A Sister's Forgiveness (11 page)

Jeannie

J
eannie glanced around the kitchen. She was home, but how was that possible? She had no clear memory of how she’d gotten here. And how could this possibly be the same day? The same house? The same kitchen with its breakfast clutter untouched? And robbed now of the promise of Tessa ever coming through that door again, how could this place ever hope to lay claim to being a home?

Jeannie sat on the edge of the kitchen chair and waited for someone to tell her what to do next. Emma or Geoff, one of them would tell her how she was supposed to go on with her life without her beloved child—her only child—her Tessa.

She thought about Geoff’s face when they had heard the news. She had turned to him after Dr. Morris quietly reported that Tessa had died of massive internal injuries. She instinctively knew that Geoff’s expression of utter despair had mirrored what he was seeing in her eyes. In that instant, they had both gone from being the parents of a loving, bright, kindhearted, and generous child to being childless. There was a name for children who lost their parents. They were orphans. But for parents who lost their child? There was nothing. No longer a parent, what was she?

As if observing the activity around her from another universe, Jeannie was vaguely aware of Geoff now in the next room. He was talking to someone on the telephone. She caught snatches of his side of the conversation and understood that he was talking to their pastor. Across the kitchen from where Jeannie sat staring at nothing, Emma was making tea. It was what Emma did whenever something went wrong in Jeannie’s life. She came to her house, made tea, and listened while Jeannie poured out all of her frustrations.

How petty those discussions seemed now. Jeannie complaining about Geoff’s job and how much time he spent doing it. About how now with extra duties as vice principal he would be home even less, and when he was there, more than likely he would be working. She had even moaned over Tessa and how she spent all of her time studying, and why couldn’t she be more social like Sadie?

Sadie.

Suddenly she recalled seeing her niece sitting on the pavement next to the car, her arms wrapped around her knees, her head bowed. She remembered Emma kneeling next to Sadie. What she didn’t remember was asking after her niece.

“How’s Sadie?”

Emma glanced up, clearly surprised that these were her first words since coming home. “They’re keeping her overnight for observation,” Emma said. “The doctor ordered something to help calm her and make her sleep.”

Jeannie stared at Emma again, trying to make sense of her surroundings. It came back to her that Hester had driven Geoff and her home, where they had been given over to the gentle care of Geoff’s mom and her own stalwart parents who were now out on the lanai making phone calls of their own. Meanwhile Hester had returned to the hospital while Lars picked up Matt from school. “Why are you here? You should be with Sadie.”

“Lars is there, Jeannie, and Sadie was already sleeping when I left. He was going to sit with Matt and help him understand everything. I’m here with you—where I want to be.”

Jeannie went back to staring, this time at the dishes still on the table. Tessa’s empty juice glass. The napkin—cloth, she had insisted on for the environment’s sake—folded neatly to one side of a plate coated with dried egg yolk and the strawberry jam that she and Emma had made together earlier that year. In fact, they had put up enough jars that they were still being sold at the farmers’ market to raise funds for the fruit co-op. Her utensils perfectly aligned on the plate. On the chair near the door sat her backpack exactly as her backpacks had sat every school day morning since Tessa’s first day of kindergarten. Jeannie had clutched it to her chest all the way home from the hospital and then placed it there herself.

The very idea that either of them would ever again be able to function normally seemed ludicrous. How could anyone ask Geoff to go back to a job where he was working with children every day—where it would be impossible not to remember that this was the year Tessa was supposed to be there with him?

What was she thinking? This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Surely any minute Tessa would come down the stairs, pick up the backpack by its double straps, and sling it over one shoulder. Just a day earlier she had practiced carrying it that way, noting that kids in high school who wore their backpacks properly were considered dorky, according to Sadie.

Surely Geoff would complete his call and then shout up the stairs for Tessa to hurry or they would be late. Surely none of what had happened over the last few hours was real. Surely she was ill—delusional with fever.

Emma set a steaming mug in front of her and then ran the flat of her hand over Jeannie’s back. But she said nothing, just stood there for a long moment as they both listened to Geoff’s side of the phone conversation.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Jeannie realized that he was no longer speaking with their pastor. Every inflection told her that he was talking to a stranger, and the long pauses between his short replies made her curious. She picked up her mug of tea and walked into the den, where just the night before they had gathered as a family while Tessa opened her gift. Behind her she heard Emma start to clear away the breakfast dishes. She heard water running in the sink—Emma never used the dishwasher. She heard the back door open and close. Heard Emma greet someone in the low somber tones that she instinctively knew would become the norm for all conversations in this place over the coming days. And she ignored it all as she moved woodenly toward the den, where her husband was on the phone with a stranger that he really didn’t want to be speaking with.

He stood at the window, his broad shoulders blocking the view of the lemon-lime tree that he had planted on Tessa’s first birthday. He seemed older somehow, although his sable-colored hair was as thick as ever, and his stance was the same as when he stood on the sidelines of a game coaching his team.

“I’ll check with my wife,” he said now and turned around, startled to see her there in the doorway but recovering instantly as he slid one hand over the receiver. “Monday afternoon?” he asked.

“For?”

His face crumpled into a series of pockets and wrinkles as if someone had grabbed it like a piece of clean paper and wadded it into a ball and then released it. “The funeral,” he croaked.

Jeannie felt the way people did when they dreamed of falling and then woke with a start, as two strong hands clasped her shoulders and pulled her upright and Emma relieved her of the mug of tea now spilling its contents onto the carpet.

“You need to sit down, Jeannie,” their good friend Zeke Shepherd said in that calm no-worries voice that was his trademark. He helped her to a chair and then held out his hand for the phone that Geoff was still clutching. “And you need to let somebody else do that.”

Geoff willingly handed over the phone and then sat on the hard straight-backed desk chair while Zeke took charge. That in itself had to be an aberration. Zeke was not a take-charge kind of guy. He was a combat veteran who had chosen a life on the streets, the type of person who made his way through life in a live-and-let-live manner. Rules were for people who had no idea of who they were or why they had been put on this earth.

Jeannie was pretty sure that Geoff—like her—had not even realized Zeke was there. But then that was Zeke—he came and went on his own schedule and in his own way.

“Zeke Shepherd here, friend of the family,” he said and then listened. “Yeah, well, we’ll get back to you on that. Otherwise, have you got what you need to… to go get her?”

He listened again.

“Got it,” he said and clicked off the phone as he set it on Geoff’s desk.

Jeannie looked at the clock that sat on the bookcase. Two thirty. There were hours she couldn’t account for—time that had passed in a blur after the doctor left the waiting room. Any minute surely Tessa would walk through the door and calmly report that her first day of high school had been “fine.” Her teachers were “fine.” Her class schedule was “fine.” Her new classmates were “fine.”

Jeannie continued staring at the clock for a long moment. It was real, she thought, and nothing Emma or Geoff or anyone else could say would change that. The word
funeral
had been applied to their Tessa. She was to be mourned and buried within a matter of days. That was the way of things. How many times had she been at the homes of neighbors and family for this very purpose? How many times had she been the one uttering the meaningless words meant to bring solace and comfort?

She stood up and walked back toward the kitchen where she picked up Tessa’s backpack.

“Jeannie?” Emma’s call seemed to come from far away as Jeannie slowly climbed the stairs. The backpack was heavy. How many times had she fussed at Tessa about not overloading the bag? How many times had Tessa rolled her eyes and moaned, “Mom!” How much would she give to have that very conversation right this minute?

She stopped on the landing and stared at the backpack for a long moment, knowing that she wasn’t yet ready to go through it. That would be like admitting… She retraced her steps and positioned Tessa’s backpack on the chair where it belonged. “Jeannie?” Emma reached out to touch her arm, but Jeannie ignored her, and this time she went all the way up the stairs without hesitating. She walked into her daughter’s room and stood there taking in her surroundings. The room was pristine—bed made, everything in its place, clothes hung, drawers and closet door shut. And yet the aura that was Tessa was everywhere. It came from the way she had folded her nightgown and tucked it under her pillow—a bit of the lacy hem peeking out. It was in the very scent of a bowl of fresh fruit that Tessa kept on her desk. It was in the flattened cushion in the small rocking chair where Tessa liked to sit every morning and every evening to read her Bible.

Jeannie stood there taking it all in. Then she closed the door and locked it before crossing the room and sitting down in the rocker to stare out the window at what had to have been what Tessa had seen on her last morning on this earth.

Chapter 13

Geoff

T
ime had no meaning.

Outside the sun had come out and the skies had cleared, but the sun was low in the sky, and this day that had begun in a deluge of anticipation and excitement would soon be gone.

In the hours that had passed since Zeke handled the call with the funeral director, the house had slowly filled with people—family, friends, neighbors, kids Tessa often invited over, kids Tessa knew from church, kids from Geoff’s athletic teams, teachers and other staff that he worked with, people Jeannie worked with in her various volunteer projects. A steady stream of people coming up the front walk, the women carrying some covered dish or basket, the men and young people parking their cars or bicycles wherever they could find a space.

Dan’s car was gone now, but no one parked on the driveway as if worried that the space might be needed by someone older or frailer. Or maybe it was just that that space was tainted now—forever stained with Tessa’s unshed blood.

Geoff stayed where he had gone when Hester and John had driven them home from the hospital, in the den. It was the room where he had always felt closest to Tessa. It was where she came to study while he graded papers or worked on reports. It was the room where the two of them watched and analyzed college games on the small television in the corner. He would sit in the cracked leather club chair, and Tessa would sit cross-legged on the floor. Jeannie would make them a huge bowl of popcorn then tell them not to ruin their appetites as she headed off to attend to one of what Tessa referred to as her mom’s do-gooder projects.

He sat in the chair now, picking absently at the cracked leather as if picking at a scab. He allowed the flow of people to move around him, hearing the hushed tones the women spoke in as they took over the kitchen and set out or stored the food offerings. Once in a while one of the men would enter the den, clear his throat, and offer some condolence. Geoff was amazed at how easily he had fallen into the routine of standing to accept the handshake—or sometimes the hug—before murmuring, “Thank you” when the person stopped speaking and then adding, “I just need some time,” releasing the person to go back into the large great room where most people had gathered. He never actually heard the words people spoke to him, but he saw from their faces that it was some form of how sorry they were.