Moon White: Color Me Enchanted with Bonus Content (21 page)

Time passes and I realize that somehow I must’ve managed to sleep. Or maybe I passed out from fear. But I’m wide awake now. And although it’s barely dawn, I get up and put the things together that I think I will need for my escape. To avoid suspicion, I will only use my backpack, but I pack it carefully with warm clothes and socks, rolling them so they will fit. Then I layer some clothes on myself as well, topping this with my parka. I look a little chubby, but I’m guessing no one will notice. Why would they? As it turns out, my dad has already left for the office, and although I can hear Augustine in her studio, she doesn’t come out when I tiptoe through the kitchen, pausing to grab a bottle of juice from the fridge. I’m
sure she’s not eager to speak to me this morning. Perhaps she’s still playing the wounded victim. What do I care? I slip out and get into my car and off I go.

Just for effect, I turn down the street toward the school, but then I just keep driving without looking back. And soon I’m on the highway, heading north. Maybe I’ll go to Canada. I’m not sure. But anywhere is better than here. Let them have each other. Maybe they’re both cheating on each other, both having affairs. Maybe they’ll feel more free now, able to do as they like after I’m gone. Perhaps they’ll invite all their lovers over and have orgies right there in our house — in the living room even. I do
not
even care! I don’t! I really, really don’t! I hate them. I hate them both! They deserve each other!

But even as I think these bitter thoughts, I can feel my eyes filling with hot tears. And then they slip soundlessly down my cheeks.
Don’t pay attention to this,
I tell myself. I can’t possibly be crying for Augustine and Dad. They’re not worth it. They don’t even care.

Soon I’m coming up to the lighthouse, the same place where the seminar was just held during the weekend. Of course, everyone is gone now. Probably since midday yesterday. For no explainable reason, well, other than to dry my face, I pull over, going into the viewpoint parking lot. And then I turn off my car and just sit there. I am so lost. Lost and miserable. And lonely. I remember that divining card that Willow gave me the first day I visited her shop. I remember how she pulled out the Heather card, and she didn’t even know my name. But the warning on the card was that I could become isolated, lonely, in despair. Well, that certainly was prophetic.

And then, almost as if someone has whispered the answer into my ear, I know exactly what I’m going to do. It’s plain and clear and simple. And it makes perfect sense. Almost as if someone or
something has taken my hand, I feel this presence guiding me. I remove the keys from the ignition and slip them into in my backpack, which I leave on the passenger seat. I won’t even lock the doors. Why make this difficult for whoever figures this out later today, or perhaps tomorrow? Maybe they will say, “Wasn’t that thoughtful of her to leave the keys behind and the car unlocked like that?” It will make it much easier to move the car from here after I’m gone.

Then I get out of the car and walk over to the viewpoint area along the edge of the parking lot. Normally the view is spectacular from this spot. Tourists stop here to take photos all the time. The lighthouse and keeper’s house is picturesque, off the right, and then there’s nothing but ocean as far as the eye can see, which isn’t far today since it’s foggy and gray. “Pea soup,” my mom used to say to describe days like this. Funny I should think of that just now. Then it occurs to me that perhaps Mom is the one here with me right now. Maybe she is my guide. I’ve read about spirit guides. Perhaps she is the one holding my hand, lovingly leading me like this. Showing me the end to my trouble. I feel so calm. So at peace. And yet it’s cold out here. The air seems to seep right through all the layers of clothes. But soon it will be over.

I go up to the wall of stone and look over the edge. The drop-off must be at least a hundred feet. Maybe more. I’ve never been good at estimating distances. But I do know that it’s straight down. I can see that much. At the bottom are jagged rocks and pounding surf. No possible way to survive a fall like this.

I climb up on the rock ledge and stand there looking down. It makes me dizzy and I can feel myself swaying slightly, to and fro, and I know that a gust of wind could end this thing — for good. I’m not sure how long I stand there or why I don’t just lean forward and plunge down, but suddenly, like someone has thrown a bucket of
water over my head, I realize what I’m about to do.

I step back, almost losing my balance, and then I partially jump, partially fall, back onto the asphalt parking lot. I lean against the wall, clutching my hands to my chest as my heart pounds so hard that I wonder if I might actually die from a heart attack. What just happened? I look around, almost as if I expect to see someone — someone who intervened. Someone who wanted to get my attention. But there is no one here. At least no one I can see.

My legs feel weak, like noodles, as I walk back to the car. And then I’m assaulted with a barrage of negative thoughts. It feels as if someone is throwing stones at me. Telling me that I’m such a loser, such a failure. What’s wrong with me that I couldn’t even complete something as simple as this? It should’ve been so easy. Why didn’t I go through with it? Can’t I do anything right? I am hopeless, pathetic, a wimp, a fool. I am not worthy to inhabit the earth, the universe, or even my own death. I will never fit in. “Give up!”

And yet as I get into the car, there is this tiny sense of relief — just the faintest whisper of something. Could it be hope? That seems unlikely. But there is something. I tell myself that even if I am wrong, even if I couldn’t jump just now, it doesn’t mean that I won’t later. I probably just needed to plan this thing better. Perhaps there’s something I forgot to do first.
Like what?
I wonder as I lean my head against the steering wheel.
Like what?

Of course, it comes to me now! I need to write a suicide letter so that they will know this wasn’t an accident, or a murder, or a mistake. I should write a note that’s so explicit that everyone will feel guilty. Not only Dad and Augustine, but Hudson and Liz and even Lucy. People should know how deeply they’ve hurt me. And, yes, especially Dad. Of all the wounds I’ve received lately, his is by far the deepest, the deadliest, the absolute worst! He deserves to know this.

So I open my backpack in search of paper. But my school things aren’t in here. And, in my haste to pack so many clothes, I didn’t even bring my Book of Shadows. I cannot find the tiniest scrap of paper. I search in the glove box and unearth an old pen, which may or may not work, but other than a plastic-coated insurance card and the dog-eared car manual, there is nothing I can really write on.

I begin to search the car for something, even if it’s just an old fast-food napkin. But I thoroughly cleaned my car last Friday in anticipation of the weekend seminar. There is nothing there except the old plaid blanket that Mom put in the car years ago. Maybe under the seat. I never clean under the seats. Out of sight, out of mind. So I actually get out of the car and onto my knees to dig beneath the driver’s seat. To my surprise, my hands touch something that feels like a small spiral notebook. Perfect! I pull it out and wipe the dust and grime from the dark cover, then open it only to discover that it’s already been written in. It’s completely filled with writing. My mother’s handwriting. Page after page of words! My mother’s words!

This is incredible. I can’t believe I’ve never found it before. I turn back to the first page and begin to read.

The treatments are not working. Not the chemo, not the radiation. Nothing can stop this hideous invader named Cancer. It has taken over my body. I will be dead within the year. This is so unfair — so wrong. I should be in the prime of my life. My daughter will be a teenager soon. And she will have no mother to guide her. Oh, God, why have you done this to me?

Suddenly I remember how my mother used to write in this small black notebook when she was sick. She called it her thinking book, but she would never let me read it. And whenever I walked in to find her writing, she would close it and quickly tuck it away as if it contained deep, dark secrets, things I was too young to understand. I turn the page and read on, and I cry as I come to places where my mother sounds so totally depressed, so sad, so lost and desperate and ready to give up. Exactly how I feel today. There is comfort here. And I think this is no coincidence that I found this book. I think that Mom really was guiding me. I think that she wanted me to know this — everything about her — before I take the big plunge. I think she really was holding my hand.

After a couple of hours, I realize that I’m freezing cold. Despite my layers of clothes, the cold damp air has seeped into the car and I’m shivering. I turn on the ignition and the heater and continue to read. I feel that Mom is here right now, sitting right next to me in the passenger’s seat, saying, “Go on, read it all, Heather. The answer to life is here.”

I used to believe in God. I used to think that he was the giver of life, the creator of everything, a loving and benevolent God. But I do not believe that now. If God is real, I believe he is cruel, sadistic, a torturer with a wicked sense of humor. And if he has the answers, I believe he is keeping them to himself, wearing his poker face, and playing his cards close to his chest.

Yes,
I think,
I agree with you, Mom.
That is exactly how I feel too. I can’t believe we are so much alike. I can’t believe I almost died
without knowing this. It will be such a comfort to me now, when I stand back on that rock ledge, to know that my own mother knew just exactly how I felt. I imagine her standing there with me, holding my hand as together we both jump.

I continue to read, almost growing impatient with this delay in doing what I know I must do. I’m halfway tempted to set the book aside right now. Maybe I should just go out there and finish what I’ve started and have Mom fill me in on all the details afterward, since I’m sure we’ll be together soon. But for whatever reason, I feel that I should read to the end. It seems only right.

My mother dated all her entries, and I can tell by the dates that the time of her death is only about a couple of weeks away. And yet she still seems so sad and lonely, so lost and confused and frustrated. She keeps asking the same questions about God and life and death and the universe, probing deeper and deeper each time, but she never gets any real answers. It’s breaking my heart. And I’m getting angry too. It was all so unfair. So wrong. I can’t believe how well she concealed her pain and heartache from me during that time. She always seemed so strong, so reserved, so confident. I can’t believe it was all just an act. And yet I know that it helped me get through it. Maybe that’s just what mothers do. Maybe I’ll never fully understand any of this.

Vince said not to, but I’m taking a road trip anyway. I know that I can’t put it off another day. By next week I may be too weak to drive. As much as I hate leaving Heather behind, even for a couple of days, I know this is something I must do. I’m doing it for me.

I look back at the date and realize this must be the time she went to visit an old school friend. I can’t remember the woman’s name, but I do remember being a little miffed that Mom was going away for the weekend and that she refused to take me with her. I thought that was very selfish. It shames me to think that I even threw a little hissy fit over the whole thing. Poor Mom. I read on about how she will drive to Seal Rock and spend a couple of days with Diane. Oh, yes, I remember now, the woman’s name was Diane Ross. Sort of like that singer only it was Diane, not Diana. I remember how, when I was little, I thought Mom actually did go to school with Diana Ross and how I wanted to meet this famous woman. But Mom has assured me they were not the same.

Although the drive is only two hours, I must take a break midway. I need to rest. And I need to write. I need to sort out my feelings about my old friend. I used to envy her. She seemed to have such wisdom and understanding, so at peace with God and life. Even when her mother died during our first year in high school, Diane handled it with incredible grace. I was amazed. And since then, Diane has been no stranger to trials. A few years ago, her husband left her with two little boys to raise, and yet Diane manages it. She is the most grounded woman I’ve ever known. I so wish I could be like her. I wish that she could tell me her secrets. I know she’s religious. But that was something she learned from her family. Simply the way she was raised. Going to church for them was like going to the grocery store. It was something they just did without questioning it. A
way of life. Even when I went with her sometimes, I still couldn’t grasp the whole thing. I thought it was slightly archaic, silly even, not to mention boring. Oh, I never told my friend any of this. Just like I’m not telling her everything right now. Poor Diane has no idea how advanced my cancer is. I’m sure she would never have invited me for the weekend if she knew. She would have insisted on coming to see me. But that just wouldn’t work. Diane thinks we are going to go places and see things. She even mentioned a girls’ night out. When I arrive I will have to explain myself.

I eagerly turn the page as if I’m reading a gripping novel. I can’t wait to hear how this visit goes with Diane. And I do remember my mom seeming different after she came home, after her visit. I assumed it was because Diane was so much fun. Then, just days later, Mom’s health went downhill. Dad blamed it on the road trip. She was bedridden and died the following week. It all seemed to happen so fast. Even though we’d known it was coming, we weren’t prepared for it. We weren’t ready to let her go. I turn the page. I can tell this is the last entry, but at least it’s fairly long. My hands begin to tremble as I read the words.

So much to think about . . . so much to write . . . I don’t quite know where to begin. I am on my way home again. And, oh, I am so eager to get back. It feels as if it’s been two years instead of two days. I need to see my Heather. I need to stroke that beautiful brown hair again, to feel her nestling in my
arms. And I need to see Vince. I have so much to tell him. I wonder if he will understand. I’m not even sure that I understand all of the ramifications. At least not with my head. I understand with my heart. It’s as if God turned on a lightbulb and suddenly things began to make sense. “Faith is a gift from God,” Diane told me. “You can’t muster it up yourself, Lily. But if you ask him, he will give it to you.” Then she went on to explain how God never promised us a perfect life here on earth, but that he promised to walk with us through the hard things, to help us, to love us, to forgive us, and to strengthen us. “But you have to allow him,” she told me. “He won’t force his way onto you. He wants you to surrender to him, Lily. You must trust him with every bit of your life, you must invite him into your heart, and then it will all begin to make sense.” And so, sitting there in her sunny yellow breakfast room, I allowed Diane to lead me in a prayer. I invited God to come into my heart. Actually, I invited his Son, Jesus, whom Diane assured me is one and the same as God Almighty. I don’t claim to understand all this yet. But I do know what happened in my heart when I did this yesterday. It was as if a huge weight was lifted from me. And it was replaced with the greatest sense of peace I’ve ever known. And, to my utter surprise, this was followed with a real joy. Not that sort of jumping-up-and down childish joy, it’s much deeper than that. I am so tired. I will rest and pray. Hopefully I will make it the rest of the way home.
With God’s help, I will. And I will tell my family about this. I hope they can understand. God can help them understand. This is my earnest prayer. Dear, loving God, you must take care of Vince and Heather for me. You must watch over them. You must help them find their own way to you. So that we can one day meet again. Amen.