Somewhere Between Luck and Trust (34 page)

“I think you already did. So did the people in this house, the students at BCAS, the goddesses, Cristy...” She smiled. “But honestly? In my heart you’re standing in the center of the room, helping me greet everyone else.”

“You know I’m in love with you, don’t you?”

“I am so glad to hear it. You know it’s mutual?”

He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. Somewhere in the background Tony Bennett sang “Maybe This Time.” She slipped her arms around Lucas’s neck and kissed him. There was no
maybe
about it.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

BY TEN O’CLOCK
on Sunday morning all the guests at the Mountain Mist had moved on, and Cristy had already started the laundry. By noon the rooms were clean and the laundry folded with no new guests on the way until Tuesday. Lorna told her to take the afternoon off since the busy season was just over the horizon, and Cristy might as well enjoy a free Sunday afternoon while she still could.

On the way home she stopped by the general store and asked for a stamp, carefully counting out the proper change. The woman behind the counter offered to drop the letter at the post office in Marshall that afternoon when she went for groceries.

The letter was a reply to Kenny. She had to swallow hard when she thought about what his letter to her had said. Without further discussion Samantha had read it out loud yesterday, then carefully penned Cristy’s reply and addressed the envelope. But later that evening, after Samantha was gone, Cristy had taken her own letter out of the envelope, copied it as carefully as she could in her own handwriting and signed her name. She was sure she had made mistakes, but she’d wanted the letter to be genuine in every way, and she hoped Kenny could read it.

Kenny was so alone, so baffled that something like this could have happened, so grief stricken over Duke’s death and his own arrest for a murder he hadn’t committed. And Kenny, just as she had been at first, was devastated by Jackson’s desertion. Only out of loyalty to their long friendship, Kenny still couldn’t see the whole picture. He was sure his best friend thought he was guilty of Duke’s murder and he backed away forever because of it.

And what had Cristy been able to say in return that would survive the censors? What
could
she say that wouldn’t break Kenny’s heart forever? She could only reassure him that she knew he was innocent, and all the while, she had felt worse with every word she penned.

A light rain had been falling since the previous evening, which made gardening impossible. The day was perfect for one thing, though: a visit to her son. With a feeling of resignation, she dialed Berdine’s number. Still, when Berdine answered and told her to come ahead, her heart sank.

Forty-five minutes later she and Beau were standing at the Bates’s front door, a stuffed dog under her arm that looked something like Beau himself, only the stuffed version was green-and-blue and wouldn’t be nearly as expensive to feed.

When she answered the door Berdine had Michael in her arms, and he immediately lunged forward and grabbed the dog, screeching with delight.

“Did you call the girls to see what he was wearing?” Berdine asked.

Cristy realized both the dog and the boy were in green-and-blue plaid. Cristy had bought the dog on one of her trips to Asheville, and the resulting dent in her savings had been a grim reminder of how ill-equipped she was to support a child.

“I just thought he might like it, and I guess I was right.”

“He loves it.” Berdine moved back to let her in. “And your timing’s perfect. He’s had a rough day. I’m not sure if he’s cutting another tooth or getting a cold. He’s not really sick, at least not yet, just fussy. Nobody can keep him happy for long.”

Cristy made a face. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“All you really have to know is that sometimes you can’t make them happy, no matter what you do. Then you’ll feel a lot better when they fuss.”

Cristy filed that away, but the afternoon stretched in front of her, as endless as the ocean she had never seen.

Berdine handed over the solid chunk of baby, and Cristy followed her cousin into the kitchen. Berdine told her that both girls had just left for friends’ houses, and Wayne was shooting skeet in the drizzle.

“I wanted to make jam today with the last of our strawberries, but this guy hasn’t been much help.”

“Go ahead. Michael and I will hang together,” Cristy said, trying to sound pleased with the opportunity.

“You’re sure? Once I get into cooking the strawberries, it’s hard to stop.”

“We’ll do fine. I’ll just remember what you said about him being fussy.”

“Maybe you can even get him down for a nap. I haven’t had a bit of success.”

Cristy couldn’t imagine accomplishing something Berdine hadn’t been able to, but she tried to look optimistic. “We’ll hang out in his room and leave you alone.”

In the baby’s room, Cristy tried to figure out what to do first. Right now Michael was still interested in his new toy, but she knew that wouldn’t last. She spread a yellow blanket on the floor and set him on his stomach with the dog just out of reach. Then she joined him and watched as he flailed his arms and scooted toward it.

She didn’t know much about babies, but Michael seemed strong and coordinated. From her last visit she knew he could push himself up, legs and arms completely straight, and maintain that position. He did that now after he tired of scooting, and seemed to like the challenge, although he quickly grew tired and began to whimper. She lifted him to her lap and set the dog on his. Immediately he began to stuff the dog’s ear in his mouth.

She wondered how many germs the baby was ingesting. The dog was appropriate for a child his age. She had made sure to ask the sales clerk, but now she wondered if she should have laundered it before handing it over. Before she could worry too much, though, he pushed the dog away and reached for his toes.

“I guess no baby has ever really swallowed one of those,” she told him. “Don’t you be the first, okay?”

Michael began to gurgle, then babble. The sounds were random, she thought, and he liked to repeat them. She guessed that was how babies learned to talk.

Some mothers spoke, even sang to their babies before they were born. She hadn’t done that with Michael, of course. For a long time she had simply ignored the pregnancy, refusing to think about the new being inside her, most of all refusing to think about the man who had put him there.

When she could no longer ignore what was happening, every part of the experience had horrified her. Morning sickness. The way her body changed. The day that Michael began to move inside her. Backaches. Labor.

At the time she had vowed never to get pregnant again, but now she knew that had only been a reaction to her circumstances. When she was older, when she was in love with her baby’s father and happily married, when her life was on track at last, pregnancy could be a happy time.

Michael, of course, was none the wiser about the feelings of the woman who had brought him into the world, and she would make sure he never was. The little boy with the silky dark curls hadn’t asked to be born. He deserved only the best.

When he began to fuss again, she turned him to face her and stood him in her lap. She could see he liked that. He straightened his legs happily, and they stayed that way until his knees buckled. She lifted him to stand again, and he repeated his performance, supported by her hands, happy to be there.

“You know, Michael, I’m your mother.” He cocked his little head as if he was listening and bounced a little at her words.

“I’m sorry things turned out this way.” She fumbled for the right things to say. “I was careful not to get pregnant, but sometimes things just don’t happen the way we want them to. I guess I can’t say you shouldn’t have been born, because here you are....” She cleared her throat. “There are a lot of people who love you and think you’re special. And
they
sure wouldn’t say that. They’re real glad you’re here.”

He stretched out his tiny hand and batted at her face, bouncing again, but his legs still managed to hold his weight.

She stared into his eyes and realized they were lighter than she’d thought. They weren’t the impenetrable black of his father’s, but a golden-brown that was more like Wayne’s. And they tilted a little. She thought about Clara, whose eyes tilted like that, too. Just a bit at the edges, a Haviland family trait, she supposed.

She hadn’t really looked into his eyes before, because she had been afraid of what she would see. She had been afraid of a
baby
who had never even glimpsed his terrifying father and hopefully never would. Afraid of a baby who would grow up without Jackson’s or Pinckney’s pernicious influences, whose world would be enriched by good people with values and standards and love to give him.

Then Michael smiled. A radiant smile that might end in tears very soon, but which, for that precious moment, brought a flood of golden sunshine into the room.

The smile was so familiar. For a moment she just stared. Then her throat closed, and suddenly she could hardly breathe.

The smile was
not
Jackson’s. Not Jackson’s at all. The smile was the one she had so often seen in her mirror in the happiest moments of her life. The faint tracing of dimples that didn’t appear until she was relaxed. The way Michael’s lips curved, his eyes lifting and brows descending to meet them.

For the first time she saw what she had refused for so long to acknowledge.

Michael was
her
son every bit as much as he was Jackson’s.

He batted at her face again as tears slid helplessly down her cheeks. She clutched his strong little body against her and somehow his chubby arms ended up around her neck. She could hear him babbling as she rocked him. Strangest of all, he didn’t try to get away. He seemed to know that for the moment, against her breasts and in her arms, he was exactly where he belonged.

* * *

Dawson was sitting on her porch when she got home. Since his pickup wasn’t parked in front, his presence startled her.

When she got close enough to be heard, she called to him and waved. He slowly lifted a hand in greeting as if it was as heavy as a sledgehammer.

Up on the porch she saw he looked exhausted, as if she might have woken him from a nap. She knew immediately that something was very wrong.

“How did you get here?”

“Hitchhiked.”

“Your parents wouldn’t let you drive?”

“My parents aren’t going to let me do
anything.
Or maybe they’re going to let me do everything.”

Cristy took a seat beside him on the glider. “What happened?”

“I got in a fight with my father. I showed him the website for that literary magazine I’ve been working on at school. Two of my poems are in the front. He said I was wasting my time, that most writers are unemployed alcoholics or fags, and I needed to concentrate on things that will help me run the farm when he’s gone.”

Cristy had a premonition about what had come next. “So you told him you’re gay.”

“I told him I was already a fag, and I’d probably end up an alcoholic after putting up with him all these years.”

“Oh, Dawson...”

“My mother heard the whole thing. My father told me I had fifteen minutes to pack and get out. I told him I didn’t need that much time. Mom got between us, and begged me to tell my father it wasn’t true. But I think she’s known for a long time, and just hoped I’d grow out of it or something. She wanted me to lie to keep the peace. But I’m tired of lying, so I just walked away.”

Cristy put her hand on top of his. “I’m so sorry. I know how this feels. Better than most people do.”

“Yeah, I thought you might.”

“My parents wanted me to be perfect.”

“He just wants me to be Ricky.”

“Maybe your father thinks he can turn you into your brother so he won’t miss him so much.”

“It would be nice if he liked me the way I am and didn’t want to turn me into somebody else, wouldn’t it?”

She squeezed his hand. “I guess I’m just trying to say this is his problem, not yours.”

“He’s made it mine.”

“You can stay here tonight. I’ll drive you to school tomorrow. Mrs. Ferguson will help you figure out what to do.”

“I could quit school and get a job, but I’m not going to. I’m going to find a place to live and finish BCAS next year.”

“That’s good. I guess you can either be the loser he thinks you are, or the winner you’re meant to be.”

“You’ve been reading those self-help manuals again.”

“I can’t read—”

“I know. I know!” He squeezed
her
hand, then moved away. “This sucks, you know? Why do people who shouldn’t have children insist on having them?”

Cristy had asked herself that question too often since Michael’s birth, and she still didn’t have a real answer.

“Parents owe their children their very best,” she said, feeling her way. “In the hospital they should sign an oath that they’ll always act according to their child’s best interest, and be good examples in all things. If they can’t sign, they shouldn’t take the baby home.”

“You know how many abandoned children there would be?”

But Cristy was only thinking of one, a dark-haired little boy with her smile who was counting on her to make the right decisions for his future.

Counting on her to be a good example for him in all the years to come.

“You know, really, if anybody had told me how tough life can be, I think my mother would still be in labor,” Dawson said. “I would never have emerged.”

“I know the feeling.” She blinked back tears. Together they sat quietly and watched the sun sigh as it sank out of sight over blue-gray mountains.

Chapter Forty

JEFFORDS WAS A
charming, not quite sleepy city, with a historic downtown that even on Sunday boasted window shoppers and outdoor cafés with striped awnings. There was a lush park in the center with an impressive fountain, enough interesting restaurants to keep Lucas happy, and church spires piercing clouds on nearly every major corner.

Georgia and Lucas had arrived the night before and taken a room just outside town. They’d slept in, aware that nothing would be happening too early and the rehab center wouldn’t appreciate visitors at dawn. Now, fortified with a true Southern breakfast of grits, biscuits and perfectly scrambled eggs, they ambled along wide sidewalks that buckled from the roots of century-old live oaks. Today the air was steamy, with temperatures promising to peak in the mid-nineties.

Georgia stopped on one particularly impressive corner. “I wonder if the Pinette family is Methodist or Southern Baptist. I could be related to some of the people streaming into those churches. Of course whatever religion my mother professed didn’t have a lot of impact on her.”

“I doubt we can blame any church for what she did.”

“I’m not sure we can blame anything except fear that she’d be found out.”

“That’s generous.”

“I’m working my way up to forgiveness, just in case.”

He squeezed her hand. “Are you ready to head to the rehab center?”

“You don’t think it’s too early?”

“The patients will be up, and this way we can beat the post-church rush.”

“I guess a lot of people visit after their preacher of choice has exhorted them to good works.”

“But only after they’ve had lunch. We’ll have a head start.”

Now that the time was near, she realized just how much she
wasn’t
looking forward to the next hour.

“Okay?” he asked when she didn’t move.

She gathered herself. “Let’s do it.”

They headed back to Lucas’s car for the short trip to the rehab center. The low-slung white building and adjacent parking lot took up most of a block. Adorned by green shutters and a wide porch lined with wheelchairs, the larger of two signs read Stockton House, and under it: Long-Term Care and Rehabilitation.

“It’s probably a fairly expensive facility,” Lucas said. “Clean. Freshly painted. The landscaping’s attractive.”

Stockton House was shaded by trees that were several decades old. Flower beds were filled with blooming annuals, impatiens in the shade and petunias in the sun. Azaleas lined beds by the porch, and clusters of camellias added variety to a bed lining the front walk. The carefully maintained exterior announced that Stockton House cared for the well-insured middle and upper-middle class of Jeffords.

As Lucas joined her on the sidewalk, Georgia tried to imagine how she was going to approach Patricia Merton. “If they have a list of approved visitors, we might have problems getting in to see her.”

“If I were you, I would say you’re a relative from out of town making an unexpected visit, and under the circumstances, you hope you’ll be allowed to see her on such short notice.”

“And it’s not even a lie.”

“I think it’ll probably work. There aren’t any bars on the windows, and we look presentable.”

Georgia thought Lucas was far more than presentable. If a female was gatekeeper, he might be able to get both of them admitted on his smile alone.

“What do I say to her once I’m sitting by her bed?” she wondered out loud.

“I think that has to be your call.”

“I was afraid you might say that.”

He squeezed her hand, and they started up the camellia-lined walkway. She couldn’t remember when he had taken it, his touch felt so natural and right.

On the porch two wheelchairs were occupied, but neither nicely dressed woman looked up as they passed. Georgia had been ready to greet them, but closer now, she saw that both had been strapped into their chairs, and as she and Lucas neared the door, an employee in cheerful, flowered scrubs came out to move one of them farther into the shade. The resident ignored the aide’s friendly chatter, head lolling as the wheelchair moved away.

Inside, the polished oak floor was bordered on both sides by mint-green carpeting, complete with seating areas of comfortable couches and wing chairs, oval coffee tables and bookcases with leaded-glass doors. Soft music played, something with strings but not quite classical. None of the furniture was occupied, but the day was still young.

At a reception desk another woman in cheerful scrubs, this time with clusters of balloons that seemed more appropriate for a children’s ward, was standing, writing on a blotter. She looked up when they approached and smiled, as if she didn’t mind being interrupted.

Lucas stepped back to give Georgia room, and she moved forward. “Good morning. My name is Georgia Ferguson, and this is Lucas Ramsey. We’re hoping to see Patricia Merton.” She paused just a moment, then gave the speech Lucas had suggested.

The woman ignored her and stared at Lucas. “Lucas Ramsey the writer?”

He favored her with one of his nicest smiles. “Are you a mystery reader?”

“I have all your books! Oh, this is too amazing. I’m reading the new one now. I have it in the break room. Would you—”

“I’d be happy to sign it. After we see Mrs. Merton. Will that be okay?”

“Better than okay! I’m so excited.” She turned back to Georgia. “I’ll just check with the staff on her floor to see if she’s able to see anyone right now. How much do you know about her condition?”

“No one’s told me much,” Georgia said, which again, was perfectly true.

“Well, Tricia has good days and bad. Some days she’s able to carry on a conversation, although she’s not always easy to understand. And, of course, some of what she says doesn’t make sense.”

Georgia nodded, although that took effort.

“Some days she’s not able to communicate at all, but every once in a while she kind of snaps back and makes perfect sense. As far as it goes.”

“As far as it goes?” Lucas asked, as if he hoped to save Georgia the effort.

“She’s never quite aware where she is or why, even at the best of times. Sometimes she recognizes her sons, but she thinks they’re still living at home together, and she tells them to put out the cat or clean their rooms.”

Lucas glanced at Georgia, then back at the woman at the desk. “Thanks for letting us know. She’s benefiting from rehab, though?”

The woman frowned. She was petite, probably in her forties. Her hair was nearly as short as a man’s, which emphasized an expressive face. Now that face radiated sympathy.

“I guess nobody explained? She’s really not in rehab anymore. She’s on the long-term wing, on our Alzheimer’s floor. She doesn’t actually have Alzheimer’s, at least that’s not the current diagnosis. The doctors call it stroke-related dementia. Either way it’s not something we can turn around.”

Georgia made herself nod, as if she had expected this. “I guess it’s just easier to put a good spin on it, unless you know for sure.”

“The good spin is that she’s still communicating. I’m glad you came now and didn’t wait.”

Georgia didn’t explain that she had been waiting all her life.

Lucas’s biggest fan was still stealing glances at him, while talking to Georgia. “Just let me make that call.”

They stepped back, and he gently turned Georgia so they were no longer facing the desk. “You’re okay?”

She nodded.

“You may not get any answers.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s a given.”

“You still want to go through with it?”

Before she could answer, the woman spoke. “Looks like you chose the right day. Tricia’s alert this morning and talking more than usual. Her private duty nurse thinks she would benefit from a visit.”

By then Georgia had turned again. “Private nurse?”

“Just an aide, really, but Landa’s taking night classes to become a nurse. She’s just here during daylight hours. Tricia’s sons aren’t able to be with their mother as often as they would like.”

Georgia wondered if the sons really
couldn’t
be here, or if they didn’t want to be.

The woman gave instructions on where to go and how to get there, and Lucas promised to stop back by the desk once they had finished, to sign her book.

He was right beside Georgia as they turned onto a long corridor that led to a wing at the back of the property. “Would you like to do this alone? There are plenty of places for me to wait.”

As they walked she realized she was torn. Lucas was comforting to be with, and two sets of ears were better than one. He might be able to help her understand what her mother was saying, or help focus questions so that Tricia had a better chance of answering them.

On the other hand, two visitors would be more intimidating. And she thought that without having to consider Lucas’s presence, or even his reactions, she might be more direct with Tricia, or more able to let down her defenses.

She smiled a little to let him know she was grateful to have the choice. “Let’s do it this way. Let me go in first without you. Then, if I’m not getting anywhere, you can be my reinforcement.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“It sounds like I’m hedging my bets, and I am. But let’s give it a try that way.”

They followed the directions, ending up at double doors that announced they had reached the Darrell B. Stockton Memory Care Unit. They pushed through and a bell chimed, most likely to warn the staff, who probably had to keep ambulatory patients from wandering off.

A woman looked up to greet them. She was dressed in electric-blue scrubs adorned with round pins that resembled campaign buttons. Up close Georgia could see the messages weren’t political but humorous sayings and cartoons. She wondered how many of the residents still got the jokes.

“You must be Tricia’s visitors,” she said as she got to her feet. Like the woman in the lobby she was fortyish, but her hair was long and blond, pulled on top of her head into a frizzy ponytail. She glanced at the hallway clock, as if to point out she was on a tight schedule.

“I’m glad we can see her today,” Georgia said. “We thought I ought to go in alone at first, since Tricia knows me better.” Again, it was the truth. Tricia had “known” her daughter for what...one minute? Two...before she abandoned her? How long did it take to wrap a baby in a sweatshirt and deposit her in a sink?

“One at a time’s good,” the woman said. “At least to start.” She pointed to a visitors’ book, asking her to sign in. Georgia did, then Lucas added his name. The woman barely glanced at them.

“I’ll take you to see Tricia,” she told Georgia. “Mr.—” she peeked at his signature “—Ramsey, there’s a family area at the end of that hall.” She pointed to the right. “It’s a pleasant spot to wait. We’ll be this way.” She nodded in the opposite direction.

Lucas kissed Georgia’s cheek and left, and the two women began their walk. “You do realize she probably won’t recognize you.” The nurse had no time for subtlety.

It was a whopper of an understatement. “That’s what I expected.”

“Her sons sometimes drop by on Sundays, but not always. You’ve met them?”

“No, I never have.”

“Nice men, both of them. I guess it’s hard for them to see her this way.”

“I’m sure.”

“You’re from out of town?”

They chatted for a moment about what a lovely city Asheville was, then the other woman stopped just before an open door.

“Here we are. Would you like me to go in and introduce you?”

“I think I’ll be fine, but thank you for bringing me down.”

The nurse took off, as if she preferred not to witness the reactions of visitors to the deteriorating condition of the hall’s residents.

Georgia paused a moment to gather herself, but not too long. Too long and she might turn around and never come back. She finally rapped on the door frame to announce her presence, then stepped through.

She knew there were people inside, but she took her time finding them, observing what she could of the room first before she had to turn her gaze to Tricia Merton. The walls were an icy-blue, and a large picture window framed by gauzy white curtains looked over a stretch of green lawn behind the building. Jasmine air freshener was the predominant scent, but there were fresh flowers, too, a utilitarian arrangement that looked like something from a grocery store floral counter, nothing Cristy would produce.

From what Georgia could tell this was the living area of a small suite, sparsely but expensively furnished with dark antiques mixed with a few contemporary pieces, including a sleek vinyl chair beside the window.

She was committed now, and she turned her attention away from the furnishings to the woman sitting in the chair. She was wraith-thin with lank hair that had been dyed a golden-brown and pinned into something resembling a French twist. Her shoulders slumped, as a pretty African-American woman with the posture of a queen and elaborately corn-rowed hair stood behind her and massaged her neck. The attendant wore a crisp white uniform instead of the regular staff’s more comfortable scrubs.

“That’s not the right place,” the seated woman said, slurring the words a bit. “You never find the right place.”

“Why don’t you show me? Put your hand where it hurts.”

The woman in the chair might be Tricia, who by Georgia’s calculations should be sixty-eight or sixty-nine, but she looked decades older. When she reached a trembling hand to her left shoulder, Georgia saw that the skin stretched across it was deeply wrinkled and spotted.

The attendant began her massage again.

“Excuse me,” Georgia said.

The attendant turned, but the woman in the chair didn’t.

“I’m looking for Tricia Merton?”

“This is Mrs. Merton.”

Georgia moved closer. “My name’s Georgia Ferguson.”

The attendant stopped massaging, and she looked almost startled, as if a visitor was so uncommon she wasn’t prepared. Then she recovered. “You’re here to see Mrs. Merton?”

“I was told that would be okay.”

“Sure.” She bent down to speak directly to Tricia. “You have a visitor. Let me turn your chair around.”

“I don’t know what
you’re
doing here anyway,” Tricia told the woman. “Essie always helps me get ready for church.”