A Sweethaven Summer (2 page)

Their scrapbooking parties became tradition at the end of August. Armed with stacks of photos they’d each taken, they overtook Meghan’s kitchen table for an entire weekend and relived the high and low points the previous months had brought.

Childhood dreams radiated from the pages in her hand. Dreams that weren’t likely to come true now. Still, Suzanne carried a sliver of hope in her pocket.

It had been eight months since she’d seen her friends. She’d send the scrapbook to Jane, who would stash it in the bottom of her suitcase and bring it with her when she arrived in Sweethaven at the beginning of June.

Suzanne knew she needed to be truthful in this entry. Her last entry. The one that explained why she wasn’t coming back. Why she had to stay hidden. Why her parents had all but locked her in her bedroom, making up excuses as to her whereabouts.

Like Quasimodo in the Bell Tower, Suzanne was an outcast. And even God couldn’t
really
love an outcast.

But after eight months, she hoped—she prayed—that her friends could. At least one of them. She knew she could make it if she had just one true friend.

Suzanne scanned her paints until she found a small bottle of hazy blue and held it in her hand. She flipped through a few sheets of paper and settled on five different patterns, then cut them into small blocks and glued them to the blank page. Once the squares were in place, she diluted her paint with a few drops of water and began brushing a thin coat over the paper so the patterns showed through. If only she could swipe such a hazy covering over her secrets.

She stood and walked across the room, then positioned herself
in front of the oversized, full-length mirror. She held her awkward Polaroid camera midair in hopes of capturing her own reflection.

Snap. Whirr
. The camera spit the shiny, wet photo from the thin slot at its bottom and into her hand. She shook it back and forth until finally the image appeared. She stared at the girl in the photo. Seventeen years old. So much hope. Such big dreams. Dreams of being a real artist. Dreams of galleries and classes and a love story she could tell to curly-headed grandchildren.

Her sense of entitlement to wish for such things had dwindled. The path before her—a path
she’d
created—didn’t give her the right to happy dreams and girlish wishes.

Using double-stick tape, she adhered the photo to the page she’d just painted. Beside it, she pressed down a solid-colored square, then used a fine-tipped black marker to write her thoughts.

For obvious reasons my parents are forbidding me to come back to Sweethaven this summer. The way they’re talking, I may never be allowed to come back. Or leave my room. It’s okay because I turn eighteen in a few months and then they can’t keep me locked in the house anymore
.

I’ve embarrassed them. I’ve shamed them. I’ve let you all down. I might not be able to keep going with the scrapbook, but you guys keep it up, okay? Don’t let me ruin something that’s been so good for all of us
.

I don’t know what I’m going to do, but as soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know. I promise
.

I love you guys, and I’ll never forget our summers in Sweethaven. I’ll write when I can
.

Love
,

Suzanne

She held the page in the air and decided it needed something extra. Using a detail brush, she added pink curlicues and orange flowers to the edges of the page. By the time she was done, she was quite happy with her entry. Happy with everything except what she had to write. Happy with everything except the protruding belly on the girl in the photo.

The church smelled like flowers and dead people. Dead person. Just one. Her mom. The visitation the night before had sent her into an unexpected daze. She’d smiled. Thanked people for coming. Pretended she’d be okay.

She stood at the back of the sanctuary, her black skirt clinging to her waist and thighs and then flaring out slightly. Mom had always liked that skirt. She’d even borrowed it once to go on a date. One of the few Campbell had ever known her mother to agree to. It had always been just the two of them—and Mom seemed okay with that. Now, though, Campbell wondered if her mom would’ve fought harder if she’d had someone in her life. Would she still be dead if she’d had more to live for?

Surely a strong-willed daughter wasn’t enough.

Inside, her anger wadded tight at the injustice she’d suffered, losing her mother when neither of them was ready for it.

Orphaned at twenty-four.

It had only been a week ago that Mom had called and asked her to come over.

“I have some things I want to talk to you about, hon.”

Campbell could tell by her tone—a tone that radiated finality—that Mom was squaring things away. Getting those proverbial ducks
in a row. Campbell almost refused to go. She’d argued she had to work—do laundry—do anything but talk with her mother about the inevitable.

About her death.

But Mom had one-upped her. “We need to talk about your father.”

The words hung between them as Campbell tried to think of a response.

Mom had refused to talk about her dad, only saying they were better off this way, and despite their close relationship, Campbell had always wondered about him. Who was he? Where was he? Did he know about her?

Campbell pushed Mom’s front door open, expecting the delicious aroma of hazelnut coffee and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Instantly, she knew something was wrong. She called out to her mom but was met with silence.

“Mom?” She called her name again, then walked through the living room and into the kitchen where she saw her mother, lying still on the hardwood floor, her legs bent in an unnatural position, her arms limp at her sides.

“Mom!” Campbell dropped to the floor beside her and found only a wisp of breath on her lips.

Several minutes later, Campbell watched as the paramedics hoisted her mother onto a stretcher and then put her in the back of the ambulance, unsure of how or when she’d even managed to dial 911. Before he closed the door, one of the men gestured for her to get in. She did, almost robotically. Moving as though in slow motion, she braced herself for the ride to the hospital.

For days, Campbell begged her mom to wake up. Begged her to come back so they could have that conversation over coffee. She had too many questions for Mom to really be gone.

Now, she’d never know what Mom planned to tell her about her father.

Campbell shook the thoughts away and perused the sanctuary, astonished by the number of people who had turned out to pay their respects. The entire staff of Liberty East High School now sat solemnly in the pews. Church friends. Former students. Even the mail carrier who had delivered their mail as far back as Campbell could remember sat on an aisle, his head bowed in reverence as he waited for the service to start.

So many people whose lives had somehow been touched by her mother.

“You wouldn’t believe this if you saw it, Mom,” Campbell whispered under her breath.

Not wanting to make small talk, she pretended to be interested in the program. She wanted to regain her composure. Sometimes the smallest thought popped into her mind, and her eyes involuntarily filled with tears. A glance toward the front of the sanctuary told her this wasn’t a dream. No, she actually stood there, in the back of the church, waiting for her mother’s funeral service to start.

Pastor Scott walked through the foyer and stopped beside her. His kind eyes were familiar after so many years in his church. Even as a rebellious teen when she’d begged to sleep in, her mother had insisted on their going to service. In the end, her faith hadn’t done her any good. God couldn’t heal Mom. Or wouldn’t heal her. And worse, He’d stolen her away at the most inopportune time.

While Campbell hadn’t felt ready to finalize things with Mom, she had to admit, she had questions. Not only about her father’s identity, but about Mom’s childhood—her past. Things Mom had always kept to herself. Things Campbell had stopped asking about for fear of hurting her.

If only she’d risked it.

Anger pelted her heart like a hailstorm.

She pushed it aside.

“You doing all right?” Pastor Scott put his arm around her and squeezed.

She nodded.

“Okay, we’re getting ready to start. I’ll go in first and you can follow like we talked about.” He left her standing in the foyer in her black skirt and gray blouse. Would she ever wear the colors of spring again? Would she ever want to?

Black felt so appropriate.

After the pastor took his place on the stage, it was her turn. As if she were a bride, Campbell began the trek down the aisle. She kept her eyes focused on Pastor Scott, a man, she felt embarrassed to say, she’d imagined as her father on more than one occasion.

Just as she’d done with her third grade gym teacher. Her mother’s male colleagues. Pretty much any man Mom’s age with blond hair and a lanky frame, like her. She didn’t get her features from Mom, so they must’ve come from her dad. Whoever he was.

She reached the front of the sanctuary, avoiding the teary eyes of the crowd, and sat in the pew. She peered down at her long-fingered hands resting in her lap. The blood had left them, leaving them white and cold. She rubbed them together to warm them. It didn’t work.

Pastor Scott glanced at her and then smiled that soft smile. He’d have been a good father to her. She’d have called him “Daddy.” He would’ve loved her and told her she was beautiful; told her she wasn’t an accident. Just a surprise. He’d have made her feel better when the teasing started, told her those kids didn’t know what they were talking about. He would have. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He wasn’t the one.

Why had Mom waited so long to come clean about her dad’s identity?

She looked at the enlarged photo of her mom, radiant and smiling, that stood on an easel near the front of the church. She couldn’t imagine her mother taking that secret to the grave. Campbell deserved to know—surely Mom had planned to explain everything.

Campbell had asked a few times, but her mother had always said there was no need for her to know. He wasn’t in their life because he wasn’t good for them. Was he in jail? Was he a serial killer? She’d never know.

And every time she’d brought it up, she sensed a hurt behind her mother’s eyes. As though Campbell implied she hadn’t given her enough or that she needed a father because she had a lousy mother. That couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

Campbell tried to focus on the service. She chided herself for allowing her mind to wander at her own mother’s funeral.

Six pallbearers carried the shiny wooden box to the front, and everyone turned their attention to the pastor.

“Today we say good-bye to a woman we all knew and dearly loved. I don’t have to tell you what a bright light Suzanne Carter has always been in this church, in the high school, in the community.”

She
had
been a bright light. Campbell’s chest tightened in an emotional tug of war. The part of her that wanted to smile lost to the part that wanted to cry.

She dabbed her cheek with a tissue and tried to compose herself. She had to speak in a few moments. Nausea rippled through her stomach like a stone plunked in calm water.

Pastor Scott continued saying nice things about her mother. A woman everyone loved. Talented. Humble. A friend to all. A devoted mom. A tutor. An art lover.

He left nothing out.

His gaze moved across the sea of faces and landed on her with a slight nod. She felt her eyes widen. Time to stand. Would her legs hold her weight?

“Now we’ll hear a few words from Suzanne’s daughter Campbell.”

She grabbed the pew in front of her and pulled herself to her feet on wobbly knees. Her stomach had hollowed, and moisture coated her cold palms. She smoothed her skirt and begged her feet to carry her to the stage.

Up the three small steps she went with a prayer of thanks she hadn’t tripped. She took the pastor’s spot behind a wooden pulpit and peered over the crowd that had gathered to say good-bye to her mother. They all expected her to say something appropriate. Expected brilliance. It’s what her mother would’ve delivered.

She cleared her throat and pulled the microphone a smidge closer to her mouth. It fed back, its tinny ring cutting through the silence. She clung to the sides of the pulpit as though its wooden frame gave her the ability to stand.

“You all know what a wonderful person my mom was.” She’d practiced her speech in her head. She should’ve written it down. Standing there, with faces staring back, well-practiced words escaped her.

“She…uh…she loved you all as if you were part of her family. You were her family.
We
were.” She smiled and glanced at the photo of her mother. “Mom had a way of putting people at ease. A way of making you feel like you could do anything. I think that’s because
she
could do anything. She must’ve figured we were all as competent and graceful as she was.”

Campbell’s eyes scanned the crowd. Mom’s best friend Tilly sat near the front, nodding her support, a sweet smile on her face.
The entire high school had the morning off to attend the service in honor of her mom. So many of her former teachers and many of Mom’s students now sat attentively, looking at her.

She cleared her throat and tried to remember what had come next when she’d rehearsed this in front of the bathroom mirror that morning. Mom’s paintings caught her eye. “My mother was an artist. I think she always has been. She described herself as ‘different,’ but it was that artistic eye that separated her from the masses. It transformed the way she saw the world. The way she taught me to see the world.” She nodded at the thought. “She believed in people—even though it sometimes hurt her.”

Mom had always taught her to believe the best about people. The older Campbell got, the harder that had become.

A lump formed in her throat, and she coughed to clear it. “We knew Mom was…dying.” The word jumped out at her and she had to look up at the ceiling to keep from crying. “But no matter how much time you have to prepare, it never seems like enough. She lived a wonderful life, cut short much too soon. She wouldn’t want us to dwell on that, though. She would want us to live more deeply—more passionately—more beautifully. And
that
is the best way I can think of to honor her memory.”