'Til Grits Do Us Part (34 page)

The room felt too cold suddenly, over-air-conditioned and stuffy. My teeth chattered.

The doctor studied me, waiting. “She said what?”

“The guy expected me to come to Staunton. But that's impossible.”

“You'd never visited your mom? Never passed through town, even briefly?”

“Not once. After I graduated from college and moved to Japan, my life was there.” I broke off, pressing both hands to my head as if to squeeze some sense into it before insanity took over. “If I hadn't gotten fired, I would have stayed there the rest of my life. I'm telling the truth, doctor—I don't have the foggiest idea who my mom was referring to!”

I sat back in the chair. “Her description matches somebody who used to work at her mechanic's shop, but to my knowledge, I've never met the guy.”

“The auto shop.” The doctor stroked his chin, straightening his glasses as he leafed through the papers. “She mentioned that detail. Yes. He even left some letters for you there when she went to pick up her car.”

I leaned my head against the back of the armchair, rolling it back and forth. “It makes no sense. I promise you.”

“Well, the whole issue worried her enough that her blood pressure soared. She had anxiety problems. Couldn't sleep.” Dr. Geissler sandwiched his fingers together. “I prescribed her a natural calmative and increased her blood pressure medication because of her heart. Ellen's health was quite good, but she did have significant hypertension.” He shook his head sadly. “And it may have played a part in her death, I'm afraid to say—although at her age it isn't so unusual to…”

Dr. Geissler was still speaking, but his words floated past me, gibberish-like.

“Sorry?” I was staring at the fibers on the rug. The forest-green weave made a wash of magenta when I lifted my eyes, haloing the doctor's face.

“I asked why you're so concerned with your mother's blood pressure readings.”

My heart pulsed loudly in my ears. Faster. Faster. A rush of hope roaring through my veins. “Did you say her blood pressure increased because of the stalker?”

“I did.” He dipped his chin in a nod. “I've got all her records right here.”

“She didn't increase her medication because of our fights and dysfunctional relationship?” I blinked back tears, but not fast enough. One made a hot streak down my cheek.

“I'm sure all that latent stress didn't help her numbers, but as far as I can recall, your relationship dynamics didn't play a major role in her spike in blood pressure. No.”

The doctor studied me with sympathetic eyes, quietly handing me a tissue box. “Ellen had a history of dysfunctional relationships, you know. She'd become quite accustomed to them, unfortunately. In fact, she may have even had borderline schizophrenia from descriptions of her earlier years and some of her medical reports, although those are pretty spotty.” He sorted through the file. “She experienced panic attacks. Possibly bipolar disorder.”

Dr. Geissler closed the folder and adjusted his glasses, his voice gentle. “Ellen wasn't…
. well
for much of her life, Shiloh. But she loved you. Deeply. I'm absolutely certain that, more than anything, she wanted you to know that.”

My eyes streamed. “But the letters,” I gasped as I fumbled for a tissue. “The letters I returned. They hurt her. I know they did.” I wiped at my cheeks, hands trembling so badly I could hardly hold the tissue.

“And that's when her readings went up.”

His own eyes filled, and he took off his glasses to wipe them. “Because you didn't read what she'd written regarding the mystery man who'd morphed into a stalker. She worried about you—and your safety.” He shook his head, sliding his glasses back in place. “But she didn't harbor bitterness. She wasn't broken. And I'd already adjusted her medication by that point.”

The timbre of his voice turned hoarse, barely audible. And he reached out awkwardly and clasped my hand in his wrinkled one. “Let it go, Shiloh.”

The room fell so quiet I could hear the gentle rattle of the blinds against the window glass as the air-conditioning vent ruffled them.

Time stopped; my eyes riveted to the doctor's gently lined face as he opened his mouth to speak again.

“All of it. Let it all go. Because here's the thing: even if you had caused her death, she would have wanted you to leave all of that behind and go forward. She adored you.” His eyes glistened with fresh tears. “Until our last visit, she couldn't stop talking about how much she loved you.”

I tried to speak, but my throat choked up. And I slid my head into my hands, sobbing.

I could barely compose myself in the restroom, washing my face repeatedly with cold water. Sponging my cheeks with paper towels. Old-style paper towels, brown and rough, cranked from a metal dispenser like the ones in my high school bathroom.

Then I dug in my purse for eye drops and mascara and dabbed some concealer over the red spots.

I looked back at my reflection, the green and gold flecks in my eyes standing out in brilliant tones amid the teary red.

Eyes like Mom's. I ran my fingers over my wet lashes, trying to remember the contour of her eyelids. The graceful slope of her elegant high cheekbones. The sound of her voice, which had diminished so swiftly in my memory over the months that I could barely recall it.

I rinsed my hands in a stream of water, remembering how I'd stood in the Barnes & Noble bathroom at the Staunton Mall a year ago. Talking to my coworker Jamie about life and eternity and Jesus, and feeling my unbelieving, shut-up heart open just a bit against my will, like a crinkly Japanese fan.

And when I believed and prayed to let Jesus in for good and gave Him my heavy burden for His easy one, the weight lifted from my shoulders. I felt washed, clean, new.

Just like Mom, when He set her free.

And now, for the first time in her life, she truly was free. Forever.

I turned off the water and dried my hands then picked up my purse and slipped back into Dr. Geissler's room. He was gathering up his files and checking his watch, and he turned when I came in.

“There, now,” he said in a grandfatherly way, lightly patting my arm. “Doesn't it feel better to know the truth?”

“It does.” I sniffled again, trying to clear my head. The sun slanted through the blinds in a stream of gold, as if I'd stepped into a different room. “I still have more questions about the stalker though. And Amanda Cummings.”

“Amanda Cummings.” His chin bobbed in surprise. “Now there's a name I haven't heard in a while.” His eyes grew fond. “I can't reveal anything about our consultations, but I can tell you this: she could have made something of herself. A smart young lady, that Amanda. A bit of depression, but otherwise in top shape.” He sighed and rocked back in his seat, studying me. “May I…ask you something first?”

“Sure.” I reached for another tissue and folded it into a tiny series of triangles, Japanese-style, one on top of another. My mind still filled with the doctor's hope-filled words.

“Were you aware of a change in your mother's behavior in her last years?”

“You mean related to the stalker?” I unfolded my tissue triangle and wiped my nose.

“No. In her personal life.” The doctor lifted his hands as he tried to explain. “She…changed. Quite a bit. By the time your mother passed away, she'd cut back on some of the depression medications I'd prescribed. Not all, but some. She glowed.” He looked wistfully into the distance. “I'll never forget the day she came into my office with the Gospel of John and told me I needed to be saved.”

“She said that?” I laughed through my tears.

“That and a lot more. She left me a copy of the New Testament and told me to read it.” He chuckled. “It's still up there on my shelf.”

“Did you?”

“No.” He chuckled again. “I admired her spunk and enthusiasm, but I've seen too many broken people to believe there's a God. Cases of abuse and abandonment. Besides, science has pretty much ruled God out anyway. Although…” He massaged his mouth as if in thought. “Although what?”

“When I was younger, I used to think there might be a God, but…” His voice trailed off. “That was a long time ago. I'm an old man now, Shiloh. It's a bit late for somebody like me to change his tune, even if I did believe.”

“You sound like my next-door neighbor.” I heard myself speak again, strong and unexpectedly bold as I scooted forward in the armchair. “It wasn't too late for my mom, and it's isn't for you either. You said yourself that something transformed her life. Well, that's the power of Jesus—and He can change you like He changed her.”

I felt funny using such bold language—like a preacher or something—but to my own surprise, I didn't duck my head or take back my words.

“I don't know. My memory's failing.” Dr. Geissler ran his hand through his white hair, eyes wincing with something like humiliation and sorrow. “If there is a God, He's letting me fall apart, bit by slow bit. I can never forgive Him for that.”

“What if, for argument's sake, you should have lost your memory long before now, but God's giving you extra time so you can reach out to Him and believe?” I shrugged. “Besides, doctor, my friend Becky reminded me that we're all going sometime. What matters is how we've lived—and if we've lived for Him or not.”

I leaned forward, oddly encouraged by his silence. “You mentioned all the broken people you've seen. But what about my mom? What about the way God transformed her from…well, death to life? You can't consider one without the other.”

Dr. Geissler slowly took off his glasses and wiped them again, even though they didn't need any wiping. He let his breath fall in a sigh and then shot me a smile. “I just don't know, Shiloh.”

“Will you read the Bible she left?”

“Think it'll do any good?”

“Sure it will. It changed my life, too—and I'm not an easy nut to crack.” I considered. “Although the nut part is pretty much right.”

He squinted at me. “You sound so certain about what you believe. I'm surprised. You seem a bit too educated for this Gospel stuff. Forgive me if that's offensive.”

“All the education in the world won't matter when God opens His Book of Life to see if my name's written there. If I believed in His Son, Jesus.” I paused to take a breath. “That's all that matters, doctor. And Mom found it. Before I did.”

The room fell so silent I heard the tick of my watch. A muffled voice down the hall, and the slight reverberation of the walls as someone slammed a car door outside.

“I'll think about it.” Dr. Geissler put his glasses back on and turned in his chair to face me. Reaching out to tightly clench my hand in his.

“Promise?”

“I promise. I'll read it, and I'll give it a fair chance.”

He blinked several times and tipped his head as in confusion. “So what were we talking about? Before you left for… Where did you go again?”

“The bathroom?”

“Oh, right.” He smiled, but his eyes still squinted as if trying to remember. “We were discussing…” He adjusted his glasses and leaned over the folder, sorting through the papers.

“My mom. Her stalker.” I swallowed nervously. “You remember, don't you, doctor?”

His hand stopped on a paper, and he jutted his head back with a smile of recognition. “Oh, that's right. Red roses, wasn't it?”

“Precisely. So if all this stalker stuff is true, why didn't Mom go to the police?”

“I told her she should. Repeatedly.”

“So why didn't she?”

“She was afraid to. For two reasons. First of all, if this guy was a fiancé or romantic interest of yours, as he claimed to be, she didn't want to intrude. She felt she'd meddled enough in your life already, and she didn't want to give you more fodder for resentment toward her.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” I waved my hand. “Did you say fiancé?”

“That's correct. He stated on several occasions that the two of you were going to be married.”

“Now that's crazy!” I shook my head vigorously. “I just got engaged this March, and I'd never met Adam until the day of Mom's funeral.”

“Were you engaged before then?”

“I was.” I twisted Adam's silver engagement band on my finger, embarrassed. “But we broke up after I came to Staunton.”

Dr. Geissler gave me a hard look. “And you're certain this first fellow didn't follow you here with a broken heart?”

“Positive. And he broke
my
heart, not the other way around,” I added a bit tartly. “But either way, the dates don't add up. Carlos and I called it quits after Mom's funeral. Not before. And according to you and the postmarks on Mom's letters, all unusual contacts from this unknown man started several months before her death in June.”

Dr. Geissler searched through his file then shrugged. “You're correct. I really don't have any explanation.”