Where Hope Begins Page 2

  “It’s called a farmhouse sink, Mom. I like them. Plenty of room for large pots.”

  Who knew ten years ago, when we built our dream home, that this day would come? Who knew my husband would turn his attentions elsewhere? That he would decide it was no longer worth the effort to keep a marriage together after tragedy.

  That he would declare we were no longer worth the effort.

  If someone had told me then what I know now, I would have called them a raving lunatic.

  My fingers curl around the splintered shards too tightly. A stinging sensation shoots up my arm as red drops drip and streak the smooth white stone, and my sink is no longer sacred.

  A word I seldom use escapes before I can think.

  “Mom. Here.” Adam is beside me with a wad of paper towels. He watches through worried eyes as I squeeze them around my fingers.

  “Just a scrape. I’ll be fine.” Someday perhaps this will be true. But today it is a lie.

  “Dad is such a jerk.”

  “Adam.” I blink wetness. Tears still come too quick, too often. I suppose there are other things my son could have said. Other words he wanted to use. I think I’ve thought them all.

  He lifts a brow, and suddenly he is not the little boy I remember. He is a man ready to go to war, whichever one calls first. Ready to take on the world and win. But I don’t want him to. I want him to remain a child, to keep him here at home, safe, protected. Yet I know I can’t. I have failed both my children in this regard.

  Failed all of them.

  I pour coffee and sit, clutching my hand, willing my heart to slow down. Adam slumps into the chair opposite me and flicks his finger against a couple of crisp green bills taking up space on the table.

  “Two hundred bucks.” He snorts. “That’s what he left me. I told him I didn’t want his stupid money, but he left it.” His cheeks blotch and his eyes fill.

  “I’m sorry.” I reach across the table and he slips his hand in mine and we sit, silent.

  “I don’t have to go back to school.” He sets his jaw, so like his father. Pulls back his hand and rakes long fingers through his dark hair. Another mannerism I recognize.

  “Of course you do.” I hope my smile is brave. “You’ll be home for Christmas. And I . . . I thought I might take a trip.” The idea still surprises me. I’ll have to find a fill-in for my Meals on Wheels days. And let the library know I won’t be around to help out. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. But I don’t think I can bear many more nights alone in this house.

  “Yeah?” Adam tips his chair back and grins. “Going to Aunt Peg’s?”

  The suggestion sends a shudder through me and we laugh. I cannot dream up a greater punishment than a visit to my horsey sister’s Kentucky ranch, alive with cats and dogs and rabid barnyard animals and her four unruly children.

  “That wasn’t what I had in mind, no.”

  “She called. Aunt Peg.” He picks up a crinkled note and winds it around his finger. “While you were outside with Dad. And then Uncle Paul called. And then Grandma.”

  We’re going down the line. They are all watching, waiting, holding their breath. I tuck my hair behind my ears and smile. “Well, you’ve been busy.”

  “Wanna know what Aunt Peg said?” His blue eyes are too gleeful and I shake my head.

  “Something you shouldn’t be repeating, I’m sure.” My sister uses minimal discretion when it comes to airing her true feelings over what Kevin has done. While I appreciate her support, I should probably ask her to tone it down a tad around the kids.

  But Zoe has said it all already. With such venom that she frightens me. I don’t want her to hate Kevin. I don’t want to hate Kevin. And I don’t, always. Just most of the time.

  Adam . . . I worry about Adam. He seems to be sitting on the fence, shell-shocked, wondering when and where the next grenade will fall. He insisted on being here this weekend. Thought it would be easier on me, I suppose.

  But not on him. I doubt he thought of that. I should have been firm. I told Zoe to stay away; I knew she would make a scene. I should have said the same to Adam. Stay at school where you don’t have to witness the unraveling of a marriage that was meant to last. Where you don’t have to watch the life you knew and counted on crumble into broken pieces that cannot be put back together.

  But I haven’t played this game before. I don’t know the rules.

  “Uncle Paul said to tell you he loves you. You don’t have to call him back, but you can if you want.”

  My older brother does not mince words, but he is kind. Always kind.

  When I called to tell him the news two months ago, I sat through unnerving silence on the other end for quite some time. And then my Baptist preacher brother uttered sentiments he certainly was not taught in seminary. Words I’m sure he had not said since high school. I miss Paul. Oregon is too far.

  It’s funny how we all went in different directions. Paul out west, me on the East Coast, and Peg, as usual, somewhere in between. My retired parents spend most months in Florida.

  Tomorrow, when I put Adam on the bus and he heads back to school in upstate New York, for the first time in longer than I can remember, I will be alone.

  Pathetically, unwittingly, yet utterly alone.

  I have absolutely no idea what to do with that.

  CHAPTER 2

  “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”

  —ROBERT FROST

  I wake slowly Sunday morning, and the world is somehow still spinning.

  In the kitchen, armed with coffee, I sit at the table and open my laptop. I didn’t have the energy last night. But now I’m ready to give my furious feelings freedom. Blogging was something I kind of fell into years ago, after Shelby died. One of my many counselors suggested journaling. Writing down all the emotions I couldn’t yet voice. A friend suggested taking it a step further and starting a blog. “You could really help people, Savannah. You know, deal with their grief.”

  Because I’m not the only parent who has lost a child. She didn’t say it. But back then, that’s how it felt. Like I was the only one. Little did I know, the blog I began for cathartic reasons would turn into a popular community of soul survivors. None of whom know my real name.

  “Mornin’, Mom.” Adam is already dressed, khakis and a white button-down, clean and pressed. His hair is damp and combed off his face. It still makes me grin to see the kid who would only wear jeans and a red T-shirt to school until he was about ten dressed like a grown-up.

  I twist the rings on my left hand and try on a smile. Part of me will be relieved when he’s back at school. Putting on a brave face has worn me down. “How’d you sleep?” I won’t ask if he’s packed, ready to go. He will be. He is as thorough and organized as his father.

  I hate this. Sending him away to school was not my idea, yet he seems happy enough there and he’s doing well. Still. Good-byes are always the worst. And this weekend I’ve had my fill.

  “I slept okay. You didn’t, huh?” He shoots me a grin.

  “Is it that obvious?” I pull my robe tight and wonder what I must look like after playing tug-of-war with the bedcovers all night. My hair feels like forest creatures have made their home in it. My head hurts. And I ache like I’ve run a marathon. Not that I have, ever, but I imagine a body the day after might feel this way.

  “Want to come to church?” He forages the fridge.

  “I’ll make eggs.” I push my chair back, but he shakes his head.

  “I can do it.” He grabs the carton and heads for the cooktop on the island. His search for the frying pan is noisy. “So, church?”

  Laughter gets stuck in my throat. “Um . . . you see me, right?” Church is not on my list of things to do this morning. Hasn’t been on my list of things to do for quite some time.

  We’ve always been involved, both Kevin and me. Raised in Christian homes, we inherited our faith and passed it along nicely. We took the kids to Sunday school, youth group, attended Bi
ble studies . . . I took my relationship with God very seriously for a lot of years. I was what they call a “woman of faith” once. And now?

  Now I’m just broken.

  We wanted a miracle. Asked for one. Maybe even expected one. And when it didn’t happen, when God didn’t come through, my faith faltered.

  Badly.

  And yes, I know how shallow that sounds.

  After the service, I hover behind a potted palm in one corner of the modern sanctuary’s sprawling foyer and pretend to study the bulletin. There is nothing worse than standing in a crowded room feeling completely alone. I remember now why I haven’t been to church in a while.

  People cast cautious glances my way. A few smile and nod as they pass, saying things like, “So nice to see you, Savannah,” but I know what they’re saying behind their hands. The widened eyes, the whispers, the wondering. Bad news travels fast along the prayer chain.

  As I watch the people around me, people I used to spend time with, women I shared life with, studied Scripture and prayed with, I realize I can’t be here anymore. I don’t belong. What am I supposed to do, sign up for the singles group and hang out with twenty-year-olds? I’m not widowed or a senior. Far as I know, our church does not have a life group for divorcées.

  Kevin has taken this from me too.

  The ability to connect with other like-minded individuals. I have crossed the line, been shoved over it really, yet somehow I feel I am at fault.

  “Don’t hide back here.” Beth finds me, slips her arm through mine, and gives me a reassuring smile. I roll my eyes and squeeze my best friend’s hand. When we talked last night, I told her I wouldn’t be here today.

  “Adam wanted to come. Wanted me to come.” The explanation isn’t necessary. I’m glad I came. At least, I was ten minutes ago. But I wonder how red my eyes are.

  There are too many questions God hasn’t answered. Too many prayers he’s simply ignored. It’s not that I don’t believe anymore. I do. But there’s too much I don’t understand. And Kevin? Who knows what Kevin believes now. The faith he once had seemed to slip out the door days after Shelby’s death.

  But I tried to hold on. Tried to have faith, tried to pretend one day we’d be normal again.

  It didn’t happen, and I don’t know what to do with this anger.

  And nobody here knows what to do with me.

  “Come for supper tonight,” Beth insists. “After you drop Adam off.”

  “Thanks.” My breathing is shaky. The last thing I want to do is fall apart. Not here. Not with everyone watching. Beth pulls me into a hug, and I struggle to compose myself.

  “Sorry to interrupt . . . Savannah, sweetie . . .”

  We pull back at the familiar voice. Tracey Fitzhugh stands before us, sympathy stamped across her flawless face. I wipe my eyes. Beth grabs my hand and hangs on.

  “I’m so sorry,” Tracey purrs. “You know . . . when I heard . . . well.” She pats down platinum-blond hair and pinches her lips. “I’ve been praying for you and Kevin. I think you’ll come through this just fine.” Her smile is dazzling, disarming.

  “Do you? Did God tell you that, Tracey?” I clear my throat and toss her a smile of my own. We were better friends when the kids were small. But I’ve seen and heard too much, and now it seems I’m on the receiving end of Tracey’s pious platitudes.

  She’s unfazed. “I know you’re angry, Savannah. Heaven knows, I’d be livid. Actually, I’d be mortified.” She titters. “But Brad would never . . . Anyway. You’ll work it out. You’re going to counseling, right?”

  “Counseling?” We’ve been in and out of counseling for the past ten years. Christian counseling. Psychiatric counseling. Family and couples counseling. I can quote books verbatim on how to put a family back together after loss, how to grieve, how to pray for your husband. I must have missed the one on how to keep him at home.

  “Adam is looking for you.” Beth pulls me away before I open my mouth and say something horrible, shooting Tracey a scathing look as we pass. I want to laugh but I can’t. The numbness floods through me again. Novocain. That’s exactly what this feels like. The stuff the dentist injects into your mouth before a procedure.

  My entire being is filled with it.

  “You should go to the lake house.”

  “Uh-huh.” I curl my toes under the thick duvet in my now-too-big king-size bed and listen to my mother’s voice. She’s been talking awhile. Since I came home from Beth’s an hour ago, discovered four more voice mails from her, and finally called her back.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. About getting away.” Going to the lake house had not occurred to me. I’m not sure I can go there.

  Our family summer home on Lake Garfield in the Berkshires is where Kevin and I met so many years ago. It’ll be cold up there this time of year. But warm inside. Mom has had the house modernized, renovated, and redecorated more times than I can count over the years they’ve owned it. The sprawling white-clapboard home still maintains its original historic outward appearance, but the interior resembles something out of Better Homes & Gardens or Architectural Digest.

  “I can have the house opened and all ready for you, just say the word,” Mom says.

  Sure, Mom. Can you get rid of the memories before I get there?

  “Savannah? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Just thinking.”

  She’s helpless down there in Florida. If she were here, my house would be spotless, my fridge filled with food, and my faith in humanity somehow restored. My mother is not always tactful, but she possesses the remarkable talent of knowing exactly how to make me feel better, sometimes without words. “Well.” She sighs. “I would say come here, but, you know . . .”

  “I know.” I can’t stop a smile. If I’m forced to face my father’s blustering berating of Kevin once more, I’ll probably lose it completely.

  “Ellie, don’t forget to ask her!” Dad’s booming voice is loud enough for me to hear even though I know he’s probably stretched out in his favorite chair in front of the television and Mom is no doubt on the other side of the great room with its long glass windows, perched in the window seat where she can watch the stars.

  My mother sighs again and I feel her frustration. “Your father wants to know if you’ve talked to Walter Kline yet.”

  “You have rights, Savannah!” Dad yells. “Don’t give that belly-crawling snake an inch. Call Walter!”

  “Sug-ah, hush!” I imagine her turning toward him with a frown, one perfectly pink manicured finger pressed to her lips.

  My parents are quintessential polar opposites. Indisputable proof that completely contradictory personalities do indeed attract. Together they are the perfect blend of southern charm and Bostonian brawn.

  My father did not come from money. Michael McCleary is third-generation Irish American and portentously proud of it. He put himself through college by earning scholarships and working three jobs between semesters, plus construction all summer.

  Mother had quite a different upbringing. Her parents were bred from well-known Georgia families. Plantation owners originally, slave owners most likely—a fact that horrifies my children—but my grandparents never talked about that unpleasant part of the past.

  When my father appeared on the scene, they were not so impressed. Grandmother softened first. Granddaddy Hale accepted Daddy over time, partly because of his Harvard education, which hinted he was going places, but mostly because of his gumption and take-no-prisoners attitude. Daddy proved him right. When I was five, my father threw caution to the wind and formed his own insurance company. Our family has lacked for nothing since.

  I will call Walter, the man of many hats: my father’s best friend, my godfather, and our family’s lawyer.

  But not yet.

  “Sweetheart, Zoe phoned.” Mom is talking again. “She’s terribly upset.”

  “I know she is.” Zoe clung to the misguided belief that her father and I would work things out until two months ago, when he de
clared he wanted a separation. Followed by the more recent announcement that he was moving out. Permanently.

  My daughter texts me every hour on the hour. I don’t attempt to return her texts. I email and message her on Facebook, and this seems to suffice. One of these days I will get my thumbs coordinated enough to text. But then there’s that noxious autocorrect that turns seemingly innocent statements into steamy suggestions. Not worth it, really.

  “Zoe would be far better equipped to handle crises if she’d gone to Harvard!” Daddy yells again. Laughter tickles my throat. The feeling is almost foreign. I can’t remember when I last really laughed about anything.

  Zoe’s decision to accept Princeton’s offer over Harvard’s was a mortal blow to my father, or so he says. I think he is secretly amused. He likes women who assert their independence. Of course, he blames Kevin for Zoe’s desertion. I can’t help wondering if my father and Kevin would have a better relationship if Kevin hadn’t been a Princeton grad. Not that it matters now.

  “Savannah, darling? What do you think about going north? Shall I call and make arrangements?”

  I pull my fingers through my tangle of too-long curls and decide. “Actually, Mom, the lake house sounds wonderful. Is Tuesday too soon?”

  We make plans and hang up. I go downstairs for some water. It’s ten o’clock, but I can’t bring myself to return to that empty bed. The big house is strangely silent. The antique grandfather clock ticks out the hours in the hall. Its gong sounds a bit like a cow in labor now, and it’s about thirty minutes slow. Kevin promised to have it fixed but he never did. Kevin promised to do a lot of things.

  I don’t like being alone in this house.

  It’s not that I’m afraid, really. Well, maybe a little. It’s just that it’s so . . . quiet.

  Perhaps I should get a dog. We never had pets. Kevin is allergic. There was that time when Zoe was six and brought home a puppy she found wandering in the park. But the puppy was claimed the next day, and Zoe’s little heart was broken.

  In the living room the pictures on the mantel pull me toward them with a force I can never ignore. The kids’ school portraits at various ages—Zoe all seriousness, with dark hair and startlingly blue eyes, Adam with similar coloring to his sister, but with Kevin’s hard jaw and nose, and a hint of humor in his smile.