Embrace Me (26 page)

I'm waiting at the car now, eating a very stale honey bun from the center's vending machine. Hermy finally returns. “What an experience. You can see the whole world from up there.”

“Where?”

“Top of Natural Bridge, then on Lover's Leap.”

Lover's Leap. Where was that when I needed it?

“I'll have to head up there.” I tuck a trail and campsite brochure into my rucksack. “Lots of places to pitch a tent in this area.”

“Sure. Ready?” He reaches for the door handle.

I slip inside the car. “Gotta be.”

“Turn left up there on Route 715.”

I steer the car accordingly. Only two more miles.

I back down to about twenty miles per hour. “Beautiful scenery.”

Hermy doesn't say anything. Bare, smoke-brown trees, the leaf-carpeted arboreal floor, blue sky. Nothing like the cliffs we just passed at fifty-five. But now it's close and it's real. Monica's almost around the corner. Will she be surprised? Something tells me no. She'll feel that I'm on the way.

“I sure hope she doesn't mind our just showing up like this,” Hermy says. “If she's anything like you say, this could be interesting.” We ride by a small brick church, a closed-up flea market. “Hopefully there's a library in Beattyville or Campton.”

“As if you don't already know.”

He grins.

At least it'll get my statistical friend out of the house during the day.

“Take a right at that Deer Creek sign and then you'll take the next left after that. You know, she could really be crazy, like your dad says.”

“Yeah.”

“We could find a sanitarium at this address, or maybe some nurse is taking care of her, giving her antipsychotic shots, or tying her down when she goes—”

“Okay, Hermy! Man!”

“Sorry.”

It's easy to see why someone would settle down out here for some peace of mind. We've only passed a few cars since getting off the highway. The branches move in the breeze. I'd guess it's about fifty degrees.

I take a left at the next road. Wooden planks set in stone advertise Deer Creek in gold letters. Nice. But even in what I'm guessing is some sort of exile, my mother would be well cared for. My father's pride wouldn't let her weather any sort of physical storm. Maybe he even loved her once. I don't know.

Stopping the car by the sign, I reach into my pocket for my cigarettes. “Sorry, Herm. Gotta have one.” I get out.

He joins me. “No prob. Don't blame you.” He holds out his hand and I offer the pack, jostling it upwards to exhume a smoke.

“So, I'm not sure what to expect.” I drag on the cigarette a moment later, feeling the nicotine seep into my body. Oh, man, how the cells remember.

Hermy shakes his head. “A nice woman like that going crazy all of a sudden and at that party too. I mean, I looked it up; crazy can happen quick. But that doesn't make it any less sad, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I don't trust a word my dad says. I mean, yeah, she ruined it for that candidate, but . . . I don't know, Hermy. Was she certifiably crazy? I don't know.”

Finishing up the smoke, I grind the butt with my heel then throw it into the tall winter grass. I bend forward at the waist to give my head an extra helping of blood, straighten up, and stretch my back. “Let's hit it.”

The cabin is what I would expect of the woman who made me Coke floats and wore straw hats while reading or gardening in the sun-shine. White chinking visible between the squared logs, the structure clings to a ledge. The strata of wind-carved sandstone across the great crevice soaks up the rays of the setting sun, somehow throwing back a golden arc over a mist lying low in the gorge.

Hermy whistles between his teeth.

Low-slung light illumines tree trunks digging their gnarled roots to the sides of the cliffs. The conifers rustle in the wind driving down from the mountains, and I feel the urgent swelling of a million lives being lived right under my gaze.

“Nice little place,” Hermy says.

“Uh-huh.” I get out of the car. Decking angles from the front around to face the gorge. On either side of a front door holding an intricate window of beveled glasswork, flowerpots of all sizes sit empty. If she's still the same, they'll be cascading with plants by June.

“She still loves flowers, I guess.”

The door swings open and she stands there in white pants and a sweater as blue as the sky. “Your father was right. You came right here.”

I nod.

“Come in, Drew. And bring your friend.”

What could such a reunion be? She let me go. I thought her dead. We found each other, and quickly once again the wheels begin to turn. But Hermy's here. From what I remember, Monica wouldn't get slobbery and emotional in front of a stranger.

We follow her into the cabin, mellow log walls covered with beautiful wall hangings still emitting a pine scent. I smell stew too.

I tower over her.

Monica is small. I never knew. I just never knew.

She turns to Hermy. “Excuse us, will you? Help yourself to some stew. You all must be hungry.”

My mother puts her arm through mine and leads me down the hall into a sunroom overlooking the cliffs. She shuts the door, leaving Hermy to his meal.

“I'm sorry and I love you.”

I shake my head slightly.

“I've been wanting to say those words for years, Drew. You must know. I love you and I'm sorry. I love you.”

She draws me to her. Finally. And leads me to the sofa. We sit and she takes me into her mother arms, and she is sane, and she is good. And I don't know how this all fits together, but for now, I'll rest.

TWELVE

VALENTINE: 2009

N
o matter what I say, I can't convince Blaze to turn up the heat. I plead with her when she walks in the door from work.

“Look, I'll pay an extra fifty bucks a week, even.”

“No way! Miller Renault down the street, same basic floor plan as our house, put his up to seventy and the bill was almost seven hundred dollars.”

“How much are you paying with it at sixty?”

“Almost four hundred a month.”

“Oh.”

“Is Dahlia still reading those books to Lella?” Blaze puts the kettle on.

Thing is, the contraband heater is pretty much out of my reach because Dahlia—who rented a roll-away bed from ABC Rentals—is staying in with Lella, reading romance novels aloud, rolling her mouth around the smutty parts like pieces of cinnamon candy. After one session, I beat it out of there.

“Yeah, poor Lell. She's so innocent. I don't know what Dahlia's thinking.”

“Lella can take care of herself. Want a cup of tea?”

“Thanks. Did you see the latest makeover she did on Lell?”

“No. Was it bad?”

“Awful. I think it should go on the list of deadly sins or something.”

“You can't help but like her, though.”

“I know. I wish I didn't.”

Sitting at the kitchen table the next day, a draft from beneath the door tearing at the fabric of my slippers as if they were tissue paper, I shell some fresh peas Blaze bought at the IGA. Across from me, Rick shreds a brick of Monterey Jack for the scalloped potatoes destined to accompany the ham, resting beneath a glaze of brown sugar, dried mustard, and a dollop of Blaze's raspberry jam and warming in the oven.

Rick slides the creamy block down the box grater. “So, this Dahlia. You like her?”

“Who wouldn't, you know?”

“Seems like a straight-up lady to me.”

“Me too.”

Rick stops the cheese. “How much longer is she going to be here?”

“Why?”

“Straight up or not, she just makes me uncomfortable the way she dotes on Lella. She treats her like a baby or something. It's just kinda weird.”

“She'll only be here a little while longer.”

“Lella's probably sick of her by now.”

“If she is, she's not letting on.”

Rick moves the cheese again. “Well, maybe now's as good a time as any to let her go, Valentine. You're going to have to someday, right?”

I stand, reach over to the coffeemaker on the counter, and turn off the burner. “I don't know who it is that almost empties the pot, leaving just enough to burn to tar, but they should be shot.”

“Hey, it wasn't me. And don't avoid the question, Val. You have a way of doing that.”

“Why do I have to let her go? I've been helping Lella for over three years now. We've wintered here four times and we'll be back next year after another successful season on the road. I'm picking out house plans for us once this all goes away. This
someday
you're talking about, I just don't buy.”

He holds up both hands. “Sorry, Val.”

“And why are you always apologizing?”

“Because I'm always getting under your skin, that's why.”

I sit back down and pick up another pea pod. “Well, I should be the sorry one. There's been just too much upheaval this winter. This Augustine guy and his weird Laundromat monastery, Charmaine Hopewell coming over all the time—”