Sweet Waters (35 page)
Authors: Julie Carobini
“I think I see what you're saying.”
Mel's brows register surprise. “You do?”
“As recently as this morning, I was still wondering if this is where I should be. If moving to Otter Bay was the right choice.”
“And now?”
“I'm more at peace with this decision than I've been since day one.”
She draws in a large breath and exhales a healthy yawn. “Yeah, me too.”
Her yawn is contagious and one finds me as well. “Go on to bed, Mel-Mel. I'll shut down the computer.”
She turns to go but pauses. “It's been a mind-boggling week. Don't rush things about Josh. And who knows? Maybe he'll come to terms with things before his father's big day.”
If he attends.
My body longs to sit in the dark, with only the tick of the clock and the nearby waves as companions. It's what I should do. But as is my habit, I find myself absentmindedly logging on to my
Soaps Weekly Digest
account. Eliza's had another busy day. Vicky the vixen, her son's replacement fiancée, has fallen from her good graces, apparently. That was quick. I read on. Seems Vicky hit it off with Maurice at the soiree she had thrown for her son's newest (and orchestrated) engagement. If only she'd left well enough alone . . .
My body longs to sit in the dark, with only the tick of the clock and the nearby waves as companions. It's what I should do. But as is my habit, I find myself absentmindedly logging on to my
Soaps Weekly Digest
account. Eliza's had another busy day. Vicky the vixen, her son's replacement fiancée, has fallen from her good graces, apparently. That was quick. I read on. Seems Vicky hit it off with Maurice at the soiree she had thrown for her son's newest (and orchestrated) engagement. If only she'd left well enough alone . . .
Where's the reward in this?
The truth smacks me on my usually sensible brain. I realize just how tired I am of Eliza and her shenanigans. Who could survive such a life unscathed? She's nothing but a fictional character who falls into one conflict after another with no sign of reward. And I'd been looking to her for help?
Maybe . . .
Maybe my own life had become so boring that I needed Eliza. Or at least I thought I did.
But Eliza plays with people with no thought to how her actions affect their lives. Their souls. My mind wanders back to Josh and the confusion in his voice today.
He knew how to make me feel small and helpless.
Josh's statement had surprised me. The way he always put himself on the line was impressive, but maybe there'd been another reason for his many sacrifices, for the inattention to his own safety. Maybe his father's brokenness had caused him to internalize the misconception that his
own
life didn't matter much.
He knew how to make me feel small and helpless.
Josh's statement had surprised me. The way he always put himself on the line was impressive, but maybe there'd been another reason for his many sacrifices, for the inattention to his own safety. Maybe his father's brokenness had caused him to internalize the misconception that his
own
life didn't matter much.
The idea pains me to my center and I sit in the silence, all except for the clicking of that clock. Unnatural light glows from my computer screen and I shake my head. Of course his life matters.
Every
life does. Even mine.
Every
life does. Even mine.
I take one last look at the screen, that old familiar longing for the
Weekly Digest
nothing but a pale memory. “Sayonara, my old friend,” I say to the picture of a grinning Eliza, her hair in the style I've always envied. “It's just that there's been enough drama in my old life lately, much of it avoidable.”
Weekly Digest
nothing but a pale memory. “Sayonara, my old friend,” I say to the picture of a grinning Eliza, her hair in the style I've always envied. “It's just that there's been enough drama in my old life lately, much of it avoidable.”
She keeps on grinning, as if she hadn't heard a thing. A sigh flows through me and I keep talking to the static picture. “You don't care and you never have. And you know what? I need more than that in my life. I need people, Eliza . . . and I . . . I need God.”
Saying the words aloud, rather than just thinking them in some fleeting, happy way, moves something fresh and active within me. I. Need. God.
Can it be as simple as that?
With all of me, I know the answer, and it stuns me, but in a good way. At the same moment, Nigel's words from the morning jolt me:
Those who are there now understand that the church today should operate much like a hospital for sinners.
Those who are there now understand that the church today should operate much like a hospital for sinners.
“Eliza,” I say to the quintessential drama queen. “Get thee to the church.”
With a click of the mouse, I unsubscribe to the site and click
close.
close.
“YOU DID THE RIGHT thing.” Camille's wielding a crochet hook and sharp eye toward the yarn in her hand.
“You were out surfing when I called Mel to talk about it. I didn't want you both to feel obligated, so I figured it could come out of my portion.”
She looks up. “Is Mel kicking in?”
I look at Mel. “Yes, she is.”
“I still can't believe Dad would've done stuff like that.” She shrugs. “But you know what you're doing. You always do. Count me in too.”
I send Mel a questioning glance and she takes over. “So you're cool with us paying back Peg all of the money?”
She doesn't lift her eyes. “Uh-huh.”
“Camille?” I rest one hand on her shoulder. “Is something bothering you?”
She works faster and with more intensity, her full curls bouncing against each other as her crochet hook does its thing. I'm wondering if she heard me when she misses a loop and lets a curse word slip out under her breath.
Mel catches my eye and gives me a reassuring nod. She leans toward Camille and gently removes her crochet project from her hands. “Talk to us.”
Camille shuts her eyes tightly, something she's done since a child. She smothers her face in her hands and lets out an uncharacteristic howl. “I'm so confused!”
Mel and I exchange a bewildered glance.
I reach out to her. “By what? C'mon, Camille. Talk to me.”
She throws herself into my arms and we roll over onto the carpet together, like a couple of roly-poly bugs caught on their backs. Mel stands over us. “You girls need some help?”
We lie there on the floor, looking up into the wood beamed ceiling, our chests rising and falling in the silence.
Camille speaks first. “Do you girls think I'm insensitive?”
I roll over and take in her precious face. “I've never once thought that of you.”
“That's it.” Mel drops to the floor. “Give it up. You're beside yourself and you need to tell us why.”
“I don't miss them.”
She's speaking in riddles. “Who? Who don't you miss?”
“My parents!” Camille stands and hugs her waist. “I don't miss them at all. I'm horrible! How could I not miss them?”
I'm at her side in an instant. “Oh, honey.” She falls into my arms. “You were just a baby when Uncle Grant died. And your mother left even before that. You couldn't possibly remember them. Don't beat yourself up.”
“Yeah, kiddo. If it helps any, we don't remember life without you.”
“How did this come up all of a sudden?” I ask.
A dramatic sigh flows out of her. “Holly. She's got all these pictures of her mother and some magazine cut-outs of men she thinks might look like her father in an album with all kinds of stickers and captions. It's kind of sad. She dreams of some kind of reunion someday, like she's Annie.”
I rub her back. “You two have become good friends, haven't you.”
“Yeah. I feel so bad for her. All she's got is her Aunt Pegâand you know what a bear she can be. I hate to say it, but what happens to her when Peg, you know, passes away?”
Mel clucks. “She'll throw a party?”
“All I'm saying is that Holly loves two people she's never known. I'm so worried about her because a reunion may never happenâand then she'll be alone. And that makes me feel guilty, because honestly, I don't ever think about my birth parents.”
“Never?” I'd wondered, on occasion, what it would have been like for Camille to have been simply our cousin. The thought always chilled me, like a cold snap in winter. And for that, I always felt guilty. Somewhere within me an idea niggles at me, bringing on that same sickening chill, followed by the guilt of my own selfishness. Camille's mother could very well show up here in Otter Bay.
“Well. Maybe not
never.
I used to wonder about my real mother. And you know how Mom always likes to tell stories about how funny my father was.” She shrugs again. “I have happy memories of him only because of what Mom has said. I don't remember him. Anyway, I never felt like I didn't belong and I've never really wondered âwhat if.' If anything, I've been counting me lucky stars. Sheesh, Dad treated me no different than you two!”
never.
I used to wonder about my real mother. And you know how Mom always likes to tell stories about how funny my father was.” She shrugs again. “I have happy memories of him only because of what Mom has said. I don't remember him. Anyway, I never felt like I didn't belong and I've never really wondered âwhat if.' If anything, I've been counting me lucky stars. Sheesh, Dad treated me no different than you two!”
I swallow the lump growing at the base of my throat.
“We're
the blessed ones . . . so, so blessed to call you our sister.” Another reason to offer thanks instead of curses to Dadâand to Mom.
“We're
the blessed ones . . . so, so blessed to call you our sister.” Another reason to offer thanks instead of curses to Dadâand to Mom.
Mel socks Camille on the shoulder. “Yeah. Don't feel bad that you're not mooning over your parents, kiddo. Things worked out the way they were meant to.”
Mel's words strike me to my center. Was Uncle Grant meant to die in a motorcycle crash? Was it God's plan for Camille's mother to abandon them both? Hard to imagine either of these scenarios as God-designed, but now is not the time to argue the point.
I hide away these thoughts and muster up a smile for Camille.
Chapter Thirty-four
Déjà vu pays a visit as I look for seats amidst a buzzing crowd. Same crowd, same venue, different event. It's all very weird. If I hadn't told Shirley I'd come, and if Nigel hadn't coerced me into accompanying him with the promise of free tapas and a day off, I might very well have just mailed a card.
A female volunteerâI can tell by the word VOLUNTEER emblazoned on her name tagâhands us a program, and Nigel and I find our seats. Up front, Pete and Shirley Adams sit regally as a variety of residents gather around them to offer hellos and congratulations. Nothing looks amiss as Pete's charismatic smile greets his admirers.
“It's a lovely day for an outdoor ceremony,” Nigel says. “Wouldn't you agree?”
I glance at him, aware of how angry I was at this gentle man only days ago. “It's beautiful, Nigel. The ocean, the trees, the warm airâthe perfect day to be outside.” I don't mention how fierce the waves sound against the otherwise blissful day.
A squeal, followed by an infectious giggle, draws my attention. A tiny girl, dark-skinned and chatty, spins in the center aisle as her mother tries unsuccessfully to coax her into a folding chair. The child catches my eye and lunges toward me, one of her petite hands clutching a single flower.
“I sit with you!” Accent heavy and drawn out on the
you.
I smile and scoop her up, as if doing so is as natural as the unfurling of waves. She's on my lap, beaming like a pixie, her own attention caught between the seaside daisy in her hand and the features on my face.
you.
I smile and scoop her up, as if doing so is as natural as the unfurling of waves. She's on my lap, beaming like a pixie, her own attention caught between the seaside daisy in her hand and the features on my face.
“Mia!” The girl's mother utters apologies as she climbs over several people in order to exit her row of seats and reclaim her daughter. She crosses the aisle in haste and looks to me, her brow scrunched. “I'm so sorry. Mia, you need to stay with Mama.”
I smile. “I don't mind at all. She's adorable.”
Mia takes one last look at me and hops from my lap, dropping the daisy onto the grass and scampering away before her bewildered mother can catch her. The woman heaves an exasperated sigh and dashes off.
“You will make a tremendous mother some day, my dear.”
“Mm. Thank you.” Nigel's sentiments are like lotion to a burn. No doubt he's aware of our mother's often flighty ways. Oh, she loved us and made sure we had what we needed to live, but there was always this underlying sense that her mind was in some other place. I glance off toward the west, where a hawk glides with ease.
Maybe Mom's ways had more to do with all the secrets locked up and left behind in California.
Maybe Mom's ways had more to do with all the secrets locked up and left behind in California.
Why two clowns juggling live fire take this moment to enter from the side with no warning whatsoever I'll never understand, but when they do, children flock near to them, leaving seated parents looking harried and torn. The ludicrousness of flying flames at the mayor's celebration catches me off guard, bringing out the giddy teen in meâwho knew one existed?âand I begin to giggle. Slowly at first, since I rarely giggle, until the bubbling peals light a fire of their own, sending me into all-out laughter, the kind that's difficult to cover in polite company. I try, but that only serves to make the laughter build until a wet sheen covers my eyes.
Nigel hands me his hanky and I'm barely able to control myself. “I had forgotten all about that laughter, but now that I hear it again, I remember it well.”
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