Blue Moon Bay (37 page)

Leaning close, Mama B forced eye contact. “Hon, now I want you to drink some of this coffee, y'hear? You want cream and sugar in it? Hon, you want cream and sugar?” Somehow, the request brought my mother out of herself. She nodded, her watery eyes fixed on Mama B.

“Claire Anne, get us some cream and sugar.” Mama B's voice rattled the ceiling panels, and Blaine's stepmother scurried off to the kitchen, where she received a sympathy eye-roll from one of her friends. “And a piece of that pound cake,” Mama B called after her, then returned attention to my mother. “Now, hon, you listen at this here. We're not doing any more of this cryin'. We're gonna have faith and keep praying, and believe on that prayer. That's my little granddaughter out there with your boy, and she may be tiny, but I know for a fact she's tough as a boot. She'll figure a way to come out of this all right, and so will your boy. My family pioneered this land. Some lowbrow, two-bit criminal's not gonna come in here and get the best of us. You hear me?”

Mom nodded.

“You drink some of that coffee now.” Mama B pointed at the cup insistently, and my mother released the quilt, letting it slide from her shoulders. Peering around me, Mama B noted that there was no coffee on my end table. “Claire Anne! Bring another cup for Heather. She looks like she's about froze to death.” In the kitchen, Blaine's stepmother was gathering things on a tray, her back stiffening every time her mother-in-law called her name.

Watching Mama B comfort my mother now, I couldn't help wondering if things might have been different all those years ago, when tragedy first touched our family. If we had reached out instead of retreating into ourselves, would these people have received us this way? If I had allowed myself to fall into this community that had so loved my father, would they have caught me? Was my stubbornness, my pride, my resentment, and my guilt more the cause of my suffering than these people were?

Maybe I'd been wrong about Moses Lake. Maybe I'd been wrong about so many things in my life. It shouldn't have taken something like this—the prospect of losing my brother—to make me assess myself, to lift the veil from my eyes. In keeping my defenses high, in striving to maintain a self-sufficient, ordered, controlled life that contained minimal risk, I was missing everything that mattered most. A well-lived life, an authentic life, involved risks—and faith allowed you to take those risks. That was what Ruth had been trying to tell me, the very thing she'd understood as she balanced on that fire escape. The great leaps in life are not made in the absence of fear, but in the presence of faith.

Mama B rested a hand on my knee and patted gently. “Blaine's out there, too. He's out there looking for them, and there's nothing that boy can't do. He was the first one to hold Amy when she was born. Bet you didn't know that. It was a snowy night, and Amy's daddy was out of town, so Blaine stayed over at his auntie's house to watch after her. Lands if she didn't have the baby right there on the kitchen floor with Blaine helping her. He'll find Amy. You watch. Good gravy, where is that coffee?”

Mama B left to check on things in the kitchen. I reached across the space between my mother and me and held her hand. Twenty minutes passed, thirty, then forty-five as the prayer chain grew and took on a life of its own, cell phone calls coming in, information going out. I tried not to imagine where Clay was now.

The clock in the church office chimed once, a solitary note weaving from the quiet shadows of the hallway. One in the morning.

One fifteen.

One twenty.

The old hardwired phone on the wall rang. Reverend Hay snapped upright, sending his folding chair skittering sideways. Every eye in the room followed him as he answered the call, pacing back and forth at the end of the coiled cord. The room grew silent, other than the faint sound of a voice on the other end of the phone, and Reverend Hay's answers. “Mmm-hmm . . . mmm-hmm. That's good news, Mart.” Pumping a fist in the air, he gave us the thumbs-up sign. “That's the best news. Praise the Lord!”

A smile split his thin face, causing his eyes to crinkle around the edges as he slapped the receiver into the cradle. “They've been found, praise be! The sheriff's office received an anonymous call to send an ambulance to a car in the ditch on a county road, and when they got there, they found Clay and Amy in the trunk. No sign of the driver or anybody else, and they don't know who made the call. The paramedics think Clay and Amy might've taken in some carbon monoxide. They're in an ambulance, on their way to the hospital in Gnadenfeld.”

Love is the mystery of water and a star.

–Pablo Neruda
(Left by an anonymous tourist who visited unnoticed)

C
lay's visitors came and went as night faded into morning, while next door Amy's parents, Blaine's family, and Mama B sat vigil around her room. Ruth arrived with the morning light, leaning on the elbow of her favorite nephew. In the doorway, she held Uncle Herb's hand, patted it between hers, smiled at him, and nodded. “We've done it,” she said, and then crossed the room to stand over my brother's bed and point the no-no finger at him. “Never, never again, anything like that. To live peacefully is to live well. You remember that from now on.”

Clay's grin was tired and lopsided, his lip swollen and bruised on the left, the oxygen tube bumping awkwardly under his nose. He waved at Mom and Uncle Charley, who were exiting the room to make space. “I think I've had . . . enough. . . . adventure . . .” His words grew raspy and trailed off. He swallowed, wincing with the effort, a little mischief twinkling in the eye that wasn't swollen shut. I was almost glad to see that the mischief was still there, even after the beating he'd taken and the carbon monoxide inhalation in the trunk of the car. “ . . . for a while,” he added, and I wanted to smack him one.

Lips pressing into a line, Ruth turned to me. “You should talk some sense into him.”

“We could tie him to the bed,” Uncle Herb suggested. “Charley's got an old lariat rope in his truck.”

We laughed together, eager to diffuse the tension in the room. For an instant—just an instant—I saw the image of Clay from my dream. We'd come so close to really losing him. We could have lost him. Watching him laugh now, then draw his eyebrows together, wincing, then give in and laugh again, I regretted all the petty thoughts, resentments, and fears that had kept me away from him, from my family for so many years. Our time together as adults almost ended before it began, and if it had, it would have been my fault as much as anyone's.

I'd been so busy focusing on my self-determined parameters of what I felt my family should be, that I'd missed the beauty of what they actually were—fragile, flawed, heroic, imperfect, champions of lost causes. Each with things to learn and things to teach. God had knit us together like plantings in a garden—wild and unique above ground, blooming in different ways at different times, the roots intertwined deep beneath the soil. No matter who else passed through my life, no one would take the place of my brother. He would always be the only one with whom I shared the quiet beginnings of life, the awkwardness of growing up, the secret hiding places of childhood, the early hours of Christmas mornings waiting for Santa Claus, the arguments over space in the backseat of a car, the walk to school on the first day, and the rough times after things didn't go so well.

I looked at him now, his scruffy blond hair in unkempt curls against the pillow, and I saw all of those things. He winked at me and smirked, embarrassed by all the attention as Ruth fawned over him some more, covering him with a knitted afghan she'd brought for him and telling him a story about a stray dog that had wandered into the dairy and wreaked havoc the day before. Mary and Emily were convinced that the dog was Roger.

Clay chuckled wearily and said it was a good thing there weren't two Rogers, and then Ruth ordered him, in no uncertain terms, to rest and get well, before finally hugging him good-bye.

I walked her out, moving slowly to the end of the hall with her as her nephew tagged along behind. “Our Clay is a good boy,” she said, adjusting her prayer covering and smiling at me.

“A good man,” I corrected.

“There's a strong heritage in him. A heritage of men who are not afraid.”

I only nodded, thinking that I wished Clay would knuckle under to fear a little more often. I was already dreading waving him off on his next adventure, whatever it might be. The idea that he wanted to settle down in Moses Lake had never been believable, and now that I knew why he'd come here, I knew he'd be moving on as soon as he was well enough.

“It's in you, too,” Ruth pointed out, her fingers circling mine, squeezing and shaking gently. “Don't be afraid to live your life, Heather. It comes and goes more quickly than you'd imagine.”

“I've been thinking about that,” I admitted. I wasn't sure what was next for me, but I did know that I wouldn't be returning to my old life, to the people with whom I'd surrounded myself. That box seemed too confining now, too limiting. My time in Moses Lake had grown me in ways that wouldn't allow me to fit back into the same container.

We stopped at the elevator door, and Ruth's nephew pushed the button, then stood politely, pretending not to be listening to our conversation. The chime sounded, and the light flickered. We waited while a nurse wheeled a woman with a new baby off the elevator, as the husband followed behind, carrying a suitcase and a balloon bouquet, his face all smiles. I felt the sting of yearning again, but also the vague chill of uncertainty. Did I really have it in me to step from behind the clean glass and steel walls I'd constructed and take a risk on something that couldn't be measured or calculated or planned? Was Blaine
the one
? Was there really something special between us, or was I just trying to see what I wanted to see? Was I as wrong about him as I had been about Richard?

“You'll come visit me in a day or two, and I'll tell you more stories.” Ruth's comment tugged at my thoughts, but the deeper questions continued churning, a miniature whirlpool of conflicting emotions.

“If I'm here,” I answered. “I mean, I think I will be . . . for a while . . . until Clay's well, at least.” Suddenly I felt lost, out of sorts, overwhelmed by the unsettled, unplanned nature of the future. “I quit my job . . . I think.”

But now that the Proxica scandal was about to be made public, Mel would be glad we hadn't ended up being officially tied to the company. If I called him, he'd probably act like the whole take-this-job-and-shove-it text message never even happened.

Ruth's fingers released mine as her nephew moved to hold open the elevator door. “Get a good night's sleep before you decide,” she advised, shuffling into the elevator. “A tired mind doesn't think well, you know.”

“I know.”

“And eat something. Whole food, not the processed sort.”

I chuckled. “I will.” Actually, a trip across the street to the bakery sounded like a good idea about now.

Her brows arched in a way that caused me to see the little girl who had yearned to peek under the circus tent. “You should think about that riddle. The one the tinker wrote at the Waterbird. We German folk are good with riddles. The Irish think they have the market, but they don't. If you have the answer, tell me tomorrow.”

I nodded, but in reality, my tired mind was hardly in the mood to contemplate ancient wisdoms. It was just like Ruth, though, to try to use this as a teachable moment.

I rubbed my eyes as I walked back toward Clay's room. In the hallway ahead, my family was exiting the room en masse, stealing nervous looks over their shoulders. I quickened my steps, forgetting about the riddle.

“We're heading to the cafeteria,” Uncle Herb offered, shrugging in an indication that I should turn and follow.

“C'mon down there with us,” Uncle Charley added as he moved past me. “Your brother needs a little time alone right now.” Circling his lips, he flashed a wide-eyed look over his shoulder and sucked in air.

“What's wrong with Clay?” My anxiety ratcheted up. The doctors had said that, while bruised and battered, Clay would be fine.

“Nothin' that ain't his own doin'.” Uncle Charley shuffled around and kept walking. “But that could change after she gets ahold of him.”

“She . . . who?” I turned to my mother, who was carefully closing the door to Clay's room, leaving it ajar only a few inches before she stepped away and wheeled a hand in a
let's-move-on
sort of way.

“His fiancée,” she whispered.

Taking several sideways steps, I peered through the gap and into the room. Someone was standing beside Clay's bed. I could see the back of a pair of faded Levis and a sweatshirt. “Amy?” Surely Amy couldn't be on her feet already. She'd been in worse shape than Clay. Just a couple hours ago, when I'd looked in on her, she was still on oxygen, and they were making plans to take her down to X-ray to discern the best course of action for a separated shoulder.

A little nudge to the door opened it a bit wider, increasing the view of Clay's room. Behind me, Mom grabbed my sweatshirt and tried to pull me away.

Some . . . woman was hugging my brother. She was tall and slim, her medium-length brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She'd curled herself against Clay's chest, sobbing into the sheets as he rested his chin on her head.

I staggered backward, snapping toward my mother's tug like a slinky, stretched too far.
Who's that?
I mouthed, pointing.

Mom's steepled hands touched her lips before carefully measuring her next words. “There are a few things we haven't told you.”

I wasn't sure how to answer. Having already felt the world rock off kilter once that day, I didn't know if I wanted to hear the rest of the family secrets. Suddenly my brother's sexy text messages from Fort Worth made sense. There really had been someone else, all along. Was Clay's supposed relationship with Amy all a ruse? An excuse to be hanging around Moses Lake and Proxica? Obviously my mother knew the answers, so I started down the hall with her. Ahead, one of the uncs was holding the elevator for us. “Was Clay stringing Amy along, or was there never anything . . . I mean, did she know it was all an act?”

Mom quickened her pace, jogging the rest of the way to the elevator, forcing me to run-walk or be left behind. Once we were inside, she tried to placate me. “Let's get some coffee, and we'll explain the whole thing.”

Frustration, exhaustion, uncertainty, and the remnants of a terrifying night welled up in me, and I smacked the
Stop
button, causing the elevator to jerk to a halt. “You know what? I just want the whole story all at once. I need to know what's true.”

Mom and the uncs flicked sideways glances at each other, and Mom laid a hand on my shoulder. “Heather, just calm down. You've had quite a traumatic night, too, and . . .”

“Don't mollify me!” I jerked away from her. “Just tell me all of it. Please! Clay was never involved with Amy, was he? That was all an act, right?” My entire family had been putting on an act, and I'd been left in the audience, with everyone else.

“They needed someone on the inside . . . someone who wouldn't be suspected.”

“They,
who
?” I pressed. “Whose idea was this whole thing?” The connections were tangled in my mind. “Who came up with all that malarkey about Clay taking over Catfish Charley's and you opening a bed-and-breakfast in the funeral home?”

“We had to make it look convincing,” Mom defended. “To have an excuse to be in town while Clay put his case together.”

Uncle Charley nodded enthusiastically but remained as far from me as the elevator would allow. “We had to get the drop on Proxica, see? Bait those slick suckers into the trap and shut the door before they knew what was comin'. Them Proxica folks got powerful friends in the government—state and national. It's a big company. Every time someone's tried to go up against them, a few phone calls get made, and that's the end of it. Meantime, they're makin' money and they got poison leaking into water wells around here, and they know it. They've known it for a long time.

“Your dad figured what was happening years ago—how they were getting rid of that Armidryn. Your brother looked at some of your dad's old papers in the cellar out at the farm. He also did some checking online and read about that lawsuit in Kentucky, and he started to put two and two together—Ruth's husband dying from cancer, and then Ruth getting sick, and others around Gnadenfeld. He started talkin' to folks and lookin' into it some more. You done good getting out of the farmhouse with his backpack, too. They might've burned Clay's computer in that fire, but there's enough evidence in that backpack to prove it all. Everything it'll take to bring them sorry suckers down.”

I turned to my mother, feeling as if someone had cut the elevator cable and we were careening downward, headed for a crash. “So it's all true? About Dad . . . about the Justice Department? How could you let Clay get involved in that, after what happened to Dad?”

Mom braced her hands on her hips, her chest rising and falling. “He's your father's son. I couldn't convince him to run away, any more than I could convince your father. All I could do was be here and try to keep him safe. By the time I found out what your brother was doing, he'd already been in touch with the investigator who'd worked on the case sixteen years ago. After what happened to your father, I never wanted to see that man again. I didn't want him to have the chance to ease his conscience, to make things right. He was the one who pushed your father. He was the one who promised to protect your father, and then your dad was gone. One minute I had everything, and the next, everything was gone.”