Where Mercy Flows (16 page)

When we were somewhat alone, Lindsey leaned toward me and whispered, “So, what’s the plan? Are you ever going to go talk to
him?”

“What’s he doing now?”

She glanced casually in his direction. “The line is broken up. Some people are talking to him. Uh-oh. Some girl is dragging
him to the dance floor.”

I stole a look. “It’s Glinda, Good Witch of the North.”

Lindsey giggled. “You’re right! She looks just like her. All she needs is a magic wand.”

“And some ruby slippers.” I refused to ogle. “Is he liking it?”

She observed for a while. “I don’t know. He’s looking around a lot.”

“Maybe someone told him I’m here.”

“Probably.”

“Would you get me a glass of champagne? Please?”

“No. You don’t drink alcohol anymore, remember? Why don’t you go get yourself some punch?”

“Because I don’t want to walk by the dance floor. Not yet. Can you get me some punch?”

She decided to oblige me. She left the table, and I gathered up handfuls of glitter stars just to pass the time and dumped
them into the contents of her purse. I knew she would find them stuck to things for months. After a few songs, the best man
took the microphone from the band and summoned all the single ladies up front. The bride was about to throw her bouquet. What
was taking Lindsey so long? I finally spied her off in a corner laughing with a bunch of friends, two forgotten and empty
glasses resting in her hands.

I scanned the room. Tim was nowhere to be seen. With the current distraction on the dance floor, I decided this was as good
a time as any to nose out of the harbor. I held in my stomach (although Lindsey’s boa constrictor of a skirt did the job quite
well), stuck out my chest and meandered my way around tables until I reached the beverage bar. A black-vested waiter made
small talk as he poured the bubbly pink liquid. I was nice and got a glass for Lindsey too.

A crowd had gathered to watch the bouquet toss, blocking the way to my seat. I detoured across a corner of the dance floor.
Suddenly, my right heel caught the strap of my left shoe. I felt myself lurch forward. In a split second of horror the glasses
shot from my hands. I dove, half running toward the bevy of wanna-be brides. The bouquet slapped me in the chest and I was
down! Flat on my face. Derriere in the air. Skirt split from north to south like a dinner bun.

When I lifted my head, I saw shoes. Lots of pointy shoes pointing right at me. Someone had the decency to throw a jacket over
my exposed behind. The crowd was impressed. They whistled and cheered. “Nice catch!” “Hey, we need her on our team!” More
laughter and applause. A biker helped me to my feet and perfect strangers patted my back and called me things like “Tiger”
and “Champ.”

I was too stunned to speak. My heart flapped like a bird against a window. Lindsey hadn’t even noticed. She was still in the
far corner chattering with her friends. A couple of caterers mopped up the dance floor and the band began to play. The biker
still supported my arm. He had a tattoo of Jesus on his biceps and underneath it were the words “Forgiven and Free.” He asked
if I was okay. “I just need some air,” I said, tying the jacket around my waist. “Thank you.” I headed for the balcony door,
almost running into Glinda.She tossed her frizzy blond hair over her shoulder and sneered.

“Well, I guess you wanted it worse than I did.” She looked down at the mangled bunch of roses and gardenias that I was surprised
to see still in my hand.

“Oh, go to Kansas.” I pushed her aside and stepped out into the salty air.

Invisible seabirds called intermittently from the water below, occasionally flapping their wings and scooting across its black
surface. A spotlight mounted under a corner eave of the country club’s roof was the only moon reflected on the rippled bay.
I slouched in a wooden deck chair with my shoeless feet propped up on the rail, trying to calm my breathing. With a shiver
I pulled the tuxedo jacket up over my shoulders. It smelled of men’s cologne.

My heart hurt. I wanted Lindsey to come find me. I wanted to go home. The band played rock songs from another decade and even
through the closed doors I heard the happy voices of wedding guests. I wondered if they were still talking about the crazy
woman who tackled the bouquet. I was crazy. No doubt about it. Why did I come? What in God’s green acres was I thinking? My
life was a series of blunders as long as a freight train passing noisily before my eyes. One mistake after another after another.
At the time I had not discerned whether I was the engineer or the one standing passively on the back porch of the caboose.

A door opened. I slid lower in the big deck chair and feigned an intense interest in something off to my right. A breeze brought
a whiff of seaweed and other residue discarded by high tide. Someone wandered out. I could feel the person standing near me,
probably looking out over the rail.

“I thought you hated weddings.”

My head snapped in the direction of the voice.

“You always said they were boring.” Tim’s arms rested casually on the railing. He glanced over his right shoulder. “This one
was until a little while ago.” He was almost close enough to reach out and touch.

I swore under my breath. He saw me! He must have seen the whole humiliating thing. “Somebody had to liven things up. I did
what I could.”

His eyes still crinkled at the corners when he almost smiled. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and part of his bow tie peeked
from his trouser pocket. “What’s new, Sam?”

I sat up and breathed deeply to still the trembling. “What’s new since when? Since last time I saw you?”

He shrugged and squinted out over the bay. I wished I hadn’t said that. The last time I saw Tim, he was standing in the doorway
of my hospital room, his eyes burning with pain and anger, and then the fire went cold. I held another man’s son in my arms
and watched my destiny walk away. He still had his back to me. After all the conversations I had imagined over the past five
years, not one remnant came to mind. I stood and leaned on the rail within five feet of him. “I’m staying at my parents’ place
for a while. TJ and I. That’s my son. He’s five now.” His lack of response made me nervous. “Sarah looks happy. Where did
she meet this guy?”

Tim pulled a shelled peanut from his pocket and pitched it. There was a faint plop about ten feet offshore, which caused the
invisible seabirds to complain and scatter. “At her church. It’s kind of a biker church. The pastor is an ex-Bandido, born-again
comedian. Ross is the PK.”

“The what?”

“Preacher’s kid. Pretty cool guy. He plays the drums on Sunday mornings. Sarah plays bass guitar.”

“Oh.” There was a long awkward pause. “My sister said you’ve been in Oregon.”

He nodded. “I have a place at Grants Pass. Just a cabin, really. But I’ve got it fixed up the way I like it, and it has a
big shop. I drove a log truck for the past few years. Also did a stint as a river guide on the Deschutes.”

“Really? That sounds fun.”

“It was. Never a dull day. The scenery was beautiful, always changing. I saw deer and bear and other wildlife all the time.”
He got quiet on me and flicked at some peeling paint on the rail. “Yeah, it was lots of fun—until a lady popped out of my
raft in white water and we found her body three hours later wrapped around a submerged tree. The river never looked the same
to me after that.” He turned to glare at me. “Funny how one little incident can change your whole perspective on things.”

I returned his gaze. “Tim. I’ve wanted to tell you . . . I know I screwed up big time, and I want you to know I’m sorry. I
never meant to—”

With a scowl he hurled another peanut over the rail. “Save it, Sam. I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’ve got to hear it! Just let me get it off my chest, okay?” I took advantage of his silence. “I’ve waited more than five
years for a chance to explain. I should have told you what happened with Tijuana.” His jaw clenched. “It happened one time.
One time.
You’ve got to believe that. And I regretted it from that moment on. I thought the baby was yours. In fact, I still think of
him as yours. I always have.”

“Well, you have twisted thinking. You always have.”

A door opened and the band grew instantly louder. Glinda, of all people, stepped out. “Oh, there you are.” She smiled sweetly,
swished her powder-blue taffeta fanny up to the rail next to Tim and took his arm possessively. “I thought you went out to
hang cans off the car.” She pretended to just notice me. “Oh, hello.”

“Luanne, this is Samantha.” Tim was at least civil.

She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you. Samantha . . . ?”

“Weatherbee.”

She seemed relieved. “Weatherbee! Oh, you’re related! And where are you from, Samantha?”

“Nevada.”

“Oh, you came a long way! That was quite a catch you made in there. You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

Her game was getting old. “I twisted my ankle, bruised both knees and scraped my wrist.” I held up the mutilated bouquet triumphantly
and a clump of rosebuds fell out. “But it was worth it. I really needed one of these.”

She must have detected some cynicism in my voice. Her lips spread into one of those straight smiles you give someone just
before you insult them. “Looks like your skirt was too tight, too.”

“Not anymore.” I bent over and flashed my leopard panties her way. “See?” I straightened and smiled a smile just as syrupy
as hers.

She gasped and cast a horrified look toward Tim. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I detected an amused smirk on his face before
he turned away.

“See ya later, Sam.”

She escorted him back to the door and then stopped. “Isn’t that your tux jacket, Tim?”

“Oh, yeah.” His eyes met mine. “That’s okay. Just leave it on a chair or something when you go.”

A
LL THAT NEXT WEEK the clouds hung low. Raindrops fell consistently by my window like someone had turned the sprinkler on and
left for vacation. Except for Wednesday. Then the rain shot straight down as if God had His thumb on the hose.

The rain suited my mood.

I had made a fool of myself in front of Tim, not to mention his mother and everyone else close to him. Oh, the things they
must be saying about me—Tim’s estranged wife, making her first appearance in over seven years! It occurred to me that my dramatic
dive into the bevy of bouquet-grabbing bachelorettes had been captured on video camera. I imagined the delighted guffaws and
squeals of laughter that my performance would bring to the Weatherbee family and friends for years to come as they played
the scene forward and back in slow motion and possibly freeze-frame at the moment my body and the coveted bouquet made contact
with the hardwood floor. Hopefully there was not a close-up of the gaping split in Lindsey’s tight black skirt.

But I had seen Tim. Face-to-face. He was no longer the elusive ghost I had glimpsed in every crowd. He was real, and he was
right here in Darlington, only fifteen minutes up the road. There was a glimmer of hope now. If only he could forgive me.
If he could love me again, surely I could learn to love myself. The gnawing void inside me would be filled. Then, of course,
my only little challenge would be to survive my physical heart condition.

I awoke from a nap to find the house quiet except for subdued male voices behind the door of my father’s study. I was happy
to see Matt’s car in the driveway. He hadn’t been up to the river for over a month.

Matt had always been an uncle to me, though we weren’t related in any way. The thing I liked best about him was that he seemed
to favor me over Lindsey, which was rare. Matt never expected me to make empty small talk. We used to sit on the porch and
whittle (he brought me a pocketknife with three blades and an ivory handle) with long minutes going by without one of us saying
a word. He’s the one I confided in after I found out I was unnecessarily adopted. I told him that by the time my parents found
out they didn’t need me, it was too late. They already had me and then along came Lindsey. Their own flesh and blood and cute
as a blue-eyed kitten. Matt used to laugh at me a lot, but it was not a mean laugh. He told me I was special in my own way,
which I didn’t take as a compliment at first because I thought he meant special like the retarded class at school. After a
while, though, I understood what he meant.

I thought I heard Matt and the Judge arguing. That was unusual. I rose from my bed and listened from my bedroom door. Their
voices hushed and were drowned by the sounds of rain pelting the roof and windows.

Mom and TJ must have gone to do some shopping. I walked barefoot to the kitchen and opened a can of tomato soup. As I stood
by the stove, stirring, watching the walls of water beyond each window, I had the sensation of being trapped in a submarine,
pressed below the surface by a fleet of enemy warships. Claustrophobic. My Jeep hadn’t been out of the garage for weeks. Everyone
else came and went while I sat here like part of the furniture, hoping for the phone to ring. Waiting for someone to die.
Waiting to live.

Somewhere, some healthy person was going about her day without giving a thought to the fact that she marked the
yes
box on her driver’s license application where it asks if you want to be an organ donor. I pictured a woman about my age jumping
in her car just to run to the store. Maybe for something she doesn’t really need, like the Sunday paper or a double tall latte.
Something she could have lived without.

What if her husband is still sleeping, so she doesn’t bother to say good-bye? What if they argued last night and now she regrets
everything she said? She will bring him the paper and a latte of his own and they will sit on the couch with their toes touching
and then she plans to tell him she is sorry. Then she will tell him that he is the earth beneath her and the stars above and
everything in between. And then, just as the light turns green and she starts across the intersection, a truck hurtles itself
out of nowhere. There is no time to react. Crash! The horrible sound of crumpling metal and shattered glass. Silence. And
she doesn’t even know what happens after that. She never knows another thing, because just that fast she is gone. She is pronounced
dead at the scene—or at least brain-dead.