CHAPTER SIX
A STRIP OF WARM light cut across the bed, and Judith opened her eyes to see a slit of bright white dissecting the otherwise darkness of the drapes. Where was she? She sat up and listened to the silence all around her. No hiss of semi air brakes, no honking horns, no sirens blaring. And then she remembered, Cedar Crest. Glancing at her watch, she blinked in surprise. Nearly nine—the longest uninterrupted sleep she’d had in ages. But perhaps even more remarkable was how her stomach suddenly gnawed with actual hunger. She hadn’t felt hungry for days, weeks even.
Feeling a bit like Alice on the other side of the looking glass, she pulled the greasy cord of the heavy rubber-backed drapes to allow the midmorning light to flood in, painfully exposing the interior of the dreary motel room: Fake-wood paneling in a dark shade, plastic-laminate Mediterranean style furnishings, and matted avocado shag carpet that felt coated with who knew what beneath her bare feet. She stood for a moment gazing blankly at the thousands of dust particles now illuminated in the bright sunlight like miniature fireflies floating weightlessly on the air. With an awkward shove she forced open the aluminum window to allow some much-needed air into the stale and weary little room. She wondered vaguely if breathing this old, smoke-tainted air might be just as hazardous as actual secondhand smoke. It was equally disgusting.
She went into the tiny bathroom, a departure by at least two decades from the rest of the room with its pink plumbing fixtures and aqua-blue tile accents. Its odor suggested a mixture of mildew, old decaying wood, and still more stale smoke. She stood on the cold linoleum floor staring at her reflection lit by the harsh and unforgiving glare of a vibrating fluorescent light above a foggy mirror. Even with the obscuring factor of the blurry glass she looked truly frightening—even to herself. Traces of the dark eye makeup that Polly had applied yesterday were now smeared like soot under her eyes and onto her cheeks, and beneath the dark smears her skin looked pasty white as if she’d been ill for some time. It was ironic, because for most of her adult life she’d been admired for her appearance. Now it seemed that must’ve been somebody else all along. For the woman in the mirror looked haggard and old and, yes, ugly! But, in a morbid sort of way, it was almost fascinating—probably akin to the way people couldn’t help but stare at a dead animal alongside the road or someone disfigured by a bad accident.
Somehow in that very instant, she knew intuitively that she’d reached a very real crossroads in her life. To continue her previous path could only guarantee things to get worse—most likely to the point of no return. Yet to make an intentional U-turn right now, and to walk towards life seemed almost frightening. Was she really up to it? She thought of Peter and Jonathan—no doubt about what they would say. She knew they would both shake a firm fist at her and say: buck up, persevere, choose life. Neither of them had ever been quitters.
And so, in a moment of crystal clarity, standing before the clouded bathroom mirror, she decided she must at least attempt that U-turn—somehow she must choose life. And though she wasn’t quite sure that it was entirely possible or even plausible, she determined that she would remember this point in time, to somehow etch this decision into her being. She stared hard at her face again, imprinting the
image indelibly into her brain—she wanted to remember this look of utter wretchedness and devastation. Her grandmother used to repeat a saying of how “the eyes were a window to the soul.” Judging by her eyes, her soul lurked like a foreign thing, dark and forlorn and empty. She leaned forward, staring hard into her sad eyes, searching for just the merest trace of light or hope. And perhaps it was actually there, flickering ever so faintly, but she couldn’t quite see it yet.
She ran warm water into the sink and washed her face and when she looked in the mirror again she noticed the usual dark circles beneath her eyes now appeared just slightly diminished. Or was it her imagination? Perhaps a few more solid nights’ sleep in a quiet place like Cedar Crest would erase some of the years that had sneaked in and carved themselves into her countenance. She reached up to touch her hair; yesterday’s haircut was a definite improvement. And as Polly had said, it really was her best asset, thick and dark brown. How amazing that it hadn’t turned gray. Could it be she wasn’t as old as she felt after all?
Following a long, hot shower, she dumped the hastily packed contents of her suitcase onto the rumpled bed, and perused through the pile of mismatched clothing until she found a sleeveless white top and pair of khaki walking shorts, leftovers from the magical summer just two years ago when Peter had signed on with the law firm. It seemed another lifetime now, but at least they’d had that one summer together. That was something. She pulled on the two garments, amazed that they were fairly wrinkle free. At least compared with the rest of the things she’d so haphazardly tossed in yesterday. Perhaps she might even locate an iron in this hapless motel, that is, if she stuck around town another day. Otherwise she might be mistaken for a transient, homeless person.
She looked in the mirror once more. This was the most interest she’d taken in her appearance since school had let out, and that wasn’t saying much. She looked slightly better than the image she’d seen first thing this morning, but her face still looked ghostly and somewhat stricken. Not wanting to frighten the people of Cedar Crest—especially when she needed their help and cooperation, she decided to take Polly’s advice and apply a little makeup to make her look a bit more human and approachable. She dug through her purse until she found an old tube of plum lipstick and a powder compact. Remembering an old trick her mother had taught her, she artfully combined a spot of the lipstick with a dab of moisturizer to create a makeshift blush which she cautiously applied to her cheeks. Then a little powder to add color to her complexion, and just a touch of lipstick to her mouth. She looked critically at her reflection. A bit better than the bride of Frankenstein. It would have to do for now.
The business district was only a few blocks from the motel, and she decided to walk that short distance, allowing herself more time to acclimate to the town and observe what had or, it seemed more likely, had not changed over the years. As she walked down Main Street, it felt as though she’d stepped into the Twilight Zone. Many shops and buildings were almost exactly as she remembered them. Older and shabbier perhaps, but still the same. But instead of being comforted to find Cedar Crest unchanged, it troubled her. The town seemed stagnant, as if it had been trapped in a time warp, turning into a sludgy backwater where no one cared anymore. She knew she was making snap judgments based on first impressions, but something indescribable seemed wrong here. She spotted her destination, the small café still situated next to the shoe-and-boot repair shop. Other than what certainly must be new gingham curtains in the window, it also looked exactly the same. And despite the past two decades of antilogging rhetoric bubbling in and about the Pacific Northwest, this little eatery had retained its original lumberjack name—the Timber Topper. But she knew from childhood that loggers and millworkers were a stubborn breed, proud of their rugged heritage and antagonistic toward environmentalists who seemed bent upon closing down their woods. As she walked in the door, she wondered wryly if the Timber Topper might even list spotted owls as one of its regular blue plate specials.
No surprises here, she observed quickly as she walked in the door. The same glass-eyed, taxidermy heads of antlered deer, elk, and antelope still proudly hung high on the wood-paneled wall. She suddenly recalled how she and Jasmine used to joke that the missing bodies of those animals were probably ground into the hamburgers they so often consumed at the little café (which might not have been too far from the truth). Then there was the same sparkly plastic-laminate that topped the soda counter, only now yellow and faded with age, and the same row of rotating chrome stools with peeling red vinyl seats. She and Jasmine used to sit up there to order cherry cokes, pretending to be mature. And there against the other wall, oilcloth covered tables and red padded booths with deep, comfortable seats where men, too old to work in the woods or lumber mill, had alw
ays been known to drink cup after cup of coffee and shoot the breeze for hours at a time. She’d often wondered how they had so much to talk about.
But, unlike her childhood when she’d always felt at home here, she now felt totally alien and completely out of place. Several pairs of eyes looked up to inspect her after the little bell on the door finally stopped jingling. And it seemed their gazes lingered just a bit too long, perhaps just a second or two beyond what most might consider to be a polite glance. She stood for a moment, considering sitting on a stool, but then realized she’d feel even more conspicuous all alone at the otherwise vacant counter. So she slipped into an empty booth near the front door and took out the plastic-coated menu from its nesting place next to the napkin dispenser. But as she skimmed over the breakfast selections of eggs and bacon and pancakes, she realized that these foods would most likely be swimming in grease. Even as a girl, she’d often get a stomachache after dining on the greasy burgers and fries they served here. Her mother would warn her, but being strong willed as a child, she’d always refused to admit it was the food.
“What can I get for you?” asked a plump, middle-aged woman with dark roots showing beneath her overly permed and brassy hair.
“I’d like some coffee, black—and, uh, do you have anything light?”
“Light?” The woman frowned at her curiously, then rolling her eyes, said, “Well, there’s always the Tiny Topper breakfast with one egg, a strip of bacon, and toast. That’s pretty light.”
Just then, Judith spotted oatmeal listed with a few other side dishes on the bottom of the menu. “That’s okay, I think I’ll just have the oatmeal. And a glass of orange juice, please.”
The woman didn’t write down the order, but continued peering at Judith with obvious interest, then finally said, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Judith read the name tag pinned to the woman’s stained white uniform: Glenda. She thought for a moment. “You’re not Glenda Roberts, are you?” she asked, not believing it could even be so. She remembered the robust teenager on the cheerleading squad in high school. But this thick-waisted, middle-aged woman couldn’t possibly be the same person.
The woman smiled, revealing stained teeth. “That’s right. Anyway, I used to be Glenda Roberts. My last name’s been Miller for over twenty-six years now.”
Judith forced a friendly smile to her lips. “You were a couple years ahead of me in school, but my name was Judith McPhearson then—now it’s Blackwell.”
Glenda’s brows raised slightly. “Now I remember you. Didn’t you used to run around with the Morrison girl?”
She nodded sadly. “Actually, that’s what brought me to town. I heard the sad news.” After Polly’s incessant warnings yesterday, Judith knew to watch her guard as she continued. “I guess I just needed to take a sentimental journey back to Cedar Crest.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find everything’s just about the same as you left it,” said Glenda flatly. Was Judith imagining it or was this woman slightly disillusioned herself?
“Say, didn’t the Miller family used to own this café?” asked Judith.
Glenda nodded. “Yep. I married Jeff Miller. Remember he played football for Cedar Crest High? He was their star quarterback the year they went to state. Now his folks are mostly retired. Him and me run this place with the help of our youngest daughter, Katie. She’s still in high school; the others are all gone now. But Katie is my right-hand girl.”
“That must be nice.”
“And how about you?” Glenda stuck the pencil stub behind her ear and adjusted her apron. “Have you got some family too?”
Judith sighed. “My husband and son have both passed on.”
Glenda frowned. “Now, that’s too bad.” She shook her head as she turned back towards the counter to grab the coffeepot, but Judith could still hear her clicking her tongue as she muttered, “That’s just too darn bad.. .” She set a full
mug of steaming coffee before Judith before returning to the kitchen, still shaking her head in pity.
Judith looked around at the other customers, now resuming their conversations or reading their papers, with a furtive glance tossed her way from time to time. Strangers must be unusual in a town like this, or was it possible that some of them recognized her? She studied them more closely, but not a single face looked familiar. Still, it’d been almost thirty years since she’d lived here. People’s appearances could change a lot. Certainly, hers had. And yet, oddly enough, Glenda had seemed to recognize her.
Before long, Glenda returned with a generous bowl of oatmeal and what appeared to be hand-squeezed fresh orange juice. “Here you go, honey. I even dug up some brown sugar for your oatmeal.”
Judith smiled and placed the paper napkin in her lap. “Thanks, it looks good.”
Glenda lingered a moment, a look of perplexity across her face. “It’s just so odd,” she said without further explanation.
“What’s that?” Judith peered up curiously.
“You look a bit like her.”
“Who?”
“Your old friend, Jasmine Morrison, or rather Emery.”
Judith caught her breath. “Did you know her?”
Glenda shook her head sharply. “No, not really. Oh sure, she came in here once in a while with Hal. But she was a real quiet little gal, kept mostly to herself.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. It seems funny though, because she was never like that as a child. I wonder what made her change.”
Glenda seemed to visibly bristle at this new line of questioning. “Well, you know, I never really knew her that good. So I wouldn’t have a clue. Enjoy your breakfast now, and your visit while you’re here in Cedar Crest.”
Judith finished her breakfast, paid the bill and left a tip, and then quietly made her way back outside. The town looked a little livelier now, although only slightly. The overall impression was still that of a place that had been left behind and forgotten long ago. She peered down the street toward Polly’s salon and the hardware store across from it. As curious as she was to view a recent photo of Jasmine, the very thought of seeing Hal Emery again made her feel just a little queasy. Although she had never considered herself an overly judgmental person, something about that man just gave her the creeps. And the realization that Jasmine had actually been married to such a man left Judith completely bewildered. For those pallid eyes and doughy face, that slippery handshake and combed-over hairline were just the sort of things the two girls would have made fun of as teens. And yet Jasmine had married him and lived with him. But then again, she’d changed a lot, and ultimately she’d taken her own life. Certainly, all had not been well with Jasmine Morrison.
Judith, now just steps away from the hardware store, considered turning back. Yet how could she not go inside? She owed as much to her friend. And so she mentally braced herself, pushed open the plate glass door, and entered the dim, musty store. An elderly man leaned against the counter, inquiring about ordering a particular plumbing part, and Judith pretended to browse among the limited selection of camping supplies. Only a very desperate camper would come in here to search out a necessary item. She heard the door open and close.
“Hello again.” called Hal Emery, still behind the counter.
She walked over, pasting what she hoped was a convincing smile on her face. “Hello, Mr. Emery,” she said. “It’s a lovely day out there.” She wanted to add that he might consider opening a window or door to allow some fresh air inside, but didn’t.
“Please, call me Hal.” he said pressing his fingertips onto the countertop. “You were friends with Jasmine, now shouldn’t that make you a friend of mine too?”
She nodded. “Of course. Thank you.”
“Funny thing, I searched all over the house last night, and could only scrape up a couple of photos of Jasmine. And they’re nothin’ to speak of—”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’d love to see them.” She moved closer to the counter.
He turned around and reach
ed into a shelf to remove an envelope, then took out a couple of color snapshots and laid them on the counter between them.
Judith leaned forward to view the two photos almost as if she were examining some ancient archives and somehow was afraid to actually touch them or pick them up.
He pointed to the one she was looking at. “That was taken when Jasmine and I got hitched.”
Judith nodded, staring at the forlorn face of the woman standing between Hal and the tall man Judith knew to be Mr. Morrison/his hair no longer blond but white, yet his eyes remained the same, blue and steely. But it was the expression in Jasmine’s eyes that stopped Judith cold. That empty, sad, hopelessness—as if her life was already over. “On your wedding day?” said Judith almost without expression. “When was that?”
“About a year ago, as I recollect. I’m not one to pay much mind to dates, but it was just coming on summer, as I recall.” He pointed to the other photo, this one of Jasmine sitting in a camp chair, huddled in a blanket with a tin mug in her hand. This time her eyes were downcast, but the expression looked the same. “This was taken last hunting season. I got me a four-point elk last year. Got lots of pictures of that too, but didn’t think you’d be interested.” He made a sound that sounded something like a chuckle.
Blood Sisters Page 5