“In El Paso, I’d be willing to bet.”
She nodded. She’d arrived at the west Texas city the evening of the twenty-fourth, spent a miserable and lonely Christmas—highlighted by dinner at a local family restaurant—and headed back early the next morning. She’d planned to stay longer, but she’d quickly discovered why Margaret had once referred to El Paso as a “hole in the wall.”
If she couldn’t have the lush Minnesota countryside, she’d take the sprawling, fast-paced DFW metroplex any day over the barren west Texas landscape. She returned the clerk’s greetings for a happy new year and went back out to her car. She was anxious to get back. She planned to spend the next several days in her empty classroom, cleaning and reorganizing. She would spend a day with Margaret just before New Year’s, but not until then, since Margaret thought she was in Minnesota for Christmas.
She was the only teacher she knew of who went in during vacations to work in her classroom, and she would really rather be somewhere other than school on her days off, but she had to do something to fill the time. As she started back down the highway, a new thought crossed her mind. I could volunteer at the church. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it before. She would call the pastor’s secretary as soon as—
“Oh, my Lord Jesus!” Sheila slammed on her brakes.
The car in front of her had begun to swerve from one side of the road to the other, nearly sideswiping her. Thankful that there was no one behind her, she eased over to the shoulder, as much to regain her composure as to see if she could help the other driver, who had managed to maneuver the car to the shoulder and come to a stop.
An elderly woman, probably around eighty years old, sat at the wheel, shaking. “I don’t know what happened,” she said when Sheila motioned for her to open the window. “This has never happened to me before. Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t hit you, did I? Did you see what happened? Did I lose a tire?”
“Don’t worry, I’m all right.” Sheila gave the tires a cursory glance. “And I can’t see anything wrong with your tires.” Unless the lady had just lost control and was afraid to admit it, Sheila was as perplexed as she was about the cause of the problem. “There’s a gas station about ten miles back. Can I give you a ride there?”
Thirty minutes later, having left the woman in a calmer state, awaiting a tow truck, Sheila once again passed the spot where the near-miss had occurred. She looked at the now vacated vehicle. It was fairly sporty for someone the age of the woman who’d been driving it, and appeared to be in good condition. Sheila shook her head, still wondering what had happened.
Thank You, Lord, for protecting us both. As her prayer went up, another car and an SUV whizzed by her, oblivious to the speed limit. A moment later, a truck passed her. Then she realized: when the lady lost control of her car, Sheila had been the only other vehicle on the road. Suddenly, the highway was thick with traffic. What if it had been like that a half an hour earlier, when the lady’s car was sweeping from one lane to the opposite lane? And where had the traffic gone during those moments, anyway?
As she reviewed the scenario in her mind, she was able to recall that as soon as she and the elderly woman had pulled over, several cars passed by. She remembered because she had prayed for them to move out of the right lane.
But while the car was out of control. . .
Tears sprang to Sheila’s eyes. She’d heard stories before about people whose lives were spared, or who experienced frightening near misses, and subsequently rearranged their priorities. For the first time, Sheila understood why.
She could have been killed, or at least injured. But she was alive. Most certainly the other woman would have died had there been the flow of traffic Sheila was driving through now. She was alive.
Sheila didn’t deserve to be spared her life. God did it anyway. Suddenly, she didn’t care about cleaning her classroom, didn’t care that she’d just spent another Christmas alone, didn’t care that she was going home to an empty apartment. She was happy to be alive.
“Lord, thank You,” she said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, and proceeded to list every blessing she could think of, from being able to walk to having a steadily paying job. . .to her family.
She had been nothing but ungrateful toward her mother lately, and she felt a stab a guilt. She’d been acting selfishly. In that moment, she decided to make things right. She owed it to her mother, who’d never asked for the heart-wrenching position she was in now, playing middleman between Sheila and her siblings.
And she owed it to God.
* * *
By leaving El Paso before dawn, Sheila made it back to Fort Worth by nine that evening. As she dragged her suitcase into the apartment, she heard the telltale “beep” of her answering machine.
“Hi, Miss—I mean, Sheila, it’s me.” Hank. Sheila felt an unexpected warm glow at the sound of his voice. “I guess you’ve ridden off into the sunset for the holiday. Anyway, I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. I’ll be back the twenty-eighth if you want to shoot the breeze or anything. God bless.”
How sweet. The day after they’d found Rosa and Diana, he’d walked up to her after the faculty meeting and began chatting with her as though he’d either forgotten or forgiven her utter rudeness of the day before. She had fought not to show her amazement; if someone had been as curt to her as she had been to Hank, she would have steered cleared of them, at least for the next forty-eight hours or so.
But Hank just walked up to her and started talking like they’d known each other for much longer than a weekend. Sheila decided that if he could let the uncomfortable incident go, so could she. So since then, they’d visited with each other often before and after school, making small talk or discussing the ups and downs of inner city teaching. During the last conversation before Christmas Break, Sheila had finally convinced him to call her by her given name. She hated being called Miss Carson by other adults, although she would tolerate it from co-workers who were just that—co-workers.
Hank was no longer just a co-worker.
Deleting the message, she took off her coat, then faced the telephone again, feeling butterflies swarm in her stomach. Why are you so nervous? Mom’ll do cartwheels if you call. She glanced at her watch. Nine-fifteen. It was getting a little late. And the day before had been Christmas. She might still be trying to wind down—
Chicken. You’re just afraid Linda or April will answer.
And what then? Didn’t she want to try to reconcile with them? Maybe they wanted reconciliation as much as she did, but were too ashamed or afraid to make the first move. Maybe they were waiting for her to initiate it.
Anyway, April was probably staying in a motel. And if Linda answered. . .
Taking a deep breath, Sheila picked up the receiver and dialed her mother’s number.
“Hello?”
For a moment, Sheila couldn’t speak. She hadn’t expected Gary to answer.
“Hello?” he repeated.
Sheila swallowed. “Hi, Gare. It’s me. Shelly.”
“Shel? Wow. Mom’ll be thrilled. They’re all in the family room. Let me—”
“No, wait.” Sheila had to fight the urge to hang up. All? So Linda and April were there, too. For some reason, the idea unnerved her as much as it would if they were in the next room. She wanted to delay Gary from calling them. She needed to get herself together.
“I can talk to you for a minute. How’s contracting going?”
“We’re doing great. How are the kids?”
“Fine.”
And Sheila could think of nothing more to say. Absolutely nothing. It was as though whatever powered her brain had become unplugged.
“Uh, why don’t I go get Mom?” Gary sounded as uncomfortable as she felt.
Her mother was on the phone less than a minute later, out of breath for having raced, no doubt, up the steps. The family room was in the basement.
“Sheila, sweetheart, is it really you?”
“Yes, it is.” Sh
eila went into the living room and sank onto her love seat, the butterflies finally settling. “I wanted to say. . .I’m sorry.” She felt strangely unemotional as she said it, almost indifferent.
The opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference. The phrase she’d heard her pastor say several times rang through her mind, and Sheila felt a frown pinch her features. What had happened to her epiphany this afternoon, that her family was of utmost priority?
“Oh, Shelly.” Her mother sighed. “It’s been hard. For all of us. I can’t say I know what you’ve been going through, but I can empathize.”
“I appreciate it, Mom.” Sheila could only hope her voice conveyed more gratitude than she felt at that moment. What was her problem? A little while ago, she’d been in tears, thrilled to be alive. Had the long drive completely drained her?
Somehow, she muddled her way through a few minutes of small talk, all the while praying. She wanted to feel something, anything, but it was as though she were talking to a stranger about the paint drying on the wall. She wished she hadn’t called, had lost every desire to reconnect with her sisters.
She had made up her mind to end the conversation and hang up when her mother interrupted with, “Wait, sweetheart, Linda just came up.” A long pause. Sheila’s neck muscles constricted. When her mother continued, her tone was softer, hesistant. “Would you—do you think—”
“Yeah.” Sheila’s mouth felt dry. She cleared her throat. “I’d like to talk to her.” She sank back into the cushions, glad to be sitting down.
Jesus, please. . .
Her mother’s muffled voice called, “Linda, Sheila’s on the phone. She wants to talk to you.”
Another long pause. Sheila’s heart began to race. Then, for the first time in three years, Sheila heard her youngest sister’s voice. Still muffled, but clear enough. She must have gone to stand right next to the phone.
And when Linda spoke, the words went through Sheila like a bayonet.
“Tell her I don’t talk to murderers.”
“Linda, for crying out loud—”
Sheila heard no more. She hit the “talk” button, hanging up, and let the receiver slide out of her hand, too numb to hang on.
Murderer. The accusation was utterly ridiculous. Linda must not have gotten everything she wanted for Christmas. Or had PMS. Or something.
The phone rang again. Sheila did not want to touch it, but she knew in three rings, the machine would pick up, and there would be her mother again, begging her to answer. She pushed herself off the love seat and went over to her phone, unplugging the line from the wall. That should have been enough, but as she stared at the phone, its very silence seemed to mock her. You can’t escape the past. It is with you forever.
Murderer.
In an instant, the numbness lifted, and Sheila found herself shaking, with frustration, with fear. . .with fury. She picked up the base of the telephone, and with a chilling scream, slammed it to the floor. When no pieces went flying, she became even more angry. Still wearing the tennis shoes in which she had traveled, she jumped up, landing on the base as hard as she could. The loud crack was not satisfying enough, so she did it again. She was about to jump a third time when she came to her senses.
Glaring at the ceiling, she screamed several curse words, not caring if her neighbor on the second floor was home and listening. Then she sank to the floor, folded her knees to her chest, and cried.
* * *
Mothers were supposed to understand their children. If they’d breastfed them, nurtured them as babies, they were supposed to have a deep, lasting, unbreakable bond with them. A bond that carried them through any circumstance. A bond that enabled the mother to unconditionally empathize with whatever their child might experience.
Somewhere, at some time, Evelyn Carson had read something to that effect.
And over the past twenty-odd years, had found it to be the farthest thing from the truth.
If Linda had been stronger, Evelyn would have chewed her out yesterday for the ghastly words she had spewed out in Sheila’s hearing. But she didn’t dare. Linda didn’t need any more stress in her life, even if she did deserve it. So Evelyn had said nothing, just let the anger stew inside of her until it grew to a slow boil. Now, she released her emotions via the vacuum cleaner, pushing it over the beige Berber carpet with all the force she could muster, and yanking it back as though it were a disobedient dog on a leash.
She wasn’t sure what frustrated her more, Linda’s reaction to her sister, or her own inability to comprehend it. Evelyn thought back to the first few weeks after the accident that eventually caused Sheila’s relocation. She would go from one daughter to another, trying to convince each that it was neither one of their faults. What made the whole situation even harder for Evelyn was that Linda’s turmoil was entirely private. No one else knew that she felt just as guilty about the accident as Sheila did. Worse, she freely accused Sheila in front of other family members, never mentioning her own part.
Evelyn winced as she slammed the vacuum cleaner into a piano leg. Leaning over to examine it, she spotted a small chip in it that hadn’t been there three seconds earlier. She grimaced. Good thing I don’t have Mother’s antique Baldwin.
She switched off the machine and sank onto the piano bench. More pieces of furniture would be damaged if she continued her rampage. She decided to quit until she settled down.
“Your knees bothering you again, Mom?”
Evelyn glanced up sharply as Linda descended the stairway. “Not hardly.”
“Fine. If you’re in that kind of mood, I’ll stay upstairs.” She turned around, taking a step up, holding the old woolen blanket wrapping her fragile frame as tightly as she could. These days, it was the only thing that kept her from shivering, despite always wearing a heavy acrylic sweater and sweatpants, despite Evelyn turning the thermostat up five degrees a couple weeks ago, when her daughter had begun complaining incessantly about how cold it was.
The pathetic sight made Evelyn instantly regret her harsh tone. “Wait, honey. I’m sorry.” She arose, feeling the anger drain away. “Stay down. Please.”
If she couldn’t get Linda to eat, at least she would make sure she didn’t withdraw completely from life.
Linda stepped back down, not looking at her mother as she drifted toward the couch. She dropped into it like a limp rag doll, then, staring straight ahead, said in a flat tone, “April knows.”
Thank God. Evelyn felt a ten-ton load fall off her shoulders. “You told her?”
“She asked. Wouldn’t leave until I told her.”
Evelyn walked over to the couch and perched on the armrest. If she sat down next to her daughter, the mere movement of the cushion might cause her pain. “How much did you tell her?”
“Everything.” Then she jerked her head toward her mother, her mouth contorted into a stern frown. “But I swore her to secrecy. Just like you. I’m not telling anybody else. Understand? Nobody.”
Evelyn understood. Gary was not to find out, nor Sheila, until Linda decided they should know.
If that ever happened.
She closed her eyes. Where was her carefree, loving, blossoming daughter in her prime, now replaced by this pale skeleton, so full of bitterness and hatred? And would she ever get her back?
Evelyn opened her eyes, nodding. But Linda had curled up into a fetal position and was breathing deeply. Fighting the urge to reach down and take her into her arms, Evelyn unplugged the vacuum, wrapped up the cord, and headed for the bedroom, feeling like a total failure.
CHAPTER 11
When Sheila didn’t return his phone call, Hank didn’t think twice about it until he saw her the day after break ended. She was headed into the office, he was headed out, and they nearly collided.
“Fancy bumping into you here,” he quipped. Not until that moment did he realize how much he’d missed her over the past couple of weeks, despite being surrounded with family and friends most of the time, despite seeing Barbara again.
“You never called. You got my message, didn’t you?”
Her face colored and she glanced at the floor. “I—my phone died on me.”
Oh, Lord, I embarrassed her by calling her. I stepped over the line. He’d only been calling as a friend, not thinking that she would take it as anything more. She obviously had. Not knowing what to say to rectify the situation, he said, “Did you try jumper cables?”
Sheila looked up, unsmiling. “It really did.” She moved to enter the office. “And it takes me forever to pick out new machines. So I didn’t find one until the day before yesterday.”
He waited in the hallway for her to sign in, feeling unsettled. She’d always laughed, or at least smiled, at his jokes. Either he was losing his touch, or something was seriously wrong. He wondered if he should ask her how everything was. He didn’t want to pry, but if she was carrying a heavy burden, he wanted to take some of the load off for her.
Mrs. Kennebrew is the only soul she’ll tell if something’s upset her. Hank grimaced. Why did that thought bother him so much?
As she came back out into the hall, he decided he’d try to get her to open up.
“You waiting on me?” There was a heaviness in her tone, and she walked passed him without looking at him.
Hank wavered. Every ounce of her body language dared anyone to try to come too close to her. Yet, her voice sounded more sad than cold. And she did speak to him. If she had wanted to avoid him altogether, she wouldn’t have said anything.
He took a couple long strides to catch up with her. “Did you have a good break?”
Sheila turned the corner and headed down the stairs. “As good as possible, I guess. You?” She gave him a brief glance without slowing down.
Hank couldn’t ignore her loaded answer. “As good as possible?”
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Sheila stopped and glared at him. “I’m sure not nearly as good as yours.” She left him standing, watching her retreating figure in surprise. Even when she’d been upset about Diana missing, even when they’d kept hitting brick walls in their attempts to find her six weeks ago, she’d never been sarcastic or harsh.
Something was definitely wrong. He hesitated, took a step in her direction, hesitated again, thinking that to go after her at that moment might not be the wisest thing to do. He turned around to head up to his classroom on the third floor, and almost ran into Diana’s aunt Rosa.