A Beautiful Fall (19 page)

“Friday afternoon, while my dad was upstairs resting, I went through the boxes for the first time.” She looked around the table. The other women were spellbound, motionless at the table.

“He’d stored all my mother’s things in them, some of it trivial, things I guess he didn’t want to throw away. Old birthday cards, photographs, love letters, their high school yearbook. I found two photo albums, one from their wedding. The other had pictures of their first house, in Juneberry I guess. On another page there was a faded photo from when they purchased the farm. There was snow on the ground and the biggest smile on my mother’s face. She was all red lipstick and peg-leg slacks. On the last pages, there were pictures of my parents bringing their newborn baby home from the hospital. It was so long ago, the three willow trees weren’t even planted in the front yard yet. There were a few photos of me as a little girl, then the pictures stop.”

Emma’s story stopped too, paused while she allowed her thoughts to pool again.

“I spent my childhood looking for my mother and never finding her, wanting something I couldn’t have.
Someone to watch over me
,” Emma said, in a whisper like it was a joke, but one that brought pain instead of laughter. “We lived in a house filled with obscure, hazy memories, and an almost indescribable heaviness because someone was missing. There was an empty place in my heart, and I’m sure in my dad’s, too. One day she was there, and the next …”

“I guess I was about twelve when I came to terms with it all, accepted the fact that my mom wasn’t coming back. I just decided the best thing to do was to put it all behind me, ’cause I couldn’t handle it. Does that sound weird? I took those things of hers that I had—a small, framed picture I kept by my bed, a ring handed down to me that I used to play dress up with, a bronze key chain from Clemson, stuff you’d give a kid,” Emma said, and sniffled.

“I put all those things in my jewelry box, and loaded the box in a canvas bag. I rode my bike out to Close Point at the lake, to where it’s swampy and remote. I took a gardening spade with me, and I began to dig in the mud and clay. I must have dug for half an hour, and when the hole was big enough, I dropped the canvas bag with the jewelry box into it, and buried it up in the mud.”

“My gosh, do you think it’s still buried there?” asked Samantha.

“That was the year I moved to town, right?” Christina said.

“Yes,” Emma said. “And for the rest of junior high and high school, things went pretty well.

“One day when I was in the library, during study hall, I found a shelf with college catalogs. When I saw one from Boston University, I just connected with it. I remember standing there between the bookshelves thumbing through its pages. Later, I asked the guidance counselor, Mrs. Garrish, if she thought Boston was too far away for me to go to college, and I remember she told me, ‘No, it’s just up the coast.’”

“It’s like, what, eight hundred miles?” Christina said.

“I needed a break. I needed to get away, and put it all behind me. I found I could do that the farther I got away.”

“And Michael?”

“That summer with Michael … It was the first time I’d been back in the house for a whole season. Sometimes, when Michael and I would go out to the lake, I’d remember what I’d buried in the mud there as a little girl.

“I’d go home at night to a dark house and feel her presence, the memories, and I’d try to push them away again until morning. As the summer wore on, that got harder and harder to do. I loved Michael, but I also felt trapped here … not because of Michael, but because of painful memories, things I never talked about to anyone. And the draw of Boston became so strong because it made them go away, mostly anyway. I had built a good life there. And a future, too. In the end, that was what I put all my trust in—the future I was pursuing in law. I knew leaving came with a price. I guess … I just didn’t know how costly it would be.”

“What did Michael say when you told him you were leaving?” Christina asked.

“We talked about my future a lot and how it would affect us. You know, he said all the right things. But when it came down to the last few days before I was scheduled to depart, I just decided to book an earlier flight to save us both the pain of a long good-bye.”

Samantha raised her eyebrows.

“I know, not the way I would choose to do it today, but I thought it was like pulling off a Band-Aid. Then I got busy at law school, and Christmas came and went and the next summer I took an internship rather than come back to Juneberry. We can fast-forward through the rest, but basically I graduated, passed the bar, and was hired at Adler & McCormick and continued my fourteen-hour workdays,” Emma said, looking at Samantha. “The next thing I knew, I was answering your phone call about my dad. Nearly a decade had flown by.”

“So you never really said good-bye to Michael?” Christina asked.

Emma nodded. “Sadly, that’s true.”

“I remember my mom coming home from the funeral and crying in her bedroom,” Samantha said. “Hannah was her favorite sister and she always took care of her. I can remember her saying to me, ‘Who’s gonna love that little girl now? Who’s gonna take care of that little girl?’”

“I wanted to escape the memories of my mom,” Emma replied. “I didn’t think of it as running away, though, because I really was running to something. A good something. But … yeah … the more I think about it, the more I realize that’s what I did.”

“Emma, I’m sorry you felt so alone. I feel like if only we’d have known somehow,” Samantha said. “We were all so close. We could have done more.”

“I don’t know, Samantha. I couldn’t talk with anyone about it. Even Michael, who was so good to me.”

“Christina, help me out here, but, Emma, I think you’re missing an important part of the story,” Samantha said. All of their teacups were empty, but no one moved to refill them.

“I
so
know where you’re going with this,” Christina said, creaking back in her white wicker chair, pleased that it all made sense to her now.

“I think it’s the most obvious part of your story. It may be the part that’s eluded you for all these years: Emma, Michael Evans is the one. He’s your soul mate,” she said.

“Absolutely.”

“Even I can see that,” said Beth.

Samantha noticed the empty cups. “Honey, can you go heat more water for more tea?”

“But this is the best part!” Beth protested, but Samantha motioned her inside with her eyes.

“Emma, people can do the craziest things, make the most horrible decisions at the worst times, and they can
not
act when the timing is critical,” Christina said. “This is the first time I’ve really heard what really happened between you and Michael. I think Samantha might have seen it—”

“Yeah, I did.”

“—but I didn’t realize the scope of it all, not until I heard you tell it. Now I’m wondering, Emma, if you see it.”

All eyes looked to Emma, who was sitting with her back to the patio screen. The sun had just passed the top of the world, starting its descent into late afternoon, and the air felt breezy and warm.

“I don’t honestly know what I see. Michael’s a great guy, but that was twelve years ago. We had a wonderful time last night, but I’m leaving again for Boston this week. However I got there, I have a life in Boston now. A good life. And a career, too.”

Emma’s answer sounded sensible and resolute. She didn’t bother to present other evidence to her friends that contradicted sensibility and resolve, such as the way she’d felt there on Main Street the first day she laid eyes on him. Or how when she’d thought of him in Boston, and she did think of him sometimes, she hoped he still resembled the man she’d fallen in love with. And when she’d seen him, standing at the tailgate of his white Chevy, it was like he was everything from before, only better. Emma chose not to mention how it felt to dance with Michael, to be held by him surrounded by timeless tradition and by friends who had loved her—even if from eight hundred miles away—for a lifetime. She didn’t mention any of these things, because she didn’t want to think of them. She wanted to stuff them in a canvas bag and bury them in the mud because it was easier that way. It was easier to leave a day earlier rather than hang around and listen to someone you love ask you to marry him. Faraway places offer the irresistible gift of silence from the voices and the memories.

Beth returned with more hot water, and Samantha suggested they brew a pot of chamomile. While the group watched young Beth opening and setting the tea to brew like a skilled barista, Janette spoke up for the first time that afternoon.

“I didn’t know your mother that well,” Janette said. “In fact, I don’t think I ever spoke to her except once at the grocery store, but Emma, I’m going to pray for you because I feel like there’s more going on than you realize. I can’t say what exactly, ’cause I don’t know, but I’ll be praying.”

“Thank you,” Emma said, feeling better for having shared her story, but tired of being the center of attention. “Can I just suggest we change the subject now?”

The women laughed, and Beth poured the new pot of tea.

“What about you, Christina,” Samantha asked. “What’s happening in your story?”

“Oh, I’m just in love with a wonderful man who’s been deeply wounded and lost his family. He’s afraid of moving forward, and I’m not willing to give him up, so I’m praying and waiting, not worrying or pushing. It’s hard, but I’m confident God will work it out somehow.”

“How long has Bo been divorced?” Janette asked.

“Eight years.”

“That’s a long time. Are you sure you aren’t waiting in vain for something that’ll never happen?”

“I think the something that happened is, I met Bo Wilson. I didn’t meet someone who’s potential husband material; I met my best friend and I can’t imagine living life without him.”

“I’m hearing a lot of new things I can pray for,” Janette said. “I’ll pray for you, too, Christina,”

“You better watch out, Christina. Janette is a real prayer warrior,” Samantha said. “If she’s praying for you, you’ve got a real ally on your side.”

“Beth, what about you?” Christina asked. “Remind us how the world looks through the eyes of a high school senior.”

“I like hearing your stories,” Beth said, sitting on a wicker hassock near the teacart. “They’re funny and sad.”

“What do you hope your story will be, Beth?” Christina asked.

“Well, one worth telling. I know I want to be a somebody.”

“What’s a somebody?”

“A somebody is a person who’s successful, and everyone knows who they are. An actor, a singer, the guy who invented the iPod. That’s a somebody.”

The ladies let out an audible groan.

“We’ve had these discussions before,” Samantha said, turning her attention to Janette. “A lot of people in Beth’s generation don’t think they’re important unless they possess some level of celebrity. They’re using the Internet to draw attention to themselves so they can feel important, not for something they’ve accomplished, but just to be seen in a make-believe celebrity medium.”

Beth sighed and shook her head. It was clear to Emma that she’d heard this argument more than once.

“Beth, dear, I was an actress in Hollywood. Back in the days when stars really were glamorous,” Janette said. “It’s not what you think it is.”

“Maybe you could talk a little about that, Janette,” Samantha suggested. “I’d appreciate any wisdom you have on the subject.”

Janette turned her chair toward Beth.

“I won’t give you the long version, but I had dreams too when I was your age. Eighteen, nineteen. I wanted to go to Hollywood and become an actress. It was in the early 1960s, and against my mother’s wishes, I went to California and worked my way in the Hollywood system. I appeared in movies, on television. I met lots of the really big stars, and one day—
phfft!
it was over.”

“The people who have their names up in lights aren’t any different than anyone else. All the time you’re either struggling to get somewhere or working hard to hang onto what you’ve got. Some of the most famous people in movies don’t feel famous on the inside. They feel like they’re faking it. Sure, I had a lot of fun out there, especially when I was young. People just assumed I was rich because I was in the movies, but I barely made any money at all. It’s all an illusion. Make-believe. You’re somebody because God loves you, not because you happen to become famous for a short time, and that’s all it is—temporary. I don’t know if you’ll believe me, but you’ll never find a greater audience than the crowds in heaven who look down and want you to have the life God has for you.”

“I have to agree with Janette, Beth. I’ve met lots of musicians and artists in my work,” Christina added. “Peter Thomas is a friend of mine. He has a
great
voice, but he’s just a normal person.”

“You know Peter Thomas?” Beth asked, her eyes filling with celebrity stardust for the man whose worship songs were sung in churches around the world. “Oh my gosh, he’s awesome.”

“Beth, Peter’s a totally regular guy. He doesn’t live a better life just because he’s famous.”

“I think he does,” Beth said. “Being famous tells everyone you’re important.”

“Honey, I was once on the cover of a magazine that sat on newsstands all over the world, but at the same time I lived in a tiny apartment in West Hollywood with a roommate—another actress under contract with the studios. We worked hard attending premieres and parties, rubbing shoulders with the famous. Then we’d go home to our apartment and wonder how we’d pay next month’s rent.”

~ Fifteen ~

You’re climbing mountains, I’m on the hill
You’re always running, I’m standing still.

—V
INCE
G
ILL

“If You Ever Have Forever in Mind”

It was late Sunday afternoon when the ladies’ tea finally ended. Sam insisted Emma take the fruits and veggies for her dad—grapes, orange wedges, cherry tomatoes, and some avocado—wrapping them up in ziplock bags.

“When are you leaving to go back to Boston?” Janette asked Emma while she slipped into a bright red wool coat with black faux-fur lapels.