Not in the Heart (23 page)

C
HAPTER
36

Ellen trudged up her driveway after getting a ride from a nurse who had worked a twelve-hour shift in the neonatal intensive care unit—a church member who had just happened by to say hello and wound up offering the ride. That's how it worked in God's economy. Things like this just worked out without her having to orchestrate it. Why couldn't God do the same with the rest of her life?

Aiden was stable and resting comfortably, not much change in his condition, so she felt she could leave. A quick shower and change of clothes would go a long way in helping her frame of mind. But she knew it would take more than water to clear her head. Her energy, all of her silent praying that had normally been focused only on Aiden, was now being split between her son and the rest of her fractured family. Was this diluting the power or adding strength? She wasn't sure.

Something was stirring, brewing and percolating in the family pot, and Ellen equally feared and was excited by the possibilities. Normally she knew everything about her daughter, even things she didn't want to know. They communicated every day by phone and Facebook and texts, a constant stream of information going back and forth. Most of the time Ellen could handle the things Abigail shared, could quell the fear that her daughter was making the same mistakes with her boyfriend that she had made with Truman. She had a deep and abiding knowledge that God had used even her mistakes long ago to help bring her to himself, but she hated to watch Abigail struggle and squirm under a similar weight. Ellen wished she could cut the nets free and let her swim to the surface for air, but she knew from her own life that sometimes the things that dragged her under revealed her need. So as hard as it was to just listen, that's what she tried to do. Just be there as a sounding board—a praying board, really.

However, now that Truman had become involved, Ellen was in the unenviable position of not knowing, and this bothered her. It was one thing to know what to pray about, how to intercede about specific issues. It was totally different to not know what had happened between Truman, Abigail, and the man at the salon. To not know the dangers they were facing. Being on the outside and her husband suddenly moving toward the inner circle of her daughter's life somehow felt like a betrayal.

When Truman was away on some story or, in the past few months, when he was staying at the beach house, she could give up on him, abandon him to the rising tide of his life. Out of sight, out of mind. But now he was home, rekindling a relationship with both children. No matter how imperfect that rekindling was, he was in the house and the closeness brought with it angst and uncertainty. It was easier when her husband had failed her, when he was oblivious that his choices had hurt her so deeply. This was life, routine, what she expected. The sun came up in the east every day and Truman was indifferent to her pain.

But in the last few days she had sensed a change, perhaps an openness that hadn't been there. A look, a way of communicating, a sense that instead of being on opposite sidelines, they were moving closer to each other, closing ranks and fighting a common opponent. She hadn't felt this since the early days when they were scraping by, trying to set sail on life together, pulling for each other rather than competing.

She paused at the front door, watching the nurse pull away from the curb. Maybe she was making all of this up, trying to manufacture hope from hopelessness. Perhaps that feeling she had when she sat next to Truman on the bed, the stirring that moved within her, was hormonal. It had been so long since they had been together
that
way. It had been so long since she had felt any warmth at all. But that moment, sitting next to him, had been like the slow thaw of a Thanksgiving turkey. The hardness and coldness of the bird in the fridge was still there, just under the surface, and the neck and giblets were still firmly trapped, but with a little time and perhaps some running water, there was potential.

Maybe all this mental exercise was her desire for desire, a longing within her to
feel
something other than pain. Anything but that. It was work just getting up the energy to feel disdain. She couldn't imagine what kind of work it would take to feel desire, but there it was, stuck in her mind like gum to the bottom of her shoe. Sitting next to him with nothing between them but her towel and the past had ignited something primal and urgent. Something dangerous. And she didn't need any more danger or drama. She needed stability. Strength. Faith.

She needed love.

She made a little more noise than usual coming in, closing the door with gusto rather than tiptoeing inside and holding the latch so it wouldn't bang. There were two coffee mugs and an unfolded newspaper on the kitchen table. Abigail's car was gone, so she assumed she and Truman were alone.

Instead of looking for him, calling for him like a mother calling her son from the playground, or waiting until he appeared from his writing cave, she headed to the shower and stood under the uninterrupted flow, steam rising, half-hoping he would join her, half-dreading the awkwardness of what might happen if he did. She could go to him, of course. Just get out and walk dripping down the hallway and surprise him at his computer. No one would have to know.

Funny. A clandestine meeting with a stranger she was married to. Just the thought made her laugh. Then she wondered how he might react. What if he recoiled?

She waited, water cascading, then the shampoo that felt like a warm release. She turned off the water and grabbed a towel taller than herself and stepped out, almost expecting to find him standing there waiting. But he wasn't. Just an empty room. An empty bed. Pictures and mementos staring at her from the dresser. And her reflection in the mirror across the darkened room.

Ellen dressed quickly and returned to the kitchen, a towel draped over her shoulders to catch the errant water, and found the newspaper gone. She looked for anything mildly healthy to eat but she hadn't been to Whole Foods in days and there was nothing green to juice. In a fit of hunger and with a lot of guilt, she popped a frozen waffle into the toaster. Something she had bought for Aiden in a moment of weakness, when he pleaded for a waffle and agave nectar. From early on after his diagnosis she had felt the one thing she could give her son was healthy food, fuel for his heart, and that had sent her on a quest for the healthiest of foods. Not just the stuff on the shelves that said
organic
, but truly natural foods that came from the ground. The closer to the dirt, the better.

All of that felt like striving now and she wondered how much the goat milk kefir and homemade yogurt had really helped Aiden and how much it had simply made her feel better, given her something to focus on instead of waiting for him to collapse. How much of it was accomplishing something good in his body and how much of it was about her doing something—anything—that might help prolong his life and make him healthy? She couldn't know the answer to that, probably wouldn't know, ever.

Truman came in the front door and smiled, saying he had to return a neighbor's newspaper. There was a flash from the past, a gleam of the old Truman, connected and inviting. He asked about Aiden and she updated him on the latest from the team, a designation Truman had hated because he said he felt like he was paying the pitching staff of the Yankees. But he listened intently and seemed genuinely interested, not preoccupied as he normally was when he was working on a project. When he was in the zone of his writing or reporting, it was even more difficult to get him to focus on a crisis.

Ellen countered with a question about Abigail and got a few details she didn't know. Truman was sketchy about the night at the club, and his version of what had happened at the salon owner's apartment was even sketchier, but she decided not to pry.

“You two seem to be working well with each other,” she said.

“I don't know if I'd go that far,” he said. “But it's good having two pairs of eyes on this instead of one. Have you read Terrelle's confession?”

She nodded. She'd read it at the hospital earlier when the newspapers were first dropped off in the waiting room. “It seemed stiff to me. Obligatory. What do you think?”

He told her, but instead of listening to his opinion, she lost herself in his voice, the soft, smooth flow of consonants and vowels over his tongue and lips. It was a natural gift he had, not just with the language but with the mastery of the big picture. He could tap into an issue, some world event or complicated legal battle, and reduce it to its least common denominator. It was an innate skill, along with asking the questions that cut to the heart of any story. He'd had it in the newsroom in college. He had it in the classroom, when professors would ask them to decipher which stories should lead a newscast, what priorities to place on the competing time demands of viewers or readers or editorial directors.

But if he was so good at this on the journalistic level, why couldn't he use that same discipline in their relationship? Why couldn't he see the truth of “If it bleeds, it leads” when it came to her heart? There had been plenty of bleeding in the past few years that he had pushed to the end of his lifecast, after the final weather report.

He washed his hands and poured another cup of coffee. She moved closer and touched his face, just lightly with her thumb. He didn't recoil from her touch but seemed to lean into it, like a pastured horse leans into a farmer's hand. Could this actually work? Could the dead limbs of their marriage be broken away to give room for new growth?

“How's the bruise?” she said.

“Doesn't hurt as much when I chew,” he said. “Not ready for a family picture, though.”

Ellen traced her index finger across the wound, the dried blood and discolored skin, and looked into his eyes. She wanted to say she was sorry. For what? She didn't know. She had nothing to be sorry for. Still, there was something down deep that compelled her to speak the words. Called them from her.

His cell phone buzzed before she could open her mouth. It was Abigail, talking excitedly about something. Ellen took the half-charred waffle from the toaster and broke off the black pieces until it was one bite-size chunk.

Truman laughed at the end of the conversation, shook his head, and closed the phone.

“What was that about?” she said.

“She went to Diana's house before work. Mrs. Wright is not the easiest person in the world to talk to, especially when you wake her up. But Abby did it.” His eyes sparkled. She hated it, but they were actually glinting with something just this side of glee.

“What was she looking for?”

“Diana evidently had this legendary obsession with journals. She was always carrying one and writing in it. Abby schmoozed her way in and asked if she could see any of Diana's diaries, and Mrs. Wright said there weren't any.”

“And Abigail found them.”

“A whole stack of spirals hidden way back in her closet. I don't think Mrs. Wright has been able to go through Diana's stuff. It's like a museum in there.”

“Abigail has them, then?”

“She brought half of them with her to work, the most recent, and Mrs. Wright gave her twenty-four hours. Abby said she's gonna devour them and let me know what she finds out. She said that fortunately her writing is legible, unlike mine.”

“You think it'll lead to anything?”

“It's a long shot, but that's the process. Every little rock you turn over can lead you to something else or to a dead end. But you can't stop turning over rocks.”

He was in reporter mode, only looking at the story and not thinking of the ramifications. He always lived somewhere between the edits and she had to exist in the real world. But she had given this over to God, right? It was all in his hands.

“I just hope you don't run out of time,” Ellen said.

Truman looked her square in the eyes. “Even if we do find something that backs up Terrelle's story, we don't have much recourse now that he's confessed. This train just kicked into high gear and there are no brakes left.”

C
HAPTER
37

When Ellen touched my face in the kitchen, something happened that scared me. Something electrical. So when I went back to the computer, all I could think about was that touch and the ache it awakened. Not an ache to be bound by promises made and broken so long ago, but to be tethered to something other than my own aimlessness. To find some kind of relational footing that worked. To be “even” again, on level ground, and moving together with her instead of against her.

The noise of the mail carrier's muffler took me from the screen and I wondered what legions from hell this representative of the government might deliver. Stacked inside the box were a car insurance bill, a reminder that my life insurance payment was overdue and if I didn't comply within a specific time frame I would forfeit my opportunity to provide for my family in a potential time of need. There was a nice notice from the hospital billing department that gave me warm and fuzzy feelings about them. And on the heels of that, a collection agency notice that they had now taken over my hospital bill and would I please contact them at my earliest convenience. I decided to do that, but I also decided it wasn't convenient today. A letter from the admissions department of Abby's school offered further financial assistance and a toll-free number. Such nice people. Generous. And the generosity extended to an embossed envelope with a message inside from a credit card company congratulating Aiden on his new card and the hefty credit line that was available.

There was, of course, a common denominator in these pieces of correspondence: money. And since I had none left, it made no sense to spend time fretting about them, but since when has my life made sense? I stacked the envelopes in the kitchen on top of all the unopened mail we had received in the past few days and went back to my cave.

Abby called late in the day to say she hadn't found anything in the journals about Tompkins, but there was enough loneliness and angst in Diana's writing to depress Jane Austen. She read me a section that one of the stylists could have used to curl hair it was so fraught with longing and questions about life and love and why it had passed her by. Diana also talked about the usual workday struggles with other stylists, her boss, and customers who were tightfisted with tips.

“Nothing in there about running drugs for Curtis?”

“The closest she comes is talking about the shady characters he brings into the shop and the passes he made, though she says he seems more interested in a couple other girls at the salon. They don't work here anymore.”

“Maybe you can contact them,” I said. “Do these entries have dates?”

“Yeah. The newest journal I have ends about six months before her death.”

“How much time does each journal cover?”

“A few months. Some entries are pages and pages, front and back, and others are short with intervals in between. She talks about some past guys and heartaches. A lot of stuff I can relate to—are you in the car?”

“Yeah, had to run an errand. So you have to get these back to Diana's mom tomorrow morning. You going to make it all the way through?”

“I'll make it, but I don't have a lot of hope I'm going to find anything. I keep wondering if there's another journal in that closet or hidden somewhere.”

“I'll phone Sawyer and check,” I said as I pulled into the casino parking lot. “Gotta run. Let me know if you find anything else.”