The Year of Chasing Dreams

by Lurlene McDaniel

  The next morning Eden changed three times trying to decide what to wear to a meeting about what she wanted to do with her mother’s body. Her nerves were stretched as taut as piano wire. How could she do this and not fall apart? Garret waited patiently on the bed, flipping through television channels and sipping coffee he’d brought back from a café a block from the motel. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved dress shirt. Men had it so easy.

  “How’s this?” she finally asked. It was already midmorning and time had her in a pressure cooker. Part of her wanted to get it over with; part wanted it to never happen.

  He eyeballed her. “Nothing’s more warmin’ than a pretty girl in a summer dress on a sunny day,” he said with a grin.

  “Too casual,” she muttered, pulling off the dress and changing into a knee-length black skirt and a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. She kicked off her strappy sandals and buried her feet in closed-toe Mary Janes. Ciana had certainly given her a variety … bless her heart.

  She grabbed her purse off the dresser. “Come on. Let’s get this done.”

  Garret sprang off the bed, and together they left the room.

  In the car, Garret drove and Eden navigated from the maps Ciana had printed. The day was bathed in sunshine that sparkled off windows of buildings as they rolled through light traffic. She pushed down her window to allow a balmy breeze into the camper’s cab and calm her jittery nerves.

  “Turn left at the light,” Eden said.

  Garret turned and soon they were on narrow, bumpy brick streets lined on either side by older houses and parked cars. Scrub palms and live oaks dotted sidewalk frontage of a neighborhood on the cusp of urban change, in different states of renovation, being redeemed from age and blight. The yuppies had arrived.

  As Eden searched house numbers on mailboxes and front-porch posts, she wondered how her mother had landed here in this perfectly ordinary neighborhood, so like the one she’d abandoned in Windemere. “This is it,” Eden said, spotting the number on a wooden house painted goldenrod and trimmed in dark brown. Her heartbeat drummed against her ribs.

  Garret parked close to the sidewalk, then got out, came around, and opened her door. They stood on the cement walk, staring up at the house that Eden realized was actually three houses connected by newly built closed passages that served as hallways. A small sign on a porch post read CROSSROADS HOUSE. WELCOME.

  “Ready?” Garret asked, intertwining his fingers with hers.

  “Never,” she answered, dizzy and feeling faint.

  Yet they went together, past blooming hibiscus bushes and a bed of bright white daylilies. Thick vines, heavy with purple and white morning glory blossoms, wrapped around a picturesque low picket fence. The porch stretched across the front of the house and smelled of fresh paint. Chairs were set in clusters, some around card tables, some facing the street. This is where the residents gather, Eden told herself, trying but failing to imagine Gwen becoming social enough to do such a thing. Except for her job at Piggly Wiggly, Gwen never went out. Eden couldn’t remember a time when a neighbor came over for coffee or a chat. Which was why she had never had Arie and Ciana over when they’d been in school. Her house was off-limits, the boundary set by an illness that for Eden had long passed pity and morphed into loathing.

  Inside, a woman at a desk offered to help them, and when Eden told her her name and purpose, the woman said she’d get the director, and left the alcove. Eden looked through to a larger room and saw well-worn furniture set up as a traditional living room. The furnishings were obviously hand-me-downs, some covered with throws or quilts and softened with pillows. The space smelled like new cotton and sunshine, which settled her nerves. She hadn’t known what to expect, and was surprised at the hominess of the facility.

  The receptionist returned accompanied by a tall, slim woman with steel gray hair up in a bun. She wore a caftan that brushed the tops of sensible shoes. Her smile was warm as she held out her hand. “Liz Sheehan, director of Crossroads House. I was the one who called you. Thank you for getting here so quickly.”

  After introductions, she led them to her office, which was smaller and more cluttered than the open space out front. “Please sit.” She pointed to two chairs, then settled in the one behind her desk.

  Eden felt ready to jump out of her skin. She licked her lips, but her tongue held no moistness. “My mother lived here?”

  “Sometimes.” Liz steepled her fingers. “Crossroads is a halfway house to give homeless, special-needs women a place to live instead of the streets.”

  “It’s very homey,” Eden said.

  “Thank you. That was always my goal. I started it years ago because so many of these women had no place to go. The house is actually three houses strung together, each with three bedrooms and a kitchen. We offer a safe place for mentally ill women who might otherwise end up in jail or the streets. We have three requirements.” Liz held up three fingers. “They must take their medication if any has been prescribed, hold a job if possible, and stay off drugs in order to keep a room with us.”

  “And my mother stayed on her meds? She never would back home.”

  Garret soothed Eden with a touch.

  “Off and on,” Liz said. “But she was on them and living here when she passed. The coroner said she had a heart attack while she slept.”

  Dying in her sleep on clean sheets in a safe house. Eden was glad for that. At least Gwen hadn’t been discovered in a gutter, murdered. That worry had nagged at Eden every time Gwen had left home. If Gwen never came back, how would Eden ever know what happened to her? “She—she always talked about Tampa. When I was growing up. I never knew why.”

  “It’s warm here mostly year-round, and that attracts a lot of homeless people.”

  Eden’s chin trembled. “She wasn’t homeless.”

  Liz leaned forward. “Eden …” She paused, and Eden looked up into the woman’s soulful brown eyes. “Your mother was ill. You didn’t cause it. You couldn’t fix it. You were a child born into her condition.”

  Tears filled Eden’s eyes. “I—I know that. I used to read everything about bipolar, so I know it’s not my fault. But …”

  The word hung in the air until Liz broke the silence. “I, too, was a child of a mentally ill parent. My father. He was schizophrenic. And paranoid. My mother and I went through hell trying to help him. This place”—she gestured—“is the fulfillment of my dream to help others like him. I exist on donations and grants and do my best to make a difference. Some of the victims want to be well, but not all.”

  “She wouldn’t take her meds.”

  “Chronic problem. Better the demons they know than dealing with a world that they don’t know how to fit into.”

  Eden sagged, and Garret held her hand. “I’m here, love.”

  Liz gave him a smile, then turned her attention back to Eden. “There is a correlation between bipolar and schizophrenia. On the DNA helix, the genes are almost twins. People with extreme bipolar disorder can often slip over into schizophrenia. It’s called schizoaffective disorder. Research is ongoing. New medications must be developed for it. I believe your mother fell into that category.”

  Little comfort. Eden took a tissue from a box on Liz’s desk, wiped and dried her eyes. She’d thought she was all cried out. Wrong again.

  Garret cleared his throat. “What do we do now?”

  We. Eden heard him take on her burden.

  Liz shuffled paperwork on her desk. “Her body is being held at the city morgue. You have choices. You can find a cemetery here, fly her body home for burial, or you can cremate her remains and take her ashes with you.”

  Choices. How could she decide? Why had it been left to her? Because I’m the next of kin. She answered her own question. If there were others, she didn’t know them. Never had.

  “You can take a little time, Eden. Maybe another day, but the morgue will only hold her body for so long,” Liz said kindly. “It’s the law.”

  Eden felt like crawly things were
inside her head. She had the money to do anything, but if Gwen were sitting there with her, she would not have cared less about what happened to her earthly remains. And who would come to a funeral in Windemere for Gwen McLauren? Eden’s friends? Why would Eden ask that of them? Better to take her home in a box and scatter her ashes. That was what Eden wanted to do.

  “Cremation,” she said, through barely parted lips.

  “I’ll make the arrangements. Also,” Liz said softly, “I’ll have her remains sent here. Much better than you having to go downtown. There’s paperwork for you to sign, of course.” She fanned out several sheets of paper. “I’ll call your cell phone when you can come pick her up.”

  It sounded more as if she were to return and retrieve a sick animal. All better now. “I’ll wait for the call.” Eden quickly signed the papers and stood, and Garret got to his feet beside her. Eden’s knees went wobbly. He intuitively braced her arm with his.

  Liz came around the desk and held out her hand. “I’m so glad I got to meet the two of you. And Eden, when she was lucid, Gwen often spoke of you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “She was very proud of you.”

  Eden wasn’t sure she believed that. Maybe Liz was simply being nice.

  “She said you had gone to Italy and that you gave her the most beautiful scarf when you came home.”

  Eden recalled buying the fashionable item in Florence, the great city of the Renaissance, from a vendor at the Ponte Vecchio. “Near the Duomo, the church,” she said, as if it mattered to anyone in the room. The same day she and her friends had stood in line to see the David, Michelangelo’s masterpiece carved from fine white marble. Eden had bought the scarf quickly, almost as an afterthought.

  “Well, she wore it every day she stayed here.”

  Eden’s eyes misted, but she made it to the office door before turning around and asking, “Your father? How did things turn out for him? Has he seen this place and what you’re doing?”

  Liz offered a sad smile. “My father committed suicide when I was fifteen. He never saw me grow up. For a long time, I felt like I should have done more to save him. I shed a lot of tears and carried a heavy load of guilt. But now I know I could have done nothing to save him.”

  Absolution from a woman who had walked in her shoes. “I understand,” Eden whispered.

  Liz offered Eden a beautiful, hope-filled smile. “Now go be happy, Eden McLauren.”

  “Soon as the Aussie and his ‘sheila’ come back, let’s set our wedding date.”

  Ciana was brushing Firecracker after a long ride, when Jon’s words came from the barn’s tack room as he stood watching her. She turned, gave him a beguiling smile. “Is that a request or an order?”

  He came over, took her in his arms, and took her breath away with a kiss.

  “Wow,” she said, coming up for air.

  “Wow, yourself. I want to get married. Sooner the better.”

  She poked at him with the brush. “Plans are in the works. These life events do take a little planning, you know—a dress, a location, a guest list, food, a minister.”

  “Look, I don’t care if we hire an Elvis impersonator and get married here in the barn.”

  That made her laugh. “What about guests? Who’s on your list?”

  He shrugged. “My mother, my grandparents if Granddad’s able to travel. Oh and Bill and Essie Pickins.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I don’t have a lot of friends. The rodeo crowd breeds competitors, not close friends. And other than family, there’s no one back in Texas I want here either.”

  She tossed the curry brush aside. “What about your father, Wade? Do you want him to come?”

  Jon scoffed. “No love lost there.”

  It hit Ciana then that she had no father to walk her down the aisle. She’d grown up without one. Losing him at age six had turned him into a shadowy memory. He and Grandpa Charles were always flying away in their little airplane to sell their farm produce. Her earliest memories were of going to and from a little airfield with her mother and grandmother to wave goodbye. She had images of waking late at night to him bending over her bed and kissing her forehead and saying, “Daddy’s home, sweetheart.” Then one day, the plane didn’t come back and everyone around her was sobbing. She’d been confused, frightened, but as time passed she understood that her daddy and Grandpa would never come home. After their deaths, Olivia became an overwhelming presence, and Alice Faye sank further into the background, retreating into her sweet tea drinks. Olivia hung tough, and Bellmeade was such a ton of work, Ciana adjusted to it being the three of them. Friends, chores, school, the flag corps, her horse had filled any daddy void she felt. In time she had to look at old photos to remember what her daddy had looked like.

  Now she told Jon, “Maybe I can hire that Elvis impersonator to give me away.”

  Jon looked stricken. “Hey, I’m sorry. I forgot about that part. Were you thinking Wade might do it?”

  “No. I guess not.” The vivid scene of Wade once yelling for Jon to stay clear of Beauchamp women returned in a flash as she recalled the day she’d met him in an extended care unit and he learned she was a Beauchamp. “Did you ever learn what he has against us Beauchamp women?”

  “Who cares? He’s just crazy.” Jon pulled her to himself again. “I, on the other hand, just want to marry this Beauchamp woman and take her to bed.”

  “You don’t have to marry me to get me in bed,” she said.

  A lazy smile drifted across his face. “I want to take a whole night with you. And after we sleep a bit, I want to take the whole next day to do it all over again.”

  She met his eyes, spoke her heart into her answer “Sounds like a very good plan to me.”

  He laughed, twirled her away, then back to himself. “And then I’m going to take you to Montana.”

  “Rodeo?” she asked, half joking, knowing how he liked following the circuit and riding broncos.

  Jon laughed. “A honeymoon.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  He winked. “And a wild mustang auction. We’ll buy a few horses, make arrangements to have them brought here. Now please set a date, woman.”

  Ciana loaded the dishwasher that evening while Alice Faye sipped sweet tea at the kitchen table.

  Her mother asked, “Have you heard from our road warriors?”

  “Eden sent me a text. They’re going to take a few days in the Florida panhandle. I suggested it before they left. It’ll do them both good,” Ciana said.

  “I miss them. It’s been wonderful having this house full of people again. So much company and all your comings and goings. That Garret is a dear. He just walks in a room and fills it up, doesn’t he?”

  “He does,” Ciana conceded. But listening to her mother voice her satisfaction about everybody living under the same roof gave Ciana new insight about all the years Alice Faye had spent alone since her husband’s death. Just two women raising one child—her—and holding Bellmeade together. Suddenly, now that Ciana was in love with Jon, she grasped just how long and lonely the years must have been for her mother. She’d never dated that Ciana could recall.

  She finished cleaning the kitchen, went to the table, and pulled out a chair. “Okay, Mom, here’s the thing. The fields are planted, so the rest is up to Mother Nature. It’s time to plan this wedding.”

  “I’ve been wondering when you were going to get around to that.” Alice Faye patted Ciana’s hand and smiled. “What are you wanting to do?”

  “Mom, I’m not into any Cinderella syndrome. I just want to get married with as little fuss as possible.” Ciana hoped she wasn’t disappointing her mother. She thought back, but couldn’t dredge up family stories about her mother and father’s wedding day. “What was your wedding like?”

  “It was Olivia’s show.” Alice Faye leaned back in the chair. “Jackson and I were simply decorations for a Bellmeade social event. Olivia expected a certain degree of ‘festivity,’ and I complied. I’m not
bitter,” she added quickly. “Just stating facts.”

  “I know you aren’t,” Ciana assured her. With what Ciana had discovered in her grandmother’s diary, she clung to Eden’s counsel. Do no harm. Best to forget the entry and protect Alice Faye. “What about your dress?”

  “This was back in ’79, and the hot new look was bustiers, with the bride showing cleavage. The gowns had lace appliqués, sequins, and lots of beads.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “It wasn’t. Plus Olivia would never have let me step inside the Baptist church with even a hint of my boobs showing.”

  Recalling how dour Olivia could look when she disapproved of something, Ciana laughed. “What did you do?”

  “We found some dated frilly concoction in Nashville with lace that went all the way up under my chin and lacy sleeves that fully covered my arms. I almost passed out from heat exhaustion.”

  Ciana giggled. “What happened to the dress after the wedding?”

  “Eventually, I made curtains out of it. They’re hanging in Olivia’s bedroom. Eden looks at them every day.”

  Ciana laughed harder. “Priceless.”

  Her mother’s expression turned stricken. “You weren’t going to ask to wear it on your wedding day, were you? Oh my gosh! I hated the thing. Never thought about you wearing it one day before I cut it up for curtains.”

  “It didn’t cross my mind,” Ciana said. “Frankly, I’d wear jeans if I could.”

  “It’s your wedding, but for what it’s worth, a groom likes to see his bride in a pretty dress. Your father did.” She stopped, and Ciana watched Alice Faye’s eyes grow soft with memories. After a moment, she cleared her throat, asked, “Assuming you do decide on a dress, what would you want it to look like?”

  “Simple. Clean lines. Nothing froufrou. And no lace up to my throat.”

  Her mother nodded sagely. “We can run into Nashville on Saturday afternoon and look around if you’d like.”

  “We can do that. Maybe Jon and I should elope,” she mused.

  “Your father and I thought about that, too, but in the end, we danced to Olivia’s tune. Don’t get me wrong. It was a lovely wedding,” she added quickly. “Besides, maybe Jon’s mother wants to see her only child get married.”