The Healing (12 page)

Mike was holding her tightly, and Karen could feel the tremors worsening in his body. This anguish over Lori and the tragedy of her first love was going to set him back in the battle against his disease. It seemed like every time he thought he had a handle on it, something happened to weaken his defenses.

“Are Nick's parents here yet?” Mike asked as the doctor stood up.

Karen couldn't help but marvel at her husband's ability to think of others. They had never met the Pappases, yet it wouldn't have surprised her if Mike intended to stand by them on the worst night of their lives. He still had a hero's heart, even if he couldn't carry people out of a burning building anymore.

chapter thirteen

June 2004

Karen snapped back to the present. She stood in the porch doorway, staring indecisively at her husband. Mike was gazing back at her so intensely, he seemed to be in control of her thoughts. “Go find Lori,” he repeated.

She placed Mike's new medical alert pager and the cordless telephone on the mattress beside him. “Just press ‘one' to call me,” she said. She knew he couldn't dial seven numbers. Not that he'd admit it. “The speed dial is set for my cell.”

Mike nodded.

Karen went into the kitchen to fetch her car keys. She made sure her cell phone was turned on and charged before slipping it into her bag. It was hard to convince herself that leaving Mike was the right thing to do. But she had no choice. She ventured out into the night, where neither the shroud of blue moonlight nor the peaceful sounds of nocturnal life could ease her worry.

Every time Karen got behind the wheel of the new family vehicle—a van that was handicapped-accessible and equipped to transport Mike in his wheelchair—she felt like she was driving a delivery truck. There was no peeling out or zipping around corners, but the tires crunched the gravel as Karen pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road. Turning on her high beams, she formulated a grid of the town in her head and devised a plan to cover each section as systematically as she could. When Lori had been little, Karen enjoyed rediscovering the secret places of her childhood through her daughter's eyes, so Lori was almost as familiar with the back roads and scenic hideaways as her mother. If she was anywhere in Southold, Karen would ferret her out.

If she wasn't . . . Karen tried not to think about that.

Nearly an hour passed. She was scouting out one of the beach communities along the sound, cruising slowly through the unlit streets like a thief casing a neighborhood, when the sharp, annoying ring of her cell phone almost put her through the windshield. Jerking to a stop, she fumbled for it and strained to see the small green square of light it produced in the darkness. She hoped her eyes weren't deceiving her when she read the word
Home
.

Karen couldn't get the phone to her ear fast enough. “Mike?”

“Lori's on her way, babe,” he told her, his words slurred.

Relief washed over her in the form of utter exhaustion. “Where is she?”

“Someone's bringing her home. I think her name is Rina. She said Lori had a little too much to drink at a friend's house.”

Ordinarily Karen would have exploded, but she was too drained. All she could do was make sure she had heard him right. “She was drinking?”

“Yeah,” Mike replied. His voice seemed to be fading away, and it wasn't from bad cellular reception.

“I'll be right there.”

Karen made it home in six minutes. She was getting out of the van when a second set of headlights turned into the driveway and that car stopped. A young woman stepped out of the idling car, but Karen didn't get a good look at her because she was too intent on seeing her daughter. Luka was barking into the still of the night from one of the porch windows—something that ordinarily would have irked her and made her worry about disturbing the neighbors, but Karen paid it no mind.

She was getting a little too accustomed to chaos.

“Mrs. Donnelly? I'm Rina. I work with Lori at the Bayview Inn.”

Karen didn't answer the young woman. She didn't even acknowledge her presence at first. She was too preoccupied with trying to assess her daughter's condition inside the car. Once she saw that Lori was sitting up in the backseat—sagging sideways but sitting up—only then was she able to extend a proper greeting to the friend who had delivered her safely. “Hi, Rina. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. Thank you for bringing Lori home.”

“Anytime,” Rina replied, and handed over the keys to Lori's Honda.

“Let's hope there won't be another time,” Karen said, just in case Rina was the kind of friend who thought Lori's behavior was acceptable.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. One of the reasons they had moved to Southold was so Lori could start a new life away from bad stigmas and nightmarish memories. Karen was aware that in Massapequa her daughter was trapped in a life without Nick. The restaurant where he worked was only a few blocks from their house. His friends were everywhere. His family had even put a white cross with his name on it at the scene of the accident. Lori had healed physically, but her mental state deteriorated. Friends pitied her. Parents were leery of her. Everyone knew she had problems with drugs and alcohol. Everyone knew she had been in the psychiatric hospital. She was branded, judged, and sentenced to an existence as some sort of tragic heroine. Instead of helping Lori move on, her circle of acquaintances in Massapequa held her on some kind of morbid pedestal. Sometimes it even seemed they were intrigued by her misfortune.

Karen only wanted her daughter to have the chance to reinvent herself. Moving to Southold in March and getting a job at the Bayview had given her that chance. Lori had made new friends who were removed from the pain of her past. Things were going so well for her.

And now this.

Rina helped Lori out of the car. She staggered a bit, but she was able to stand. Karen was relieved to see that her daughter wasn't the liquefied mess she had expected, but she couldn't hide her fatigue and frustration. Her stockpile of stoic tolerance was running dangerously low.

“I'm sorry, Ma,” Lori said in a quavering voice.

Karen wasn't about to tell her it was okay. And she wasn't about to start berating her at one o'clock in the morning. “Thank you again, Rina,” she said instead to the designated driver who had brought her home. “Where's her car?”

“At Jerry's house on Youngs Avenue.”

“Jerry?”

“He works with us.”

Karen nodded and took Rina's place at her daughter's side. “Thanks.”

Lori was much taller and stockier than her mother, but Karen supported her with solid ease as they made their way toward the house. It was the emotional support that became a quagmire for Karen. She smelled the alcohol on her daughter's breath and fought the urge to shake her. She wanted to ask Lori how she could do such a thing to herself when her father was so sick.
Don't you see what we're going through
? But if she told her daughter how disappointed she was . . . or how worried, or how angry, or how tired . . . Lori would hate herself for it. That would only lead her down the path to self-destruction.

“I'm sorry,” Lori kept saying. “I really screwed up.”

Karen bit the inside of her cheeks. It was pure adrenaline that helped her carry her daughter up the porch steps. Just like it was adrenaline that had gotten Mike off the floor that morning. This was her day for gripping people by the arm and dragging them to where they had to be. Now Lori was penitent. Well, it was too late. For Karen, the only safe reaction was no reaction. If she sympathized with her daughter or assured her all was well, Lori would think she was getting permission to go out and party like most of her peers. And that was the last message Karen wanted to send.

“Don't be mad, Mom,” Lori said. She stumbled, and Karen caught her. “Please don't be mad.”

She realized she was frowning and relaxed her face. “This isn't about me, Lori.”

“I know, Mom. I know you and Dad just want the best for me.”

Then why did you do it?

Karen knew a torrent of tears would soon start flowing, so she tried to reroute Lori's thoughts away from herself. “Where were you tonight?”

“At some party by Goose Creek. But then I ended up at Jerry's house. I think Rina brought me there.”

“Have I ever met Jerry?” Karen asked as she opened the porch door.

“I don't know.”

They stepped inside and were greeted by the animals. But not even Luka and Bitsy could divert Lori from her inevitable breakdown. She started to cry just as Karen led her into the living room. Mike was waiting for them, propped up on a wall of pillows. Karen could see how his gaze, liquid with anguish and exhaustion, assessed their daughter's condition. One look at him sent Lori over the edge. Karen felt her turn to jelly, and she moved quickly toward the sofa bed. Mike reached out one trembling hand, and Lori stumbled into her father's arms.

“I'm so sorry, baby,” he crooned to her, stroking her hair and kissing her temple as she sobbed. “You know I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry. I just didn't want you to see me like that. No little girl should see her father like that.”

Lori clung to him. Just like she did when she had woken up in the hospital and remembered how Nick's car had smashed into the utility pole. Just like she did when she had woken up screaming in the middle of the night for months after the accident. Mike never offered platitudes or distractions. He never told Lori how to feel or not to feel. He just offered the only thing he had left . . . the security of his embrace.

Karen felt tears stinging at her own eyes. She had no control over the vivid images that jumped out from the recesses of her mind as she watched her husband and daughter try to draw strength from each other. She saw them as an extension of herself, their joys and agonies entwined so intimately with her own. Like a human trinity, they were three separate people yet one complete being.

She saw Lori as a pink-faced toddler sitting on Mike's sturdy shoulders, her enormous bright eyes taking in a new view of the world. She saw the little girl who jumped on Daddy's neck with explosive affection when he walked through the door after a long tour at the firehouse. She saw the frightened child who tiptoed into her parents' bedroom during a raging thunderstorm and always went to Daddy first, knowing he would protect her.

And she saw the young teenager who struggled to hang on while her life became a roller-coaster ride. Throughout it all, Lori inevitably turned to the most reliable, most stabilizing force in her life. The one who promised he'd always be there for her.

“I love you, Daddy,” she said.

“I love you, too, baby,” Mike replied. He could barely form the words.

Karen looked at his eyes more closely. He was fighting to keep them open and focused.

She took her cue to move forward. “Come on, Lori,” she coaxed, gently but firmly peeling her away from her father. “Daddy's really tired. You must be tired, too. Let's go up to bed. Everything's okay now.”

“I'm sorry, Ma.”

Karen guided her inebriated daughter up the stairs. “I know,” she said.

chapter fourteen

The house on Terry Lane was like a portal to some other, simpler world. Karen felt drawn to it and to its lone inhabitant by a supernatural force guiding her there for an hour's retreat. It had been a week since Grace had extended the open invitation for late morning tea, and Karen found herself hiking directly over to the Mitchell estate as soon as she had a few moments to spare. In her hand was a small basket of goodies from the Wayside Market, a token of appreciation to someone who had been kind to her.

As she strode past the wrought-iron gate and up the long driveway, the weight of her burdens somehow felt a little lighter. The helpless main characters in the drama of her life suddenly didn't seem as tragic. Her mother-in-law was arriving that evening for a weekend visit, but she was not apprehensive. It didn't even strike Karen as odd that out of all the women in Southold, she was establishing a friendship with the woman in black—an eccentric who once had a professional career but didn't even own a car.

Knocking on the side door, she hoped Grace was at home. When she didn't get an answer, she knocked harder. “Hello?” she called, once again feeling that she might be imposing on the woman and her air of tranquility.

Karen heard the faint rustle of footsteps, and Grace appeared from behind the corner of the house wearing a floppy straw hat and gardening gloves. She was clad in cropped denims and a Ship 'n Shore blouse. It was the first time Karen had seen her in anything but the black shift dress.

Grace saw it was Karen and eased into a genuine little smile. “Good morning,” she said, obviously more pleased than bothered by the impromptu visit.

“I hope I'm not intruding,” Karen said.

“It's no intrusion at all,” Grace replied, removing her gloves and clapping the loose soil off them. “I was just about to stop and have some tea.”

Karen still felt like she was imposing. “I can come back another day if you're busy,” she said, holding out the basket. The cellophane crinkled in her grip. “I just wanted to give you this.”

Grace looked puzzled as she walked up to her visitor. “What is it?”

“Just a small token of thanks. For the tea last week.”

“For a cup of
tea
?” Grace echoed. When she took the basket and looked at the contents—a tin of loose Earl Grey, a box of imported biscotti, and a small jar of strawberry preserves—she appeared quite moved. “But, Karen—”

“I felt a lot better when I went home that day,” Karen said. “And it was a good thing, too. The rest of the day was no walk in the park.”

Grace looked her in the eye. It was obvious she shared Karen's belief that the eyes are where unspoken truths always lay hidden. “Thank you,” she said. “Simple gestures of gratitude, like simple gestures of kindness, mean so much.”

Karen smiled. She took a few steps backward toward the driveway. “I'll let you get back to your yard work.”

But Grace was quick to stop her. “Nonsense. I told you I was about to have tea. At my age, the gardening has to be done a little bit at a time.”

“You have a garden back there?” Karen didn't remember seeing one from the kitchen window. As she recalled, the backyard was one vast lawn that dropped off in a six-foot bluff to the sandy beach.

Grace lit up at the prospect of sharing one of her favorite hobbies. “It's actually on the other side of the house. Would you care to see it?”

“Sure.”

“Let me just put this inside, because the squirrels know me by name.” Grace slipped her gift basket in the side door. Then she led Karen behind the house.

Karen didn't know where to look first. Her head swiveled like a child's at a carnival as they crossed the backyard. The bay view was familiar but still spectacular, and the grounds were spotted with clumps of beach grass as if a landscaper had planned it that way. Yet even with the waterfront panorama stretched out before her, Karen's gaze was drawn to the back of the house, which was as charming and as architecturally interesting as the front.

“This is amazing,” she said. “You can't see it from Founders Landing.”

Grace turned and smiled. “You never walked along the shore?”

“Not past the public beach. That snow fence and
NO TRESPASSING
sign meant it was off limits,” Karen replied.

“And you never break the rules,” Grace said, as if she had known Karen for years.

Karen smiled. “I saw it from a boat a few times. But it was from far away.”

The rear entrance had its own small porch, and upstairs there was a captain's walk—a very practical feature for a house with such a wonderful view. Karen knew if she had such a place to sit, she would never be found anywhere else.

She was looking up so intently that she tripped on a mound of beach grass. “Oh, great,” she said, embarrassed. “Just what I need. To be on crutches for the rest of the summer.”

Grace didn't berate her or even tell her to be more careful. She simply came to a stop and waved her arm in a sweeping gesture, inviting Karen to see what was at the other end of the house.

In the other side yard, not visible from the road and screened from the neighboring property by a row of century-old blue spruces, were a fenced-in vegetable garden, a small brick patio, and a large shed. And while the formal gardens at the front of the house had been somewhat neglected over the years, the vegetable garden was picture-perfect. Young tomato plants already had flowers, a few varieties of lettuce were thriving, and the large-leafed zucchini plants were at the far end with the cucumbers and eggplants. Young carrots, peppers, and green beans were sown in rows near the low-growing herbs like parsley, mint, and thyme.

Karen surveyed the garden with amazement. Her grandmother's passion for growing things had taught her to recognize horticultural skill at its best. Grace had to be in her sixties, yet every footpath and every seedling planted in the soft, tilled soil gave testimony to Grace's patience and her uncomplicated love of life. There were no weeds or inferior specimens. It was a place of order and serenity in the most natural, primeval sense. In fact, it felt like hallowed ground.

Karen had a strong sense that Grandma was smiling over her shoulder. “Oh, Grace,” she sighed. “It's wonderful.”

“Do you have a garden, Karen?”

“I wanted to plant one, but I just didn't have time. Maybe next year.”

Grace seemed pleased. “Let me give you some fresh herbs,” she said, and ventured over to grab a few handfuls of rosemary, basil, and thyme.

“You don't have to do that,” Karen called after her.

“Yes, I do,” Grace said. “Because the other vegetables aren't quite ready yet. Although I should check the green beans.” She dropped stiffly to her knees to examine the bushes. “Ah! There are a few! Here, take the herbs.”

“Grace, really—” Karen said as she took the fragrant assortment from the older woman's slender hands.

“It's always good to give away the first fruits.” Grace continued to forage through the plants. “It blesses the crop.”

How dignified,
Karen thought.
How biblical.

She recalled how her grandmother had doled out her prize produce to everyone she knew throughout the whole month of August. And every week she made Karen's father tote bags of vegetables back to the neighbors in Flushing.

Grace stood up with a little wince and a handful of green beans. “Let's go in and have that tea,” she said. “While the water's boiling, I can show you the rest of the house.”

“That sounds great.”

The two women strolled back to the side entrance, and Grace led the way in. “Please excuse the kitchen,” she said, hanging her hat on a hook in the anteroom and picking up her gift basket with her free hand. “I got busy outside and I didn't clean up my breakfast dishes.”

Karen almost laughed.
You should see mine,
she thought.

They put the herbs and green beans on the counter, and Grace washed her hands with old-fashioned brown soap. She put the kettle on and invited Karen to follow her into the parlor. “The house was built by my great-grandfather at a time when indoor plumbing was a luxury,” Grace said in the manner of a tour guide. “The only improvements my father made were updating the electric service and buying new appliances. That was in the 1930s, and nothing's been done since then.”

The parlor and the rest of the rooms downstairs were, like the kitchen, a step back in time. The high ceilings, large moldings, and wing chairs had been there when Grace's grandfather sat in the parlor. Old family photographs in oval frames graced the walls, the serious faces silently guarding the rooms. Built-in shelves and mantels, alcoves and window seats, inlay patterns on the floors, and a wide mahogany staircase in the central hall all added to its charm. It was better than Karen could have imagined, but the real essence that permeated the house wasn't in the vintage furnishings or the craftsmanship. It was something intangible, something hard to define. And it had more to do with Grace herself than with those who had designed the rooms or selected the décor.

Karen ambled up to the bookcases in the adjoining library. She tilted her head to read the bindings and saw the shelves were stocked with philosophers and intellectual heavyweights. There were great volumes like Will and Ariel Durant's
The Story of Civilization
and works of the theological doctors of the Catholic Church such as St. Augustine's
Confessions
. The smell of the old books—a somewhat musty odor that reminded her of Southold's historic library—made her want to grab something off the shelf and head up to the captain's walk to read.

“Are any of these first editions?” Karen asked.

“A few,” Grace replied. She led Karen to the adjoining bookcase and pointed to the old volumes on the top shelf. Karen looked at some of the names . . . Melville, Poe, Dumas . . . and could only imagine the collective value of the books on that shelf.

The choices of literature in Grace's bookcases were just as heavy, showing that she had a penchant for the Russian classics. And modern novelists also found their way into the literary collection, such as Michener and Solzhenitsyn, rich in historical or social significance. Karen suspected that everything Grace read had to have meaning. Not a word went by that could be considered a waste of time . . . not a word went by
undigested
.

For Karen, whose passion for reading had led her to a career in publishing, it was easy to gain personal insight about Grace by perusing the titles on her bookshelf. The woman was no dope. It was also safe to assume she was fascinated by the question of man's ultimate destiny and the unseen war that is waged for his soul.

Karen was always eager to trigger any conversation that revolved around literature or books. “Do you have a favorite?” she asked.

“It changes with the seasons,” Grace admitted.

Most people wouldn't understand, but Karen did. In January, she wanted the dark, the heavy, the allegorical. In summer, she wanted the optimistic, the fantasy, the occasional farce.

“Who's your favorite Russian?” Karen asked.

“I'd have to say Dostoyevsky.”

Karen wasn't surprised. Dostoyevsky plumbed the darkest depths of the human heart to seek the greatest treasures. What did surprise her, however, was the presence of more modern texts on transcendent subjects like spiritual warfare and faith healing. It brought back an air of mystery to the older woman and made Karen wonder about her unexplained past.

She worked for one of those holistic institutes and traveled around the country with some band of quacks. She's some sort of religious hermit or a New Age channeler or something.

Karen wanted to probe further, but Grace was already leading her into the dining room. The vast elegance of the room and the number of chairs around the long mahogany table painted a poignant picture in light of the fact that Grace lived alone. Had the Mitchell family celebrated holiday dinners around that table when Grace was a little girl? Had they entertained business associates and local luminaries? Was Grace haunted by images of her childhood as she carried out her daily routine within those same walls over half a century later?

Did her footsteps echo in the empty house?

Grace didn't have much to say about the dining room but headed instead for the wide staircase in the central hallway. “I haven't changed anything upstairs since my parents passed away over twenty years ago,” Grace explained. “I'm sorry everything is so old-fashioned.”

Karen was somewhat puzzled by such a statement. She was surprised that a woman of such refinement and intellect could be so humble. “But Grace, I think it's lovely,” Karen said. She didn't have to sugarcoat her words. They were sincere. “I can't explain it, but your home has a quality I find very comforting.”