucked her hands beneath her cheek.

  And felt his presence there, not inches from her. She felt Nick shift toward her, and in her memory, she was facing him. It had happened just that way the last time they had made love. It was the night he’d been so late coming home, Abby remembered, when he’d been upset about their finances and Lindsey’s sprained ankle. The same night he’d mentioned the crazy client, whom Abby now knew had been Sondra.

  They had gone to bed, and once the light was out Nick had reached for her. He’d pressed his face into the hollow of her shoulder and whispered against her neck, “I’m sorry I’m such a bastard. You deserve better.”

  She’d traced the line of his brow when he’d lifted his head. “You know you can talk to me?”

  “Yes, but not now,” he’d said, and he’d lowered his mouth to hers, and his kiss had been long and slow and full of need. He’d teased a trail of kisses from her lips up to the corners of her eyes, down to her chin, from there to her collarbone. Levering up on one elbow, his gaze never moving from her face, he’d unbuttoned her oxford shirt, an old one of his that she wore. He’d slid her panties from her and Abby had opened herself to him, moaning softly from sheer relief and desire.

  He’d been fully present with her then, the earlier tension between them forgotten, and they’d been together in that hot, sweet way they had always shared. We should talk about this. She remembered thinking that in a corner of her mind. She remembered thinking they couldn’t let the stuff of life, their work, finances, the children, get in the way of their commitment to each other.

  We are the he
art of the family, she had thought that night. Our love for each other is the heart.

  Abby remembered wanting to say this to him, but she hadn’t. Instead, when he’d released her, when their breath had slowed, she had been so drowsy and content that she’d turned her back and curled into his embrace, settling herself into the cup of his lap.

  After a long moment, he had said her name: “Abby?” and he had inflected it with such wistfulness and doubt, and when she’d answered, “Hmm?” he’d said, “Nothing,” and “I love you,” and she had thought it was enough.

  She would have to live with that now. The memory of his wistfulness, his seeming regret, and her failure to pursue it, to find out the source of what was troubling him. She would have to learn to live with all of this. Live the mystery, the questions, and somehow it would have to be okay. But not all at once, that’s what her mother said.

  And it was true, Abby thought, because tonight it was enough that she could lie here in her own bed and remember, and the pain wasn’t quite so awful.

  Chapter 24

  Toward noon one Sunday in March, she took the broom and went out onto the porch. The air had a dancing effervescence, as if it were thrilled with itself. A light rain before dawn had left behind beads of moisture. They glimmered like opals scattered among pale green shoots of spring grass. Abby imagined she could hear it growing and felt her heart ease inside her chest. Winter would give way, she thought. It always did.

  She poked the broom into the porch corners, swept the accumulation of leaf trash and dust toward the steps. Soon she grew warm enough to take off her sweater. When she heard the car coming up the drive, she stopped what she was doing and shaded her eyes. She didn’t recognize the car, but she recognized Dennis Henderson when he parked and got out. He waited, looking at her over the car’s roof, and she had the feeling he was asking permission. She lifted her hand, a half wave.

  He came to the bottom of the wide concrete steps. “Is it okay?” he asked, and she knew he didn’t mean because of her sweeping.

  “I was about to make lunch,” she said. “Would you like a sandwich?”

  He nodded and joined her. He was wearing a faded blue windbreaker over a T-shirt, jeans and work boots. Even out of uniform, he had an air of stillness, of immovability and strength, that was as compelling as it was reassuring.

  He took off his sunglasses, held up a book. “For Jake,” he said.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s about law enforcement, the different fields. He said he was interested.”

  “He is.”

  “From what I hear, he’s definitely got the nerves for it, a cool head under pressure.”

  “He does. I might not be here if it weren’t for him, but I’m not sure I like the idea of him making a career out of encounters like the one we went through.”

  “Maybe you’d rather I didn’t leave this for him, then.”

  Abby shook her head. “He’s grown up. It’s his decision.”

  She glanced into the near distance. What would Nick think of this man bringing their son a book, another man giving his son advice? She set the broom beside the door. “Give me a minute,” she said to Dennis, “I’ll make the sandwiches and bring them out here.”

  He handed her the book. “I’ve wanted to see you again ever since the night you came by my office. I almost did come after that. When I heard what Hank’s wife did, I— my God, Abby, when I think what might have happened to you and Jake.” He looked off, mouth working. “I wanted to try and explain, but I figured I’d just make things worse.”

  “It was a bad time,” Abby said.

  Dennis nodded.

  Abby looked at the book in her hands. “We had Nick and Lindsey cremated and scattered their ashes out back where the bluebonnets grow under the oak trees. We used to picnic there when the kids were little.”

  “That’s good. They’re at rest now,” Dennis said.

  “Yes.”

  He looked out toward his car. “When I ask Kate, she says you’re okay, but I had to see for myself.” He brought his gaze back to her.

  Abby didn’t answer. She could see that he was worried she was angry with him, that he’d maybe offended her by coming here without warning.

  He put out his hand but stopped short of touching her. “Are you?” he asked.

  “So far.”

  “I should have told you.”

  “About the boy at the gas station, the woman he saw Nick with.” She glanced up at him. “I doubt it would have changed anything.”

  “You were entitled to the information. I thought I was sparing you.”

  She looked down. “I feel like a fool.”

  “You aren’t a fool, Abby. I know my saying so won’t take that idea out of your mind. But in time you’ll see—” He broke off, his glance drifted.

  She knew he’d thought about her situation, the speech he could make about it, that he was still thinking, trying to put it together, an explanation to comfort her.

  “Men get wound up in their egos sometimes. They’re more apt to act like animals in their behavior than women. They tend to run when they’re scared. They don’t talk about the fear.”

  “Sometimes it scares me to think how needless their deaths were, how preventable. It’s the futility that gets to me.” She looked at him, and he nodded. He understood.

  After a moment, she retrieved the broom and held it out to him. “If you’ll get the corner over there by the window, I’ll make lunch.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket, took the broom from her and set to work. As she went into the house, he was whistling softly, some fragment of a melody she didn’t recognize. But the sound of it was pleasing to her.

  In the kitchen she laid the book Dennis had brought for Jake on the countertop and then went out the back door to stand on the steps. The rich scent of pink jasmine saturated the air, and she drew it deep into herself. She’d planted the vine near the door on purpose so she could do this at every opportunity, stand here in early spring and immerse herself in its fragrance.

  Her gaze drifted beyond the pasture to the thick fringe of trees crowding the back of the property. The branches were a mixed network of angles and thicknesses, a pattern of inky bones supporting a delicate green lace of unfurling buds. But the bluebonnets beneath the trees—where she and Jake had scattered the mingled ashes of their family—were what drew her wonder. The flowers robed the ground in lush folds of blue. Sure and beautiful evidence of life.

  And she did nothing to encourage them. Year after year, they came through earth that was hard-packed and matted in layers of debris, and each spring they appeared thicker and more glorious, or so it seemed. And each spring, like the old Indian chief in the legend, the sight filled her with awe.

  Standing here, feeling her heart lift in the old familiar way, she wondered at herself. She wondered at the confusion of her emotions, how it was that in the midst of such profound sorrow, she could feel her ribs part with such sweet joy. But she was enough of a gardener to know that survival was seeded into the nature of death as well as life. Even her survival. If she chose it.

  In the kitchen, she made sandwiches and glasses of iced tea, and gathering everything onto a tray, she brought it onto the porch. Dennis leaned the broom near the door and, taking the tray from her, set it on the table she indicated.

  Turning to her, he said, “I noticed some porch boards were loose when I was sweeping.”

  She made a face and said she knew. “I have a laundry list of chores to do around here.”

  He grinned at her. “I’m pretty good with a hammer and I work cheap.”

  The errant breeze loosened fine strands of hair from her chignon, and they fluttered over her face. She lifted her hand, but Dennis was there before her. She felt his fingertips graze her cheek, draw toward her ear an
d around it, slowly, so slowly, as if he were intent on not frightening her.

  “I want to help you, Abby, to be here for you,” he said, and her mind wrapped around the safety that seemed inherent in his offer, his very presence, and she wanted to hold it; she wanted to lean into it, into him, but she wondered if she dared, if she could trust a man again.

  She held his gaze, searching for the words to express what she was feeling, but it was impossible, and she gave her head a slight shake when she couldn’t find them.

  But he seemed to know, to read her mind. He said he didn’t care how long it took. He said, “I just don’t want to lose you.”

  Her heart rose, and she smiled, and when she flattened her palm against the center of his chest, he took it in his own.

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  I love books. Each one is a gift, and for me reading them is essential. So it is a dream come true that I have been given the means to pay the gift forward. And while I did author this book, the dream of sharing it with readers would never have come into being without the help of so many wonderful people. First among them are my critique partners who are generous listeners, tireless readers, and creative sounding boards, and who, each in their own right, are incredibly astute as editors and authors themselves. I wish every writer could find such a remarkable group. Thank you Midwives for all the Friday-night sessions and for always cheering me on: Colleen Thompson, Wanda Dionne, Joni Rodgers and TJ Bennett.

  I owe such a debt of gratitude, too, to my sister, Susan Harper, and to my dear friend, Jo Merrill, who generously read the manuscript and helped me brainstorm multiple times, and who never lost enthusiasm. I am living proof that you can go a long while on such generous amounts of steadfast loyalty and constant reinforcement.

  Thank you again to my brother, John Taylor, who has never once wavered in his faith that I could do this or most anything else. Sometimes his voice in my ear has been the spur and I’m so grateful for it. Also, I am deeply appreciative of my niece, Heather Wilson, who has this uncanny ability to know the exact right time I need a wake-up call and a dose of encouragement. Thank you to Christy Kliesing and her sweet certainty and belief in me, and thank you to both my sons, Michael and David, my big pillars of support, my teachers. They have never doubted I could do it and when it’s darkest, they always know how to make me laugh.