Heart of the Country (20 page)

49

I
AM UNCERTAIN
how old I was. Small, maybe five or six. But I remember her distinctly. She wore a white eyelet dress and dusty flip-flops. She’d been mopping the floor the last I knew, and we’d been sent to our rooms to play quietly until she was done.

I’d snuck back, probably because I heard her singing. I peeked around the frame of the door, one half of my face showing, my cheek smooshed against the wood. She was twirling around the floor, the wet mop her dance partner, belting out a song I didn’t recognize from church. Later I would know it . . . “I Feel Pretty” from
West Side Story
. That day, it was just a song, but it entranced me. She entranced me.
Her long, fluid limbs, her ballerina body, twirled and twisted, weightless like a tumbleweed. I wondered who she sang it to. But I remember realizing that my momma had dreams like me. I’d run in the pasture and dream I was somewhere far away. Daddy would let me ride Lady or Silver and I’d pretend to be a cowboy. There she was, far away, dreaming.

“Mommas have dreams too,” I explained to Olivia when I told her what I’d witnessed.

“What in the world would a momma be dreaming about?” she asked.

I didn’t know exactly then. But I knew it was something special because she never saw me standing there.

I glanced at Dad. He was comfortable in our budget seats, taking in the show, the music. He had that glow to his skin. It usually surfaced when he talked about good memories.

I remembered later, as a teenager, singing “I Feel Pretty” as Essie Mae played the piano and Momma stood nearby, beaming like light reflecting off the tin roof of the shed. As I sang it, I felt a sense of empowerment. The words bubbled up in me, refusing to stay put. I felt like Momma felt. I knew the power of music. And as I suspected, it had been with me as long as I could remember. It would be with me far along in my life too.

Early in my marriage to Luke, maybe six months into it or so, he found me in the kitchen, singing this same song. His cheek was pressed against the doorframe. He was grinning, almost laughing. I stopped midnote when I saw him.

“Why’d you stop?”

“You’re standing there watching me!”

“Why don’t you sing more? Your voice is beautiful.”

“My mom loved that song. It’s from
West Side Story
.”

“I know. I’ve seen the show half a dozen times.”

“I wish you could have met her,” I said, walking into his embrace.

“I have. I see her every day.”

That was how Luke was. He always knew how much I loved her. He held me when I cried and never asked me to get over it or move on. He just knew.

He twirled me back into the kitchen. “Don’t stop singing!” But I was giggling too much to carry a note.

The song was ending. Dad and I both stared forward, but I slid my hand into his. A tear slid down his face and I couldn’t bear it, so I just closed my eyes, held his hand, and prayed. It was in the middle of a Broadway musical, with lights and show tunes and tight applause, that I got down on my knees. Not physically, but in my heart. I surrendered because what else could I do? Trust what this life was giving me? Everything that gave me happiness was temporary, and all that was rooted deeper could be pulled up. I felt myself less attached to this world. My feet felt lighter and the sky looked closer. I realized I was nothing more than a vapor in the wind, no more than a blade of grass that withers under the sun. I could do nothing to save my mom. Or my dad. Or my marriage.

I was weak.

But I knew there was one who was strong. I knew nothing
was in my life that hadn’t passed through His hand first. So for the first time in my life, I truly trusted the God that my momma told me would never leave me alone.

50

I
WAS NOT
entirely sure if I was drinking out of the joy of immunity or the sorrow over Faith or the frustration over my inability to help her father. Nevertheless, I was drinking and thankful for it. My stomach had been hurting and my head pounding for over twenty-four hours, with a short reprieve when Dad took us out to the lounge.

I didn’t really know why I was free. Or how. Didn’t know if my name would ever mean anything good in this town again. Didn’t know if Faith planned on talking to me beyond her father’s need for help. Didn’t know if I could do something as simple as get the attention of a doctor.

“Gotta feel good, huh, kiddo?” Jake said, punching me in the arm as we both slumped over our drinks at the bar.

My phone lit up. Another text from Faith.
Anything to report?


“Told you it was taken care of,” Jake said, squeezing my shoulder a little too hard. He slapped me on the back and grinned sloppily.

I nodded, but I was staring at my phone, wondering how to reply.

“Yesterday you were peeing the floor over the thought of going to prison. You get immunity and you’re acting like you got the death penalty.”

I glanced up. “Sorry.”

“What’s going on?”

There’s something about brothers where the harder you try to hide something, the more they seem to know. As much as I tried not to press my lips together and look away and tighten the grip on my glass, I did all those things and then flagged down the bartender.

“Faith.” It sounded so heavy coming off his tongue that it seemed to fall to the bar and make a
thud
.

I let the bartender refill my bourbon and Coke before I said, “She’s back in town.”

“Of course she is. You’re off the hook.”

“It’s not like that.”

But Jake was already seething. His nostrils flared with every breath. He stirred a drink that was already thoroughly stirred.

“Her dad’s got brain cancer.”

Jake dropped the stirrer back into his glass and looked at me.

“She asked me to get him into Sloan-Kettering. I called Sinclair, but . . . I’m not exactly a guy people want to do favors for, you know?”

“Oh my gosh!
Luke?
”

Jake and I turned at a voice that was both familiar and alarming. It’s just instinct, but when
oh my gosh
is followed by my name in a tone that can shatter glass, I pretty much know there is trouble to come.

Maria. Dressed as desperate as ever. I was hoping for a polite handshake, but she went in for the big squeeze anyway. A long squeeze. I wasn’t sure where to put my hands. With that kind of top, it all seemed inappropriate. I finally settled on her bare shoulders.

“How are things going?” she asked, her voice high and frenzied, as if life were the same as before. As if I could answer that question simply, like usual.

The awkward silence was filled by Jake. “Fantastic,” he said, jumping in as though trying to save the mood before I could torpedo it. “Luke is officially a free man tonight!”

Oh, boy. Leave it to Jake to drunkenly double entendre the situation. Maria was wide-eyed, but it was hard to tell why.

“From jail, he means.” I tried a definitive smile but ended it with a sheepish sip of my drink.

Jake’s hand shot out from his side. Maria slid hers into his. “I’m Luke’s brother, Jake.”

“Jake, Maria. Maria, my brother, Jake.”

As luck wouldn’t have it, the barstool next to me opened up and Maria pounced on it like it was a free diamond bracelet. I leaned back, figuring the conversation was going to continue with or without me.

“So,” she said, “this is a party night, huh, boys?”

“Without a doubt,” Jake said. “Whatcha drinkin’, Maria?”

“Alamo Splash.”

“Good for you. I like a woman who can hold her tequila.”

“Too bad Candace isn’t here. Jake’s wife. For you to meet.”

But my words might as well have been mixed right into the drinks. They continued to chat as I took my phone out and texted Faith.
Not yet.


I was pretty sure that I should’ve just said “never.” Except that was too painful to even consider.

The next thing I knew, hours had passed and Jake and I were playing some stupid ESP trick on Maria, who was either dumb as a brick or playing along. Or both.

“No way!” she screeched as we pretended that I knew he was thinking of Napoleon Bonaparte. We’d had our fun with it over the years, using taps and snaps and all sorts of other subtle signals. It’d actually become quite a good little art form, appreciated only by those totally wasted out of their minds. “How did you do that?”

“I’m telling you, it’s ESP. Brother-to-brother ESP.”

They roared with laughter, but I felt a tug to leave. “Guys, I gotta go.”

Jake eyed me and set down his drink. “He’s gotta go.
I’m
the one who’s gotta go because I actually have a wife and kids at home.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s a gift,” he said with a mischievous grin and a slap on the arm.

Even with the slight, I still felt the urge to hug him. “Thank you.”

And he knew I meant it. “We’re family. Nothing’s more important.” He turned to Maria. “Maria, it was a pleasure. See you around.”

We watched as he wove his way through the skinny bodies on the dance floor. Outside, I saw him duck into a cab, already back on his phone.

“I wish I was psychic,” Maria said, her finger tracing the edge of her martini glass.

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause I would love to read your mind.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Seriously, I would. I mean, I used to talk with Faith about you all the time. How she could never figure out what you were thinking. I know I never could . . .” She moved her drink aside and fully faced me. “What’s going on? Are you guys talking?”

“No.”

“Is that your idea or hers?”

I ordered another drink.

51

“M
Y DADDY ACTUALLY LIKES
show tunes.” I smiled at him as we walked, my arm through his, along the thinning streets of Midtown. I watched him as he gazed up at the lights. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“You know what? I do.” He pointed down the street. “
But
I still want a pretzel and a beer.” And he picked up the pace. I hadn’t seen Dad walk that fast in a while. He took a wad of cash out of his pocket. “You look like you can help me with the pretzel,” he said to the vendor. “What’s it going to be around here? A hundred bucks?”

“Daddy . . . ,” I said, swatting him. My phone sounded and I prayed it was Luke, except my stomach rolled a little
bit at the thought of actually talking to him. Didn’t matter. “It’s Olivia,” I told Dad.

“Tell her I’m dead
 
—see what she does.”

While Dad purchased his pretzel, I stepped away and answered. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me.”

“Hey.”

“I wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry I doubted you. I know you’re only trying to help him.”

“It’s okay,” I said as I watched Dad put extra salt on his pretzel.

“Daddy sleeping?”

“No . . . just enjoying himself here.”

“It sounds loud.”

“We’re fine. He’s been tired but holding up okay.” He didn’t look tired as he stuffed his face with the pretzel. He looked full of life. And joy. “He wanted to see a show.”

“A show? What kind of show?”

“
West Side Story
.”

“The play?”

“Musical, yes.”

“I think the brain tumor is showing itself in weird ways.”

I laughed. “Maybe.” Dad was chatting it up with a cab driver now.

“I have good news.”

“You do?”

“Sloan-Kettering hospital just called the house. They can see Daddy. At noon tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I know. I just went by the house to feed Silver and check on things and noticed his answering machine light was blinking.”

My head was spinning with hope. How could that man over there be so sick? He looked perfectly fine. But inside, the urgency wouldn’t go away.

“Looks like your Yankee boy came through after all.”

I took in a deep breath and smiled. I knew he would. I knew it. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Please. As soon as you know anything.”

“I will. I promise.”

I walked to Dad, who had already finished his pretzel. “I think I’ll have another one of those.”

“You’re eating like you’re dying,” I said with a smirk.

“Exactly! How about a hot dog?”

“How about we get you some rest before you actually kill yourself with a heart attack.”

“Come on . . . you take me to the big city and I don’t get to have any fun?”

“You’ve had plenty of fun. The hospital called. Left a message. We have an appointment tomorrow.”

Dad looked surprised. “What do you know.”

“I know we need to get back to the hotel room.”

“You’re such a killjoy.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It’s not.”

I smiled and hailed a cab. “I know.”

The short drive back was spent with Dad mostly lamenting that I wouldn’t let him have a hot dog. Funny how you can be dying and can even lose sight of that. But once we got back to the hotel, he’d settled down a bit, and I could tell his strength was draining fast. He tugged at each shoe like it weighed more than his leg, and then he fell back onto the bed as if he’d just spent the day baling hay.

I walked over and adjusted the pillow for him. He folded his hands over his belly like he always did when he took a nap. “Let’s get you ready for bed,” I said, but he waved me off with a mumble, something about not needing pajamas. It broke my heart. He was too tired to change. Maybe the show was too much. “You’ve had a big night. Tomorrow’s even bigger.”

I sat down on the bed and stared at his face, sunken more than usual. Lines crisscrossed his cheeks like the fork marks on a peanut butter cookie. His breathing slowed and I found myself watching each breath, counting out the seconds between them.

Then Dad’s eyes popped open and cut to me. “Stop it. You’re acting like Olivia.”

“Yes, well, Olivia’s done a good job of keeping you alive and well, so maybe I need to be more like her.”

Dad rolled his eyes.

“And since you were only faking being asleep, let’s get another pill down you,” I said as I held it out in my hand. I picked up the glass of water with my other. And punctuated it all with a bright smile.

“Oh, brother,” he groaned. He sat up a little and took the pill, then lay back down. “That was a good thing he did.”

“What?”

“Luke. Kind of thing a man does when he loves somebody.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? One phone call on our behalf and he’s off the hook?”

But Dad only chuckled, then closed his eyes again.

“Not so fast. You can’t say something like that and then fall asleep.”

Dad opened one eye and looked at me.

“So he gets you into a fancy hospital and you want me to run over there and forgive him for lying to me?”

“No. But I do think you should talk to him.”

“And say what, exactly?”

“That’s between you and your husband.”

“I can’t leave you here.”

Dad smiled. “Baby, I may have a brain tumor, but I ain’t gonna die tonight.”

And before I knew it, he was asleep. For real this time.

I went to the closet and found a blanket to cover Dad up with. At least he’d managed to take off his tie.

I knelt by his bed and put my hands on his arm. He didn’t even move. Bowing my head, I cried out a prayer, mostly in my head. I don’t know how long I prayed. I don’t even know when I stopped. But I could not imagine losing this gentle man, not after how he loved me and took me back. He was everything a girl could hope for in a father.

“I know You can save him,” I said, over and over and over, until I believed it. And then, all at once, I found myself praying for Luke.