“Are you all right?” Candace felt real concern when she saw the stricken expression on Anabelle's face.
The older woman shook her head and sat down heavily in one of the rolling chairs. “I’m overly protective and interfering,” she whispered, resting her elbows on the desk and pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes. “But I just worry so much….”
Candace rose and went to her friend, kneeling beside her and rubbing her back with one hand. “You’re her mother,” she said softly. “Of course you worry. It's part of the job description.”
Anabelle lifted her head.
“And your job description was complicated enormously by her accident,” Candace said. “It's perfectly understandable that you don't want to let go.”
“Part of me does,” Anabelle said. “I’m so very proud of the way she insists on living a normal life. But I wish she would carry a tiny video camera around with her so I could have a live-feed! Then I’d worry less.”
Candace laughed. “You should patent that idea,” she said. “Mothers the world over would be lining up to buy a system like that.”
Both women rose, and Anabelle gestured toward Cardiac Care. “I’d better get back to work.” She reached out and clasped Candace's hand, squeezing warmly. “Thank you.”
Candace smiled. “No need for that. Just be ready to wipe my tears the day Brooke moves out.” She sobered as she tried to imagine it, then fanned her hand beside her eyes to dry incipient tears. “See? I can't even talk about it and it's years away!”
Finally, a small smile lifted the corners of Anabelle's lips. “I’ll be there for you,” she promised.
Candace and her three friends had concluded one of their lunch get-togethers in the courtyard. Anabelle, James and Elena all went back to work; but Candace had gotten a late start on her lunch break, and she still had ten minutes.
It was an extraordinarily beautiful day again, with temperatures in the low eighties with plenty of sunshine. Candace left the picnic table and walked across the gravel to the lone bench in the little courtyard. She took a seat and leaned back, tilting her face up to the sun. Oh, it felt wonderful.
She thought of Robin and Andrew Overing, and she hoped Robin was able to enjoy her last weeks of anticipation before her baby's birth now that the surgery was over. It must have been terribly difficult to relax knowing she was walking around with a malignant tumor eating away inside her body. But Robin was or soon would be cancer free, and she’d be there to see her baby grow up.
A sound disturbed her lethargy. She opened her eyes and squinted into the bright sunlight as a broad-shouldered figure walked toward her.
“Hello, Candace.”
It was Heath Carlson, her friend from radiology whose brother had the new baby. Figuratively speaking. “Hi, Heath. Is this your lunch break?”
He was carrying an apple, a sandwich from the cafeteria and a bottle of water. He grinned. “How’d you guess?”
Candace tapped her temple. “Nothing gets by me.”
Heath laughed. Then he looked up. “There's a cardinal.”
“He's been there all summer. He's gorgeous.”
He pointed to the small maple tree that shaded the picnic tables. “Look up there. He has a mate.”
“How do you know that?” What Candace knew about birds would fit on the end of a pencil. She could identify cardinals, robins, crows and blue jays and that was probably about it.
“See the nest?” Heath pointed to the fork of a branch high in the tree. “The female has a lot of brown and gray on her, with just a little red shading. They both have that funny pointed crest and red bills, although her crest isn't nearly as striking as the red on the male.”
Candace watched as both adult birds flew off.
“Keep watching.” Heath unscrewed the top of his water bottle and opened his sandwich without looking away from the nest. “I bet they’re feeding babies.”
Moments later, he was proven right as the small red-and-brown bird returned. Candace could see something protruding from its beak; and as she watched, several tiny beaks appeared just above the edge of the nest, making tiny high-pitched peeping sounds with their little mouths gaping as wide as they could. The mother bird leaned down and the thing Candace realized was a worm dropped into one of the babies’ mouths. The others protested loudly as this happened, and then they all subsided when the mother flew away again.
“Thank you,” Candace said, smiling broadly. “I never would have seen that if you hadn't pointed it out. How do you know so much about birds?”
Heath shrugged. “I’ve always been a bird-watcher. They fascinate me. I’m a member of the National Audubon Society and the Bureau County Audubon Society.” Then he said, “I saw the article about the bricks in the paper. It's a terrific idea, and not just because it’ll raise money. This little area could be really beautiful.” He cleared his throat. “I hadn't realized you were a widow. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Candace said formally.
Heath kept his gaze on the nest. “I was engaged to be married when I was twenty-three. She died when a drunk driver hit her car head-on.”
“Oh, Heath,” Candace said. “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” His voice sounded contemplative. “I hate it that I can't remember her face anymore without seeing a picture first.”
“I have dozens of photographs of Dean. I realized a few months ago that almost all my memories now are scenes from pictures. I’m starting to forget the sound of his voice, the goofy way he laughed.” She chuckled. “The way he sang—really loud and really off-key.”
Heath smiled. “It happens. Time does indeed march on. It's like waves against the beach. Very slowly, your memories erode.”
They were quiet again. The sun was warm. Candace felt so peaceful. Reluctantly, she said, “My lunch break is almost over. I’d better get back.” She turned and started for the door to the interior.
“Candace?”
She turned around. “Yes?”
“I could build you a bird box. One of our projects is putting up bluebird nest boxes. Your children might enjoy watching them.”
She nodded, turned and grasped the door handle. “I think they would.”
Chapter Nineteen
CANDACE LOOKED UP FROM THE BOOK SHE HAD BEEN reading while Brooke was at her counseling appointment. Brooke came through the door from the back part of the office with Tony Evans right behind her.
“Mrs. Crenshaw?”
Candace rose. “Back in a few,” she said to Brooke.
Candace and Tony had established a standing routine throughout his years of working with Brooke. She spoke with him after he had talked with Brooke at each session. They exchanged pleasantries, and she sank into the comfortable chair in front of his desk. Around the other areas of his office, toys, musical instruments and art supplies were scattered and stacked. Tools of his trade, she supposed, as a child therapist.
Tony leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “So,” he said. “I think I have a handle on what is going on with Brooke right now.”
“I hope so,” Candace said. “I’ve been worrying about it. I just can't come up with any good reason for her to be avoiding her friends’ fathers.”
“This has nothing to do with manners.”
“Well that's a relief,” Candace said in a tone that indicated manners were the last thing on her mind. “Then what is going on in that little blond head?”
Tony straightened up. He laid his hands flat on the desk. “Brooke is avoiding these men because she is pretending that her friends don't have fathers either,” he said simply.
What? Candace stared at him, while a white-hot streak of grief pierced her heart. “Why would she do that?”
Tony's eyes were sympathetic as he said, “Because she doesn't want to be different. Because she doesn't want to accept that her friends have their fathers while hers is gone. Because she can't bring herself to talk about him to her frien
ds so it's easier just to pretend there are no fathers in her world. It's become a coping mechanism for the pain of her own loss.”
“And here I thought she was doing better.” Candace felt sick. “Pretending. She's pretending none of her friends have fathers.” She knew she sounded like a parrot, but it was a shocking explanation to absorb. But as she thought about it, it answered some of her own questions. “That's why she didn't want to go to that birthday party,” she realized. “And the reason she wanted to take Tiffany's gift over early was so she wouldn't have to be there when Tiffany's father was home.”
Tony nodded. “Both of those incidents illustrate her avoidance of the fact that fathers exist.”
“She hardly ever talks about him,” Candace said.
“Which also fits.” Tony nodded.
“So what do I do?” How on earth could she make Brooke acknowledge something she wanted to hide from?
“Nothing,” Tony said. “At least, nothing overt. I wouldn't try to address it with her and try to get her to talk. The last thing you should do is make a big deal out of it. One thing you should do is make certain that she doesn't get any more opportunities to do her vanishing act. Talk with her teachers about it. But be sure they don't bring up the topic with Brooke. At home, watch for instances—like the birthday party—that she might be trying to avoid other fathers. Don't let her take those opportunities. She and I have talked about strategies for dealing with these feelings, and she needs chances to practice using them.”
Candace immediately thought of Brooke's desire to deliver Tiffany's gift while the father wasn't home. That would have been quite easy to alter. “All right.”
“Another thing you can do,” Tony said, “is talk more about your family life with your husband. Share the good memories. Help Brooke patch up her memories of having a father.”
Candace stared at him. Did he have any idea what he was asking? How painful that was going to be?
“I want to see her again in two weeks,” Tony said. He rose and extended a hand. “Thanks for coming in, Mrs. Crenshaw.”
“No, thank you,” she said, forcing herself to smile. “Hopefully, in two weeks Brooke will have had a few chances to practice your coping strategies.”
Kirstie came to her parents’ home for dinner on Monday evening. She had not been able to come the night before, as Anabelle had assumed she would. Anabelle hoped in the future they could make Sunday night a family dinner evening now that she no longer lived at home. From now on, she would invite Kirstie early in the week rather than assuming anything, she promised herself.
“Stuffed shells?” Kirstie asked as she sniffed the air when she stepped into the house. “One of my favorites.”
“I know.” Anabelle hugged her daughter. “Come talk to me while I make salad.”
“I’ll set the table,” Kirstie said.
“Already done. Would you like a drink?”
Kirstie nodded. “I’ll get it.”
“No, you sit.” Anabelle waved her off as she went to the cabinet and took down a glass.
Kirstie settled onto one of the tall stools at the counter.
“Are you comfortable there?” Anabelle asked as she set a glass of ice water in front of her daughter. “If you sit at the table, you won't have to perch up there and put pressure on your leg.”
“Mother,” said Kirstie, “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I know my limits. Stop.”
Anabelle smiled. It was a familiar complaint. “Sorry, honey. So,” she said casually, “your friend Mark seemed pleasant. How did you meet?”
“We met at a cast party after the high school's spring musical. Remember I told you I helped with costumes? He was in charge of the stage crew.”
“And have you gone on dates other than study get-togethers?”
Kirstie grinned. “Yes. We went to the movies twice. But it's not serious, Mother, so don't get excited. Ainslee is the only daughter you’re going to be getting grandchildren from for a while.”
“I was just curious.” Anabelle thought for a moment. “So you like your apartment?”
“Love it,” Kirstie affirmed. “I’m going to paint my bedroom this week.”
Mother and daughter chatted casually while Anabelle chopped carrots, cucumbers and tomatoes and added them into a bowl of spinach and lettuce and tossed the mixture. Placing the salad in a pretty glass serving bowl, she added a pair of salad tongs and carried it to the table.
Then she slid a heat-proof mitt onto her right hand and opened the oven door. Pulling out a tray full of slices of buttered Italian bread, she quickly transferred the bread to a linen-lined basket and pushed it across the counter at Kirstie. “Set that on the table for me, please.”
Kirstie turned and slipped off the stool, depositing the basket on the already-set table. “I’ll call Pop,” she said, correctly assuming the meal was ready. While she left the room, Anabelle set the pan of stuffed shells on a large trivet in the middle of the table and got a large serving spoon.
Cam and Kirstie came in together. In one large hand he carried a brightly colored bunch of dahlias, which he stuck into an empty jelly jar and added tap water. Then he went to the sink and washed his hands; he’d been outside weeding their garden.
Anabelle carried the dahlias to the table. “These are so pretty. I really like the mixture you planted this year.”
Cam nodded. “It mostly has dinner plates, but there are a few other decorative dahlias too. And it's a great color mix.” He put an arm around Kirstie's shoulders and squeezed. “I’ll cut you some to take along when you’re ready to go.”
“Thanks, Pop,” she said. “My favorite flowers from my favorite guy.”
As she took her seat, Anabelle noticed that her daughter appeared to be limping a bit, and she had to bite her tongue—almost literally—to keep from commenting; but she managed not to say anything. What had Kirstie done to cause the limp?
She was distracted by Kirstie's description of a recent in-service writing workshop she had attended. The method used to encourage children to write sounded interesting, but Anabelle had a concern. “Don't you think that having them spell things the way they sound will be a problem for them as they grow older? Whatever happened to spelling words?”
“We still have weekly spelling tests,” Kirstie assured her. “The point of invented spelling, as it's called, is to give children a tool to help them write without getting stuck. For instance, a first-grader who visits a wildlife center might want to write about rabbits, opossums and raccoons. Since none of those words are on a first-grade spelling list, the child isn't going to be able to write her story unless she is able to come up with a good guess for each of those words.”
“But how will she ever learn to spell them right if she learns them wrong?” Anabelle asked.
“Inventing a spelling for an unfamiliar word isn't going to keep a child from learning the correct spelling,” Kirstie said. “And the wonderful thing is, that child can read the story she wrote, because she understands what she was trying to say. We often forget that the goal of spelling is to aid in writing.”
Anabelle pushed her hair back. “I’m glad I’m not the one who has to figure out how to teach all these new-fangled methods.”
“And I’m glad I’m not the one who has to learn how to use new health technologies on patients,” Kirstie said. “Hey, I almost forgot. Very nice article in the paper about Elena and the Wall of Hope. I hope it generates a lot of donations.”
“People seem very interested so far. Whether or not they’ll be interested enough to save the hospital is anyone's guess.”
They cleared the table after the meal, and Anabelle poured coffee before setting out a plate of brownies.
“Yum.” Cam patted his belly beneath the denim overalls he wore. “How many can I have?”
“One,” Anabelle said severely.
Cam looked crestfallen. “One?”
“I noticed your belt was getting a little tight, mister.” Anabelle relen
ted. “Two, if you take a walk with me after dinner.”
He grinned. “Okay. It's a deal.”
The thought of walking reminded Anabelle of the way she had observed Kirstie walking earlier. She turned to her daughter, unable to resist voicing her concern. “Your leg seems to be giving you a little trouble,” Anabelle said. “Are you overdoing it?”
Kirstie shook her head. “No. It's the end of the day, and I’m just tired. That's all.”
“You know,” Anabelle said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’ll be happy to pick up your laundry once a week and do it over here. That way, you won't have to walk up and down those steps so many times.” The shared laundry room in the building where Kirstie rented was in the basement.
But Kirstie shook her head. “Thanks, Mother, but it's not a problem.”
Anabelle knew she should stop now. Kirstie had made it clear she could take care of herself. But what if Kirstie overdid it? Before she could stop herself, the words tumbled out. “Honey, that can't possibly be good for your stump. It's no wonder you’re limping—”
Kirstie rose from the table and took her dessert plate into the kitchen, completely ignoring Anabelle. Putting it in the dishwasher, she said, “Thank you for dinner. I have work to do, so I’m heading home now.”
“Kirstie!” Anabelle was shocked. She hadn't raised her daughter to be rude. “I was speaking to you.”
“No, Mother,” Kirstie said. Her tone was very even, although she was actually shaking, and her face was red with anger. “You were lecturing again, trying to browbeat me into doing things your way.” She took a deep breath. “I’m an adult. I will take care of myself. I love you, but I don't need to be babied.” She let a frozen beat of silence hang in the air. Then she said, “Good night. Thank you for dinner.” And she turned and walked toward the front door.
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