Coming Home (5 page)

On Saturdays he spent part of the day visiting his parents. Thirteen years ago his father had transferred his medical practice from Monument to Denver, more specifically, the southern suburb of Englewood. Due to his father’s compassionate nature, his general practice had exploded after the move, making him a reluctantly rich man. At first his father had tried commuting, but the travel eventually grew tiresome. His mother, who’d grown up in Hartford, Connecticut, was bored with rugged small-town living anyway. So they moved.

Andy turned into a curved driveway leading to a Spanish stucco home. Entering through the double wooden doors, Andy heard the sound of professional baseball filtering from beyond the open hallway.

“That you, Andy?” His father’s voice echoed from the family room, which, if combined with the separate dining room, was larger than their entire last home had been. A cathedral ceiling hung high over the rooms, and a giant wall of windows faced the mountain range. Expensive hardwood flooring accentuated the slate stone fireplace, and there was a big-screen TV on the opposite wall.

“Who’s winning?”

“Who do you think?” his dad came back with a disgusted tone. He was lounging in the beige sectional sofa, wearing his comfortable gray chino slacks.

“Maybe they’ll pull it out.”

His father snorted. “Staying for lunch?”

“And dinner,” Andy replied, grinning.

“Given any thought to the trip?” his father asked, referring to a medical missions trip to India. He had invited Andy to tag along.

“I’d like to, Dad, but you know—job and everything.”

“Say no more.”

“Andy, come give me a hand,” his mother called from the kitchen.

Dad winked at him. “Your mother’s got a list a mile long. Wouldn’t think of asking me.”

Andy headed for the kitchen. “Everyone knows you have two left thumbs, Dad.”

“You should move back, Andy. Fix this place up.”

Andy gave a respectful but dismissive wave. They’d had this discussion before. He entered the stainless-steel kitchen with hardwood flooring and white cupboards and kissed his mother on the cheek. She was wearing a pink apron over blue slacks, stirring her mixing bowl. Her brown hair was pulled back and pinned in a simple knot.

“So how’s the best-looking unmarried man in Denver?”

“Content.”

“Impossible.” Susan McCormick pointed to the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. One bulb had died on the vine.

“Hmm. We might need to hire this out,” Andy mused.

“Don’t get smart, young man.”

“Where’s the stepladder?”

“Wherever your dad lost it last.”

“Garage?”

“I can’t guarantee your safety out there.”

“Just needs a little organization.”

“Nothing a giant fire can’t fix. We could start over.”

Andy smiled. If his mom had her way, they’d move to a new house every couple of years. She had a restless spirit and loved interior decorating.

“A man is required to keep a messy garage, Mom. It’s an unwritten code.”

She gave him the
look
. The same look that petrified him as boy. Now it seemed comical. “Still going to that church of yours?” she asked, her lips pursed as if dreading the answer, daring him to tell the truth.

“Yep.” He didn’t say he hadn’t attended in a few weeks.

“Is it an all-male church?”

“Nope. Last I heard, they let women in.”

His mother raised her eyebrows. “
Single
women?”

“Sure,” Andy said, smiling. “But mostly single women over fifty-five. I’m dating a sweet widow lady—sixty-four, wonderful grandchildren, a little older than me, but hey, love is ageless. Did I forget to tell you about her?”

Mom gave him another look and began to wrap potatoes in tin foil.

After replacing the light, Andy went out to organize the garage, starting with the tools. He wondered why his father even bothered to purchase them. Five minutes later, his dad peeked his head out the door. “Need some help?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see if I can find someone.”

Andy chuckled. A few minutes later his father returned in his grubbies.

“You’re really making me look bad, son.” He grabbed a pail of rusty nails.

“That’s why I visit, Dad.”

“I suspected.”

Two hours later they emerged, greasy and ruffled, their weekly father-son bonding ritual complete. After washing up in the laundry room, the trio ate turkey sandwiches on the deck overlooking distant Mount Evans. By now Andy was old enough to cherish these times as much as his folks did. After lunch they moved to the lower level and worked on a puzzle, the scene of two peaks in the Rockies called Maroon Bells, they’d begun two weeks earlier.

“That blue is the sky, not the water,” his mother complained, looking at Andy’s gathering pile.

“How can you tell?”

“Oh, for mercy’s sake,” Mom replied.

As a child, assembling puzzles always seemed like a monumental waste of time to him until he understood the true function they served—the same reason some men assembled to play poker.

“Remember when we went to Maroon Bells?” Dad asked, pressing a small piece into the corner.

Maroon Bells was just a few miles from the richest small town in America—the only place where the billionaires were pushing out the millionaires. His parents weren’t the Aspen types, though, and it took one visit to shake the dust of that heathen place from the soles of their feet.

“I remember,” Andy said.

“We took that little girl along, didn’t we?” His mother appeared distracted, plugging another blue piece into her sky. Each of them had their preferred approach to puzzle assembly. Andy had always wondered what that said about them. Mom always did the sky first. Dad was fixated with constructing the border. Andy merely liked to group similar colors and patterns together.

“That’s right,” Dad said in his let’s-not-go-there tone of voice. His resistance only fanned her flame.

“What’s the matter?” Mom asked.

“Nothing, dear.”

She leaned toward Andy as if to confide in him. “Your father hates to lose.”

Oh boy,
Andy thought,
That’ll do it… .

And it did. His father pushed himself right in the middle of the topic, just as his mother had intended. “Losing has nothing to do with medicine, dear.”

“You take these things personally, as if sickness were the opposite team in a football game.”

“That little girl’s mother wasn’t even my patient.”

“But her father was.”

“I think we tried to rescue her for a weekend,” Andy said, trying to deflect the conversation back to its origins. They looked at him curiously.

“You know … Jessie.”

“What do you think ever happened to her?” his mother asked, frowning at her puzzle pieces.

“I don’t know.”

“Boy, oh boy,” his mother said after a few moments of silence as she popped in another puzzle piece. “I used to worry about you two.”

“Why?”

“She followed you around like a lost puppy.” His father glanced over at Andy and chuckled.

“How did we start talking about this? That was eons ago. I was barely out of the cradle.”

His father nodded toward the puzzle and smiled as if to say,
You’re on your own… .

Andy sighed. “C’mon, Mom, she was just a pudgy little tomboy who lived next door.”

“Methinks—” his mother said, beginning her favorite quote from Shakespeare. This, of course, signaled a return to her favorite topic—Andy’s marital prospects.

“You sound like an Italian movie, Mom. Men don’t get married anymore until they’re in their thirties.”

“Nice try,” she said, as if that were an argument of monumental proportions.

Another humorous glance from his dad. They spent the better part of the day dissecting every woman Andy had ever dated, starting in junior high school and working up to college, with his parents weighing in on their favorites. He was surprised to discover that his mother liked
any
of his old girlfriends and not surprised that his father liked most of them. But they didn’t touch Elizabeth.
She
was off limits. His mother’s all-time favorite daughter-in-law prospect. A major sore point for all of them.

Andy briefly wondered how a girl like Marilyn might fit in with his folks. Almost certainly they would adore her from the first meeting, admiring her quiet yet fervent faith. His mother would be giving him the winks and the nudges, just as she had done with Elizabeth five years earlier. Eventually Marilyn would bond with his mom, appreciating the directness that accompanied her demonstrative love.
To know my mother is to love her,
Andy thought, varying the old cliché. Marilyn would especially admire his dad, a man who proclaimed his faith in every medical or personal deed of his life, as long as it didn’t involve repairing or remodeling.

No, he would be a fool to mention Marilyn’s invitation. Mom would be demanding the poor girl’s phone number so she could call and apologize for her son’s rude behavior. Then she’d invite her over for a Saturday night meal and surprise her unsuspecting son.

Andy cringed. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He saw the end from the beginning. If Marilyn knew the truth about him, she’d be thankful—
very
thankful—that he’d declined her invitation.

“So … what was so bad about Jessie?” Andy finally asked, playfully taunting his mother.

His mother bristled. “Oh, honey. That little girl was so messed up after her parents died. She ran away, you know. They never found her.”

Andy broke into a grin. “C’mon, Mom, you’re exaggerating. Of course they found her.”

“Her poor grandmother, what was her name? Doris Crenshaw. What she went through!”

“Did you ever
meet
her grandmother?” he asked.

“Nothing wrong with that woman.”

His dad weighed in. “She was a bit high strung, dear.”

“She was from the
East,
you know. I understand her.”

Andy met his father’s gaze and they both roared. “Of course!” Andy exclaimed, and his father echoed, “The East! You and she are practically sisters.”

“New England’s a small place,” she argued, squinting her eyes at the puzzle, which only got them going again.

“Laugh it up, big boys, but you know as well as I do that Jessica Lehman will spend the rest of her life trying to recover, and that’s it in a nutshell. I hate to think of what’s become of her. The Lord bless her.”

With that, a whisper of silence fell over them. Andy nodded and so did his dad. His mother seemed more than a little relieved when their conversation took a more benign turn, the question of “Whatever became of little Jessie?” forgotten.

Chapter Six

JESSIE KNOCKED AGAIN. When no one answered she gave up and headed for the car. She was crossing the lawn when she heard the slam of a screen door to her right. Startled, she turned toward “Andy’s” house, and for a split second she thought she saw him running across the yard,
“Hey, Jess! Let’s ride bikes!”

Instead, she saw a big dog—larger than a German shepherd—come flying off the front steps, barking so furiously that saliva splattered from its mouth.

Oh boy,
she thought.

A brown-haired girl bolted out the door after it. “Molly! Molly, come here!”

Oh girl,
Jessie corrected herself.

Jessie froze as Molly the dog tore up the ground between devourer and devouree. Prepared to cover her throat at the last moment, she braced for impact. Molly came to an abrupt halt within five feet of Jessie, continuing to bark furiously. More saliva scattered. Jessie was still frozen solid when the young girl ran up behind Molly and grabbed the collar. “Down, Molly! Stop it!”

Wearing denim overalls, a light blue T-shirt, and dirty white tennis shoes, the stranger almost fell over her giant pet. It took all her weight to restrain the dog, leaning backward until Molly whined loudly. Finally the dog gave in and shuffled back, growling from the back of her throat. The girl nearly collapsed with exhaustion.

“She’s too big for me,” she complained, leaning over to catch her breath. “I need a poodle instead.”

“Is it safe for me to leave?” Jessie asked, smiling through the fear.

The girl shook her head. “Maybe not. She might start barking again. Let me carry her home first.”

Carry her?

Molly’s growl had shifted to a low vibration. The girl tugged at Molly’s collar again, but the dog was fixed like cement. “C’mon, girl. Quit terrorizing the neighborhood.”

Jessie crouched down, her eyes meeting Molly’s. The dog sniffed and growled, looking away.

“Careful,” the girl cautioned. “I think she’s upset because you’re hanging out at her house.”

“
Her
house?”

“Yeah, she’s claimed it.”

“Claimed it?”

“You know how a dog—”

“I get the idea,” Jessie said, smiling. Molly took a couple of hesitant steps toward Jessie, sniffing warily.

“Molly, stop it!”

Jessie opened her palms and extended her hand.

“Careful, lady, she doesn’t like …”

Molly began licking Jessie’s hand. She placed a gentle finger under Molly’s chin and began scratching. In the wink of an eye, Molly was a changed dog.

The girl looked astonished. “How did you do that?”

Jessie smiled. “Tell me your name and I’ll tell you my secret.”

“Laura,” she said after a slight hesitation. “My mom got her to, you know, protect us at night. We picked her out at the pound. Mom thought a mean dog would be best, but we didn’t realize how mean Molly was. My mom can barely go near her.” Laura raised her eyebrows. It looked cute and inquisitive. “So … your turn.”

“Simple,” Jessie replied, now rubbing Molly’s ears. “Molly knows me.”

Laura looked confused. “Huh?”

Jessie nodded toward the house. “I used to live there.”

“In the haunted house?”

“Why do you call it haunted?”

Laura shrugged. “Because it looks lived in, but it’s not. ’Least not by anyone you can see.”

Jessie looked back at the house, and the vaguely disturbing details clicked. Not what she saw—the painted siding and manicured lawn—but what she
didn’t
see. No toys in the yard, no cars, no bicycles, no flowers …

By this time Molly had dropped to the ground and was offering her underside to Jessie for a tummy rub. She obliged.

“Unbelievable,” Laura said again, hands on her hips, shaking her head. “You’re Batwoman.”

“I was friends with every dog in this town,” Jessie explained. “Has anyone ever lived there?” she asked, gesturing toward her house.

“Not since we’ve been here,” Laura replied.

The wind had picked up considerably, and a soft clanging sound broke through the Sunday afternoon stillness. Another memory flickered at the edge of her mind.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Laura asked suddenly. Jessie shrugged. “They puff up sometimes.”

“Cool.”

“Oh … yeah,” Jessie murmured wryly.

Laura shrugged. “When did you live there?”

“Twelve years ago.”

“Wow. I’m only ten!”

“I was best friends with the boy who lived in
your
house,” Jessie said, pulling Molly’s ears down, sending her to doggy heaven. “You probably have his room, you know, the one on the second floor… .” Jessie pointed toward Andy’s window.

Laura’s eyes grew wide. “No way!”

“Way,” Jessie rebutted, laughing.

“Are you … it can’t be … are you Jessie?”

“How’d you know?”

Laura giggled. “This is so cool. I always wondered who Jessie was and here you are, you just show up! That’s
so
cool!”

Jessie laughed with her, but her curiosity was bursting at the seams.

“It’s in my room,” Laura explained. “My closet. It’s carved in the wood, you know, behind the door.”

“What is?”

“Your name.”

Jessie had forgotten how she and Andy had secretly carved their names with his pocketknife. Mrs. McCormick had not been pleased, mostly because Jessie had been in Andy’s room. And then she heard the flagpole clanging.

“Was he your boyfriend or something?”

“No.” Again, the ringing of the flagpole. “We were only twelve or so.”

“Well … I’m only ten,” Laura said again, as if twelve were plenty old.

“Don’t you hear that?” Jessie asked.

“Sure, that’s the flagpole at my school. Noisy, isn’t it?”

Jessie nodded. “That’s where I used to wait for him. Then we’d walk home after school together.”

Laura smiled slyly, “You liked him, didn’t you?”

“How old are you again?”

“I told you already,” Laura said, kneeling to help rub Molly. “I like Robby,” she whispered.

“Robby, huh? Does he like you back?”

“I don’t know,” Laura said, shrugging. “Sometimes, he acts weird around me, like yesterday when he stole my chocolate chip cookie and I had to chase him around the lunchroom to get it back.”

“Annoying, huh?”

“He can be
so
annoying,” Laura said.

“He likes you,” Jessie announced with a grin.

Laura brightened. “You think?”

“
I know
.” She paused. “But you’re way too young to have a boyfriend. You need to wait … twenty years or so.”

Laura made a face. “Twenty years? I’ll be …” She concentrated hard. “I’ll be …”

“You’ll be old enough to pick out a really nice boy who won’t break your heart.”

“All the cute ones’ll be taken by then.”

“Good point.”

“I like ghost stories,” Laura admitted suddenly, as if explaining her fascination with the house.

“Maybe you shouldn’t read so many of them, sweetie.”

“Maybe
you’re
a ghost!” Laura exclaimed. “I mean, for all I know, you died and you’ve come back to haunt your old house.”

Jessie winced. “So I’m dead now?”

“And you wouldn’t even know it,” Laura replied matter-offactly, as if offering common knowledge. “And maybe that’s why Molly likes you, because dogs can see ghosts, you know. And ghosts come back to their favorite places. Maybe next time I’ll see you at the flagpole.”

“Why?”

“Because you said you waited there a lot. Maybe that’s why you
really
came back. You know, to keep waiting there … for Andy. That’s what a ghost does; it keeps doing the things it used to do when it was alive.”

“Sweetie …” Jessie began. Laura had taken this ghost idea way too far.

“I know, I know,” Laura said, shrugging. “Mom says I’m mental.”

Jessie reached out and touched Laura’s shoulder gently, putting as much comfort as she could into the small gesture. “Does that feel like a ghost?”

Laura met Jessie’s eyes, and her own eyes glistened for a moment. She shook her head. “No …”

Jessie heard the sound of Andy’s screen door, and then a woman’s voice. Even Molly flinched.

“Laura, get over here—now!”

Jessie removed her hand, and Laura looked terrified. She studied Jessie and then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Mom doesn’t like me talking to strangers.”

She pulled at Molly’s collar, and the dog scrambled reluctantly to her feet. When Laura got to her concrete steps, she turned and waved. Jessie stood to her feet and smiled reassuringly, but Laura’s mother only glared back.

“Molly got out,” Laura explained, climbing the steps.

Her mother swatted her backside. “You didn’t finish the kitchen. Get in there, young lady. How many times have I—”

“Aw, Mom—”

“—told you, Laura—”

The screen door slammed behind them, but suddenly Laura popped out again.

“Laura!” her mother yelled from within the house.

Laura squinted as if Jessie might have suddenly disappeared. Then she brightened and waved again. Jessie waved back, trying to appear very solid. The little girl’s smile increased and then an arm, like a hook in a melodramatic vaudeville stage show, yanked her back into the house.

Jessie sighed and returned to her car. She stared back at the house, the home of her childhood, apparently just as solid but uninhabited. It made no sense. But she was happy with her renewed sense of perspective, and meeting Laura had snapped her out of her self-pity.

She started the ignition, the car keys swinging. A strange notion occurred to her. She reached down and grasped the keys.
No way,
she thought, then smiled. She turned off the ignition and pondered the possibility.

Twelve years ago she’d placed the only key she owned on the key ring Andy had given her for her birthday. It was impossible to imagine, but she flipped through the keys anyway, one by one—her apartment key, car key, trunk key, storage key … and another key she hadn’t used for years.

She stared at it, unbelieving. What else could it be?
Yeah, but it’s a little freaky,
she thought.
Even for you.
She looked back at the vacant house. It had acquired an almost sinister appearance.

What’s the point?
Jessie decided.

Checking her watch, she saw that the time had slipped away. Four o’clock. Too late to get back on the road. If she drove north now, she wouldn’t make it as far as Cheyenne, and she didn’t like the idea of staying in small-town hotels. Denver was her best choice, which gave her time for a quick visit with her old friend. Just now, the idea didn’t seem nearly as daunting as it had an hour ago.