You already know. . . .
Know what? he wanted to ask. I don't know anything right now. I don't know what you're talking about. I just want to help the kids, like when I was a child. I know what they need. I can help them. I can help you, too, Melissa. I've got it all worked out. . . .
Are you trying to rescue me, too?
No, I'm not. I just want to help.
It's the same thing.
Is it?
Taylor refused to chase the thought down to its final conclusion. Instead, really seeing the road for the first time, he realized where he was. He stopped the truck and began the short trek to his final destination.
Judy was waiting for him at his father's grave.
"What are you doing here, Mom?" he asked.
Judy didn't turn at the sound of his voice. Instead, kneeling down, she tended the weeds around the stone as Taylor did whenever he came.
"Melissa called me and told me you'd come," she said quietly, hearing his footsteps close behind her. From her voice he could tell she'd been crying. "She said I should be here."
Taylor squatted beside her. "What's wrong, Mom?"
Her face was flushed. She swiped at her cheek, leaving a torn blade of grass on her face.
"I'm sorry," she began. "I wasn't a good mother. . . ."
Her voice seemed to die in her throat then, leaving Taylor too surprised to respond. With a gentle finger he removed the blade of grass from her cheek, and she finally turned to face him.
"You were a great mother," he said firmly.
"No," she whispered, "I wasn't. If I were, you wouldn't come here as much as you do."
"Mom, what are you talking about?"
"You know," she answered, drawing a deep breath before going on. "When you hit bad patches in your life, you don't turn to me, you don't turn to friends. You come here. No matter what the question or the problem, you always come to the decision that you're better off alone, just like you are now."
She stared at him almost as if seeing a stranger.
"Can't you see why that hurts me? I can't help but think how sad it must be for you to live your life without people--people who could offer you support or simply lend an ear when you need it. And it's all because of me."
"No--"
She didn't let him finish, refusing to listen to his protests. Looking toward the horizon, she seemed lost in the past.
"When your father died, I was so caught up in my own sadness that I ignored how hard it was for you. I tried to be everything for you, but because of that, I didn't have time for myself. I didn't teach you how wonderful it is to love someone and have them love you back."
"Sure you did," he said.
She fixed him with a look of inexpressible sorrow. "Then why are you alone?"
"You don't have to worry about me, okay?" he muttered, almost to himself.
"Of course I do," she said weakly. "I'm your mother."
Judy moved from her knees to a sitting position on the ground. Taylor did the same and reached out his hand. She took it willingly and they sat in silence, a light wind moving the trees around them.
"Your father and I had a wonderful relationship," she finally whispered.
"I know--"
"No, let me finish, okay? I may not have been the mother that you needed back then, but I'm going to try now." She squeezed his hand. "Your father made me happy, Taylor. He was the best person that I ever knew. I remember the first time he ever spoke to me. I was on my way home from school and I'd stopped to get an ice-cream cone. He came in the store right behind me. I knew who he was, of course--Edenton was even smaller than it is now. I was in the third grade, and after getting my ice-cream cone, I bumped into someone and dropped it. That was my last nickel, and I got so upset that your father bought me a new one. I think I fell in love with him right there. Well . . . as time went on, I never did get him out of my system. We dated in high school, and after that we got married, and never once did I ever regret it."
She stopped there, and Taylor let go of her hand before slipping his arm around her.
"I know you loved Dad," he said with difficulty.
"That wasn't my point. My point is that even now, I don't regret it."
He looked at her, uncomprehending. Judy met his gaze, her eyes suddenly fierce.
"Even if I knew what would eventually happen to your father, I would have married him. Even if I'd known that we'd only be together for eleven years, I wouldn't have traded those eleven years for anything. Can you understand that? Yes, it would have been wonderful to have grown old together, but that doesn't mean I regret the time we spent together. Loving someone and having them love you back is the most precious thing in the world. It's what made it possible for me to go on, but you don't seem to realize that. Even when love is right there in front of you, you choose to turn away from it. You're alone because you want to be."
Taylor rubbed his fingers together, his mind growing numb again.
"I know," Judy went on with fatigue in her voice, "that you feel responsible for your father's death. All my life I've tried to help you understand that you shouldn't, that it was a horrible accident. You were just a child. You didn't know what was going to happen any more than I did, but no matter how many ways I tried to say it, you still believed you were at fault. And because of that, you've shut yourself off from the world. I don't know why . . . maybe you don't think you deserve to be happy, maybe you're afraid that if you finally allow yourself to love someone, you'd be admitting that you weren't responsible . . . maybe you're afraid of leaving your own family behind. I don't know what it is, but all those things are wrong. I can't think of another way to tell you."
Taylor didn't respond, and Judy sighed when she realized he wasn't going to.
"This summer, when I saw you with Kyle, do you know what I thought? I thought about how much you looked like your father. He was always good with kids, just like you. I remember how you used to tag along behind him, everywhere he went. Just the way you used to look at him always made me smile. It was an expression of awe and hero worship. I'd forgotten about that until I saw Kyle when you were with him. He looked at you in exactly the same way. I'll bet you miss him."
Taylor nodded reluctantly.
"Is that because you were trying to give him what you thought you missed growing up, or is it because you like him?"
Taylor considered the question before answering.
"I like him. He's a great kid."
Judy met his eyes. "Do you miss Denise, too?"
Yeah, I do. . . .
Taylor shifted uncomfortably. "That's over now, Mom," he said.
She hesitated. "Are you sure?"
Taylor nodded, and Judy leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder.
"That's a shame, Taylor," she whispered. "She was perfect for you."
They sat without speaking for the next few minutes, until a light autumn shower began to fall, forcing them back to the parking lot. Taylor opened her door, and Judy got in the front seat. After closing the door, he pressed his hands against the glass, feeling the cool drops on his fingertips. Judy smiled sadly at her son, then pulled away, leaving Taylor standing in the rain.
He'd lost everything.
He knew that as he left the cemetery and began the short trip home. He drove past a row of old Victorian houses that looked gloomy in the soft hazy sunlight, through ankle-deep puddles in the middle of the road, his wipers flashing back and forth with rhythmic regularity. He continued through downtown, and as he passed the commercial landmarks he'd known since childhood, his thoughts were drawn irresistibly to Denise.
She was perfect for you.
He finally admitted to himself that despite Mitch's death, despite everything, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. Like an apparition, her image had flashed through his mind over and over, but he'd forced it away with stubborn resolve. Now, though, it was impossible. With startling clarity he saw her expression as he'd fixed her cupboard doors, he heard her laugh
ter echo across the porch, he could smell the faint scent of her shampoo in her hair. She was here with him . . . and yet she wasn't. Nor would she ever be again. The realization made him feel emptier than he'd ever felt before.
Denise . . .
As he drove along, the explanations he'd made to himself--and to her--suddenly rang hollow. What had come over him? Yes, he'd been pulling away. Despite the denials, Denise had been right about that. Why, he wondered, had he let himself? Was it for the reasons his mother had said?
I didn't teach you how wonderful it is to love someone and have them love you back. . . .
Taylor shook his head, suddenly unsure of every decision he'd ever made. Was his mother right? If his father hadn't died, would he have acted the same way over the years? Thinking back to Valerie or Lori--would he have married them? Maybe, he thought, uncertainly, but probably not. There were other things wrong with the relationships, and he couldn't honestly say that he'd ever really loved either of them.
But Denise?
His throat tightened as he remembered the first night they'd made love. As much as he wanted to deny it, he knew now that he'd been in love with her, with everything about her. So why, then, hadn't he told her so? And more important, why had he forcibly ignored his own feelings in order to pull away?
You're alone because you want to be. . . .
Was that it? Did he really want to face the future alone? Without Mitch--and soon Melissa--who else did he have? His mother and . . . and . . . The list trailed off. After her, there was no one. Is that what he really wanted? An empty house, a world without friends, a world without someone who cared about him? A world where he avoided love at all costs?
In the truck, rain splashed against the windshield as if driving that thought home, and for the first time in his life, he knew he was--and had been--lying to himself.
In his daze, snatches of other conversations began to replay themselves in his mind.
Mitch warning him: Don't screw it up this time. . . .
Melissa teasing: So are you gonna marry this wonderful girl or what? . . .
Denise, in all her luminous beauty: We all need companionship. . . .
His response?
I don't need anyone. . . .
It was a lie. His entire life had been a lie, and his lies had led to a reality that was suddenly impossible to fathom. Mitch was gone, Melissa was gone, Denise was gone, Kyle was gone . . . he'd lost it all. His lies had become reality.
Everyone is gone.
The realization made Taylor grip the steering wheel hard, fighting to keep control. He pulled the truck to the side of the road and slipped the stick shift into neutral, his vision blurring.
I'm alone. . . .
He clung to the steering wheel as the rain poured down around him, wondering how on earth he'd let it happen.
Chapter 27
Denise pulled into the drive, tired from her shift. The steady rain had kept business slow all night. There'd been just enough to keep her constantly moving, but not enough to make decent tips. More or less a wasted evening, but on the bright side, she'd been able to leave a little early, and Kyle hadn't stirred as she'd loaded him into the car. He'd become used to curling up around her on the ride home over the past few months, but now that she had her own car again (hurray!), she had to buckle him into the backseat. Last night he'd fussed so much that he hadn't been able to fall asleep again for a couple of hours.
Denise stifled a yawn as she turned up the drive, relieved that she'd be in bed soon. The gravel was wet from the earlier rains, and she could hear small pinging sounds as the wheels kicked up pebbles that ricocheted off her car. A few more minutes, a nice cup of cocoa, and she'd be under the covers. The thought was almost intoxicating.
The night was black and moonless, dark clouds blocking the light from the stars. A light fog had settled in, and Denise moved up the drive slowly, using the porch light as a beacon. As she neared the house and things came into better focus, she nearly slammed on the brakes at the sight of Taylor's truck parked out front.
Glancing toward the front door, she saw Taylor sitting on the steps, waiting for her.
Despite her exhaustion, her mind snapped to attention. A dozen possibilities raced through her head as she parked and shut off the engine.
Taylor approached the car as she got out, careful not to slam the door behind her. She was about to ask him what he wanted when the words died on her lips.
He looked terrible.
His eyes were red rimmed and raw looking, his face pale and drawn. As he pushed his hands deep into his pockets, he seemed unable to meet her gaze. Frozen, she searched for something to say.
"I see you got yourself a car," Taylor offered.
The sound of his voice triggered a flood of emotions in her: love and joy, pain and anger, the loneliness and quiet desperation of the past few weeks.
She couldn't go through all this again.
"What are you doing here, Taylor?"
Her voice was edged with more bitterness than Taylor had expected. Taylor took a deep breath.
"I came to tell you how sorry I was," he began haltingly. "I never meant to hurt you."
She'd wanted to hear those words at one time, but strangely they meant nothing now. She glanced over her shoulder at the car, spying Kyle's sleeping figure in the back.
"It's too late for that," she said.
He lifted his head slightly. In the light of the porch he looked far older than she remembered, almost as if years had passed since she'd last seen him. He forced a thin-lipped smile, then lowered his gaze again before pulling his hands from his pockets. He took a hesitant step toward his truck.
Had it been any other day, had it been any other person, he would have kept moving, telling himself that he'd tried. Instead he forced himself to stop.
"Melissa's moving to Rocky Mount," he said into the darkness, his back to her.
Denise absently ran her hand through her hair. "I know. She told me a couple of days ago. Is that why you're here?"
Taylor shook his head. "No. I'm here because I wanted to talk about Mitch." He murmured the words over his shoulder; Denise could barely hear him. "I was hoping that you'd listen because I don't know who else to turn to."
His vulnerability touched and surprised her, and for a fleeting moment she almost went to his side. But she couldn't forget what he had done to Kyle--or to her, she reminded herself.
I can't go through this again.
But I also said I'd be there if you needed to talk.
"Taylor . . . it's really late . . . maybe tomorrow?" she suggested softly. Taylor nodded, as if he had expected her to say as much. She thought he would leave then, yet strangely he didn't move from his spot.
In the distance Denise heard the faint rumble of thunder. The temperature was dropping, and the moisture in the air made it seem colder than it really was. A misty halo encircled the porch light, glittering like tiny diamonds, as Taylor turned to face her again.
"I also wanted to tell you about my father," he said slowly. "It's time you finally knew the truth."
From his strained expression, she knew how hard it had been for him to say the words. He seemed on the verge of tears as he stood before her; this time it was her turn to look away.
Her mind flashed back to the day of the festival when he'd asked to drive her home. She'd gone against her instincts, and as a result she'd eventually received a painful lesson. Here again was another crossroads, and once more she hesitated. She sighed.
It's not the right time, Taylor. It's late, and Kyle's already asleep. I'm tired and don't think I'm ready for this just yet.
That's what she imagined herself saying.
The words that came out, however, were different.
"All right," she said.
He didn't look at her from his position on the couch. With the room lit by only a single lamp, dark shadows hid his face.
"I was nine years old," he began, "and for two weeks, we were practically buried
in heat. The temperature had hovered near a hundred, even though it was still early in the summer. It had been one of the driest springs on record--not a single drop of rain in two months, and everything was splinter dry. I remember my mother and father talking about the drought and how farmers were already beginning to worry about their crops because summer had supposedly just begun. It was so hot that time just seemed to slow down. I'd wait all day for the sun to go down for some relief, but even then it didn't help. Our house was old--it didn't have air-conditioning or much insulation--and just lying in bed would make me sweat. I remember that my sheets would get soaked; it was impossible to sleep. I kept moving around to get comfortable, but I couldn't. I'd just toss and turn and sweat like crazy."
He was staring at the coffee table as he spoke, his eyes unfocused, his voice subdued. Denise watched as one hand formed into a fist, then relaxed, then formed again. Opening and closing like the door to his memory, random images slipping through the cracks.
"Back then, there was this set of plastic army soldiers that I saw in the Sears catalog. It came with tanks, jeeps, tents, and barricades--everything a kid needs to have a little war, and I don't remember ever wanting anything more in my whole life. I used to leave the catalog open to that page so that my mom wouldn't miss it, and when I finally got the set for my birthday, I don't think I'd ever been more excited about a gift. But my bedroom was real small--it used to be a sewing room before I came along--and there wasn't enough space to set it up the way I wanted, so I put the whole collection up in the attic. When I couldn't sleep that night, that's where I went."
He finally looked up, a rueful sigh escaping from him, something bitter and long repressed. He shook his head as if he still didn't believe it. Denise knew enough not to interrupt.
"It was late. It was past midnight when I snuck past my parents' door to the steps at the end of the hall. I was so quiet--I knew where every squeak in the floor was, and I purposely avoided them so my parents wouldn't know I was up there. And they didn't."
He brought his hands to his face and bent forward, hiding his face before letting his hands fall away again. His voice gained momentum.
"I don't know how long I was up there that night. I could play with those soldiers for hours and not even realize it. I just kept setting them up and fighting these imaginary battles. I was always Sergeant Mason--the soldiers had their names stamped in the bottom--and when I saw that one of them had my father's name, I knew he had to be the hero. He always won, no matter what the odds were. I'd pit him against ten men and a tank, and he'd always do exactly the right thing. In my mind, he was indestructible; I'd get lost in Sergeant Mason's world, no matter what else was going on. I'd miss dinner or forget my chores . . . I couldn't help it. Even on that night, hot as it was, I couldn't think of anything else but those damn soldiers. I guess that's why I didn't smell the smoke."