Coming Home (20 page)

I was there, wasn’t I?
She closed her eyes, focusing on the little that she did remember of the place. Fragmented recollections. She remembered meeting her grandmother and Mrs. Robinette in a room. There were male nurses in a hallway… . And then the images faded again, like a wisp of smoke.

Eventually, she slept fitfully and awakened at six-thirty. She showered and dressed, but her eyes were still sunken from lack of sleep. Her arms tingled, and her legs felt weak. She wasn’t sure if she had dreamed last night or not.

When she met Bill in the kitchen, her good-morning smile felt pasty on her face. “I’ll just have some fruit,” she told him. “Maybe some toast, too.”

“Should I take it personally?” He chuckled.

They sat in silence a few moments until Grandmother joined them. Bill made several comments about the local news while Grandmother busied herself. The sunshine was muted by miniblinds.

“Still tired, kiddo?” Bill asked.

Jessie shrugged, forcing another smile. Mentally, she was tracing her route to the library in downtown Colorado Springs, only a few miles away … Nevada to I-25 to Bijou and she’d be there.

“Do you have a copy of my mother’s death certificate?” she asked suddenly. Grandmother’s hand quivered and she set her coffee cup down. “Well, now … I’m sure …”

Bill smiled curiously. “Now there’s a question you don’t hear every day.”

“I’d have to … hunt around …” Doris replied faintly, without indicating she was interested in doing so.

Bill stood at the counter pouring another cup of coffee, and her grandmother turned her attention again to the paper, suddenly preoccupied.

That was only my first question,
Jessie thought.

Her grandmother cleared her throat. “Would you like to attend our luncheon?”

Not in a year of Sundays,
Jessie thought. But she said she would and took a sip of orange juice. She caught Bill’s eye, and his expression struck her as strangely empathetic.

“We’ll leave at eleven-forty,” her grandmother instructed as she slipped out of the room.

Bill was silent as he cleaned up. He didn’t whistle and he didn’t turn on the radio.

Jessie excused herself, and instead of wandering upstairs, she went through the alcove door and crossed the lawn to the gazebo. She sat in the swing, mulling over her conversation with Andy and the strange way he’d looked at her after the cell phone call at the ice-cream shop.

Bill dropped Jessie and her grandmother off at the Broadmoor Hotel promptly at 11:45. They walked beneath the royal red awning, and a doorman opened the door to the hotel. He nodded his red hat and said, “Have a delightful visit.” Jessie answered, “Thank you, we will,” but the doorman was already greeting another older couple.

They walked across the elegant tiled floor to the escalator. At the top was a large hall with decorative furnishings, modern paintings, more marble floors, and elaborate wood molding.

“I wanted you to see Broadmoor East first, before we have lunch,” her grandmother explained in her matter-of-fact tone. “They’ve redecorated the whole place.”

Jessie’s previous request seemed to have been forgotten. Or perhaps Grandmother had forgiven her indiscretion. They explored the lovely room, then headed out another set of double glass doors, to a small courtyard with a sidewalk circling the lake. Crossing a bridge, they wandered to the opposite side, to Broadmoor West, then entered in through another set of glass doors, following yet another hallway to the left until they reached the restaurant.

There were seven of them for lunch, gathered around a large round table. Each lady was impeccably dressed, leaving Jessie feeling out of place in her mother’s navy blue skirt and cream blouse. She was introduced by her grandmother as each lady nodded and smiled, studying her.

After a few minutes of conversation, it became obvious to Jessie the women all had similar backgrounds—degrees in piano performance as well as prestigious husbands. And her grandmother was the ringleader, which wasn’t a surprise anymore. They each kowtowed to Doris Crenshaw, hung on every word, and never disagreed with a single opinion she expressed.

They discussed the piano teachers’ association, and while only a few of them were still on the board, they still considered themselves the true leadership. They talked about the other members as if stricter membership requirements were desperately needed to filter out the riffraff. They talked about their students as if they were helpless geniuses in need of their enlightenment. And they talked about the symphony as if it were a disgrace to the community.

Jessie drank her lemon-flavored water and watched the clock.

“I was simply appalled,” commented one woman, who had said her husband basically ran NORAD, “when she told the entire group that scales aren’t for everyone.” She was referring to a representative from the Music Teachers National Association, MTNA, who had given a pedagogic seminar to their teachers’ group.

“I think she was referring to the less-talented students,” one teacher interjected, which was apparently the wrong thing to say. The entire group shook their heads in displeasure, and the poor woman took her censure with courageous humility.

“And to think she is from the MTNA,” put in another woman.

“We’re witnessing a national devaluation on the importance of pianistic technique.”

“It’s the computer age we live in,” Jessie’s grandmother added, and the entire bunch leaned forward, as if unwilling to miss a single word. “There’s no patience anymore and no discipline. We are depending upon our keyboards, our synthesizers, and our computer programs to fill in the gaps of our undertrained musicality.”

“I
sold
my electronic keyboard,” another lady admitted, aligning herself with Grandmother. “From now on it’s acoustic piano alone, and if that costs me students, so be it.”

One woman with two or three chins leaned over as if revealing a dark secret. “And not to mention this class piano thing … it’s simply ridiculous.”

They nodded in unison. They were
private
teachers, after all. If you were willing to sink to that level, you
could
make more money by teaching class piano, but you were committing a sin of biblical proportions. All manner of shoddy technique could slip in when you weren’t looking.

At one point, Jessie had had enough. After her lunch of salad greens, Jessie placed her white cloth napkin on the matching tablecloth and excused herself. The moment she entered the exquisite hall, which led back to the glass doors, she felt a load lift from her shoulders. For a brief moment, she even contemplated just walking out of the hotel and hailing a cab.

Wouldn’t that embarrass Grandmother?
Jessie thought bitterly, but she felt empty in her soul, and she couldn’t imagine that her mother would have ever done such a thing, much less thought it. A few minutes later she headed back in and settled down at the table. No one seemed to notice she’d returned. They were discussing a particular teacher’s penchant for stealing other teachers’ students.

By the end of the meal, the group had reached a consensus that it was up to teachers like them—the enlightened ones—to save America. Otherwise, the Russian pianists would conquer the world.

Chapter Twenty-Two

BILL WAS WAITING for them on the curb. Jessie slipped into the backseat while Bill held the door for her grandmother.

“So. Did you all get your consorting, plotting, and devious undertaking out of the way for another week?” Bill asked.

“Oh, Bill,” Doris replied with mild disgust.

When he’d settled into the driver’s seat, he twinkled back at Jessie. “Was it as unbearable as I think it
had
to be?”

Her grandmother let a small sigh escape her lips.

“It was bearable,” Jessie said, smiling. Bill chuckled and pulled away from the curb. The three of them traveled silently all the way home.

“Do you need to lie down a bit?” Bill asked Jessie after they’d entered the house. Her grandmother was already heading down the hallway.

“Why, does it show?”

“Look a little peaked, that’s all.”

Jessie headed upstairs, and the sudden fatigue hit her so hard she had to nearly pull herself up by the railing.

“Can I get you anything?” Bill called up from the bottom of the stairwell.

“Nothing. Thanks anyway,” she said. Bill nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

From the moment her back hit the mattress, she began to drift away. Normally unable to sleep in what Darlene had always called “the coffin position,” Jessie was aware of sinking backward … down … down … and her last thought before falling asleep was to wonder if the only incomplete story was the short story she’d begun the moment she’d taken a wrong turn.

She awakened some time later to the sound of footsteps. Groggy, she leaned up, listening. The sounds seemed to come from across the hallway, her mom’s room. She pulled herself over and nearly fell back into the mattress. Pausing a moment at the edge of the bed in order to gain her equilibrium, she wandered across the room, then out into the hallway and discovered the door ajar.

She stood there for a moment, taking it in.
Am I dreaming?
She squinted to focus better. It
was
open. She crept forward, listening carefully. Was someone still in there? It seemed to take forever to cross that short distance. She slowed again, straining her ears.

When she was a foot away, she pushed on the partially open door. It creaked softly and she peeked inside. No one was there, and the air seemed charged with static electricity. The shades were drawn, but filtered light illuminated the bed and she detected the faint aroma of Charlie. Her mother’s room at home had always smelled of the lovely fragrance.

Jessie stood in the entryway, taking in every detail. Just as she had remembered. Her mother’s grade-school years had been preserved forever. Crossing the threshold, aware of the slippery feel of oak flooring, Jessie recalled overhearing a conversation between her grandmother and her father.

“I did it for her,”
her grandmother had said.
“Olivia told me that her grade-school years were the happiest of her life. So I re-created it to look just like that. We had plenty of photos from that time. I replaced the rug, the bedspread, the curtains, repainted the walls. Some of the stuffed animals had been thrown away, of course. Finding those was more difficult but not impossible. As you can see, stepping in here would have been like going back to the happiest time of her life.”

Jessie stood in front of the closet. She reached for the knob. It creaked open and she saw her mother’s clothes, a collection of colorful outfits, and then … the yellow dress, almost hidden within the variety.

She reached for it and the fabric felt smooth between her fingers. Noticing something beneath the hanging clothes, she knelt and saw a backpack, light blue-green and nylon. The one Andy used to carry for her on the way home from school unless he was carrying his own backpack.
Why would Grandmother keep it?
she wondered.

Jessie unzipped the backpack, the contents startling her. Her old things had never been removed. A spiral notebook. A math book that had never been returned to the school. Pencils and a couple of children’s books. A real time capsule. She shoved it back toward the closet wall, then stood up, gathering her wits. Touching the footboard of the bed as she rounded it, she tiptoed to the dresser, noticing the narrow top drawer was slightly ajar. She reached for the white knobs and pulled. Instead of gliding, the drawer rasped on the wood.

She held her breath as she appraised her mother’s photo albums inside. Reverently she lifted the top one—blue cloth, no label—and just before she opened it, she saw the next one, right below the first. The Oregon scrapbook.

She removed that one instead, trading it with the first, setting it on the bedspread, then kneeling before it. She traced the cover with her fingers …
Oregon Coast …
and then the date. She would have been five years old. She opened the first page, suddenly remembering the last time she’d seen it. She had been with her mother on her sick bed, reliving happier moments. In the last months before they took Mom away, she had spent a lot of time with these old scrapbooks.

The first page contained the origins of the trip, a picture of her mom holding what seemed to be three airline tickets, hugging

Jessie’s grandmother and mugging for the camera. As always, Grandmother looked stiff. But Mom seemed to ignore that.

Another pose at the Portland Airport. Her mother was smiling in front of the blue rental car, gripping a travel brochure. Little Jessie was holding on to her mother’s leg, smiling up at the camera. Next page, pictures of Astoria. Apparently, they had traveled northwest before beginning their coastal drive south. None of this was familiar. An assortment of coastal photographs—Cannon Beach, Tillamook, her mom and dad in swimsuits, and several of Jessie: building a castle, sitting on her dad’s shoulders in ankle-deep water.

Jessie’s eyes filled with tears. The whole Oregon fantasy made sense now, and she couldn’t help but wonder how much of her life had been dominated by things she no longer remembered.

Finally a little close-up of her holding an iridescent butterfly shell and her mother’s written narrative beneath the pictures:
Little Jessie holding a favorite “shell.” You asked me, “Mommy, is this where butterflies come from? Are they hatched?” I told you that it’s no coincidence that butterfly shells look just like butterflies. God’s mark is on the smallest details of creation and on the tiniest details of our lives. He puts clues into nature and even into the ordinary routine of our lives, clues that seem to have nothing to do with each other, like shells and butterflies, and yet are connected by a common Creator. You had such a look of wonderment! You just nodded your head and I was so amazed … my smart little butterfly girl
.

Jessie closed the album and blinked her eyes.
Hold on
… The last line of the Oregon scrapbook read:
You cried when we left. You talked about it for months afterward. I promised you we’d return someday. And you said, “Okay, Mommy, but when?” Soon, my sweet butterfly girl, very soon
.

Instead of looking at another album, Jessie began sorting through the drawers, starting at the top left one. She immediately came upon some old letters wrapped in a rubber band. From the handwriting and the addresses, she realized they’d been written by her mother. Strange. Did her grandmother ask for her daughter’s old letters to be returned? Jessie wouldn’t put it past her. Then a single envelope at the bottom of the drawer caught her eye. Written in her mother’s handwriting, it was addressed simply:
My dearest Jessica,
and just below, in smaller letters,
Please open on your twentyfirst birthday
.

It took her a moment to realize what it was. Jessie placed the letter on the mattress and stared at it, a mixture of emotions flooding through her.
When would she have written it?
she wondered.
And why didn’t my grandmother tell me?
But the answer to that was obvious. Her grandmother surely had never intended to reveal it.

Jessie began to open it, placing her thumb in the tiny crevice of the corner, but stopped. She was desperate to read it but nervous. Closing her eyes, she squeezed out the tears that seemed so close to the surface. It wasn’t the right place or the right time to read this special note from her deceased mother.

She heard distant footsteps. Standing quickly, she slipped the letter into her pocket and considered her next course of action. Her first reaction was to hide in the closet. But no … she would finally face the music. She removed the letter and held it in her hands, suddenly emboldened by her growing anger. Waiting, she stood still as a rock.

When Grandmother opened the door, she walked several steps into the room before realizing Jessie was standing there. “Oh, Jessica … I didn’t expect to find you …”

Jessie placed the envelope on the bedspread in front of her grandmother. “You had no right,” she whispered.

Grandmother frowned and her head jutted back in confusion. But when she looked down at the letter, recognition crossed her features. “Jessica—”

“When were you going to tell me?”

“I-I … forgot,” she sputtered.

“This doesn’t belong to you,” Jessie said, her words measured and careful.

The older woman had the look of someone who’d been ambushed, and it wasn’t until now that Jessie realized her grandmother was holding an envelope of her own. “Jessica, please …”

“Why did you buy our house?”

Another look of confusion. “You don’t understand—”

“How could I?” Jessie shot back. “You’ve taken away everything that ever belonged to me. First you stole my mother—”

“Oh no, Jes—” Her grandmother looked horrified. She put her hand to her mouth. “Your mother is …” And then she stopped.

“Your mother was …” She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, her face contorted with the effort. She began speaking before she opened them again. “You left … so suddenly, Jessica. I never had time to explain.” Her breathing was labored. “I never intended for … but … I’m so sorry… .”

Jessie glimpsed movement from the doorway. Bill had come upstairs and now appeared shaken by what he was encountering. Grandmother turned and noticed him standing there.

“It’s too late for ‘sorry,’ ” Jessie replied stonily. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t be back.”

Her grandmother flinched but didn’t reply. Bill opened his palms, a conciliatory gesture. “Jessie …”

“Don’t …” she warned.

Bill stopped and licked his lips as if reconsidering his approach. He turned to her grandmother and their eyes met. An unspoken communication passed between them, and it seemed as if her grandmother said no with her eyes. He nodded slightly.

More secrets,
Jessie thought angrily.

She grabbed her mother’s letter from the bed and began walking past her grandmother. Bill stepped back to allow her to pass, but when she reached the hallway, he called to her. She turned quickly, preparing another retort, and saw the brown envelope in his hands.

“You were asking about this,” he said. He extended the envelope, the one Grandmother had been holding.

Jessie took it from him, avoiding his eyes, and strode to her room. She grabbed her keys off the dresser and stormed down the hallway. At the bottom of the steps she ran outside, and by the time she reached her car, she was shaking. She opened the car door and slipped inside but could barely put the key into the ignition her hands were trembling so. Tears blinded her vision.

That was not how she had ever imagined a confrontation with Grandmother. The poor woman had wilted before her eyes.

When Jessie pulled away from the curb, her tears came in torrents and guilt flooded her soul.