by Nicole Young
I sipped my soup. Brad had been the one to get me walking three times a week on top of daily stretching. By the time I left Rawlings, he and I had become a regular sight along a three-mile route.
My lip scrunched. Somehow, hitting the trail wouldn’t be the same without my walking buddy. But that was the choice I’d made, I reminded myself. And it was a good one. Because here I was, close to the people who had known my mother. I’d find out what I came to learn. Only then could I be in a relationship and be happy about it. I wouldn’t have to feel dumb when I said, “I don’t know,” to every question about my parentage. I frowned as I remembered Candice’s disparaging attitude toward my dad’s side of the family. Still, at least I’d have answers, even if I didn’t like them.
I rinsed out my mug and hit the sack early.
Another day, another donut.
I spent the morning washing down the staircase with wood oil soap. I paused at the top to gaze at the tower across the bay, rising black against the miles of ice and snow. I smiled and remembered the visit to the burn tower when I was a kid.
Mom had taken me for the day, the summer before she died. We parked the car at the boat dock behind the old hotel there and walked a narrow path through sun-washed grass. Monarch butterflies had been everywhere that day, feasting on milkweed and wildflowers. A little way up we crossed a rickety bridge that spanned a man-made channel. And just around the next clump of trees rose the tall, black tower.
We walked into its cool shadow. The rust-covered grate that once blocked the entrance lay over in some weeds. Mom and I poked our heads through the wide-open hole. Hundred-year-old ashes and coals were crusted over in a lumpy mound. We stared up at the dome. Daylight shot through sooty screens a long way up. I remember I was staring in awe at the sight, and the next thing I knew, a spider was crawling up my freckled arm. I screamed and danced to get it off me. My voice bounced off the walls of the chamber along with Mom’s laughter. Later, we found a spot by the lake and ate our picnic lunch. Then we held hands and walked, still laughing, back to the car.
Up in the loft of my log cabin, I slouched against the rail. My chin rested on the back of my hands. Through my tears, the tower blurred until it disappeared into the glaring white around it. I straightened. If I could remember my visit to the burner with Mom as clearly as if it had happened yesterday, there had to be other memories waiting to rise to the surface. I just had to be patient.
I finished my task and bundled up with coat, hat, and scarf for a walk up the driveway before dark set in. I’d never been to the cottage in the winter as a kid, so today, every turn along the way held a snow-covered wonder. Pine branches hung low and mysterious beneath their fluffy white burdens. The creek where Mom and I waded in the summer was iced over. Critter tracks crossed its winding path.
I came around a curve. Just ahead, a deer stood on the road. I jerked to a halt and watched its ears flick back and forth like furry radars. It spotted me and we locked eyes. Neither of us moved. Then the doe bolted into the forest. I raced ahead, slipping and sliding in the tire ruts. I paused where the deer had stood. Its cloven hooves left deep imprints in the snow. I followed the tracks with my eyes. Just through the trees, the doe watched me.
I made kissing sounds with my lips and held out a hand.
“Here, girl,” I said in a falsetto voice.
The doe tensed.
“Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.” I took a step toward her. She turned and fled into the woods.
“Goodbye! Come back soon!” I jumped up and down, feeling a little like Snow White’s protégée.
I reached the end of the drive and turned right toward Cupid’s Creek, keeping to the edge of the highway. I had to walk at least another mile before I could backtrack and call it three miles, although with the weight of my winter boots, it would feel like I’d walked six by the time I was done.
The wind picked up. I tied my scarf around my face. The sound of a car rumbled behind me and I hoped the driver would give me a wide berth. Across the road, a path led off to the east. Someone’s tires had already packed the snow. I looked over my shoulder and crossed the highway before the car overtook me. I felt safer walking off the main road.
I headed along the two-track. The route curved up a hill back in the direction of my house. I followed the bluff to a clearing that looked out over Valentine’s Bay. I paused to catch my breath after the rigorous climb. The trees below resembled ultra-shag carpet fit for a giant. And where the trees ended, the giant left his heel-print, a huge ice-covered semicircle called Valentine’s Bay, a tiny part of the larger expanse of Nocquette Bay. Nestled along the shoreline was the roof of my cottage. Captivated by the view, I kept moving along the trail even though I’d already surpassed my mileage quota.
I looked ahead, farther on through the trees, and saw red. My face had begun to sting a little ways back, so at first I thought I was experiencing wind-burnt eyeballs. But as I blinked and squinted for a better view, I could make out a cherry red four-wheeler parked near a clump of brush. Curious, I drew closer. The outline of another four-wheeler, this one dark green, became visible through the bare limbs. Standing next to the vehicles were two men. One was dressed in a camouflage snowsuit, the other in black winter gear. Their voices came in muffled bites, blown by the wind, too low to distinguish words. The man in camouflage passed something to the man in black. And the man in black passed something back to him.
The action stopped my progress cold. Perhaps I’d seen too many cop movies, Brad’s favorite Saturday night pastime. But instinct told me I was witnessing a drug deal. I crept backward, hoping to make a quick escape without drawing attention to myself. I backed into a bush and fell with a resounding crunch. The men jerked their heads in my direction.
6
The man in camo looked at me from behind his ski mask, jumped on his four-wheeler, gunned the motor, and sped toward me on the two-track.
I scrambled to my feet, pivoted, and ran back the way I came. The engine roared in my ears and I lurched sideways to get off the trail before the maniac ran me over. I fell and rolled. Before I could stop myself, I slipped over the edge of the bluff. I grabbed handfuls of snow, groping at anything to hinder a plunge down the hillside. Gravity mocked me and I gained momentum, sliding like a human toboggan through the trees. My ski parka and sweater crept up until my bare stomach scraped against the cold, harsh slope. Halfway down, my hip collided with a tree trunk. I bounced off and found myself hurtling headfirst down the hill. Brush raced past me at a dizzying speed. Straight ahead, a tree trunk loomed on a collision course. I screamed and reeled to one side. The move spun me around and I was feet-first again. I grabbed at a passing shrub and pulled back at the sting of needles biting into my flesh. Raspberries. I hated those.
The next moment, I was on my tush in the ditch. A semi-truck roared past on the highway, not ten feet from where I sat wet, bruised, and cold. I turned and looked up the hill behind me. The black-clad man stood at the top, looking down. Even at this distance, I recognized him as the man I’d seen going into Sinclair’s Grocery yesterday morning.
I got up, just to prove I still could. Every muscle in my body ached. I gave the guy a look I hoped would kill and brushed the snow off my clothes.
I crossed the highway and limped homeward. I thought about calling the police, but I didn’t want to start my stay in Port Silvan as the head Wolf Crier. Then someday when I really needed help, they’d drag their feet coming to my aid. After all, what had I really seen? Two guys riding four-wheelers in the woods. At least I’d had my scarf over my face so they wouldn’t recognize me if we ever crossed paths again.
I looked down at my white ski parka. The fabric was sliced and shredded from top to bottom after that shortcut I took. I guessed it was time for a new one anyway. I’d bought the thing my first year in college, almost fifteen years ago. Letting go of the jacket meant letting go of the fact that I’d never completed my college degree. I’d been sidetracked in prison instead, after he
lping my grandmother end the pain of her terminal lung cancer. But my life hadn’t really been so bad. A few disappointments, a couple letdowns, one super-big setback . . . overall a pretty good existence, if I focused on the bright spots. And up ahead was the most beautiful bright spot of all, my log cabin in the woods. I rushed toward it, eager to walk the same floor my mother had all those years ago.
Before I knew it, Sunday morning rolled around. Instead of getting dressed in ski gear for an outing after church like Brad and his sister Samantha would be doing back in Rawlings, I put on a mid-calf-length denim skirt over tall boots. Long johns underneath and a turtleneck over top along with my jean jacket completed my winter fashion.
I started my Explorer and let it warm while I had a cup of coffee. I’d seen the community church at the top of the hill in Port Silvan. I had no idea what to expect, only that I’d really enjoyed the people and sermons at the church back in Rawlings. I hoped I’d get the same warm welcome at my “home” church that I’d gotten as a stranger downstate.
I climbed behind the wheel and pulled down the driveway. Ten minutes later, I parked behind the traditional white church building. Bells in the steeple rang as I walked through the door. I snuck into a vacant back pew and fumbled to find the opening hymn.
The music swelled against the white walls of the spacious sanctuary. Stained-glass windows in cheerful colors showed simple renderings of Noah’s ark, a rainbow, a dove, and other religious symbols. A plain wooden cross filled the space above the altar.
There were about thirty people in attendance, many a trifle on the elderly side. I looked down at the notes in front of me, disappointed there weren’t more people my age.
Off to my left, a baby cried. I craned for a peek at the parents. Along the opposite aisle, a young woman stood at a pew with an infant around six months old in her arms. Blonde hair fell in thick waves to the woman’s shoulders. She looked frazzled as she tried first a pacifier then a bottle to soothe the baby. Next to them, a golden-haired girl not more than four years old doodled with a crayon.
The hymn ended and the congregation sat. A man wearing khakis and a flannel shirt stood at the podium and began the service.
The baby let out a wail.
“Was that an ‘amen’ I heard from the back corner?” the leader joked, getting a round of chuckles. He launched into announcements.
His jovial voice blurred into the background as I watched the woman try frantically to stop the crying. She looked on the verge of tears as she grabbed the four-year-old’s hand and left the sanctuary.
Empathy pulled at me. I snuck out the door behind her into the large fellowship hall. A rear corner served as a makeshift nursery, its boundaries formed by a sofa and plush rug. The woman sat in a glider, soothing the baby. The young girl picked through a toy box.
“Hi.” I stepped toward the little family. “Any way I can help?”
The mother looked like she was holding back tears herself. Her golden hair was tousled and one edge of her blouse had pulled out of her skirt. “He’ll stop in a minute. He’s just cranky this morning.” The woman patted the baby’s back. “I’m sorry if he disturbed you. I try not to let the kids get too carried away in there.”
“Disturb me? It’s so wonderful to see children at church.” I gave a quirk of my lip. “Not too many at this one, huh?”
“No.” She managed a smile. “Are you visiting relatives in town? We don’t get many tourists this time of year.”
I hesitated, not wanting to share too much information. Still, what did it matter after the clerk at Sinclair’s probably already broadcast the news? “Actually, I just moved to the area. I bought an old log cabin that I used to spend summers in as a kid.”
“Oh? Whereabouts is it?” she asked. The baby in her arms calmed to whimper level.
“Just past Cupid’s Creek.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “That must be the old Russo place. I’m surprised they let it out of the family.”
“It turns out they didn’t.” I shifted, giving a sidelong glance at the floor. “Bernard Russo is my grandfather.”
Her eyes opened wide. For some reason, I rushed to explain, or apologize, or something. “But I only found out I was related to him after I bought the house. I don’t even remember my grandfather and now I own his old hunting lodge. Weird, huh?”
“Was your mom the one that . . .” Her voice petered off.
“Killed herself? Yep. That was my mom.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Oh, you didn’t. Don’t worry about it. It’s all water under the bridge. I’m okay with it. Really.” The more I babbled, the less believable I sounded. Even to myself. I gave a half grin. “Let’s start over. My name is Patricia Amble. You can call me Tish.”
“Hi, Tish. I’m Melissa Belmont. Everybody calls me Missy. I live up on River Street, in that rose-colored house toward the end.” She reached over and smoothed the toddler’s curls. “This is Hannah. And the baby is Andrew.”
“They’re beautiful kids. I hope they get some playmates here soon.”
Missy’s pretty features collapsed into a pained frown. “Oh, they will. I’ve already got another one on the way.”
I blinked, surprised at her forlorn tone. “Congratulations.”
“I wish I could say I was happy about it. But it comes as a big surprise. And at a bad time.”
I didn’t want to minimize her situation, but I also didn’t want to play into some pity party. “I’m sure you’ll make the best of it,” was all I could think to say.
At my words, a veil dropped over her face. I flinched with guilt. Maybe she’d wanted to talk to me about her situation and I’d just slammed the door in her face.
I backtracked. “What I meant to say was, is there anything I can do to help?” She’d probably never take me up on it, but it felt good to make the offer.
Missy gave a look of hope. “I’ll think about that. Thank you for asking.”
I glanced at her left hand and saw the flash of a diamond ring. “Is your husband in there? Because if you want to join him, I can watch the kids.”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t come to church.”
I reached for the baby. “Even more reason for you to get back in there. No sense in dressing everybody up and rushing over here if you don’t even get to hear the sermon.”
She hesitated a brief moment, then let me take the baby.
“I’ll come rescue you if he cries.” She stood and headed for the sanctuary. “Thank you, Tish. Hannah, you be a good girl.”
The door closed behind Missy. I sat in the glider with baby Andrew on my lap. He twisted up his face. For a minute I thought he was going to cry. But soon he found the zipper pull on one side of my jean jacket. Chubby fingers strained to drag the mechanism up and down the track. His forehead furrowed in concentration. Pudgy baby lips jutted out with the effort.
I drank in his clean, fresh baby scent. His warmth and weight there on my lap sent love flooding through my veins like a caffeine fix. I pictured my own kid bouncing on my knee. His head would be topped with Brad’s dark hair, he’d have Brad’s straight, serious lips . . .
Baby Andrew held his breath and grunted. Suddenly, a mini mortar exploded on my thigh. With my self-preservation instinct operating in full gear, I lifted the baby like a hot-air balloon and set him on the floor. I dug through the diaper bag Missy had left behind and found a rattle. Andrew shoved the toy in his mouth and sucked on it. His face turned red, then back to white, like an errant Christmas bulb.
The next few minutes passed in relative peace. Hannah occupied herself with a chunky manger scene puzzle. Andrew continued a project of his own. Then the odor hit.
Hannah spoke without looking up. “Andrew’s got a stinky.”
“I know. I think church is almost over. Your mom will be here soon.”
Hannah paused and swung her blue eyes my way. “You should change him so he doesn’t go ballistic.”
Her matter-of-
fact tone as she said the big word made me smile. “Think you can help me with that?”
“’Course.” She went for the shoulder bag and pulled out a disposable diaper and a box of wipes. She spread out a cushy vinyl mat, then seized the baby under his arms, dragging him to the changing pad.
I intervened, laying the baby gently on the soft surface. “You’re going to be a really great mom when you grow up.”
“I know,” the girl said, already unsnapping the baby’s bottoms.
With Hannah in charge, we cleaned Andrew and had him back in action by the time the grown-ups started trickling out of the sanctuary.
The moment Missy reached us, she scooped up Andrew and hugged him. She knelt to Hannah’s level.
“How’d it go, sweetie?”
“Good. I had to show the lady how to change a diaper.”
Missy smiled. “Thank you, pumpkin.” She rose. “And thank you, Tish. I really appreciate it. Sometimes those sermons are the only thing that gets me through the week.”
I patted Hannah’s head and smiled. “I have a hard time believing life could be less than perfect with these two cuties around.”
Missy stepped closer and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Can we get together sometime soon? I’d like to talk to you about something.”
I looked at the congregation around me, milling about with smiles on their faces, as if life was nothing short of heaven. No wonder Missy singled me out to talk to. Spiritual Journey in Progress was stamped all over my forehead. “Do you want to come out to the cottage? I’m pretty much available anytime,” I said.
“No. Not the cottage.” She crouched to pack the diaper bag one-handed. “Let’s meet in Manistique instead. How about Tuesday around noon at the public library? There’s a nice kids section there.”