Homefires (35 page)

“Verbatim.” Kirk plopped down in the easy chair next to the big open fireplace, which was seldom lit because of the warm coastal climate. He gazed past me through the window, unseeing. “I told her, ‘Sarah, you must remember I recently lost a daughter.’” His tortured gaze met mine. “What do they want?
Blood?”

“I know,” I murmured. Kirk had given his all and it wasn’t enough.

He gave a bitter little snort. “Course, I’ve changed. Who
wouldn’t
change under the circumstances?” His emerald gaze held mine. “Don’t we have a right to grieve, Neecy? Tell me that. Don’t we?”

I sighed and lay my book aside. “Not everybody feels that way, Kirk. You’ve got to consider the source. Sarah’s always been less than sensitive. Even her husband says so. Most folk here are very sympathetic and are allowing us space.” I didn’t add that I felt deprived, living so far from family and close friends, while the Beauregard clan had each other for daily support.

“Maybe it’s
me,
” said Kirk. “I sense most of the church people don’t really think we need the time to – well, the Beauregard clan is still grieving Zach, as they should be. But – few seem to understand when
I’m
quiet and need time out. When I don’t read minds and divine needs. Unspoken ones at that. Would you believe that Grandma Beauregard’s in the hospital? And she’s mad as a wet hen because I haven’t visited her?”

“When did she go?” I asked, astounded that we hadn’t been informed. She seemed healthy as a kangaroo despite her eighty-five years. “Why didn’t somebody call us?”

“My question exactly. Ralph heard her complaining, realized nobody’d notified me, then called me. I immediately phoned to apologize and reassure her I’d be there Johnny on the spot. She’s still miffed. Said, quote,
‘it’s your business to keep up with these things. You know we’ve just gone through Zach’s death.’ ”

My mouth fell open. Kirk’s nostrils flared and he nodded. “Exactly.”

He slouched in his seat, looking for all the world like Toby. But today, it wasn’t humorous. Reality, again, was unkind. Three-dimensional truth slapped me upside the head. Wasn’t Krissie’s death significant to these people? Didn’t they realize that we, too,
felt?

Resentment shot through me. “I was visiting Grandma Beau just days ago and she had the nerve to say that though Krissie hadn’t, quote, really been pretty, she was sweet. ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’ she told me, as though her remark wasn’t offensive.”

Our gazes locked in indignation. “She went on to say how ‘attractive’ her grandson, Zach, had been. And he was. But in our eyes, so was Krissie.”

Our lovely Krissie, poised betwixt adolescent awkwardness and stunning beauty, to have someone define her so. What was it my Grandma Whitman always said? Blood’s thicker’n water. Folks always cut lots of slack for blood kin.

“What’s wrong with Grandma Beau?” I asked, turning loose of resentment.

“X-rays. Her stomachache proved to be a simple case of gastritis. But they’re doing other tests.”

Kirk’s face slowly emptied as he gazed unseeing at the floor for long moments before decisively rising and striding from the room.

“Where you going?” I called after him.

“To the hospital.” The back door slammed..

And I knew that though Kirk’s
denial
was alive and well, it didn’t seem at his beck and call now as in the past. For once, I found myself wishing for a bit of it.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Guilt persisted. It struck with vicious precision, scattering what peace I’d managed to scrounge amid desolation. My head reminded me of Dr. Jordess’ counsel, that I’d had Krissie’s best interests in mind when I sent her to her death. Logically, I knew that was true.

My heart said something else entirely.

“Neecy,” Kirk held out the phone to me several weeks after the accident, “this is Mr. Greene, the conductor on the train. He wants to talk to – ”

“No – ” I backed away, shaking my head. I wanted no details.

“Please, Neecy,” Kirk’s eyes pleaded with me, “he wants to say – ”

“I’m sorry – I can’t.” I spun around and fled the room.

The unknown terrified me. I had nightmares that Krissie had been mutilated from the waist down. So I avoided any mention of specifics except with Kirk.

“She only had one injury,” he kept insisting, “here.” He’d point to that spot behind his left ear.

But what if no one had told
him
? Cynicism persisted. That my fears had no true basis didn’t stop them. In the earliest nightmares, I was Krissie, frozen before the roaring train whose whistle shrilled as its mammoth spotlight swirled,
swirled toward me...
. I would awake suddenly, jackknifed in bed, heart pounding and breath shallow,
feeling
her terror and pain in death’s jaws.

In those dark pre-dawn hours, the maternal-me screamed out against the monstrous visions.
Those trusting blue eyes....
My arms ached to hold my little girl, to soothe and comfort her.

But I’d
failed her.

I prayed.

God heard.

Seemed every time reality became too much, something would happen to balance out flesh and spirit. On an upstate visit to Dad and Anne’s, we stayed up late, talking and simply loving one another. The next morning, Kirk arose early and went with Dad on one of their male-bonding drives. Still tired,
I decided to lie back down while Anne went to the grocery store. I soon drifted off to sleep.

I began to dream. Yet – I knew right away this was no ordinary dream. I saw Krissie moving toward me...not actually walking, more like gliding. She was smiling. The vision was so crystal clear, the blue in her eyes glimmered and her teeth sparkled like sunshine spattered snow.

“Please, God,” I breathed a prayer, “let me hold her,
feel
her.”

Then she was in my arms and I embraced her in a warm snug hug, closing my eyes and thanking God for the privilege.

Presently, she moved back, just enough that I looked directly into her eyes and pure gratification shot straight to my heart, then filled me to overflowing. Suddenly, her features were aglow and this luminous glow extended beyond her face, forming a halo effect, encircling her entire upper body.

Ahh, the sweet smile.

Krissie began to talk, chatter-box fast, as though trying to cram as much into our time as possible...”
I didn’t have trouble – you know, with breathing. It wasn’t like that at all, Mama!”

Thank God.
“But Krissie,” I moaned, “if I’d only kept you home that day – ”

“
Mama, you can’t go on feeling this way. It was my time, don’t you see?”

“No,” I groaned, “you’d still be alive if – ”

“
Please, Mama, don’t.”
The smile softened and the eyes turned so compassionate it made my breath hitch.
“I love you so and I don’t want you to feel bad. I made the choices that day, not you. Promise me you’ll stop blaming yourself.”
How
mature
she talked.

I began to weep. “
Promise?”
Her head tilted slightly and the smile charmed.

“Yes, honey. I promise.”

“
Good. Now we’ll both have peace.”
The emphatic words and unwavering smile began to reassure me. She continued to talk of comforting, happy things while the brilliance of her features grew ever brighter until she disappeared behind it.

I struggled to see her, the desire so great I nearly wept aloud and once more, she emerged through the glow. I drank in the sight of the joyful face, radiant with love.

The soft glow grew and shimmered again, until the sight of her quickly diminished from view. Power, like a pleasant electrical jolt, surged through my body.

Jubilation opened my mouth to thank God for the vision. The words that poured from me were in that now familiar, yet unknown rhetoric, a flowing, beautiful language. And as I hovered there in the trance zone, between sleep and wakefulness, a deep male voice, like many waters, thundered,
“Let this be a sign unto you. This is from God.”

In the next breath, I was fully awake, sitting upright, flooded with a curious warmth and supreme comfort.

Beyond any doubt the future would offer, beyond all cynicism hovering behind darkness, I knew I had two visitors: My child, who, in her own words, revealed she had not suffered in her final moments and absolved me of guilt, and
the
comforter: the Holy Spirit.

“Callie, stay and eat supper with us,” I coaxed as she gathered her purse from under her desk and when she hesitated, I threw in, “I’m frying chicken.”

‘Aw, oka-ay,” she laughed and slung her purse strap over her padded shoulder. “You know I can’t resist your chicken, Neece.”

“Yup.” And I couldn’t resist having her around to talk to. I’d gone from not wanting to talk to a desperation to vent. And few could hang in there with me. Only Anne and Callie. Not even Kirk. He could for short treks but not for the long haul. It was Anne who took me to talk with the rescuers who’d found Krissie’s lifeless form on the riverbank, whom I’d asked, “was there any pulse? Did anyone try to resuscitate her?” Anne who held me and wept with me when the answer was ‘no, we didn’t feel it was safe to move her.’ It was Callie who called Mr. Jones, the funeral home director and handed me the phone to ask, “Did Krissie sustain any injuries other than the head wound?” And when he answered, “no, Mrs. Crenshaw, Krissie never knew what hit her. Her death was instantaneous,” Callie held me and silently celebrated with me that it had been so.

Kirk fought his own battles. His strategy was to snub and ignore the fact of. Mine was to probe, dissect and analyze until
it neutralized to
bearable
. Neither tactic superceded the other. Ours became an unspoken respect for the other’s method.

Today, I needed Cal. And so she dined with us and afterward, when Kirk and Heather departed to the convalescent home with the Tree of Life Youth Group for their monthly service, she stayed to visit for a while longer.

“How’s my boy?” Callie asked a listless Toby, plopping beside him on the sofa and giving him a warm hug. “Mom said you came home early from school today. What’s wrong?”

“My tummy hurt,” Toby murmured, watching the television with dull eyes.

“His teacher said he complained of not feeling well and appeared tired and inattentive,” I explained. “She called us to come pick him up.”

“Heather okay?” Callie kicked off her heels and curled long bronze legs under her.

“She cries a lot. Oh, not in front of us, but I see her red eyes. And during the night, she crawls in bed beside me and sleeps there until morning. Other times, she’ll disappear for hours and I find her in Krissie’s room, dressing Krissie’s Barbie dolls or looking at her pictures.”

Then there were the times I’d find her sitting quietly near her sister’s grave, under the shade of the graceful oak. I understood her need for solitude and granted it.

“Mama,” Toby arose and motioned me to follow him to his room, where he stretched out on his bed, then curled over on his side into fetal position.

“I dream about Krissie, Mama,” he said softly, staring morosely at nothing. “She always came over to speak to me at recess. I miss her.” A tear slid down across his freckled nose.

This had been Krissie’s last year of elementary school. She’d bubbled with anticipation when speaking of junior high next fall.

“Mama – I feel kinda...you know – funny.”

“About what?” I suspected his feelings related to last night’s dream of Krissie.

“Well...I wish I could go to Heaven and be with her.”

“But – God isn’t ready for you to go now, Toby,” I explained gently. “Only those picked carefully by God, like Krissie
and Zach, are privileged to go to Heaven so early in life. We don’t always understand why He calls some so soon but – your time will come later. God still has things for you to do here.”