Words Unspoken (37 page)
“But I
did
fail! I failed!” Her eyes flashed anger.
Anger is better than resignation, Lissa.
“You didn’t let me wreck and kill us, but you couldn’t stop me from failing. Freaking out is failure.”
“I don’t mean to be cantankerous, Lissa, but I disagree with you. It’s a stepping-stone to success. It’s more information to calculate and put into your battle plan, that’s all.”
What could he say to convince her? Standing there with fury and disappointment etched on her face, Lissa appeared stronger. Ev could well imagine her on the back of a horse, determined, mad, and willing to prove she could do better. “It’s like in your competitions—with your horse. You prepare ahead of time. You learn what to do. Did you win every single time you showed your horse? Were you always the best?”
“No, of course not.”
“So did you give up and call yourself a failure?”
“No. I just worked harder.” She shrugged and turned her head down. “But that was then. That’s the problem. Now with every tiny step forward I get afraid, and then I want to cover my ears and scream out
Stop!
because I know the voices are going to start again. They’re going to tell me it’s my fault and I really am a failure.”
“Those voices are lying, Lissa. Don’t listen to them.” He replied so forcefully, he could imagine he was speaking to Tate, trying to convince her of a truth he had only learned years after her death. He rocked back and forth, giving his words time to settle. “Grieving and healing take time. Every time you open the car door, you tumble out the other side into the past of the tragedy. It’s the way you grieve.
“Some people would never allow themselves to open the car door. They’d stay as far away as possible, so they wouldn’t have to face the fresh pain. I believe what you’re doing is healthy and will ultimately bring healing. It just takes a while. I’m not in a hurry, Lissa. You don’t need to be either.”
He thought he saw a glimmer of hope as she narrowed her eyes and looked up at him.
He stood and pointed to Ole Bessie. “I need to get you home.”
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 30
Lissa stood at the door of the library and watched the elementaryschool girls parade down the halls of CGS in their Halloween costumes, several waving at her behind their masks. A black cat, a witch, a princess, a leopard, a tiger, a handful of Disney characters, a bumblebee. The memories of doing the same thing as a child made her smile and then want to cry. Or scream.
Something in what she had said to Mr. MacAllister yesterday upset her. Yes, she was upset by her anger. Anger at her mother!
Man, she really did need help. How could she be angry at her mother? Her father, yes. But Momma? Gentle, energetic, ready-to-help-in-anyway Momma? Momma bent over the sewing machine, stitching that Raggedy Ann Halloween costume, Momma taking her to horse shows at five a.m., Momma helping her with the Latin vocabulary.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Amber, who, dressed as an equestrian and riding on her broomstick horse, stepped out of line and gave her a hug.
I didn’t tell you how much it meant. I never got to say thank-you. You died, Momma, and I’m not sure you knew how much I appreciated all you did.
Oh, how I miss you, Momma.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31
A little phrase from the new novel—something about not rushing things—popped into Silvano’s brain as he sat sipping his espresso in The Sixth Declension on the Saturday morning of Halloween.
Ha! Miss S. A.! Thanks for the advice. If not for you, I might have moved too quickly.
But she was right. Timing was everything in the publishing business. And it wasn’t quite time to let the cat out of the bag, to use another worn metaphor. Once the ads about the Green novel hit the newspapers and magazines and bookstores, once everyone was familiar with her name again, and reminded of the mystery, once they had their appetites whetted, then he would launch his bombshell. He’d hurl it out into the universe for the whole world to see. For a price.
In the meantime, he still had work to do. He had not located her whereabouts in Atlanta, had no further leads as to her address or any other information to make his deal all the more inviting. He opened the aerogram he had just received from Italy and read through it, worry spreading across his overconfident face, his hands brushing absentmindedly through the greased-back hair.
Mamma mia
, his family’s problems were only getting worse. Finally, after all these years in the U.S., he had received citizenship. Now, with enough money, he could bring all of them to America! The land of opportunity. The land that would let them escape the terrible price they had all been paying for his dead father’s mistakes. America! A new start for Mamma and his siblings.
He imagined his mother serving the customers, selling the postcards and rosary beads and trinkets of St. Peter’s with that jolly smile plastered on her face, while inside she was crying out
Help! Help us!
And he was the answer. Silvano to the rescue. He fingered the letter. And as he did so, he felt that same crushing weight of pressure that had motivated him for the past ten years.
Pregate per noi,
Silvo, and do what you can. You are our only hope.
Pray for us.
His response was always the same.
I’m trying, Mamma, believe me, I’m trying. I’m sorry it’s taking so long. I miss you. God knows I miss you, Mamma. I miss you all.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1
Thank goodness Halloween had not yet made it to France. When it did, with France’s obsession with the occult, Janelle imagined it would only bring ghouls and ghosts and other scary stuff. She’d heard from friends that churches in America were boycotting the holiday due to incidents involving firecrackers and guns and razor blades hidden in apples. She was glad she wasn’t there.
The Halloweens she remembered were times of dressing up as a tiger or a bear and going around the neighborhood with Mommy and Daddy and a few other families. Friends and innocence and lots of candy. Thank goodness she didn’t have to make costumes for Luke and Sandy, with a knot in her throat, knowing she should also be making one for Josh, his little blond head poking through a gray hood with pink ears attached to it.
Stop it!
she scolded herself. Such thoughts only made the pain worse.
She carried the flowers to the cemetery on the first of November, along with the rest of France. From a distance, the cemetery reminded her of the Georgia mountains with the fall colors of the chrysanthemums dotting many of the tombstones. The church bells tolled nine o’clock, and she watched others in the cemetery, most of them elderly, coming to carry on the centuries-old tradition of remembering the dead. Christian rites and pagan rituals had blurred on this holiday so that the true spiritual significance was clouded or lost. Some in their church shunned the day, claiming that the misinformed were not only remembering their dead but praying for them. That was certainly unbiblical, Brian would say. But Janelle was not praying for Josh’s soul. She trusted that he was safe with Jesus, one of His favorite little lambs. No, she went to the grave and
talked
to her dead son.
“I miss you,” she whispered. “I miss you so much. I know you are happy there, but I just wish, how I wish I could have had you for a little while longer.”
She refused to let herself ask the questions, for then the anger would rumble down deep in her soul. Maybe someday she could talk about the anger. But for now she simply knelt by the grave and whispered again, “I miss you, Josh.”
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1
Lissa finished the novel with a deep feeling of satisfaction. Ever since the panic attack on Thursday, the voices had been screaming louder again.
Failure!
Now, cuddled under the covers at three o’clock on Sunday morning, she concentrated on the orphans in
Eastern Crossings
and the sweet innocence in Tonia’s voice when the waiting was over—the way that childlike faith had proven true. The way her brother, good, strong Vasilica, battle-scarred and so tough, had finally woken up to hope.
She liked the message of the novel, subtle and yet surprisingly clear. Hope. Something about the book felt so familiar, Lissa wondered if she had read it—or parts of it—before. Perhaps her English teacher junior year had given them an excerpt from the book to read, as she was fond of doing. At any rate, Lissa determined to check out another one of S. A. Green’s novels next week.
Her mind went briefly to her date with Silvano later in the day.
He’d offered to drive up to Lookout Mountain again, pick her up, and then head down to Clover Leaf Stables. While her father was at the golf course, she’d ride Caleb and “guide” Silvano.
Failure!
Hope …
Wide awake, Lissa climbed out of bed and walked across the hall into the guest bedroom. There she searched for the big black leather Bible with fraying edges, something her parents received for their wedding and Momma had kept on the shelf. She wanted to look up a quote from the novel that she was sure had come from the Bible. Years ago, Momma had taken her to Sunday school, and she’d sung a song with those same words.
I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known; I will make darkness light before them… .
Back in her bed, Lissa spent ten minutes flipping through the worn pages of the Bible. She was going to find that verse if it took her all night. Then she set down the book and laughed at herself. Old stubborn Lissa, determined to figure out the problem, translate the phrase, jump higher than anyone else. Maybe she could memorize speeches in Latin and win jumping competitions, but she was not going to find some obscure verse in the Bible by turning each page. What in the world even made her care?
The novel. There were parts that seemed so very comforting, in spite of the bleakness of the story. Very strange. She reached over and turned out the light.
Hope.
________
Their conversation on the way to Clover Leaf Stables centered on books. If Lissa wanted to talk about literature, well then Silvano was happy to oblige her. “You said you’d checked out one of S. A. Green’s novels?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I finished it last night. I thought it was really good.
Eastern Crossings
.”
“Her first one. Well, you should read this new one. It’s really great.”
“What’s it about anyway?”
“It’s about driving lessons. A kid taking driving lessons. In fact, that’s the title.
Driving Lessons
.”
“What?”
“I know it sounds like the most banal of things, but it’s really good.”
Silvano looked at Lissa. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, no. No, it’s nothing. It just seems so bizarre … such a coincidence— that’s all. I’m taking driving lessons right now.”
“Really? Well, that
is
a coincidence.”
Silvano liked the way Lissa looked in her jodhpurs, so he didn’t mind sitting in the bleachers and watching her ride the red horse in the ring at Clover Leaf Stables. She’d already spent forty-five minutes walking, trotting, and cantering the horse, and she’d even jumped it over a few low fences. Now the heavyset woman, Cammie, came to the middle of the ring and began explaining something to Lissa, pointing to the eight or nine jumps she had set up. A “course”—that was what Lissa called it.
Watching Lissa there, her hair pushed under her hard hat, her long thin legs tucked inside those high black leather boots and dangling out of the stirrups, her face serious, concentrating on Cammie’s every word, Silvano admitted something to himself. He liked Lissa Randall. She had spunk and determination and a sense of humor. He hadn’t seen it at first, but gradually the fullness of her personality escaped, like the subtle tastes in a fine wine. And she would not let him get away with anything. He wanted a woman to hold him in check. He liked her a lot.
She looked over to where he was sitting, flashed him a smile and waved, then nudged the horse into a canter. Everything Lissa did on the back of the horse looked smooth, like poetry, from the way she circled it before heading toward the first jump to the way she confidently guided it from fence to fence.
Cammie stayed in the center of the ring, calling out periodically, “Okay, pull him back. He’s getting a little too strong. Slow him down going into that line, Liss.”
Lissa looked in control, her arms holding firmly to the reins, and legs clamped tightly to the saddle. He could watch her all day.
He thought about the little restaurant he had chosen for tonight and the way she had smiled at him when he mentioned the “intimate atmosphere.” She was falling for him, he thought, smiling a little himself at the memory. But maybe he was falling for her too.
“… and slow him down, Liss! You’re going too fast.”
Something about the tone of Cammie’s voice surprised Silvano, and he turned his attention back to the ring. The horse seemed to be resisting Lissa’s direction, its head thrown up high, its red chest painted in thick white lather. Lissa was practically standing straight up in her stirrups, yanking back on the reins as the horse galloped toward a solid-looking wall with poles spread out wide as well as high over the top.