Comfort & Joy (21 page)

I turn onto Cates Avenue and roll into Rain Valley.

In the middle of the road, I hit my brakes.

It’s “my” town.

And it isn’t.

I pull over to the curb and get out of the car. I can feel the moisture in the air, hear it drop from leaves and boughs and plunk into potholes in the road, but it isn’t really raining. By the time I reach the sidewalk, the sun is breaking through the clouds, gilding the grassy lawn. Dew sparkles on the green carpet.

I feel as if I’m in a
Twilight Zone
episode. The town—this town—is the funhouse mirror version of my remembered town. There is a park in the center of it—but it’s nothing like I imagined. There’s a gazebo in the center of the park also, its stanchions twined by wisteria that is moments away from blooming. Concrete benches and fountains are everywhere. Off to the left is a covered barbeque area surrounded by picnic tables. A shallow wading pond catches the slivers of sunlight greedily; its rippling surface seems to catch fire in streaks.

Leaning on my cane, I walk across the spongy grass to the main street of town.

My town was comprised of wooden buildings with big windows and cutesy names like the Wizard of Paws pet store, the Hair Apparent beauty salon, and The Dew Drop In diner.

I stop in front of Lulu’s hair salon. To my left is the Raindrop diner.

Only the ice-cream shop is exactly as I imagined it. And the church.

My version is so close that I feel weak in the knees, and so different that I am sick to my stomach.

Was I here or wasn’t I?

Am I crazy? Brain damaged?

Just as I imagined, the town is a sparkling jewel set against a backdrop of the endless Olympic forest. One million acres of trees and mountains and wilderness, without a road to drive through it. The street lamps hold hanging baskets now, their sides thick with brown vines and winter-dead geraniums. A few hardy pansies show their colorful faces.

I walk into the diner first. There is no wall of pamphlets, no man drinking coffee at the bar. There is no bar.

An older woman with a Lucille Ball–red beehive hustles toward me, smiling. “Welcome to the Raindrop. What can I do yah for?” She hands me a plastic menu.

“I . . . I’m looking for the Comfort Fishing Lodge.”

The woman stops and frowns, her heavily made-up eyes almost close completely. “Honey, I’ve lived here for forty years. There ain’t no such place. But old Erv Egin, he’ll give you a hell of a charter. Come salmon season, that is.”

“Is there any fishing lodge?”

She shakes her head. “We ain’t that developed yet, though the good Lord knows we could use a little tourism. There’s a motel out on Fall River that makes a mighty fine breakfast, and the resort out at Kalaloch, and that place up at Lake Crescent in Port Angeles, but there ain’t really fishing at any of ’em. Your best bet is a charter. In May . . .”

“Daniel?” I whisper his name, feeling like an idiot. “He has a son, Bobby.”

“You talking about the O’Shea’s? Out on Spirit Lake?”

My heart skips a beat. “There’s a Daniel who lives on the lake? And he has a son named Bobby?”

The waitress takes a step back. She’s eyeing me hard now, and I don’t think she likes what she sees. Her gaze pauses on the cane, then returns to my face. “Who are you?”

“My name is Joy. I’ve come a long way to find them.”

“They’ve had their share of trouble in the past few months, and then some. What with the accident and all. They don’t need no more.”

“I’ve had some trouble of my own. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt them.”

It seems to take forever, but the woman finally nods. “They’re out at the end of Lakeshore Drive.”

I can’t help smiling. I even laugh a little, though it sounds hysterical. “Thanks.”

I limp out of the diner. I am in my car, easing away from the curb when I realize I didn’t ask for directions.

But my heart will lead me. I’m sure of it.

I drive out along the park to the old highway.

And keep going.

There’s no turn off where I remember.

I drive all the way to Forks before I finally turn around. On the way back, I study every sign carefully, slow down at every one. In the old part of Rain Valley, the houses are tiny and crammed together; the streets are named after trees. None of them is Lakeshore Drive. The sun is lower in the sky now; the streets are slowly fading into shadow. There are no street lamps out here, no sign of people.

I am about to turn around again when I see a small green marker that points to Spirit Lake.

A shiver moves through me at the name. I follow the road out of town. I haven’t gone more than a mile when I come to a barricade that reads: “Danger: High Water.” The river has exceeded its banks and washed out a portion of the road. At least a foot of brown water runs across the asphalt.

I pull off the side of the road and park.

What now?

Is it a sign, this flooded road? Am I
not
supposed to go down to the lake?

Or am I supposed to walk? There’s a strange pull in me at that answer. I walked here once, if the magic is real.

Maybe I need to repeat history to find my present. I can’t help noticing that there’s a huge, skinned log lying along the edge of the road. A woman with a cane could walk across that, if she wanted to.

I am crazy
. Even by my own standard, and God knows my threshold has fallen to almost nothing these days.

As I sit there, hands on the steering wheel, staring at the ruined road, my cell phone rings. I know without looking at the number who it is. “Hey, Stacey,” I answer.

“I’ve been calling for an
hour
.”

“It’s no-man’s-land out here. I’m surprised there’s service. You should see this place, it’s . . .”

“I don’t want a travelogue.
Well?
”

I am afraid to put it into words, this fragile impossible hope of mine, and more afraid not to. The split between what I imagined and what I now see throws me into a kind of tailspin; I don’t know what to think. “I’m parked on Lakeshore Drive. The woman at the diner said Daniel and Bobby O’Shea live at the end of the road.”

“Wow,” Stacey says sharply. “Is it them?”

“I hope so. Who knows? I could be Brad Pitt/
Twelve Monkeys
crazy. I’m probably still in the airport, sitting in my seat, drooling.”

“You’re not in the airport drooling. I watched you board the plane.”

“You were there?”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to do it.”

“Yeah, well, I’m stronger than I used to be.” As I say the words, I realize the truth of them. I
am
stronger now. Strong enough to reach for this dream . . . and strong enough to handle disappointment.

What matters is that I’ve finally made a move. Whether Daniel and Bobby are real or not, I belong here. Soon I will have over two hundred and ninety thousand dollars in the bank. That definitely gives me the freedom I need to start over somewhere. And this is where I want to be.

I look through the windshield. No raindrops blotch the glass. “It’s time,” I say to Stacey.

“Don’t you vanish on me.”

“I won’t.” Even as I say it, I can’t help thinking of Bobby, to whom I made the same promise.

I hang up and toss my phone in my purse. Looping the straps over my shoulder, I get out of the car.

The world is radiant, bathed in the last, fading rays of sunlight. The trees on either side of the road are as big as I’d imagined. Many rise well over two hundred feet into the air; their trunks are as straight as flagpoles. Salal and rhododendrons grow in wild disarray amid the trunks. Moss coats everything—tree bark, branches, guardrails, rocks. Very carefully, using my cane for support, I climb up onto the log that spans the rushing water and walk to the other side. On dry land again, I limp down to the road and follow it. Walking with a cane is slow going, but not once do I pause or consider stopping.

I’ve gone about a mile when I hear the lake, slapping against the shore.

I turn a corner and there I am, on a cherry tree–lined driveway. At the end of the road is a sprawling old Victorian mansion with a huge covered porch. It is the kind of home that the timber barons built at the turn of the century. Even though the roof looks like a slanted mossy hillside and the porch sags dangerously to one side, it is spectacular. A hand-carved wooden sign by the entrance welcomes me to the Spirit Lake Bed and Breakfast.

There are two outbuildings on either side, small clapboard structures with broken windows and ramshackle chimneys.

No red truck with a blue door sits in the driveway.

No dock juts out over the lake.

No pile of kayaks and paddleboats lay piled by the shore.

No ruined vegetable garden shows the first signs of spring. In fact, there’s no landscaping at all. There are only the cherry trees, full of pink blossoms that line the road and lead to the front door. None of it is familiar except the trees and the lake.

I have never seen this place before.

And yet, there by the lake, is the swing set, exactly as I “saw” it.

I’m crazy.

Maybe I’m not really here.
The terrifying thought wings through my mind. Maybe I’m in the hospital still, on killer drugs.

In a coma.

I’m Neo in
The Matrix
before they save him.

I’m . . .

“Stop it, Joy.”

It takes a monumental act of will, but I move forward.

I
follow the bumpy asphalt road to its rounded end. I am just about to turn toward the house when I hear a noise. A boy’s voice carried by the breeze.

Bobby.

I turn toward the sound, listening. It’s him. Gripping my cane more tightly, I hurry past the swing set and go into the trees.

There he is, kneeling in his forest church, playing with action figures. Giant trees ring and protect him. Sunset slants through the great, down-slung boughs in purple-hued rays. The ferns and moss are lime green with new growth.

As I limp toward him, my heart is beating too quickly. The spongy, damp ground swallows my footsteps. So it is that he doesn’t hear me approach until I say, “Hey, Bobby.”

At the sound of my voice, his hands freeze. The action figures clatter together and go quiet. Slowly, he turns to look at me.

He is exactly as I’ve imagined him—black, curly hair, bright blue eyes with long lashes, and a missing pair of teeth.

But the way he frowns at me is new.

“Bobby?” I say after a confusing minute. “It’s me. Joy.”

He doesn’t smile. “Sure it is.”

“I’m sorry I went away, Bobby.”

“Everyone said you were
imaginary
anyway.”

“I guess I was then. I’m not now.”

He frowns. “You mean . . .”

“I’m
here,
Bobby.”

Hope flashes across his eyes. The quelling of it is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. “I ain’t falling for it. I don’t wanna be crazy anymore.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Quit trying to trick me.” His voice catches on that. I can see how hard he is trying to be sane and grown up. And how much he wants to believe in me again.

“I know it’s impossible,” I whisper. “And totally Looney Tunes, but will you trust in me one more time?”

“How?”

“Just come here.”

He shakes his head. “I’m scared.”

I smile. That kind of honesty will save us in this crazy situation. “Me, too. Please? Believe in me one more time.” I can’t help remembering my dreamed-of Christmas morning where I said the same thing to him.

Slowly, he gets up and comes toward me. When he’s almost close enough to take my hand he stops. He doesn’t reach for me. “Are you real?”

“That’s the first thing you ever said to me, remember? Then, I didn’t know what you meant, I didn’t understand. But I’m real now, Bobby. Believe me.”

He won’t touch me, but I see that hope come back into his eyes. “You broke your promise.”

“Yes, I did. And I’m sorry for that.”

“How come you have a cane?”

“That’s a long story.”

“I waited for you to come back. Every day . . .” His voice breaks. I can see how hard he’s trying not to cry.

“I have a present for you,” I say softly.

“Really?”

I reach into my pocket, half expecting it to be empty.

It’s not. My fingers coil around the cool, smooth bit of carved stone. I pull it out and hand it to him. The white arrowhead looks like a tiny heart in my palm.

Bobby gasps. “It’s white. My mommy always promised me . . .”

I move slowly toward him and drop to my knees in the dirt. “She showed me where it was, Bobby. On Christmas Eve night while you were sleeping.”

“Really?”

I nod. “Sometimes the magic is real, I guess.”

Tears glaze his eyes. I know how long he has waited for an adult to say these words to him. He takes the arrowhead from me, closing his fingers tightly around it.

“I knew it,” he whispers. “I’m not crazy.”

“You can keep it in your pocket always, and when you get scared or feel lost or confused, you can hold it and remember how much she loved you.”

I open my arms.

He launches himself at me. I catch him easily, but lose my balance. My cane drops to the side, and we fall to the mossy ground in a tangled heap. For the first time, I’m really holding him.

His kiss on my cheek is slobbery and wet . . . and real.

“Hey,” he says, drawing back, “you’re warm.”

“I wasn’t before?”

He shakes his head solemnly. “When you touched me, it was like . . . the wind.”

We sit up, look at each other. “Hey, Bobby O’Shea. It’s nice to really meet you.”

“I thought you were like . . . Mommy. Gone.”

I touch his cheek; it is softer than I ever imagined. “No. It just took me a long time to find my way back.”

“How were you here?”

I wonder if there will ever be an answer to that. If I will someday know why my dream was a flawed and tattered version of reality or how I ended up here when I was hooked up to machines in a white bed in Bakersfield. For now, all I can do is shrug and say the thing I do know. “Magic.”