Lost Melody

by Lori Copeland

  Jill didn’t dare correct the woman or she might come back inside. Instead, she pushed the door closed, twisted the deadbolt, and collapsed against the thick wood. The woman’s excited tones grew distant as she and her husband retreated down the sidewalk.

  First Nana’s knitting group had taken up her cause, and now a complete stranger. What had she started? And more importantly, where would it end?

  The time was nearly four o’clock when Jill entered her mother’s room at Centerside Nursing. Greg hadn’t yet returned her call, and Jill hesitated to call again. She told herself that she didn’t want to bother Greg during what must be a busy day, and that her reluctance had nothing to do with avoiding the stiffness in Teresa’s voice again.

  The soft strains of classical piano music filled Mom’s room. Jill recognized the piece instantly, and shut her eyes against a stab of pain. The nurses liked to play Jill’s CD on the portable stereo in Mom’s room, because they said it soothed her when she was restless.

  The wheelchair faced the window, but Mom’s head drooped forward, her eyes closed and her body pressed against the restraint belt that kept her safely in the chair. If she’d been restless earlier, apparently the music had done its job. Jill pressed a button on the stereo, and when the music stopped, her mother’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Hi, Mom.” She bent to press a kiss on the slack cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I overslept.”

  She laid her coat across the colorful quilt that covered the hospital bed and scooted the guest chair to her mother’s side. Dull eyes followed her progress but failed to focus on her when she settled onto the cushioned seat.

  A noise behind her drew her attention. She turned to find the nurse standing in the doorway.

  “I heard the music stop, and I was coming to turn it back on.” The woman’s glance slid to the CD player, and did not return to Jill.

  “She was napping when I came in, so I turned it off.” Jill smoothed a fold out of the bib around her mother’s neck. “Has she had a good day?”

  “Yes.” Her voice sounded odd, stilted. “A fine day.”

  Instead of bustling into the room as usual, the nurse hovered in the doorway. Jill studied the normally friendly woman. Her fingers flexed nervously at her sides, and then as if she realized her fidgeting had been noticed, she folded her arms across her chest.

  “Is her cough better?” Jill asked.

  “Oh, yes. Fine. We haven’t heard her cough at all.”

  Their eyes finally connected. An antiseptic smile flashed onto the nurse’s face, and then disappeared just as quickly.

  She’s seen the newspaper article.

  Jill’s neck grew hot and sticky beneath the collar of her sweater. The nursing home staff probably all thought she was nuts. Judging by the concerned glance the nurse kept flicking toward Mom, they might even be worried about leaving their charge alone with her. The thought sent heat flooding into her face.

  “I’m relieved.” Jill turned her back on the woman and settled in the chair again. She reached over and grabbed her mother’s hand. “We’re just going to visit for a little while. I’ll turn the music back on when I leave.”

  “All right.”

  Jill did not turn around, but watched the nurse’s figure in her peripheral vision. She hovered in the doorway for a moment, but finally left. The squeak of her white nurse’s shoes on the polished floor faded. Jill’s lungs deflated with an audible whoosh. What were they afraid of, that she’d hurt her own mother? How incredibly insulting. And humiliating, too.

  With an effort, she forced a smile for Mom.

  “I have a treat for you.” Jill pulled the two envelopes from her purse and held them out for Mom’s inspection. “I was going through some stuff in the attic yesterday, and I found these letters to you from Daddy. I thought you might like to hear them.”

  No reaction on the slack features.

  Jill opened one of the envelopes and slid out three pages, each covered front and back with even, cramped writing. “This first one is dated March 27, 1982. That’s a year before you were married, when Daddy was stationed on the destroyer, right?”

  She glanced up. Mom’s eyelids blinked in slow motion, as if she might nod off again in a second. Jill had hoped the letters would spark a flame of recognition or something, but she wasn’t even sure her mother knew what a letter was anymore. Or even who she was. With a sigh, Jill began to read.

  Dear Lorna,

  Today the post finally caught up with us, and brought five letters from you! I told myself I’d space them out and enjoy one every few days, but I couldn’t do it. I devoured them one right after another. I miss you so much. You can’t know how holding a piece of paper you’ve touched comforts me. You’ll think I’m a romantic fool when I tell you I press my lips to the seam where you sealed the envelope, and dream of the day when I can kiss you in person.

  Jill gave Mom a tender smile. “He certainly was romantic, wasn’t he? I hope he doesn’t say anything you don’t want your daughter reading.” She chuckled and continued.

  You said you were afraid your letters would bore me since you describe trivial things like shopping with your mother and going to the dock with your father. You have no idea how much pleasure reading those details gives me. In my mind I picture you picking through a bushel of apples to find the perfect ones for a pie, or standing on the rocks near the lighthouse, gazing seaward toward me. I wish I had something equally interesting to describe for you, but life at sea is rather monotonous.

  Something strange has happened the last few nights, though. I’ve had the most disturbing dream —

  Jill’s voice stumbled over the last word. The hair along her forearms prickled to attention as she reread the sentence, and then continued.

  I’ve had the most disturbing dream the past two nights, though I can’t remember exactly what happens. But when I wake, I feel the strongest impulse to tell one of the helicopter pilots that he shouldn’t fly next week. Isn’t that ridiculous? Imagine me, a nobody from the galley, telling a pilot not to fly. They’d laugh me off the ship. It’s a nuisance not being able to get a full night’s sleep, though. I hope the dream goes away soon.

  One of the midshipmen got a package from his wife today, and she sent …

  Jill fell silent as she skimmed the rest of the letter, searching for some other mention of her father’s dream. There was nothing, only a description of the book his friend had received and more romantic protestations of his undying love for “my beautiful Lorna.” Jill’s eyes were drawn back to that one short paragraph, and she read it again.

  Realization penetrated her brain like a bullet. Her father had dreamed, too.

  Fingers trembling, she put the first letter back inside its envelope and slid out the second. This one was much shorter. The writing covered only one side of a single page. The date at the top read March 31, four days after the previous one.

  Dear Lorna,

  My hand is shaking so badly as I write that you probably won’t be able to read my words. I don’t know if I’ll have the nerve to send this letter, but I must get my thoughts down or they’re going to explode inside me. Something terrible has happened, and it’s my fault.

  Remember the dream I told you about last week? I haven’t mentioned it in my last two letters because I didn’t want you to think I was losing my mind, but it kept coming back. Every time, I was left with an overwhelming desire to tell Captain Hiller not to fly his helicopter. Oh, how I wish I had! This morning Hiller was in command of a standard training mission on one of the Sea King choppers. The bridge hasn’t given us the details, but according to scuttlebutt Hiller had a stroke or heart attack or something, and the aircraft crashed. The whole crew was killed — the copilot, the navigator, the weapons system officer, and Hiller himself.

  Four men are dead because of me, Lorna. I knew something was going to happen. Why didn’t I warn them? So what if everyone thought I was a fool? Hiller might have listened to me, and then I wouldn’t have these deaths on m
y conscience. How will I ever live with the guilt?

  Jill’s fingers were so cold she could no longer feel the paper she grasped. The pain in her father’s words clawed at her throat and squeezed, choking the breath out of her. She leaned forward and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to feel the same guilt, to bear the burden her father had suffered.

  When she looked up, she found her mother’s gaze fixed on her. All signs of drowsiness were gone. In its place, a spark of awareness sharpened the normally dull eyes.

  “You knew.” Jill’s whisper held a touch of awe. “Yesterday when I told you about my dream, you remembered that Daddy had dreams too, didn’t you?”

  “Eyuah, eyuah, eyuah.” Mom’s right hand shot upward from her lap to wave sporadically above her head. “Eyuah, aaaahhhh.”

  Her nonsense shout filled the room and echoed down the hallway.

  “Mom, calm down.” Jill leaped to her feet and grabbed at the wildly gesticulating hand.

  “Eyuah, eyuah, aaaaahhhhh.”

  The nurse ran into the room, followed by an aide in pink scrubs. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s trying to tell me something.” Jill dropped to her knees in front of the wheelchair and clasped the frail hand between both of hers. “We were reading an old letter from my father, and she got excited.” She didn’t dare mention her father’s dream, or the nursing home staff would think her insane for sure. “What is it, Mom? What are you trying to say?”

  Tears filled Mom’s eyes. “Eyuah, eyuah.” The unintelligible words came out in a sad whisper that twisted Jill’s heart in her chest.

  “I think Lorna needs to finish her nap. That way she’ll be fresh and alert for supper. Isn’t that right, honey?”

  The nurse’s high-pitched voice grated against Jill’s nerves. She ignored the woman and instead searched her mother’s face for the spark of intellect that had been there a moment before. Had she imagined it? Mom’s cloudy eyes did not focus on her, but stared off into the distance as though at something visible only to her. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

  “She does usually sleep before supper,” the aide said from the doorway.

  The nurse patted Mom’s shoulder. “We’ll just help her into bed and put her music back on. That always soothes her.” She spared a brief not-quite-smile for Jill. “Maybe when you come back tomorrow she’ll feel more like visiting.”

  Swallowing against a painful lump in her throat, Jill nodded. She gathered her father’s letters, kissed Mom’s cheek, and got her coat from the bed.

  Her tears held off until she left the nursing home.

  Chapter 16

  THE WIND HURLED SNOW INTO Greg’s face with the force of a BB gun during the short run from the driveway to Jill and Ruth’s front porch. Tuesday night dinners at Ruth’s table had become a tradition in the year since Jill’s accident. He twisted the knob and shoved, eager to put a barrier between him and the weather. The handle didn’t budge. Unusual, because Ruth normally left her door unlocked when she knew he was coming. He rang the bell, and when a particularly fierce gust of wind slapped with stinging force at the back of his neck, hunched his shoulders and knocked with a gloved fist.

  Ruth opened the door. “Come on in. Goodness, it’s getting nasty out there.”

  “Tell me about it.” A welcoming warmth enveloped him when he entered the house. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the stand while Ruth shut the door and twisted the deadbolt. “What’s up with the lock?”

  “We’ve had some visitors this afternoon, and a few of them have gotten a little pushy.” Her lips drew a disapproving line as she bustled past him. She pointed toward the living room. “Jill’s in there. I’ll get you something hot to drink.”

  “Thanks.” She disappeared into the kitchen. Just inside the living room, he stopped short. “What’s all this?”

  Jill sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, a paintbrush in her hand. Black paint splattered her jeans and the white sheet beneath her, and a smear stained one cheek. For one moment he saw nothing except the smile she turned up at him — a little sheepish, but full of the impish humor that had surfaced so rarely in the year since the accident. Warmth seeped into his heart. If she’d keep smiling at him like that, he could stand here all day.

  Then he noticed the partially painted sign in front of her. Black letters on a white background proclaimed in words that slanted downhill, EVACUATE SEASIDE COVE. Completed signs leaned against the furniture and the walls, and covered much of the empty floor space. The dire warning was repeated dozens of times: Evacuate the Cove by ten o’clock in the morning on December 6.

  A chill froze his spine like an ice cube down his shirt.

  She rose from her position on the floor with a grimace, and favored her injured hip when she crossed the three steps to the doorway to plant a kiss on his cheek. “We’re making yard signs.”

  “I see.” Safe response, though untrue. He didn’t see. Not at all.

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  If she did, that would make one of them. His thoughts were a blur inside his own brain.

  She pulled him into the room and led him to the couch. “You’re thinking I’m three eggs short of a dozen.” Her clear gaze held his. “I’m not crazy, Greg. And I can prove it.”

  From her jeans pocket she withdrew two envelopes and handed them to him. Then, with a smile, she gave him a gentle backward push onto the couch. He obediently sat on the cushion, while she returned to the floor and her unfinished sign.

  He examined the top envelope. “Letters from your father to your mother?”

  She dipped her paintbrush in the can and nodded. “Read them.”

  He did. At the mention of her father’s dream, the prickle of spider legs crept across the back of his neck. He glanced up at Jill, and she gave him a serene smile and nodded toward the second letter, then returned to her painting.

  Ruth bustled into the room as he opened the second letter. “Here you go. My special hot cocoa, guaranteed to put the zing back in your zipper.”

  “Thanks, Ruth.” He took the steaming mug from her and sipped. Delicious, as usual. Sweet and ultra-chocolaty, with a touch of vanilla and cinnamon.

  Within a few words, the second letter drew his attention away from the drink. Michael King had experienced a prescient dream, very much like his daughter. The guilt lay heavy in the words Jill’s father had penned, and it slapped at him as he digested the somber message they carried.

  He looked up from the letter to find Jill watching, her paintbrush poised over the sign and an anxious expression on her face. “You see now why I can’t sit by and do nothing, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t call last night doing nothing. Have you seen the newspaper today?” He tried to filter the frustration out of his voice, but apparently failed because she winced.

  “I’ve apologized for ruining your meeting. I really am sorry.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m saying you warned people already. Don’t you think that’s enough? Why is all this necessary?” His wave took in the paint and signs.

  Ruth bent over a sign in the corner, testing the paint with a finger. She straightened and looked at him. “That’s probably my fault. The girls and I were trying to think of ways to help, and this seemed like an easy and inexpensive way to get the word out.”

  “The signs are reusable,” Jill added. “When this is over, we’ll repaint them for your campaign.”

  Her grin drew a reluctant answering smile from him. She looked more relaxed, more at peace, than he’d seen her in days, like she’d come to terms with whatever had been tormenting her. Wasn’t that a good thing, even though her actions weren’t … well, normal? Uneasiness kept his thoughts in turmoil as he refolded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope.

  He just didn’t buy it. The idea that Jill, or anyone for that matter, could foretell a disaster was too big a stretch. And what about these letters? Evidently Jill’s father had experienced somethin
g that affected him deeply, but they knew nothing about the circumstances surrounding an accident that happened more than twenty-five years ago. Even if that proved to be a valid incident, it had no bearing on Jill’s dream. Admittedly, Greg was no expert on prophetic dreams, but the idea that the ability to predict the future could be an inherited trait seemed pretty farfetched to him. Whereas mental instability …

  He thrust the thought away and set the envelopes on the end table. A thought had occurred to him during a long court session this morning.

  “You say this disaster is going to happen on December 6.” He cleared his throat. “You realize what that date is, don’t you?”

  Quizzical lines appeared between her eyebrows.

  “It’s not only two days after the anniversary of your accident, Jill. It’s also the anniversary of the Halifax Explosion.” He spoke gently. In 1917 a tremendous explosion in Halifax Harbor crippled the city and destroyed businesses and homes. Sixteen hundred people were killed in the worst disaster Nova Scotia had ever experienced.

  Jill’s face went white. Clearly, she hadn’t remembered the date’s historical significance.

  “Maybe you’ve been subconsciously aware of that,” he said softly, “and if you add to it the stress you’ve been under lately …” He lifted his shoulders.

  For a moment, a struggle took place on Jill’s face. Then her expression cleared. “What about my father’s dream? It came true. You read his letters.”

  Ruth crossed to the center of the room and stood beside Jill, her eyes boring into Greg’s with unvoiced disapproval.

  Greg ignored her. “Maybe you knew about your father’s dream too.” Jill shook her head and opened her mouth to respond, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “Again, subconsciously. Maybe he told you about that incident when you were little, or you heard your parents discussing it. You put the two together, along with everything else you’ve been through, and came up with a dream.”

  Doubt clouded her eyes, and Greg hated himself for being the cause of the return of that haunted look. But somebody had to be the voice of reason here. Obviously, that wasn’t going to be Ruth, who took her role as supportive grandmother too seriously.