Home at Last

by Shirlee McCoy

  Her children. Her responsibility.

  “You’re right, Mom.” Milo smiled happily, and she felt like she’d won a battle she hadn’t known she’d been fighting. “You never make a mistake with us. Not the way the uncles do.”

  “She’s your mother, dweeb,” Heavenly said with just enough affection in her voice to make it an endearment rather than an insult.

  “Tell me what you’re worried about, Moisey,” Sunday said before she forgot that the kids were hiding something, and that Moisey was about to break their confidence and give away their secrets.

  “No!” Maddox barked, but Moisey loved to tell stories, and she’d already started talking.

  “I woke up really early this morning,” she whispered, moving close and leaning against Sunday’s shoulder. She smelled like coconut and flowers and that brought a memory of a trip to the mall in Spokane, walking into a store filled with lotions and soaps, picking one that Moisey loved.

  “Sunday on a Beach,” she said aloud.

  “You remember my favorite lotion,” Moisey crowed, and Sunday felt it again—that feeling that she’d won something she hadn’t realized she was fighting for.

  “We went to the mall to pick it,” she continued. “You said it smelled the best and had the prettiest name.”

  “Like you!” Moisey cupped her cheeks and stared into her eyes. “You remember, and I didn’t even have to tell you. It’s good you’re coming back to us, Mom, because we have a problem.”

  “A dilemma,” Twila corrected. “That was our word on Monday.”

  She touched Sunday’s arm. Tentatively. As if she were afraid of overstepping her bounds.

  “I remember.” She didn’t. Not really, but Twila didn’t need to know that. Just like she didn’t need to know that Sunday didn’t remember traveling to China, didn’t remember the adoption ceremony or the trip home. Didn’t remember anything but a few random snippets of time—glimpses of Twila as a somber toddler, her dark eyes focused on the ground.

  “What’s the dilemma?” she prodded, and Twila’s somber expression eased into a half smile.

  “Moisey got up early, and she got herself cereal.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Mom,” Moisey said, tugging at her hand, demanding her attention. “I was going to eat in the living room.”

  “You’re allowed.” She thought. But maybe she was wrong. Rules had never been as important in their home as structure and love. She knew that without reading the journals.

  “Uncle Flynn was in there,” Moisey stage-whispered, the loudness of it making Sunday smile.

  “He got in late last night.”

  “He had something with him.” Moisey was nearly bouncing now, her curls dancing around her beautiful face.

  “A puppy,” Milo nearly shouted.

  “Shhhh!” Heavenly growled. “You’re going to wake the whole house up.”

  “We are the whole house,” Milo pointed out. “Rosie left last night, and Mom is already awake.”

  “You’re going to wake him, and then he’s going to wonder what happened to his da—” Heavenly’s gaze cut to Sunday. “Dang dog.”

  “The puppy is gone?” Sunday asked, confused, bewildered.

  Tired.

  Exactly the way she always felt when she was around all the kids.

  She should feel excitement, amusement, joy.

  She should feel happy to be included in their plots and plans.

  But she wanted to go back to bed, hide under the covers, and let them figure it out on their own.

  “That’s the dilemma,” Twila explained. “Moisey was so surprised when it jumped off the couch, she ran into the kitchen and out the back door.”

  “Because I thought it was a wild animal. Like . . . a rabid coyote or mountain lion.”

  “Uncle Flynn would have been dead if it were any of those things,” Milo pointed out reasonably.

  “It could have been a wild animal,” Moisey responded. “And, I was doing the safe thing and getting out while the getting was good. But, the puppy followed me. I tried to catch him and bring him back inside, but he was too fast. He hid, and I couldn’t find him.” Moisey’s lower lip trembled. A sure sign that she was going to cry.

  Tempted as she was, Sunday didn’t glance around to see if another adult was there to comfort her.

  She was it.

  She knew that.

  “It’s okay, honey. We found him near the river last night. He’s probably gone home.”

  “You were at the river at night?” Twila’s eyes were wide, her expression one of pure shock.

  Don’t go to the river after dark.

  Don’t go alone.

  She’d told the children that dozens of times. She was certain of it.

  “I’m an adult,” she reminded them, but they were having none of it.

  “Sunday, you could have gotten hurt,” Heavenly chastised. Suddenly an adult in a scrawny teenage body. “Please don’t ever do that again.”

  “Flynn was with me,” she said as if it were the complete truth, and as if she needed to justify her actions to a child.

  “And you found a puppy and brought it home for us?!” Moisey inhaled joy and exhaled enthusiasm and lived and breathed a life of stories and lore.

  That was a direct quote from the journal.

  Written a month before the accident.

  “We found the puppy and brought it home, but he’s probably headed back to wherever he belongs.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s the truth.” Moisey was bouncing again. “Animals find the people they’re meant to love. They might seem like they’re lost, but they never are. They’re searching for the soul they belong with. When they find that soul, they never leave. Never! I read all about it in a book Heavenly got me at the library.”

  Heavenly brought you a book from the library? Sunday meant to say, but Moisey had run for the back door, thrust it open as if God Himself had ordered her to do it.

  “You found us, puppy! We’ll be together forever!” she cried as she ran outside.

  A mass exodus followed. Kids darting after her, nearly flying in their rush to freedom.

  All of them out in the great wide world with all kinds of trouble that could happen to them, and Sunday was still at the table, staring at the open door.

  Waiting for someone to do something.

  Only she was it.

  The person responsible.

  No Rosie rushing to call the children back. No Sullivan or Porter or Rumer or Clementine shouting for order or attention.

  Just . . .

  Sunday.

  She tried to spring to her feet, but she only managed to move slowly. Unbending from her seated position. Straightening. Shuffling to the door and outside, the sounds of Moisey’s joy filling her ears as she slowly made her way down the stairs and into the yard.

  * * *

  One thing Flynn had learned young—if you fell off a horse, the best thing to do was get right back on. Waiting gave fear a chance to take hold, and fear was a very hard thing to let go of.

  Fear of falling again.

  Fear of failing.

  Fear of some unknown force sweeping you into danger.

  Emmerson Riley had taught him that. He’d owned an equestrian farm on the other side of the river. In its heyday, the place had produced some of the soundest horses in the greater Northwest. By the time Flynn had found his way to the farm, the place had been run-down, the stables filthy. Emmerson had been seventy-eight. Suffering from arthritis and emphysema, abandoned by his only son after money started running dry and the work got too demanding.

  There’d been an ad in the Benevolence Times. Just a little snippet about a farmhand being needed. Only experienced horse people needed to apply.

  Flynn had been twelve. Tall and strong for his age. Tired of listening to his father rage and watching his mother suffer. Tired of being a punching bag and a doormat.

  Tired of being bullied and
mistreated.

  Already planning his escape, but he’d been too young to get much work in town, so he’d walked the five miles to Emmerson’s farm, knocked on the door, and stared into the weather-worn face of a man who’d looked about as kind as a hot desert breeze. When Emmerson demanded to know why he was there, Flynn hadn’t stammered and he hadn’t glanced down. He’d offered a prepared speech about being a hard worker and a fast learner who needed a job. Either Emmerson had felt sorry for him, or he’d been desperate. Maybe a little of both.

  Flynn had worked there after school and on the weekends for nearly six years. He’d cleaned out the stables. He’d patched fences. He’d fed livestock. He’d saddled horses for Emmerson and for himself. He’d learned. Just like he’d said he’d would, earning a pittance, because it was all Emmerson could offer. They’d produced one more horse on that farm. A stunning filly that Emmerson had sold three months before he’d died.

  He’d left the house and land to his son.

  But he’d named Flynn as beneficiary of his life insurance policy. Two hundred thousand dollars.

  By that time, Flynn’s mother was gone, his brothers were doing exactly what he had—planning their escape. They’d encouraged him to take the money and go before their father found a way to hold him back and keep him prisoner.

  He’d gone with their blessing, and he’d sent money to help each one make his own escape. One at a time until it was Matt’s turn.

  Yeah. The money had helped, but it was the learning that had been most important. All the lessons taught by a man who hadn’t been his father but who’d acted like one.

  You fall off a horse, you get back up. Right then, before you even have time to feel pain. You get up and you ride until you know what you’re doing again.

  He could hear Emmerson’s voice as he walked outside and watched Sunday follow her children into the yard.

  The car accident had been a heck of a lot more traumatizing than a fall off a horse, but that didn’t mean the lesson didn’t hold true. That being the case, he was stepping back, letting her solve the dilemma that Moisey had been so passionately telling her about, because that’s what she’d have done before the accident.

  Sure, he could have rushed into the kitchen when he’d heard her with the kids. He could have offered to search for the puppy with them. He could have allowed Sunday to stay where she was while he took over a role she’d once coveted.

  He knew how much she’d wanted children.

  Hell, he’d been the one to fund the trip to China to adopt Twila. Sunday didn’t know that. She’d never know it. But he’d stepped in financially when Matt asked—begged—for help in making Sunday’s dreams come true. They’d been married three years and were still childless, and she and Matt had thought adoption was their best option. They’d seen Twila’s face on an adoption website, and they’d fallen head over heels.

  That wasn’t something Flynn had understood.

  He worked with rationality and reasonableness. He let his head rule and his heart stay mostly quiet. Life was easier that way, but he’d loved his brother, and he’d liked Sunday, and the ranch had been doing well. Financially, he’d had no worries, and with Patricia out of the picture, his bank accounts were healthier than they’d ever been.

  He’d agreed to help, and he’d agreed to not tell Sunday he’d been asked. Later, he’d learned that Matt had claimed he’d borrowed the money from an old friend.

  It had been a strange and unnecessary lie. One that may have said something about Sunday and Matt’s relationship. It hadn’t been Flynn’s business.

  At least, that’s what he’d told himself.

  Now he wondered about it. Wondered why Matt had felt compelled to hide such a simple truth. Wondered why Sunday hadn’t pushed to know more. Had they paid back the debt? And if they had, where had that money gone? Certainly not to Flynn. He had given Matt the money, and he hadn’t expected a return on the investment.

  Although, he had to admit, he enjoyed being an uncle.

  He watched from the porch as the kids raced around the yard searching for the missing puppy. Sunday was doing her part, shouting “Here, boy!” with almost as much enthusiasm as the kids.

  That’s what he’d been hoping for.

  He knew what she’d been before the accident, and it was his goal to bring her back to that. Let her feel the joy she’d once lived with so that she could live with it again.

  She was afraid.

  He sensed that every time he visited. Afraid to be hurt, afraid she might shatter, probably afraid she’d fail her kids and herself.

  The only way to get over that was to do.

  This and a bunch of other things.

  According to Emmerson, anyway, and he valued that old man’s opinion more than just about anyone else’s. Including the therapists who’d been working with Sunday. They had good ideas. They did. He’d listened and agreed with a lot of what had been said during conference calls while she was still in a coma and still in rehab. Now, of course, the therapists were closemouthed about treatment. Sunday was awake and capable of making her own decisions regarding recovery. He and his brothers had backed out of the equation, and they’d been waiting for her to take control.

  Only it seemed like she hadn’t.

  At least to Flynn.

  Then again, he hadn’t been here day in and day out in the first weeks after she’d been released from rehab. He’d only had a small glimpse of her struggles, and he hadn’t gotten into the mindset of viewing her as damaged or fragile.

  He watched her now, limping across the yard, her left foot dragging just enough for it to be noticeable. Trying to run but not quite able. Her body still not as coordinated as it had once been. It took years to recover from traumatic brain injury, and sometimes, a person never did. Not completely. He’d been told that the day after the accident. He didn’t remember a heck of a lot about what he’d been told, but he remembered that.

  Just like he remembered the flight, the feeling of numbness and shock and grief. He’d flown all day and arrived so late the hospital had been nearly silent, the nurses’ station run by a skeleton crew of exhausted professionals who were doing everything they could to keep their ICU patients alive through the night.

  He’d entered Sunday’s room knowing Matt was dead, and that she was the last parent his nieces and nephews had. Sullivan had been there, standing beside the bed, his eyes red-rimmed with fatigue and tears.

  He’d been there within hours of the call, arriving from Portland and stepping into a role he’d never prepared for. Thank God for the church family that had swooped in and helped with the kids and the house and the farm.

  Flynn remembered that.

  He remembered how terrible Sunday had looked, pale and lifeless, her face bruised, her head shaved. Her leg swollen.

  Now, she was moving. Slowly. Maybe painfully. Obviously, awkwardly. Trying to catch up with Oya, who’d toddled toward the driveway, her chubby legs brown from the sun, her blond hair spiking out around her head.

  “Oya! Wait,” Sunday called, a hint of panic in her voice. The other kids had spread out through the yard and even into the fields, calling for the puppy. Usually Heavenly stayed close to the baby, but even she had wandered away, heading toward the orchards that were just hinting at a fall harvest.

  “Oya!” Sunday called again, and this time she sounded frantic. He wasn’t sure why. The baby was fine, toddling across the gravel driveway, heading toward some flowering bushes that Clementine had planted.

  “Stop!” Sunday shouted, trying to sprint after the toddler, who’d stepped between two bushes, her hair gleaming in the morning sun. Happy and carefree, the way a kid should be. Learning the world through experience and exploration.

  Sunday tried to follow, but her foot caught on the narrow plank of wood that separated the gravel driveway from the flowerbed. She flew forward, landing with a thud inches from her daughter, skidding forward a few feet and lying there. Still. Maybe dazed.

  Fly
nn ran to her side, scooping Oya up on his way. “Hey, you okay?” he asked, touching Sunday’s shoulder.

  She lifted her head just enough to scowl in his direction. “I couldn’t even do that right.”

  “I don’t know about that. It was a pretty spectacular fall.” He offered a hand, but she ignored it, pushing to her knees and then her feet. There was a hole in the knee of her old sweatpants, blood on her pale skin. He could see it and a glimpse of the ridged purple scar from surgeries to repair her leg.

  “It’s not funny,” she panted, taking Oya from his arms.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “You’re joking.” She hugged the baby tightly. A little too tightly judging from the way Oya pushed against her.

  “Sometimes a joke is better than tears,” he replied, taking her arm and helping her out of the flowerbed.

  She didn’t seem impressed by his effort.

  If anything, she looked pissed. Something he’d never observed in her before.

  “Sometimes, silence is better than either,” she responded, and she sounded so much like the old Sunday he looked at her. Really looked. Took in the dark circles beneath her eyes, the paleness of her skin and lips, the jutting edge of her cheekbones.

  She didn’t look much like the young woman who’d married Matt over ten years ago—smiling and happy and soft with youth.

  She’d been a kid then. At least, that’s how he’d thought of her. Eighteen and too much of a child to understand what she was getting into. Just like he imagined his mother had been all those years ago when she’d married his father. Filled with hopes and dreams and not much practicality. He’d seen his parents’ wedding photo, and he’d always wondered at the relaxed young woman his mother had been. She’d seemed ancient by the time she’d died of cancer, worn down and faded, despite the fact that she’d only been forty when she’d died.

  “You’re right. Sometimes, I open my mouth before I think things through.”

  “No, you don’t.” She walked to the other side of the driveway and put Oya down on the grass, then dropped down beside her as if she were too tired to stand any longer.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re careful and smart. You’re quiet and insightful.” She sounded like she was reciting a script.