Mason's Daughter (22 page)

“Maybe a year or more, and I feel like I should tie up a few loose ends. That’s why I’m calling.”

No one has ever referred to me as a loose end.

He clears his throat. “First, let me apologize for taking part in a scheme that caused so much pain for you and your family. That’s why I sent you the flowers.”

“You didn’t really know how it would turn out.” Except for his ten percent profit. “Thank you again. They’re lovely.” I lean around the doorframe, my eyes searching for Mike.

Brett’s voice jerks my attention back to the receiver. “Your family is very singular. I’ve got to admit, I’ve never met anyone like Big Jack or Nate before.”

Lucky him.

“What I’m trying to say is, this situation has become too complicated for me and so I hope we can part as friends.”

After one date, which ended abruptly and badly, does he believe he will leave me broken-hearted? I want to set him straight, when I catch a glimpse of Colton. He stands within earshot.

“Brett, it’s very kind of you to be so concerned, but please understand my number one focus is my son. That will keep me pretty busy around here for quite some time.” I assure him he will settle in nicely at Princeton, aren’t they lucky to get him, and the folks here at the University and in Mason’s Crossing will just have to struggle along without him. I try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

After we hang up, I want to shriek with relief. My feathers aren’t ruffled in the least, but Judith will be so disappointed. Not just on my behalf, but also because she can’t stand being wrong about people.

Colton trails me into the living room. Resting his elbow on the mantel, Mike appears lost in thought.

I smile at him with as much warmth as I can muster and hope I look sexy at the same time, even in my jeans and pullover. “What’s up?”

“Angelique wants to see you.”

Colton jerks his head toward Mike.

Mike shakes his head. “Just Sally.”

Colton turns and edges toward the sofa.

“That’s funny.” I glance at Colton. “We just left her house. She wasn’t at home.”

“I didn’t take her home last night.”

“Not back to court?” I giggle. “I thought you dropped the trespassing charges last week.”

“She’s been admitted into the hospital.”

Oh, great. “That’s just where we went earlier to see Big Jack. I wish I’d known she was there. Is she getting more tests?”

“Not our little medical center. The big hospital in Austin. Didn’t she tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

Colton flops on the sofa and puts his head in his hands. I crab-walk around the edge of the end table to be near him, but not close enough to touch his shoulder, even though I want to.

Mike sighs and doesn’t look at me. “I guess not.”

I inhale, but the air comes in shaky. “What’s wrong with her?” I stride toward Mike and grab his arm. He tilts his face down to mine, but no electricity throws off sparks this time.

We both startle at the sound of a loud thud behind me. Colton lies on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table.

I dash toward him. As I clutch his shoulder, he turns aside, away from me, and curls up in a ball, halfway under the table.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarls.

It is foolish to expect him to let me cradle him in my arms again, like last night. I stand up and try to take a deep breath, but the air feels too thick, and I sputter. I might faint, too, but Mike comes toward me and puts his arm around my waist.

Gently he guides me back to the kitchen as if I am blind. “I’ll stay here with Colton,” he says. “You go see Angelique right now. Listen to what she has to say.”

How did she sound the last time I heard her voice? Not too tired to speak, but she walked with effort. Or maybe too effortlessly, as if she has already let go. I struggle to remember what she said.

Something about love. Without her, where will I find it? What exact words did she use?

“When is she coming home?”

“She’s not.”

Fear rushes up like a giant wave and takes away the sun and the earth, and everything in between. Wherever I discover it, I need love strong enough, not only to bring it all back, but also to change the course of the stars.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

I might as well be a leaf tossed on a storm cloud all the way to the hospital in Austin. A dark mood seizes me, so much I can’t distinguish the road from other cars, but only feel the rise and fall of the terrain. Once inside the building, the ding of the elevator chimes like a distant bell, while the long hallway seems like an endless drainpipe.

The door to Angelique’s room is closed. I gasp as I read a ‘No Visitors’ sign on the wall. Is she quarantined?

My breath shakes in irregular rhythm. I sniffle and run my hands up my face, trying to push my cheeks into a smile. If Angelique has taken care to hide her condition, the least I can do is disguise my fear. I wish I had thought to bring her Brett’s flowers.

I pull up on the handle and push the door open a few inches. “Angelique?”

No answer.

I put my shoulder against the edge and nudge again. It moves enough for me to crane my neck and look into the room.

For what I see, nothing in my life has prepared me. Almost nothing.

Mrs. Gussmann said I must wear all black, and on my bed she has laid out a long wool skirt with a matching jacket. I balked at the idea of putting on a black silk blouse underneath. No one would see it anyway, except for the tie, as the early spring was still cold in Mason’s Crossing, but she rejected my preference for a white one.

She stood in the doorway of my closet searching for black shoes. “You better wear boots, dear, since the ground at the cemetery is still muddy today.” She returned to my bedroom with a large box, and then dumped the contents on the bed. One black leather boot slid to the floor with a loud clunk.

“Where’s Daddy?”

“Downstairs, meeting with Reverend Atherton.” She clucked like a hen. “Hurry up, Sally. The service starts at eleven.”

“You can get on with your other duties, if you like.” I tried to smile. “I don’t need any help getting dressed.”

“Of course, dear. Since you’ve been away at boarding school, I have trouble remembering you’re fourteen now.” She turned toward the door.

“Oh, wait.” I pulled on her arm. “Would you please bring me something?”

As she looked at me, tears glistened at the edge of her eyes.

“Go get one of Mother’s diamond brooches from her dressing room. I want to pin it on my jacket.”

She cocked her head to one side, as if she didn’t hear me correctly. After a moment, a little smile played across her mouth. “Which one, sweetie?”

“The chrysanthemum, the one with the giant pearl in the center.” Daddy brought it to her from Japan last year, but Mother never wore it. He showed it to her during one of our visits to the hospital, but he took it home again.

By the time Mrs. Gussmann came back, I had put on the skirt and blouse. She tied the bow while I finished buttoning. She pulled the brooch out of her pocket. “Left or right side?”

“Does it matter?”

“Not today.”

We chose the jacket’s left side, and I slipped my arms into the sleeves and stood back to admire the sparkly pin in the mirror. I was sure Mother would have liked it.

In the reflection, I noticed Mrs. Gussmann wiping her cheek. I let my arms fall to my side and turned around. “Why are you crying?”

“Your poor father,” she sniffled. “He’s endured so much. And now this, on top of everything else.”

Why did she feel such sympathy for him? He wasn’t the one who suffered.

Downstairs, I waited in the entry hall for Daddy and Reverend Atherton to come out of his office. The minister planned to accompany us to the funeral home for the final viewing. Daddy insisted on a closed casket during the service at church, but I didn’t know why.

When our driver knocked at the front door, I let him inside. He tipped his cap and stood at attention until my father and the minister appeared. Without speaking, we walked to the limo and climbed in. I preferred to sit facing backwards, so I let Reverend Atherton have the seat next to my father. The minister made small talk all the way to the funeral home, but I didn’t pay attention unless he asked me a direct question.

Nothing he said could calm the beehive in my stomach. I’d seen a dead person before. I remembered Aunt Mary looked about the same, dead or alive, like she had gotten dressed up and then lain down for a nap.

But this time was different.

The funeral home was decorated in soft greens and browns, nothing too bright or exciting. The piped-in organ music dragged through the stilted air and made me drowsy. When the manager came up to shake my father’s hand, he spoke in low tones, as if his normal voice might frighten people.

It was a scary place. There should have been people coming and going, but instead it was deserted. A place where I didn’t know exactly what to expect. A place where reality hit me: I couldn’t change what had already happened.

I stood and waited until the manager led us into a back reception room, which was filled with huge bouquets in vases and elaborate potted plants, some on the floor and some on wire stands or on pedestals. Against the far wall, the upper lid to my mother’s casket stood open. Her profile was barely visible above the creamy silk lining. A spray of deep yellow roses with frilly white orchids in the center covered the bottom half of the coffin. Maybe Daddy or Mrs. Gussmann ordered it. I would have chosen purple ones, since they were Mother’s favorite.

I didn’t want to remember her this way. My other memories weren’t easy ones either, because she was sick for so many years, but I’d rather have imagined her smiling as she peeked out from under her white broad-brimmed straw hat. Her face would be rosy pink, not bluish-purple.

The doctor said the color was due to the hanging. My father didn’t know I overheard them talking. Mother had ripped her hospital bed sheet into strips and tied them together. When it reached long enough, she threw it over the water pipe near the bathroom ceiling, slipped a noose around her neck, and jumped off the edge of the bathtub.

It achieved her purpose. An attendant found her later.

Angelique said I have to find a way to say good-bye. Not to blame my mother for her illness or her choice, but to wish her well on the next part of her journey. Angelique told me my mother’s struggle was now over, and I prayed that was true.

I couldn’t make myself move closer to her coffin, so I sent a mental note to my mother from a distance.

I know you had no intention to harm anyone else, only yourself. I hope you find peace soon.

My father wouldn’t let the funeral home manager close the lid yet, not until it was time to transfer her coffin to church for the service. He stood by its side, staring at her face. Every now and then, he put his fingertip to his mouth or rubbed his forehead. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

After a few moments, I left the room. As if I had called her to meet me, Angelique waited in the foyer, seated on a long divan against the wall. I flopped next to her and she took my hand. With a sigh, I leaned my head against her shoulder, and she reached up and laid her other hand against my cheek.

“Why did Mother have to die?”

“Oh, my dear child. Your mother was a very sick woman. Not her body, but her mind. The doctors tried and tried, but there was no medicine or cure for her.” Angelique shifted to snuggle her arm around me.

“Why did she do it? I just don’t understand.”

“I believe it must be that she could think of nothing except ending her pain. Real or only imagined, it was very real to her. It took over her thoughts, and therefore her actions, and she wasn’t even aware that she was a wife and a mother.”

“She was sick for a long time.”

Angelique nodded.

“She would have died sooner or later, wouldn’t she?”

Another nod.

“What’s it like to die?”

“When people get sick and are about to die, it’s like moving out of an old house. They stroll through the empty rooms one at a time, turning off the lights. Finally, they walk out the front door and close it behind them. Then they are free to go on to the next place.”

“Where’s that?”

She hugged me tighter. “It’s called heaven.”

“What do you call it when the sick person jumps off the roof of the house instead? Where do they go then?”

“It would still be heaven.”

I wasn’t so sure.

Fifteen minutes later, Reverend Atherton led my father out, holding him by the upper arm. My father shuffled his feet like a stiff robot. His face showed no emotion.

We got back in the limo and rode to church. It seemed like everyone in Mason’s Crossing had come to offer their sympathies. I didn’t pay attention during much of the service, except when Reverend Atherton referred to my mother as a lost lamb. Nice and soft and playful. She’d have liked that.

Angelique’s dark hair is splayed across the white pillowcase like spilled ink. A breathing tube snakes from a bedside machine across the mattress, around the back of her head, over her ears, and into her nostrils. Another drip line connects her wrist to an
IV
bag suspended from a pole. I should have asked Mike about the doctor’s diagnosis, but I don’t really want to know. Angelique won’t say it out loud either, because the words might make it come true. She is still a gypsy.

Her eyes are closed, and I watch her chest go up and down in an irregular rhythm. When I touch her arm, her eyelids flutter and she smiles.

She shifts her legs. “I’m glad you’ve come.”

“Mike told me–”

“I’m okay.” Her legs twitch and move as if she’s pedaling. “How’s Colton?”

“Mike’s with him now.”

“What a fine man. Don’t let him slip away.”

I fluff her pillow and stroke her hair, realizing a subtle shift has occurred. I am now the caretaker. “I won’t.”

“Colton needs–” Her face turns deep crimson as she coughs and shudders.

“Don’t try to talk.” I lean over her and tuck the sheet up around her shoulders.

Pale once more, she shakes her head and pushes the sheet down to take hold of my hand. “Colton needs to know you’re capable of forgiveness. He’s afraid you’ll shut him out for killing Jack.”

I stand up straight. “I’ve told him already.”

“He’ll never believe your words. You must
live
your forgiveness.”

“How can I do that?”

“I’ve showed you all along. Now go and
do
it.”

The room feels very small and close, as if we have entered a capsule, disconnected from the rest of the world. I caress her forehead. “Get some rest.”

Angelique smiles at me, the way she did when we first met, as if she was interested in me, and me alone. She tells me what I need to do because she knows I can’t figure it out by myself. She makes me promise. It is the only way, she assures me.

I feel small and unable to reach what floats away from me on a vast and empty sea. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “Take Colton with you. I’ll see you both when you get back.”

I kiss her cheek.

She grips my hand tighter while her eyes drill holes into mine, as if she can’t surrender touch and sight.

“What else?” I ask.

“Tell Mike to go by my house.”

I wait until her coughing stops. “What do you need?”

“My pink coral lipstick.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

She frowns. “You’ll be busy, remember?” Her chest heaves and her breathing stops for a moment. “He’ll find it in the top drawer . . . of my dressing table.” She relaxes and lets go of my hand, then grips it again.

“What?” I lean over her. “Is there something I can get you?”

“My mouth is dry.”

I search the room for a pitcher or a glass. “Be right back.”

By the time I return, Angelique lies still, too still, while a nurse checks her pulse. Even her legs have stopped jerking.

“Is she–?”

“Just resting.” The nurse squeezes the bag connected to the IV, then looks at her watch. “She’s comfortable now.”

I stare at Angelique. Did she grow paler while I was out of the room? She told me she’d be fine, but now I realize she lied. She is moving through the house of her body, the way she described it to me when my mother died. Which room has she reached?

The nurse turns to leave and hesitates. “I’m very sorry. Are you her daughter?”