Dreams for Stones (17 page)

For a moment, Alan stood frozen, staring at
the dead foal, until the soft sound of his father’s distress nudged
him into action. He stepped forward and lifted the foal, turning
away from the mare who whickered in uncertainty. Behind him, his
father, voice rough with sorrow, tried to comfort the mare.

Death. Inevitable. Especially on a ranch.
Calves born too early in the spring. Injured animals that had to be
put down. The horse he’d had since he was eight that died of old
age when he was twenty. The two dogs that preceded Cormac.

He hated it, but he’d accepted it. Until
Meg. Losing her had knocked him asunder, erased all the messages
he’d used in the past to comfort himself. “. . . a long, happy
life. . . better off out of pain.”

Meg. She’d had a happy life, he was certain
of it, because he had been there for most of it.

But not a long life.

It wasn’t supposed to be that way.

His arms tightened around the dead foal as
the memory of holding Meg that last time engulfed him, the pain for
a moment as overwhelming and unendurable as the day Meg died.

Monday afternoon, Alan arrived for his meeting with Hilstrom, his
eyes gritty from lack of sleep, his stomach raw from too much
coffee and too little food.

Hilstrom’s assistant looked up when he
walked in. “Let me tell her you’re here.”

As she made the call, Alan stared at the
picture hanging behind the woman—a ballerina who could be made to
appear to be balancing on the assistant’s head. With a start, he
remembered noticing the same thing the first time he met with
Hilstrom. And had it really been a year already? He shook his head,
realizing as he did, he was half looped with weariness. He should
have rescheduled, but it was too late now.

“Go on in,” the assistant said.

He stepped through the doorway and took a
seat on the sofa.

Hilstrom sat across from him. “I expect you
know what this meeting is about.” She spoke briskly, glancing from
the file on her lap to him.

He struggled to keep his eyes open and
focused.

“As you know, the RPT committee has
recommended you for tenure. I’m sorry, Alan, but I’ve decided not
to support that.” She looked up and met his eyes briefly before
looking back at the file.

He started to lift a hand to rub his aching
head, but let it subside in his lap.

Although the dean, the provost, and the
board of trustees had yet to rule, none of them had as important
and weighty a vote as Hilstrom, and it was unlikely any of them
would step in to overrule her. So that was that.

“You’ll still have next year with us, and
I’ll be happy to write you a positive letter of recommendation.
You’re a fine teacher, dedicated and creative, and I expect you’ll
have no difficulty finding a position more aligned with your
interests.”

Her words echoed, as if coming at him in a
cave. He tried to rouse himself to the proper reaction: contempt at
a system that focused on publication records to the exclusion of
everything else, derision for Hilstrom, whose narrow-minded
approach had already forced out several good people, determination
to follow Charles’s advice after all and sue. But all he could
manage was a vague disinterest in the whole proceeding. It was
taking every bit of his energy just to stay upright and keep his
eyes open.

He took a breath and spoke carefully. “Thank
you for meeting with me and making your position clear.” Then he
stood, taking the initiative for ending the meeting away from her.
Not caring that he’d broken protocol. Not caring about any of it.
“Now if you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for her response, he
walked through the door, closed it softly behind him, nodded at the
assistant, then kept walking until he was outside.

His feet carried him to the parking lot,
where he got into his car. On automatic pilot, he drove to his
apartment. When he arrived, he dropped onto the bed without
undressing and fell into a blessedly deep sleep.

Her heart sinking, Kathy went over her last meeting with Alan:
Sonoro’s restlessness, when she had never seen Sonoro other than
perfectly under control when Alan was riding him, and the way Alan
wouldn’t look at her.

But it was the interaction in the barn that
left her the most perplexed. That ravaged look on his face when he
said he was sorry he’d kissed her. How did that fit with the way
he’d kissed her. . . as if he were starving and she were food and
drink.

None of it made sense. And all of it
hurt.

Saturday. She’d ask Grace to give her a
chance to talk to Alan privately. And this time, she’d stick it
out. Not leave until he explained himself.

Kathy had just arrived home from work Friday evening when Mrs.
Costello called up the stairs to tell her Grace was on the
phone.

“Kathy.
Mira
. We can’t go to the
ranch tomorrow. Delia has a fever. Could you let Alan know?”

Kathy was sorry Delia was sick, but it was
going to make it easier to have that talk with Alan.

Saturday, before she left for the ranch, Kathy called Grace to
check on Delia.

Frank answered the phone. “Oh, God, Kathy.
She’s in the hospital. We almost lost her last night.”

Kathy’s breath caught in her throat, and all
she could manage was an incoherent sound. It couldn’t be. Not
Delia. Sweet, laughing, lovable Delia with her bright eyes and
cloud of curls. So sick they’d almost lost her? It wasn’t
possible.

When Kathy arrived at Children’s Hospital,
she found Grace sitting in the corner of the intensive care waiting
room, staring out the window. As Grace turned a tear-stained face
toward her, Kathy pulled her into her arms.

Grace held on tight, sobbing. “
Ay Dios
mío
, I’m so scared. She’s in septic shock.”

“I don’t know what that is.” Kathy took
Grace’s hands in hers. “Septic shock?”

“It’s a bad infection. In her blood. Then
her body tries to fight it, and that just makes it worse.”

Although Kathy didn’t totally understand
Grace’s explanation, the other woman’s fear made her stomach clench
with dread.

“But how could it happen so fast?”

“It just does.” Grace wiped her eyes.

“When do you get to see her?”

“In a couple of minutes.”

As if Grace’s words conjured her, a young
woman in surgical scrubs decorated with Mickey and Minnie Mouse
appeared. “Mrs. Garibaldi? You can come on back now.”

“Kathy,
por favor.
Come with me.”

They walked over to a door that Grace pulled
open when the lock release sounded. After they washed their hands,
they put on gowns, gloves, shoe coverings, and face masks, then
Grace led the way to Delia’s room, accompanied by the clicking,
beeping and soft whooshing of medical equipment.

Delia lay motionless in a tangle of wires
and tubing, looking tiny and so incredibly fragile. Tears welled
out of Kathy’s eyes and ran down into the mask.

Grace touched one of Delia’s hands with her
finger and spoke softly. “Delia,
Mami
is here. And so is
Tía
Kathy.” Grace glanced at Kathy. “It’s good to talk to
her. Sometimes patients remember when they wake up.”

Kathy moved to the other side of the bed and
took Delia’s hand in hers. The tips of Delia’s fingers were white,
and her hand felt cool. She glanced at Grace.

“It’s the infection,” Grace said. “It acts
like frostbite.”

Her throat aching, Kathy spoke to the little
girl. “Delia, Arriba will be disappointed you didn’t show up to
ride her this week. She’ll be real sad to hear you’re sick. I’m sad
too. I love you, baby.”

Delia didn’t react.

Kathy looked over at Grace, who was crying
silently. Grace’s desperation frightened Kathy even more than
Frank’s had. After all, Grace was a nurse. Nobody was going to be
able to fob her off with false hope.

Kathy continued to hold Delia’s hand, but
instead of speaking to the child, she began to pray—asking,
imploring, God to help the little girl—while Grace, murmuring in a
mixture of Spanish and English, smoothed Delia’s hair.

After a time, a nurse came to check on
Delia, and Grace and Kathy took a break. When they returned to the
waiting room, Frank was there. He gave Grace a hopeful look.

Grace shook her head. “How is
Blackie-two?”

“Fine. She did make a mess in the basement,
though. Not her fault. That’s why I didn’t get back right
away.”

“Poor Blackie-two,” Grace said. “We forgot
all about her.”

“I can take care of her for you. Then you
won’t have to worry.”

When Frank and Grace went back to sit with
Delia, Kathy borrowed Grace’s key and drove to the Garibaldis’
house to pick up Blackie-two along with her bed, dishes, and
food.

It wasn’t until she got Blackie-two settled
at the Costellos’ that Kathy remembered what she’d been doing when
she heard the news about Delia—getting ready to go to TapDancer.
After Frank told her about Delia, she hadn’t even thought to call
Alan to say they wouldn’t be coming.

She looked up the number for the ranch and
dialed. A female voice said hello.

“Stella?”

“No. Sorry. This is Elaine. Did you want to
speak to my mother?”

“No, no. Actually, I need to speak to
Alan.”

“He’s not here. Can I take a message?”

Kathy heard the sudden piercing howl of an
infant in the background.

“Oh shoot,” Elaine said, sounding harassed.
“Could you call back later?”

“Sure,” Kathy said, but Elaine had already
disconnected.

Kathy almost called again after dinner but
remembering Alan’s sister was visiting, decided it might be better
to wait until Sunday night when he would be back in Denver.

But Sunday night there was no answer at his
apartment. She thought about leaving a message, but decided against
it. It wasn’t something she’d want to find on her answering
machine—news that someone she loved was in intensive care in
critical condition.

After that weekend, Kathy’s sense of urgency to speak with Alan was
pushed to the background by her worry over Delia. Even the fleeting
thought that Alan needed to be told, failed to move Kathy to
actually pick up the phone and dial his number. She was simply too
emotionally exhausted after a day at work followed by an evening at
the hospital to deal with anything more.

Her major comfort during days and nights
filled with worry about Delia and grief over the way things had
ended with Alan, were the few minutes every evening she spent
re-reading Emily’s diaries.

They were a reminder that Emily had made it
through a time every bit as dark and difficult.

Excerpt from the diaries of Emily Kowalski

1930

I sure haven’t been very good about this diary business, but it
seemed like once I got the history part done, I just couldn’t get
the knack of writing about things as they were actually
happening.

But I aim to try again. Jess thought I’d
filled up the book he gave me, so he bought me another one.

This last year has been awful hard, although
not for us so much. But everyone is learning to do with less and
not to waste a single thing, like half a diary.

Jess and I have been luckier than most. Jess
is teaching, and I was as well, up until a few weeks ago. Then I
had to stop, because we are going to have a baby, at last.

I’d about given up hope it was ever going to
happen, although I never said so to Jess. But maybe he felt that
way, too, because when I told him I was expecting, he was even more
excited than I was.

It feels like all my dreams have come true.
I know, I still haven’t done everything I planned. But the most
important thing is I met Jess, we fell in love, and now we are
going to have a baby.

I think it will be easy to write every day,
now. I will have so much to write about. I want to remember every
moment.

1933

When Bobby was born, the doctor told me I would be risking my life
if I had another child before I recovered fully. I was so excited
about Bobby arriving safe and sound, I paid him no heed. It was
only later, when he repeated the warning, that I noticed how
serious he looked. He also insisted on speaking to Jess.

I thought a year or two would be sufficient
time, and I didn’t let it worry me. But today he told me I must
continue to avoid pregnancy at all costs. When I tasked him about
it, he said it would be best if I never had another child.

It is a difficult thing to hear.

I take comfort in Bobby, who is growing like
a weed and is so quick and intelligent. Not to mention handsome. He
and Jess are the lights of my life.

1936

It’s been such a long time since I felt like picking up a pen and
recording my thoughts or the events of my life. In truth, this last
year is one I don’t want to remember, but I doubt I shall ever
forget.

I don’t know if I’m ready even now to write
again, but I’m going to try with this new year to make a new
beginning.

The last time I wrote anything was March 20,
1935. The day before our dear Bobby fell ill with the meningitis.
He was only five. A baby still.

I wonder, will I ever be able to go back and
read those journals for the years passed, now that everything has
changed. Even my handwriting is different, and it hurts so much to
think of that younger me who had no idea dreams were so
fragile.

This time has seemed darker even than when
Kiara died, although our Bobby lived. And now I must find a way to
cope with it. If I don’t, dear Bobby will have no one. And Jess
needs me as well, to help him heal and live again.