Coming Home Read online

  “No trouble,” the clerk persisted. “It only takes a few days.”

  I won’t be back, she almost said. “I’m from … out of town. Thank you, though.” She forced a smile and hurried toward the door, nearly toppling a floor display of wooden figurines. Just as her hand reached for the doorknob, her eye caught a photo hanging on the wall beside the door. Two gray-haired women stood beside a park gazebo, smiling above the caption: “Mrs. Browning, Palmer Lake’s own award-winning gardener, and Mrs. Robinette, local photographer, historian, and merchant.” Surrounding the personal snapshot were several framed photos of flowers, each including a printed bit of colloquial wisdom.

  “Mrs. Browning is our local gardening magician,” the clerk offered from behind Jessica. “Her roses are the talk of the county. Mrs. Robinette owns the Rock House Ice Cream Shoppe down the street. She took all these pictures and framed them. We’ve been selling ’em for years now.”

  “They’re good,” Jessica murmured. Betty Robinette is still alive… .

  “Real camera buff,” the woman continued. “She’s been here forever. Most of her photos are displayed in the town hall, but she has some different flowers and more photos on her shop wall if you want to see a bigger selection.”

  Jessica’s mind drifted away from the chatty voice beside her, remembering the time when her own picture had been displayed on Mrs. Robinette’s wall. She swallowed before offering an appreciative thank-you, and opened the door.

  Back in her car, she noticed that the park bench was now empty. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her own key chain and studied it—still good as new after all these years. As she started the engine the tiny red slippers clicked softly together again.

  She’d been totally absorbed in the gift shop. What was she thinking? Looking for a key chain, of all things. Would she really have mailed it to him if the shopkeeper had found it? You won’t remember me, but I was that little blond girl next door, and I forgot to give this to you for your twelfth birthday… .

  She swung her head to look over her shoulder and shoved the car into reverse. If she hurried, she could be in Denver in half an hour.

  Suddenly the door of Finders Keepers flew open and the ponytailed clerk burst out the door, cupping a tiny white box in her hands.

  Jessica slowly rolled down the car window.

  “I was afraid you’d left!” the woman called exuberantly. “Look what I found.”

  With dramatic flair, the shopkeeper opened the box, peeled back the tissue paper, and proudly revealed a golden key chain dangling from the neck of a miniature hand-painted Toto, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

  Chapter Four

  JESSIE RECOGNIZED THE STREET that led to her old house, three or four blocks away. She peeked at her watch, then tapped the steering wheel. Get it over with, she finally decided.

  Before shifting into gear, she noticed a young mother wearing a red-striped maternity tunic pushing a stroller. Holding a balloon in her hands, her blond daughter couldn’t have been more than two. Jessie cherished the scene for a moment and was reminded of Brandon’s pointed remark.

  I do have other dreams, Jessie thought, pulling away from the curb.

  Making a complete 180, she crossed Highway 105 and headed west up the gradually ascending hill. As she drove she steeled herself, expecting the worst—an empty lot or maybe even an entirely new home built upon the ashes.

  The trees were taller, bushier, than she remembered; the sidewalks were worn from age and use. Some homes had obviously declined in appearance. When the two-story Victorian house appeared on the left, she parked across the street and stared, strangely relieved. The house was well kept. The white clapboard siding was freshly painted and the lawn neatly mowed.

  On the other hand, Andy’s old house, right next door, looked worn and badly in need of paint, not at all as pristine as when Mrs. McCormick was running the roost.

  You’re here, she reminded herself. There it is. The house really exists. As rampant as her imagination could be at times, she had never imagined how it would feel to return, and it was difficult to think of the old house as anything other than the home of her childhood. And truly, looking at it now, she felt as if she could walk right in that door, climb the stairs, and … what?

  Step back into my past?

  The thread was beginning to unravel. The foundation beneath her feet was coming undone. A mixture of emotions began circling like vultures—old memories fighting for dominance. She searched out the Russian olive tree, remembering the chalky sweet scent, and in spite of the competing thoughts, one memory broke through … and she remembered …

  … walking home after an evening school event … clutching a photo frame, careful not to drop it. It was her favorite picture of her mother, dressed in her nurse’s uniform. To Jessie, her mother looked like an actress dressed for a starring role, and not because she was so beautiful—which she was—but because she looked so real. Her mother had a spunky confident look, as if there weren’t a thing she couldn’t handle. Not a pushy sort of confidence, like Mrs. Roberts, her fifth-grade teacher. It was more like: We can get through anything together. Just take my hand and hold on, sweetie.

  The night air chilled her, and the lampposts looked like frozen statues, glowing with frosty halos. She felt stupid for having gone to the school party and leaving her mom alone. She was in a hurry to get home.

  A block away something spooked Mrs. Finch’s dog, Goober, who barked at the tall pine tree at the edge of the yard. Normally Goober’s barking didn’t bother her, but tonight his constant rowp-rowp was annoying.

  The windows were dark in their two-story Victorian house—the oldest house in Palmer Lake. In the shadows it looked like something out of a Halloween movie, the kind her mother never allowed her to see.

  Jessie stood shivering in the front yard when suddenly Goober stopped barking and the neighborhood fell quiet again, except for the crickets, who were having a party.

  She opened the front door, which prompted another hissy fit from Goober, and propped her foot in the widening gap to prevent Mr. Whiskers from getting out. Mr. Whiskers meowed his displeasure but wasn’t able to slip around Jessie’s stubborn foot. Jessie closed the front door behind her and reached down to console the disappointed mouse catcher, who was now mewing angrily.

  “There are cat catchers out there,” Jessie said, referring to the never-ending supply of red foxes in the area.

  She made her way through the dark living room and replaced her mother’s framed photo on the wall, careful to get it perfectly straight, then headed up the squeaky stairs to the second floor, where her mother would be sleeping. These days, Mom rarely stayed awake past eight o’clock.

  Softly, Jessie pushed against the door. It whispered open, thanks to her latest administration of WD-40. She held her breath as if that would help matters. The room was dark, but she recognized the still form propped against the pillows, the pale white arms gently folded, the wheelchair leaning against the wall. The arms flinched and the shadowy figure leaned up. Her mother’s recently washed hair glimmered in the dim hallway light.

  “Jessie?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No … I was dozing. How did it go tonight?”

  “It was boring.”

  Her mother extended her hand. “Come, sit by me.”

  Jessie crossed the room. Her mother’s once smooth and soft hand had acquired a pasty, sweaty texture, but Jessie gripped it tightly anyway, unafraid of what it meant, refusing the repulsion.

  Jessie sat on the edge of the bed. Slowly her eyes grew accustomed to the dim room, and she recognized the dark circles around her mother’s eyes. Each morning, Jessie applied cover-up for her mother, but by evening, most of the makeup was worn off.

  “They had cookies and punch.”

  “Were they good cookies?”

  Her mom knew her well. Jessie was very picky when it came to cookies. “Raisin oatmeal. Can you believe it? Of all the cookies in the world.” />
  Wrinkling her nose in agreement, Mom said, “Too bad they didn’t have chocolate chip. What were they thinking?”

  Mom’s eyes sparkled when she smiled. In spite of everything, nothing could change that smile. No matter how ill, there was power behind Mom’s smile. But the cheerful expression faded, and Mom’s eyes turned shiny like lip gloss. She sniffled slightly, quickly, as if trying to disguise the pain, smiling hard at the end of each sniff.

  Jessie was on to her. “I’m glad you didn’t go, Mom. You didn’t miss anything. I should have stayed home, too. We could have finished Beauty and the Beast.”

  Mom nodded, but a cautious look crept onto her face. “Your father told me about the missing picture.”

  “Well … some of the other kids haven’t met you yet. And the picture looks just like you.”

  “Did you find one of your dad?” Mom asked graciously.

  Jessie bit her lip and thought about that. “Everyone knows Dad from the gas station.”

  Nodding again, Mom gently stroked Jessie’s arm. “He loves us very much, honey… .”

  Jessie shrugged, letting her gaze drift to the pink bedspread and sheets. Since this was her mother’s favorite color, Jessie made sure the pink sheets were always freshly laundered.

  “Dad works very hard to make up for the loss of my income.

  He’s under a lot of stress and doesn’t talk things out like we do because he never learned how. We have to be patient with him. When I’m better, he’ll get better, too.”

  “No, he won’t, Mom. He won’t change.”

  “We have to believe in him, too, sweetie,” her mother said, smiling wistfully. “There’s a whole other side to your dad you don’t remember, but I know it well.”

  Jessie sighed, feeling guilty. “I’ll try better, Mom.”

  “That’s all I can ask for, sweetie.”

  They hugged tightly, and Jessie felt her own tears struggle to the surface, beginning in her throat and moving up to her face. Mom whispered a giggle. It sounded so strange that Jessie broke free to catch her mother’s expression. “What?”

  “We’re quite the pathetic pair, you know.”

  Jessie smiled, wiping her face, the sudden tension fading from her shoulders and face. “I’m proud of our … pathetic … ness.”

  Mom’s face broke into a grin, the dark circles melting into the tight gray flesh surrounding her eyes. They fell into each other’s arms again, this time laughing without restraint. For a moment things were normal again.

  Jessie broke away and locked eyes with Mom as hard as she could, as if she could heal her by her will and desire alone. They were looking into each other’s souls, and a sense of knowing passed between them, as it often did, a sense of connection, as if no secrets separated them, as if they were one person. It was the weirdest feeling and yet the happiest feeling in the world—this sense of closeness with someone who knew you best and yet loved you totally. Jessie actually pitied other kids who had normal moms.

  She also pitied herself, because another part of her wished her mother were normal. Like Michelle’s mom, who yelled a lot and had a sarcastic sense of humor. Or Andy’s mom, who looked at Jessie with unforgiving eyes, as if something were wrong with her because her mother was sick. Or Cindy’s mom, who practically lived at the country club and was always late picking Cindy up. Sometimes Jessie wouldn’t have minded having a mom who wasn’t so cool, just to have a mom who wasn’t so sick.

  Then it happened again, as it often did. Mom’s eyes twitched, not on the outside but from the inside. And then, like the flicking off of a light switch, they turned vacant. She closed them momentarily, then opened them again and frowned, as if confused and scared.

  “Mom?”

  “Jessie?”

  “Mom?”

  “You’re home?”

  Jessie shuddered, her heart sinking, but she sucked it up. “I went to school tonight,” she said, forcing a painful smile and swallowing the lump in her throat.

  Mom smiled back sleepily. “Oh yes … tell me about it.”

  “Sure,” Jessie said. “They had cookies… .”

  A small panic trickled through her veins, and Jessie placed both hands on the steering wheel, steadying herself. She remembered once as a little girl holding a cracked glass in the palm of her hand and feeling the water seep out the bottom. The sensation had frightened her. The glass was ruined, wasn’t it? Just throw it away. But no, she couldn’t. She’d become obsessed with the leak. She tried masking tape, glue, duct tape, clay, but nothing worked. The more she tried, the more determined she became. In the end, the water dissipated, leaving an empty container, and Jessie wept. It’s just a glass! she told herself.

  Now the old feelings were back as if they had been floating in the air somehow. The thread was unraveling at an alarming rate. She removed her hands from the wheel of temptation. Just drive away, Jess! She hugged herself, but the whirlpool continued to spin….

  “I’m floundering here …” she whispered, her voice a barely audible squeak.

  What’s the matter with me? she thought for the thousandth time.

  Kids lose their parents. You cherish the good times. You move on. You grow up.

  But here she was, little Jessie, still refusing to grow up. Her body was racked by such emotional heaves she wondered if she were becoming physically ill. Tossing her sunglasses to the passenger seat, she clutched her stomach. It was like riding a roller coaster. Up, down, twisting this way and that …

  Twenty minutes later she was still sitting there, eyes closed. She knew her eyelids were swollen as if stung by invisible bees. She took long, deep breaths, exhaling slowly. The inside of the car was stuffy with her body heat.

  “Mom …” she whispered again, the panic as thick as a rock in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll get through this and I will make you proud. I promise.”

  Just when it seemed as if she were descending again, Jessie was granted a reprieve. The old “knowing” washed over her, as it had so many times, like a physical touch, and in spite of its familiarity, shivers sparked up and down her spine. She jerked to look behind her, but no one was there. As quickly as the feeling came, it passed. Jessie felt a shudder of emptiness. She sighed, appraising the house again, a place that had once given her a sense of complete and utter security.

  Surely some brave soul lived there now. Surely the circumstances of her father’s death couldn’t haunt the place. Perhaps she might summon the courage to visit with the new owners, whoever had carefully painted the siding and religiously mowed the lawn.

  Jessie inhaled deeply. After checking up and down the street, she pushed the car door open and headed for the house, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. She suddenly remembered Mrs. Graybill from across the street, whose nose had been pasted to her front window and who seemed to know everything about everyone on their block. As a child Jessie had been constantly aware of being watched by her nosy neighbor, who probably didn’t mean any harm, but whose observation made Jessie feel as if her life were lived in a fishbowl.

  Even Mom would humorously caution her, “Dress warm, sweetie. Or Mrs. Graybill will wonder what kind of mother you have.”

  Halfway up the sidewalk she paused at the cement step her dad had replaced. She remembered watching him mix the cement and pour it into a form made out of wood from the garage. Afterward he’d invited her to press her tiny fingers into the moist and gritty cement, leaving her mark for future generations to ponder. Instead, here she was coming back and pondering it herself. Oblivious to curious onlookers, Jessie knelt on one knee, studying the edge of the step—recognizing her faint imprint.

  Jessie rose and once again appraised the front door, aware of a gathering conflict between curiosity and fear. Heart thudding in her ears, she climbed the porch steps, and before she could change her mind, knocked on the screen door, the same one she’d peeked back through when Andy would beg her to ride bikes—nearly every day. But that was nothing compared to a deeper realization.
She turned to the street, and her mind did a weird click and whirr …

  It was as if she’d never left. She was still the same little girl, coming home every day to make sure her mother was alive, believing that everything was going to be okay. The old hopes … the old beliefs were in the air … floating around, unfinished somehow as if the power of her twelve-year-old determination had been so intense that she’d actually made a physical impression upon this place. She could feel it infusing her again, like putting on an old coat, warm to the touch, soothing to her soul. Hope wasn’t dead. Not yet. My mother is still alive… .

  Jessie slumped to the porch step and with both hands clasped her neck, leaning her head into her elbows, rocking back and forth—nearly curling into a ball right there in her old neighborhood, and for a moment she didn’t care who saw it. She was losing it again.

  It’s over! Jessie repeated to herself, over and over again. She’s gone! They’re both gone! Dead and buried!

  But the most startling thought occurred to her, strange enough to snap her out of her morbid self-pity: Your mother was never buried … remember?

  It came to her so suddenly she had to ponder it a second before dismissing it as one of her imaginative ramblings.

  Chapter Five

  ANDY MCCORMICK sucked in a deep breath, reached up, and grasped the bar. Shifting his shoulders, he exhaled and for a moment questioned his sanity. Two-seventy was twenty pounds more than his normal routine.

  “Ready?” Chris asked, leaning over him.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Andy pushed up, then allowed the bar to sink within an inch of his chest, and for a split second saw the headlines: Denver Man Bites Off More Than He Can Chew … Freak Accident Beheads Him.

  Andy pushed up again, stopping short of locking his elbows. Then again, and again, five times in a row. Fortunately, with Chris spotting him, Andy was protected from his overeager aspirations.

  “Enough?” Chris asked, grasping the bar.

  Andy grunted, and with Chris’s help, guided the bar back to the holder. Sitting up to catch his breath, he wiped his face with the back of his leather-gloved hand.