by Susan Wiggs
“I like working with my hands,” he told her. “Haven’t done it since wood-shop training at Lost Springs.”
“We’re very lucky you remember the lessons you learned there.” Gwen slipped on a pair of reading glasses and started sewing. “It’s a pity you missed Twyla and Brian,” she remarked. “They always get an early start on weekdays because of school.”
Rob didn’t look up from the length of wood he was measuring. “We said our goodbyes yesterday.”
“You showed her a good time, Rob. I’m grateful to you for that.”
Still he didn’t look up, though he felt his ears redden. He wondered how much Twyla had told her mother. “A class reunion wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I signed up for this bachelor auction thing, but I guess it worked out okay.”
“I know it did. Going back to Hell Creek was a big step for her. Makes me think I should be taking some steps of my own.”
Rob stopped working for a moment. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his throat, disappearing into the T-shirt. “Yeah?”
Unlike Rob, Gwen didn’t stop working or look up from her quilt hoop. “Twyla said she told you what happened back there.”
“She did. I’m so sorry, Gwen.”
Her hands sped up, sewing fast. “And she told you what it did to me.”
“Yeah.”
“I know what it’s called. I think I even know what I might do about it—the medication, the counseling. I’ve read dozens of books and articles on agoraphobia. So has Twyla. It’s just a question of deciding it’s got to be done.”
“What’s stopping you from making that decision, Gwen?”
“Ah. That’s the big question. The one I ask myself with every stitch I take. I’ll find the answer one of these days. The trouble is, one of these days might be years away.”
At last she stopped sewing and eyed him over the top of her narrow glasses. “Did you ever put off making a decision or taking a step because you have no idea what comes next?”
“I always know what comes next. I’m big on planning.”
“But if you didn’t know. Would you have trouble making up your mind about something?” She stabbed her needle into the fabric again, outlining a colorful fan shape. “I think that’s what my problem is. Life with my husband was so uncertain, so unstable, that I never knew what was going to happen from one moment to the next, but he swept me along, and I allowed it because I loved him and he made it seem all right. But then when he was gone, I froze. There was no one to sweep me along anymore.”
“And you can’t sweep yourself along?”
“Maybe.” She poked her needle through the quilt square. “Maybe. But it hasn’t happened yet.”
Rob worked in silence for a while, feeling an unaccountable kinship with this intelligent, caring and confused lady. When he had done his psych rotation in school, he’d dismissed it as a specialty because, in most cases, doctor and patient reached an impasse, a wall, and couldn’t hurdle it. He didn’t want that sort of frustration.
Yet sometimes the wall had a door in it. “Gwen, have you ever thought—”
Just then the phone rang, startling them. With an apologetic smile, she went inside and answered. A moment later she stepped out on the porch, her face pinched and white. “It’s Brian’s school,” she said, pressing the receiver to her chest. “He’s been hurt.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“IS TWYLA WITH HIM?” Rob estimated the beauty shop was a few blocks from Lander Elementary, so she could get there in no time.
“That’s the problem,” said Gwen. “Today’s her hospital volunteer day. The school can’t reach her.”
Rob ripped off his tool belt and tossed it aside, already digging in his jeans pocket for car keys. “What happened?”
“He fell from the monkey bars,” Gwen said. “It’s probably nothing, but the school nurse is a little worried about the bump on his head. Mostly, he’s scared and wants to come home.”
“Fine.” Amazed at the pounding of his own heart, Rob turned toward his car. “I’ll bring him home.”
“Rob,” Gwen called from the porch, “wait.”
“What?”
“You can’t go get him.”
“Why the hell not?”
“You’re not authorized to pick him up from school. They won’t release him to you.”
He stopped walking. All this parenthood stuff was new territory, but he could understand why a school would be cautious. “Are you authorized, Gwen?”
She pressed her back against the screen door. “Yes, but I can’t—”
“Damn it, Gwen, that’s not an option at the moment. You just said the school won’t release him to me.”
“But—”
“The kid needs you.” Rob told himself getting angry wouldn’t accomplish anything. Sucking air between his gritted teeth, he approached the house and planted his foot on the bottom step. “Here, take my hand. We’ll go together.”
Her hands clutched the phone receiver like a lifeline. They were beautiful hands, strong and shaped by a lifetime of women’s work. Cooking and sewing hands, mothering hands.
“Put the phone down, Gwen, and let’s go.”
Her grip tightened. Then, even as she made a small sound of protest, she set the cordless receiver on the chair arm.
“Brian’s waiting,” Rob reminded her. “You said he was scared. I’m only sweeping you away.”
The color faded from her cheeks as she edged toward him. The terror in her face wrenched his heart, but he forced himself to keep his hand held out to her. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s just a few steps. Keep thinking of Brian.”
She clenched her fists tightly at her sides. He could hear her breathing lightly, quickly.
“Do it for Brian,” Rob said. “You can do it, Gwen.”
She met his eyes, and hers were filled with unreasoning terror. Rob was tempted to simply grab her, carry her bodily to the car, but he resisted. She had to take this step, and she had to do it on her own.
Finally, with a quick, jerky movement, she took hold of his hand. Her fingers were icy cold, gripping hard. He sensed that it was best to say nothing as she took the first step off the porch. She came down the stairs slowly, then stopped as her feet touched the ground. She stared down for a moment, then looked at Rob. “Let’s go.”
He helped her into the car, hearing the quickness of her breathing as he sped toward town. “Breathe slowly, Gwen,” he said. “Long, slow breaths, and think about Brian. He’s waiting for us.”
She sat quietly, her ashen face moist with sweat, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
“You’re doing great,” he said, and kept up a stream of encouraging words during the short ride to town. “Brian’s going to be glad to see you.”
“H-he’ll probably think that bump on the head is giving him hallucinations,” she said. “In his entire life, he’s never seen me leave the house.”
“Then this will mean the world to him.”
Slowly, cautiously, she turned her head toward him. “It means the world to me.”
IT WAS EERIE, walking the halls of Lander Elementary again. The corridors, which had seemed endlessly long to Rob as a boy, now seemed unexpectedly short. The water fountains he’d had to stand on tiptoe to reach were impossibly low. The office, which used to seem intimidating and glaringly lit, was a cheery place that smelled of coffee and library paste.
Gwen walked straight to the counter and said, “We’ve come for Brian McCabe. I think he’s in the nurse’s office.”
The secretary looked up from her computer terminal. “I’ll need to get your name.”
“I’m Mrs. Gwen McCabe, his grandmother, and this is Dr. Robert Carter. He’s…a family friend.” Her voice gathered strength with each word she spoke. “I’m listed on his authorization card.”
“Of course. The school clinic is through there.”
Rob even remembered the nurse’s office, the mysterious hieroglyphics of the vision-screening
chart, the paper-covered cots, the immaculate glass apothecary jars of swabs and Band-Aids. He’d been a regular customer here years ago, because he’d worked as hard at sports as he had at everything else in school, frantic to prove he was as good as any kid who went home to a real family at the end of the day. He’d been in a few times to get cleaned up after a playground fight. Every once in a while a boy used to make the mistake of saying something about the boys of Lost Springs, and Rob had to set him straight.
The nurse herself had changed considerably. She had short orange hair, almost-black lipstick, a long row of studs in each ear, and a button on her lab jacket that read No Whining. Gwen’s eyes widened a little, but then she focused on Brian, who lay on one of the cots, a blue gel cold pack on his head.
“Grammy!” he said, and Rob figured the look on the kid’s face let Gwen know her effort was well worth it.
“Hey, kiddo.” She knelt down beside him. “The nurse says you took a spill.”
Rob pointed to the lighted scope in the nurse’s pocket. “I’m Dr. Carter, from Denver. May I?”
She handed it to him. Rob took a minute to wash his hands at the sink, then went to Brian. “I just want to take a peek at your eyes,” he said, moving the cold pack aside. The hematoma on his head was a good-sized one, but the pupils were reactive, his coloring good. Rob couldn’t remember the last time he’d laid hands on a patient. It felt strangely gratifying to feel the living warmth of the boy, even during this brief, cursory exam. Not for the first time, he wondered what it would be like to practice outside the lab. Messy, yes, and unpredictable, but the connection was vital. He could feel it in his bones—and in the settled breathing of the small boy on the cot.
“He’s going to be fine,” he told Gwen, “but we should watch him today, keep him quiet.”
She signed a release form. Then she went to Brian, and hand in hand, they left the school. Rob walked behind them, unexpectedly pierced by tender feelings for the boy. He had never given much thought to being a father. What was it like? Suddenly he wanted to know. He wanted it bad.
“Thanks for coming, Grammy,” Brian said, getting into the back seat.
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
As Rob pulled away from the school, he glanced in the rearview mirror. His heart sank when he saw Brian’s chin trembling.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I want my mom.”
“It’s her volunteer day at the hospital,” Gwen said.
“I want to see her.” Brian’s voice quavered.
Rob’s shoulders tensed. You couldn’t reason with a kid who’d hurt himself, a kid who was on the brink of tears because he wanted his mother. “Where’s the hospital, Gwen?”
“Out on the Shoshone Highway, about twelve miles toward Casper.”
“Can you handle it, Gwen?”
She hesitated. “All right. Yes, let’s go.”
He turned back toward the highway. “Does your mom like surprises, Brian?”
“I don’t think so.”
Rob grinned into the rearview mirror. “She’ll like this one.”
TWYLA POSITIONED a white neckroll pillow behind Mrs. Ulrich. “How’s that?” she asked.
“Fine, dear,” the old lady said. “I’m very comfortable now.”
“Ready for your comb-out?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. My son’s coming all the way from Des Moines to see me.”
Twyla set her box of beauty supplies on the swivel table by the hospital bed. “We’ll have you looking pretty as a picture.” Sunshine streamed in through the slatted blinds of the small hospital room, bringing a welcome flood of natural light. Working slowly and gently, she unwound the curlers she’d put in an hour before. There was, she’d always thought, a peculiar intimacy in doing people’s hair. Touching the head of a stranger was not an everyday occurrence for most people, for it connoted a level of familiarity that usually only existed among family members. But her role made it permissible. Maybe that was why people tended to tell their hairdressers everything.
A person’s hair had a certain sacredness about it. In all the years of being a beautician, she had seen the entire range of reactions from delight to despair. The way a woman’s hair looked could determine the way she faced the world that day, and Twyla took her job seriously.
Her volunteer work at the county hospital had begun with Sugar Spinelli’s illness several years back. Few women, Twyla had learned, were too sick to worry about their hair, and Mrs. Spinelli was no exception. Twyla had lovingly tended her locks until they became hopelessly thin wisps, decimated by chemotherapy. Then they’d turned to turbans and wigs, having more fun than they should in the middle of a grave illness. Mrs. Spinelli always swore the laughter they’d shared had been part of her healing.
So every Monday, after an hour of bookkeeping at the salon, Twyla spent four hours doing shampoos and sets for the patients who wanted them. Mrs. Ulrich, bedridden with a broken hip, wanted to look her best for her son’s visit. Humming to herself, Twyla brushed out the baby-fine, silvery locks, arranging the curls artfully, spritzing them in place.
She was glad to stay busy today, because it kept her from thinking about Rob Carter. He’d probably be finished with the porch by now and be on his way to the county airport. She wouldn’t be seeing him again. That was the nature of their arrangement. One encounter, an obligation fulfilled, and then it was over. That was what she’d expected, and that was what she’d gotten.
The one thing she hadn’t counted on was falling for him.
“Try not to overdo the spritzer, dear,” Mrs. Ulrich said gently.
“Oh.” Twyla realized she’d pumped a third of the contents on one spot. “Sorry, I’m a little scattered today.”
“Busy weekend?”
Twyla winced at the irony. In the space of two days she had returned to the town she’d fled in shame seven years before, confronted the ex-husband who had dumped her, come to terms with her father’s death, had wildly romantic sex and—she finally admitted to herself—fallen in love. “You have no idea,” she murmured.
“It’s good to keep busy,” Mrs. Ulrich commented.
“It’s never been a problem for me. Almost finished now.”
Mrs. Ulrich picked up a hand mirror and peered at herself. “Oh, my, that’s lovely,” she said. “I feel better already. Honestly I do.”
Twyla gave the arrangement a few final pats.
Though the door to the hospital room was open, a light knock sounded. Twyla looked up, shocked to see Brian and Rob standing there, hand in hand, watching her work.
“Hey, Mom,” Brian said.
“Hey yourself.”
“Mom!” Brian said. “I fell off the monkey bars and Rob says I can stay home the rest of the day even though it’s probably just a bump and I’m totally okay. Can I, Mom? Huh? Can I?”
“He’s all right?” she asked Rob urgently. Her heart pounded—and not just from concern for Brian. It was the sight of the two of them together that stirred her, frightened her with how fiercely she wanted them both in her life. She scooped the curlers into her kit. “Would you excuse me, Mrs. Ulrich?”
“Of course, dear. I’m not going anywhere.” She picked up the novel she had been reading.
“Brian’s fine,” Rob assured her. “Aren’t you, pal?”
“You bet! And, Mom, guess what else?”
Twyla stepped out of the room. She nodded slowly, but she barely heard him. Barely saw him, though the image of him, hand in hand with Rob Carter, would forever be branded on her heart. Yet even this, astonishing and moving as it was, could not compete with the sight that held her spellbound in the too-bright hospital corridor.
Her mouth moved, trying to shape her disbelief into words, but no sound came out. Then, finally, a thin exclamation.
“Mama?”
Pallid, a curl of white hair dropping over her brow, Gwen held out both hands, palms up.
“Surprise,” she said softly.
Twyla crossed
the distance between them, hugging her mother close. The familiar scent of laundry and talcum powder surrounded her, and Twyla didn’t want to let go. She was afraid the moment would disappear, burst like a bubble. Yet her mother felt as solid and real as the tile floor beneath her feet.
Gradually she came to trust the moment and pulled back, keeping hold of her mother’s hands. She tried to control her trembling. But she couldn’t. Her mother had left the house. After seven years, her mother had left the house.
“You did it,” Twyla said, so filled with amazement and joy that she could hardly speak. “You did it, Mama. It’s wonderful.”
“Yes,” Gwen said. “It is.”
Slipping her arm around her mother’s waist, she walked toward Rob and Brian. “Why now, Mama? What made you decide to come out now?”
Gwen smiled, a sparkle of her old mischief twinkling in her eye. “Maybe,” she said, watching Rob’s face, “I was just waiting for someone to fix the porch steps.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
TWYLA RESTED HER HAND on the new rail of the porch steps. It felt sturdy and smelled of freshly milled wood. “It’s perfect, Dr. Carter,” she said with mock formality. “But what about your flight back to Denver?”
He busied himself picking up tools, and didn’t look at her. “Change of plans. I’m meeting someone at the airport in Casper this afternoon.”
“Well,” she said, rubbing the sanded wood surface. “How can I thank you?”
“By putting a coat of paint on it before winter. It’s treated lumber, but it’ll last longer with exterior paint.”
She tilted back her head, regarding the house with a critical eye. The faded shutters and weathered siding depressed her. “The whole place could use a coat of paint. Maybe I’ll have it done this summer if the shop revenues are good.”
He loaded the last of the tools into an old wooden bulb crate, cleaning up the work site with the precision of a drill sergeant.
She caught herself wondering what he was really like in what she thought of as his “other” life. His real life. What sort of music did he like? What was his favorite food? Did he live in a house or an apartment? There was so much she didn’t know, so much she wanted to learn but wouldn’t let herself ask.