Coming Home Read online

  Andy cringed. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He saw the end from the beginning. If Marilyn knew the truth about him, she’d be thankful—very thankful—that he’d declined her invitation.

  “So … what was so bad about Jessie?” Andy finally asked, playfully taunting his mother.

  His mother bristled. “Oh, honey. That little girl was so messed up after her parents died. She ran away, you know. They never found her.”

  Andy broke into a grin. “C’mon, Mom, you’re exaggerating. Of course they found her.”

  “Her poor grandmother, what was her name? Doris Crenshaw. What she went through!”

  “Did you ever meet her grandmother?” he asked.

  “Nothing wrong with that woman.”

  His dad weighed in. “She was a bit high strung, dear.”

  “She was from the East, you know. I understand her.”

  Andy met his father’s gaze and they both roared. “Of course!” Andy exclaimed, and his father echoed, “The East! You and she are practically sisters.”

  “New England’s a small place,” she argued, squinting her eyes at the puzzle, which only got them going again.

  “Laugh it up, big boys, but you know as well as I do that Jessica Lehman will spend the rest of her life trying to recover, and that’s it in a nutshell. I hate to think of what’s become of her. The Lord bless her.”

  With that, a whisper of silence fell over them. Andy nodded and so did his dad. His mother seemed more than a little relieved when their conversation took a more benign turn, the question of “Whatever became of little Jessie?” forgotten.

  Chapter Six

  JESSIE KNOCKED AGAIN. When no one answered she gave up and headed for the car. She was crossing the lawn when she heard the slam of a screen door to her right. Startled, she turned toward “Andy’s” house, and for a split second she thought she saw him running across the yard, “Hey, Jess! Let’s ride bikes!”

  Instead, she saw a big dog—larger than a German shepherd—come flying off the front steps, barking so furiously that saliva splattered from its mouth.

  Oh boy, she thought.

  A brown-haired girl bolted out the door after it. “Molly! Molly, come here!”

  Oh girl, Jessie corrected herself.

  Jessie froze as Molly the dog tore up the ground between devourer and devouree. Prepared to cover her throat at the last moment, she braced for impact. Molly came to an abrupt halt within five feet of Jessie, continuing to bark furiously. More saliva scattered. Jessie was still frozen solid when the young girl ran up behind Molly and grabbed the collar. “Down, Molly! Stop it!”

  Wearing denim overalls, a light blue T-shirt, and dirty white tennis shoes, the stranger almost fell over her giant pet. It took all her weight to restrain the dog, leaning backward until Molly whined loudly. Finally the dog gave in and shuffled back, growling from the back of her throat. The girl nearly collapsed with exhaustion.

  “She’s too big for me,” she complained, leaning over to catch her breath. “I need a poodle instead.”

  “Is it safe for me to leave?” Jessie asked, smiling through the fear.

  The girl shook her head. “Maybe not. She might start barking again. Let me carry her home first.”

  Carry her?

  Molly’s growl had shifted to a low vibration. The girl tugged at Molly’s collar again, but the dog was fixed like cement. “C’mon, girl. Quit terrorizing the neighborhood.”

  Jessie crouched down, her eyes meeting Molly’s. The dog sniffed and growled, looking away.

  “Careful,” the girl cautioned. “I think she’s upset because you’re hanging out at her house.”

  “Her house?”

  “Yeah, she’s claimed it.”

  “Claimed it?”

  “You know how a dog—”

  “I get the idea,” Jessie said, smiling. Molly took a couple of hesitant steps toward Jessie, sniffing warily.

  “Molly, stop it!”

  Jessie opened her palms and extended her hand.

  “Careful, lady, she doesn’t like …”

  Molly began licking Jessie’s hand. She placed a gentle finger under Molly’s chin and began scratching. In the wink of an eye, Molly was a changed dog.

  The girl looked astonished. “How did you do that?”

  Jessie smiled. “Tell me your name and I’ll tell you my secret.”

  “Laura,” she said after a slight hesitation. “My mom got her to, you know, protect us at night. We picked her out at the pound. Mom thought a mean dog would be best, but we didn’t realize how mean Molly was. My mom can barely go near her.” Laura raised her eyebrows. It looked cute and inquisitive. “So … your turn.”

  “Simple,” Jessie replied, now rubbing Molly’s ears. “Molly knows me.”

  Laura looked confused. “Huh?”

  Jessie nodded toward the house. “I used to live there.”

  “In the haunted house?”

  “Why do you call it haunted?”

  Laura shrugged. “Because it looks lived in, but it’s not. ’Least not by anyone you can see.”

  Jessie looked back at the house, and the vaguely disturbing details clicked. Not what she saw—the painted siding and manicured lawn—but what she didn’t see. No toys in the yard, no cars, no bicycles, no flowers …

  By this time Molly had dropped to the ground and was offering her underside to Jessie for a tummy rub. She obliged.

  “Unbelievable,” Laura said again, hands on her hips, shaking her head. “You’re Batwoman.”

  “I was friends with every dog in this town,” Jessie explained. “Has anyone ever lived there?” she asked, gesturing toward her house.

  “Not since we’ve been here,” Laura replied.

  The wind had picked up considerably, and a soft clanging sound broke through the Sunday afternoon stillness. Another memory flickered at the edge of her mind.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?” Laura asked suddenly. Jessie shrugged. “They puff up sometimes.”

  “Cool.”

  “Oh … yeah,” Jessie murmured wryly.

  Laura shrugged. “When did you live there?”

  “Twelve years ago.”

  “Wow. I’m only ten!”

  “I was best friends with the boy who lived in your house,” Jessie said, pulling Molly’s ears down, sending her to doggy heaven. “You probably have his room, you know, the one on the second floor… .” Jessie pointed toward Andy’s window.

  Laura’s eyes grew wide. “No way!”

  “Way,” Jessie rebutted, laughing.

  “Are you … it can’t be … are you Jessie?”

  “How’d you know?”

  Laura giggled. “This is so cool. I always wondered who Jessie was and here you are, you just show up! That’s so cool!”

  Jessie laughed with her, but her curiosity was bursting at the seams.

  “It’s in my room,” Laura explained. “My closet. It’s carved in the wood, you know, behind the door.”

  “What is?”

  “Your name.”

  Jessie had forgotten how she and Andy had secretly carved their names with his pocketknife. Mrs. McCormick had not been pleased, mostly because Jessie had been in Andy’s room. And then she heard the flagpole clanging.

  “Was he your boyfriend or something?”

  “No.” Again, the ringing of the flagpole. “We were only twelve or so.”

  “Well … I’m only ten,” Laura said again, as if twelve were plenty old.

  “Don’t you hear that?” Jessie asked.

  “Sure, that’s the flagpole at my school. Noisy, isn’t it?”

  Jessie nodded. “That’s where I used to wait for him. Then we’d walk home after school together.”

  Laura smiled slyly, “You liked him, didn’t you?”

  “How old are you again?”

  “I told you already,” Laura said, kneeling to help rub Molly. “I like Robby,” she whispered.

  “Robby, huh? Does he like you back?”r />
  “I don’t know,” Laura said, shrugging. “Sometimes, he acts weird around me, like yesterday when he stole my chocolate chip cookie and I had to chase him around the lunchroom to get it back.”

  “Annoying, huh?”

  “He can be so annoying,” Laura said.

  “He likes you,” Jessie announced with a grin.

  Laura brightened. “You think?”

  “I know.” She paused. “But you’re way too young to have a boyfriend. You need to wait … twenty years or so.”

  Laura made a face. “Twenty years? I’ll be …” She concentrated hard. “I’ll be …”

  “You’ll be old enough to pick out a really nice boy who won’t break your heart.”

  “All the cute ones’ll be taken by then.”

  “Good point.”

  “I like ghost stories,” Laura admitted suddenly, as if explaining her fascination with the house.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t read so many of them, sweetie.”

  “Maybe you’re a ghost!” Laura exclaimed. “I mean, for all I know, you died and you’ve come back to haunt your old house.”

  Jessie winced. “So I’m dead now?”

  “And you wouldn’t even know it,” Laura replied matter-offactly, as if offering common knowledge. “And maybe that’s why Molly likes you, because dogs can see ghosts, you know. And ghosts come back to their favorite places. Maybe next time I’ll see you at the flagpole.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you said you waited there a lot. Maybe that’s why you really came back. You know, to keep waiting there … for Andy. That’s what a ghost does; it keeps doing the things it used to do when it was alive.”

  “Sweetie …” Jessie began. Laura had taken this ghost idea way too far.

  “I know, I know,” Laura said, shrugging. “Mom says I’m mental.”

  Jessie reached out and touched Laura’s shoulder gently, putting as much comfort as she could into the small gesture. “Does that feel like a ghost?”

  Laura met Jessie’s eyes, and her own eyes glistened for a moment. She shook her head. “No …”

  Jessie heard the sound of Andy’s screen door, and then a woman’s voice. Even Molly flinched.

  “Laura, get over here—now!”

  Jessie removed her hand, and Laura looked terrified. She studied Jessie and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mom doesn’t like me talking to strangers.”

  She pulled at Molly’s collar, and the dog scrambled reluctantly to her feet. When Laura got to her concrete steps, she turned and waved. Jessie stood to her feet and smiled reassuringly, but Laura’s mother only glared back.

  “Molly got out,” Laura explained, climbing the steps.

  Her mother swatted her backside. “You didn’t finish the kitchen. Get in there, young lady. How many times have I—”

  “Aw, Mom—”

  “—told you, Laura—”

  The screen door slammed behind them, but suddenly Laura popped out again.

  “Laura!” her mother yelled from within the house.

  Laura squinted as if Jessie might have suddenly disappeared. Then she brightened and waved again. Jessie waved back, trying to appear very solid. The little girl’s smile increased and then an arm, like a hook in a melodramatic vaudeville stage show, yanked her back into the house.

  Jessie sighed and returned to her car. She stared back at the house, the home of her childhood, apparently just as solid but uninhabited. It made no sense. But she was happy with her renewed sense of perspective, and meeting Laura had snapped her out of her self-pity.

  She started the ignition, the car keys swinging. A strange notion occurred to her. She reached down and grasped the keys. No way, she thought, then smiled. She turned off the ignition and pondered the possibility.

  Twelve years ago she’d placed the only key she owned on the key ring Andy had given her for her birthday. It was impossible to imagine, but she flipped through the keys anyway, one by one—her apartment key, car key, trunk key, storage key … and another key she hadn’t used for years.

  She stared at it, unbelieving. What else could it be? Yeah, but it’s a little freaky, she thought. Even for you. She looked back at the vacant house. It had acquired an almost sinister appearance.

  What’s the point? Jessie decided.

  Checking her watch, she saw that the time had slipped away. Four o’clock. Too late to get back on the road. If she drove north now, she wouldn’t make it as far as Cheyenne, and she didn’t like the idea of staying in small-town hotels. Denver was her best choice, which gave her time for a quick visit with her old friend. Just now, the idea didn’t seem nearly as daunting as it had an hour ago.

  Chapter Seven

  THE ROCK HOUSE Ice Cream Shoppe had been constructed from red cement and small boulders—like giant peanuts in raspberry ice cream. Attached to the back of the shop was a small addition, displaying antiques and knickknacks. According to the signs, customers could feast on two scoops of delicious ice cream in the shop up front, then peruse an assortment of antique plates, bottles, glasses, and silverware in back. They might even purchase a rustic turn-of-the-century ice-cream maker.

  Entering the busy shop, Jessie automatically placed her open hand behind her back, catching the screen door. Instead of banging against the frame, it twapped against her hand. Old habits never die.

  The aroma of vanilla and cinnamon filled her senses. The blackand-white floor tile, yellowed and scuffed with age, felt hard beneath her white sandals. Directly in front of her, beyond the line of parents and children, a glass-enclosed display offered an assortment of ice-cream flavors. Several high school girls were taking customer orders and ringing up their totals. Behind them was the menu board, advertising chili dogs and hamburgers, apple pie and cinnamon buns, and beyond that the food kitchen. Little had changed.

  Jessie nervously swept her gaze past the short hallway leading to the antique room—then to the wall on the right. Dominated from top to bottom by a collage of photos, it was a mosaic of faces. There were pictures of happy families, giggling children, and cranky old gentlemen eating ice cream, fishing by the lake, sitting at picnic benches. All posed for the trusty camera of the town historian, Betty Robinette. Photos of flowers, framed and priced, were intermixed with the other photos.

  A thin woman who looked to be about eighty emerged from a back room, wiping her hands on a towel. She wore a green apron tied tightly over a white T-shirt, her white hair confined by a thin mesh netting. She had a tiny nose and chin, and her heart-shaped face seemed shrunken with deep wrinkles. Her pinkish lips were stark against her pale white skin, but her eyes were kind and gentle with a hint of no-nonsense scrutiny. She wore glasses around her neck for close viewing, just as Jessie had remembered.

  Betty Robinette delivered a plate of chili and hot dogs to a waiting family, then retreated to the back again. When Jessie’s turn at the counter finally came, one of the young girls in matching green aprons took her order. Jessie asked for a single dip of pistachio, then wandered over to the wall of photos, licking her cone.

  She recognized many of the faces—neighbors from long ago and classmates who had grown up but apparently never left the sleepy town. After a bit, it occurred to her that she was looking at friendships she might have nurtured, memories she might have made, a past that might have been.

  Eventually people began to leave, and just a trickle of customers remained. Jessie was still standing at the wall, lost in the pictures, when she was startled by a familiar voice behind her. “Like my artwork?”

  Jessie turned to see Betty Robinette, only a few feet away, her right hand gripping a cane. The woman stood there motionless, looking proud, and then her eyes flickered. She frowned, scrutinizing Jessie’s face.

  Jessie opened her mouth to introduce herself but stopped. Betty was already smiling broadly. “Well, I’ll be. Is that you, Jessie?”

  Jessie broke into a smile. “I didn’t think—”

  “That I’d remember you?
Oh, for pete’s sake. Stop talking and give me a hug.”

  Jessie melted into her arms. Her old friend smelled the same but felt much smaller. The Mrs. Robinette she remembered was a towering woman. People seem bigger when you’re a kid, Jessie realized.

  “How’s Mr. Robinette?”

  “Oh, he got to go a few years back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jessie whispered.

  “Weak heart, you know,” she said. “He didn’t suffer, thank the Lord.”

  She held Jessie by the arms, examining her face. “You look wonderful, Jessie. Look at you, all grown up. It’s so good to see you. I’ve been hoping you’d come back.”

  Jessie suppressed a smile. In spite of her kind manner, Betty was never one for mincing words.

  “I’m just passing through,” Jessie hedged. “I’m on my way out to Oregon for grad school. Just thought I’d stop by.”

  “I’ve been so worried about you. I’ve called your grandmother for years, but …” She hesitated.

  Jessie shrugged, knowing that if Betty had kept in touch with her grandmother, she would be aware of the estrangement. It was an awkward moment. Betty glanced away, nodding thoughtfully. She pointed at her wall. “Did you find yourself?”

  “You mean I’m still up there?”

  Studying the photos near the middle of the wall, Betty placed her glasses on the end of her tiny nose. She crooked her head back, peering downward through the lenses, then tapped a photo of a brown-haired boy and a blond girl straddling bikes. The two held up ice-cream cones like trophies, smiling at the camera.

  It really happened, Jessie thought again, feeling terribly honored.

  Twelve years later, I’m still there… .

  “Remember how you kids used to come by after school?”

  Jessie nodded, lost in the picture. It was like a trigger sparking more long-forgotten memories. Or a line of dominoes, each memory falling into the next.

  “You loved bubble-gum ice cream. Can’t give the stuff away now, but you practically lived on it.”