In Search of Eden (36 page)

She wondered where the people had lived and where they had gone. She looked through the books, but nothing really
addressed that question. In the end she purchased a book about the New River Gorge, another about Dry Creek, a New River mining community, and one about a naturalist's view of the area. She paid, rubbing her arms while the woman bagged her purchases.

“Have you lived here long?” Miranda asked, with what she hoped was a nonthreatening smile.

“I live in Oak Hill,” the woman said. “Back down the road a ways.”

“I believe my mother was from around here.”

She looked at Miranda, interested. “Is that right?”

Miranda nodded. “Would you know anyone who might have grown up here and is still around?”

She shook her head sympathetically. “I really couldn't tell you. I grew up near Charleston. I could ask Frank for you, though. He works Tuesdays and Thursdays. He's the real expert on the area. He's an old-timer, and I believe he's from these parts.”

“I would appreciate it.” Miranda wrote down her name and telephone number, then jotted theirs for herself.

She got into the car and drove slowly back toward Virginia. At one point she started down one of the little roads that led off what passed for the main thoroughfare in search of a house or two, but her way was soon blocked by brush. She backed her way to the highway, then turned back the way she'd come. She passed through two small towns. She thought briefly about stopping, but there was really no town center to either one, just a railroad station, a post office, and a few small houses dotted around the ever present railroad tracks. Besides, what would she do? Walk up to someone's door and say,
Excuse me, did you know Noreen Gibson?

She drove to the main highway, got on, and barreled south. And for a moment she felt closer to her mother than she ever had in her life. For in this moment, there was nothing she wanted more than to get away from this place. As far and as fast as she could.

It was nearly eight o'clock by the time she arrived back in Abingdon. The sun was just setting. On impulse, she drove past the funeral home and stopped at the small park near the head of the Creeper Trail. She parked the car and got out, locking it, but leaving the cooler and her purse for now. She walked to the little creek, just needing to be in a serene place. The golden light was dappling through the trees, shading and sunning her. She felt peaceful for the first time since she had left this afternoon. She sat down by the edge of water. It ran cheerfully past her, and little by little, her tension began to melt.

She heard someone approaching and reluctantly turned to look. Joseph Williams was walking toward her through the park.

She sighed and moved to stand up. She was probably breaking some law.

“Wait,” he said.

She turned to face him, wondering what she had done this time to earn his ire. “Look,” she said. “I'm sure I'm not supposed to be sitting here, so why don't I just make it easy on both of us and go home?”

“No. You're fine. Really.”

His face looked different. Less hostile?

“Please, sit back down,” he said.

She closed her eyes with weariness. “I've had a really tough day,” she said. “I don't have the energy to fight.” When she opened them, she saw that he was holding up two brown bottles. She read the label.
Uncle Bob's Homemade Sarsaparilla Soda.

“Actually, I've been looking for you. When I saw you drive in, I followed you. Will you join me?” He raised the bottle, then uncapped it and held it out to her. It was cold and sweating.

“Thank you,” she said. She took a sip. It tasted tangy and refreshing. “Where did you get these?”

“Over at the market,” he said. “Jerry mostly sells them to rich tourists. Usually I drink Mountain Dew, but I wanted to impress you.”

“Is this Abingdon's version of taking a lady out for a drink?”

“Pretty much. Afterward we could go see the tractor pull if you want.” He smiled and they both sat down.

“You seem . . . happy today,” she said.

“What you really mean to say is that I seem less of a jerk than all the other times we've met.”

“Well, yes, I suppose you could put it that way.”

He took another drink of his soda, then turned to face her. “I messed up. I was wrong about you. I was sure you were part of a bunch of scam artists who travel around here each spring, but I realize now that I was wrong.”

She watched his earnest face, and several competing emotions rose up. Anger, curiosity, amusement. The sarsaparilla was cold, the music of the creek soothing, and to tell the truth, a familiar face, even his, seemed like heaven after the stark oppression of her journey. Amusement won by a hair. She smiled and shook her head. “I don't think I'm smart enough to scam anybody. I barely get by.”

“I doubt that.”

“You don't know me,” she said with a rueful smile, and she heard a little bitterness in her voice. Would he think her honest and right and good if he did know her?

“Anyway, I apologize. I was wrong and I acted rudely.”

She looked at him curiously. His face was stern, as if he were scolding himself, and she realized then that Joseph Williams was probably as harsh with himself as he had been with her. “It's okay,” she said quietly. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

He looked at her with mild surprise, and then his eyes warmed. He really became a different person when the hard mask was removed.

“I guess Henry was right about you,” he said.

“Oh, and what did Henry say?”

“That you would probably forgive me,” he answered.

But she had a feeling now he was the one not telling the whole truth.

chapter
37

A
bingdon was not like any other place Miranda had lived. In other cities—Seattle, Minneapolis, New York, Pittsburgh, San Jose—business marched along on Sunday. Oh, the banks might be closed and the mail not delivered, but stores were open, the streets were busy, and people were out and about. Even in Nashville, the very epicenter of the Bible Belt, there was activity on Sundays. In their neighborhood the bars opened at noon, and the regulars arrived soon after, but here in Abingdon, things were different. In downtown Abingdon the bar was closed. The shops were closed. In Abingdon on Sunday morning people went to church.

The Hasty Taste was closed, so Miranda decided to take another walk down the trail, and as she passed through town she saw the steady parade of people going into their various houses of worship. She felt a little out of step. She wondered if she might like to go to church again. Maybe someday, she decided. She walked down the middle of Main Street, past the four big churches on their respective corners.

She read the reader boards outside each one and glanced surreptitiously at the people entering. At the Episcopal church,
people had formed an orderly line and were filing in. They were generally a well-dressed crowd, though she did see an occasional pair of jeans or khaki pants. The Catholic Mass must have already started. The doors were closed, and no one was going in late. She read the name. Shepherd of the Hills. She liked it very much. She liked thinking about God like that—a kind and trustworthy Shepherd.

Abingdon Presbyterian must be beginning, as well. The congregation was flowing in from the parking lot. A few greeted her. And lastly, there was St. James Methodist, where she had rested and where she had met the kind Pastor Hector. The reader board held a sentiment in plastic letters behind glass.
Come to me,
it said,
all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,
and Miranda remembered the Scripture plaques at the campground that had seemed like words of life to her.

It sounded good, she realized. Perhaps for the first time since going to the church service in Minneapolis, she was tempted to go in. The prospect of rest and living water, succor and shade for the traveler, seemed cool and inviting. The service was ready to start, perhaps had already started. She hesitated, was ready to turn away, and just like magic Eden came running across the lawn from the parking lot, clutching something in her hand. She waved madly at Miranda, and Miranda smiled and waved back. Today Eden was wearing a pair of khaki-colored Capris, a red T-shirt, and some flip-flops, probably as close to dressed up as she got. “I forgot my Bible in the car. I was thinking about you. And here you are! It's like it was
meant to be
! You are coming to church, aren't you?” She looked so excited and hopeful Miranda almost weakened.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I was just heading toward the trail.”

“Oh, come on! Pastor Hector would really like it. You could sit by me.”

Ruth appeared at the door and came toward Eden. “Oh, Miranda,” she said warmly, “are you coming in?” She looked
pleased and excited, as well, and for just a second Miranda thought of herself as a weary, thirsty traveler being invited in to drink cool water and rest.
Why would you resist?
she wondered.
Why would you not follow them into a place of peace and comfort?

“I'm not dressed for church,” she protested, throwing her last card on the table and hoping it was a winner.

“Nonsense,” Ruth said. “Whatever you're wearing is church attire. Isn't that right, Eden?”

Eden nodded quickly, and seeing she was defeated, Miranda followed them inside, wincing as she looked down at her jeans and cotton shirt. Ruth shepherded her to the aisle along the right wall, then stood aside and pointed for her to go in. She did so, stepping over people and excusing herself, watching her feet until she came to an empty section of pew. Relieved, she sat down, then looked to her left to see she was sitting beside Mr. Thundercloud himself. She chided herself. She wondered if he would still be a kinder, gentler Joseph. She would find out, for Eden slid in beside her, sealing her fate.

“Look who's here!” Eden leaned across her and whispered to her uncle excitedly.

He lifted his eyebrows and nodded slightly. “I see,” he said.

Miranda pointed her face straight ahead and tried to concentrate on the service.

Eden handed her a bulletin. On the front was a pen-and-ink drawing of the church. She opened it up, saw the order of service, and noted the theme of every song, verse, and of the sermon, then sat stunned as she read the greeting under the date. It was Mother's Day.

How had she forgotten this? It was the second worst day of the year for her after her baby's birthday. She had known it was coming, of course. The ads in the paper had been all about Mother's Day presents and such. But with her new job and her new apartment and driving to West Virginia and looking for her baby, she had forgotten all about it. And now it ambushed her. She'd had no time to prepare. She felt sick to her stomach. She
felt lightheaded. She told herself to get a grip. Eden was staring at her. She looked up and Joseph was staring at her, too, with an expression of concern rather than the suspicion she normally expected from him.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You're as white as a sheet.”

“I'm feeling a little dizzy,” she said. “I'll be all right in a minute.”

Someone stepped up to the pulpit, welcomed them, and made the announcements. The organ played the prelude; the pastor read the invocation. They sang a hymn, and by the time they'd recited the Apostles' Creed, which she read along in the hymnal, she was able to breathe.

They sat back down. She glanced at Eden, who was looking at her worriedly. She focused on the words in front of her as they did a responsive prayer for Mother's Day:
“For our mothers who have given us life and love . . .”

“We pray to the Lord.”

“For mothers who have lost a child through death, that their faith may give them hope, and their family and friends support and console them . . .”

She thought of her mother taking her baby away from her and giving it to someone else, someone more deserving. She thought maybe that was sort of like a death.

The congregation answered, “We pray to the Lord.”

“For women, though without children of their own, who like mothers have nurtured and cared for us . . .”

She thought of the woman who had mothered her baby and hoped she was kind and good.

“We pray to the Lord.”

“For mothers who have been unable to be a source of strength, who have not responded to their children and have not sustained their families . . .”
the pastor said.

And she felt as if she could take a deep breath after that, that at least someone acknowledged that there were other mothers like that, who wounded instead of healed. Then she noticed Eden's
rigid posture and blank stare, and suddenly Miranda realized how selfish she'd been.
Think of what poor Eden is going through,
she told herself. Eden had already intimated that she felt her mother didn't want her with them in Minneapolis. Being eleven and having to cope with what felt like rejection, not to mention her father's injury, was an incredible load to carry.

She held her hand out toward Eden, and their eyes met. They exchanged a glance that only two people who have known that pain could share, and quietly Eden slipped her hand into Miranda's. The reading concluded.

“Loving God, you said you love us as a mother loves the child she has borne, and that even though we might forget you, you would never forget us. For you have engraved us on the palms of your hands . . .”

“We pray to the Lord.”

“Amen.”

She looked down at Eden's hand in her own for a moment. It was small and fit inside hers as if it had been made to go there. The nails were clean, but there was a Band-Aid and a scar on the thumb. It was warm and sun-browned, and for a moment Miranda let herself pretend that Eden was her child, that they were a mother and daughter in church on Mother's Day. It was a sweet fantasy. The pastor's voice brought her out of it. She gave Eden a smile, her hand a final squeeze, and let it go. Eden smiled back, and Miranda felt as if they had been shipmates together on a rough patch of sea.