Color the Sidewalk for Me (54 page)

Daddy was noticeably better Tuesday morning, his leg and arm rising a bit higher, the red rubber ball clasped just enough to lift.

“John told us things would improve quickly!” I cried, cupping his chin in my hands. “In a few days you'll be throwing it again. I'll find us a box we can bounce it into.”

He gazed at me and I wiped at a smudge on the coffee table.

For the next two hours I passed the phone repeatedly, fetching iced tea, placing a dish in the sink, picking up a book on the dining table. I called the ad agency and talked to Quentin but couldn't find the courage to call Danny, even though he was probably in meetings somewhere and I would only have to leave a message. Quentin accepted the news of my postponed return with such understanding that it left me moodily wondering whether I was needed there at all. The clock ticked and Daddy napped, Mama reading in her chair. I wandered in and out of my room, checking the time, thinking of Danny returning to Greece, wedding plans in his head.

And once as I passed, I picked up the receiver.

The number was on a scrap of paper tucked under the phone. I glanced at Mama's profile, pulled it out. Thinking nothing, nothing at all, I dialed the number. My heart began to pound. When the hotel answered I could barely speak.

“Danny Cander's room, please.”

“Just a moment.”

My knees shook, the receiver wet in my palm. I couldn't believe I was doing this. What if he picked up the phone? What could I possibly say?

“Sorry?” I replied to a distant voice, pulling back from my thoughts. “What?”

“I said Mr. Cander is no longer here,” the woman informed me. “He checked out this morning.”

chapter 64

H
ow does a person win life's hardest battles, Granddad?
I wondered. I wasn't talking about battles between soldiers and countries. Nor was I talking about the strenuous battle for use of a left arm, the ability to walk. I was talking about the most gut-wrenching of all battles, the kind that could forever change a life.
You won three medals in the wars, Granddad, I thought. You swam the Volturno River right under the eye of the enemy. You rescued soldiers from certain death in Korea. You were lauded and respected for your courage. But you lost in the end, didn't you? You lost the most important battle you ever faced. What good did God's promise of my victory with Mama do for you? You were left on one side of your chasm, Mama on the other, even the threat of impending death not strong enough to bridge the darkness in between.

Maybe I had been right after all. There were some things even God couldn't handle.

There I sat in the bedroom of my childhood, fingering Granddad's colorful medals in their velvet-lined boxes, remembering how proud I had been of his accomplishments. But at that moment I could only see his disappointment and pain. Like Granddad, I had lost. I had lost my battle for Danny—again.

And I had lost Mama.

Again.

Tell me, Granddad, I asked the ceiling, what good were your medals when they cost you the ones you loved the most?

I was tucking the medals away when Mama called from the living room. “You promised to see Mr. Sledge,” she reminded me, “if your daddy wasn't ready after eight weeks. Daddy can't keep his appointment with him today, so you have to go.”

“Oh, Mama,” I begged, “I'm so tired. You've already called him anyway, so he knows Daddy's not coming. Can't I just go tomorrow?”

“No, you can't. I told him you'd be there around two.”

My eyes closed involuntarily. “Why did you do that?”

“You want your daddy back at work, don't you?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then go! And on the way back, stop by the store.” She handed me a grocery list.

Her excuse to get rid of me was hardly subtle. But there was no use arguing. I couldn't risk another fight in front of Daddy and she knew it. Pushing down my anger, I told myself I should be grateful to get away.

An hour later, exuding energy I did not possess, I met with Mr. Sledge. He proved empathetic, shaking his head over our sudden setback. “But Daddy's getting better fast,” I insisted. “I can already see improvement. It shouldn't take more than a few weeks.”

“Don't worry, Celia,” he replied, smoothing a blue knit shirt over his large belly, “you've kept your end of the deal; I'll keep mine. His job's ready for him when he can take it—in any capacity. These temps are fine in a pinch but they're certainly not William.”

Woodenly I drove back to Bradleyville, relieved that at least something was going right. My eyes strayed to the dashboard clock. Two forty-five.

Somewhere in New York, within three hours, Danny would probably be winding down his business day. Evidently he was catching a night flight back to Greece. Couldn't wait to take the ring back to Kathy.

At the grocery store I walked the aisles, my heart heavy, checking off Mama's list. Fresh corn. A roast. Eggs. Vanilla ice cream. I imagined an exotic wedding with cascading flowers and beautiful music. As I paid for the groceries, I wondered if Lee and Miss Jessie could manage a trip to Greece to attend.

Back home my tires crunched as I turned into the gravel driveway. With a sigh I slid from the car, gathered a full paper bag in each arm. When I was halfway across the front lawn, a spray of color caught my downcast eyes. Automatically I raised them to our sidewalk.

It was covered with pictures.

I halted. My head tilted, looking. Slowly, skin tingling, I approached the porch and set down the bags. Walked purposely through the grass out to the curb. Then turned around and viewed the length of the sidewalk. I couldn't believe what I saw. Remaining on the lawn, I began to follow the sidewalk back to the porch, square by square.

The pictures were crudely drawn. She was no artist. I imagined the cautious bending of stiffened knees, the unfamiliar feel of warm, grainy cement under her palms. Her awkward forward shuffles. The stares of those driving by.

In the first square was a baby in a blue shirt. Kevy. A small hand, giving him his bottle. Mine.

In the second square, a fishing pole. A needle and thread mending a torn yellow shirt. A black and silver marble.

I took my time with each multipictured square, pausing, remembering. There was a book I once read to Kevy. Clean dishes draining on a counter. A war medal.

Cubby.

Tull's Drugstore.

A sparkling river.

How her back must have ached by that point.

Next, a wheelchair.

The strain of her shoulders as she reached for yet another piece of chalk.

Daddy's walker.

Apple pie.

By the time I reached the final square, my eyes were blurry. I blinked rapidly, lips moving as I read the words she had printed in large red letters. Read them again. I frowned, read them a third time, but couldn't understand why she had written the message.

At the porch I stopped to stare at the entire sidewalk, drinking in its pastel colors. I could almost hear Melissa's childish voice. Granddad humming the
Pink Panther
theme song.

Look, Mama! We colored the sidewalk for you!

Mama was trying so hard for my forgiveness. I wanted to rejoice but was afraid I would sob. Such a gift she had given me. So very late.

Practicality is a brash interloper. I suddenly remembered the ice cream. Picking up the paper bags, I took them into the kitchen, where I found a brief note.

Took Daddy for awalk.

The pictures flowed through my mind.

Mama and Daddy were gone longer than I had expected. I put the food away, folded the bags. As I stowed them under the sink, I thought I heard the sound of a car door shutting but dismissed it in the ensuing silence. When the doorbell rang loudly, my head jerked, bumping the top of the cabinet.

“Ow!” I pressed the spot with annoyance, rolling my eyes at my own clumsiness. Stood up. “Coming!”

Rounding the corner into the living room, rubbing my head, I looked toward the porch. The screen door meshed gray over the figure of a man in navy slacks and an unbuttoned sport coat. He stood half turned away, hands interlaced, forefingers tapping with impatience, gazing distractedly at the sidewalk. Beyond him was a car I'd never seen. Something about his stance looked familiar and I hesitated, staring at the light brown hair, a stray shock on his forehead, as though he were a figure from an ancient dream. I took another step and he heard my approach, swiveling. Dizziness washed over me as our eyes met. His were a shining, brilliant green.

“Celia.”

He said my name in a voice that spoke of fishing and a lazy summer river, of a daisy-laden field and canopied oak trees, of dancing to the Bee Gees and whispered I-love-you's, of disappointments, heartbreaks, elation, and hope. The last time I heard his voice, he was saying he'd wait for me, that space and time could never part us. That he would save me an ocean. And that until then nothing could separate our hearts.

He called me again.

Mama's colored sidewalk; now this. I could not answer. With weak ankles my feet struggled across the worn carpet and halted before the door. The anticipation etching his face faded to uncertainty. I could hear my own heartbeat.

Danny,
I pleaded silently,
have you come to torture me?

He hesitated, a hand against the door. “Can I come in?”

Briefly I nodded.

He stepped across the threshold, easing the screen closed behind him. I watched his unsteady breathing, my own snatched away, his gaze traveling over my face, imploring response. I found none.

“I—” He stumbled. “Your mama called me last night from the Hardings'. I could hardly believe her story at first. Then all I could think about was catching the next plane.”

The words refused to gel in my throbbing head. I continued to stare.

“Celia, listen to me.” His voice rose with urgency. “No one has ever replaced you. I tried and tried, but . . . ‘You're too distant,' they all say. ‘Who are you really thinking about?' Kathy won't be surprised when I tell her. In her heart she already knows. I love you, Celia. I always have.”

I've loved you for years.

Something inside me cracked, the words washing through me like warm current.

“Oh, Danny.”

Suddenly his arms encircled me, grasping, my face against his neck.
It's a dream, I told myself. It's just a dream, one I want to last forever.

“I've waited so long,” he murmured, “so many years without knowing.” Time fell away like loosened flower petals as I clung to him, throat tightening. I didn't know how long we stood enfolded or what finally quelled my sobs, my head tilting back to drink in the sight of him, his mouth meeting mine. Our breaths long intermingled, his hands in my hair, hearts scudding. Then he pulled away, cupping my face, remarking with awe that I was more beautiful than before. And he was taller, his chest broader, the weight of Bradleyville long erased from his brow.

We found ourselves sinking onto the couch, kissing, smiling at each other, fingers trailing with renewed wonder along a jawline, a shoulder, a neck. Brushing hair from his forehead, I tried to tell him I was sorry for what I had done, but he shushed me abruptly, whispering, “No more apologies, no more past. We've both had enough.”

Thoughts swirling, I asked about Greece, and he extolled its beauty.

“I've never seen the ocean,” I blurted ridiculously.

He smiled sadly. “Will you let me show it to you?”

I could only nod.

His gaze grew intense and I watched him search for words. “There's so much to talk about, Celia. We have different lives now. Do you think we—can we find a way to start over? Try again?”

Little Rock flashed through my mind, the possibility of leaving it weighted with sentiments that dreams merely skimmed. I couldn't begin to think through details at that moment. But touching Danny again, I did know one thing. My artistic skills and advertising experience were portable, while my grief over him had been so hard to carry.