River's End (9781426761140) (3 page)

“But it didn't last?” Anna gently prodded.

Sarah just shook her head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I'm really tired.” She glanced toward the bedroom.

“Yes.” Anna stood, gathering the dishes. “I'm sure you are. Please, just rest. We can talk later.”

Sarah padded off to the bedroom, closing the door, and Anna rinsed the breakfast dishes then wiped down the counters and dusted a few things, shook out the throw rugs and finally, satisfied that she'd made the place as homey as possible, quietly let herself out.

“Who's the sick guest?” Lauren asked as Anna carried the dishes into the kitchen. The house was vacant of guests now, and Lauren and was alone in the kitchen.

Anna set the dishes in the sink, trying to think of an answer.

“I heard Mrs. Lindley's having morning sickness,” Lauren continued absently. “Remember how sick I was when I was pregnant with—” She stopped herself.

Anna turned to look at Lauren, seeing the tears in her daughter's eyes.

“Do you know what day this is, Mom?”

Anna just nodded.

“I—I—”

Before Lauren could finish, Anna gathered her in her arms. “It's going to be okay, Lauren. Really, it's going to be okay.”

“How can you possibly say that?” Lauren finally said between sobs. “It's been two years, Mom. Two years!”

Anna put her hands on Lauren's shoulders, firmly grasping her. “Just trust me on this, Lauren. I know that Sarah is all right.”

“How can you know that?” Lauren fumbled in the pocket of her apron, pulling out a tissue to wipe her eyes. “Did you have a dream or a vision or something?”

“Something . . . ,” Anna muttered as she turned away, pretending to be busily putting the dishes in the dishwasher.

“Any coffee left?” Clark asked as he came into the house.

“I just made a fresh pot,” Lauren told him. As she went to get him a cup, Anna and Clark exchanged glances. Anna was trying to warn him with her eyes not to mention Sarah.

“Well, I think I got the pump fixed,” he said as Lauren handed him a mug of coffee. “Glad I didn't have to call in Mike Watson in to help.”

Now they made small talk about the pump and the weather and how one of the guests had caught a record-size salmon early this morning, and, for a few moments, Anna nearly forgot about her prodigal granddaughter. Before long, one of the summer staffers came in, asking for help with something in the laundry room and Lauren offered to go and assist.

“I take it she hasn't heard the news,” Clark said quietly after they left.

“No.” Anna pressed her lips together.

“How long do you think you'll need to keep it from her?”

“Hopefully not long. I feel so deceitful. But I don't want to hurt Sarah. She seems so fragile . . . so vulnerable.” Now she relayed to him what Sarah had said to her, hoping that as she repeated the strange words, they would make more sense.

“I can understand how she might think her parents weren't the healthiest people in her life,” he conceded. “But that still doesn't explain disappearing for two years.”

“I have a feeling she was someplace where people tried to make her think like them. Almost as if she was slightly brainwashed.”

“Brainwashed?”

“I know that sounds crazy. But it's like something in her is changed. Almost as if the light in her—remember that sparkle she used to have—as if it's been snuffed out.” Anna felt on the verge of tears now. “Oh, I realize she's probably just exhausted. She was so filthy and sad-looking. And she looks half-starved. You should've seen her eating. In fact, that reminds me. I want
to take some food down there, to have ready for her when she wakes.” Anna got up and started to gather some fruit and baked goods and a few other things.

“I sure would like to see her,” Clark said as Anna put these items in a basket.

“I know. And when it's time . . .”

“In the meantime, mum's the word?”

“Just for now.” Anna went to the door. “I'll encourage her . . . but I don't want to push her too hard. Like I said, she seems so fragile right now, so apprehensive.” But Anna didn't say what she feared most—that Sarah seemed so wounded and fearful . . . that Anna was worried she might run away again. All Anna wanted to do for the time being was to ensure that Sarah stayed here with them. At least long enough to make sense of what she'd experienced these past two years. And hopefully long enough for her to heal some of the old wounds that seemed to be festering inside of her now. Anna knew the river was a place of healing, but it only worked if the person was willing. She prayed that Sarah would be willing—and that Lauren would not interfere.

Sarah's birthday came and went without Lauren ever knowing her daughter was only just yards away. Anna wished there was another way to handle this, but she knew that if Lauren could grasp the whole situation—including Anna's concerns that Sarah might bolt—she would understand and appreciate that Anna was protecting the girl. After all, the important thing was that Sarah had come home . . . and that she was alive.

However, on the third day of Sarah's visit, even Anna was growing somewhat impatient. Seated across from her granddaughter in a well-worn easy chair, she turned the coffee mug around and around in her hands. “I really don't want to push you, Sarah,” she began gently, “but I worry that you're holing up in here, keeping yourself hidden away like this . . . and for no good reason. Really, I think you'd feel better if you went outside to enjoy the river and this good weather. It's not always this pleasant in June, and you could take out the canoe and—”

“I do not want to see
her
,” Sarah seethed.

Anna knew Sarah was referring to her mother. For some reason Lauren was this obstacle that Sarah could just not seem
to get past. “I wish you could trust me about this,” she told Sarah for what felt the umpteenth time, “your mother has truly changed.”

“Please, don't call her
my mother
.” Sarah scowled. “She is nothing to me.”

“All right.” Anna nodded with lips pressed tightly together. “Then what should I call her?”

Sarah narrowed her eyes.

“How about if I just call her Lauren?”

“Call her whatever you like, just keep her away from me.”

“You need to understand that your . . . I mean that
Lauren
has many regrets for how she handled things with you.”

“
Handled
things?” Sarah blurted. “That woman never handled a single thing when it came to me. She left the handling to everyone else. You or Dad or Grandmother Eunice or even Grandmother Thomas—all had more to do with me than my mother—I mean
Lauren
. She was not a mother to me.”

Anna just nodded. “I know . . . and I'm sure Lauren would agree with you on that.”

“I really don't care what Lauren would think one way or another. While I was gone, I pretended that she was dead. In fact, I told everyone that both my parents had been killed in a tragic car wreck.”

“I can understand why you would do that.” And, really, Anna could understand it. First of all, Lauren had all but abandoned Sarah—possibly when Sarah needed her the most. It was true Lauren had been getting over her addiction to Valium and alcohol and that she'd been on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but in Sarah's eyes it must've felt like abandonment. And when Sarah's father embarked on a scandalous affair with his secretary . . . well, it probably was simply easier to imagine her parents were dead. Less painful that way.

“Everyone felt so sorry for me,” Sarah continued. “They welcomed me and made me feel at home.” She looked at Anna with misty eyes. “Besides being here with you and Clark and Hazel, that was the closest thing to home I'd ever experienced. And I loved it . . . at first.”

“What changed?” Anna asked gently. She was eager to hear Sarah's entire story, where she'd been and who she'd been with, but up until now Sarah had been closed tighter than a freshly dug razor clam about the past two years.

Sarah leaned back in the old rocker, pushing her fingers through the loopholes in the knitted afghan over her lap. It was one that Anna's mother had crocheted many years ago. “Lots of things changed,” she said slowly. “First of all, Aaron left. That was when it all started to go downhill.”

“Aaron?”

Sarah looked out the window with a slightly dreamy expression. “Aaron was our leader. He was a truly good man. He loved God with his whole heart. And he wanted us to follow his example.”

Anna was beginning to understand now. Sarah had probably been in one of the communes that had become so prolific in Oregon and California, especially along the coast. This particular phenomenon had started in the late sixties and had continued into the seventies. In fact, Anna even remembered a time when the inn had been suspected of being a commune of sorts. Of course, Anna had simply taken that in stride, and eventually the ridiculous rumors faded.

“Aaron and Misty were like our spiritual parents,” Sarah continued. “Everything they did was for our own good. Even when we didn't like their decisions, we knew they loved us. You could just feel it. Aaron and Misty were good people.”

Anna just nodded.

“And for a while, everything was perfect.”

“Perfect?” Anna tried not to sound too skeptical.

“Well . . . maybe not perfect. But it was good. Really good.”

“I'm curious about something, Sarah . . .”

“What?”

“Why didn't you call us? Just to let us know you were all right. We were so worried about you. You were so young . . . and we had no idea what had happened.”

Sarah seemed to consider this. “A condition of staying in the family was to break all outside ties. We were forbidden to contact anyone from our past.”

“Oh . . .”

“But it's not like they forced us. We did it willingly,” she said quickly. “It wasn't as if we were being held prisoner there.” She frowned. “Well, not at first anyway.”

“But later? Were you ever held against your will?”

Sarah took in a long, slow breath, folding her arms in front of her, and Anna could tell that this was her way of communicating that she'd said too much. And, really, Anna had been trying not to prod. “So . . . Aaron . . .” Anna tried again. “It sounds like he was a good guy . . . and you say he treated you like family . . . ?”

“Yes,” she said cautiously.

“And Misty was his wife?”

Sarah shrugged. “We don't use those kinds of traditional words. It was very unconventional there. We were all brothers and sisters. But, yes, Aaron and Misty were together as a couple, if that's what you mean.”

“How many people were in this, uh, family?” Anna asked gently.

“It varied. At the most, it was about a hundred, I think. By the time I left it had dwindled a lot. Maybe thirty or so.”

“Did it dwindle because others, like you, weren't so happy there anymore?”

She nodded sadly. “Yes. After Aaron and Misty left, everything just started to change.”

“Do you know why Aaron and Misty left?”

“Because Daniel took over.” She looked at Anna like this should be obvious.

“Daniel?”

Sarah's dark eyes grew darker as her brows drew together. “Daniel was
nothing
like Aaron. He acted nice at first, but he turned out to be mean spirited and selfish. He treated us as though we were less than him, like he expected us to serve and obey him—simply because he was the new leader. We had always wanted to serve and obey Aaron, but that was because we loved him. But all the love left when Daniel took over.”

“How long ago was that?”

Sarah looked up at the ceiling as if trying to calculate. “I don't know exactly. I guess it was in the fall. We'd just finished picking apples.”

“You grew apples there?”

“No, we picked for local farmers. For money and in trade for apples. We put up a lot of apples for winter. Apple cider, dried apples, applesauce . . . we had lots and lots of apples.”

“Oh.”

“If I never see an apple again, it will be too soon.” She sighed.

“I'm curious . . . where was this place? Southern Oregon? I know there are a lot of fruit orchards down there.”

Now Sarah was getting that shut-down look again. Anna knew that for some reason she wanted to keep the location of this commune a secret. Why she wanted to protect people who had obviously wronged her was a mystery, but Anna knew she needed to respect it. At least for now. Anna's worst fear was that Sarah wasn't disclosing the location of the commune out of the fear that she might have to return to this horrible place
. . . keeping it as an option in case things here at the river didn't work out. Anna prayed that it would work out.

“Well, I'm just so glad you're here.” Anna smiled at her. “I have missed you so much these past two years. You have absolutely no idea. It was like a piece of me was gone. Can you understand that?”

Sarah seemed to soften now. “I missed you, too, Grandma.”

“And I have to admit that it still hurts to think you never tried to contact me . . . just to say you were alive,” Anna confessed, “but I do understand. I know we sometimes do things that seem justified at the time . . . things we might look back on later, wondering if we could've done it differently.” Now Anna told Sarah a bit about how it was for her when Lauren was a small child . . . how she might've done it differently.

“But I was so overwhelmed with caring for Lauren's father. His physical injuries from the war were serious enough, and he was certainly in pain, but the wounds in his mind were the hardest part. I felt I needed to protect Lauren from his outbursts and mood swings. It seemed too much for a child to witness. For that reason, Lauren was left in the care of her Grandmother Eunice . . . far more than I would have liked. However, at the time, I didn't see any other solution.”