Home Another Way (33 page)

This was how lives were made, a string of people and happenings and emotions—scattered across a staff; written sometimes in a bright major key, other times in a somber minor mode. I realized now, as I sat there rocking back on each inhale, forward on each exhale, toes light upon the creaky floor, that these weren’t variations on a life I should have had—they were my chaconne, the pinnacle of my repertoire, working together to bring me here, to this place. For good, or for bad.

I glanced at Zuriel. “Are you some sort of closet classical music buff?”

“Oh, my. No.” The old woman laughed. “I heard it once, in a movie.
The Beast with Five Fingers
. It was the first moving picture I’d ever seen, and my first time in a theater, too. That was . . . 1946. Yes, that’s right. It was my fortieth birthday, and I remember I wanted to see a romance,
Never Say Goodbye
, with Errol Flynn. My husband convinced me to see the scary one. I think he simply wanted me to cuddle up close to him in the dark.”

“And someone played the Bach chaconne in the horror flick?” I said it correctly,
shaw-kon
.

“Not someone. Something. A dismembered hand.”

“A left hand? On the piano?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“The chaconne is the last of five movements Bach originally wrote for solo violin. But Johannes Brahms transcribed it for piano—” I stopped. “Sorry. You don’t care about any of that.”

“My dear,” Zuriel said, and she reached across the arm’s length between the rocking chairs, her hand finding my forearm, squeezing it, my waterproof jacket rustling beneath her touch. “I care about anything that makes your voice smile, like it is right now.”

I stayed another hour, reading to Zuriel from her Bible.

She embraced me before I left, tight enough that I feared her shivery bones might crumble and she’d sink to the floor in a puddle of floppy skin. But she survived the hug.

So did I.

Back at the cabin I picked up the scattered books, shelving them first in alphabetical order, then organizing them by color and size, and then reshelving them in alphabetical order again. I had no desire to lie down yet. It wasn’t sleep I wanted to avoid, but those long minutes before it came. The previous nights at the inn had been difficult; Beth told me I’d been washed whiter than snow, but I felt cruddier than before, like smokers’ lungs, encrusted in tar and cancerous muck. Shame filled me as I remembered my past, but also loss; would the rest of my life now need to revolve around Bible studies, church socials, and prayer meetings? God stuff. It all sounded so boring. Mundane. And, while it seemed to satisfy Beth and Maggie, and the rest of churchgoers around Jonah, they knew no other life. I wondered how I could find complete delight in something I was unable to see or hear or touch.

In the kitchen, I opened both cans of Campbell’s and, too lazy to heat the saucy Os, dumped them into a Tupperware and ate them cold while I watched television. I finished three-quarters of the pasta and threw the rest in the plastic trash bag by the front door—along with the spoon and bowl. I showered, feasted on my remaining chocolate bars, and fell asleep long after the late-night talk shows turned to infomercials for painless facial hair removers and abdominal exercise machines.

I didn’t drag myself from the couch until midafternoon, though I dozed on and off until then, chasing the rabbit trails of discordant dreams and memories. Showering again, I sat on the floor of the stall, forehead against my knees as the water drummed the top of my scalp. I dressed in the same clothes I’d worn yesterday; I’d probably wear them again tomorrow.

Only one more night.

It felt odd, disconcerting, to be eating in silence at the Watsons’ table. My impending absence clamping down upon us like a bell jar, sucking away our conversation. At first, Beth tried to fill the void, telling us about her plans for the nursery; she’d already painted the walls a soft blue, and sketched out the beginnings of the mural—a large, twisting oak tree with wise, old branches and a swing hanging from it. But she eventually gave up, the airlessness no match for her forced enthusiasm.

We chewed more politely than usual, without our words to disguise the smacking and chomping. I ate three helpings of mashed potatoes and little else. Maggie had spoiled me with her delicious spuds, to which she added an entire stick of butter, a pint of heavy cream, and a whole bulb of roasted garlic. She also made dessert. Chocolate cake. Memory’s cake. Except Maggie’s version looked beautiful; she had trimmed the edges and sifted the confectioner’s sugar through a paper doily, using it as a stencil, leaving a sweet, lacy design on top. Memory simply spooned on the white powder without waiting for the cake to cool, so it melted in clumpy globs.

Beth set a wedge of cake in front of me, and I scraped my fork over it, shredding it, crumbs falling onto the macramé place mat.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Maggie said. “I thought—”

“I’m just full,” I said.

Maggie took my plate, and she and Beth cleared the table. Dominic kissed his wife on the forehead and excused himself. I sat, staring at the fingerprints on my water glass.

“I should go,” I said.

“Do you need help packing?” Beth asked quickly. “Just let me rinse these last few dishes.”

“I’m packed.”

The finality of my words rattled in my ears, and I watched Beth’s narrow shoulders jounce with each stroke of her sponge. She ran the plate under a stream of blistering water—I saw the steam rising from the sink—and stuck it in the rack, wrenching off the faucet and twisting the towel around her dripping hands. Still, she stood with her back toward me, shoulders continuing to tremble. “Stay,” she said.

“I don’t want to dirty the sheets for one night.”

“No,” Beth said, turning now, tears on her face. “Stay here. In Jonah.”

“Beth—”

“What do you have to go back to?”

Nothing.

Maggie wrapped her arms around her daughter, and I stared out the window. All I’d ever wanted, it was here, in this town. People who loved me, people who wanted to love me.

I had found my family. My home.

But it was too much, too soon. Like a child wishing for sweets—marshmallows and donuts, gumdrops and milk shakes—and having them all piled in front of me, only to find myself with a monstrous stomachache after glutting on my heart’s desire. I’d never been good at moderation, and I had no idea how to behave as a daughter, a sister, a friend. I was afraid the longer I was in Jonah, the sooner I’d give everyone enough reasons to stop caring about me.

I needed proof, as well. Beth had called me a new creation, and spent hours explaining what that meant, lobbing around words like
forgiveness
,
condemnation
,
salvation
, and I, dizzied with these new concepts, didn’t know what I believed. If I stayed, I would never know if this faith truly belonged to me, or if those changes in me—the ones Beth said she saw so clearly, but I didn’t see at all—were because of Maggie’s prodding or Beth’s lily-white influence, or my desire to please Jack.

“I can’t,” I said. “I have some things I have to do, alone.”

They expected my answer, I think. Neither argued, nor pleaded. Maggie hugged me, and then went to her bedroom; I thought I heard her crying. Beth gave me a bundle of pastel index cards tied with a white grosgrain ribbon. “Verses,” she said. “Color coded by topics I thought you might . . . need.”

I flipped through them.
Trust
.
Temptation
.
Discouragement
.
Hope
. “Thanks.”

“Tell me I’ll see you again.”

“You will.”

“When the baby’s born?”

“In the middle of December? I won’t be able to get here. You know that.”

“Then in the spring.”

“If I can. Who knows where I’ll be a year from now.”

“Sarah, this isn’t just about you. It’s about me, too.” Beth crossed her arms over her stomach, each hand on the opposite hip. “Yes, I’m being selfish, but I don’t think you understand how much . . . you’ve done for me.”

It felt bizarre, being needed. But nice, too. Kind of bubbly. I reached up and tugged Beth’s ponytail, like I’d seen Jack do many times before. “You’ll see me again,” I said. “I promise.”

She rubbed her fingers beneath her teary eyes and nodded.

“I’m going to go now,” I said. “Take care of that baby.”

Beth went to her bedroom. I drove back to the cabin and packed the truck. Then, still dressed, I sprawled across my father’s bed and went to sleep.

chapter FORTY-EIGHT

I heard scuffling and woofing after I knocked on Doc’s door, and several
Shhh, get down
s from within the house. Finally, the latch turned with a
clink
and the door opened. Doc, bent over in his robe and slippers, no glasses, squinted into the white morning air and held Nola’s collar so she wouldn’t dart away.

“What are you doing here at this ungodly hour?” he asked.

“It’s not ungodly if the sun’s up,” I said. “What’s she doing here?”

“The shelter called a couple days ago—said her time was up, and if I didn’t want her to be put down, I needed to come get her.” He stretched across the dog to the coatrack and grabbed her leash, hooking it onto her collar and standing up. “I figured it was a bit lonely around this place.”

“She doesn’t like to be alone, either.”

Doc lifted his foot toward me. The toe had been chewed out of his suede moccasin. “I know. I have two other pairs of shoes that look the same. And three pillows.” He didn’t seem annoyed by the damage, but giddy almost, like a proud papa announcing his daughter had made the dean’s list. “You’re leaving now.”

“Soon. Rich Portabella’s shop opens at eight.”

“You still have my card?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Keep it. And if you ever need anything, you get ahold of me. Anything.”

“I will.”

“Promise. Even if it means I have to bail you out of jail in the middle of the night.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I’m just saying there’s nothing you can do that will surprise me. Remember, I changed your diapers.”

Doc and I, our lives were inextricably linked, grafted into each other. In many ways, he’d been my father the first year of my life, holding me over his head and wiggling me until I laughed, feeding me and, yes, changing dirty diapers. Perhaps he sang to me as he rocked me to sleep—hard to imagine now, but not impossible.

We stood there, silent—him just inside the door, me just outside it—wondering in the awkwardness if we should reach across the threshold and hug each other, or maybe shake hands. That was the intimacy we shared, our feet, our lives, so close we felt as if a sinister gaping chasm separated us. We were the same, both north poles of two magnets, drawn together by our pasts, only to be shoved apart by our sameness. One of us would have to flip if we ever would, truly, come to know each other.

That seemed a lot to ask.

In the end, I patted Nola on the head and gave Doc a befuddled half smile, shrugged and said, “Well, see you.” He nodded and reminded me once more to call him if I needed something, before shutting the door.

I drove to see Rich the Mushroom. He waited for me, paperwork on the glass counter, little sticky arrows pointing at all the places I needed to sign. I took time to be clear and neat, matching my signature to the one on my driver’s license so there would be no question I was me. I made arrangements to transfer the deed to my father’s cabin into Jack’s name, thinking he may be sick of sleeping on a sofa every night. I know I was.

Rich stuffed all the papers into a manila envelope, handed it to me, his fingers coated with powdered sugar from the donuts on the plate beside the stuffed raccoon.

“You’re free to go,” he said. “How’s it feel?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

“I have to say it—I’m surprised you made it this long.”

“Me, too.”

“So, what’s the first thing you’re gonna get with that money of yours?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “I haven’t thought about it.” As soon as I made it back to the city, I planned to head over to the pawnshop on Delancy Street to see if my old violin was still there. I wouldn’t mind having two.

“Well, you come back and visit us,” Rich said, pumping my hand and then licking his sugary fingers.

I wiped the powder on my jeans, pushed open the door. “We’ll see.”