That Certain Summer (3 page)

The TV was blaring when Karen stepped through her own kitchen door ten minutes later, and the pounding in her temples went from easy-listening bass to heavy metal.

“Kristen? I'm home!”

No response as she set the casserole on the counter. Given the volume on the TV, that didn't surprise her.

Girding herself for the onslaught, she waded into the noise.

She found Kristen in the family room, angled away from the door, her thigh-high cast propped on an ottoman while she typed on her laptop. She wore headphones and was tapping her uninjured foot to a beat only she could hear.

Shaking her head, Karen picked up the TV remote and punched the off button. Blessed silence descended.

With a frown, Kristen pulled the buds from her ears. “I was watching that.”

“It's impossible to do three things at once.”

Kristen scowled at her. “It's called multitasking. Kids do it all the time.”

“So do adults. But you constantly have to switch back and forth. That takes a lot of effort and it's not very efficient.” She motioned toward the blank TV screen. “And that particular program wasn't worth the effort.”

“You don't like anything on TV.”

“Not much. Are you hungry?”

“I had some chips earlier. I thought you were going to be home sooner.”

“Val was late. I tried to call twice, but the line was busy.”

“I was talking to Gary.” Kristen gave her a defiant look.

Karen resisted the bait. She might not care for Kristen's latest heartthrob, but she wasn't up to another argument tonight. “I brought you dinner. Come on. I'll help you up.”

Far lighter and much more agile than Margaret, Kristen didn't need much assistance. Once her daughter was on her feet, Karen picked up the crutches from the floor and handed them to her.

“This broken leg stinks.” Kristen grimaced at the cast as she fitted the crutches under her arms.

“It could have been worse.”

Kristen rolled her eyes and expelled a noisy breath. “Are you going to bring up Steven again?”

“You did it for me. Thinking about him should give you some perspective. Being forced to use a pair of crutches for a few weeks is a lot better than spending the rest of your life as a paraplegic. He's got a tough road ahead.”

“Yeah.” Kristen furrowed her brow. “The accident was awful. I feel bad for him.”

“I hope you also pray for him.”

“It won't do any good.” Her daughter's features hardened. “He isn't going to get better. And why did God let him get hurt in the first place?”

“I don't know. Only God has that answer. That's where faith—and trust—come in.”

“That doesn't make bad stuff any easier to accept.” Kristen
stared down at the iridescent purple toenails sticking out of the bottom of the cast. “Erin said she heard from her boyfriend, who's Steven's cousin, that he tried to kill himself.”

Karen's heart stuttered. “When?”

“After he came home from the hospital.”

“Then we need to pray harder.”

“God doesn't listen to my prayers.” Kristen's jaw firmed. “I prayed you and Dad would get back together, but you got divorced instead.”

The pounding in Karen's head intensified. “There were problems in our marriage that couldn't be overcome.”

“You didn't even try! You sat back and let Stephanie take Dad away from you! Why didn't you stand up to him? Tell him to stay with us, where he belonged? You always let him walk all over you, just like you let Grandma boss you around!”

Karen drew in a sharp breath. “Kristen! That's enough!”

“It's true!”

Instead of responding, she turned on her heel and spoke over her shoulder. “I'll put your dinner out.”

Thirty seconds later, the zipper balking under her shaky fingers, she opened the thermal tote. She shouldn't let Kristen get away with that kind of disrespectful behavior, but she hated confrontations—especially with her daughter.

Besides, Kristen was right.

She
had
let Michael walk all over her. She'd put up with his moodiness, his demeaning comments, his autocratic manner. Had deferred to his opinion and his judgment, hoping her acquiescence would keep peace in the household. She'd done the same with her mother, convinced that if she was docile, if she did what she was told, the relationship would improve.

But that approach hadn't worked with either of them. Margaret continued to fault-find and Michael had left for greener pastures. Namely, Stephanie.

The creak of crutches signaled Kristen's arrival, and Karen lifted
the foil off the casserole. The food was in worse shape than it had been earlier, and Kristen's reaction mirrored Val's. In fact, with her long blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, her daughter bore a striking resemblance to her aunt at the same age.

“What is it?” Kristen wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Shepherd's pie.”

“Gross.” With one more glance at the sorry casserole, she turned away. “Can I order Chinese?”

Swallowing past the tightness in her throat, she choked out a single-word response. “Fine.”

As Kristen clumped away, Karen surveyed the pie and blinked back tears. Her daughter was right. It was a mess.

Just like her life.

Even through the thick plaster walls of the solid brick bungalow she'd called home for the first eighteen years of her life, Val could hear her mother snoring.

At least someone was sleeping.

Rising on one elbow, she peered at the bedside clock. Two in the morning.

There wasn't going to be much sleep this night—but her mother's snoring wasn't to blame.

She flopped back on the pillow and stared at the dark ceiling. Nights were the pits. In her idle mind, the unwanted memories crept from the darkness and swooped like hawks stalking their prey.

After twenty more minutes of tossing, Val gave up the battle and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked in protest when she rose, then the room fell silent again as she moved through the shadows, letting her fingers brush over a beauty pageant trophy, a framed program from a school play, a blue ribbon for a dramatic reading she'd done while on the speech team.

Those represented the good memories.

She paused in front of the bureau, where the object representing her worst one was hidden, and wiped her palms down her gym shorts. She hadn't opened the top drawer in years. And maybe it was a mistake to take this step on her first night home.

But she had to look inside sooner or later—and it might be easier to take this first step under cover of darkness. In the shadows, perhaps she could hide from herself . . . and God.

Grasping the handles on the top drawer, she gave a tentative tug.

It didn't budge.

She tried again, with more force.

This time, it shifted a little. But it was clear no one had opened it in a long while.

Val hesitated. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe she wasn't supposed to stir up the ashes of the long-ago fire that had consumed her soul and left her heart in tatters.

But if she didn't, would she ever vanquish the nightmares that were growing more intense as she approached the anniversary of the day that had changed her life forever?

No.

She had to do this. Now.

Val grasped the handles again and pulled with more force. After a squeal of protest, the drawer gave way. She paused, but Margaret's snoring continued unabated. That figured. Her mother was as oblivious to her younger daughter's nocturnal activities now as she had been eighteen years ago.

Once the drawer was half open, she reached inside, feeling her way into the farthest corner.

For a brief second she thought it was gone, and she groped with more urgency. Then her hand grazed the familiar cylinder, and she closed her eyes.

All these years it had lain undisturbed. Hidden. In the dark. Seen only by her since the long-ago day she'd tucked it here.

But maybe it would have been better if someone had discovered her secret, had called her to task for her terrible mistake. Perhaps
if she'd been caught and punished, she would have found her way to absolution years ago. Been freed from the yoke of guilt that had weighed her down far too long.

But she couldn't change the past. She could only deal with the present.

Fighting down her dread, Val withdrew the innocuous brown cardboard cylinder that had once held waxed paper.

Now it contained something far more precious.

Clutching it to her chest, she groped her way to the window seat. Her hands trembled as she fitted her fingers inside the tube and eased out the single sheet of paper. It was curled into a tight scroll, and as she carefully spread it out next to her on the faded floral upholstery, the yellowed paper crinkled in protest.

For several minutes, Val stared at the brittle sheet, heart pounding as silent tears ran down her cheeks. One splashed onto the paper, forming a damp, dark circle. Once dry, it would leave a spot with ragged edges. Like all the others scattered over the sheet.

This was why she'd come back to Washington. Across the miles and across the years, her tragic mistake had hung like a shadow over her life, awaiting her return. It was time to confront it. Make peace with her past. Move on.

The destination was clear.

Figuring out how to get there, however, was far more murky.

And even though caring for her mother wasn't going to be easy, it would be a piece of cake compared to her quest for redemption.

“Are you telling me the paralysis is all in my head?” Scott stared at the white-coated figure seated behind the impressive walnut desk. His fingers itched to yank the cord on the blinds behind the man and shut out the glare of the mid-May sun seeping between the half-closed slats, but he resisted.

“No. Your hand suffered serious nerve damage. In time, if you continue to do the exercises the physical therapist prescribed, you should see significant improvement. And complete recovery isn't out of the question—if that's what you want.”

Scott narrowed his eyes. “What's that supposed to mean? Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life like this?” He lifted his left hand and tried to flex his unresponsive fingers.

“Not on a conscious level, perhaps, but the trauma you sustained in the accident was psychological as well as physical.” The gray-haired doctor leaned forward. “You lost more than the use of your left hand, Scott. You lost two friends. You lost the future you'd prepared for. You lost the dream that had been your focus for what . . . ten, fifteen years? After your hand heals, you'll have to
rebuild your life. You'll have to make decisions about your future and move on. And you may not be ready to do that yet.”

“I didn't know you were a psychologist, Doctor.”

If the man was insulted by his sarcastic tone, he didn't let on. Settling back in his leather chair, he steepled his fingers. “You learn a lot about what makes people tick in this business. But someone trained in psychology could offer you a lot more insights than I can.”

Scott let several beats of silence tick by. “Are you saying I should see a shrink?”

“You've been through a lot. Professional counseling could be helpful.”

“What about the headaches? Are they all in my head too? Pardon the pun.”

“No. You had a severe concussion. The headaches will diminish over time, but it could take months. How often are you getting them?”

“Every day.”

“On a scale of one to ten, with ten being debilitating, how bad are the worst ones?”

“Eight. Sometimes nine.”

The doctor leaned forward and pulled a prescription pad toward him. He scribbled a few words, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Scott. “This should help.” Then he wrote on a second sheet and handed that over too. “If you change your mind about seeing a psychologist, here's the name of a good man.”

After a brief hesitation, Scott took the sheet and stuck it in his pocket. “Thanks.”

The doctor tapped his pen against his palm as he assessed Scott. “You're not going to call him, are you?”

“I'd prefer to get through this on my own.”

“It's not a sign of weakness to admit we sometimes need help coping with the challenges life throws our way.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

With a sigh, the doctor rose and extended his hand. “Call me if you need anything before our next appointment.”

Scott returned the handshake. “Thanks.”

As he exited the office and walked toward the elevator, every step sent a reverberating ripple of pain to his temples. An attractive twentysomething woman in a lab coat gave him a discreet once-over as he passed, but he kept moving. Entered the elevator. Closed the door. Once upon a time, he'd enjoyed that kind of attention. Had worked hard to get it, in fact. Thanks to a strict regime of exercise and diet, few people would put his age at thirty-eight. All he would have had to do to encourage that lab assistant was smile and strike up a conversation.

But he just didn't care about the dating game anymore.

Or much else.

Stepping out of the elevator, he scanned the lobby.

It didn't take long to locate his mother. Dorothy Walker always stood out in a crowd. She looked like no other sixty-year-old woman he knew. With her slender build, short, stylish salt-and-pepper hair, propensity to jeans—plus her youthful attitude—she could pass for someone twenty years younger.

He watched her animated face as she sipped a cup of coffee and spoke with a young mother who was bouncing a baby on her knee. When the infant grabbed her finger, a tender yearning softened her features—and sent a pang through his heart. She'd have been a wonderful grandmother. But his passion had always been music, and his nomadic lifestyle wasn't conducive to marriage.

If she'd been disappointed by his choice, however, she'd never let on. In her typical style, she'd filled the void by volunteering as a foster grandparent at a local day care center. That was how his mom was. Always making lemonade out of lemons.

Too bad he hadn't inherited that ability.

He started toward her, placing each step with care to avoid any unnecessary jostling, struggling to swallow past the bitter taste of the lemons life had handed him. Maybe, in time, sweetness would
return to his world. Maybe the shadows would clear and the hollow, empty, nothing-matters-anymore feelings would go away.

But he wasn't holding his breath.

His mother spotted him, and with a parting word to the young mother, she rose and met him halfway.

“Everything okay?” She laid a hand on his arm, a trace of anxiety playing counterpoint to her mild tone.

“Yeah. He said to keep doing the exercises, and that the headaches were normal. He gave me this for the pain.” Scott withdrew a sheet of paper from the pocket of his jeans and handed it to her.

She read it, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. “All it says is Dr. Lawrence Matthews.”

Great.

He'd given her the name of the shrink.

“Sorry.” He plucked it from her fingers and fished in his pocket again. “Do you think we could get this filled here?”

Sharp pinpoints were beginning to prickle along his scalp, and he knew that within minutes they would ricochet with piercing intensity through his skull. The bright lights of the lobby were accelerating the process.

“Sure. There's a pharmacy down the hall.” She took the script and urged him toward a chair. “Wait here.” He reached for his wallet, but she stilled him with a touch. “We'll settle up at home. Sit.”

Her ten-minute absence passed in a haze of pain, and when she rejoined him she had both a bottle of pills and a paper cup of water. By then, his headache was in full throttle, and even the simple motion of shaking out the pills was painful. After he downed them in one gulp, his mother took the cup out of his unsteady hand.

“Must be a bad one.” At his silent, almost imperceptible nod, she took his arm. “Come on. I'll get the car.”

He didn't argue. The pain was approaching ten on the scale his doctor had referenced, throbbing through every capillary in his head. All he wanted to do was lie down.

Instead, he had to endure the long drive back to Washington from St. Louis.

They didn't talk much during the trip. His mother asked only one question as they left the city traffic behind.

“Scott, who's Dr. Matthews?”

He didn't lift his head or open his eyes. “A psychologist.”

He felt her silent scrutiny.

“You might want to consider talking to him.”

“I'm not crazy.”

“No, but life can be. Sometimes it's difficult to cope without help.”

“You've always managed alone. Even after Dad died.”

“I wasn't alone. God was with me every step of the way.”

Lucky her. But even if his relationship with the Almighty hadn't faltered somewhere along the road to success, he doubted it would have held up in the face of the senseless tragedy that had taken three lives and destroyed his dreams.

“Are you saying people of faith never need human help?” He didn't really care about her answer, but neither did he want to be rude. Not after all she'd done for him.

“No. God often uses third parties to show us the way when we're lost.”

“It wouldn't help, Mom. Trust me.”

A few beats of silence passed. “I know your world seems dark now, but I also know the sun will shine for you again. And I have faith that one day you'll play the saxophone with every bit of the skill you had before the accident. Maybe more.”

Instead of responding, he once more closed his eyes.

He wasn't in the mood for any more lemonade.

One hand on the refrigerator door, Val sighed as she perused the contents. How could a house contain so little food of nutritional value? Everything was either high carb, high fat, or loaded with
sugar. Her mother's eating habits had never been very sound, but they'd bottomed out with age.

A quick trip to the grocery store to stock up on some essentials jumped to the top of her Thursday priority list—right after her mother's first physical therapy session.

Val closed the refrigerator and opened the freezer. A sausage and egg biscuit would have to do for Margaret. For herself, she'd settle for a whole-wheat anything—bagel, muffin, slice of bread.

No such luck. Processed white bread was the only option.

And the pineapple juice in the fridge was far too sweet.

So much for breakfast.

By the time she got her mother up and settled at the table, she felt as if she'd already put in a full day. Then again, her restless night could have something to do with her fatigue. She might not need eight hours of sleep, but three didn't cut it.

She retrieved the sausage/egg entrée from the microwave, set it in front of her mother, and poured herself a cup of coffee. Maybe a strong shot of caffeine would help.

“Is that all you're having?” Margaret peered at the coffee in disapproval.

“I'm not a breakfast person.”

“You're too thin. There's plenty of food in the house. Eat something.”

“This is all I want.” Val propped a hip against the counter and checked her watch. “According to the schedule Karen left, you have your first physical therapy session at nine o'clock. We'd better get you dressed.”

Her mother's jaw locked into a stubborn line. “I don't want to go.”

“Sorry. Doctor's orders.”

“It's a waste of time. I've been doing the exercises they gave me in the hospital. I'll eventually get better on my own.”

“Eventually isn't good enough. Physical therapy will speed up the process.”

“So you can go back to Chicago sooner?”

Val took a sip of coffee and kept her tone neutral. “I have the summer off except for a couple of modeling commitments. I plan to stay as long as I'm needed, but you should be well on the road to recovery long before I have to leave.”

“And I suppose we won't see you again for another year or two.” Margaret poked at her food, a sulky pout dragging down the corners of her mouth.

“Maybe. I lead a busy life.” She took another unhurried drink of her coffee. Thank goodness she'd learned long ago to give no visible evidence that her mother was getting under her skin. It helped preserve her own sanity. Too bad Karen hadn't developed the same skill.

“Your sister's busy too, but she finds time for me.”

She would. Karen had always been the perfect daughter. No sense trying to compete with that kind of ideal.

Pushing off from the counter, she changed the subject. “Let's pick out a comfortable outfit for you to wear.”

With very little assistance from her mother, Val got the older woman dressed, into the car, and delivered to the physical therapy center with minutes to spare. Less than two days into her caretaker role, she was already wearing out. How did her sister manage to cope with their high-maintenance mother while dealing with the demands of her job, an adolescent, and the stresses of post-divorce life?

Then again, she'd always been the type to dig in her heels and get the job done, whatever it took. No shirking of responsibilities for her.

Val quashed a niggle of guilt as they entered the waiting room. She was already full up on that particular emotion, thank you very much.

Once seated, Margaret kept her busy retrieving a glass of water and scrounging up a selection of magazines after rejecting the first two Val offered as “trashy.”