Tomorrow's Dream (14 page)

23 

To the casual observer,
Abigail
was a picture of brisk and competent composure. She kept up an energetic pace down the Washington street, her chin high, her gaze level. But inwardly she was uncomfortable and ill at ease.

Her interior confusion had nothing to do with the undefined physical malaise that had nagged at her for several weeks now. The day before, Abigail had stopped by Kyle's home. Kyle had made a polite query over her health, and then she launched into a long description of a charity concert Abigail had missed.

Abigail sat there listening to her daughter and glancing around the room. She had never seen it so tidy—not one item out of place. Cut flowers stood in a vase at the center of the coffee table. Every surface was shining, and the air smelled of polish and cleaner. Every piece of furniture and china was exactly in its place. Even the clock on the mantel seemed to tick with proper exactness.

Her attention returned to Kyle, who had chatted on about the women who had attended the function, the food that was served, the decorations in the room. She made little asides about the outfits a couple of them were wearing. Now when Abigail thought back over the visit, she realized there was not a single instant of silence the entire hour that she was with Kyle.

Abigail continued walking down the Washington street, knowing exactly why the experience at Kyle's had made her feel so uneasy. She stared idly into one beautifully presented showroom window after another, but in truth she saw very little. Despite the veneer of normalcy, despite her daughter's animation, Abigail had understood exactly why she herself had remained so concerned. It was the same thing which she had confronted that first time Kyle and Kenneth had joined her for church. The same thing she had noticed in her daughter numerous times since then. With every passing day, Kyle was becoming more and more like herself.

The day before, she had sat and listened to Kyle parrot all the perspectives she was coming to dislike most in herself. Her daughter's empty words had been grating, both because they pointed at what Kyle was becoming, and because they showed how helpless Abigail was in the face of what she had come to see as wrong, both with herself and with her daughter.

Abigail stopped so suddenly the woman walking behind her brushed against her with a startled apology. But Abigail paid no notice. Her attention was held by the reflection in the window. Abigail stood and stared back at herself, and realized what troubled her even more today. She had never felt so helpless. She knew what the problem was, yet had no idea what the solution could be. It felt as though all the years of mistakes and false pretenses were there in front of her eyes, forcing her to realize just what an enormous error she had made of raising her own child.

All those years of pushing and prodding the child because she was not the proper young lady Abigail desired and demanded—the weight of it suddenly seemed unbearable. She looked in the mirrorlike surface of the window and saw the hollowness underneath her perfect exterior. And she saw Kyle.

If only there was something she could do. Some way to correct all the errors. Some way to make everything better. For herself, and for her daughter.

Kyle felt sluggish and headachy. She had made a feeble attempt at morning prayer and had finally gotten dressed, her thoughts distracted and her soul unsatisfied. Inwardly she told herself that she would pray later when her mind was more at rest. But she knew she wouldn't. She had made that empty promise on many other days.

She had not slept well. The night before she had tried to reach Ruthie, only to learn that she was still up at the Miller farm. Kyle could not understand what was taking her so long to respond. Every minute seemed to drag as she waited for Ruthie to answer.

Kyle wandered aimlessly to the kitchen. Perhaps a cup of coffee would help. Without conscious thought she measured the coffee, added the water, and placed the pot on the electric burner. She wasn't sure she wanted coffee at all. Wasn't sure she wanted anything. Perhaps she should go out. Maybe call Abigail. No, Abigail would see her dark-rimmed eyes and probably ask questions. Martha? No. Martha would look at her with all that love and pain in her face. Kyle was in no mood to handle Martha's loving sympathy. Shopping? Merely the thought of meandering through the stores made her feel worse. Impatiently she snatched open the cupboard and stared unseeing at the array of cups.

She needed to get out. Away. Somewhere. To fill her mind with some kind of coherent activity. Some purpose for making it through another day.

The coffee began to send out its rich aroma, but Kyle hardly noticed as she automatically selected a cup. Her scattered thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Kyle frowned. Who was ringing at this hour of the morning?

She had taken a few steps toward the front door before her mind registered a faint sound . . . almost like a little whimper. She found herself hurrying across the front hallway, drawn by what she did not understand.

She opened the door to Abigail. “Mother! Have I forgotten something? An appointment?”

“No, no . . .” Abigail seemed strangely uncomfortable. “I, well, that is . . .”

“Come in.” In fact, Kyle found herself glad that her mother had stopped by. Since Abigail was walking in unannounced, she would find some excuse for her drawn features. Everybody had bad nights now and then. “I just made some fresh coffee.”

“Kyle . . .” Abigail hesitated on the little front porch. “I was walking by a shop this morning, and I found myself, well, thinking of how much you always wanted a pet.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don't know how to say this.” Abigail seemed to search the air above her head. “Oh, I don't even know what it is I want to say.”

“Mother—” There it was again. The faintest of sounds, a little scratching and a high-pitched whimper.

“Kyle, I wasn't always the best mother to you. I know that. We both do.” Abigail's words pushed against one another, as though she had spent the entire journey trying to decide what to say. “But I did what I thought was best at the time.”

“Of course you did,” Kyle said, trying to peer behind Abigail.

“But now, well, I wish I had done some things differently.” Abigail stopped a moment, then managed, “And I was thinking that perhaps—that is, I was recalling how much you wanted a puppy when you were young.”

Finally it dawned on Kyle. “You bought me a dog?”

“I was just passing by the store this morning and there it was in the window. The shopkeeper told me it was the runt of the litter. All the others had long since been bought, and they had put this last one up front so at least it could have the passersby for company.”

Kyle held her breath as Abigail spoke. Yes, she had always wanted a dog as a child. But she was an adult now. An adult whose home should be filled with the laughter of a growing child instead of the emptiness that echoed and followed her from room to room. She started to protest. Surely Abigail did not think that a dog, any dog, could fill the void in her life. Surely not.

Abigail seemed to read her thoughts. “I know you've been so lonely. And hurt. And I thought this little dog looked lonely too. Perhaps, well, I just thought the two of you might help each other.” The last sentence came out in a rush.

Kyle felt her sudden irritation melt away. This was so unlike her mother. The words, the thoughts, the effort. It was hard to be upset with her just now. “Where is he?”

“She. It's a little female. She's, well . . .” Abigail made a vague gesture behind her. “In that small carrier out by the walk.”

Then Kyle spotted the little screened box and thought she saw a movement inside. She hastened down the steps and along the walk. The tiny whine was clearly heard now.

Abigail followed along behind her. “She's been all alone in the pen since the beginning of last week. That seemed like such a long time, well . . .”

Kyle bent over the box and lifted the peaked lid. A pair of soulful dark eyes surrounded by soft golden curls stared up at her. “It's a spaniel.”

“Pure-bred cocker.” Abigail stooped beside her daughter. “Quite a pretty dog.”

Kyle was unprepared for the sudden lurch of her heart. It seemed to reach out even before her hand as she moved to stroke the soft curls. “Poor little thing.”

It turned brown pleading eyes toward her and a small pink tongue licked tentatively at her fingers. Kyle lifted the little animal. “She's beautiful, Mother.”

Abigail opened her mouth, clearly wanting to say something more, but words did not come. She reached one hand out toward Kyle but ended up simply stroking the puppy's little head. Then she said, “I really must be going. The entire day is off schedule now.” But her attempt at a brisk tone did not cover the softness and concern in her face.

Kyle's heart went out to her mother. She felt an unbidden surge of tears as confusing emotions and images tried to force their way out. Kyle could only manage a nod. Just a small tip of her head, but it must have been enough for Abigail. She gave a nod of her own, and with a sad smile turned to make her way back up the street.

Kyle stood and watched her disappear around the corner. Later she would need to find some way to thank Abigail. But not just now. She buried her face in the softness of the puppy's fur and heard the soft whine in response.

24 

Kyle was reaching for her coat
when the phone rang. She lifted the receiver to her mother's “Good morning, dear. How are you today?”

“Hello, Mother. I'm in a rush.” Kyle picked up the phone cradle, pulled the cord free, and walked over to glance through the narrow side window. The street was empty. “I've ordered a taxi.”

“This early?”

“I'm going up to the Miller farm.” Finally, finally, the call had come through from Ruthie.

“Isn't Kenneth in New York for that big meeting?”

“Yes. He left last night. I'm going alone.” She did not bother to say she had organized her own trip to coincide with Kenneth's absence.

“Does he know you're going to the Millers'?”

“Of course, Mother.” There was no need to relate the questions she had been forced to avoid answering. “I'll be back tomorrow before he comes in.”

“Well, would you like me to—” But she stopped before she finished making the offer. Clearly Abigail could not imagine herself at the Miller farm—or any farm, for that matter.

“I'll be fine, Mother. I need to . . . to see Ruthie,” she finished vaguely.

Her phone conversation with Ruthie had been confusing. At first the girl had seemed so definite that, no, she was not going to give up the baby. But then Ruthie had said Mr. Miller wanted to see her. Kyle had felt a stab of hope. What other reason could there be for such a meeting, except that he wanted to talk to her about taking the baby? So there had to be a chance after all. But this was nothing she could explain to either Kenneth or to Abigail. They would hear about it only when all was definite and final.

Abigail sighed, “Oh. I see. Very well.”

Another glance through the front window. Still no taxi. “Why did you call?”

“Oh, it's nothing, really. I had a favor to ask.” Abigail stopped, and Kyle waited for her to explain. “I went in the other day for a physical. The doctor's office called last night.” Another breath. “The doctor in charge of my examination wants me to come in to see him this morning.”

The news drew Kyle away from the window. “Is something wrong?”

“I'm sure I don't know. I haven't really been feeling like myself, but . . .” Another pause, then, “I was hoping you could come with me.”

“Anytime but today, Mother.” Which was not exactly true. Kyle was not sure she would be able to force herself into another medical facility anytime soon. “The Millers have invited me up, and it's important.”

“Well, if you're sure.” Kyle said nothing in response. Abigail took a breath and said, “How's your puppy?”

“Oh, Goldie's fine. She's asleep in the kitchen. A neighbor agreed to stop in and check on her this afternoon and again tonight.”

“You've named the dog Goldie?”

“Kenneth says it's not a very imaginative name, but I think it suits her. Her coat just shines with the brushing and bath.”

Abigail's tone warmed. “I'm glad you're making her part of the family.”

“Yes, we are.” Family. Kyle glanced through the window again. The street remained empty. “Kenneth says Goldie is becoming a one-woman dog. Her eyes do seem to follow me everywhere I go. And all I need to do is sit down for a moment and she's right there beside me.”

“I wish I had let you have one when you were young,” Abigail confessed. “I wish . . .”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. What's done is done.” But she sounded very sad.

Kyle decided it had to be the doctor's appointment that was worrying her mother. She paced back to the hall table and put the phone set down. “They probably just want to run a few tests,” she said with as much confidence as she could. “I'll call you as soon as I get to the train station.”

“I won't be back by then. And they've already run more tests than I thought existed.” Abigail tried for briskness. “It's probably nothing. Call me when you get home.”

“Yes. Of course I will.” She started to turn back to the window, but her attention was snagged by her reflection in the tall oval mirror.

“Have a good trip, dear. And do take care.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Kyle slowly hung up the phone without glancing away from her reflection. She was dressed in a new dark blue two-piece outfit she had bought with her mother. A lady's suit, the saleswoman had called it, enthusing over how lovely the designer ensemble had looked on Kyle's slender frame. And she did look good. In fact, she probably had never looked better. Her hair was precisely cut in a fashionable style, her makeup as perfect as she could do it. A silk blouse of palest gray, a single strand of pearls, matching earrings, and pumps and purse the exact shade of her suit completed the look.

But it was not her comely appearance that held her so. It was the expression on her face, in her eyes, as she had finished speaking with her mother. Kyle lifted her hand from the receiver and touched her cheek.

Her eyes were what held her. Not the tension in her features, nor the firm way her mouth was pursed, nor the narrow lines etched across her forehead. Her eyes.

A sudden thought struck her. She had seen that gaze before. The eyes had been a different color, but the gaze had been the same. The same tightness, the same emptiness. They had stared down at her throughout her childhood years, checking her appearance, her behavior, disapproving of everything she had done and was. Kyle stood and looked at her face and wondered when she had taken on Abigail's gaze. And where her own eyes had gone.

A horn honked, startling Kyle. She rushed to open the door, wave to the taxi, then went back to retrieve her purse and case. Kyle forced herself to avoid her reflection in the mirror as she turned and walked from the house.

Abigail had always prided herself on knowing how to be prepared for anything. Today she had three magazines, the newspaper, and a book she had heard discussed by a news commentator. But the paper remained folded on the chair beside her, and the magazines lay unopened on her lap.

She looked around the half-empty waiting room. They all smelled the same, these places. No matter how well appointed the room was, or how nice and attractive the receptionist might be, or what pretty art they put on the walls, it was still a doctor's office. They all smelled vaguely of antiseptic and fear. Pain and uncertainty seemed to have seeped into the walls and the furniture, adding to the concern she already felt about the doctor's summons.

A woman came through the door leading from the examining rooms. She had been crying. Her makeup had been cleaned away, but Abigail could still see a smudge on either cheek, and her eyes were red. Abigail knew she should not be staring, but she could not help herself. It was like looking through a window into her own future.

The receptionist gave the woman a smile of forced cheeriness and handed over a slip. “We've set up the appointment for you tomorrow morning at nine. Here, see, I've written down the room you need to report to at the hospital. Now be sure not to eat or drink anything after dinner tonight, all right?”

The woman accepted the paper without looking at it or the receptionist. She turned and started for the door. Abigail sat and watched until the woman had left. Only then could she manage to draw a full breath.

“Mrs. Rothmore?” The receptionist turned her professional smile in Abigail's direction. “Good morning. The doctor is ready to see you now.”

Abigail gathered her magazine and newspaper, trying to force her hands to stop their trembling. She rose unsteadily to her feet, not even making an attempt to respond to the nurse's greeting. She followed the woman down the long hallway and was directed into a small room. The doctor was not there. Abigail sank into a chair and stared at nothing as the nurse closed the door, leaving her alone. A file with her name was lying there on the desk. She had no desire to take a look.

There in the empty, lonely room, she felt something she had never known before. Not as a child when her father had lost the family fortune, not when her husband's new company teetered on the brink of disaster, not when she learned she could not have children, not when her husband died, never once. Until now. Abigail did not just feel lonely and frightened. She felt defeated.

Here and now, her life had been taken out of her control. There was nothing she could do about what she faced. The inevitability left her bereft and stripped of her defenses. All those little white lies—and the big black ones. Now they all came crashing down around her. Every last one. It felt as though the structure of her entire life, all her protection, was crumbling around her, turning to the dust that she would soon become.

The door opened. The doctor entered and said briskly, “Good morning, Mrs. Rothmore. How are you today?”

But Abigail could not have responded even if she had wanted to. She was weeping far too hard to speak a single word.