A Different Light (5 page)

Damn,
cursed Athen silently. The tree would have to be removed, the garage rebuilt, the Sullivans’ fence replaced.

“Daddy would know what to do,” Callie lamented.

“And so do I, pumpkin,” Athen assured her.

When he finished cursing, John would have called their insurance agent. And that would be Athen’s first move, first thing in the morning.

 3 

The sound of the slamming car door at the end of the drive announced the arrival of the insurance adjuster, right on time. Athen peered out the window as the young woman started toward the front door, and was there to open it before the bell was rung.

“Mrs. Moran?” The adjuster handed her a business card as she introduced herself. “I’m Susan Watson. Mr. Fisher, your agent, called this morning and asked that I come out first thing.”

“Yes, he told me to expect you. Thanks for being so prompt. I guess you’re pretty busy today, after that wild storm.” Athen ushered her into the house.

“We insure a lot of homes in Woodside Heights, so yeah, we’re jammed.” Susan followed Athen into the kitchen. “Would you mind if I called my office before we
go outside? We’re supposed to call in as soon as we get to each stop.”

“I don’t mind.” Athen waited by the back door while Susan keyed her phone and reported in.

“Let’s take a look at that garage.” Susan tucked her cell phone back into her bag when she finished her call. She trailed behind Athen through the back door and into the yard, where steamy fingers of mist rose like smoke from the wet grass that was warming in the sun.

“Boy oh boy.” Susan whistled, looking at the remains of the garage, the front section of which lay in a heap on the ground. “Please tell me that your car’s not in there.”

“It wasn’t. I was lucky.”

“I’ll need a list of the contents of the garage with as much information as possible. Brands if you know them, receipts if you have any. List where and when you purchased things and, if you remember, how much you paid. We’ll do the best we can for you, but the more information you give us, the more accurate your settlement will be. I’ll have a contractor out by tomorrow morning to appraise the garage.”

“I appreciate that you came out so quickly. Fortunately, my husband kept very detailed records, so I should be able to find receipts for most of the larger items.”

Susan walked to the base of the tree and took a camera from the large satchel-like purse that hung over her shoulder and began to photograph the damage. “We won’t pay to replace the tree, but we’ll pay to remove it and whatever damage it’s caused. I might as well go over and talk to your neighbor while I’m here.”

The adjuster started across the yard in the direction of the next property. She paused and looked over her shoulder.

“It’s a shame about the tree, Mrs. Moran. Must have
been a beauty. It’s going to be hard to replace it.”

Harder than you know,
Athen thought sadly.

A WEEK LATER, ATHEN STOOD
at the kitchen window, watching the contractor’s men clear away the debris. First they cut the remains of the tree into large chunks. A pang shot through her when the chain saw made the first cut. Who knew it could hurt to see a tree cut up? When they finished, the stump was ground out. Nothing remained but a pile of sawdust where the tree once stood. It was almost as if it had never existed.

In her mind’s eye she could see the sapling John had proudly planted. Dripping with sweat from his effort, he had walked back to the porch where she waited, hands on her hips, wondering why, with so much unpacking to do, he had chosen moving day to plant a tree.

“My grandmother always said the land’s not yours until you plant something on it,” he’d told her solemnly.

She’d smiled at his Irish sentimentality and pulled his wet face to hers to kiss him. She still remembered the taste of sweat and grime, and she remembered how he’d laughed and wiped away the smudge he’d left on her chin with his fingers.

From the rubble, one of the laborers lifted her prized bicycle and tossed its twisted frame onto the Dumpster. John bought it for her five years ago when she’d become serious about her biking. She hadn’t ridden since that last sixty-mile race, back in the beginning of November, before the weather turned cold, before her life had been turned upside down, before the things that used to matter lost their meaning. She had declined invitations from members of her bike club all through spring. She simply lacked the energy to join them.

Her attention drifted back to the here and now, where the contractor’s assistant was removing debris from the garage.

“Hey!” she yelled when she saw what was in his hands.” Don’t throw those out!”

The startled young man looked over his shoulder as she flew off the porch.

“The insurance company will pay for new ones,” he told her.

“We don’t want new ones. We want these. They’re not damaged.”

“Where do you want them?”

“I’ll take them.” She held out her arms and he passed her the assortment of garden implements. “Are there any more undamaged?”

He disappeared into the shell of the garage and brought out a hoe, a short-handled shovel, a smashed bucket from which poked the shiny green handles of a transplanting trowel, and a long, thin dandelion digger.

“You find any more of this stuff, you bring it to me, okay?”

“Sure.”

She carried John’s gardening tools onto the porch and inspected them, surprising herself with the delight she felt at having found them all intact. She couldn’t wait to show Callie.

Athen spread the tools on the wooden deck like newly found treasure. John had been passionate about his gardens, devoting hours to plot plans and soil improvement, nurturing the new plants he brought home from Ms. Evelyn’s little nursery up on the hill. Every January, he would eagerly await the arrival of the newest nursery and seed catalogs. Then he and Callie would sit for hours, poring over
the offerings until they made their selections, carefully planning what they’d plant and where. When the weather warmed, he and Callie would set out for Ms. Evelyn’s nursery to make their purchases. Athen rarely accompanied them, having little interest in gardening beyond the dishes she could create with the fresh produce, and the spectacular bouquets that would fill the house later in the summer. From May through October, their yard would be ablaze with color from every angle, and passersby would ring the doorbell to express their admiration.

Athen stared down at the tools of John’s leisure hours, the solid hardwood handles tipped in dark green enamel. They were imported from England and made to last a lifetime; she’d ordered them from one of his catalogs seven years ago as a special surprise. She’d first found the catalog on the kitchen counter, open to the page upon which the tools were displayed. Several days later, the catalog—open to the same page—had been left on the dining room table. The following week, when she found it in the living room, open on a table next to John’s favorite chair, she’d taken the hint and ordered the lot of it for his birthday. He’d been more pleased with his garden tools than with any gift she’d ever given him.

She’d give them to Callie as soon as she arrived home from school. It had been Callie who’d worked by his side—digging, planting, and weeding. She would be thrilled to have these precious reminders of her father and the special times they’d shared.

At noon Athen went into the house and poked through the day’s mail. She straightened the kitchen for what seemed like the fifth time. She looked around for some small task with which to occupy herself. Laundry? Done on Saturday; there weren’t enough clothes in the
hamper to justify the effort. She’d paid the household bills on Thursday, shopped for groceries on Friday.

She sat at the kitchen table and looked out the window at the view, so stark with the absence of the tree, and wondered what to do with the rest of the day. With the rest of her life. When the tears began, she made no effort to wipe them away.

How had she spent the hours before he had left her? She could not remember the days being so long. She still had the same errands to run, the same number of meals to cook, the same house to clean, the same activities with Callie. Since John’s passing, her life seemed to be nothing but huge chunks of time waiting to be filled.

Even the leisure activities of her old life were no longer of any consequence. Biking tired her. Her painting required too much concentration. The Greek Community Center, where for years she had tutored older residents as well as the recent arrivals in English, was an unwelcome reminder of happier times.

When Callie was little, Athen’s world had been defined by the needs of her child. She had loved those days, before Callie had started school, when the weather was the only restriction on how they spent the hours. Looking back now, time seemed to have passed in little more than the blink of an eye. How much faster would the years ahead pass, years filled with nothing but watching Callie grow up? Had John so filled her life that there was nothing of her that he had not taken with him?

When John had twenty-five years in the force, they’d planned on buying a house in the country where they’d live out their days. They’d find an old farm where John could have his own nursery, stocked with plants he’d grown in his own greenhouse, just like Ms. Evelyn. Athen
would keep the books for John’s nursery business and entertain their grandchildren when they came to spend their summers.

Funny how she had never counted on this.

A police officer’s wife should know what can happen,
she chided herself.
We all think it could happen only to someone else, that someday we might be called upon to consol. We never want to believe that we might be the one to be consoled.

Athen rose and poured a glass of water, the silence closing in on her. Callie had two more weeks of school, then day camp for the summer, then school would begin and the new year would follow, then yet another and another. She forced the image of an endless succession of empty days from her mind.

Maybe next year …

“Maybe next year what?” Angry with herself, she slammed the glass on the counter, splashing water onto the tiled floor. “Maybe next year what?”

Nothing is going to magically appear and make things better. There will be no sign to point the way to the rest of my life. This
is
the rest of my life. I will not move from this spot unless I take the first step. And there will never be a better time to take that step than now.

“So what’s it going to be?” She stood in the center of the kitchen. “Big girl who wants to see what else life has in store or poor pitiful me who will sit on the sidelines, watching the world go by, for the next, oh, thirty or forty years?”

She inhaled deeply, let the air out in a long, hushed whoosh.

“I’m thinking big girl.”

Tired of feeling pathetic, tired of feeling like a victim,
tired of facing every day with a knot in her chest, of feeling sorry for herself, Athen reached for the phone. Afraid she’d change her mind if she gave herself time to second-guess her decision, she lifted the receiver and punched in the number she’d known by heart since she was a child.