Where Hope Begins Page 4

  I’ve startled him. Stunned seems more like it. He narrows his eyes and slowly lets out his breath. “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “No? Well, I don’t know what you would or wouldn’t do anymore.”

  “Can we not do this?”

  The exhaustion he wears like a second skin tells me he’s had enough. Enough of me. Entering this house is like entering a war zone, and he’s tired of dodging bullets. I’m tired of firing them, but I can’t come up with another line of defense. And I have plenty of ammunition left.

  “I guess it’s getting old, huh?” I twist the rings on my left hand and wonder why I still wear them. Maybe I should slide them off now, throw them at him, wave the white flag in final surrender. Somehow I think that’s exactly what he wants. So I refuse.

  He’s composed himself again, but he wraps a hand around my wrist. “Please call me or email me when you get there. Okay?”

  Tears trickle out despite my best efforts to make them stay. I don’t want to call him. I don’t want to email him. I don’t want to think he still cares. I don’t want him to care. Knowing that he might makes it even more difficult to let him go.

  It’s like we’re standing graveside again under a darkening sky as huge drops start to splatter the ground and bounce off the gleaming black flower-covered casket.

  Tonight I am grieving another kind of death.

  The death of a marriage.

  “I don’t know how to do this.” The admission pushes out a sob and I fold my arms against it, ball my fists at my rib cage, and hate myself for not being strong enough.

  And then he puts that stupid box on the floor, moves into my space, wraps his arms around me, and just holds me. Tight. And he’s crying too.

  I inhale the familiar scent of him, aftershave and the cologne he’s always worn, and can’t help wishing for the impossible.

  Can I stand back now and look him in the eyes and tell him I forgive him? Would he want me to, even if I could?

  Kevin releases me with a shuddering sigh. Rests a hand against my wet cheek and simply shakes his head. While I am no longer privy to my husband’s intimate thoughts, I wonder if he, too, cannot believe it has all come down to this one final, catastrophic moment.

  “I’m sorry, Savannah.”

  He’s said this before. Too many times.

  He has apologized, but he has never asked for my forgiveness. He told me once he doesn’t deserve it.

  I don’t believe that. Not really.

  But I am not God.

  I don’t know how to forgive this sin, this appalling act of complete abandonment. Don’t know if I’m capable of it. And right now I don’t want to forgive him, even though I know I should.

  I nod and let him leave without another word.

  Then I rush to the kitchen, open my laptop, and click over to my blog, where I know I will be comforted by women across the country whom I’ve never met, but whom I have come to count on to talk me through this unbearable heartache.

  It’s easy to share your deepest sorrows and secrets when nobody knows who you are.

  CHAPTER 4

  “There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in the contrast.”

  —CHARLES DICKENS

  Today I will try to begin again.

  The first morning in new surroundings always startles me. That moment you wake, just cresting consciousness, and realize you are not at home creates a shift that takes some getting used to. My eyes flutter open and I register the white-paneled walls, botanical prints, light-green floral curtains that match the pillows on the armchair by the window, family photographs on the dresser across the room, and I sink back into fluffy feather pillows. In a way, I am home. Yet not.

  My yawn is loud and forces me to stretch. Exhaustion has weighed me down so long I wonder if it will ever desist. Sleep is something I play with each night. It hides and teases me in fits and starts, allowing a few hours here and there, but then retreats to leave me alone in the blackness with thoughts I cannot abide. Thoughts that often push me out of bed and send me elsewhere.

  I breathe deeply and stare at the ceiling. It’s cold this morning. I can see my breath. Yesterday afternoon when I arrived, the house was warm enough. I didn’t bother to adjust the thermostat. Sunlight peeks through half-closed California blinds. I don’t know where I left my phone. I flip onto my side and reach to move the digital clock to face me. 9 a.m. That can’t be. I can’t have slept from midnight all the way through . . . Worry niggles at me now. Maybe I’m losing it again.

  Once I find my phone, I see the time is right and I have actually slept. I want to do a happy dance. Instead, I opt for a hot shower, then pull on jeans and my warmest sweater and venture downstairs to get the coffee going. Zoe calls as I’m sitting down with my second cup and two slices of whole wheat toast, scanning the news headlines.

  “How is it up there?” she wants to know. “Is there snow?”

  “A bit.” I munch and wander out of the long country-style kitchen into the warm living room. Logs sit in a neat pile beside the large stone fireplace and someone has already laid wood for a fire. “Still kind of early for it. It’s cold, though. But very pretty.”

  “We should come for Thanksgiving, me and Tim. Or will you be back home?” There’s a lot of background noise, and I figure she’s probably hightailing it across campus to get to her next class in time. I scan the mantel for matches.

  Thanksgiving is just a month away. Will I be home? “I’ll probably still be here.” No point in going back to an empty house. “But you’re going to Chicago, to Tim’s parents’. Your tickets are booked.” Tim and Zoe have been dating a few months. We like him.

  “I know, and Adam’s going to be in Killington. Which means . . .”

  I will be alone.

  “What are you going to do up there all by yourself?”

  “Zoe, I’ll be fine, sweetie. I’ll hunker down by the fire with a good book. Don’t worry about me.” She does. She always has. But being alone is something I’m going to have to get used to. My new normal.

  I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder and fumble with the matches. Soon small flames flicker and fill the room with the scent of burning balsam. I stand back, pleased with the small accomplishment. “I’m going to relax, Zo. Maybe I’ll take up crocheting or knitting. Get a couple of those coloring books. Adopt a few cats.”

  “Ma.” She’s giggling, but I’m pretty sure her eyes are worried. “Seriously.” She sighs and I recognize the sadness returning. “Why is this happening?”

  Oh. She has asked me this before . . .

  “I don’t know, sweetie.” I smooth down Zoe’s dark curls and wipe away her tears. Since we came home from the hospital without Shelby, Zoe has been waking each night, crying. How do we explain death to an eight-year-old? She’ll turn nine in two weeks, and her sister won’t be with us. She doesn’t understand that sometimes children die. That sometimes horrible accidents happen and there isn’t anything we can do to stop them. She doesn’t understand why God allows tragedy.

  Neither do we.

  Zoe wants her big sister back.

  So do we.

  “Hey, princess.” Kevin stands in the doorway of her room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Bad dream?”

  She nods, her little body convulsing with another sob. He joins us in her bed and takes her into his lap, letting her cry it out. “I . . . want . . . Shel . . . beeee.” Her wails are too much for me and I turn away. Kevin puts a hand on my shoulder and I shudder, stifling my own sob. Adam will be awake soon if she doesn’t stop. And then his questions will start. I don’t have answers for him either.

  I don’t have answers for anyone.

  All I do know is that this hideous nightmare my family has been thrust into is entirely my fault . . .

  “Mom, will you tell Dad to stop calling me?” Zoe’s voice drags me back to reality and I take a long gulp of coffee. Outside, the world is peacefully white. Perhaps later I’ll pull on my boots and g
o for a walk.

  “Call him back, Zo.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, Zoe, no need for drama.” My grin catches me unawares. “I’m trying to be mature, so maybe you can too.”

  Silence stretches like the long arms of sunshine that clear the clouds and bounce off the sparkling snow on the front lawn. If it stays cold like this, the lake might be frozen by the time Thanksgiving rolls around. I won’t miss the cooking and cleaning up this year. I will miss the family, but not the celebration itself. I’m not convinced I have a whole lot to be thankful for right now. Which sounds pretty callous, but that’s how I feel.

  “I really can’t believe he would do this,” she whispers, sniffling. She doesn’t have to say more. Kevin was her hero. Mine too, once upon a time. But even heroes fail.

  “He’s still your father and he loves you.” My hands start to tremble and I walk back to the kitchen, fumble in my purse, and find my pills. I forgot to take one last night and now my nerves are shot. “Call him.”

  “And say what? How’s Alison?” She comes by her sarcasm honestly, and I can’t stop a smile.

  “Sweetie, the longer you put it off, the harder it’ll be when you finally do talk. He knows you’re not going to be around for Thanksgiving, but then there’s Christmas. He’s going to want to see you then.”

  “What are we supposed to do? Split our time between you guys? What’s Adam going to do over the summer, spend half his vacation with you and half with Dad? This sucks, Mom.”

  That it does. I pop a pill and swallow more coffee. Knowing her schedule, I need to get her off the phone. “You’re going to be late for class, sweetie. I’ll talk to you tonight, okay?”

  She hangs up reluctantly. I love talking to Zoe, but she can be exhausting.

  I clean up my breakfast things, fill my mug with more coffee, wait for the fire to die down, then find my coat and boots and venture out the front door. If it’s not windy I might sit by the lake.

  Outside, the world is white and draws a smile as the scene reminds me of a favorite quote from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I pull my phone from my pocket to look it up.

  “I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says, ‘Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.’”

  The moment I glance up, I see her.

  A little girl skipping up the path to the house, wearing a pink winter coat with a fur-lined hood, blue jeans, and bright-red boots that demand attention. Blond curls bounce as she waves and comes closer.

  Shelby.

  “Hi!” She’s almost at the steps now and I see it isn’t Shelby, of course, but the mug has already slipped from my hands, shattered on the wooden porch, and coffee pools around my boots.

  “Ah . . .” I struggle for words, stare at her and the mess, then I notice a man come up behind her.

  “Did I scare you?” Her blue eyes are wide.

  Blue eyes.

  Shelby’s eyes were hazel. Like mine.

  My heart thumps against my chest and I try to find a reassuring smile. “No, I’m just very clumsy.”

  “Mrs. Barrington?” The man places gloved hands on the little girl’s shoulders and she looks up at him with adoration. “Sorry, ma’am. Maybe we should have called. I’m Brock Chandler, Clarice’s nephew. We live next door to y’all here. I’ve been keeping an eye on the place for your folks.”

  “Oh.” Fog fills my brain and I try to clear it. “Right. Joe used to . . . How is he?” I remember an older gentleman who repaired broken windows, kept the gardens neat, and locked up after us each summer.

  “Uncle Joe passed on some time ago, so I imagine he’s doing just fine.” Brock Chandler is all straight white teeth and sparkling eyes and smiles like a movie star. And his voice sounds like Matthew McConaughey’s. Suddenly I can’t find mine.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I squeak, self-conscious of my rumpled appearance. Did Mom mention Joe Chandler dying? I can’t remember. I sidestep the brown puddles and what used to be a coffee mug and fold my arms against a cool breeze creeping up from the lake. “You’re not from around here.”

  “No, ma’am. Atlanta born and raised. But we’ve been up north a few years now.” He pushes thick hair a few shades darker than the child’s off his forehead, indigo eyes shining in the sunlight. “This is my daughter, Maysie.”

  “Hello, Maysie.” She skips forward as I come down the steps. “I’m Savannah.”

  “Miss Savannah,” her father interjects, making her grin.

  I crouch a bit, reach for her mitten-clad hands and study her face. So like Shelby, yet not. “Maysie. What a pretty name.”

  “Yours is pretty too,” she says. “I’m sorry for scaring you.” Curious eyes look back at me while her face puckers with the earnestness of a child her age.

  “That’s okay, sweetie. You just . . . you look a bit like someone I wasn’t expecting to see.” Ever again.

  “You made a big mess. Was that your favorite mug?” She frowns at the broken pieces of painted china. Not my favorite but probably my mother’s.

  “Let me grab the mop and bucket.” Her father scoots past me before I can stop him.

  In no time at all he’s picking up the broken bits and mopping up spilled coffee while Maysie happily builds a snowman by the old oak tree. He shoos me off when I try to help, so I sit on a white Adirondack chair and watch him work. And I’m dragged backward once more . . .

  Headlights flash across the darkened kitchen. A moment later a car door slams and I hear his footsteps. The back door opens and Kevin enters the room, flicks on the light, and jumps a little when he sees me standing there, waiting for him.

  I take my best shot.

  He ducks. The glass I hurled at him shatters against the door, remnants of red wine splattering across the kitchen tile and onto Kevin’s expensive Italian leather shoes. Only a few splats, but enough to stain the tile if I don’t get to it in time. I don’t care about his shoes.

  “What the—Really mature, Savannah!” Kevin glares. “You missed, by the way.”

  “Go back out. I’ll get another glass and try again.” I sway toward him, but he puts up a hand.

  “Don’t move. You’re barefoot.” He exhales and pushes both hands over his hair. “And drunk. Aren’t you?”

  Am I? I don’t remember. Probably. I don’t know what time it is either, but I know Kevin’s so-called business dinner lasted longer than usual.

  And I know where he’s really been.

  I haven’t had this much to drink in years, but tonight . . .

  He goes for a broom and throws down some paper towels. Sweeps up the glass, slips out of his shoes, and sponges them off. I’m a little dizzy so I slump into a bar chair at the counter and place my palms on the cold granite.

  “Beth saw you.” I don’t know if I’m whispering or yelling or even talking out loud until he snaps his head up.

  “What?”

  I sit back and nod, tears sliding down my cheeks. “She happened to be in the city today. She saw you. In a restaurant. Holding hands with . . . that . . . woman.”

  He stands in slow motion.

  Finishes cleaning up, washes his hands, and turns, his eyes hard. “Knowing Beth, I suppose she has the picture to prove it.”

  “She does.” If she didn’t, I don’t know if I would have believed her. Except she’s my best friend and I know she’d never lie to me. And I’ve had my suspicions for a while. Still . . . I don’t want it to be true. But the look on his face tells me it is.

  “You won’t deny it?” Even now I want him to make something up. Tell me she’s just a good friend. Her mother died and he was comforting her. Reading her palm. Anything. I’m drunk enough to believe it.

  “No.” He bends over his knees for a long moment. Straightens and takes slow steps toward me. His expression is haggard. Beaten. “We should talk.”

  “Talk?” He wants to talk?
I want to grab another glass, and this time I won’t miss.

  “I can’t do this anymore, Savannah.” The bitter words burn like acid and eat away my last thread of hope. “I don’t want to be here anymore. With you. I . . . can’t.”

  “You . . . can’t?” My stomach lurches and I have to give in to the violent urge to vomit. I’m half tempted to stay where I am, let him clean that mess up too, but instead I race for the bathroom and lock the door behind me.

  Four months ago.

  That’s when I confronted him. That’s when he moved out of our bedroom to the guest room down the hall. At first we tried to work through things, but she won in the end. I can’t believe it’s been that long because the memory of that midsummer night still feels raw.

  Betrayal bites hard, then leaves gaping wounds that will not heal no matter how much salve you slather over them.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Barrington?” The man, Brock Chandler, has put away the bucket, erased my mess, and stands in front of me with a skewed expression. Like he knows me. Knows what I’m thinking. Feeling.

  I shake my head and push out of the chair. “That was awfully nice of you. You really didn’t have to. And call me Savannah.” I extend my hand and he grasps it, gently, just for a moment, the barest of smiles gone in a flash.

  “Savannah, then.” He clears his throat. “My aunt wants to invite y’all to come for tea. Tomorrow afternoon. If that suits?”

  I do believe I could listen to that southern drawl all day. My cheeks actually heat. “Well, it’s just me. Tomorrow afternoon would be lovely.” Lovely? Since when do I say lovely?

  Maysie has finished her snowman and joins us on the porch. “Are you coming for tea with Aunt Clarice?” She jumps up and down at my side, chipmunk cheeks glowing with cold and excitement.