The Tidewater Sisters: Postlude to The Prayer Box (5 page)

I can’t start my new life wrapped in a lie, no matter how precious it is to me.

Tears crowd in as I take one last look in the mirror and imagine what might have been.

Pulling out my phone, I think of at least snapping a photo to keep, and the phone rings in my hand. Paul is on the other end with information. He asks how I’m doing. My attempt to sound fine isn’t too convincing. I’m looking at the dress again, wanting it. I imagine Zoey someday wearing it at her own wedding.

My mind is only halfway on the call as Paul offers up the latest. “So, your sister works at the car dealership, Monday through Friday. She comes in at ten. You wouldn’t have caught up with her this afternoon if you’d driven there, anyway. Their lot is closed on Sundays, and there’s no one there but an Internet shopping specialist, answering the phone. I tried to poke around for personal information like where she lives, but I didn’t get anything. Didn’t want to tip anyone off.”

“That’s good, I guess.” Angel and devil are at war on my shoulders, tugging at the dress.

“Hon?” Paul says. “You all right?”

“Yes. Sorry.” I’m not sure why I don’t tell him where I am and what I’m doing. I guess I’m a little ashamed of myself. I suddenly feel like a looter, no better than my sister.

“Vince has been trying to make some contacts, to see what we can do about dealing with the people on the other end of this lawsuit, but it’s tough on the weekend. He says it’ll help to show that you weren’t
in knowledge
of the contract if, first thing Monday, you file a complaint against your sister.”

“Ohhhh, I hate this . . .”

“A few hours ago you were ready to choke her with your bare hands.”

Air escapes in a long sigh. The dress falls from my shoulders and hangs over my arm. “I know.”

“Second thoughts?”

“I don’t know.”

He laughs softly. “Maybe you should sleep on it.”

I nod in agreement, even though he can’t see me, and turn to look at the pair of twin beds, with their dust-shrouded pink chenille spreads. The place where two little girls slept side by side.

My head swirls, and I realize I haven’t eaten a thing all day. I’m thirsty, too, and exhausted.

More than that, I just have no idea where to go from here. Should I load the car with all the things I’ve gathered? Should I leave them and come back for them later?

Gina won’t be at work until ten tomorrow. I could come back in the morning and finish up.

“Can you tell Vince I’ll call this evening, but I don’t want to do anything official until I’ve actually talked to Gina? She . . .” I’m about to say she may have some explanation, but that’s a waste of words. Gina
will
have an explanation. Many of them, most likely. Every one will be as slick as the polished silver that has disappeared from the china cabinet downstairs.

“Seashell Sandy says she’s ready to get the widow maker from behind the store counter and come take care of business over there.” That’s Paul’s way of warning me not to be drawn in by my sister.

“I’m sure she is.” Sandy, who loves her own sister like crazy, has no illusions about mine. She probably would take out the baseball bat she keeps for protection and go after Gina. “Is everything okay at the museum?”

“Shipshape. The kids and I tracked down the electrician today, and he’ll be here tomorrow. Told him if he didn’t show to finish up his work, Vince was going to bring the hammer down on him and get our advance payment back. I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble. Other than that, your little college intern seems to be doing a good job holding down the fort.”

Relief seeps into me, but another wave of light-headedness hits at the same time. The filthy bed looks tempting suddenly. I really need to go to town and get some food.

A dog barks outside as Paul and I say good-bye, and I jerk away from the mirror with a start, then look through the wavy, dirt-streaked plate glass, still holding the wedding dress looped at my waist.

My chin drops and I can’t move for a moment.

That’s old Boomer. I’d know the black lab mutt anywhere. After all the days of watching him nip the salt air in the bed of Pap-pap’s truck, dig tunnels in the dunes, chase ghost crabs on the beach, and ride with Pap-pap in the tractor cab, I’d never mistake another dog for him.

A wave of excitement fills me, followed by overwhelming warmth and joy. Boomer was my friend and confidant, my comforter each time my parents split and we landed here with Mama. Boomer was always willing to run to the mulberry orchard with me and lie patiently across my lap for hours, licking the salt of my tears.

Now there he stands by the yard fence, gazing up at the window as if he’s beckoning me.
Come and rest,
he seems to be saying.
Come sit under the mulberries.

The illusion bursts as quickly as it has formed. It’s gone like a soap bubble. Boomer would be ancient by now. That can’t be him. Maybe the hunger has gone to my brain.

But everything’s there. Even the peanut-shaped white patch on his chest.

Maybe I’m . . . hallucinating? Maybe I’ve passed out on the floor and I’m dreaming all of this?

There’s no clean place to set the wedding dress, so I hurry to the hall and run down the stairs with it still folded over my arm.

The back door sticks, and I’m sure Boomer is a figment of my imagination anyway, but when I finally rush out, there he is. Still standing in exactly the same place, calmly watching me from the fringes of the orchard.

“Boomer?” I whisper.

He wags his tail slightly, as if the name has meaning . . . but how could it?

His head lifts, jerks toward the barn.

I hear whistling. A man’s whistling. It echoes off the house and outbuildings, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere.

My heart leaps up and pounds in my neck.

The breeze lifts the wedding dress, folding the satin around my legs as if to hold me there against my will.

The dog and I stare in the same direction, and the whistling grows in volume and narrows in focus. A form melts from the shadows of the wide barn door . . . worn work boots, long legs in dirt-stained jeans, a faded blue chambray shirt, a face hidden beneath the brim of a straw cowboy hat that’s seen better days.

He looks up, and the misty light reveals him, and all at once I realize I knew him already by his lanky, loose-jointed walk.

But it can’t be. It’s impossible.

My mind screams against it, the farmyard swirls, and I do something I’ve never, ever done in my life.

Blackness closes around the vision of him, and I let it swallow me whole.

I wake to a dog licking my face, and at first I think it’s Chum, from Sandy’s Seashell Shop. He comes home with us sometimes when Sandy is away. The kids have been campaigning for a dog of our own, after Paul and I get back from the honeymoon.

My mind slips into the thought that the wedding has already happened and we’re settled in at Paul’s grandmother’s, helping her take care of the rambling I-style house on Hatteras.

Then I hear a man’s voice, and it’s not Paul’s.

“Boomer, cut it out. Get back.”

I blink at an expanse of sky, wide and blue and empty. Then I see the dog’s face and the man’s, side by side, and my mind is lost in time and space.

I’m left powerless, floating from one idea to the next.

Am I dead? Maybe a blood clot or an aneurysm? Heart attack? Something that kills silently and without warning?

Heatstroke? But it’s cloudy and mild today. . . .

Who’ll tell the kids? Thank heaven they have Paul and his family.

But
I
want to raise my kids. I want to be alive.
This isn’t fair,
my mind screams. I zero in on the face above me again. He seems so real. I try to remember, did he and his older brother look this much alike? Could that be who’s hovering over me now, trying to elbow the dog away?

But I know one could never be mistaken for the other. The older brother had brown hair. The eyes staring down at me now, the knitted brow with curls of blond hair hanging over it, the up-and-down quirked mouth . . .

This is Luke.
My
Luke.

Maybe I’m still out cold on the lawn, caught somewhere between heaven and earth.

Luke?
I try to say, but my voice is barely a croak. He smiles the wide white smile that once came with double-dog dares—that later convinced me to sneak out the window and climb the silo ladder with him, to lie on the roof of the barn counting a million stars and watching a distant sea storm, billowing toward the Tidewater flatlands.

“You had me worried.” His voice is just as I remember it from that last year, when suddenly it had become a man’s voice. The person crouched above me is older, world-worn in a way I can’t define, but this
is
Luke.

I try to sit up. “I . . . think I . . .”

“Ssshhh. Hold on a minute. Not so fast.” He slips an arm beneath my shoulders, gently supporting my weight.

I feel the wedding dress slide across my arm. I need to keep it off the damp ground.

The worry is quickly eclipsed by the sight of him.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he laughs, but it’s not funny. There’s nothing funny about it. I feel the blood draining from my head again.

“Easy there. You’re not quite yourself yet.”

“Luke?” Finally, I speak the name.

“You were expecting, maybe, the Easter bunny?” He uses the exact line from that last summer together, when he had changed, and I had changed, and I barely recognized him, a foot taller and almost a man.

No one else would quote that silly Bugs Bunny cartoon to me. No one on this earth.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.” A concerned look follows his apology. “My sister told me you were down here when I came in from disking the field a while ago.”

“Your sister?” I speed-recycle the conversation with Laura. Mostly we were preoccupied with the property issues, but she mentioned that her brother was helping with the work around the farm. I’d assumed she meant
her older brother. How could it be anything else?

I must be dreaming all of this. I’m probably back home on Hatteras, still asleep in my bed, and none of this—the farmhouse still being here, the treasures Meemaw left in the tobacco tin, her wedding dress—is real. It’s all just a figment of hope and regret.
The conclusion brings a stab of disappointment but also a conscious decision to go along with it. I want to live in this dream for a while, see where it leads.

There are things I want to say to Luke. A million things.

“I’ve missed you.” It seems all right to admit that in a dream. But afterward, I feel awkward nonetheless.

His smile falls, and sadness darkens his features. There’s a haunted look in his eyes. The dog nudges him, concerned. Boomer always had a sense of people’s emotions, an innate desire to comfort and protect.

My mind begins to clear on that thought. I start trying to compile logical answers again, but I really can’t come up with any.

Luke scratches the dog’s head, looks toward the mulberry orchard as if he’s remembering all the times we selected tree castles and played Robin Hood there. His blue eyes are clear and contemplative. “I always wondered if you’d ever come back.” A flush steals into his cheeks. “I’ve seen your sister a couple times over the years . . . when I’ve been home. I’ve lived a lot of places.”

I wonder if Laura has told him that Gina’s story about my having recurrent leukemia was a complete hoax. One she kept going for years.

Reality seeps in a little more.
I’ve seen your sister a few times
. . . Has he?

Has Gina been here and seen Luke,
my
Luke, walking and talking and fully alive? And never told me?

Is he alive? Is all of this real?

He looks at me a moment, his gaze seeking mine, almost as if he’s wondering the same thing. “You’re two shades of pale, Tandi Jo. How about we go sit on the porch a minute until you get your feet under you?”

“That’s probably a good idea.” As he half lifts me from the ground and walks me to the porch, I admit to him that I got wrapped up in looking through the house, and I haven’t eaten all day. He offers to grab the leftovers from the lunch his sister packed for him when he headed to the field this morning, then jogs off. I’m almost reluctant to let him disappear into the barn. I’m afraid he’ll never come out again.

I keep my hand on the dog, hoping he’ll stay as proof—something not made from smoke and wishes. Boomer
feels
real enough. His ribs rise and fall beneath my hand, and his heartbeat flutters against my fingers, yet he must be dead by now. Part of my mind insists this must be a dream.

I notice my grandmother’s wedding dress lying on the grass, and I wobble over to retrieve it, lay it gently across the porch railing, where the wind has swept the wood clean.

If Luke thought it odd at all to find me in the yard, holding a satin gown, he didn’t say anything. But it must’ve looked strange.

In a minute, there he is again, crossing the yard on long, unhurried strides. Just as always.

He opens a lunch sack and offers up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, some chips, a banana MoonPie, and a juice box. “Sorry. She feeds Dale and me the same things she feeds all the rug rats.”

“Are you kidding? It looks delicious.” Silence settles over us, and I would be embarrassed to eat in front of him, but I’m too hungry to care. He waits until I’ve devoured the sandwich and half the juice before he starts the conversation again.

“So . . . tell me where you’ve been all these years?” he asks finally. I’m conscious of the fact that he’s watching me intently as I open the MoonPie, pinch off a bite, and savor it. MoonPies were Pap-pap’s favorite.

I wonder if Pap-pap and Meemaw will eventually come into this dream too. I would love to see both of them again.

“Well, I live on Hatteras now. For the last year, I’ve managed the renovations on one of the biggest historic houses on the island. Benoit House. The community is turning it into a museum, and people will hold weddings
and occasions there. Long story about how I got into that, but I was in the right place at the right time with the right skill set. You know my dad always did construction, and I helped a lot with his business.” We’re both aware that
helped
is a strangely innocuous term for it. From the time I was nine or ten years old, I was driving my father to and from jobs when he was too drunk to get behind the wheel. “I moved to Hatteras not long after the hurricane, so one thing sort of led to another. I also work a couple days a week at Sandy’s Seashell Shop and sell some of my driftwood art there. I have a daughter who’s fifteen and a son who is ten. Zoey and J.T. They’re great kids, if I do say so myself.” For some reason, I hesitate, intending to add,
and I’m getting married in less than two weeks,
but Luke responds in the pause.

“Wow . . . kids . . .” He draws back a little. “You have one who’s fifteen?”

“I got pregnant my first year in college. It’s not a real pretty story.” So many things aren’t, but if this last year has taught me anything, it’s that God has the capacity to make incredible things from our mistakes. Zoey is incredible. “That’s enough about me. Tell me about you. Tell me where you’ve been.” I try to imagine what he’ll say. Will he describe heaven? Or in this dream, has he gone on and lived a regular life? He did say he’d been lots of places. What does that mean?

A bank of clouds further dampens the sun, and he turns his shoulder to me, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head fall forward. His shoulders hollow out an arc, the chambray fabric settling over them.

I want to lay a hand there, and I don’t even know why. The dog circumvents me and curls up beside Luke on the porch step, his face resting on the black dirt stains that tint Luke’s work jeans.

“It’s not the prettiest picture either. You know, after the accident, when they finally dialed back the meds and I came to, Laura was in a wheelchair, and my parents had spent almost everything they had, paying the medical bills, and it was all my fault. I just couldn’t . . . deal with what I’d done.”

A long breath shudders out. He strokes the dog’s soft coat, studies the field. “I didn’t make very good use of the second chance at life. When you’re running from things, you never do. You spend all your energy on pointless movement. You don’t have anything left to build with. I moved here and moved there, worked on a shrimp boat, did some seasons at ski resorts and national parks, went through a stint as an Army Ranger and tried my best to get myself killed, came home off and on and helped with the farm. I wanted to do what I could to make it up to Laura, not that she ever told me I needed to. But I was the one driving the truck that day.” He casts a sad look my way, as if he desperately wants to know what I’m thinking, as if he
needs
to know. “I was always glad you weren’t in it.”

My head reels so wildly that I can’t even answer. Reality doesn’t just seep in, it floods. I’m underwater for a moment, gasping for air. “They told me you died” is all I can manage.

Bright-blue eyes blink, stare, and blink again. “They what?”

“When we left here that summer, you weren’t expected to survive.” The news had been all over Mulberry Run Road. I can still hear my grandparents talking about what a tragic thing it was. “Sometime after that, my father told me you were gone. My parents were in a custody fight with my grandparents by then, and Daddy wouldn’t even bring us back here for the funeral.”

His brows rise and hover. I can see his thoughts moving. “Well . . . the doctors did tell my parents to be prepared. They’d had the talk about organ donation. But you know, doctors aren’t always right. Sometimes it doesn’t happen like they expect. By the fourth or fifth day, and the fourth or fifth surgery, they thought I might make it after all.”

He goes on and describes what he survived as a sixteen-year-old and what his family went through, with two kids facing months and years of follow-up surgeries and physical therapy. I try to imagine as if it were Zoey and J.T., but I can’t.

I keep thinking,
By the fourth or fifth day . . .
they thought I might make it. . . .

It was well after that when my father, frustrated with my tears and professions of love for Luke and pleas to return to the farm, said something like,
Shut up about it already. That Townley kid died a couple days ago. I
didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be all broke up. You’re thirteen. You don’t even know what love is. I don’t wanna hear about that Townley kid no more, you get me? Just leave it go.
. . .

By the time Luke’s story ends with his leaving home at seventeen, the dog is chasing the leftover banana MoonPie down the steps. I must’ve dropped it.

“Boomer,” Luke scolds. “Get away from . . . well, too late.” He aims a shrug my way, seeming ready to lighten the gravity of our conversation.

“Boomer,” I repeat. “That’s not
the
Boomer?”

“Of course not. He’d be, like, twenty-five by now. But your grandpa’s dog
got around
, if you know what I mean. You could say his legacy lives on.” Luke’s lips quirk in a way that is so familiar. I suddenly remember that first kiss in the mulberry orchard. I remember everything about it.

That kiss both rocked the world and changed it in the way that first kisses so often do. When Luke Townley kissed me, I thought I knew, right then and there, what my future would be.

We planned it all out together, lying side by side beneath the mulberry trees.

Now, looking at him, I wonder . . . Does he remember the promises we made?