The Color of Heaven (7 page)

empty house. It was her birthright after al . She’d inherited it from her parents shortly after Jen was born.

As I watched the cracks in the uneven sidewalk pass by under my feet, it occurred to me that I was avoiding the sights and sounds around me. I

suppose I didn’t want to bump into anyone who might remember me. I was in no mood to explain what I had been up to over the past two decades,

or why I had stayed away for so long, much less what I was doing back here now, ready to confront the woman who had broken my heart so long

ago.

A motorcycle roared by, causing me to lift my gaze. Its engine sputtered foul-smel ing black smoke. On the other side of the street, a chocolate Lab

tied to a signpost barked at the obnoxious racket.

A man in a basebal cap hurried by. His hands were buried in his pockets. He looked tense and shivery.

Stopping in front of the soda shop, I moved a little closer to the window and cupped my hands to the glass. As I peered inside, I was suddenly

affected by a wistful nostalgia, for almost nothing inside had changed.

How vividly I could recal climbing up onto those red vinyl stools as a girl. My father would always order my sister’s favorite for both of us – root beer floats – though I preferred strawberry ice cream.

I recal ed also, in spectacular detail, the man who owned the shop. His name was Max. He had a thick black mustache and always wore a blue

striped apron.

At that moment, he emerged from the back room carrying a cardboard box. He, too, looked exactly the same. He bent to set the box on the floor,

then reached for a cloth to wipe the countertop.

I could have lingered there for quite some time, simply reminiscing, but I had come home for a reason, so I continued on my way.

o0o

A short while later, I approached the house where I grew up – the white Victorian mansion that stood on a cliff overlooking the sea – and felt an

uncomfortable stirring of emotion deep in my heart. I had been happy here once. When we were al together as a family, my world had been a place

of joy and love.

Again, I felt the nostalgia I had experienced in front of the soda shop, and it surprised me, for I’d expected to feel only resentment upon my return.

But somehow, the happy memories – and there were quite a few of them – eclipsed the more difficult events that had come later. I found myself

wanting to dash up the stairs and burst through the door to my old room.

I worked hard to keep a clear head, however, and walked alongside the ivy-covered picket fence, pausing at the gate while I listened to the thunder

of the waves crashing onto the cliff face below.

Much had changed since I’d last stood here. What had once been a wide green lawn with a stone walk to the front stairs was now an English

garden. There was a trel is covered in vines, though the leaves had not yet sprouted. It was stil too early in the spring, and everything appeared

lifeless.

Such was the case with the large, rectangular flowerbeds, boxed in by rough-hewn logs with the bark scraped off. Nothing green flourished. There

was only dark, wet soil everywhere, the occasional leafless shrub quivering in the fog.

I had never been one for gardens. They were too much maintenance, and if you didn’t do the work, the plants died or the garden grew to chaos.

There would soon be too much chaos here, I thought.

At least the house looked wel . Mom must have had it painted recently.

What was she doing now? I wondered.

My mother
.

What was she going to say when I knocked on her door? What was
I
going to say?

Rubbing briskly at my arms to ward off the morning chil and prepare myself for what was about to transpire, I opened the gate. The hinges whined

like an old cat as I entered the yard and started up the walk to the covered veranda.

When I reached the door, I knocked. It opened almost immediately, and there stood my mother, Cora, wearing that old familiar pink bathrobe with

the little pompoms on the belt. I remembered it wel . Her blonde hair had gone grey, but her eyes were stil the same.

“Sophie.” She hesitated briefly, and placed her hand over her heart.

Had she known I was coming? She didn’t seem surprised.

“You’re here.” She paused again. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been waiting a long time.”

I found that hard to believe.

Anger rushed through me. Why did she leave us al those years ago? How could she have done that?

And why didn’t Dad fight harder to make her stay?

For a brief moment, I was tempted to turn and leave before I started ranting. What was the point of this after al these years? Didn’t I have enough

turmoil in my life?

Something held me hostage, however. Perhaps it was Megan. She had told me to come here, and I couldn’t let her down.

Also, I was curious. My five-year-old daughter had seemed to know a great deal about my life when she treaded water with me in the lake. She

seemed exceedingly wise, more like a mother to me than a daughter.

I suppose she had experienced something very profound when she passed away – something beyond the scope of what I knew of this world, or the

next. She had been gone a whole year, while I had been dead only briefly.

“
Why
?” I asked my mother, as I stood shivering on her front porch. I had come this far. I couldn’t fail now to ask the question that had haunted me al my life. “Why did you leave us? Didn’t you know how much damage you were doing?”

Her expression darkened with concern as she gaped at me. “
Why
? That’s an awful y big question, Sophie. I think you better come inside so we can talk about it.”

Taking a step back, she held the door open for me.

It was about time.

While my mother locked the door behind us, I glanced uneasily at the familiar floral wal paper in the front hal , the mirrored bench with the tarnished coat hooks, and the ornately carved oak banister on the wide staircase to the left. It almost hurt to look at everything, for it took me back to the

happy life I once knew, before it broke apart.

The house was quiet. There was no radio or TV blaring anywhere, only the sound of the sea, drifting in through an open window in the parlor.

I wondered how my mother could bear to live in this giant, old house al by herself, but remembered that she preferred to be alone, otherwise she

never would have left us.

“Come into the kitchen,” she said. “I was just about to make some tea. You look like you could use a cup.”

Wil ing myself to behave in a civilized manner, I fol owed her.

The kitchen was painted a sunny shade of yel ow with restored cherry cabinets and a new granite countertop. Green plaid valances framed the

windows. Near the back door, there was a tal built-in bookcase for her cookbook col ection that hadn’t been there before. A few other things were

different, too. Gone was the 1950s-era table with the sparkly white top and shiny chrome legs.

“When did you get this?” I asked, running my hand over the antique pine gem. “It’s lovely.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she replied. “I always thought this old house needed some traditional pieces.”

She was right. It was a Victorian. Aluminum furniture had no business here.

“Please sit down.” Mom turned the knob on the back of the stove.

I rubbed my hands together and took a seat, wondering how long we would need to adhere to these polite rituals before she would answer my

questions and talk to me openly about the past.

For a few minutes, I watched her putter about. She found the teabags and rinsed out the pot.

“It may surprise you to hear this,” she said, “but I’ve always known what was going on in your life. Your father kept me informed, especial y when

Megan was il .”

My heart lurched with shock at this news, not to mention the sound of Megan’s name upon my mother’s lips. “He did? You and he kept in touch?”

He had never mentioned it.

“Yes,” she replied. “I know how difficult it must have been. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m also sorry that I never got to meet Megan when she was alive.”

A painful lump lodged in my throat. I couldn’t speak. It stil hurt to talk about Megan, and the fact that my mother had been absent al these years and hadn’t even sent a card after the funeral when she knew what was happening… That didn’t help matters at al . I certainly didn’t feel any responsibility to assuage her guilt.

She slanted a disapproving look my way. “I also know things have been awkward between you and your father. That you’re not close, and you never

visit him.”

I shut my eyes and stroked my forehead. “You’re a fine one to talk about not visiting someone, Mom. And please don’t speak to me as if I am a child

who is misbehaving. You gave up that right as a parent when you left us. So it’s real y none of your business how Dad and I feel about each other

now.”

Although that wasn’t entirely true. I had come here to gain a better understanding about the relationships in my life. I wanted to know why she left.

Why
everyone
left – Michael, and Megan, too. I needed to understand what happened between my mom and dad.

Why didn’t he love me like he loved Jen?

I had an uneasy feeling that I already knew the answer to that. I’d
always
known it.

But did I real y want to hear it now?

Mom set two mugs on the table and looked me straight in the eye. “I don’t blame you for being angry, but you came here looking for answers, so if

you want to hear the whole story, that makes it very much my business, because I’m the only one who knows the whole truth.”

I leaned back in my chair and glanced toward the window. Outside, the ocean continued to hiss and roar as the waves crashed against the rocks.

“Did you know that he always disapproved of everything I did?” I asked. “He hated my friends. He told me I was too headstrong for my own good,

and he never accepted the fact that I wanted to write. He wanted me to choose some other career. ‘Something less creative.’” I shook my head. “He

never treated me the way he treated Jen. She could get away with murder. He would have walked through fire for her, but he didn’t feel that way

about me.” I met her gaze. “But
you
… You were the opposite, so I never understood why you left. I blamed Dad. It had to be his fault. It couldn’t have been mine.”

Mom sat down. “Your father is a good man, Sophie. I know you’ve had your differences, but he does love you.”

I scoffed. “You real y think so?”

Then I recal ed our last telephone conversation when he had surprised me with his compassion. It was the first time he had ever spoken to me like

that.

But then he didn’t cal again. Nor did I cal him.

“If he’s such a good man,” I said, “why aren’t you stil married to him? Why did you leave us and never come back?”

Her blue eyes flashed with concern, and she hesitated before replying. “That couldn’t be helped. Try to understand that. It’s important that you do.”

“Wel , I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

The color drained from her face. “I should pour you that cup of tea now.” She stood up and crossed to the stove. “Because we might be here a

while.”

I sat back in my chair and prepared myself, for it was long past time I knew where I came from. I needed to know the real story about my father.

And by that, I don’t mean the man who raised me.

Cora’s Story

“Sophie, I remember every precious moment your father and I spent together as if it happened only yesterday. I’m not sure where to begin. There’s

so much to say.

“I suppose I’l start with the summer of 1960, shortly after I turned twelve, because that’s when things slowly began to change...”

It was the last day of summer vacation, and the first day I remember feeling differently about your father.

I finished my supper and rose from the table. “Thanks, Mom,” I said. “I’m going next door.”

Ignoring the sound of dishes clattering in the sink, I grabbed my sweater and dashed outside.

The sun was low in the sky, the air cool on my cheeks.

I hurried up Peter’s steps and knocked on the door. His mother came to answer. “Oh, hel o, Cora.”

“Can Peter come out?”

She turned and shouted up the stairs. “Peter! Cora’s here!”

He immediately came bounding down the stairs, grabbed his jacket from the coat tree and pushed open the screen door. It squeaked before

snapping shut behind him.

“What’d you have for supper?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket.

“Pork roast. What’d you have?”

“Fried chicken.”

“Lucky.”

We both glanced down the street toward Matt’s house. I wondered if he was stil eating his dinner. His dad always made him do the dishes before

he could play outside.

“Want to go out back?” Peter asked.

“Sure.”

We ran around the side of the house, racing to the tire swing that hung from the big oak tree.

“You can swing first,” Peter said. “I’l push you.”

I climbed in and wrapped my arms around the tire. The old rope creaked along the tree bark on the overhead branch as he spun me in dizzying

circles.

“Stop! Stop!”
I cried, laughing and screeching, knowing I was going to be nauseous and dizzy as a goose the minute I hopped off.

Peter grabbed hold of my knees. “There. See? You’re stopped.” He grinned at me.

“It’s about time.”

I struggled to focus on his face. My head was spinning, but I could stil see the yel ow flecks in his brown eyes. His hands were warm on my knees.

I always felt so comfortable with Peter.

Just then, something caught my eye and my gaze darted to the side of the house.

“It’s Matt,” Peter said. There was a hint of disappointment in his voice.