Cocoon (13 page)

“Where did …” He peered closely at the small girl's head, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be discernable. He walked around the chair and then he saw it. Her beautiful long blond hair had a gap center back, a jagged, ugly chasm that stopped at least four inches from the bottom of the remaining hair.

“
Uhnnn,
” he groaned, peering helplessly at Joanie, then around at the other witnesses who, by now, had gone back to their own artistic endeavors. “What in heavens' name are we gonna do?” He paced across the room and back, as distressed as he'd ever been in his life.

Joanie looked at the hair for long moments, then took Judy's small chin in her fingers and turned her head this way and that, studying her closely. Then she smiled.

Barth scowled. How on Earth could she smile at a time like this? “What?”

“I've been trying to get her mama to let me cut her hair for a long time. She just recently said she was leaning that way, you know?” She raised her brows, then wiggled them. “I'd say that now is the perfect time to bring up the subject again, doncha know?”

She pulled a ponytail holder from her purse, wedged it between her teeth. Then she gathered the girl's long hair up into a ponytail and tethered it in the back. “Voila. No sign of the damage. This will get her through the morning service, until I can talk to Colleen about a free haircut, courtesy of Homecombing Queen, Joanie.”

Barth's head rolled back in relief and he closed his eyes for a moment.

“Get going,” Joanie prodded him, looking at her watch. “You need to jump into your robe and do your thing.”

Barth started out the door, then turned back. “May there be many stars in your crown in the by-and-by, Joanie Knight.”

He heard her laughter as he dashed to the choir room.

• • •

“Barth told me that we should drive on over to the Mater and Onion Buffet and meet him.” Billie Jean prodded Seana from the sofa. Her efforts reaped faster results because her strident demands catapulted Seana into agitation, which rolled her to her feet in a bid to escape.

Billie Jean grinned, pleased with her accomplishment as Seana curled from the sofa and slid into her slippers. She'd already dressed. Such as it was. Even iconically casual Billie Jean grimaced at the results.

“Do you have to wear that ever-lovin' striped shirt all the time, Seana?”

Seana didn't answer. Simply marched staunchly to the door.

“Didn't you forget something?” Billie Jean stood planted, hands on hips.

Seana turned and scowled at her.

“Your hair. It looks like a danged haystack. And not a pretty one either. Come on.”

“Joanie would have nightmares if she saw this,” she muttered as she marched her to the bedroom, sat her down before the mirror, and patiently, gently used a wire hair pick to smooth and place it in a more civilized arrangement. “There. It'll pass.”

The drive there was pleasant for Billie Jean. She didn't mind staying with Seana on Sunday mornings. Sometimes she alternated with Tim's wife, Sherry. A sweetie pie was Seana's daughter-in-law. And then there was teenaged Ashley, who seemed to actually enjoy sitting with her grandmother and root for the current ball team, even when Seana showed no interest whatsoever.

Only time Seana spoke during the drive was to repeatedly say, “You're taking me too far from home. Let's go back.”

“No way José. We're meeting Barth at the restaurant.”

“I want to go home.”

“Huh-uh.”

Once there, Billie Jean took charge. “Hi, Chief West,” she greeted the proprietor warmly and shepherded Seana to their corner spot. The Sunday crowd, fresh from church, was thick and jovial, apparently feeling buoyed by having done the right thing, Billie Jean thought, amused as she looked around, waving at folks she knew.

She glanced at her cell phone timepiece, figuring their church crowd would be filtering in any time now. She looked up and spotted Barth making his way toward them.

“Hi, Billie Jean,” he smiled, showing his dimples, and Billie Jean thought how lucky Seana was to have snared him. 'Course, she figured Barth was just as lucky. At least he had been, in the beginning.

“Come on, Seana,” he coaxed. “Let's go fix your plate.”

“No.”

Feeling extremely sympathetic after having spent her morning with the recalcitrant woman, Billie Jean stood. “I'll fix Seana's food this time, Barth. You go get yours and relax. And that's an order.”

Barth smiled gratefully and did just that.

Billie Jean gave Seana a dollop of this and that, small amounts of all the foods she'd once liked. On another plate she forked up a chicken leg, sliced ham, and pot roast. She deposited it before Seana, who visibly recoiled from it.

Leaving her, Billie Jean went to fix her own plate. Barth was already seated by the time she returned with loaded plate. Her appetite, today, was ferocious. A far cry from when she'd been diagnosed with incurable bone cancer near on four years ago.

Barth said the blessing and they dined while Seana, arms folded, examined her food as though she wanted to throw it at her worst enemy.

“Seana, there has to be something on those two plates that you can force yourself to taste,” Billie Jean said evenly. “But if you don't you can go hungry till the cows come home.”

Barth shot her a stunned look, then sighed, relaxed, and returned to his own food. Billie Jean knew that her no-nonsense approach still threw him off at times but she knew a side to Seana that Barth did not. She'd known Seana from babyhood up and somehow sensed what Seana needed on this particular level. Maybe it was a female thing. She didn't know. She just operated on instinct.

And fortunately, most of the time, it worked.

Joanie came over and spoke to Seana and left unacknowledged. So did Sadie Tate. So did the Johnsons. So did son Tim and his family. But Billie Jean knew that each one of them understood and simply wanted to connect with her, even if one-sided.

Barth went to get dessert. Billie Jean caught Seana's eye just then. Billie Jean winked and grinned at her.

“You'll be back, Seana,” she murmured.

“Yes, she will,” Barth slid into the booth with his healthy fruit bowl, smiling. “And thanks, Billie Jean. I really needed to hear that.”

• • •

“Mind if I join you two?” Scott Burns stood poised, loaded plate in hand, smiling uncertainly at Zoe. She and Peyton were among the church crowd dining at the Mater and Onion Buffet today. She'd already spoken to her mother, been ignored, and had walked away feeling like crap. She still felt the impact that her mother's appearance had made on her.

Seana appeared to be in the throes of Alzheimer's. Totally not there at times.

Zoe had absorbed the shock and turned away. Then she'd migrated to a lone table rather than mingling at a larger table to chat with friends. She'd opted to sit alone, just she and Peyton because she didn't really feel like talking.

“Sure, Scott,” she said dismally, gesturing to the empty chair. He hesitated, then took the seat.

Peyton returned with his food, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, coach,” he said, setting his plate down and extending his hand for a hearty handshake. The two males settled in, seated across from each other, and launched into a vigorous exchange centered on Paradise Springs High news. Peyton had graduated that spring and was hungry for updates.

“Decided on a college yet?” Scott inquired, then bit into a drumstick while his focus stayed intensely tethered to Peyton. And Zoe felt relieved that the laser gaze didn't bull's-eye her. Rather, he seemed truly interested in Peyton's future. It struck a tiny chord inside her. Zoe watched him, amazed at how masculine his movements were. How unselfconscious and … self-assured he was when talking with Peyton.

She was glad he didn't zero in on her like he usually did. At those times something inside her thrashed about in protest. She went to the bar and chose delectable choices, today favoring the pot roast. It was like her mom used to make, years ago before her dad had passed away. Nostalgia hit her like a scud missile and she pushed it away somewhat viciously.

Her wonderful father had been everything to Zoe in those early years. So she understood Peyton's hunger for a father figure in his life. Oh yeh, she saw the look on his face when he was around strong male figures, felt his reaching out. Losing her dad had been one of the lowest points of her life. But even then, there'd still been her mother, one hundred and ten percent there for her and Tim.

That had lasted until Barth McGrath's appearance.

Everything had changed. And now? Nothing was left of her … security.

She had no one to lean on.

She harshly dolloped out mashed potatoes beside her pot roast. Hah! The powers that be had chosen not to send her a man strong enough to take her on. Zoe knew that she was a force to be reckoned with. Couldn't help it. She was wired that way. And men – strong men – steered clear of Amazon women like her. She only attracted the weaker ones.

So she tended to regard men who came on to her with a huge dose of cynicism.

On that dismal note, Zoe listlessly selected green beans and yams. When she returned to the table, Scott and Peyton were imbedded in a lively discussion on the state of the current economy, of all things. She noted that Scott didn't even acknowledge her return. Neither did Peyton, but for Scott to ignore her was a new … adventure? She didn't quite know how she felt about it at that precise moment.

Oh well. She sighed and dug in to her sumptuous feast.

Zoe half-tuned in to the guys's discourse, surprised that Peyton was concerned about the economy. When had her little boy gotten so – so worrisome? Duh. She took a deep breath and blew it out. She'd been hoofing it alone since Peyton was four years old, making a living. By the time her ex had changed jobs every three or four months and finally gotten on disability – Lord only knew how he managed that – she'd given up.

She decided then and there that she'd rather wade through crocodile-infested rapids than depend on her ex, Wilton Adams – the deadbeat – to raise their son. Outwardly, she'd put on a good face for Peyton. Though she'd had to often bite her tongue, she'd never said an unkind word against his father. She'd always been generous with visitation privileges.

A lot of good that had done Peyton. His father had moved several hours away, to the low country and rarely ever showed up to visit. His failure to visit was always because of sudden ailments or life or death situations he simply could not avoid. So many times she'd seen Peyton's little face fall and his body wilt with disappointment when the apologetic phone calls came. Later on, his dad didn't even bother to explain; he simply didn't show. Wilton had royally abdicated the “daddy” role. Zoe grimaced that her son had been exposed to too much struggle, too soon.

Zoe had seen her son, drip by drip, lose a child's trust in his father.

Such a loss. And Zoe had deluded herself that Peyton had not seen her struggles to make ends meet in the early days of the dance studio business. She'd used every artistic gene in her arsenal to shape it into a family-friendly, lucrative diversion for the little town. Her discount introductory coupons and half price family deals, along with other brainstormed specials, had drawn folks into the wholesome, fun atmosphere. But even so, with the economy shifting, she was steadily losing business.

After all, dance lessons were definitely the first things to go when trimming a household budget.

Today, hearing her son venting frustration about soaring costs and families's struggles to survive cut into her heart. He'd grown up somewhere along the way. Without a daddy.

Oh, she knew he missed that vital connection in his life. She'd thought Corey Evans had been the man who could fill that void. He and Peyton had connected from the very beginning. Peyton had trailed him like a puppy dog, emulating him and hanging onto his every word. Corey had been a wonderful man.

But five years later, he'd still not been willing to commit to marriage. His reasons were good ones, but Peyton's devastation – when she'd broken off with Corey – still tore at her heart.

Today, she wondered why life was so complicated. Why did her disappointments inevitably become her son's? Not fair.

On their way out, Barth and Billie Jean waved bye, with her mother tromping ahead of them, anxious to get home.

She glanced at her watch. “Hate to break up this world's problems-solving chitchat, but we'd better get going, Peyton.”

Peyton looked disappointed, but Scott grinned, barely sparing her a glance. “Sure thing.”

“Enjoyed it, buddy.” He shook Peyton's hand and patted him heartily on the shoulder as they made their way to the cash register.

Before Zoe knew what had happened, Scott snatched the bill from Peyton's hand. “My treat,” he said.

“Oh no.” Zoe reached to retrieve it only to have her hand brush Scott as he turned his back and paid the bill. She glowered at the space between his shoulder blades and then at Peyton, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows above twinkling eyes.

As they walked out, Scott held the door for Zoe. “You shouldn't have done that,” she sniped.

“Oh?” Scott replied breezily. “Says who?”

“Says me.”

“With all due respect, you don't always get your way, Zoe.” His words were soft yet firm. Her gaze traveled from his strong, clean jaw over his nicely sculpted nose to eyes twinkling with a hint of humor.

Zoe expected to feel mutinous. Instead, his bossiness was eerily satisfying.

“Whatever,” she snapped, stomping out ahead of him, hearing his soft laughter trailing her. And she didn't miss her son's speculative gaze bounding back and forth between them.

Darn.

“Safe isn't living ….
Safe is a cocoon that shuts out the world.”

– Seana McGrath

S
teroid psychosis was what they called it. The name meant little to her. She just heard it batted around when Barth had company. She never had company because she turned her back and slid into her snuggly isolation.

Seana allowed Barth to tuck her into bed after giving her the 2 mg Ativan and 10 mg Ambien. She would have been grateful for the gesture if only she could
feel
gratitude. As it was, she felt nothing. It was like being heavily numbed with Lidocaine. Not a dreamy, silky float. No. She was like a drained, dried-out gourd.

Worse still, she didn't care that she didn't feel. She didn't care about anything. The clock was the closest thing to a friend she now had. Or wanted. Tonight, she had watched the bedside clock until exactly ten o'clock. Not one second sooner nor a breath afterward. It had to be dead on. Something inside Seana demanded precision.

Most of the time.

Sometimes she wavered because she didn't
know
she demanded precision. It was like her insides were mechanical and at times the timing would alter a bit. But the next day, the precision would have kicked back in. Then, too, sometimes her symptoms would intensify and she would automatically reach for her meds, that is, until Barth locked them up. “For your safety,” he insisted.

Actually, she went to bed at eight sharp. Then waited until ten on the dot to summon Barth. “It's time for my medicine,” she would say. And he would come to her bed and administer the meds. Then he would read some scripture and have prayer, even as Seana turned her face to the wall.

Sleep would soon overtake her because of the Ambien pill. Barth always explained this to her when she'd grow panicky, worrying that the insomnia would return to attack her. She hated the dark and the feelings it stirred inside her.

She hated the nothingness. Lots and lots of things she hated nowadays.

But the meds kept her from feeling as panicky. She just had to make sure she took them exactly at the appointed time. Those times were eight a.m, twelve noon, six p.m, one half hour before bedtime (her 150 mg Serzone), and ten p.m. Barth explained that the Serzone would help her not be as depressed. She didn't care as long as she could sleep and take everything exactly when she was supposed to.

Even then, because the doctors – she'd seen three separate psychiatrists by now – had changed her meds so often, she continually had to readjust to them.

Tonight, she stared at the window, seeing the full moon hanging low over the mountains. It stirred nothing inside her. Barth lay sleeping beside her. She could hear his deep, even breathing. It didn't bother her too much, the sound. Not like other noises that grated on her nerves lately, like the television, when not on ball games. For some reason, the games didn't bother her. People talking bothered her. So she didn't want them around.

Her eyes began to grow heavy. She remembered seeing Zoe today when she came by to visit. Her daughter's voice, talking, talking, talking got on Seana's nerves. So did Billie Jean's prattle. Barth seemed to know to keep his voice down, but sometimes he forgot when someone else dropped by. Seana hated to see company come. Why didn't they stay away?

The nothingness inside her hummed at times. It was a bizarre monotone, not unlike the Tibetan monks's drone. It blocked out all other impressions.

She closed her eyes, turned over to face the wall, and curled herself tightly into a fetal knot.

Waves of slumber washed over her, lulling … then pulling her under.

• • •

Barth scrambled Seana's two eggs, his eye on the kitchen clock. He placed her plate across from his at exactly seven thirty. Sure enough, he heard her feet hit the bedroom floor. She padded barefoot into the kitchen and went immediately to the stove where water boiled for her decaf coffee. He sat and watched her measure instant grains into a coffee cup and fill it one-half full.

No more. No less. He would have found some dark humor in it had it not all seemed so sad to him just then. Her love for perked coffee had left with her. Like so many other things.

Endless losses.

She sat on the stool opposite him and slowly ate her eggs and sipped her coffee. Silent. When finished, like an apparition, she slid from the stool and went straight to the sofa and curled up facing the TV. She flipped on the sports channel.

“Would you turn on the overhead lights, Barth?” she asked.

Barth sighed and went to flip on the lights. Seana liked every light in the den blazing day and night. He cleaned away the dishes, packed them in the dishwasher, and wiped down the counters. He then made their bed and picked up dirty clothes.

“Seana?” he called. “I need to wash that shirt you're wearing.”

He got no reply. He gritted his teeth, feeling aggravated at having to go through the same song and dance every day of his life. She'd not moved. “Please take off that shirt, Seana. I'm doing a load of clothes.”

She rolled upright, stripped off the shirt, and put the one on he held out to her. “Actually you need to take a shower first. You know?” He started out of the room, then resolutely turned back and gestured. “Come on. Shower time.”

No response.

He tugged her to her feet and ushered her to the shower. “I'm going to watch this time, Seana. I want you to wet yourself down then soap up before I leave.”

Scowling furiously, Seana complied. Only when she was fully lathered did Barth leave, closing the door softly behind him.

He heard her call out, “Are you going to be busy at the church office all day?”

“Yes,” Barth said. Half truth. Only part. But this is what she wanted to hear.

“Good,” he heard her mutter as she got out of the shower stall. “You won't be bothering me.”

• • •

“Hi, Zoe! Joanie!” Billie Jean called out to Joanie's back shampoo area. “How's it going, you two?”

“Great! Any better I'd be flying, any worse I'd be dying,” Joanie called to her while scrubbing Zoe's dark mane. “How're you doin', Billie Jean? Haven't heard an update lately.”

Billie Jean sauntered to the back and slid into a vacant styling chair. “Barth recently found out about this bone cancer alternative treatment called Cesium Chloride.”

“Huh. Never heard of that one.” Joanie began vigorously rinsing Zoe's hair.

“Me either. But I read about it and it's one of the very, very few alternative treatments actually strong enough to deal with bone cancer.” She nodded. “Yep. Barth dug this one out and contacted the vendor who oversees the treatment. It's too potent to not have expert support and guidance. Barth's real careful about that kind of thing, dontcha know?”

“He's a smart guy,” Joanie agreed, towel-drying Zoe's long hair and guiding her to her work station. Billie Jean trailed behind them and plopped into another nearby styling chair.

“Whatcha getting today, Zoe?” Billie Jean asked.

“Just a trim.”

“Don't know how you manage that long hair like you do.” Billie Jean shook her head, watching curiously as Joanie combed out the hair and sectioned it off to cut.

“Her hair's very manageable, is why,” Joanie commented as she began to separate, pin up, and comb down small segments to snip. “Has lots of body.”

“Huh. Mine's like a Cripple Creek bushy pine.” Billie Jean laughed at her own reflection.

“It's nice curls,” Joanie insisted. “Just need to keep it shaped is all.”

“That's what I'm here for.”

“How's Mom doing today?” Zoe asked.

“Hey. She's having a fairly good day. By that I mean she's keeping quiet and watching the Braves.”

Billie Jean saw Zoe's features fall. “No improvement at all,” Zoe said flatly.

“Well … I wouldn't say that.” How she wished she could encourage Zoe. But truth be known, Seana was getting worse. “She's holding her own,” she partly lied.

“I'm sorry, Billie Jean,” Zoe's eyes softened. “I haven't called lately to touch bases with you on your own health problems. So, the new treatment is helping you? What was its name again?”

“Cesium Chloride.”

She frowned. “Are you sure it's safe? I mean, if it's so potent, wouldn't there be risks?”

“Huh. Barth and I checked it out completely. But I'd have gone on Barth's recommendation alone. Thing is, treating bone cancer is a long, drawn-out process. Have to have patience because it takes the bones so long to heal. Yep. I'd trust Barth with my life.”

“That's a mouth full,” Zoe said blandly. “What if the treatment isn't –”

“Look,” Billie Jean leaned forward, elbows planted on knees, her dug-in stance. “Zoe, I'm not about to do anything stupid. Cesium Chloride's cure rate is high. It's been at the forefront of alternative treatments for over three decades. That's a long testing period. And as I said, the recommended vendor, Larry of Essense of Life, has the needed expertise to oversee my treatment.” She shrugged and relaxed back into the chair. “Barth encouraged me to try it. It can't hurt to take extra precautions, doncha know?”

Billie Jean watched Zoe's eyes flatten. “You're very trusting. Think that's wise?”

“Zoe!” Joanie scolded. “Billie Jean doesn't need to hear this. She has to think positive thoughts, have faith and confidence.”

“You're right,” Zoe conceded, visibly flustered at the reprimand. As Joanie began to use a gigantic hairbrush to blow her hair, she sighed deeply. “I'm sorry, honey. I'm just not as trusting as most folks are. It's not the treatment I don't trust, actually. I –” She clamped her lips together and gave a tight smile. “Just blow it off, will you, Billie Jean? I'm sure everything's gonna work out fine with the treatment. In fact, I know it will.”

“Sure thing.” Billie Jean got up and strolled to the front window, more than a little perplexed. She peered out into the sunny, wintry day. And she wondered why Barth's name still evoked such anger in Zoe.

• • •

“I think you need a break from all this, Barth,” Zoe said. She'd dropped by after she left Joanie's salon. She'd felt a rush of guilt after talking with Billie Jean. Yep. She had. Major self-reproach issues. Because, regardless of her suspicions about Barth's pre-Paradise Springs days, Barth had done a splendid job of caring for her mother.

That was an indisputable fact. Oh how she'd tried to find fault with him but God help her, she'd not dug up one morsel of anything pointing an accusing finger at his ethics or character.

In spite of her efforts and subtle – and also not so subtle – incriminations, he'd remained unswervingly devoted to Seana's care.

A daggum better job than she could have done. One day with her mother's cantankerousness would have had her scrambling into a cave and pulling it in behind her. Peyton was much more patient. Zoe wished again that she had a sweeter, milder nature.

Barth motioned for her to bring her coffee from the bar into the den, where Seana lay curled up on the sofa with the incessant ball game racket in the background. “Turn it down, please, Seana,” he asked politely.

Amazingly, she complied. Sometimes she surprised Zoe. But Zoe quickly realized that if she was waiting for her mother to suddenly be
there
to really see and hear her daughter, Zoe was in for a brutal crash landing.

So, she took a deep, calming breath and gazed into Barth's soft brown eyes. They struck her as trusting. Kind. She saw not a flicker of guile behind those thick lenses, which nudged something like guilt loose inside her. “What do you mean, Zoe?” he asked, curious.

She burrowed deeper into the easy chair and crossed her stylish stiletto booted legs. “I mean that you've handled Mom too long by yourself. I'm ashamed that I haven't stepped forward sooner.”

Barth shrugged and smiled awkwardly. “I don't mind caring for Seana.”

“I know you don't,” she said quickly. Then she wet her lips nervously. This was something she needed to do. It wouldn't be easy, but it was the right thing to do, so she hurried on before she changed her mind. “But you've had her 24/7 for the past four years. I see your fatigue, Barth.” She looked down at her hands folded tensely in her lap. “And I feel embarrassed to have allowed it. So I want to start relieving you on weekends. I'll take her for at least two weekends out of the month and I believe Tim and Sherry will be willing to take her the other two. That should help you get some – relief. Some down time, just for yourself.”

Barth peered intently at her, as though he hadn't heard her right. “Wow,” he said softly. “I wasn't expecting that.” Then he looked apologetic and held out an entreating hand. “Oh, please don't feel offended. I didn't mean that like it sounded.”

Zoe couldn't suppress a grin. “No offense taken. I haven't been the nicest to you.”

Barth shrugged limply and shook his head, looking awkward, uncertain. “I'm sorry, Zoe. Of course, I appreciate your offer but –”

“No buts.” She stood decisively, collected her purse, and slid into a long leather coat that matched her black boots and gloves. “We'll begin next weekend. Okay?” Her direct gaze defied any objection.

“If you're sure, Zoe.” Barth shrugged again, looking somewhat stunned. “I don't know what to say. Except – that's very generous of you.”

Zoe laughed then, a loud boisterous burst of sound. “Generous? Maybe
insane
.” She shook her dark head while her pointer finger drew air circles near her temple. “I'll no doubt later regret it but –”

Barth's laughter joined hers. “Just call when you have your fill. Between Billie Jean and me, we can relieve you guys.”

“Huh.” Zoe shot over her shoulder as she left. “Keep your phone charged. I might take you up on that.”