Restless in Carolina (29 page)

“Me?” He snorts, the sound of his congestion confirming my suspicion. My seemingly self-centered father is worried for his wife. That makes me feel good. “Don’t be reading anything into this cold.” He pulls
a handkerchief from his jacket and dabs at his nose. “That time of year, you know.”

In that moment, he’s nearly huggable.

“You taking good care of my car?”

“Yes sir.”

“Not puttin’ any dings in the doors or letting Birdie and Miles eat in it?”

“No sir.”

“Good. Of course, you are putting needless miles on her drivin’ all the way in from Pickwick.”

Needless?
“Actually, I drove in with J.C.”

His jaw drops. “
Him
again?”

“He was coming anyway, so I hitched a ride.”

Daddy presses his lips so hard they whiten.

“Bridget?” my mother says softly. “You’re here.” She reaches to me, and I hurry forward to clasp her hand.

“I would have come sooner, but—”

“I know. Are Birdie and Miles doin’ all right?”

I nod. “They miss you. How about you, Mama? How are you doing?”

“I’m bored. And tired of all these tests. You know what I think? I’m just old.”

I shake my head. “You’re fifty-five. That’s not old.”

“I feel it.”

With a grunt, Daddy stands. “I’ll let you two visit. I need coffee.”

When we’re alone, Mama says, “Was your daddy cryin’?”

I refuse to cover for him, especially since it will do her good to know he’s worried. “He won’t admit it, but he was definitely crying.”

Smiling lightly, she nods at the chair. “Come sit by me.”

I settle in, and her gaze roves my face, and a frown collects between her eyebrows. “Oh my, you’ve been kissed.”

I jerk. “What?”

“Don’t
what
me. I always knew when you went at it with some boy, especially when you were a teenager and your lips were unaccustomed to all that smoochin’.”

Heat stings my cheeks. “Mama!”

“Just look at them—all swollen up.” She shakes her head. “You’ve been out of practice too long. Was he a good kisser, that J.C.?”

Then she heard me tell Daddy I drove in with him, meaning my lips probably aren’t all that swollen. She was looking for it, is all. Though I don’t care to talk about what happened between J.C. and me, her face is bright against the backdrop of a hospital bed. And I want it to stay that way.

“He’s a very good kisser, but best we not say anything to Daddy, hmm?”

“I understand.”

“So when will they let you come home?”

“Maybe tomorrow. Depends on the results of the colonoscopy they did awhile ago.”

I stiffen. “Why are they checkin’ your intestines?”

“They’re kind of hush-mouthed, but I heard your daddy in the hall with the doctor. He said they’re lookin’ for signs of something called … celiac?”

What is that?

“And colon cancer.”

That
takes my breath away. No wonder Daddy was crying.

“It’s just a test.” She pats my hand. “No need to get all het up about it.”

I nod. “What can I do for you?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Bridget darlin’, the one thing I’d ask of you, I don’t think you’d give me.”

I frown. “Of course I can—anything.”

“Even prayer?”

I blink.

“I know that’s what Easton asked of you, and for all that, God didn’t answer the way you wanted Him to. And His answer may be the same for me, but still I take comfort in knowing our prayers are heard and touch the heart of God.”

So give her some comfort. You did it for Uncle Obe the day the statue was dedicated. And you’ve started adding prayers to your attempts to speak into existence. Same thing, just open your mouth
. “Of course I’ll pray for you.”

Mama beams so bright it’s hard to believe she’s in the hospital. “Thank you.”

“Okay … so …” I close my eyes, bow my head and, after two false starts, say, “Dear Lord, thank You for hearing the prayers of one who has had a hard time believin’ in You these past years. You know why. I’m trying to get back to You, and it’s slow, but if You’ll just heal Mama, I’ll—”

“Bridget.”

I look up.

She shakes her head. “This isn’t about testing God … putting conditions on your faith. It’s about comfort. That’s all I ask.”

I draw a deep breath, close my eyes. “In Jesus’ name, I ask You to give Mama comfort, and if it’s in Your will, go all the way and heal her of whatever is workin’ against her body, especially if it’s cancer. Though I have a hard time understanding how Your will to heal can be different from ours—”

My cell phone vibrates, then rings. J.C.? Surely he can’t be finished with his meeting. Probably hasn’t even started it.

“—I’ll try to trust that Your plan is without error as Easton promised me. Be with my mama and daddy, give them comfort and strength. And I’d like some too.”

“Yes,” Mama whispers. “And ask Him to help your daddy with his patience. He’s been hard on the nurses.”

I’ll bet. “And please help Daddy to be patient with Mama’s caregivers. Amen.”

“Amen.” She opens her eyes. “That means more to me than I can say.”

“I’m glad I could do it.” I am. “Excuse me, but I need to check to see if that was J.C. He’s my ride home.”

“Certainly.”

The call is from Caleb, and his message points straight to Daddy, who surely called him the minute he left the room. He wants to have dinner with me and is happy to relieve J.C. of driving me home. He suggests dinner around five when he’s done meeting with his real estate agent, who’s putting together an offer for the estate. Wesley did warn we’d have future dealings.

Uncertain as to whether or not to call him back—I’ll just have to turn him down again—I pocket the phone.

“How are things goin’ with those rascals of ours?”

I tell her about my adventures with Miles and Birdie, leaving out anything that might make her feel guilty about not being with them, then transition to talk of her garden club, her work on the Pickwick Beautification Committee, and her ideas for another family Christmas at Uncle Obe’s. An hour passes without word from Daddy, then another, during which Mama struggles to stay awake, though I encourage her to rest.

Finally she says, “I should get some sleep.”

I kiss her forehead. “Sweet dreams, Mama.”

She closes her lids. “I’m glad you’re being kissed again,” she murmurs. “So very glad, Bridget.”

“Me too,” I whisper and stay at her side until Daddy reappears a half hour later.

“Did he call?” are the first words out of his mouth.

I frown. “He did.”

“And?”

“Mama and I were in the middle of somethin’ so I let him go to voice mail.”

“And you haven’t called him back?”

“No.” I rise and move toward the door. “Let’s talk outside.”

He follows me into the corridor and holds up a hand. “Trust me in this. Caleb Merriman is the one we ought to go with.”

I grit my teeth. “There isn’t any ‘we’ in this, whether you’re talkin’ the estate or trying to marry me off.”

He glowers. “I’m only looking out for our best interests.”

“Nor is there any ‘our’ in this. The estate is Uncle Obe’s to dispose
of as he chooses, and I am my own to dispose of as I choose.” Though that last didn’t come out right, he gets the gist. I touch his arm. “Please, stop pushing.”

To my surprise, his fleshy chin quivers, and he squeezes my hand with such ferocity one might think he’s drowning.

“Daddy?”

Even a passing nurse falters at the sight, her soft-soled shoes losing their rhythm.

I look closer at my father. “Are you all right?”

His face starts to crumple, but he looks down, heaves a breath, then looks up. “You know your mother and I have only ever wanted the best for you.” More crumpling and again he averts his face.

First crying, now this. Softening toward him, I put an arm around his shoulders. The first words of comfort to come to me are ones that reassure him Mama will be fine, but I stop myself from saying so. We don’t know she’ll be fine, at least not in the way we want her to be fine. Only God knows. So I hug Daddy. “We’ll get through this.”

He shakes his big head against my shoulder. “I don’t know if I can—not if something happens to Belinda. They were checking her for cancer. Cancer!”

Again I squelch the impulse to offer reassurance. “I’ll be here for you, Daddy.”

He gives a shallow laugh. “Like I was there for you when Easton died? Excuse me if that doesn’t make me feel better.”

I stare at his profile, hardly able to believe what I’m hearing. Is his regret real? In my darkest times, especially during those first weeks following the funeral, anger at Daddy was what often got me up off the
floor and spoonfuls of cold funeral casseroles down my throat. I imagined his satisfaction over my husband’s death … his relief that Easton was finally out of the way. And he made no attempt to convince me otherwise. Not that I would have let him.

So you don’t know. Open your fists and let it go, Bridget
. I have an overwhelming urge to listen to that voice, but—
Or you’ll take it to the grave. And so will he
.

I ease back and wait for him to raise his head. When he looks up, his eyes are veined and wet. “You remember, Daddy? I wouldn’t let anyone in. Not even Mama for the longest time.”

“Still, I should have tried.”

I wish he had. “It probably wouldn’t have changed much. I was hurt and mad at everyone, especially God.”

“Humph!” He feigns a nose scratch so he can drag a hand beneath his right eye; another nose scratch so he can clear his left eye. “I’ll be mad at Him too if He takes your mother from me.”

I’m a little surprised, since you have to believe in someone to be mad at them, don’t you? If I had to guess where Daddy stands with God, I’d say he doesn’t. The only times he attends church are when Mama drags him along for Christmas Eve and Easter services, and he makes it clear it is not where he wants to be. Of course, as Easton once pointed out, a person’s faith cannot be measured by church attendance.

“Well,” my father says, “hopefully all those prayers she’s asking me to pray for her are reaching His ears.”

“You’ve been praying?” My disbelief pops out before I can think better of it.

He pulls away and clears his throat. “Part of the marriage vows.” He
reaches for the doorknob. “I’d best get back to your mother. Have a good day.”

And I’m dismissed. I check my watch. Unless I hear from J.C., it could be a couple more hours before I leave Asheville.

Daddy starts to close the door behind him, then sticks his head through the gap. “Did you listen to Caleb’s message?”

“I did.”

“And you’ll take him up on his offer of dinner and a drive home?”

Trying to recapture the compassion I felt minutes ago, I set my teeth. “I’m still thinkin’ about it.”

His brow trenches. “Better think quick. He won’t keep asking.”

“I wish he wouldn’t.”

His face tightens and I steel myself, but in the next instant, he nearly hangs his head. “Please, Bridget, call him. If not for me, then for your mama.”

I don’t see what Caleb Merriman has to do with her, but I suppose it can’t hurt. “All right, I’ll call, but that’s all I’m promising.”

“Thank you.” He closes the door.

I return the looks of hospital personnel and visitors who stroll past as I debate what to do with the time. What decides me is the cart pushed past that is stacked with picked-over meal trays. The foodstuffs are unappetizing, and yet that doesn’t stop my appetite from kicking in—an appetite that would have been satisfied had I eaten my burger. Time dilemma solved.

I consider the hospital cafeteria, but the possibility of cancer hangs heavy in the air here, and I long to shed its weight. With the beauty of Asheville outside and Mellow Mushroom within a mile or so, I opt for
a walk. As the autumn sunshine warms away my worry, I point myself down Biltmore Avenue and salivate at the prospect of a Brutus salad—kalamata olives, roasted red peppers, feta cheese. Or maybe their Greek salad. Of course, the portabella mushrooms are something else, stuffed with artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, mozzarella, garlic butter—

Garlic
. No, wouldn’t want to leave J.C. gasping for fresh air on the drive back, especially if he’s of a mind to kiss me again. I shouldn’t want it, especially if I’m not ready for it, but maybe I am. Maybe it’s time to take a chance—with J.C., of all people. Daddy will be so disappointed.

As my worn sneakers eat up the sidewalk and cars zip past, their exhaust fumes make me scrunch my nose, and I pull up the missed call and let my phone do the dialing. Three rings later, I’m sent to Caleb’s voice mail. I tell him I’m returning his call and end the call. “I tried. Mellow Mushroom, here I come.”

I nearly make it there, but when I come to that awful sign again: Trousdale and Associates, a Premier Real Estate Agency, I recall that’s where Caleb is—or was. Might he still be?

My stomach growls, and I keep walking. After all, Daddy can’t fault me that all I got for my effort to return Caleb’s call was his voice mail.
You could try a little harder
. I consider the real estate office across the street but veto my conscience.
You could invite him to join you for a bite to eat—get it out of the way and Daddy off your back
. Yeah, and have to deal with that Wesley woman again.
You could ask about his connection with industrial park developers
. Right.

I jaywalk between cars heading in opposite directions—both of which honk—and hop onto the sidewalk in front of the real estate office. As I approach the door with its fancy lettering, I scope out Wesley’s
little empire through the big windows. The place is impressive, the dark brown couches and armchairs at the front endowed with the plush look of money that contrasts nicely with taupe and tan walls.

A young woman, whose willowy figure is topped by a graceful neck and angled head that causes her dark hair to drape her face, staffs the receptionist’s desk, which looks more like a table with spindly legs. I’ll bet she pulls in the men, even if they don’t think they’re in the market for real estate.