Potter Springs

by Britta Coleman

  “Of course not. She left last night.”

  Stale coffee from his I MY WIFE mug wafted up at him. A gift from Amanda when they got engaged, he drank from the souvenir every morning. Hand washed it before leaving so he could use it the next day.

  “Say that again.” As he stared at the bright red letters on the cup, his voice hoarsened.

  “I said she left,” Katy repeated. “I didn’t get her amusing little note until this morning. Naturally, she didn’t ask my opinion-driving off in the middle of the night…”

  The bottom of his office chair fell into an abyss.

  What had Dale said?

  “She gets it from her father. Never mind worrying her mother to death.”

  “When?” His own mind whirled in circles, touching down at odd points. Note. Driving off. Morning.

  “Last night. I already explained-what’s the matter with you?” Katy’s imperialism had no problem traveling long distance.

  He fought for calm, for the clarity to speak. “She’s not back. She hasn’t come home.”

  “Whatever are you talking about?”

  “She isn’t here.”

  “That’s not funny, Mark.”

  “Are you sure she left?” Hope, like a fragile shield, held the whirlwind at bay.

  “Quite. Her room’s cleared out. The van is gone.” She paused. “Stunning color, by the way.”

  He let that slide. Unable to comprehend Dragonlady’s jabs while her daughter might lie dead, crashed on the side of the road in a volcano of metal.

  The clicking of a lighter sounded over the line.

  He took measured breaths to quell the spinning hysteria. “So, what do we do? How do we find her?”

  Inhaling deeply, Katy didn’t answer right away. Then, “Call her cell phone.”

  “Her what?”

  “Cellular phone. Portable. Wireless. The kind you can take with you, in a car for instance. Or a minivan, if you’re so blessed.”

  “She doesn’t have one,” he said. “She doesn’t have a cell phone.”

  “Yes, she does. I bought it for her when she got here. I’ll call her.” With a click, Katy Thompson ended the conversation.

  A cell phone. Still holding the extension with his shoulder, Mark pried his hands off his desk, one digit at a time. He prayed for a miracle while the empty line beeped in his ear.

  He hung up, defeat washing over him like a stain.

  Then the truth hit.

  My wife has a cell phone. And I don’t even have her number.

  CHAPTER 24

  crossing over

  At the border crossing, a flashing light warned travelers to stop. Deadlocked in traffic, Amanda ignored the cell phone ringing in her bag and stared at the atlas. The open window siphoned in sounds of other road travelers, running engines and children squabbling. A faint tinge of sewage stained the air.

  She looked for a good place on the map, somewhere near the water to spend the night. Or rather, the day. Having driven through the morning hours, a long nap in a warm place sounded like Christmas.

  She considered Mexico’s boundaries, and chewed a Snickers. Since finding herself on the wrong road last night, the idea had tickled the edge of curiosity and kept her driving. Mile after mile passed, carrying her farther from Potter Springs. What started as a mistake evolved into whimsy, then escalated into full-fledged flight.

  After so many wrong turns in her life, could this one be a piece of serendipity?

  Evening clouds had lifted, revealing a star-spread midnight sky. She put the minivan on cruise control, coasting to nowhere. To anywhere.

  Why make the long journey to the Panhandle, without knowing, truly, where she and Mark were headed? The perfect pastor and his wife. With hidden secrets and hidden hurts eating them both alive.

  She had no desire to play childhood games anymore. In Houston with her parents or in Potter Springs with Mark. Playing house as the new bride. A raggedy doll with a perfect smile and an aching heart. Destined to twirl on that spindle, headless and trapped.

  The minivan’s radio stayed silent as the music of her thoughts passed the time.

  Mark needed her. She knew that without question. From the yearning in his voice, his relentless pursuit of her. Yet last night, he wasn’t home. Maybe he’d grown tired of the chase.

  Maybe he was chasing someone else.

  She wouldn’t speed back to prove Dale right or wrong. The deacon and his gossip didn’t matter. She had no power to stop an affair, if that’s what Mark wanted. He would have to make that decision on his own.

  However much she loved him, she had to find her own way. With the edge of dawn, her head cleared and purpose hummed with the promise of day. Night turned to morning, and still she drove.

  Now, at the crossing, she teetered on the edge of Texas. Another country lay ahead, beckoning with unfamiliarity and adventure. Did she dare, really, to cross the border?

  On the map, a name printed on the eastern coast caught her attention. Laguna Madre. A small inlet, carved into the seaside. She trilled the alluring name aloud. Laguna Madre. The Mother Lagoon.

  Not too far away, but far enough. Maybe there, alone with the sea, she’d find the solution.

  What do you want? echoed the question in her heart.

  I want to get better.

  Folding the map, she eased the van into the traffic flow once again. The road straightened, narrowing like a painting on perspective. The future a mere pinpoint on the horizon. She snapped on the radio and found a station with an upbeat tempo in a language she didn’t understand.

  She would find her joy, she decided. Even if she had to go all the way to Mexico to do it.

  THE HOT-PINK HOTEL with scraggly palm trees exuded a relaxed cheerfulness. After passing several others, cracked adobe with peeling signs, Amanda feared she’d never find her oasis. But there it was. Palacio del Grande. The lobby smelled of salt water and coconut oil, and the humidity caressed her skin.

  When she checked in, a slender man behind the counter voiced a hearty welcome and gave her a tiny bottle of tequila and a magnet with a sombrero on it. MEXICO! it proclaimed in block letters. “Do you need some help with luggage?” He handed her a keycard emblazoned with the hotel’s name.

  “No, this is it.” She held up her small bag, full of unsuitable clothing. Jeans. Long-sleeved shirts. Fall in Potter clothes. “Do you have a gift shop?”

  He pointed the way to a minuscule room full of postcards, shell jewelry, tanning lotion and swimsuits. She chose a turquoise bikini, a garish metallic she’d usually never wear. But it was either that or a grandma suit with a knee-length skirt. At least it wasn’t a thong. She added sunblock, a pair of flip-flops and a Cosmo to her pile.

  Handing over the “Katy credit card,” Amanda silently thanked Jesus and her mother for the family account. Somehow, she knew deep in her heart that if anybody could see a runaway trip to Mexico as necessary emergency spending, it would be Katy Thompson.

  She’d call Mother later, maybe tomorrow after a full night’s rest, to let her know where she was and okay the expenses. But she had to have at least one night, even if it took months to pay it back.

  Upstairs, she opened the window and let in the sounds of the gulf while she examined her new quarters. Clean, with local accents of painted pottery and art. A wrought-iron lamp by the bedside, a small but tidy bathroom. She put her suitcase and new purchases on the foot of the queen-size bed. The marble floors chilled her bare feet after nonstop socks and tennis shoes. She pulled the tags off the swimsuit and grabbed a soft towel to wrap around her waist.

  A quick elevator ride and a short pathway later, Amanda arrived on the beach in all its glory. The waves winked at her under the white sun as the undulating blue danced a timeless step. The tide laved the powder shore with gentle foam, a lover’s caress between land and sea.

  Smoothing the wind drifts in a sunny area, she spread out her towel and lay on her stomach, snuggling into the sand. A few tourists drank beer and a
brown-skinned boy splashed in the water, playing games with the breaking surf. His laughter rollicked with the waves, musical and free.

  Something nagged at the back of her mind. Something she’d forgotten to do or pack. Whatever it was, she refused to let it bother her. Instead, she closed her eyes, listening to the eternal ocean and the calls of the gulls, letting the warmth of Mexico lull her to sleep.

  DUSK HAD SETTLED when Amanda woke. A puddle of spittle formed on the towel beneath her and sand crusted in her eyes. The coming night chased away the day’s heat and sunset tipped the waves with orange caps.

  She rolled over and a thousand tiny needles pierced her. Somehow, in her slumber, someone had shrink-wrapped her back in scalding plastic. Flipping to her stomach, she reached a hand behind her and felt the fire on her skin.

  The sunblock. That’s what she forgot. Still in the yellow bag upstairs. Unopened. A typical tourist mistake. With all her years at the family lake house, she should have known better.

  She’d just been so tired. Tired enough to sleep for hours on an unknown beach in a horrific bathing suit with no protection on her fair skin.

  Wincing, she gathered her things and slipped sandy feet into her new sandals. She gathered the towel around her, thankful for its cover as the cool lobby air hit her cooked body.

  “Oh, senorita!” A dark-haired woman in a flounced skirt halted at the sight of Amanda’s flaming skin. “The sunburn, ouch it must hurt!” Holding a clipboard in one hand, the woman fluttered the other, talking with heavily accented speech. “You must put on the medicine. The green… aloe.”

  “Do you know if the gift shop carries any?” Amanda pulled the towel tighter, shivering.

  “Yes, they do. But the day, it is over, and the store is no longer open.”

  Amanda tried not to break into tears in front of the stranger. A familiar insignia decorated her bright lapel. “Do you work here?”

  “Yes, I am Consuela. A hostess for the hotel.” She smiled. “And the store is closed, but we have a treatment, for the skin. A massage in the spa with the aloe.”

  “A spa? I didn’t know you had one….”

  “It is new and very small. We are just starting the service, but I can make a call for you?”

  GENTLE CELLOS FLOWED from the small radio as cool hands lightly stroked the salve into Amanda’s fiery back. Surrounded by pale marble walls on a padded white table, she faced straight down with closed eyes and let the masseuse do her work. The aloe smelled fresh and pleasant as it slid into her pores and stopped the stinging.

  A sheet covered her lower half, the room a mild temperature. She relaxed in the calm atmosphere, enjoying the professional touch.

  She missed Mark’s touch. The way he knew her body and accepted her. What she thought were flaws, her round thighs and full bottom, he adored. Made pet names for her, whispered wild compliments in her ears while they made love. Even now, she blushed into the table’s comfort, remembering.

  After losing the baby, his touch hadn’t been the same. Careful and fragile. Like she’d turned to ice and would shatter with too much pressure.

  The weight of the masseuse’s hands skimmed the tautness of her skin with the gel, gently massaging the tension from her neck and shoulders. The strokes manipulated the tightness, tendered the brittle.

  Maybe she was ice, maybe she would shatter.

  Maybe she had been cold, with the walls and the cave. Too withdrawn into her own broken heart. Did she, drowning in her loss, somehow chill them both?

  Yes, Mark must make his own choice, but had she forced his hand? Could he have turned to Courtney in desire? In desperation?

  Sadness welled inside her, brought out by the cool, the smell, the firm hands. Tears fell slowly to the padding that held her face. The tip of the iceberg, revealed in the balm on her skin, melting with the burn’s fiery heat.

  Her husband in the arms of another woman. Her lost baby. The loss of babies never to come. Her childhood dreams of happily-ever-after tossed to the wind, landing in the pool of her sorrow.

  Yet she kept quiet, and let the rhythmic hands run over her body without judgment or condemnation.

  With puffy eyes, she assured the receptionist that the massage had been perfect. “Just what I needed.” She signed the charge and made it back to her room in a daze.

  Moonlight poured through her open windows as she lowered herself onto the wildly printed bedspread, flowers bursting from palm trees, peacocks nesting among the branches. She burrowed her head into a pillow, the sadness breaking free in shudders and sobs.

  Why? Why her? Why was she chosen, out of the masses of women, to never bear a child? To never be a mother, to love and be loved in that most precious of ways?

  And now, running away from home, leaving her life a million miles away, abandoned in a wake of hurt.

  Pain smothered her, held her under, choked her as she gasped and heaved. A dual-handed grip clenched her throat, fingers taut with death and fear. The death of her child, and of her dreams.Fear of trusting a God who disappointed her so deeply. And fear of moving toward a future she couldn’t see.

  Grief’s waters covered her, drowning her, pressed beneath layers of opaque darkness. She’d been under for longer than this moment. Had spent weeks, even months, gazing up through distorted waves, unable to feel the sun’s pure light.

  She’d been trapped for so long, she’d forgotten how to breathe.

  She gasped, even now, emptying her lungs of stored-up tears. Letting it out, where it couldn’t suffocate her anymore.

  She took in life-giving oxygen, her body shuddering with the effort. Marveling in the strength, of the power to simply breathe. To live. She would live. She would move forward. If only she knew which way to go.

  Dried tears brought a tightness to her face. She curled around a hotel pillow, wishing it would breathe and smell like Mark, holding her, whispering that everything would be okay.

  But Mark wasn’t here. She must find this path for herself. Not leaning on Mark, her Goldenboy, to illuminate the way for her. Still, the ache-the sheer, raw loneliness-drew her eyes closed.

  As sleep wrapped its comforting numbness around her, the promise called out to her heart.

  Weeping may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.

  If only she knew how much longer her night would last, and if, come morning, Mark would still be waiting.

  CHAPTER 25

  shadow man

  Little old ladies lined up in the second row, their heads looked like Easter eggs, rounded pastel tufts. One leaned over and whispered to her companion, louder than a stage yell, “Oh, that Pastor Randalls, isn’t he so good?”

  Onstage, Mark threw an extra big smile their direction as he finished the last of his song. No matter they couldn’t get his last name right, poor birds.

  Some, like Ruby Weatherby, hardly knew where they were but clapped and sang along anyway. Making joyful, if unintelligible, noises to the Lord.

  Tonight’s Hoot ‘n’ Hallow was a record breaker. Families lined up in the pews for the Sunday-evening worship service. Volunteer deacons had bused in the ladies and other shut-ins from various homes. The sanctuary reverberated with the praise of the saints, young and old.

  But behind his face, Mark felt as alive as a skeleton with skin on. A shadow man. Sing us a song, you’re the shadow man. Each day Amanda stayed gone, he faded away from himself. Without her to sharpen him, he blurred. It was a wonder others could see him at all.

  Amanda had been gone, counting the stay at her parents’, for over a month now. He hadn’t talked to her since before the festival. His calls to her cell phone went unanswered. His only updates consisted of terse remarks from his mother-in-law, running interference.

  Cahoots. They were in cahoots. With Katy’s financial support, Amanda could stay gone as long as she wanted. And apparently, she wanted.

  His wife-he knew now, after drilling Katy-was in Mexico. Lolling about on the beach “finding herself.” Probably getting h
it on by various and sundry Latin lovers with big pecs and great tans, while he was stuck singing songs and preaching by rote like a windup puppet.

  Behind the eggheads, in the third row next to her gran, Courtney twinkled at him. The church’s lights glinted off her hair. He refused to make eye contact since just last night he’d fielded a strange visit from the Ladies’ Guild president.

  “Mark?” Courtney had tapped on his screen door, peeking in. A strong wind filled the hazy November sky with dirt, hanging thick even at dusk. The sun shot pink behind her.

  “Yes?” He did not motion for her to enter. His last dealing with Courtney Williams had sent serious shock waves through his marriage, and he wanted to thwart any further seismic pulses. He made sure any passerby would see her on the porch, him safely ensconced inside. Fully dressed in the entryway.

  “Hi. Oh, you look nice.” She managed to purr her chirpy voice, showing no signs of awkwardness from their last encounter.

  On a Saturday evening, in sweats, and he hadn’t showered or shaved all day. No, he did not look nice.

  “Thanks. What can I do for you?” He hoped to sound as businesslike as possible, in spite of the chili stain on his T-shirt. Canned chili.

  “I’m so sorry to bother you at home … and at such a time.”

  At such a time? What was that supposed to mean?

  “I’m calling on you, to let you know you’re in our prayers.” She tilted her blonde head sideways and fiddled with some papers in her hands.

  She’d slipped into the plural. Mark didn’t know if she was affecting the royal we, or if she somehow represented a larger, more frightening group.

  “Uh-huh?” Mr. Chesters slinked by. Mark grabbed him for a distraction and was rewarded with a burning scratch down his right arm. He let the cat go, and it raced across the street, nimble as a kitten.

  “You might remember that I’m president of the Ladies’ Guild?” As if anyone within microphone distance of Lakeview Community Church could forget. “I’m also, you probably didn’t know this part, but I’m the organizer for the prayer chain.”