Dreams for Stones (22 page)

So that was why Alan shied away from
closeness, why he’d said they could be only friends.

Someone essential. He’d been talking about
Meg.

Sorrow that only death could ease. And his
reaction when she’d brought that up. She hadn’t understood it then,
but she did now.

And the look he sometimes had. That day
they’d ridden to the lake, and she’d recited the poem was the first
time. But that had been a mostly happy day as he teased her about
semi-misanthropy and a trout’s fishy viewpoint. The light shining
on his hair—gold, sorrel, and brown—and her hand, arrested from
touching. His eyes, usually so serious, but glinting with humor as
he looked up at her after drying her feet.

Without that one day. . .

But maybe she had already loved him.

And now she could no longer deny it.

The conversation with Elaine had ripped open the wound left in
Kathy’s heart by the loss of Alan. Gone in an instant the careful
stitching of weeks of busyness, of progress towards. . .
closure
. She shuddered. How she hated that word. Implying,
as it did, that one could walk through a door, close it, and forget
everything on the other side.

Hemingway was right. True sorrow never went
away. But maybe that was a good thing. Because denying her sadness
over Alan, would be a denial of her best self.

Before meeting Elaine, anger had overlaid
Kathy’s memories of Alan. And that anger had worked, as it had with
Greg, as an antidote to pain. But now, learning about Meg had
stripped away anger, leaving a sadness that limned even her
brightest days with darkness and sudden, unexpected sorrow. More
than anything, she wanted to help Alan. But if his family had been
unable to do anything for him, what could she do?

In spite of its hopelessness, the question
churned endlessly until she felt like an astronaut in orbit,
twisting, floating, turning, always ending in the same place. With
no answers.

It was such an effort, acting normal.

Friday, knowing she couldn’t face seeing
Charles, she called and canceled their date. Saturday morning she
got up early and drove west until she was deep in the mountains.
She took the Silverthorne exit and, turning at random, ended up on
a narrow road that at first clung to the steep mountainside then
dropped into a valley alongside a sparkling stream.

She pulled off the road onto a wide spot.
Through the open window she could hear crows calling and the
chitter of a squirrel. The smell of warm pine drifted through the
window and brought with it the memory of the day she and Alan had
ridden to the lake. They’d gone only once, but that day shone with
a clarity missing from all her days since.

After a time, she got out of the car and
followed a faint trail toward the stream. The dark shadows of trout
were clearly visible against the sand and gravel of the streambed,
and she smiled, remembering the awkwardness of her casts, feeling
again the touch of Alan’s hand guiding hers along the flank of the
fish.

As the memory faded, the familiar sense of
helplessness and loss replaced it.

Eventually, she walked back to her car and
drove until she encountered a road sign telling her where she
was.

If only it were as easy to navigate her
internal landscape. To see clearly where she’d been and where she
was going. And to understand what her choices would mean now that
she’d reached a fork in the road.

Excerpt from the diaries of Emily Kowalski

1940

Jess has arranged for one of the neighbors to come in three times a
day to help me with Bobby. I didn’t realize how tired the physical
effort of lifting Bobby was making me until Edna started coming.
She is a big, strapping woman who could probably lift Jess if she
had to, so Bobby is no problem for her.

I like Edna. She is a bit gruff and no
nonsense, but I think she has a kind heart. I hope we will be
friends.

Today Jess had a surprise with him when he came home. A dog. A
full-grown German shepherd. My dismay must have been obvious when
the two of them came through the door, because Jess’s smile faded
as he looked at me. I turned to go back to the kitchen, but Jess
must have let go of the dog, because it padded past me right up to
Bobby.

I felt a flash of fear. After all, it was a
very large dog. Then I noticed its tail waving gently and saw it
was licking Bobby’s hand, and I was surprised to find tears running
down my face.

I never did answer Jess’s question about
whether we could keep Brad.

Brad has been with us a week, and already I hardly remember what
our lives were like without him. He belonged to one of Jess’s
students who moved and was no longer able to keep him. Jess agreed
to bring him for a visit, to see what I thought about the idea of
us adopting him.

It’s a good thing Jess didn’t ask me
beforehand, or he would have gotten an earful, but it has turned
out well. Brad is an easy addition, and he seems to have appointed
himself Bobby’s guardian, staying always right by Bobby’s side.

I am continuing to help Bobby exercise his hands and arms even
though the doctor tells me I may as well save my energy for other
things. But although it may do little good, it makes me feel better
if I am doing something rather than letting Bobby just sit
there.

And today, an amazing thing happened. I left
Bobby and Brad alone for a minute, and when I walked back into the
room, I discovered Brad had helped himself to a sock from the
darning basket. He was pulling on one end while Bobby held the
other. Brad was growling fiercely, but I could tell he was playing
with Bobby.

I stood there, I’m not sure for how long,
watching the two of them and saying one of those wordless
thank-yous to God for this small miracle. And, just like that, I
was crying again. I seem to cry at the drop of a hat these days.
But later I found myself laughing at something Edna said. It felt
like the first time I’d done that since before Bobby got sick.

Today I took Bobby outside in his chair, and I set up my easel and
painted. Usually, I can’t stand to have anyone watch me paint, but
having Bobby there calmed me, and I talked to him as I worked.

I tried the sunset again—the one Bill and I
shared so many years ago right after he got back from the war. This
time the colors flowed, and I liked the contrast of the black fence
and the bare limbs of the tree against the deep orange-red of the
sky. I felt good when I finished, and I realized that while I was
painting I’d forgotten all my troubles.

I think that is why Jess works so hard and
long—in order to forget, for a time.

1941

Two weeks ago, Jess gave me a record player for my birthday. I left
it sitting in the corner next to the couch until last week when I
finally played one of the records. I discovered I felt better,
getting rid of the silence. Now I play music most of the day.

When the music is on, I notice Bobby’s eyes
look brighter somehow. And I fancy that if I watch carefully, I can
tell which records he likes best. I think, like me, it is the happy
music of the Benny Goodman and Glenn Miller orchestras. I even
found myself twirling into a dance-step to “In the Mood” this
morning.

I also play the radio. When I do, Bobby’s
eyes get that same happy shine. I’ve begun to follow a schedule so
we can listen to what I now think of as our programs—“Coast to
Coast on a Bus” for Bobby and “Pepper Young’s Family” for me.

Our days are filling up with sounds—music
sounds and radio sounds—and it’s certainly better than silence
chopped into small pieces by the ticking of a clock.

Even if I’m wrong, and Bobby isn’t aware, in
some ways it doesn’t matter. I am beginning to live again, and that
has to count for something.

1942

Yesterday, we received word Bill has died. The day had dawned
bright, beautiful, and hot, but with that news, the world seems
suddenly darker and colder.

The last time we saw Bill, it was winter.
Now, down by the pond, the dogwoods are blooming. They look like
pink and white butterflies floating among the bare branches, but it
is a sight that brings me no joy.

Bill came to be with us last Christmas. When
he walked into the kitchen with Jess, I took one look at him and
knew it would be our last visit together. He was only fifty-four,
but he looked seventy, his hair gone white and lines of pain etched
into his face. Only his eyes and smile were the same.

I hugged him, pretending I hadn’t seen, but
Bill knew, and he whispered, “It’s all right, Emmie. Don’t worry,
we’ll talk later.”

For the rest of the evening, we all
pretended it was an ordinary family visit, with Bill asking Jess
questions about the college teaching he is doing, and Jess and me
asking about colleagues and friends we left behind in Chicago.

Later, I sat in the rocker knitting while
Jess read Bobby a bedtime story. With Jess’s voice as background
music, I thought about Bill and that conversation so long ago that
marked the change in course for both our lives.

Afterward, Bill left Red Oak and met his
Kiara, only to lose her almost immediately. And I left Red Oak and
eventually met Jess, and we had Bobby, who is now thirteen years
old, but can do no more for himself than a tiny baby.

I wonder if everyone can trace back to one
moment in time when a single choice set their whole future in
place. And if so, how many of us would choose differently if we
knew where that choice would lead?

That next morning, when Bill walked into my
kitchen, I had a cheerful fire going. Bobby was in his chair, Brad
was asleep on the hearthrug soaking up the warmth, and we had
Christmas music playing. Bill kissed me good morning, saying, “My
word, Emmie, this surely does look and feel like Christmas.”

I fixed him breakfast and sat with him,
sipping coffee while he ate. When he finished, we talked.

“I need to ask you something, Emmie.
Something that isn’t easy to put into words. I need to know if you
blame me for urging you to leave Red Oak.”

“Funny, but I’ve been trying to figure out
how to ask you if you blamed me for telling you not to marry Doris
Goodwin.”

“Good lord, of course not. Why would you
think such a thing?”

That made me smile. “Perhaps the same reason
you think I blame you for encouraging me to leave Red Oak.”

We sat and looked at each other until I
started giggling, and then I was laughing so hard I had tears in my
eyes. Bill fished out a handkerchief and helped me finish wiping my
eyes.

He sat back and gave me a serious look.
“Perhaps it would have been better if you’d stayed.”

“Perhaps it would have been worse. Besides,
I would never want to give up Bobby and Jess.”

“You know, Emmie, now that I’m at the end,
and I can look all the way back to the beginning, I wouldn’t trade
either. I know I took the right path. Kiara. . . even though we had
only a short time together, it was worth any pain to have that. And
in the end, I got to make a difference in so many children’s
lives.”

He stopped speaking, and we sat in the sunny
kitchen with cups of coffee warming our hands. And then, into that
comfortable silence, I spoke words that surprised me. “I’m lonely,
Bill. Lonely for Jess. He works too hard. In order to cope, I
think.”

Bill took my hand in his, and we sat for a
time thinking our own thoughts and comforting each other with that
touch.

On Christmas Eve, Jess came home early, and
we had a wonderful evening. Our memories flickered and sparked like
the bright lights on the tree we put up together after dinner.

It was a special Christmas. Not because of
the presents or the flurry of snow that came on Christmas Eve and
glittered in the light from the windows, but because it was, as I
had suspected, and now know for sure, Bill’s last Christmas.

Before he left, he told me in stark terms
what was going on with his body.

Cancer.

There was little to be done except to put
his affairs in order, and he was doing that. He had come to say
goodbye, so I wouldn’t feel badly about being unable to attend his
funeral.

Of course, every time we hug someone who is
leaving for work, or church, or to go to the store, deep down we
know it could be the last time, but it’s knowledge we hide from
ourselves. But saying goodbye to Bill a week after he arrived, I
knew for certain I would never see him again, and I had to be quite
stern with myself and let him go.

Bill left behind one final gift—a way into a
new beginning for Jess and me. Shortly after Bill left, Jess came
home early and told me to dress up. He had arranged with Edna to
stay with Bobby, so he could take me out.

We went downtown to a brand new French
restaurant, the Maisonette. Jess ordered champagne, and when he
raised his glass to me, I knew what Bill had done. “Em, I want to
beg your forgiveness.”

I had no idea how to answer, but as I looked
at Jess through the shimmering light of the candles, I saw once
again the young man who made my heart skip with joy when Bill
introduced us the first time. And I remembered him waiting for me
to walk down the aisle to take his hand when we married. And it was
really quite simple.

“I understand, Jess. It’s all right.”

After that we sat looking at each other,
forgetting the champagne and ignoring the waiter. Eventually we
ordered, but we were too busy talking to eat much.

And, oh my, the talk. We shared our feelings
about Bobby, our pain that he would always be an invalid and the
added pain of being unable to have other children. In that sharing,
we pushed away the darkness wrapped around our lives as if we were
shedding a heavy cloak.