Stepping Into Sunlight (17 page)

“How tall was he?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I was on my knees looking up, so it’s hard to say. How are they?” I knew the answer. I’d knelt by their bodies, tried to stop the blood, and gripped the dear woman’s cold hand while we waited for the police. But I held on to hope that they would be revived. I turned and tried to see past the policewoman into the store where paramedics crouched beside the old couple.

Her professional mask stayed firmly in place. “Did you know them?”

I shook my head. How could I explain? I didn’t know them, but I knew them. Knew that they smiled at strangers. Knew that they teased each other. Knew that she had a breathy laugh, and he had a dimple. Knew that they were what I hoped Tom and I would be one day. Knew that it was my fault they’d been shot.

A few yards away, the young cashier answered the same questions, her voice shrill and animated. “He was whacked out, man. I’m tellin’ you. The guy was flyin’. I handed him the cash, but he was yelling, and then he started shooting. Don’t know what set him off.” She cursed and tossed her beaded braids back.

“It was me.” My throat was hoarse as if I’d actually released all the screams this scene deserved. “It was my fault. I made a noise and he panicked.”

The policewoman jotted more notes. “Ma’am, sounds like the guy was already twitchy. Now I know you’re shook up, but did you see if he had a car? When he ran out, did you hear an engine?”

“Call the morgue.” One of the paramedics straightened and shook his head. Blood stained his gloves.

A mewling sound rose from my throat. “No. No, no, no.”

“Is there someone you can call?”

Red lights circled in remorseless rhythm. Voices rose and fell. Summer heat bent the air as it rose from the blacktop near the pumps, thick with the odor of gasoline and stale hot dogs. After a few tries, I remembered our new phone number, and the police contacted Tom. By the time he arrived, my limbs had begun to tremble. The crime had sent an earthquake through my view of the world, and the aftershocks traveled right into my body.

“Before Tom got there, the policewoman gave me the card for this place.” I lifted a hand to encompass Dr. Marci’s office, and the whole dreary building. “I remember thinking it was so weird that the sun was still shining. You know how if you go to a movie theatre during the day, when you walk outside afterward, it seems weird? Like it should really be nighttime? Like so much time has gone by. Or maybe because you usually see movies at night and you’re used to walking out to dark skies? It was like that. Everything had changed, but it was still bright. People kept driving past as if nothing had happened. That seemed so wrong.”

I shifted restlessly in my chair. “Look, do you really think rehashing all of this will get rid of my panic attacks? That’s my real problem.”

“We’ll talk about that next week. For now, you’re doing great. Be gentle with yourself. Let your project help coax you forward, but don’t push yourself too hard. Give yourself permission to take time to heal from this trauma.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sleep, eat, exercise, reduce stress, blah, blah, blah.”

Dr. Marci laughed at my sullenness. Apparently she took it as a good sign. Where did sarcasm fit in the stages of healing?

When I got home, I pulled out my notebook and wrote down anything helpful from my appointment that I could remember. The page with my list of good deeds held a large blank line for Thursday. I hadn’t fulfilled my project for today. I should have brought Dr. Marci a muffin and counted her as my good deed.
Drat.

Bryan wouldn’t be home for three hours. I ought to be able to come up with something by then. I made a peanut butter sandwich and slouched at my kitchen table. I’d had little appetite these days, but with my limited activities I wasn’t burning many calories anyway. The thought of soft drinks especially turned my stomach. If I hadn’t been craving a Coke that night . . .

I pushed away from the table and grabbed my purse. I needed to get out and do something nice for someone. Then I could curl up on my safe couch and watch TV until Bryan got home. I’d had my fill of driving today and had nowhere to go anyway. So I walked down to the corner where Bryan’s bus came each day. Unless I planned to do a good deed for a mangy squirrel or a couple of robins, I’d need to keep walking.

After another block, I reached a sign for the city bus. A young man was already sprawled on one end of the bench. He wore a baseball cap, which stalled me for a moment. But he was black, not the pasty Caucasian of the teen from the shooting. That was a plus. His Ruben Studdard–size shorts hung low on his skinny frame, showing a few inches of boxers. Dreadlocks dangled beneath the cap, covering his ears and reaching his shoulders.

I sat next to him, barely able to glance his direction. I felt as clumsy as I had at my first high-school dance, trying to start a conversation. “Sure is another nice day,” I offered softly.

He nodded.

“I’m not used to the weather staying this warm into October. I’m from the Midwest. We get a few days of Indian summer, but nothing like this.”

He bounced his chin a few more times. A man of few words—but he seemed friendly. Now, what kind thing could I do for him?

I gave another sideways peek. “I like your shirt.” At least I liked the orange shirt with the turned-up collar better than his sagging shorts.

He didn’t look at me, but he pursed his lips and nodded again. Then he leaned forward and looked down the street.

Okay, so the compliment hadn’t made his day. What else could I do? I fished in my purse. “Here. I have an extra bus pass. I’m not going to use it.”

Hampton Roads Transit had seemed like a great way to get around while I learned to navigate the unfamiliar streets. One of the routes through Chesapeake went straight to the Norfolk Navy base. But being trapped on a bus was even more terrifying than driving somewhere. At least in my own car, I could pull over if I started to hyperventilate or cry.

The young man ignored me.

“I said, you’re welcome to use my Farecard. Honest. I don’t need it anymore, and it’s still got ten rides on it.”

He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and adjusted his cap. His head tilted away from his hunched-up collar, revealing a wire. An earbud flashed behind the dreadlocks.

The head bouncing suddenly made sense. He hadn’t heard a word I’d said.

I sagged back against the bench. Another failure. Now what? I barely had the strength to drag myself back home, much less hunt for someone new.

Mustering a determination that was more desperation than courage, I tapped the man’s arm.

He jumped and turned to look at me, pulling out his earbuds. Tinny music thrummed loudly enough for me to hear the beat. He glowered at me.

“I have an extra Farecard.” I forced a weary smile and held out the pass. “Could you use it?”

“Why?” He glanced around as if this were
Candid Camera
, or maybe
America’s Most Wanted.

I shrugged. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

He still hesitated. How hard did I have to work to give something away? Good grief, people were suspicious these days.

“You’re sure?” He reached out and touched the ticket gingerly, as if he feared a slap on his hand.

There was fun in baffling someone . . . surprising him with a random act of kindness. I grinned. “It’s like that movie.
Pay It
Forward
.”

His laugh was low and rich, a James Earl Jones sound that resonated in his chest. He finally accepted the card from my hand. “I liked that movie. Thanks, ma’am.” The bus pulled up, and he shouted his thanks again as he mounted the steps. The delight in his smile made me giggle.

Accomplishment flooded me. I stood and walked toward home with a lighter step. I’d won a triathlon. I’d gotten Bryan fed, clothed, and off to school. I’d endured a grueling counseling session and didn’t play too much verbal dodge ball with Dr. Marci. Then I’d reached out to a stranger and brought him a smile. I deserved another message from Tom’s DVD.

I hurried into the house and loaded the disc. Curtains drawn, pillows plumped, air-conditioner set on low, huge mug of chai tea, I made a ritual of my preparation. But when I hit Play, nothing happened.

Maybe I’d put the disc in upside down again. I popped it out and flipped it, hoping the messages from Tom would cooperate and appear. I couldn’t soothe a wild stallion, but I’d become a DVD whisperer, coaxing the recording to play. Gnawing my lip, I waited for the visit with Tom that I so desperately needed.

chapter
14

M
Y COAXING WORKED, AND
Tom’s face grinned out at me. During our busy days of unpacking and settling in, I hadn’t spent enough time just staring into his eyes, tracing the lines of his jaw, watching the earnest furrow deepen on his forehead, and enjoying the dimple full of mischief flicker across the right side of his lips.

I watched the first two messages, reciting some of the words with him. Once again, the blessing he spoke sent a tingle down my spine, as if gleams of God’s countenance really could shine on me.

“Message three,” Tom said. “This one—”

He paused, mouth partially open. The pause stretched beyond a moment of gathering thoughts. I held my breath, then let it out in a
whoosh
as I realized the recording had frozen. Our rented movies did the same sometimes, when a scratch or smudge interrupted the play. Bryan would forward past the bad section.

I tried Fast Forward but nothing moved. I hit Play again and again. Rewind did nothing. Then the screen went blank.

Not fair. So not fair. I pulled out the disc and babied it with glass cleaner and a soft cloth, removing any signs of fingerprints on either side. Still nothing. Even after I fiddled with the disc for several minutes, the finicky recording wouldn’t give me any more. I growled and threw a pillow at the DVD player.

Stomping to the kitchen to start supper, I checked my voice mail. I’d decided to keep the ringer off, since the sudden sound of the phone still threw my anxiety into high gear.

My mom’s voice held a querulous tone. “Are you so busy you can’t even call within a week?”

Mary Jo, the ombudsman, remained determinedly cheerful. “You’re not still fighting that virus, are you? We really need to connect. Call me.”

My friend Sonja had talked fast and left a long, detailed summary of their dog’s surgery, her kids’ soccer games, and her frustration with one of the women on the committee for the church nursery. Her energy and wit used to make my day. Now listening to her felt exhausting.

Mrs. Pimblott left a friendly message wondering when I could meet with her about the Thanksgiving play.

I saved all the messages. Maybe I’d make a few calls tomorrow. Or not.

The last message opened with a crackle and a soft hiss. “Pen? It’s Tom. I was hoping you’d be there.”

I squeezed the receiver, wanting to wring each precious sound from it.

“I’m great. I’ve lost a little weight. No, I’m not seasick. Stop laughing. I was made for this. Look, I know we decided phone calls just made it harder, back when I was at basic. But I’m on the carrier today and had access. I couldn’t resist. Your e-mails are great, but I sure would love to hear your voice. I’m riding the Holy Helo tomorrow—I’ll be out visiting the destroyers.”

Tom’s energy and confidence resonated through the phone, and I could picture him with the rotors of the helicopter churning the air as he crouched and ran to board, ready to be carried to the next ship that needed a visit.

“How have you been?” His tone lowered to the gentle concern I’d grown to dread. I didn’t want him to tiptoe around me. He was treating me the way everyone had always treated my brother. Did he think—?

“I’ll e-mail soon. I probably won’t try calling again unless I e-mail you first. Glad you like the DVD. Be sure to listen to message three. Give Bryan a big hug from me, and tell him I’m proud of him.” I could almost feel the muscles of his arms flexing as they circled around me. “Still on target to get home for Thanksgiving. Love you.”

And he was gone.

I replayed the message five times. Then I gave in to my heavy loneliness and crawled in bed for a nap. I’d been beating myself up for being tired all the time, but Dr. Marci said it was part of the healing process. Well, valid or not, I couldn’t fight it anymore. My mind and body demanded to shut down.

At least I set the alarm clock this time. That woke me soon enough to shake off my woolly-headedness so I could greet Bryan like a normal mom when he came home from school.

He joined me in the kitchen to tell me about his day.

While we talked, I moved ahead on another tip from my notebook. “Okay, kiddo. Laura-Beth said that she makes grits all the time, and that’s why her kids are so healthy. Hand me the kettle.”

“Sounds weird. Grit? Like the stuff Dad used on our old driveway.”

I punched an opening in the box and poured some into a measuring cup. “That was dry concrete mix, not grits.”

“That
looks
weird, too. Are you sure we’re supposed to eat it?”

“I’m sure it’ll be great once we cook it.”

He made a face. “Why don’t we go to McDonald’s?”

“Because we want to learn about living in the South.”

“But Mom, they have McDonald’s in the South. The bus goes past two of them on the way to school.”

Bryan could engage me in a debate worthy of a top district attorney . . . on almost any topic. Like any good defense lawyer, I used one of my sharp legal skills: diversion. “Why don’t you go out back and see if Jim-Bob wants to play soccer?”

He bounded away in a flash, relieved to escape further kitchen duty.

I studied the back of the box of grits. The basic recipe sounded awfully bland, but one for Cheddar Grits with Bacon caught my eye. I didn’t have any bacon, but I had a jar of Bacos. That would work as a substitute. Instead of grated cheddar, I substituted a jar of Cheez Whiz. Close enough. I squinted at the print. A can of artichoke hearts? Good grief. I wasn’t Rachael Ray.

Instead, I pulled a bag of broccoli from the freezer. Following the instructions, I brought some chicken broth to a boil and stirred in the grits. Then I mixed in all the other ingredients, poured it into a baking dish, and popped it in the oven. It smelled pretty good. However, the texture was runny, so I upped the temperature on the oven a little, and instead of an hour, I set the timer for ninety minutes to be sure the concoction thoroughly cooked.