'Til Grits Do Us Part (8 page)

First things first though. A hot cup of green tea. I dropped my purse and laptop on the table and reached for my black Japanese teapot, a carryover from my time as a college exchange student, homestay participant, and two glorious years as one of the top reporters at the Associated Press's Tokyo bureau. All of it gone now, lost in the rumble of jacked-up trucks.

I poured water and set the pot on the stove, preparing my bitter
matcha
green tea powder, spoon, and favorite teacup by rote. And then I shoofed my way into Mom's bedroom in my slippers, Christie at my heels.

“Oh, Mom,” I sighed, pushing open her bedroom door and taking it all in: the simple wooden dresser and mirror that had been hers. Butter-yellow curtains and flowered bedspread. The closet that once held her pantsuits for work as a special-ed teacher at the Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind, and Indian-style blouses in wild colors for off days. The antique trunk at the foot of her bed that still cradled her secrets.

“Where would you keep your transmission warranty, Mom?” I spoke out loud, causing Christie to poke her head out from under the bed and smile at me, a stray clump of dust on her nose.

Yep. Dust. How many months since I'd vacuumed under that bed? Too many, obviously. Not surprising since almost all my spare time went to (1) work, (2) driving the long, winding roads to and from town, and (3) standing in line at Food Lion hoping I had enough cash to buy boxed macaroni and cheese.

And now here I sat, preparing to dig through journals and tax returns and students' papers all layered in Mom's trunk like archaeological strata. Cross sections showing the final years of her life—a life I'd brusquely ignored on my heady march up the corporate ladder. Without a backward glance or second thought.

And perhaps, too, in part to numb the pain of my long-ago past—bitter nights of beatings, loneliness, and hunger of the stomach as well as the soul.

I slipped to my knees and sorted through the stacks of papers and files, lifting off tax documents, income statements, and W-2 copies. Boring safety manuals from work. Social Security statements and school meeting notes. Everything crisp, professional, unemotional.

Christie poked a curious nose over the edge of the trunk as I piled more papers on the floor, trying not to soil my white, tailored dress shirt with newsprint and the grime of years. “Recipes,” I said, dropping another handful of stuff. “And birthday cards. Lots of them.”

None from me though. Not after Mom spoiled my growing-up years with her cult chasing, psychedelic tea drinking, and nervous breakdowns. Weeks in and out of mental asylums and leaving me—just a nervous, skinny slip of a kid—rooting through empty cabinets in search of crumbs.

I put the cards away and tried not to think of the terse phone conversations I'd had with Mom after I moved to Japan. The nervous tremor in her voice when she said, “I'm sorry,” and the cold steel in my heart as I hung up the phone, telling her not to call.

The memories stung now, making a painful well in the hollow of my heart.

Especially when I reached into the trunk again and pulled out a thick stack of letters—stamped letters, postmarked and mail battered—bearing my various addresses. Cornell to Nara to Osaka to Tokyo. Tied with a blue ribbon into a tight brick.

And every single one of them stamped R
ETURN TO SENDER.

I opened one of the envelopes, mailed a few months before Mom's death, and held the letter a little away from my body as if to buffer myself against the pain. Circling Christie with my arm. And I skimmed the lines with pinched breath, afraid of what I might read.

Her tomatoes were growing… roses blooming…

That…that's it? I snatched the paper closer in surprise. No more sob stories? No guilt trips?

Stella's blue-ribbon lemon pie at the county fair…a bald guy…somebody's broken wrist in a cast…a blind student who got a job as a computer programmer…

I released my breath in relief at such innocuous topics. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Mom's desperate attempts at reuniting were a thing of the past, and by the time she'd mailed me this letter, she'd accepted our differences—our unreconciled lives—and moved on.

“How do I say it?”
she had written on the first page, her letters large and flourished.
“How do I tell you I'm sorry for the past, all of it? The lost moments and lost days? The words I wish I could take back like a rash promise, made hastily and then regretted?”

My stomach fell in a sick drop, like when I stood at the top of Tokyo Tower. Looking down over a thousand lights below and gripping the rail with white fingers.

Christie whined and climbed into my lap, her toenails slipping on the smooth fabric of my dark gray dress pants, and nuzzled my chin. She lapped at my cheek with her wet tongue, and I hugged her back—my arms barely fitting around her big-puppy body. Her fuzzy chest rose and fell against mine.

I shifted Christie slightly so her cold nose and snout wouldn't stain my shirtsleeve then straightened the paper.

I couldn't read anymore. Instead I folded up the letter and tucked it inside the envelope, as if laying my old bitterness to rest. Wrapped in a silent paper coffin.

I chewed on my lip as I leafed through the rest of the envelope, finding an eclectic mix of stuff, so like Mom: a gospel tract about success coming from God, a snapshot of Mom and Faye both clad in jeans and holding up a gigantic fish, and a penciled recipe for jalapeno-cheese grits.

Grits. Of all things—at a moment like this. When an unexpected foreboding lurked in the dim corners of my brain. Making my breath pinch faster and faster in a worried muddle.

Headaches. Dizziness.

I pressed cold fingers to my lips, remembering our old arguments. Shouts.
“You'll be the death of me!”
she'd mumbled, twisting off the top of her medicine bottle. Blood-pressure medicine, that is. A new dosage.

She'd never needed it before
.

Before I could close the trunk, my eyes fell on a stack of stapled white sheets. And I drew back in shock at the black type: A
UGUSTA
C
OUNTY
M
EDICAL
C
ENTER.

Mom's medical records.

I couldn't think. Couldn't see the medical reports, which showed her spiking blood pressure the last year of her life. Right when I'd started returning all her letters.

I jammed it all back into the trunk and latched the lid, picking up Christie and marching out the side door to the deck. Cell phone and Mom's medical records under one arm.

Rose blooms shivered around me in a riot of white and red. The sprinkler swished water in silvery sheets, like my pent-up tears. And as I stared down into a whorl of scarlet petals, an odd correlation began to form in my mind.

I'm mistaken. There's no way that's possible
. I rested a shaky elbow on the deck railing as I glanced over the sheaf of medical documents again, barely feeling the hot sun as I dialed Meg on my cell phone.

“Hey, why are you calling the office on your afternoon off, Jacobs?” she blurted into my ear. “Go do something. Relax.”

“I will, but…I have a question first.” The wind rustled the rose bushes, and a sprinkle of red petals sifted to the mulched flower bed. “What's the name of Amanda's doctor?”

“Which Amanda?” She paused. “The one who disappeared? I thought you weren't doing that case.”

My mouth turned dry. “Just…can you find it in the file? I think I remember seeing his name.”

I heard the rustling of papers as Meg leafed through the folder then a crackle of static as she came back on the line. “Paul Geissler,” she said. “But why's it so important?”

I gripped the side of the railing, feeling shaky. “He was Mom's doctor, too.”

C
hristieeee!” I cupped my hands around my mouth and hollered, making two women on the park bench turn and frown.

“I told you not to use that leash!” Adam ran his hand through his short, sandy hair in frustration, pushing aside some wet bushes and poking underneath. “It always comes loose.”

“Well, what do you expect me to do? Buy a new one? With what money?” I looped the empty leash around my wrist and stalked across the sidewalk by Gypsy Hill Park's duck pond. Two swans glided away from me, orange beaks turned up in silent mockery.

“I gave you money to buy a leash!” Adam called back, letting the bushes go and flinging droplets.

“And I had to use it to pay the light bill! I told you that.”

“Then you shouldn't have brought her here this afternoon.”

“And leave her stuffed in my laundry room the rest of the day?”

“Of course not! Drop her off at Faye and Earl's—or at our place, even. Todd loves to take care of her. But you can't keep letting her run off like this!” Adam let out an angry sigh.

“I'm not letting her. She just takes off!” I put my hands on my hips, feeling anything but belated birthday joy as anger heated my cheeks. “And don't start on the roses again. I have no idea who sent them.”

“What?” Adam spun around, his normally calm and sober blue eyes flashing.

“This is what this whole thing is about, isn't it?” I faced him. “You're upset over nothing. It's a florist's mistake.”

He crossed his arms stiffly then turned and looked out over the pond. Shredded willow fronds floated on the surface, broken by the rain.

I waited until an elderly couple shuffled by, tossing duck feed to some fluffy goslings. Then I stalked over to Adam's side. He didn't look up.

I attempted to temper my voice, thinking of those old letters in Mom's trunk and so many words I shouldn't have spoken. “The flower thing's not my fault, okay?”

“Is that what you think?” Adam turned to face me, his jaw set angrily. “That I'm blaming you? And overreacting about some flowers? I'm not.” He shook his head and looked away. “It's just…weird, okay?”

“Well, how do you think I feel? In case you were wondering, I—”

“Hold on.” Adam grabbed my arm and pushed past me. “I think I saw… There's Christie! Over there! I'll get her.” He scrambled off the concrete sidewalk that skirted the duck pond and then leaped across the little stream that twisted through too-green grass. The rain had splintered into golden afternoon sun, glistening moist on thick leaves and turning the neatly mown grounds to ruddy sparkles. Adam jumped over three indignant mallards and scooted up the shallow embankment then took off through the dogwoods.

“Great. Now everything's my fault,” I crabbed, trotting after him in my strappy shoes. One heel punched into the soft earth and came up covered with mud. “Everywhere I go Christie runs off, and I'm supposed to fix her. Fix my life. Fix everything.” I fumed silently a minute, wishing I could throttle whoever sent me that stupid bouquet. Please. Couldn't everybody give me one moment of peace?

Even Adam. I scrubbed my muddy heel, wondering why things always had to be complicated. I mean, not always. Just…more often than I'd like.

He could be weird and stuffy, and super stubborn. Just last week we'd had a big argument over our honeymoon spot, of all things! I'd found the perfect hotel package online—if we signed up during the discount period—for a reduced-rate week in Virginia Beach. “Morning Sun,” they called it. The photos looked great, and the prices were even better.

But Adam shot it down. Told me the deal sounded suspicious, and I didn't know Virginia Beach well enough.

I told him he didn't know
me
well enough. Or how to move fast on a bargain.

I leaned my head back against the tree, remembering the way he'd looked at me when he asked me to marry him. Fishing pole in his lap and eyes holding back tears.

And I, a sucker for his sacrificial heart and against-the-grain simplicity (which drove me nuts sometimes, and not in a good way) could only sob out a yes. Even though he drove a pickup truck and hauled mulch. Even though he lived in rundown, redneck Staunton, Virginia. And even though he proposed while
fishing
.

Good thing Kyoko back in Japan hadn't seen Adam's romantic setup or the orange-feathered lure sticking out of his tackle box when he popped the question. She regularly voiced worries that, after veering so far off my big-city journalism course, I'd turn into double-wide-trailer material.