“Does she, Oliva? Does Mom see the pictures?”
Rachel’s jaw clenched. Her dad glanced at her, but ignored her reaction.
“Yeah, they make her happy.”
“Is she . . . here . . . with us . . . now?”
Rachel could not believe the words actually came out of his mouth. “Dad, are you kidding me? No, Mom isn’t here ‘with us’! What’s wrong with you?”
Her eyes locked with his, only inches away. What did she see? Disappointment? Embarrassment? Demanding an explanation, she held her stare steady. But he relented. His gaze found a picture on the iPad. When he finally spoke, it seemed like he refuted the accusation more to himself than to her.
“I just miss her so much. And sometimes, sometimes I think maybe she is here, somehow. Or maybe I need her so much that it only feels like she’s here. I know it sounds unbelievable, Rachel. Just hearing myself say it out loud is crazy. But . . . what if? What if Mom somehow, someway, is here? Or maybe she isn’t here, but maybe she gets to look down on us sometimes. Or maybe none of that is possible at all. But if it is, even if Olivia is even a tiny bit right, I don’t want to miss it because I convinced myself otherwise.”
Rachel’s heartbeat quickened. The pounding in her ears was thick and deafening. Never had she allowed herself to think “what if.” Always, she had refused to consider the possibility. Because . . . if her mom were here, if she did communicate with Olivia, and now maybe her dad, why couldn’t Rachel feel her, too? But she knew the answer, and the answer made the pounding quicker, louder. Because it was her fault. She was the reason her mom was gone.
But that wasn’t all. Her next thought stopped the pounding all together, leaving a terrible notion floating lonely through the silence inside her head. What if Olivia had been right all along? What if her mom could see, did see, everything Rachel had done, how ugly she had become inside? Her heart wilted. No wonder her mom wouldn’t come to her. She probably didn’t know her own daughter anymore. Why would her mom still love her? After everything Rachel had done. After what she’d done to herself, how could her mother still love her?
Her dad’s voice broke the silence and launched a diversion. “You know, you girls haven’t seen the house since we started working on it. Would you like to take a ride Saturday and check it out?”
Olivia bounced on the bed and clapped her hands. Rachel had to consider. She swore she would never step foot inside that house. Walking into the dream her mom never got to realize was just another reminder of one more thing Rachel had taken away from her.
“I’ll tell you what.” Sam scrolled through the pictures again. “Look here. This is a plot of ground I worked up yesterday. You can see it from the kitchen window over the sink. Your mom designed a butterfly garden for this spot, nice and sunny with butterfly bushes and colorful flowers. How would you girls like to plant the garden Saturday? It can be your project, something you can do for Mom.”
“Yeah!” Olivia shouted, bouncing higher and clapping louder.
Rachel inspected the dirt rectangle in the picture and debated. Technically she would be outside the house, which wasn’t inside, which didn’t go against the promise she had made herself. “Okay.”
If her dad tried to hide his surprise, he didn’t do a very good job. He raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t offer more. She calculated. If her mom were here, and if she knew everything, now she would know she agreed to help with the butterfly garden. Maybe her mom would see she wasn’t all bad, and—maybe—her mom could start to love her again.
Maggie curled up in her chair and waited while Sam tucked the girls in, too late for a school night, but the moments she witnessed were worth a little lost sleep. For the first time since the accident, she saw glimpses of healing . . . a family, instead of broken individuals existing in the same space. This was good—but, she missed being a part of it. Except maybe, in a way, she was part of her family tonight, if Sam really believed what he said. And the pictures! Maggie was delighted and amazed. It’s one thing to design a room, but seeing a room designed is quite another. Sam followed her plans exactly. The kitchen was a stunning combination of vintage and modern, and she couldn’t wait to see the finished bathrooms.
As Maggie listened to the sounds of the girls’ bedtime routine, she glanced toward the table beside her where her journal lay. Fingerprints had disturbed the sheer layer of dust on the leather. A few nights ago Sam sat in Maggie’s chair, picked up the journal, and opened it to the first page. He was intense, brows furrowed, reading and rereading. The next night he read more, as if investigating, searching for evidence. Evidence of what? Maggie felt like he was studying her soul.
“Night, girls,” Sam called as he started down the hall to their bedroom. She waited for him to settle in. She’d learned his signs. If he stacked the pillows and reclined against them, he would talk to her, share his day with her. If he crawled under the covers, the day had exhausted him, and she would hope tomorrow would preserve a little of Sam for her. Tonight, he pulled back the covers. Before turning off the bedside lamp, he touched their picture. “Night, Mags.” Then it was dark.
Maggie moved into position beside him, intertwined her leg with his, and laid her arm across his chest, her hand on his heartbeat. Tonight she would stay until Sam was deep asleep, and then she would make her rounds to check on Rachel, and to watch vigilant over Olivia to keep bad dreams away. She felt Sam breathe in deeply.
“Are you here?” he whispered.
“I’m here.”
Every cell in every muscle of Sam’s body begged for rest, but he couldn’t settle his mind. Thoughts circled like the tea cups Olivia begged to ride over and over at Disneyland, leaving him dizzy and nauseated. When he closed his eyes, a video of the accident played nonstop. He imagined the eighteen wheeler, the dusk of evening that deceives one’s vision, the cell phone ringing, her car crossing into the other lane. And each time, he imagined being a passenger, grabbing the steering wheel, pulling Maggie back to safety.
And Gary. How could he be the man on the other end of the call, the reason his wife had been distracted from the road? He didn’t deserve to be that man. In the weeks Sam spent getting to know him, he learned the two things that made up the core of who Gary was—selflessness and transparency. At first Sam couldn’t understand how a man could literally give away his expertise and labor. And while Sam still didn’t understand it completely, he understood it better, because on some mornings if Gary was late, he had repaired an elderly woman’s air conditioner or set up forms for a new concrete patio for a neighbor. If he ended his day early, it was to give someone a ride to a doctor’s appointment or to inspect a house a young couple wanted to buy. Doing for others, expecting nothing in return—accepting nothing—it’s just who the man was.
There was no guesswork, no mystery, no need for caution around Gary. Sam’s best description of his new friend was “What you see is what you get,” but with Gary, it wasn’t cliché. He was the origin of the expression. And for Sam, that took some getting used to. In law enforcement, most people he dealt with were not as they tried to appear. Skepticism was a weapon as important as the 9mm Glock he had secured in his holster every day. But there was something about Gary that challenged Sam’s instinct and disarmed him. It made Sam vulnerable, but with Gary, there was no need for defense. Sam felt safe.
Then there was the guilt. The guilt of knowing a dirty secret, which would devastate this good man, encased Sam like a cocoon. When they were working, tearing down a wall or building a new one, measuring and cutting, sweating and aching, Sam restrained the guilt. But without distraction, before the work began, or at the close of the day, it would creep up from his chest and threaten to hijack his words and reveal the truth. Especially at lunch, when they sat at the sawhorse table and Gary would ask the same question every single day: “Can I pray for you, Sam?” He didn’t ask if he could bless the food or say grace. Instead, he wedged a sword right into Sam’s chest. But the prayers. At first, it was awkward, being t
alked about in third person to a God who had surely written Sam off by now. But he couldn’t tell Gary no. Within days, though, he found himself anticipating Gary’s prayers, the soothing agent they had become, and hoped maybe someone was listening.
And tonight he wondered that, too. Was someone listening? He had convinced himself, true or not, that Maggie was. But, was God? Even if he wanted to pray, he didn’t know what to say besides the rote phrases he had heard on the intermittent occasions he had gone to church: Dear God, thank you for this day. Thank you for all your blessings. Blah, blah, blah. Empty words. Then Sam thought about Gary’s prayers, honest words that came so naturally. And he remembered the prayers in Maggie’s journal. And Olivia. Just talk to God like he’s your friend sitting right in front of you, she had said.
He opened his eyes to the darkness. The clock cast a dim light on the picture beside his bed. He felt self-conscious. But hadn’t he felt the same way when he first talked to Maggie? How different could it be, talking to Maggie and talking to . . . Him, either of which may or may not be present? Sam rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. Forget about what you should say, he told himself. What do you want to say?
Sam considered the girls—a long way from perfect, but improving maybe? Definitely prayer worthy. The bed and breakfast, no complaints. Everything was according to plan—Maggie’s plan. Except Sam had been so preoccupied with the remodel that he gave little thought about what would come next. Did he really want to own a B&B? Would he consider selling it? Could he sell Maggie’s dream? And what about his retirement? He should have finalized the paperwork a week ago. With his comp time and vacation days depleted, if pension didn’t start soon, he would have to draw funds from savings. But Sam had realized something: it was easy to think about turning in his badge permanently when it wasn’t permanent yet. He didn’t regret the time he spent away from the job. And he wouldn’t trade the time he got to be just Sam, a dad, and not Lieuenant Blake, not a detective. But was he ready to put his signature on the official paperwork? What choice did he have? And what about himself? How was he, really? Since the remodel began, he hadn’t stopped long enough to know. But maybe that was the secret—stay busy, don’t think, don’t feel—a temporary solution until he found a permanent one. He definitely had a lot to pray about.
“Here goes.” He laced his fingers together and laid his hands on his chest. “God.” He look up toward the ceiling. “I’m trying to figure it all out. But, like Gary prayed, please make my path clear.”
CHAPTER 24
Rachel was surprised. She didn’t realize how much she would enjoy working the dirt with her hands. When her dad had tried to hand her gardening gloves, she decided not to hold him accountable for his lack of fashion sense. “Do I look like I’m fifty? I’m not wearing those granny gloves.” He shrugged and tossed the gloves on the ground beside the array of plants they bought from the greenhouse that morning. As Rachel ran her fingers through the loose soil, she knew going gloveless was the right decision. She liked the substance in her hands, the warmth from the sun, the moisture from the morning dew, a perfect combination to give life to the butterfly garden sketched in color pencil that her dad handed her two hours ago and said, “You’re in charge.” As she studied the diagram, she admired her mom’s untapped artistic ability and knew exactly where her own artistic skills had come from.
But she didn’t want to think about art. It had become too difficult many months ago. An obstacle always got in her way. At first it was the clawing emotion that shredded her creativity, leaving her frustrated when she sat before a canvas. Then, it was her fear of the person she was becoming under Cricket’s influence, so she avoided the art room. Now, it was mostly the tremors, the fine vibrations that ran through her fingers each time she held a pencil, a paintbrush, chalk. She would relax her hands and loosen her grip, trying to make the tremors stop. When that failed, she would tighten her grip, try to control her fingers. It was useless. She couldn’t bring herself to explain all that to Mrs. Swane when she had stopped Rachel in the hall and asked where she had been. She gave an excuse she knew was transparent: “I’ve been busy.” When Mrs. Swane put a hand on her arm and squeezed, Rachel tried not to cringe as the teacher pressed on the cuts beneath her sleeve, which now reached almost to her wrist. She reminded Rachel the art room door was open to her whenever she was ready. Rachel mentally chalked up another mark in the loss column—Mrs. Swane, one more person she’d disappointed.
But now as she admired her progress on the butterfly garden, she decided the garden was a work of art in itself. It started as an empty plot of dirt, but the composition had taken form. Texture, color, line, dimension merged together to create a whole. So what if it wasn’t her original design? It was her hard work, and it felt good.
A vibration in her back pocket distracted her critique. She swiped her hands across her jeans to brush off loose dirt before digging for her cell phone. She wondered who would be texting her at 10:15 on a Saturday morning—or who would be texting her at any time, on any day, for that matter. Both Kristen and Cricket had stopped long ago. She hoped it wasn’t Pastor Rob, or the youth pastor. It was about time for their monthly check-in, their conspicuous inconspicuous attempt to remind her Jesus still loved her. She retrieved her phone. An unfamiliar number displayed on the screen along with a text: Hey u looked cute at school yesterday.
Rachel read the text again before deciding it had been sent to her by mistake. She texted back: u sent this to the wrong person. She hit send, put her phone back in her pocket, and kneeled down to dig a hole for the next plant. The phone vibrated again.
No i didnt ur rachel
She read both texts again. Should she be freaked out or flattered? She wasn’t the kind of girl boys noticed. She accepted that in fifth grade when Valentine’s Day abruptly became a very serious holiday. Couples paired off a week in advance, and during the class party, she was the only girl without a box of candy or a heart necklace or a bouquet on her desk.
Maybe the text wasn’t creepy. Maybe it was just someone being nice. Or maybe a boy really did like her. Suddenly she wished she could show it to Kristen. She knew exactly what would happen. Kristen would grab her phone and begin texting back as if she were Rachel, and she would be mortified and grateful at the same time, grabbing for the phone and giggling as Kristen kept it out of reach. Her smile blossomed as she imagined the scenario, but it didn’t last. She missed her best friend. She rarely saw her at school since Kristen transferred to a different science class at the beginning of the semester, which was a relief. She no longer had to make an effort to avoid her ex-best friend every day. But, suddenly, Rachel felt the colossal void Kristen’s friendship had once filled. She’d messed it up, she knew that, and now she didn’t deserve Kristen.
Ra . . . chel u still there?
Now that was kind of creepy. But she grinned and did what Kristen would do. She texted back: who is this
secret admirer
im not texting back til i no who u r
“This is shaping up great, Rach.”
Rachel spun around to face her dad, flustered, and shoved her cell back into her jeans pocket. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you walk up.”
“Yeah, you were pretty intent. Who were you texting?” Her dad had that look, his suspicious one with a hint of a smile.
Twenty shades of red raced through her cheeks and warmed her face. This was awful. She felt like she had been caught. But at what? What was she doing wrong? It was just a text. Kids text every day. Every minute for that matter. She tried to act normal, but her voice came out too high. “A friend.”
Her dad squinted playfully and smiled bigger. “A friend, huh?”
Rachel turned away, hoping to avoid more questions. When she realized she was looking toward the flowers she had planted, she found her diversion. “So, you like it? I’m almost finished; those are the only ones left.” She pointed to a flat of bright purple flowers.
Her dad put his arm around her and pulled
her into a side hug. “Mom would love it. Now all we need are the butterflies.”
Rachel let herself lean into his embrace. “Maybe when I’m finished, you can take a picture of it with the iPad.”
“Yeah?”
Rachel sensed a question in his voice. Surely he didn’t think she wanted to show the picture to—
She answered slowly, emphasizing each word to clarify. “Yeah . . . so we can remember what it looks like now and see how much it grows this summer.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” He cleared his throat.
The cell phone in her back pocket buzzed again
“You better get that. Might be important.” He winked, gave her another squeeze, and turned toward the house.
“Nah.” Rachel tried to sound nonchalant and forced herself to wait until her dad was out of sight before she read the text.
CHAPTER 25
Maggie learned about Rachel’s mystery boy the same way she learned most things about her daughter nowadays—by reading over her shoulder. At first she wasn’t sure how she felt when Rachel started messaging a boy on her laptop. She was sad to miss this rite of passage, her daughter’s first boyfriend. Even if the budding computer romance did not result in puppy love, it still reminded Maggie of all the other firsts she would miss. But then she noticed Rachel humming. Rachel playing tea time with Olivia. Rachel minus the tone that often colored her words. Maybe a boy could be a good thing. From his messages, Maggie learned he was an honors freshman, the kind of kid nobody notices, he said, Rachel included. He preferred to talk on the computer for now rather than risk Rachel meeting him and not liking him. Rachel assured him that wasn’t a risk, because he was so respectful and funny and understanding. At that point, Maggie decided a boyfriend might catapult Rachel back into life. And she definitely needed someone who understood her, as this boy seemed to. Rachel had begun to open up to him, and by his responses, Maggie sensed he had experienced loss in his life, too, although he offered no specific details to substantiate that.
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