Coming Home (2 page)
Chapter TwoSHE DROVE NORTH from Wichita on I-135 and tried not to think. She planned to take I-70 all the way to Denver, then travel north on I-25 to I-80 going west and then I-84 to Oregon. She listened to a country station for most of the morning, and then she slipped in a Dixie Chicks CD and clicked to number two, her favorite. Natalie crooned: “She needs wide open spaces, room to make a big mistake… .”
Can’t get any wider than the ocean,
Jessie thought wistfully.
She remembered the first time she’d driven this road, heading in the opposite direction. That had been four years ago, and this stretch of road reminded her that at the end of things, it was always the beginning that loomed so large. Just as thinking about last night’s breakup reminded her of the first time Brandon had winked at her across the room, the promise of his smile melting her heart.
Why did I ever think this time would be different?
she wondered now.
Bits and pieces of last night’s conversation continued to play over and over in her mind. But none more than
“You need help,”
and she felt a renewed sting of regret. Yet deep down hadn’t she sometimes wondered this herself?
“No,” Jessie whispered. “He’s wrong.”
Thinking of Oregon in general and men in particular, she wondered how she’d ever start over again: The first shared smile. The first date. The first flowers—maybe roses, maybe carnations. The first “our song.” (How many “our songs” did she have?) The first kiss—and that was the most painful to imagine.
I’m a good person,
she argued to herself.
Worth dating. I’m a lot of fun. I have a sense of humor. I’m supportive. I’m generous. I’m …
It sounded like a personal ad. She turned the rearview mirror so she could see herself and cringed at the sight of her swollen eyelids.
On a good day, I’m passably cute
.
“You need help,”
he’d said.
“Psychiatric counseling. The full meal deal … therapy … drugs.”
He might as well have added
“shock treatment and a tight-fitting straitjacket. And don’t forget the padded walls.”
She gritted her teeth. “I’m a good person,” she said aloud. She repeated it until the tears came again, and it occurred to her that beginning again was pointless. Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Some things just didn’t work out.
I’m done,
she thought, trying it on for size, and it seemed to fit. But Darlene would have said,
“Yeah, right.”
The interior car temperature was stifling under the noontime June sun. The air-conditioner struggled to keep up, but she barely noticed. At about two o’clock, she reached Limon, Colorado, and saw the sign for Highway 24 leading to Colorado Springs.
“Will you be seeing your grandmother?”
Darlene had asked.
Jessie’s grandmother lived in the Springs, but Jessie had grown up about a half hour to the north in the small town of Palmer Lake. She pulled onto the shoulder and gripped the wheel, taunted with indecision.
This is ridiculous,
she thought.
I’m not going back… .
She took a look around. Limon appeared to be the capital of fast foods. She hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. What would it hurt?
Inside a burger joint, she sat at a warped Formica table and ate a chicken sandwich while she gazed through the smudged window. From where she sat, she could see busy I-70 as well as the exit sign for Colorado Springs. She smiled wryly—
the road less traveled
.
Back in the car, she twisted the key in the ignition. The music came alive again and an old memory surfaced. Brandon had told her he would never have pegged her as a country music fan. She’d asked him why, and he’d shrugged.
“It’s so hokey.”
When she’d later related the conversation to Darlene, her roommate was quick to fill in the blanks.
“Hokey is just the first rung, honey. Climb a little higher and you get sappy, silly, annoying … shall I continue?”
“It’s a-wink-and-a-nod music,”
Jessie had argued.
“Like an inside joke… .”
“It’s awfully optimistic,”
Darlene had replied finally, and what she’d really meant was: It’s awfully optimistic … for you.
Jessie’s ruby-red-slipper key chain clicked with the motion of the idling car, and for a few sways at least, it matched the rhythm of the beat. The sound triggered a sudden mysterious dread within her, like the rapidly fading echo of a door clicking shut and opening again, or maybe a door locking and then unlocking … and she had a clear sense that some decisions alter the course of your life and others don’t, and perhaps right now she had one of those lifechanging decisions to make.
A scattering of faint images came to her, seemingly out of nowhere. Tall pine trees, towering over her … a little boy standing at the grave site beside her … a lifetime ago. What was his name? And why was she even thinking about
him
?
She glanced at the now motionless keys. Turning off the engine, she stared at the ruby-red-slipper key ring closely, as if trying to remember something long forgotten. Yet knowing instinctively that pondering this further would be like recklessly pulling the thread in an expensive Berber carpet only to witness the entire floor come undone.
In her smoldering, claustrophobic Honda, locked in with a relentless barrage of torturous thoughts, four years of empty memories and friendships barely begun, the past became painfully clear. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, whispering the obvious truth, the truth she conveniently ignored most of the time:
The past is your future, kiddo. Have you noticed yet?
Suddenly she became aware that she’d been pressing the heel of her hand against the steering wheel, and her wrist flared painfully. She released the wheel and sat there for another minute.
Right to Denver. Left to Colorado Springs.
She picked up her cell phone from the passenger seat and dialed her old number. She had to concentrate, the number already fading from her memory. Darlene answered on the first ring and sounded surprised. “Jessie?”
“I just wanted to … uh … I forgot to tell you that, uh …” she struggled. “I’ll let you know when I get there.” She must have sounded absurd.
“Oh, Jessie. I’ve been—” Darlene paused long enough for Jessie to feel another pang of regret—“I’ve been worried.”
“Would you consider visiting the West Coast in the fall?” Jessie asked, closing her eyes, wincing again. Surely by now Darlene would have washed her hands of this unsatisfying friendship.
“I’d love to, Jessie. So we’ll keep in touch, then?”
“Let’s” was all Jessie could manage before saying good-bye again.
She tossed the cell phone over to the passenger seat and felt weak and vulnerable. Starting the engine, she pulled out of the parking lot, continuing north on I-70. She set her jaw and pursed her lips with new resolve.
But five miles later she reconsidered again.
I’ve been running my whole life. I’ll never be this close to home again—
“It’s not home,” she corrected herself. “Going back won’t solve anything.”
Brandon’s cruel words echoed again:
“What happened to you, Jess? How did you get this way?”
At the next turnoff she gritted her teeth again and switched directions, heading south. By now her hands were shaking. Her stomach hurt, churning an indigestible sandwich. She knew once she reached the outskirts of Colorado Springs, she would take Highway 105 directly to Palmer Lake. The thought nearly unnerved her.
Eventually she regathered her composure, wiping her eyes clumsily with her shirt sleeve.
Fine then. I’ll face the boogeyman, and the boogeyman will disappear. I’ll look under the bed with a flashlight and discover only dust bunnies, because monsters don’t exist.
Then I’ll drive to paradise… .
TRAVELING SOUTHWEST, the mountains loomed before her, rising slowly from the horizon, and a sense of dread rose within her, as well. When she reached the outskirts of the city, she saw the turnoff for 105 and headed directly west. The road was poorly marked, difficult to follow, but soon enough she found her way, finally crossing Highway 83.
After another few minutes she reached Monument, a reformed truck stop, now obviously inundated by the northern expansion of Colorado Springs, twenty minutes to the south. Jessie took a breath. Palmer Lake was just two miles away to the northwest—situated in the foothills.
I’ll just drive through,
she thought. Minutes later, she was surprised by the sign that appeared a mile before what she had always considered to be Palmer Lake proper. To her, home had been the little hamlet built on a gradual incline, like a miniature Swiss village. Instead, she now realized the place called Palmer Lake encompassed the whole range of sparsely populated land along the Front Range. Not so sparse anymore.
According to her late father, only two kinds of people had lived here: artists and antigovernment militants. Even as a child, she suspected her father of having a tendency to reduce life to stark shades of black and white. According to Mrs. Robinette, the village locals were a furiously loyal bunch who relished their private haven, living in the shadow of western bluffs, facing Elephant Rock toward the east. The magnificent rock formation—the final culmination of an east/west-running mountain ridge—overlooked the lake from the east side. The surrounding hills seemed to cradle the small community.
She drove past the Welcome to Historic Palmer Lake sign—the second sign—past the ballpark and the gas station, then slowed in front of the Rock House Ice Cream Shoppe.
She stared at the place … almost stunned.
It really exists,
she thought. But the more she stared, the less she felt—not even bittersweet nostalgia, as if somewhere down the line she’d placed an unconscious filter across her brain, blocking every emotion, good or bad.
Was Mrs. Robinette there? she wondered.
She continued on her way, another half block, until she reached Finders Keepers and pulled into the tiny gravel parking lot. Sitting there, it suddenly struck her: she’d done it. She’d arrived and was, for all practical purposes, scratch free. She stared at the shop and again felt nothing. Only a fuzzy mental Novocain feeling. A pervading numbness.
Why was I so worried?
The gift shop was perched on the edge of a sagging sidewalk. Painted in unimaginative shades of brown topped with splintered cedar shingles, it resembled an oversized storage shed with bay windows.
The gray weathered park bench beneath the display windows held an elderly man who seemed as worn out as the seat he occupied. Jessica’s eyes flitted across his somewhat familiar face several times, but she couldn’t place him. Nor did she see any hint of recognition in his return glances. Relieved, she looked away to the ubiquitous candles and holders artfully arranged in the window. She sat there for the longest time staring at the Open sign, nervously tapping the steering wheel. The shop would close in thirty minutes—rather early for a summer day. She pushed a strand of tawny hair behind her ear and kept staring, tapping. Considering. Reconsidering.
Moments later, a thirty-something woman with a blond ponytail peered out from behind the display, then smiled curiously at Jessica through the glass.
This is getting ridiculous,
she thought.
Taking a deep breath, she twisted the rearview mirror one more time to examine her face, mentally comparing eyes, nose, chin to that childhood image of herself. Sighing, she reached into her purse for the oval amber-tinted sunglasses. She could almost hear Darlene’s voice:
“Face it, honey. You’re a drama queen.”
She put on the glasses but felt silly. No one could possibly remember her anyway. Stepping out of the car, she glanced once more at the old man, who appeared to be asleep. She closed the car door quietly so as not to awaken him and took a step toward the gift shop. A flash of color at her feet caught her eye, and she was startled to see a gossamer-winged butterfly fluttering in panicked desperation against the cement.
Jessie paused for a moment—another wave of indecision. Another tug, as if something were pulling at her from the inside.
The buzzing sound of the dying butterfly filled her ears, and then the entire community seemed to come alive with the wispy chatter of aspen leaves, the drone of a distant mower, the almost undetectable sound of laughing children, and the annoying persistence of a barking dog. The sounds threatened to break through, but she resisted, maintaining her composure. The old man had opened his eyes and seemed to be watching her out of the corner of his eye, his expression one of amusement.
You ain’t from around here, are ya?
At last she knelt, watching the butterfly beat helplessly in a futile attempt to fly. It was rare to see a butterfly die in a public place. Normally, they died in secret. She recalled her year as a fourth-grader at the elementary school just up the street. For Mrs. Fletcher’s science unit, Jessie’s project had been Colorado butterflies—identifying the various kinds and studying the mysterious transformation from cocoon to a thing of grace and beauty. But in the end she’d received only a C for her efforts. Completing the assignment meant mounting all the butterfly varieties she’d gathered, and she’d flat out refused to kill even one.
She rose and brushed at her knees, staring at the dying butterfly. That long-ago fourth-grader would have shed a tear over its fate. That overly sensitive child would have cradled the poor creature in her hands in a gallantly naïve effort to save it.
A butterfly only lives a few weeks anyway,
she told herself now. And butterflies were merely one more reminder of life’s futility. The most beautiful of earthly creatures, it was doomed from birth, destined to blaze brilliantly for a tiny measure of time, then arrive at a pointless death at the hands of a ruthless predator.
Welcome to planet earth, pretty one
. Jessie sighed at how easily her mind could veer to the lowest common denominator. And then, as if on cue, the butterfly ceased its struggle and lay on its side, wings folded. Jessie bent to pick up the tiny carcass, placing the creature beneath the bordering aspen tree, its leaves flickering in the slight breeze.
Her entrance into the gift shop was greeted with a
ching-ching
and an almost overwhelming aroma of potpourri, scented soaps, and candles. The rather small space was comfortably filled with displays of home and garden décor—spun-glass figurines, porcelain collectibles, dolls, gift baskets, and birdhouses of all shapes and sizes. The walls from floor to ceiling displayed framed prints and tapestries.
It seemed so safe. She relaxed slightly, and suddenly her mind swirled with a mixture of happy memories. Of spending hours in this very place, delighting in its visual and aromatic splendor.
She whirled to the left, then breathed out slowly when she saw the entire wall-shelf unit devoted to Dorothy’s Wizard of Oz. Cups, plates, and water globes with tiny Emerald City scenes lined the top shelves. The middle shelves were filled with pewter, porcelain, and nutcracker variations of Dorothy and her friends—the heartless Tin Man, the cowardly Lion, and the madcap Scarecrow. Jessie nearly giggled aloud, putting her hand to her mouth.
Then she spotted the Wicked Witch and, with an almost morbid fascination, picked up the Ruth Hamilton likeness, remembering the first time she’d seen the figurine at age ten or so and thinking immediately of her grandmother. The resemblance was striking.
“Of course, Grandma isn’t as mean as the Wicked Witch of the West,”
she’d once told her father.
“Oh really?”
he’d replied, his tone skeptical.
“No,”
she had said adamantly.
“That wouldn’t be fair to the witch.”
Jessie smiled at the memory—one of the few times her father had actually chuckled. Also one of the few things they had in common—a mutual disregard for Doris Crenshaw, her mother’s mother.
Jessie replaced the figurine, turning to her left. Prominently displayed on a special table was a meticulously hand-painted rendition of Dorothy in those ruby red slippers with dog Toto and the angelic-looking Witch of the East waving a magic wand over her head. Less prominent was its $250 price tag. A tent-shaped sign in front of the music box invited the browser to “Wind me up and enjoy the ageless melody of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
“Those are very popular.” A cheerful voice interrupted Jessie’s reverie. She turned to face the clerk who wore a flowered chintz smock and blue slacks. “They’re handcrafted, and they come with certification. We can’t keep them in stock. They don’t make too many.”
“Very nice,” Jessie replied, her eyes glued to the display. Bracing herself for disappointment, she asked, “Do you still—do you have those key chains?”
“Sure,” the woman said without missing a beat, apparently eager to make any sale, large or small. She pulled out the partly opened drawer of a small wooden chest and removed a key chain. Miniature ruby red slippers dangled below her fingers. “This is the most popular. Aren’t they cute?” She carefully passed them to Jessie and began her sales pitch. “Just look at the detail. They’re made of …”
“… real tempered glass with tiny inlaid pearls,” Mrs. Peterson, the shopkeeper, had sternly told eleven-year-old Andy as his friend Jessie had peered over his shoulder.
“Cool,” he said with boyish aplomb, reaching for the key chain.
With thinly concealed distrust, the woman allowed Andy to hold it, warning that it was expensive.
“It’s so beautiful,” Jessie breathed in awe, touching it with one finger.
“You break it, you buy it, young man,” Mrs. Peterson said.
“I’ll take it,” Andy declared.
“Andy, what’re you doing?” Jessie gasped.
“Don’t you like it?”
“Of course, but—”
“Well, then,” he said, as if the matter were settled. He turned to the clerk as he dug in his pocket.
“We don’t accept returns,” the woman told him, but she did accept the twenty he held out to her.
“Andy!” Jessie exclaimed, frustrated with Andy’s impulsiveness, yet her heart was bursting with excitement….
Jessica handed the ruby-red-slipper key chain back to the clerk. “Do you have the Toto key chain?” she asked.
The woman frowned thoughtfully. “I think so—at least we did last week.” She leaned down and pulled the drawer nearly out of its rails, catching it on her knee, searching through the collection. “Oh dear, I think I sold the last one. I can order it, though.”
“That’s all right,” Jessie said evenly, surprised at her own disappointment. She backed toward the door. “I need to get on the road anyway.”
“No trouble,” the clerk persisted. “It only takes a few days.”
I won’t be back,
she almost said. “I’m from … out of town. Thank you, though.” She forced a smile and hurried toward the door, nearly toppling a floor display of wooden figurines. Just as her hand reached for the doorknob, her eye caught a photo hanging on the wall beside the door. Two gray-haired women stood beside a park gazebo, smiling above the caption: “Mrs. Browning, Palmer Lake’s own award-winning gardener, and Mrs. Robinette, local photographer, historian, and merchant.” Surrounding the personal snapshot were several framed photos of flowers, each including a printed bit of colloquial wisdom.
“Mrs. Browning is our local gardening magician,” the clerk offered from behind Jessica. “Her roses are the talk of the county. Mrs. Robinette owns the Rock House Ice Cream Shoppe down the street. She took all these pictures and framed them. We’ve been selling ’em for years now.”
“They’re good,” Jessica murmured.
Betty Robinette is still alive… .
“Real camera buff,” the woman continued. “She’s been here forever. Most of her photos are displayed in the town hall, but she has some different flowers and more photos on her shop wall if you want to see a bigger selection.”
Jessica’s mind drifted away from the chatty voice beside her, remembering the time when her own picture had been displayed on Mrs. Robinette’s wall. She swallowed before offering an appreciative thank-you, and opened the door.