“Irene Hummel told me.”
“And who’s Irene Hummel?”
“The woman who adopted me.”
Bonnie shook her head. “Now I know that’s a sin, talking about your mother that way. Your mother was an angel if ever there was one on this earth.”
“What about my father?”
Her expression hardened. “That man’s a different story.” She shuffled through the pictures. “There he is.” The photograph showed a thin man, leaning against a motorcycle, a cigarette dangling from his lip. “That man was the bane of her existence. He was her only hope of keeping the family together. But he let her down. He let all of you down.”
“Why’d she marry him?” I asked, seeing another similarity with my parents.
“Question I couldn’t figure is why she didn’t leave him. But then, love isn’t reasonable.”
Macy finally asked the question she’d been waiting to ask. “Do you know where Noel is?”
“No. Wish I did. One day they just came and took her. I never saw her again. But I’m sure someone at the state could tell you.”
“Macy just shook her head. They’ve sealed all our records.”
“Why would they do that?”
“They say they wanted privacy.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“My sister and her new family.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I didn’t think so either. I guess my best bet is still to find my father. Do you know where he is?”
Bonnie frowned. “He lost the house a year or two after you all left.”
“Do you know where he moved to?”
“No. If he hasn’t died.” She noticed the look of distress on Macy’s face. “But I doubt it. I read the obituaries every day and I haven’t seen him there.”
“He’s not in the phone book,” Macy said. “If he’s as bad as you say, he might not even remember who took her.”
“Things will work out,” Bonnie said. “Remember the Psalms: Be still and know that I am God. That means God is at the helm. It’s right there in the Good Book. Look how we found each other.” She looked into Macy’s face. “It’s so good to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you again,” Macy said.
“Now, tell me about this boy.”
“Mark’s a friend of mine. He’s from Alabama.”
“My old neighborhood. You’re a long way from home.”
“Yes, ma’am, I am.”
“Where ’bout in Alabama?”
“Huntsville.”
“My people are from Montgomery.” She smiled and patted Macy’s thigh. “I’d love to have you both for Sunday dinner.”
“That would be nice.” She turned to me. “Are you busy, Mark?”
Her question was only a formality. “No, I’m free.”
“I have church until one o’clock,” Bonnie said. “Would dinner at two be okay?”
“Two’s great,” Macy said.
Bonnie and Macy exchanged phone numbers, and then we got up to leave. The dog, Fred, jumped up and ran around us, barking frantically.
“Hush up, Fred,” Bonnie said. “Hush.”
We stopped at the door. “What can I bring for dinner?” Macy asked.
“Just yourself. And this boyfriend of yours.”
Macy didn’t correct her. “Then we’ll see you Sunday.”
“Wait. You never left without a kiss for Nanna.”
Macy smiled, “Sorry, I forgot.” She kissed the old woman’s cheek.
“You can kiss me too,” she said to me.
I kissed her on the other cheek.
“See you Sunday—come hungry.”
When we got back into the car, Macy started to cry and didn’t stop until we were halfway home.
When we were back in Salt Lake, I asked Macy, “Want to get some lunch?”
“No. Not unless you do.”
“I’m okay.”
She looked back out the window.
“Are you okay?”
“What if I never find her?”
“You’ll find her. It will work out.”
“How can you be sure?”
“It’s like Bonnie said: fate plays a hand in these things. I mean, look how we found Bonnie. What were the odds of that?”
“You’re right.” A moment later she said, “One of our regulars at the Hut is a private eye. I wonder if he’d help look for my dad.”
“I’m sure he would. I bet this kind of stuff is easy for him.”
She smiled. “You know, I am kind of hungry.”
We stopped at a McDonald’s for fish sandwiches. An hour later I dropped Macy off at home. “Do you want to come in?” she asked.
“I need to get to work. I’m already late.”
“I work tonight too.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Anytime. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay, have fun at work.” She ran into the house, and I drove to work wishing that I didn’t have to leave her and wondering where our journey would take us next.
Sometimes you can’t go home again.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
When I returned home from work, I found a note my landlord had pushed under my apartment door. It read in hurried scrawl, “Call your Aunt Marge collect, no matter the hour.” A phone number with a Huntsville area code was written beneath. Aunt Marge was my mother’s only sister and one of the three women in the car accident with my mother. I was surprised to hear from her and was worried by the note’s urgent tone.
I put the note in my pocket, walked outside and down the street to the corner 7-Eleven’s outside pay phone. The headset was cold against my face. I asked the operator to make the call. On the fourth ring, a sleepy voice answered. “Mark?”
“I have a collect call from Mark Smart,” the operator said. “Will you accept the charges?”
“Of course.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
“Aunt Marge,” I said.
“Oh, Mark, I’m so glad you called.”
“I’m sorry to call so late. I just got off work and got your message. Is something wrong?”
“Nothing new. I’ve just been so worried about you.”
I was relieved to hear there was no bad news.
“Are you back in school?”
“Not yet. I’m saving for it. But it’s going to take a while.”
“Can I help?”
I knew she meant it, but I could never in good conscience accept money from her. She had been divorced eight years earlier, and with four children and minimal child support, her life had been a constant financial struggle. “Thanks, Aunt Marge, but I’ll get by.”
“Mark, I promised your mother that I would look after you. When are you coming home?”
“I don’t really have any plans to come back.”
“But you’ll be home for Christmas?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s really no reason to come back.”
“What about your dad?”
This question was easier. “The last time I spoke to Stu, he told me not to come home.”
She was quiet a moment. “I know. He told me. He regrets saying it.”
In twenty-one years I had never heard Stu apologize for or retract anything. “Stu told you that he regrets saying it?”
“In so many words.”
I figured as much. “Well, he seemed pretty sure about it when he said it to me.”
“He was just in a bad way. He’s having a hard time.”
“He can join the club. We’ve got jackets.”
She was taken aback by my sarcasm. “Mark, you’re not the only one suffering. Alice was his wife, and she was my sister and best friend.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Marge. I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I appreciate your concern. It’s just… there’s really nothing back in Huntsville for me. Stu and I just d
on’t get along.”
She was silent for what seemed like a long time. “You know, Mark, people aren’t always who they seem to be.”
“You can’t tell me that Stu’s a good father.”
“I’m telling you that you don’t really know him.”
“With all due respect, I think I know my father.”
“You know what you know. But you don’t know the whole story.”
“What story?”
“Your parents’ story.”
“Then tell me.”
“It’s not mine to tell. But someday you’ll understand. Hopefully it won’t be too late. For your sake, and your father’s.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t imagine any scenario that could change how I felt about him. After a moment I said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You were with my mother in the accident?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell me what happened?”
I had asked a difficult thing, for both of us, and she paused to gather herself. “I really didn’t want to do this over the telephone.”
I sat down on the cold concrete, the metal-wrapped phone cord stretched taut. “I know. I just need to know.”
She was quiet for another moment, then her voice came more softly: “Alright. You know we ladies get together every month. We went to the Sandpiper for lunch. On the way home it started raining, hard. The wipers could barely keep up. Your mother was driving. We weren’t even going very fast, but suddenly there was a truck stopped in front of us. Your mother swerved to miss it and we went off the road and flipped over an embankment. The car rolled three times until it struck a tree and stopped upside down. We hit on your mother’s door.”
I began to cry. I was afraid to ask the next question but I had to know. “Was she killed instantly?”
“No. We tried to help her, but we couldn’t get her out of her seat belt.” Her voice started to tremble with emotion. “I held her while we waited for help. She bled to death before the paramedics arrived.”
It was a moment before I could speak. “Was she in a lot of pain?”
“She didn’t complain of it. But she was in shock.”
I wiped back my cheek with the back of my hand. “Did she say anything?”
“Yes. She wanted me to tell you that she loves you with all of her heart and always will. And that she’ll be watching over you.”
I wiped my eyes. After a moment I asked, “Did she say anything else?”
“Yes. But it wasn’t for you.”
“Who was it for?”
“Stu.”
“Could you tell me what she said?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“I’m just trying to hold on to everything I can of her. It would really help me to know what her last thoughts were.”
She pondered my request for another moment. “Maybe I should. It might help you. It might help both of you. She wanted me to tell him that she was sorry.”
I suppose that I had expected anything but this. Something about it ignited my defenses, turning my grief to anger. “She was sorry? For what?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
I was speechless. I couldn’t comprehend anything that my mother could be sorry about. All I could see was that my father had made her life miserable. All of our lives miserable.
“I’ll let you go,” she said. “Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“Mark, please consider coming home. You can stay with us if you like, but please give him a chance.”
After a minute I said, “I’ll think about it.”
“If you change your mind, just call me. Call me collect, anytime, day or night. I’ll pay your airfare.”
“Thank you. I’ll let you know.”
“You still have my phone number?”
“I have it written down.”
“Okay. You take care of yourself. I’ll check up on you later.”
“Thanks for calling, Aunt Marge.”
“You’re welcome, Mark. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I stood and replaced the phone in its cradle. My heart ached as I walked back to my apartment. It was like hearing the news of my mother’s death again for the first time. In my mind I played out the last moments of my mother’s life. Her brown Impala flying through the air in slow motion. But what stuck with me the most was my mother’s last words—her apology to Stu. What could my mother possibly be sorry about? I fell asleep with this on my mind.
Macy and I made a real date for tomorrow. The difference in my feelings for the girls I’ve dated before and Macy is the difference between Labor Day and Christmas.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
I woke the next morning with what felt like an emotional hangover.
Shortly before noon I went out to call Macy.
“I talked to Tim,” she said.
“Who’s Tim?”
“He’s the private eye I told you about. I saw him last night at work. He did a search for my dad, but he couldn’t find him. Tim said it usually means one of two things. Either he’s in prison or he’s moved out of state. From what Bonnie said, both are pretty likely.”
“So should we go out to the prison?”
“I already called. They won’t tell you if someone’s there or not. It’s against the rules.”
“It seems like the government is conspiring to keep you from your sister.”
“It sure feels like it,” she said. “How are things going for you?”
“My aunt called from Alabama. She was in the car with my mother. I made her tell me the details of the accident.”
“Are you okay?”
“It was hard. But I had to know.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What else did she say?”
“She wanted to know when I was coming home. She was pretty upset when I told her that I didn’t have any plans to return.”
“I can understand that. You’re family.”
“The weird thing is she was genuinely concerned about my father. She thinks I need to go see him. That’s about the last thing I want to do.”
Macy thought about this. “It’s a little ironic, isn’t it? I’m upset that I can’t find my father. And you’re running from yours.”
“I’m not running,” I said. “I just don’t want to see him.”
“Sorry,” she said quietly.
I felt stupid for reacting so defensively. “I guess I’m a little sensitive about the whole father thing.”
“Understandably.”
“Do you want to get together?” I asked.
“Of course. When?”
“When don’t you work?”
“I can get tomorrow night off.”
“May I take you on a date?”
Her voice lightened. “A real date?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Sure. What do you want to do?”
“I have something in mind. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“What are we doing?”
“It’s a surprise. But dress warm. Really warm.”
“Like a parka and boots?”
“Yeah. Like you’re going to the North Pole. And don’t eat. Oh, and bring a swimsuit.”
“A swimsuit and boots. This sounds interesting. All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then.”
“Can’t wait.”
We went up into the canyons as friends. We came back down something else. I’m not sure what, but definitely something else.
MARK SMART’S DIARY
The next morning I taught my first guitar lesson. My student was a thirteen-year-old boy who wanted to be a heavy-metal guitarist and kept pounding his guitar like a tom-tom. His mother had picked up one of the flyers from the coffee shop. She dropped him off at my apartment with twenty dollars and the guitar he got for his birthday.
After lunch I drove to a nearby supermarket
and bought groceries for our date. It took me nearly an hour to prepare the meal, which was probably more time than I had spent in the kitchen in the last three months. I picked Macy up at six. I took her up Big Cottonwood Canyon near the southeast end of the valley. A third of the way up the canyon, I pulled off the road into a campground.
When we had parked, I took from my trunk a shovel I had borrowed from my landlord, pushed the snow from the closest picnic table, and laid a vinyl tarp across the bench. I then retrieved from my car a bundle of firewood, some newspaper, matches, a plastic water jug and a small red Igloo cooler.
Macy came out of the car and watched as I chopped some of the larger pieces of wood into kindling, then built a teepee and laid the larger wood around it. In less than five minutes we had a roaring fire.
“I’m guessing you were an Eagle Scout,” Macy said.
“I was a Life Scout.”
“What’s that?”
“One badge shy of an Eagle Scout.”
“That’s why you’re so good with fires?”
“That has nothing to do with it. I’m really just a pyromaniac like every other man on the planet.”
“What is it with men and fire?”
“I think it’s primordial, cavemen cooking their catch.”
She smiled with understanding. “So, caveman. What’s for dinner?”
I took two large foil packets from the cooler. “Patty melts with onions, carrots and potatoes.”
I took the shovel and pushed away some of the coals. I filled two paper cups with water from the jug, then poured in each a packet of hot chocolate mix.
“How are we going to heat the water?” she asked.
“Watch this.” Using a pair of tongs, I carefully set the paper cups in the flames.
She looked at me doubtfully. “What are you doing?”
“Just watch.”
The flames ignited the wax rims of the cup, searing them both black, but nothing else burned. After a few minutes the chocolate was boiling in the paper cups. “That is so cool,” Macy said. “How did you know it wouldn’t melt the cup?”
“Life Scout,” I said.
The sun set, leaving the campsite illuminated only by the fire and moonlight. I laid out silverware, and then I pulled our dinners from the fire. The foil was black with ashes and the juices sizzled inside. When I peeled back the foil, the food steamed in the cold air. I set one of the meals in front of Macy.