Ruby's Slippers (16 page)

The wind off the ocean blusters and moans as I tread carefully along the rocky, uneven ground. With the excuse that I needed to walk Otto, I left the table and released Otto from the Jeep. I feed him a few bites of my steak that I wrapped in a paper napkin, and he licks my hands clean. I then wipe off my hands on the back of my white slacks and immediately regret it. I’m used to overalls and hand-me-downs, not designer wear. Otto wanders a crooked path in front of me, drifting off to my left to sniff at some rock. The lights from the restaurant give off a soft glow, and I spot the silhouette of Leo sitting on a ledge, his shoulders hunched as he looks out over the dark ocean. The night air is thick with clouds, the sky murky. The coolness puckers my skin.

Much as I try, I can’t silence my shoes or pebbles beneath them. But Leo doesn’t turn. I stop near him, but not too close. “Is this okay?” I ask.

He scoots over, making room for me, and places his hand on the rock as if inviting me to sit beside him. I inch closer and slide onto the cragged rock, leaving as much space between us as possible. His profile looks like a carving, chiseled and solid. The beard softens his hard edge. I wonder if his mother ever wanted him to be in the movies. He’s handsome in a rugged, masculine, imperfect way.

Resting his arms on his knees, he glances at me. “How was dessert?”

“Tim ordered the apple pie, but I didn’t try any.”

“You should have.”

In other words, I should have stayed in the restaurant, finished dinner, and left him alone. “Look, I know I need to gain weight.” I touch my stomach which still feels heavy with the steak. “And I will, but not all in one night.”

The side of his mouth pulls into a rueful smile. He reaches down and scratches Otto behind the ear. “Ever feel like you’re fourteen again?”

“Occasionally.” Lately, more and more. It certainly happens when I’m around Abby. And now this man. Does that mean when I care about someone, I regress in age? What on earth will happen when I meet my father? Will I become four years old again?

He rubs his hands together, the palms rasping against each other. “Never wanted to go back to those years. They were bad enough the first time around. Not worth revisiting.”

“Pimples. Hormones. Insecurities. Who needs that, right?”

He turns and looks at me, his gaze intense as he studies my features as if searching for a small imperfection. “Yeah. Just when I think I’ve grown up, my mom comes along and proves I haven’t.”

“Sophia wants the best for you.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

“She wants to see you happy.”

“Who’s to say I’m not? Don’t you think it’s arrogant to look at someone else’s life and say they’re unhappy in comparison to your own standards or expectations?”

I’ve had that most of my life.
If you could just find someone to marry, Dottie, then you wouldn’t be alone
. I’ve heard it time and again. I understand how Leo feels more than I ever thought I would. “Maybe it’s not your mom that you’re reacting to.”

“And what am I reacting to?”

“God.” Before he can balk, I rush forward. “I say that because I’ve done the same thing. When people—your mom, to be exact—kept mentioning God, I overreacted. But it wasn’t what she was saying so much as my feelings about God that had me reacting …” I rub my temple. “I’m not saying this very well.”

“Yes, you are. I know what you’re saying. Nonbelievers sometimes react violently to talk of God. And it’s a spiritual issue.”

“A spiritual battle.” I feel a chill deep inside.

“You may be right. Mom and I have battled over spiritual issues before. She made it sound easy. And it wasn’t easy.”

“I don’t think it was easy for her either.” I think back on all she told me about her life. “Maybe we each have to come to the end of our rope before we’re ready.”

“Been there.”

“Me too.” I rub my palms against my white slacks. “I just think Sophia wants to make sure you’re okay before …” I veer off course, deciding I shouldn’t put words in Sophia’s mouth, especially when she’s not even here.

“Before what?”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I watch as Otto sniffs around, nose to the ground. He pauses, sniffs the air, barks, then sits nearby. I stare into the darkness, the shifting shadows that move and swell over the ocean, listen to the growling of the waves. “Before my mother passed away, she was worried about me, what would become of me, if I’d be all alone. You know the drill. It’s what a mother does—worry about her little chicks. Right? Sophia’s whole ordeal scared her. Made her face her own mortality. I mean, my situation certainly had me—”

“What are you talking about?”

“The tornado, even the coma, had me realize life isn’t forever. We all know that at some level, but losing the farm made it very real for me.”

“I meant my mom.”

His abrupt words rattle me. “Her bout with cancer. It’s one of those attention grabbers.”

“My mother had cancer?”

I stare at his wide eyes, read fear in their depths. My heart quickens. “You didn’t know?”

“No.”

I dip my head into my hands, rub my temples. “I’m sorry. I just assumed you did. She’s very open about it all.” How long has it been since the two of them have spoken? “Why wouldn’t she tell you?”

His mouth twists and he looks away. “Because I’m a jerk, that’s why. Because I made it clear I needed my space. I didn’t
want to hear her platitudes of how God will help me through. I guess I had to experience that for myself. And I went off to lick my wounds.”

“So she didn’t want to burden you.”

He shrugs a shoulder, presses his hands together, fingers splayed wide, and utters a harsh word aimed at himself.

“Hey, it’s not your fault.” I reach toward him before I can stop myself. His back is hard but warm to the touch. Tension coils in his muscles beneath his thin T-shirt. They flex beneath my palm. “She’s fine. She’s doing really well. I didn’t mean she was about to die or anything. She’s made a full recovery. But anytime someone faces a diagnosis like that, they’re confronted with their mortality.”

He’s silent for a long time. I pull my hand away, but his warmth remains against my flesh. The steady breeze is soft against my face, the air cools my heated skin. I remember sitting on the front porch with Momma, watching the tops of the cornstalks undulating in a late-summer breeze, the stalks bending and waving as if some invisible guest wandered among them.

What was Leo’s childhood like? Did he have an adversarial relationship with Sophia? Like Momma and Abby? Did he have moments of comfort and strength? Time to think and breathe? Crouched in the garden with Momma, I had plenty of opportunities to ask her questions, listen to her talk about the day, her thoughts and explanations. I pulled on her beliefs like a hand-me-down coat. I’ve lived my life as if they were my own. But were they?

“Why do we have to pull weeds?” I remember grumbling.

“If we didn’t, the weeds would choke the good plants.”

“Kill them?”

“That’s right. Just as in life we have to weed things out
of our lives that choke our time, our attention, keep us from doing good things.”

“Like homework?”

Momma paused in patting down the soil where she’d pulled a weed with a long root resembling a bleached carrot. “More like frivolous activities. Time wasters. Like tele—”

“Dancing,” I spit out the word as I thought of Abby’s dance classes that cost Momma extra money. Money we didn’t have.

“Your sister loves her dance classes. And maybe she’ll use them someday. I think of them as an investment in her future.”

“I don’t like dancing.” I stood up and flapped my arms like Abby had in her last recital when she’d worn a butterfly costume. I jumped and leaped, swaying and twirling, in a caricature of my sister’s abilities.

Momma laughed at my poor technique and went back to pulling weeds. “Just because it’s not your cup of soup, doesn’t mean it’s not useful or worthwhile.”

Breathless, I flopped down on the ground beside her, kicked my legs outward, rolling my foot first one way then the other. “Did you ever dance, Momma?”

“With this old leg?” She rubbed her knee, touched her thin calf, then pushed to a standing position. I watched her gather the discarded weeds carefully into an old milk pail. She limped off in the direction of the barn, and I jumped up to help carry her load.

Remembering Leo beside me, I realize I don’t know his mother well. But aren’t most mothers the same? Don’t they want the best for their children? “Sophia,” I say, “probably wanted to protect you. Mine did. She didn’t tell me she was having symptoms. She probably would have hidden the
diagnosis if she could have, if she hadn’t needed my help, if she hadn’t wanted to prepare me for her death. And that’s what she did.”

“When did your mom die?” Leo’s voice sounds gruff, but I recognize it as his attempt to be gentle. And I realize how much the thought of almost losing his mother has hit him.

“A year ago. She was sick for ten years though. Polio returned slow but determined.” This isn’t usually a topic I discuss, especially with a stranger. Though I’ve known Leo less than a day, we’re no longer strangers. Sophia’s words give me strength. Helping another gives my pain meaning, gives me a sense of peace. “The last year Momma needed me home full time, so I quit teaching to be with her. She wanted me to hire a nurse, but I wanted to be there, to spend what little time she had left together.”

“You’re braver than I am.”

“You never know how you’ll react till you’re in a situation. But you do what’s necessary.”

“You must have made your mother proud.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m beginning to realize she wanted me to find my own life. Things she said toward the end … maybe she feared I was too dependent on her.”

“She knew her happiness wasn’t yours.”

His words strike a resonant chord inside me. But I always thought I wanted to be there, to stay on the farm. Did Momma think I wanted—needed—something else? She was never the type to push. She was usually content to wait and watch. Patience, she said, was a virtue.

For a few moments Leo and I sit together, a foot apart, our gazes parallel, our thoughts adrift. The waves break and shatter against the rocks. I remember conversations I’ve had with Abby
and Craig over the past few months. Travel, Abby encouraged. Family, Craig emphasized. Maybe my idea of happiness isn’t theirs. Or maybe they were right. Maybe Abby knows me better than I know myself. Maybe I’ve been living Momma’s life, not my own. Maybe I have let fear rule my life.

The emptiness and excuses coming from Leo are familiar because I’ve heard them from my own mouth. Looking at him now, I ask, “Are you happy?”

He shrugs, his eyes still trained on the ocean. “Are you?”

“No,” I state the truth. “I lost my home. My farm. Everything.” I reach down and touch Otto’s wisp of a tail. “Almost everything.”

“So if you really want a family, like Tim said, is that what the farm means to you?”

I draw in the cool air and release it with my reservations and fears. “I’ve always been a caretaker. Taking care of my mother. The farm. Otto. That’s just what I did. I don’t know what else to do.” I press my thumbs together. “What am I supposed to do now? It seems so pointless.”

“What if it is?”

“I don’t know if I’m that cynical. Are you?”

“It’s worth asking the questions. I had to explore those possibilities to figure out what I believe.”

“My mother was content to care for the stock and grow corn and hay.”

“But you weren’t?”

Reluctantly, I nod. “I felt restless. But then again, I didn’t want to leave the farm. I wanted to be there in case … I didn’t want to be like my sister.”

He rests the side of his head on his fisted hand. “What’s she like?”

“Flighty.”

“Is she happy?”

That stops me. “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not sure I know her well enough to know. She always seems to be striving, searching. I used to think she was reckless. But now I’m starting to think she’s braver than I’ve ever been. Shouldn’t I know more about my sister?”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to know. Maybe it’s none of your business.”

“Maybe I’ve been as arrogant as everyone who’s ever said to me, ‘Dottie, you should find some nice man and fall in love.’ Like that’s as easy as going to the drugstore.”

“Or the drive-thru. ‘I’ll take a side of fries and throw in the love of my life.’” He laughs, shaking his head as if he’s heard the same thing. “So what would make you happy, Dottie? What do you want? To find a nice guy? Get married? Sail the South Pacific?”

“I never thought I’d see the Pacific Ocean! I don’t really know. I’m going to find my father. After that …” I shrug. “One day at a time at this point.” Will I save the farm? Sell the shoes? Run away and find a new life? “My sister—”

“The flighty one?”

“Yes. She’s put the farm up for auction. Eight days … six days until that happens. Six. Then it won’t be mine anymore. Not that there’s much left after the tornado.”

“So what’s to go back to then?”

“My life. Memories.”

“Why are you really going to find your father? To borrow money?” His voice holds no condemnation, just curiosity.

“He visited me while I was in a coma. He left me something. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what he was trying to say, if he wanted me to find him. That’s what I’m
hoping.” Hoping. It’s a powerful emotion that sweeps over me like a blast of wind. I refrain from being too specific about what my father left. Not that I don’t trust Leo, but saying it out loud just sounds so strange. I shrug. “I want to know more about this … heirloom. Was it Momma’s? My grandmother’s? I have nothing left belonging to them. Nothing. None of the quilts Granny made. None of the blankets Momma knitted. Bottom line, I waited all my life for my father to come, to reach out to me. Now that he has, I have to go to him.”

“Makes sense.”

“Honestly, I’m scared.”

The surf murmurs against the shore. It comforts me and yet at the same time makes my life seem small, inconsequential, while my fears seem as vast as the ocean.

“Scared of what?”