My Very Best Friend (54 page)

“Even today, Charlotte, I don’t think I forgive them. I could forgive them as an adult, perhaps, but I can’t forgive what they did to me as a teenager. What they did to the young Bridget. . . .”

We talked until the sun went down behind us.

When it was dark, Bridget said, “I need raspberry pie.”

“Me too. With ice cream and whipping cream, both.”

We went and bought a whole pie and ate it straight out of the tin with two forks.

Toran asked me if Bridget and I had had a good time. I said yes.

“Do you think your parents killed Angus Cruickshank?”

“I don’t. I’ve thought about it endlessly, all sides.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think my father would have had it in him to kill a priest. He still would have been scared of going to hell eternally.”

“What about your mother?”

“No. She didn’t have a violent bone in her. She was weak, too. Beaten down by my father.”

I didn’t know if Toran was right. When women believe their children are at risk, they turn into people they themselves don’t even recognize. Bridget’s mother had not protected her from a religious fanatic father, but against a man who had attacked her daughter?

She might even surprise herself.

And the timing was right. Shortly after Father Cruickshank disappears, Toran’s parents’ car goes over the cliff. On a straightaway. Were they trying to avoid prosecution?

“For the record, Char, I didn’t kill him.”

“I believe you.” I did.

“There are probably many other people, people not even from St. Ambrose, who would want him dead. We may never know.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

I was sure the murderer was living among us. I don’t know why I was sure, but I was.

What I wanted was proof he was dead. If I ever found out who killed him, I would never turn the murderer in, but I wanted to know Father Cruickshank was not out there, preying on other Bridgets and causing cataclysmic results.

“I do think my father drove the car over the cliff on purpose. Bridget was right. He’d lost everything. He was wrong about Father Cruickshank. He’d been devoted to the Church, and the Church had betrayed him. In turn, he had betrayed his daughter, not protected her, was friends with the man who raped her, worshiped him, then locked her up on that man’s advice. My mother wanted a divorce. My father could not accept that. His entire life, filled with rigidity, misplaced devotion, and his insistence that he was right and righteous, crumbled.”

“I’m sorry, Toran.” Toran and Bridget, both, had been through so much. I wrapped my arms around him, then my legs. Later I brought him a slice of raspberry pie and hugged him when he went to sleep. Sometimes that’s all you can do for someone. Hugs and pie.

The next afternoon I sat in the middle of my lawn in my mother’s garden and read the rest of Bridget’s letters that she’d written to me and had never sent. The Diary Letters. They were sporadic. Months would go by sometimes, a year, eighteen months, then another one. It was her downslide into hell. Drugs. Alcohol. Scary situations. A few bad men. Lost. Depressed. In and out of rehab. Clarity and health, coherency, which is probably when she wrote the letters she actually sent me. Gardening. She’d read my book, thanks for mailing it! Then the slide back down again. Waitressing jobs. Fired from jobs. Poverty. Toran and Pherson, trying to help, coming to get her. Slide again. And always, Legend. Where is Legend? Is she happy and safe? My Legend.

Heart shattering, that’s what it was.

“I want you to give these garden designs to Lorna Lester.” Bridget held two sheets of paper out to me. She was leaning against her pink pillows, her bedside light casting a soft shadow on her face. Outside it was stormy, the wind whipping around, the rain falling, the skies gray and low. Silver Cat meowed.

“Now I know you’ve lost your mind. You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, Char. Give them to her, please. Lorna doesn’t have a pretty garden, and I know if she had one, if she had a place that was peaceful, she wouldn’t be so . . .”

“You can’t even say it, can you, Bridget? You can’t bring yourself to say anything bad against anyone, you weird saint.”

She laughed, her skinny chest shaking. “Weird saint. Ah, Charlotte. Trust me. I have not been a saint, weird or otherwise.” She pushed a lock of white-blond hair back. It was lanky now, though I washed it every other day.

“Lorna tried to ban you from the village. She spoke against you in the town meeting. She told everyone that you were contagious.”

“And that, Charlotte, true friend, is why she needs the drawings. Please.” She held them out to me.

“No.” I remembered Lorna’s shrill voice. Her puffy, quivering body leaning forward and yelling,
“Bridget Ramsay should be quarantined. Quarantined! She should never, ever be allowed in St. Ambrose again! She has chosen her own death. She has indulged in sinful behavior, a common harlot, and now she’s being punished, rightly so. AIDS is a curse upon this earth, sent to people who are not walking on God’s road.”

Bridget laughed, a light laugh, a dancing-along-the-edge-of-death laugh. “Please again?”

“No. You can’t make me, either.” I knew she could.

“And I want you to bring her one of the winter pansies in the clay pots.”

“Hell. No. Hell twice again. No.” I crossed my arms.

She laughed.

“I don’t get it, Bridget. I don’t. She is a snake. And not a garter snake that eats the slugs that eat the plants. But a python-type snake.”

She hissed at me, weakly. I hissed back.

“Lorna needs it.”

“Why? Why on earth?”

“Because it’ll help to break up her fear.”

“Break up her fear?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you want to do that?”

“Because as long as she’s scared, it comes out as hate. She has a sad life, Charlotte. Daughter left. Husband ignores her. Her sister is Laddy. I’ve had fear and hate in my life, and I know how it turns out. I also didn’t forgive in the past, with my parents, but I want to now. Please.” She held the papers out. “Help me to show Lorna I forgive her.”

I glared at her. “You are a pain in the ass.”

She chuckled. “And you are wonderful.”

Silver Cat meowed, as if in agreement.

I went to Lorna Lester’s house. I
stomped
to Lorna Lester’s house with the dumb winter pansy in the clay pot. Before I left I put on my new leather boots, new black pants, and a thick red sweater and scarf. I had learned that clothing can be armor, and when you had to do something you didn’t want to do, an outfit could help you through it. I also put on gold hoop earrings and lipstick.

Lorna’s home is plain. Dull. Mauve on the inside. She had a garden, but it was precise to the point of boredom. As it was now fall, almost officially winter, it was dead.

I knocked on the door, loud and hard, fully expecting her to send me away, probably with a venomous, slitty-eyed expression. I bet Malvina was a lot happier not living here anymore.

The door opened. I blinked, twice, sucked in a breath. What a change.

Lorna seemed smaller than before. She was in a dull black dress. Her slitty eyes were sagging with tiredness. Her face sagged. She sagged.

“What do you want, Charlotte?”

“Hello, Lorna. Bridget sent me.”

“Bridget?”

“Yes, Bridget. The one you want to keep locked out of St. Ambrose. The one you railed against in front of the entire town and called a common harlot. Old-fashioned word, but we all understood what you meant.”

Her chin trembled, her voice weak. “She might be contagious.”

“Not unless you have sex with her, Lorna, and I don’t think Bridget will do that with you. You’re not her type.”

Her face hardened, mouth twisting. She tried to shut the door. I stuck my new leather boot in. “I don’t know why Bridget did this, Lorna. She’s a better person than I am, I would never have done it, but she wanted you to have this.” I held up the garden designs in my hands. Two pages, for the front and back of Lorna’s home, filled with color and texture, a piece of art. I would have framed them, as I framed the garden plans she had made Toran and me.

“What is that?”

“It’s a garden plan.” Bridget had drawn intricate trees and piles of flowers; a rock pathway to the door; a picket fence; a fountain in the shape of a girl reading a book, as Malvina loved to read, surrounded by cobblestones; a circular patio; the Scottish flag on a flagpole, as Lorna was proud to be a Scot. There was a solitary red chair with a footstool in a corner. On the footstool was a pile of books, as Lorna had told her she also loved reading. There was a yellow wood table for planting flowers in pots.

“A what?” Lorna’s voice had lost that ragged edge.

“A garden plan. She’s drawn pictures of your garden, front and back, that you can follow to make your garden better.”

I held them out. Lorna’s hands shook as she took them.

She studied the drawings, the tiny details, the birds’ wings, every feather outlined, butterflies flitting over a delicate rose, craggy white birch tree bark, a canopy of leaves in a multitude of colors. Her face crumbled, tears forming and spilling over. “Why? Why did she do that for me?”

“Because, Lorna,” I said, aching for Bridget, “she wanted to give you something pretty.
Pretty
is actually her word. She thought if you knew what to do with your garden, you would be happier.”

“I am happy.”

“Right. You’re happy and I’m bacteria wearing a bridal gown.”

Her shoulders bent forward, her head dipped, her body shook. She cried.

I had not expected that.

I waited and watched. I had hated this woman. Hated what she’d said at the meeting, hated that she’d tried to rally people in town around her to hurt Bridget. Hated her judgmental attitude.

My hate seemed to sink out of me as Lorna became a different Lorna. She was pathetic. She was alone. She had a pathetic, alone life.

“Lorna,” I said. “May I make you a cup of tea?”

“Everyone in the village hates Laddy and me. Malvina won’t speak to me. My husband says I’ve embarrassed him and if I don’t apologize to Bridget, he will move out.” Lorna’s hands shook so badly around her teacup, she could hardly hold it. “What I did to Bridget was unforgivable. I will never forgive myself.”

“Bridget forgives you.”

That undid her. She laid her head on the table, shoulders shaking, her hand over the garden designs, as if she was afraid I might snatch it back. I patted her back. I felt sorry for her. She had nothing. I would be unhappy, too.

“I do not deserve forgiveness.”

“She gave it to you, anyhow.”

I ended up giving her two shots of whiskey. It was the only thing I could think of to get her calmed down as she started to hyperventilate.

When she finally could take a breath, and did not need me to hold a paper bag over her face, I broached one more topic. “Lorna, there is one more person who you’ve hurt.”

She gripped the paper bag. “I know. You. Olive. Malvina. Rowena. Kenna.”

“One more.”

She put the bag to her face again, tears drowning her eyes.

“Gitanjali,” I said.

She nodded, then pulled the bag away. “I know,” she gasped. “I know. And she has been nothing . . . nothing . . . but dear to me. I am a bad woman.”

“Not bad. Sort of bad.”

“Will she forgive me? Gitanjali? I will ask her to forgive me. Too late to make it up to Bridget, not too late for Gitanjali, my friend.”

“You know she will.”

I prefer “So long” to good-bye.

So long and good luck.

So long and good travels.

So long and good wishes.

So long, my dearest, truest friend.

I love you.

There is some pain in life that is so crushing, it is a wonder we live through it.

Bridget spent most of her time in bed, Silver Cat nestled into her side.

She cried now and then, but mostly she showed ironclad courage and strength. She drew and she read, Pherson, Toran, and I on the bed with her. Clan TorBridgePherLotte to the end.

I heard the train on the tracks. The tracks were rumbling. The whistle was piercing.

“You are my very best friend, Charlotte,” Bridget said, holding my hand.

“You’re my very best friend, too, Bridget.” She was pale, weak, hollowing out, life leaving one breath, one word at a time. We faced each other in her bed, our heads on one pillow, the cool Scottish winter wind blowing through, a dash of salt, a hint of mint tea.

Toran, Pherson, and I had had dinner with Bridget on her bed that night. She didn’t eat; we did, but not much. Clan TorBridgePherLotte put on the crowns and capes, held the swords, wore the gold belts. We put our hands in a circle and yelled, “Fight with might, be strong, my friends.”

We talked about our childhood, the games we played, the fort we built, and the battles we won against evil. We sang songs, including Scottish drinking songs. We drank Scottish Scotch.

Pherson left to go home to sleep for a few hours, Toran went to sleep in our bedroom, and I lay with Bridget, the moonlight a ray of white, like a staircase up to the heavens.

“The angel delivered the note, and I’m taking the white unicorn on out of here, Char, the one your father told us about with the gold reins. Riding it to the heavens. My room is ready up there, and the unicorn is here. Waiting for me.”

I didn’t know what to say. Then I decided I didn’t need to say anything.

“I’ll miss the ocean,” Bridget said. “I’ll miss the Scottish games. I’ll miss Molly Cockles Scottish Dancing Pub.”

I thought of the pub. The owner had announced that if there were any “idiots” who spoke out against Bridget, they could “damn well go drown themselves somewhere else, no spirits for them.”

“I’ll miss the garden club ladies.”

I thought of Lorna. How she’d treated Bridget at first, how she treated her at the end. Last night, Lorna had brought over a smoked fish pie with haddock, cheddar cheese soup, oxtail soup, homemade hot bread, broken biscuit cake, and almond bark with sea salt. And wine. Three bottles, though she didn’t let the “devil’s punch” in her house. She was distraught. She thanked Bridget for the garden plans, and I have never in my life heard such a profuse, sincere apology.