The Gingerbread Boy (37 page)

This would be a perfect spot to meet, Catherine had thought when Mrs. LaMont called her out of the blue a few days earlier. Someplace outside. Someplace neutral, and beautiful. Someplace rich with the scent of spring blossoms and freshly cut grass.

Mrs. LaMont’s back was toward Catherine as she slowly approached, still unsure her legs wouldn’t suddenly come to life on their own and spin her around, racing the rest of her torso out of sight. What Daniel’s mother wanted to talk about, Catherine had no idea. Only that she’d said it was important, and she wanted to see Catherine in person. Catherine hadn’t seen or heard from either Daniel, his mother, or even Joey in well over a year. It was like the whole band had just vanished off the face of the earth. There had been rumors, of course, mysterious talk of drugs and fights within the band, but Catherine knew they weren’t true. Even though Daniel’s house had been sold, Joey had left town, and everything was so maddeningly cloak and dagger, Catherine had vowed to ignore it all and focus on a workload so grueling she barely had time to breathe or blink, let alone search online for crazy tidbits about Daniel or the band. So far, it had worked. School was almost over, and she was at the top of her class.

Then Mrs. LaMont turned around.

Catherine jolted back a step, and the world around slowed to a standstill. Students around her walked in slow motion, their chatter seemingly from distant miles. Her breath was frozen in her lungs.

She’d forgotten just how much Mrs. LaMont looked like Daniel.

The elegant cheekbones, glossy dark hair and striking caramel-colored eyes. Even in jeans and a tailored white blouse, Mrs. LaMont was the epitome of elegance and poise. Catherine’s mind began to spin as she forced a smile and raised an iron-heavy hand in greeting. She pulled herself forward as though her legs were moving through jelly. “Think, girl, think,” Mrs. VanHoofstryer’s starchy old voice suddenly came her mind, startling her, just as in the old days. Catherine’s brow furrowed. Why should she have any reason to be so afraid? She’d recently helped sedate a terrified, 1,200-pound stallion that had gotten loose from its pasture and been hit by a car. But afraid, she was. Of something. But she had no idea exactly what.

Mrs. LaMont saw her, and her eyes brightened. And maybe it was Catherine’s imagination, but there was just a hint of melancholy in the beautiful woman’s smile. Next thing she knew, Catherine was standing in front of her, not remembering how she had managed to move across the pavement. Then they just stood and gazed silently at each other. Catherine’s skin tingled as a sweet memory flooded back to her…. she and Daniel standing before the door of the rooming house together the night they first met. She acutely remembered the cold nip in the air, the smell of the cavernous old stone house before her, and the wonder of the mysterious young man with the red scarf pulled across his face as snow swirled softly around his head. Although the memory caused a heaviness in her heart that she hadn’t felt in months, it also allowed a tender feeling of nostalgia to fall across her spirit.

“It’s so good to see you again.” Catherine said.

Mrs. LaMont smiled. “And you too. You have no idea.” Then she reached to engulf her in a hug. Catherine was surprised to feel Mrs. LaMont’s shoulders jerk, as though she was stifling a sob. When they pulled apart, Catherine saw her wipe a stray tear from the corner of her eye. She found herself doing the same.

“It’s a lovely campus, I’ve been walking all over,” Mrs. LaMont said, looking around. “I can’t believe how many bicycles there are! And that so many students are already lying out in the sun. What is it, only about sixty-two degrees out?”

Catherine smirked. “Yes,” she said. “What is wrong with them anyway? Don’t they realize they should stay in the shade and drink plenty of fluids at that temperature?”

Mrs. LaMont looked oddly at her, then laughed. “ Mitten state humor,” she said, “It fits.”

Catherine looked down, smiling. Her heart was no longer hammering, and she could once again smell the blossoms, feel the warmth in the breeze, hear the chatter of the students passing here and there. “Lets take a walk,” she suggested, and soon she and Mrs. LaMont were ambling down the stairs into the park-like area fondly known as ‘Sleepy Hollow.” They made small talk about the weather and Catherine’s classes as they walked across the freshly cut grass, examining the signs on some of the hundreds of plants and shrubs spread out across the valley. Catherine was surprised to learn that Joey was in town as well, and that he could be stopping by to see Joanne at that very minute. But she was too numb to ask about Daniel. At least, for now. But soon she and Mrs. LaMont were wandering next to a small pond filled with lilies and exotic looking grasses, and, almost automatically, both sat down on a bench next to it. The boughs of enormous trees arched gracefully overhead and there was short silence as both stared at the deep blue water sparkling in the light that dappled through the trees.

“I know my son hurt you very much,” Mrs. LaMont suddenly said, her voice almost a whisper. She gazed ahead, twisting her hands together. “I’m so sorry for that. He was running again. Just… running. My little gingerbread boy.”

Catherine took a deep breath and leaned back against the bench. The elephant in the room had finally been addressed. “I was once called the ’cinnamon girl‘ by my mother when I was little,” she said, her heart swelling at the memory. “But it was for a completely innocent reason. I think it’s sweet you have a nickname for him, even if it isn’t always for such a good reason.” She looked away, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “He did hurt me,” she finally admitted, trying to be strong, but her voice betrayed her, “He ran. I’ll never understand it. But I’ve given up trying to. It was too bizarre. But I’m fine now. That was months ago.”

“And are you happy now?” Mrs. LaMont asked, looking at her at last, tears shining in her eyes.

Catherine found herself nodding. “Yes. Yes, I am actually. I don’t blame your son, Mrs. LaMont…”

“Please, call me Lynell.”

“All right. Lynell. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I have my ideas.” Catherine paused, then words poured forth, unbidden, out of her mouth. “At first I thought he ran off with my old roommate, then I discovered it wasn’t so, although I think he wanted me to think that. Now I wonder if he truly did have an identity crisis, a worse one than I can even imagine. I wonder if he’s back in South America, working with the Indians. That’s what I like to believe, anyway.” She sighed, and then looked hopefully at Daniel’s mother. “Am I right?”

Mrs. LaMont clasped Catherine’s hand. ”You have an uncannily forgiving heart, Catherine. I didn’t always understand Daniel’s choices, and I did not agree with some.” She paused, then looked up into the trees with a far away gaze. “Catherine,” she finally added, still looking up, her voice quivering, “The truth is, Daniel was sick. Very sick.”

At that, Catherine raised her head and straightened. Sick? She thought back. The identity crisis, the bizarre mood swings. Her eyes widened with newfound awareness. “But aren’t there good medications for that now?” she asked. “Mental illness can be controlled can’t it? How is he really Mrs. LaM… Lynell?”

Lynell looked somberly at her. “I can see why you’d think that,” she said. “He was extremely ill. But he wasn’t that kind of sick. He… he…” She looked away again, and Catherine noticed her shoulders were shaking. An icy chill came over her heart.

“Lynell?” Catherine asked. “Lynell, what is it?”

At last Daniel’s mother turned to her, squeezing her hand more tightly. She focused her gaze straight on Catherine. “I have something for you. Something that will explain it all.” She pulled a ragged looking envelope out of the purse strung over her shoulder, and handed it to Catherine with a trembling hand.

“Daniel had ALS, Catherine. Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

Time halted. And Catherine remembered. Daniel’s increasingly weakened fingers. His oddly stumbling gait. His strained voice. She stared numbly at the envelope. The chill coursed all the way through, paralyzing her as she tried to remember how to breathe. ALS? Lou Gehrig’s disease? But wasn’t that… wasn’t that fatal?

“He let me read the letter. He wrote it just after you left our house last fall on your way to college,” Mrs. LaMont added, “He was there, he saw you. But he didn’t want to be seen. He wrote this while he still could. It was the last thing he could write in his own hand. He thought it was the noble thing to do.”

Haltingly, Catherine pulled out the letter with a strength that had to have come from someplace outside of herself. Something small and round dropped into her hand, and she gazed with astonishment at an antique emerald ring. She looked in wonder at Lynell, and Mrs. LaMont lowered her eyes, gently gesturing Catherine to read. Catherine swallowed hard, and looked at the crinkled pages of notebook paper in her hands. Large, clumsy letters scrawled months ago spoke to her at last. She began to read. She clutched her throat in disbelief, and, trembling all over, read it again. It seemed hours later that she laid the letter across her lap and folded herself over it.

“Do you understand? Mrs. LaMont asked, almost pleadingly. “Do you understand, my sweet Catherine?”

Catherine nodded. She did. At last. Then Mrs. LaMont swept her arm across Catherine’s shoulders and drew her near.

Epilogue

Dearest Catherine,

I hope you can stumble through this letter. My writing is so bad now, worse than a child’s. But I wanted to let you know that I now realize my actions during the last few weeks of our relationship were also pretty childish. I should have prayed harder about my choices concerning your emotions instead of pulling petals off of flowers, then maybe things would have been different. But I’m still not willing to let you stand by and watch me go through this.

I have ALS, Cath. Lou Gehrig’s disease. I try not to feel sorry for myself because I hate that even worse than the illness. It took a long time to accept my fate. It’s hard to go from a strong person to someone who has to ask things like, “will you please cut my meat”, or,
“will you please help me with my socks.” But you didn’t have to witness this decline. I reminded
myself over and over again that you never took a vow for better or worse with me, and there was no doubt ‘worse’ was looming, and quicker and nastier each passing day. I was sure it would be easier for you to hate me than to feel sorry for me. I remembered you saying that after Hazel passed away. It stuck hard with me. Maybe it seemed a way out. For that weakness, I am truly sorry.

I’m trying to be courageous, but I still feel cheated. We had something beautiful and rare together. So often I wished time would just slow enough to get a few extra days squeezed into the few we actually had together. Once I dreamed of revival through the band, but after we met my dreams became simpler. Dreams of a little house with a white
picket fence and kids wrestling in the back yard. Live music wasn’t important when you were by my side, because music always filled the air when we were together. Please accept this ring as a gift, or as an apology, whatever you’d like it to be, in remembrance of me. I’d meant it for so much more at one time. It once belonged to my mother, and we both want you to have it.

You know, I love Joey like a brother. He really is an epitome. But know what? So are you. Catherine, you are the epitome of beauty and harmony and of all things that are right with this world. I’m thankful God chose to put you in my life for as long as He did.
By the time you read this, it’ll be said I’m in a better place, but it’s hard to believe there’s a better place than anyplace I was when I was with you. I am so much in love with you. I always will be. Yet somehow, someday, I get the feeling the scales will balance and I will get the chance to tell you. Until that time, please be happy. Move on. Be the best fluffy-puppy fixer you could ever be. Find a good-hearted man who deserves you
and fill the world with your dreams.

Thank you for bringing me such joy. Thank you for bringing me tenderness, and companionship. And, without hesitation, Catherine, thank you for bringing me the best days of my life.

Daniel

Author’s Note

Years have passed since I wrote the first draft of “The Gingerbread Boy,” and it’s only now I have the peace to share it. Although it is largely fiction, enough parallels have come to pass between my life and this story that not only was it emotional to re-read, but to edit as well.

Emotional—and healing.

You see, a young man named Paul Ferner was once my “Gingerbread Boy.” I dedicate this book to his memory. “Paul Esquire,” as he liked to call himself, was a charming, intense, and soulful young man with a quick wink and witty word. A man who loved the company and wisdom of the elderly yet still loved children’s toys such as plastic cowboys and Indians, spinning tops and yo-yos.

The last time I saw him, he was jerking in spasms from uremic poisoning in his parents’ dingy living room. He mouthed “I love you” with his lips, for he could no longer speak without vomiting. He then turned over to face the wall.

He’d turned his back on me. And was gone from this earth three days later, a month before his thirtieth birthday.

That last scene haunted me for over twenty years. I was invaded by unsettling dreams. Dreams where I’d hear that Paul was “back in town.”

Back in town?
I’d wonder. Yet in that fuzzy, befuddling dream world, I didn’t wonder that he hadn’t actually died, but wondered if he’d forgotten to tell me he’d moved away for some experimental procedure, and would only return when healed.

So, why hadn’t he contacted me upon his return? Was he waiting for me to contact him? How could I do so if he didn’t know if I knew he’d returned? Didn’t he want me to know? Wasn’t he thinking of me at all? Did he still love me?

Now I believe those dreams were a symbol of unfinished business. The inadequate closure as I struggled with the question, why did he turn his back on me that final day?