Pearl (29 page)

He shook as she held him, his face wet, but he showed no tears. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m right here.”

She spent the next few days locked in her room. She refused to respond to her father’s pleas, or attempts to make her come out to eat. She curled up in a ball, sometimes alone. Sometimes she felt Billy beside her.
 

Only he could know how she hurt.
 

When he was there she did her best to pull herself together for his sake. They would watch a movie in her room, or they would read side by side, always comforted by each other’s company and yet knowing no words needed to be said. Pearl would not allow a child to console her. It was her job to be there for him. But Billy seemed hell bent on taking care of his sister by bringing her fresh water and leftover dinner. It was as though their roles had reversed. She loved him for his enormously big heart, but wasn’t ready for him to grow up.
 

 
She preferred when she was alone. She needed to grieve. She needed to purge the anger and the pain of it all. She needed time to process what it all meant.

She still couldn’t grasp the fact that she would never see her mother’s face again.

It had been the outcome she had never prepared herself for.

What was worse was that she had lost her mother twice. The hope of seeing her mother again was what kept her afloat, kept the anger at bay so it didn’t consume her. She had let her mother go, knowing one day she would return. Her mother would eventually have fulfilled her dreams and realized her real fortune was at home waiting for her.
 

To deal with the death of her mother was a blow. How to even wrap her mind around that, she didn’t know. She couldn’t hold back her anguish. The despair seeped through her pores.
 

 
Darkness swallowed her as she disintegrated into the sheets. She was lost, and bewildered, and utterly confused as to how she should feel. Resentment felt wrong. As much as she grasped hold of it, the anger didn’t seem to fit. Not at her mother or her father. She wanted to hate him for lying to her, and she tried to soak in that hatred, but the sense of sadness was too overwhelming. And she realized sulking around about her own grief was selfish when she felt pity for him as well.
 

And the startling truth was, she could relate to her father. She knew what it was like to lie, to feed someone the words you believe they would want to hear. She had been doing that to her father for the last year with her letters. And he knew it and saw right through her. That didn’t make what he did right—it only made her have a sense of understanding. Big or small, living a lie was what it was: a lie. What her father did was indisputably wrong. But deep down she knew it was only to protect her.

If she was to let go of the anger, then she had to face the grief, and that was nearly unbearable. She pulled the pillow over her head and cried for her loss, dwelling on the unfairness that life had dealt her. She wallowed in it. The sadness was exhausting, and she fell into a deep sleep, wanting nothing more than for her mother to return to her dreams. But blackness was all that surrounded her. It engulfed her, and she began to fear it would overtake her.

She had a choice. Let the anger and misery overcome her, or learn how to live with it.
 

She sat up in bed, alone at dusk. It had been days since she returned home from Oregon. She pulled the covers back and decided then she would make the decision to not let the sadness devour her. It was hard to take that first step out of bed, but she did it. And afterward, she took another brave step until she was standing before her dresser. She donned fresh clothes and swept her matted hair into a ponytail. She would not look at herself in the mirror for fear that what she would see could send her back to bed. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

She walked down the steps quietly, as though to go unnoticed. The house was eerily silent and dark. She passed by the front door, flipped on the outside light, and swiftly turned it back off again, but not before her father turned to look at her from the patio. She hesitated and then opened the door and stepped out. The Arizona sun was just setting over the rocky hills, leaving a slight chill in the wind. Pearl pulled her arms over her chest to warm her weakened bones as she took the seat beside her father. She looked around, remembering now the beauty she found in the desert. The rich hues of red and golden browns bled together against earthy clay and patches of sparse green. It was a sight she had known her whole life and loved. She felt ashamed she had turned her back on it so quickly.

Her father looked straight ahead, barely acknowledging her presence. She sat back in the chair, bringing her knees to her chest.
 

“Where’s Billy?” she asked.

“At a friend’s house, from school,” he answered.

They sat in silence, soaking up the trailing sun. Pearl rested her head on her knees and turned to eye her father.

“Why do you always sit out here?” she asked.

He smiled sadly. “It’s my last memory of her.”

Pearl stared at him. “Even though it’s a sad memory?”

“It’s not the only thing I think about. I see plenty when I look out on this land.” He pointed east, just past where cacti throve in patches of red dirt. “I see her dancing with you as she did many times. You two towheads twirling in the breeze. I see her cradling Billy on an old quilt right there in the grass below our feet.” His smile widened. “I remember her showing me the stars. She could find any constellation at any time of year and share with you the story behind it.”

Pearl watched his face. It was the most content she could remember him being.

He turned to look at his daughter, his warm eyes shifting as he took in her sadness. “I’m glad you decided to come out of your room.”
 

She remained silent, thinking there were too many things to say, and yet nothing would form on her lips.
 

“Are you going to tell me what happened to you on the farm?” he asked.

She turned her head back to the darkening field. “Not now,” she said. “But maybe one day.”

He nodded. “I know he wasn’t the man you wanted him to be. It’s a hard lesson to find out. Just promise me you won’t let your heart grow cold like mine.”
 

Pearl shivered. Her father slipped off his light coat and draped it over her shoulders.
 

“I know I hurt you and Billy,” he said. “And I will go the rest of my life repenting that. But one thing to know, Pearl, is that I hurt, too.”
 

Pearl pulled the coat tight over her shoulders.
 

“I miss her every day,” he said, settling back into his chair. “I don’t know what would have come of us. Maybe we would have worked it out. Either way, I know I would have loved her the rest of my life.”
 

“I miss her, too,” Pearl said.

Her father looked at her and nodded.
 

“I dream about her,” Pearl admitted. “I thought they were just dreams anyway, but now I’m not sure.”
 

Her father’s eyebrow rose. “How so?”

She shrugged. “They feel so real.” She reflected on the last dream she had of her mother. It was several nights ago, but still she could hear her mother’s voice so clearly. She had felt her mother’s fingers in her hand as they held on to each other, and heard her mother’s high giggles as they twirled together.
 

 
“She told me I need to forgive him,” Pearl said. She looked to her father’s astonished face. “Do you think she means you?”

His mouth dropped open. He closed it and turned his damp eyes to the view of the field before them. “I sure hope so.”

There was work to be done. A deep tear between her father and herself that would take time to repair. It would be hard, and it was going to hurt. She didn’t know how long it would take. What she did know was that she couldn’t run.
 

Pearl watched her father, and with one hand she reached her hand out to him and gave her mother her last wish.
 

CHAPTER 26

Several weeks passed before Pearl got up the courage to write Vernie the letter she needed to send. She had to find her truths, and that was more difficult than Pearl had imagined.
 

She told Vernie of her mother, how she had died the night Pearl watched her run. How her father had lied to protect her, and that she understood the courage it took to tell people the truth even if they didn’t want to hear it. She told Vernie she missed Oregon, if only for her, and for Ben. She was sorry for not telling Vernie about Ben. She told Vernie that she’d filled that void only a mother can provide. She said she dreamed about her nights on the porch with Virginia, and had a little sip of moonshine every now and then in her honor. She said she hoped to see Vernie again, if only for a moment to give her the hug goodbye she never got to give.
 

Pearl finished her letter, and with one last touch she added her return address. It was a glimmer of hope that she would hear from Vernie again. She’d debated sending Ben a letter as well, but knew what was done was done. She had wrapped Ben up in her web of madness, and he deserved better. There wasn’t a moment that passed when she didn’t think about him. But she buried it away for her times of quiet when she could reflect back with a tear and a smile.
 

One of the first things she did when she was back on her feet was file for divorce from Roy. It wasn’t hard, since they had no assets and she wanted nothing from him. She was ready to put him in the past. Chalk him up to a lesson learned. She could be angry with him, or she could be grateful to him. Without him she would have never learned how to speak her mind, to know truly what she wanted out of life and out of a man. And it wasn’t him.

Her only sadness was turning away from the life she had built in Oregon. She had blossomed on the farm with the help of Vernie, Sammie, and Ben. She missed Sammie’s boisterous friendship and wished desperately to see her become a mother. She craved Vernie’s wit and fierce protection. And Ben—she dared not to even count what she missed. The list would be endless, and she would be broken by the end of it.
 

A turning point came when her father took her and Billy to her mother’s grave. Standing by the cement block, Pearl expected to feel sadness, to want to dig up the grass and crawl beneath the dirt to carry her mother out. But instead, seeing it brought a warm sense of peace over her. It was finally real. She could finally absorb it and let it go. She stared at her mother’s grave, feeling the overall relief that she could finally stop searching. No more looking behind corners to see if her mother was there. No more waiting by the window to see if her mother would return. No more wishing for dreams where she could see her because it was the only vision she held on to. No more feelings of unworthiness and rejection.
 

Once she let it go, it was amazing the tranquility that came over her, and with that the flood of memories that seeped through.
 

There was a new ritual at bedtime with Billy. He would finish his books, alone as he had become accustomed to, and then she would come in to say goodnight, and they would end up talking well past bedtime as she would share with him the stories that came back to her.

“I thought of a new one today,” Pearl said.

Billy snuggled down in his blue striped flannel sheets, which matched his pajamas perfectly.
 

She sat on his bed, her knees tucked to her side as she leaned on her elbow.
 

“Am I in the story?” Billy asked, his eyes wide with anticipation.

“You are.” She smiled. “Mom always loved to look at the stars, and one night we were sitting out on a blanket sometime in the summer. I remember it was horribly hot, and when the sun set we would head outside for the desert breeze. Dad was there, and you were just a baby and slept on Mom’s belly as we lay out and looked at the sky. Mom pointed to a star. It was bright and rich yellow that made it stand out from the other whiter stars. Mom told us that it was her most favorite star because it had a secret. This star, named Capella, was one of the brightest and looked like one huge star, but really it was four.”

Billy smiled. “Cool. Why does it look like one?”

Pearl shrugged. “She said that’s the magic in it. She said you can’t just be bright on your own—you need a team. She said we were like Capella in that there were four of us and that made us brighter and better than any of the other stars that only had one.”

Billy’s smile quickly faded into a frown. “But what if there are only three?”

Pearl reached out and tousled his freshly bathed golden hair. “There are still four of us, kiddo. Mom is just somewhere else, keeping the star lit for us.”

Billy’s smile returned as he nestled back into his pillow.

Pearl flicked off the light and closed the door. She was startled to see her father standing in the hall, watching her.

“I remember that story,” he said. He leaned against the wall, his arms loose in his jeans pockets. “Sounds like your memory is getting stronger.”

She braced herself against Billy’s door. “Do you listen to us every night?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Most. I like it. Some stories I remember, some are new.”

“You don’t have to stand in the hallway,” she said.

“No, I think it’s important that you and Billy have your time. You’ve always been your own team.”

She heard the sadness in his voice. “We are a team, too, Dad.”

He pushed off the wall and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. They walked down the steps. “I know that, kiddo. It’s nice to have you around again.”
 

They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, just before the front entrance.

She pulled back from him and said, “I bet we could find Capella tonight.”

“I bet you’re right.” He smiled. They kept the lights out and walked out to the edge of the patio. They searched in silence, staring at the mass of endless stars.