Looking for Me (35 page)

“Why?”

“Because if this is what happens when we tango, what the hell will happen when we get to the
paso doble
? You’ll kill me.”

MONDAY, APRIL 5, 1993

M
y bedroom drapes swelled in the warm breeze as I stepped out to the piazza. The morning air was saturated with the fragrance of spring, the birds were in full chorus, and my azaleas were popping with deep pink blooms. I breathed deeply, feeling alive and whole and, as my brother would have said,
awake
.

Leaving the French doors open, I dressed for work while making mental notes of the plants I wanted to add to my garden. I knew it would be a fun project for Sam and me to do together. I took my time walking to the shop, stopping to admire an arbor smothered in Confederate jasmine. As I turned the corner and walked down Wentworth, I saw a man hammering a sign into his lawn. I knew I’d be late for work when I read those two magic words:
YARD SALE
.

“Got a lot of stuff here,” the man said. “If you have any questions, just let me know. My name’s Stanley.”

“Thank you.”

I wandered past two card tables piled high with clothing and headed for a row of furniture that sat along a hedge. First in line was a green plaid sofa that was without a doubt the ugliest thing I’d ever seen in my entire life. Next was a pine dinette set followed by a giant console stereo. Beyond a cluster of metal file cabinets sat a small bedside chest. With its French styling and tapered legs, it was almost identical to the one I’d sold to Mr. Palmer over twenty years ago.

The memory of that day made me smile, and despite its poor condition, I decided to buy the old chest. I carried it to the front yard, where Stanley was sitting on the porch steps. “There’s no price tag on this piece,” I said, setting the chest down on the grass. “How much are you asking?”

He thought for a moment. “Thirty-five and it’s yours.”

“Thirty-five and you can keep it.”

Stanley eyed the chest. “I guess I’d take thirty.”

“I’ll pay fifteen.”

He looked from me to the small tin cash box sitting next to him. “Well, I was hopin’ to get more, but . . . all right.”

I gave him the cash, tossed my handbag over my shoulder, and lugged the chest all the way to the shop. When I walked into the workroom and set it down with a huff, Albert stopped what he was doing and furrowed his brow. “Where’d that piece of junk come from?”

“A yard sale. It used to be in a fine home until someone threw it out. Then someone else picked it out of the garbage and didn’t take care of it.”

“Who told you that?”

“The chest did—told me its whole story while I carried it to work.”

Albert screwed up his face. “Well, if the chest told you that story, I guarantee ain’t none of it true.
That
chest,” he said, pointing a screwdriver at the cracked drawer, “is a liar.” And then he launched into the richest laughter I’d ever heard. I started laughing, too, and pretty soon we were both howling.

Albert was still laughing when he loosened a hinge from a cabinet door and shook his head. “Walking in here with a talkin’ chest. Lord, Teddi, the things you come up with.”

I smiled and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. After checking out the front of the shop, I straightened a few paintings and polished a mirror. When I heard the coffeemaker stop gurgling, I walked to the kitchen and poured Albert a cup.

“Here you go,” I said, offering him the mug. “Guess I’d better get busy and—”

Albert took a sip and grimaced.

“What’s wrong?”

“If I drink any more of that, I’ll be seein’ through walls.”

“Well,
some
people like my coffee.”

He grumbled while I went into my office to call a delivery company. I was still on the phone when Inez came in. She hadn’t yet closed the door when Albert called out, “I sure hope you’re gonna make coffee, ’cause the stuff Teddi made could poison the devil!”

A few minutes later, I heard her rinsing the pot in the kitchen.

I had barely unlocked the front door when the bell began to ring and people walked in. By eleven o’clock I’d sold a nineteenth-century rocking horse, a pair of Chinese blue-and-white porcelain vases, and a French vitrine that I’d had for ages. When I brought the sales slips into Inez’s office, she let out a whoop. “You’re selling antiques like your pants are on fire. You keep this up and we’ll
all
be driving red convertibles!”

I gave her a wink and waltzed down the hall and into my office. Though I often thought of him, and always with great fondness, for some reason Mr. Palmer had been on my mind for the past few days. I still missed him and knew I always would.

While I sat at my desk and jotted down a few notes about what I needed to replenish my stock, I leaned back in my chair and whispered, “Mr. Palmer, things here are going just fine. And I hope, wherever you are, things are fine for you, too.”

Just as I stood to pull a catalog from the shelf behind my desk, the phone rang. A moment later Inez called out, “Teddi, for you on line one.”

I picked up the phone.

“Hey, Teddi, it’s Gabe.”

“Hi. I was thinking about you and Sally last night. How’s the construction going on the clinic?”

“Good. It should be up and running by June.”

“I can’t wait to see it, and—”

“Teddi, can you talk—I mean, privately?”

I pushed the door closed and sat at my desk. “Yes, why?”

“Early this morning I was up in the hayloft building a wall and thought I heard something. It’s Sally’s day off, so I figured it was her. When I called out, she didn’t answer. I put down the hammer and listened, but all I heard was the animals rooting around in their cages. About an hour later, I went to check on a mourning dove we’re rehabilitating. When I walked into the bird room, I swear all the hairs on my arms stood straight up. Someone had come into the barn, and whoever it was had put an eagle inside a cage. I kid you not, Teddi. A bald
eagle.
”

“Do you think it was one of the rangers?”

“No. Sally was in the kitchen and would have noticed if anyone had pulled in to the driveway. Just one look and I could see that the bird had a broken wing. I ran and got Sally, and we loaded the bird into a transport cage and drove into town. Doc Waters measured its bill depth and hallux length and confirmed that the eagle is a female. She’s a big girl, too. Her wingspan is eighty-two inches. X-rays showed that her humerus was broken—that’s the equivalent of a human’s forearm.”

“Will she be all right?”

“It’s too soon to tell, but I think so. She’s on pain meds right now, but once she’s stabilized, Sally and Doc will operate.”

The silence that followed was so hollow that I thought we’d been disconnected.

“Gabe?”

“I’m here. Teddi, what I’m going to tell you will sound really strange, but I swear it’s
exactly
what happened. When Sally and I got back from the vet’s, I went into the barn and started looking around. Nothing was out of place. I opened the back door, and there were dirty footprints on the stone step. They weren’t mine, and they weren’t Sally’s. Whoever came into the barn walked around the flight cage and entered through the back door. I looked around and found a few more footprints—one set was a lot bigger than the other. No question about it, they were definitely from two different people. I went back inside the bird room, and that’s when I saw something.”

“What?”

“A plastic container was shoved against the wall on the side of the cage where the eagle had been placed. Either it hadn’t been there when I discovered the eagle or it probably was but I just didn’t notice it. The container was dirty and looked old—it was about nine inches square.”

I pressed my hand over my heart and nearly strangled on my own words when I asked, “What was inside?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t open it because—”

“Can you open it now, while we’re talking?”

“No. The lid was sealed with several layers of duct tape. I mean,
really
sealed. It wasn’t until I turned on the overhead lights that I saw a name written on the tape. Well, not written exactly—it was carved
into
the tape, probably with the tip of a knife. There was no mistaking the name.”

Gabe paused for a moment, then lowered his voice when he said, “It was ‘Teddi.’”

Every vein in my body hummed as I rose from the chair. “I’m coming to get it. I’ll leave right—”

“I just sent it UPS to your shop. You’ll have it tomorrow afternoon. Here’s the tracking number.”

I was so shaken I could hardly write the number on my desk pad. “Gabe,” I said, putting down my pen and feeling dizzy, “do you . . . do you think it’s from Josh?”

“All I know is that something told me to get it to you as fast as possible. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have called you before I drove to town. But I thought—”

“It’s all right, Gabe. Really.” I rubbed my hand across my face. “You did the right thing.”

When we’d said good-bye, I stared at the tracking number, not knowing how in the name of God I’d get through the next twenty-four hours.

Arriving home at six-twenty with a throbbing headache and a tight jaw, I downed three aspirin. Even my shoulders burned with tension. When the phone rang at seven-thirty, I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Hello.”

“Hey, darling. How was your day?”

“My day? Oh, my day was . . . it was fine.”

Clutching the phone close to my ear, I came close to telling Sam what had happened, but I changed my mind. It was difficult to keep my voice steady throughout our conversation, and twice he asked if I was all right. Claiming to be nothing more than “just awfully tired,” I left it at that. After making plans to have dinner together on Wednesday evening, we said good-bye.

Unable to eat or think straight, I curled up in bed with my arms wrapped around Eddie and watched the minutes tick by on the clock. At midnight I got up and cleaned the kitchen floor. At 12:45 I put a load of laundry into the washer and then ironed a stack of blouses. Finally growing tired at 1:40, I slipped back into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep, only to awaken at 4:30.

Memories of my brother flashed through my mind until I thought I might go mad. At five o’clock I got up and went down to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. With my robe wrapped tightly around me, I took my tea and went outside. While Eddie nosed around the flower beds, I paced from one side of the garden to the other. Then I sat on the chaise and rested my head against the pillow. It was damp with dew, but I didn’t care.

As I lay wondering what the day might bring, I watched a lone crow move across the pale morning sky.

TUESDAY, APRIL 6, 1993

T
he shop was filled with customers. Every time the bell above the door rang, my heart leaped. Throughout the day I paced, watching the front window for the UPS truck to pull to the curb.

At 3:40 a woman came in. She was a tourist from Mississippi who launched into a litany of questions about antiques. I tried to give her my full attention, but when the hands of my wristwatch moved to 3:55, I began inching toward the door with the hopes that she’d leave. At 4:05 she was still talking.

I wanted to set my hair on fire.

Finally she left, and I stood at the window and waited, so nervous that I could hardly keep my knees from buckling. When the hands of my watch moved to 4:40 and I thought I’d collapse from stress, the UPS truck roared to a stop at the curb. I charged out to the sidewalk, nearly mowing down a young couple walking their dog.

Tim, who’d driven this route for years, hopped off the truck and laughed when I all but ripped the package from his hands. “Must be important, huh, Teddi? Here, you’ve got to sign for it,” he said, giving me a pen.

I scribbled my name and clutched the package to my chest as I watched the truck pull away.

Though closing time was six o’clock, I grabbed my handbag and asked Inez to lock up. My nerves were so taught when I left the shop that my ears grew warm. I walked at a brisk pace, dodging a group of Citadel cadets and blasting by two elderly women strolling arm in arm. When I was halfway down Archdale Street, I slowed. Maybe I was savoring the last few moments of wonder, or perhaps I was simply exhausted by the long hours of anticipation. Whatever it was, I turned onto Queen Street and entered my home enveloped in an eerie kind of calm.

I set the box on the kitchen counter, gave Eddie a hug, and let him outside. From the window I watched him run around the backyard. Every few seconds I’d look over my shoulder at the package sitting on the counter, aching to open it, yet terrified to see what was inside.

After I’d given Eddie his dinner, I stood at the counter and lightly touched the box.

The time had come.

Opening a drawer, I removed a razor-sharp paring knife. My left hand gripped the handrail as I slowly climbed the stairs with the box and knife held against my breast. I walked into my office and set everything on the desk. For several minutes I could do nothing but sit and stare at the box. Lifting my hand, I smoothed my fingers along its top and then grasped the tab. I gave it a firm pull and watched the perforated edges release. Opening the flap, I angled the box and gave it a gentle shake. A newspaper-wrapped bundle slid into my hand.

I peeled back the paper and dropped each sheet on the floor. And finally there it was, just as Gabe had described. The container was old, misshapen, and dirty. I could even see fingerprints smudged along its side. Though I couldn’t be certain, I thought it was one of the containers I’d left for my brother over a dozen years ago. The lid was sealed with layer upon layer of gray duct tape.

I could barely swallow when I held the container to the lamplight and saw my name etched into the tape. I would have recognized the printing anywhere—all capital letters, the slightly angled
T,
the two
D
’s leaning against each other.

Closing my eyes, I whispered
, “
Oh, dear Lord.
”

Picking up the knife, I pierced through the tape on the underside of the lid. I held my breath and began slicing the tape from the edge. When I felt the blade hit plastic, I set down the knife and worked my fingers along the rounded lip. A faint
pop
sounded when the lid released.

I sat frozen.

This was it.

Slowly, I lifted the lid.

There was no letter, but the items inside revealed more than a poet’s most thoughtful prose. I removed the first item—the old brass amusement-park token I’d given Josh just two days before he disappeared. I held it to my cheek and closed my eyes for a moment, fighting against tears. Next was a rusty striped feather from a red-tailed hawk.

Wrapped in a scrap of paper was a small river stone that resembled the shape of a heart. Worn smooth and cleansed by years of rushing water, it was a milky, off-white color with a wide pink vein running through its middle. I envisioned my brother smiling as he knelt and plucked it from the Red River.

Next I removed a piece of folded fabric, plaid flannel and so old it was tissue thin. I unfolded the fabric to see two pieces of cardboard. All four sides had been taped closed. With the paring knife, I carefully sliced through three sides of the tape and opened the cardboard like the covers of a book. Inside was the lone wing of a luna moth. It was such a gorgeous shade of green that it took my breath away. Perfectly pressed and preserved, it was as if the moth had offered its wing to my brother as a gift. I swallowed hard and remembered Josh’s words:
Don’t be sad. Maybe one day to a luna is like ten years to us . . .

At the bottom of the container were two more items. I was so stunned by one of them that I surely must have stared at it for a full minute before picking it up. It was a slender braid of hair, about a quarter inch in diameter and at least six inches long. It was not my brother’s coarse, curly hair. The hair in my hand was soft and fine and of a light, reddish brown color. I smoothed my fingers over the braid, my mind spinning.

I set the braid on my desk and picked up the last item, shiny and black and perfect. Lifting it by its quill, I held it to the light.

When did it happen? Had the moon and planets conferred with the stars on the day my brother arrived upon this earth? Or had an otherworldly light rewired him as he claimed?

From the corner of my desk, I picked up a framed picture of Josh when he was eight, perhaps nine years old. He was sitting on the back of the hay wagon, the left knee of his jeans sporting an iron-on patch, the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows. Lord, what a beautiful child, a child whose eyes shone bright with passion for the wonders of nature, a child who trod so lightly and caused no harm to any living thing.

When had his passion ignited into his greatest fury? Not even with the clarity of hindsight could I trace my brother’s trajectory from woodland boy to warrior.

I ran my fingertip along the feather’s edge and knew, in that secret knowing place, that it had come from a raven. Holding my brother’s photograph, I looked into his eyes. “Your spirit crossed over long before you left us, and now you’re fully awake to a world that few will ever see. Is that a fair assessment? The raven delivers divine law, and you are the raven?”

Once again, I picked up the braid. And as it lay in my palm, I whispered to my brother’s photograph, “My God, you’re not alone. This hair is from a woman, isn’t it?”

As I touched each item on my desk, I was overcome.

There was no stopping the tears. I didn’t even try.

When the last of the evening light faded from the window, I returned everything into the container and closed the lid. Walking into my bedroom, I opened the door to the piazza and stepped out. The long shadows of dusk stretched across the floorboards as I lowered myself into the wicker rocking chair. With the container resting on my lap and Eddie curled up at my feet, I slowly rocked and watched the sky deepen.

We are the authors of our lives, and, through choice or circumstance, some of us leave our stories unfinished or untold. Though it’s taken me a long while to get here, I’ve come to accept that life, like the vast woodlands that surround my childhood home, is layered with mysteries.

And what of mysteries?

We sift and search and question as we try to discover our truths and the truths of those we love, and sometimes when we least expect it, a mystery we never knew existed gets solved while all else remains unanswered.

I didn’t know if, on that Thanksgiving night so long ago, my brother simply snapped or if the events of that day did nothing more than catapult him toward a destiny he had already seen charted in the constellations of his private sky.

All I knew was this: Somewhere deep within Red River Gorge, where ancient petroglyphs decorate the walls of hidden caves and treacherous terrain is guarded by a sentry of rocky cliffs, there lives a boy who believes. Exactly what he believes is unknown to me, but I suspect it’s a truth more powerful than I’m capable of understanding.

I rested my hands on the container, moving my fingertips over my name carved into the tape. Through all the years of worry and waiting, I’d been right after all. My brother was alive. And he had, in his own special way, let me know that he was not alone. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and wondered why he’d waited so long to send me a message. But then I couldn’t help but smile—because, of course, that would be just like him.

I suspected he was pleased to see the farm transformed into a wildlife rescue and rehabilitation center, though since he was such a private, singular soul, I don’t know how he felt about his name being on the sign. But the more I pondered that question, the more I supposed he probably thought it was just fine.

While watching the moon roll over the treetops, full and luminous and tinted with blue, I thought about heaven and hell and all that resides in between. So clearly I remembered the words my brother had spoken on that snowy winter’s night when he was just a boy:
I don’t much care where I go when I die, as long as it’s where the animals are.

Though no doubt some might disagree, I believed examination of my brother’s heart would gain him swift admittance into heaven.

As the moon lifted higher, I pushed myself up from the chair and went back inside the house. Gathering what I needed, I slipped into a long coat. Eddie sat at the front door and whimpered, but I gave him a pat and told him no, that he couldn’t go. Not this time.

Locking the door behind me, I dropped my keys into my pocket, turned, and walked into the darkness.

I could smell it before I saw it, that unmistakable aroma of the harbor, fresh yet tinged with decay. Looking in every direction to make certain I was alone, I gathered the hem of my coat and climbed over the guardrail.

Down the rocky embankment I went, my footing as steady as the beating of my heart. When I got as close to the water as I could, water that moved swiftly and gleamed with a silvery skin from the moon, I stood in the quiet embrace of night. A light breeze moved through my hair as I listened to the gentle lapping of the tide against the rocks.

Slowly, I unbuttoned my coat. From a length of string tied around my chest, my brother’s arrow dangled like a pendulum. Pulling it free, I smoothed my fingers over the tip, along the shaft, and across the fletching. I could barely hear my own voice when I said, “For years and years, I looked for you, Josh. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me find you. Now it’s your turn. I’ll be right here. Maybe, someday, you’ll come looking for me.”

With my right hand, I grasped the arrowhead and raised my arm. I hesitated for a moment and then swung back with all my might. Casting my arm forward, I opened my fingers and let go. The arrow set sail into the moonlight and then seemed to hover in midair. Just as it plunged into the water, I looked into the sky and whispered, “Menewa.”