Enright Family Collection (117 page)

“You watched over one of my daughters for many a summer,” Delia whispered to the weathered face in
the photograph. “Would it be too much for me to ask for you to look after another one of my girls now?”

Delia returned the photo to its place on the ledge, her eyes lingering on the image of Matt Bishop’s smiling face.

“And as for you, my fine fellow,” she said softly to the photo, “don’t you think for a minute that we’ll let you remain outside the fold for much longer. Sooner or later, one of us will find a way around that barrier you’ve erected, and we’ll draw you in. It’s cold out there alone, Matthew, and there’s lots of love here to be shared. And you may not know it now, but we will need each other if we are to help Laura over the months ahead. There’s something ...
something
not quite right, I see it in her face. So you see, my boy, it’s really only a matter of time ....”

Matt dragged one hand through his dark hair and made a mental note that he’d gone far too long between haircuts. It was eleven-thirty on Saturday night and he was tired clear down to the bone. Up at three A.M. following a frantic phone call from a breeder of Lhasa apsos whose champion show bitch had gone into a troubled labor, he’d driven through a nasty storm to get to the breeder’s home in time to whelp the litter, only two puppies of which had survived. From there he had gone into the clinic, stopping first at a local convenience store only long enough to grab a large coffee to go and arriving just in time to see his first appointment, a collie with chronic hepatitis.

The day had spun past at a dizzying pace. Because
it was Saturday, his last patient had been scheduled for noon. Unfortunately, he’d already been running a half hour late when his eleven-thirty appointment—routine inoculations for a springer spaniel—was interrupted by a motorist who’d struck a Gordon setter about a quarter mile down the road from the clinic and wanted help for the setter, who was still lying where he’d been hit. Matt made his apologies to the owner of the springer and drove the pickup to the scene of the accident. The setter was badly injured and required immediate surgery. Fortunately, Liz had been able to track the dog’s owner from the address on the tag that hung from the collar, and Matt had the permission he needed to start working on the dog. He’d been in surgery for four hours. Once finished, he had just enough time to run home, shower and change, and drive a half hour to attend the local SPCA’s annual fund-raising banquet, where he’d given a speech about responsible pet ownership.

Now, as the clock neared midnight, Matt was drained. Too tired to read, too tired to talk. Too tired to move. He fell asleep in his favorite chair and slept until Artie woke him to be let out at six in the morning. Matt stood in the doorway, looking out over the yard behind his rented house. Dense fog hung like fat damp clouds over the grass and cast an eerie glow over a quiet Sunday morning. Even Artie was subdued, going about his business in an efficient manner, for once not pausing to sniff at places where others might have been during the night, and returned to where his master stood without even waiting for Matt to call him.

Padding back through the kitchen on quiet feet still wrapped in dark blue socks, Matt paused to open the refrigerator and study its contents, and was pleased to find a forgotten bowl of leftover spaghetti on the second shelf behind a container of sour cream.

“Ah, the breakfast of champions,” he beamed as he reached for the bowl of spaghetti, which he ate cold.

Feeling better but still tired, he walked back through the living room, unbuttoning his dress shirt from the night before. The light on his answering machine was blinking, and he hit it as he passed by. The only message of any note was one from Laura, telling him that she’d found a tenant for Pumpkin Hill and Matt could call her for the details. Matt paused in midstride. He didn’t need details; a tenant was a tenant. Matt had not been the least bit happy over the prospect of renting out the family farm, but after the break-in at the barn the week before, he had been forced to face the fact that leaving the property vacant could well be a heartache waiting to happen. Although he tried to drive out to O’Hearn once a week, his responsibilities at the clinic sometimes prevented him from making the trip.

But there was another trip on his agenda once a week, one that nothing ever deterred him from taking. And this morning, he would take that trip out to Riverview to see his mother. Hopeful that perhaps this week she’d know who he was, Matt pulled off his shirt and headed for the shower.

Matt stood in the dayroom of the nursing home—the brochures called it a “total care facility”—and studied the delicate face of the woman who sat
staring out the window, and he felt his heart break just a little more. He’d come to know by the look on her face what to expect from any given visit. Today, he knew, she was in a world all her own. He wished that she could take him there with her. Anywhere with his mother would have been welcome, if only just for a little while. He inhaled sharply and stepped into the room, making his way around the other residents, who sat in no particular order in wheelchairs here and there around the dayroom.

“Mom,” he said as he knelt down next to her chair.

She blinked, then turned and looked at him blankly. “Hello,” she said pleasantly.

“It’s me, Mom. It’s Matt.”

Just as pleasantly, she said, “Oh. Hello, Matt.”

His heart sank. He hated when she didn’t know him, hated the fact that he could be anyone stopping by and he’d get the same response from her. He hated the disease that had taken his mother and left this stranger in her body. He knew that, if she could
know
—could be aware of what had happened to her—that she would have hated it, too.

“Did you have your breakfast yet?” he asked as he pulled up an orange plastic chair to sit close to her.

“No.” She shook her head.

“Would you like me to ask the nurse to bring you something?” He took her tiny hands and rubbed them gently with his own.

“That would be nice,” she said and smiled, melting his heart.

“You wait right here, and I’ll see if I can find someone.” He patted her hands and placed them in her lap, where she left them.

“Excuse me,” he flagged down an attendant in the hallway. “I was wondering if I might get some breakfast for my mother.”

“Everyone’s already had breakfast,” the young male orderly told him.

“My mother says she hasn’t.”

“You better check with the nurses, then.” The young man pointed to the nurses’ station down the hall.

“Excuse me ...” Matt approached the desk.

The pretty brunette nurse looked up and smiled. Matt smiled back.

“I’d like to get some breakfast for my mother.”

“Breakfast was served at eight this morning,” she told him.

“My mother said she hasn’t eaten....”

“Who’s your mother?” she asked.

“Charity Bishop.”

“Mrs. Bishop ate in the small dining room with Mrs. Hanson and Mr. Samuels and a few others,” she told him, then added gently, “It isn’t unusual that she’d forget.”

“But are you sure ...?”

“Oh, positive. I saw her there when I came on my shift at eight. She definitely ate. She has an excellent appetite, I might add.”

Matt thanked her and, shoving his hands into his pockets, walked back down the hall to the dayroom.

“Mom, the nurse said you ate breakfast with your friends earlier,” he told her as he sat down.

She frowned. “I don’t think I did. No, I’m certain I did not.”

She was so sincere that, for a moment, Matt thought perhaps the nurse had made a mistake. But then he recalled how many other things she had forgotten—like the names and faces of her children—and realized that she simply could not remember.

“She’ll bring something in a while,” he told her, patting her hands again.

“Thank you.” She smiled sweetly.

“In the meantime, while we wait, how ’bout if I get you some tea, and we can visit for a while?”

“That would be very nice.” She nodded.

He went back into the hallway, down two doors to the small snack bar where he purchased two overpriced cups of tea and some shortbread cookies in a red plaid wrapper.
Maybe she had eaten, but if she feels as if she had not,
he rationalized,
perhaps she’s hungry.

He took the tray back to the dayroom and placed it on a nearby table. Her eyes had a faraway look, and he bit his bottom lip to hide his disappointment.

“The tea will be cool enough to drink in a few minutes,” he told her as he sat down. “Now, I’m sure it isn’t as good as the tea that Hope used to make—”

“Who?” she asked.

“Hope.” He sighed. “Your sister.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember Hope?”

She looked confused, and did not answer.

“There was a break-in at the barn,” he told her, waiting to see her reaction to the news.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Nothing was stolen—actually, it was just a
bunch of kids who got in through a window that Laura left open. They climbed a ladder to the second floor and spent the night drinking beer and having a little party for themselves.” He paused. When she did not respond to this news, he added, “Chief Monroe has convinced Laura and me that the best thing to do would be to rent out the farm. So that’s what we’re doing. There will be a tenant living at Pumpkin Hill, Mom.”

“Do you live there ...”

Matt could tell that she was struggling, so he told her his name again. “Matt.”

“Matt,” she repeated, adding, “That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you.” He smiled weakly. “I live in Shawsburg. With Artie. Do you remember Artie? My dog?”

“No,” she told him, her eyes brightening just a little. “But someone ...”—she appeared to struggle, then shrugged it off—“has birds here. Would you like to see them?”

“I’d love to. Where are they?”

She frowned. “We’ll have to find them. Would you like to push me in this ...” She tapped the arm of the chair, searching for the word.

“Wheelchair,” he helped her out.

“Yes.” She pointed to the door. “I think the birds are out there somewhere. Maybe they’ll be singing. I do love it when they sing....”

All the way home, Matt thought about a canary a neighbor had given to him on his seventh birthday. That bird sang from the second that Charity removed the cover from its cage in the morning until she
covered it up again at night. Nonstop. All day. Every day. It drove everyone crazy. Except for Charity.

“It’s all that poor thing can do,” she would tell them when they complained. “All it knows is how to sing. And as beautiful as his song is, as much as I love to listen to him, I can’t stand to see him in that cage. I wish Mrs. Carsen had asked before she bought it for you. It bothers me to keep wild things in a cage.”

Charity would linger for a moment at the side of the cage and watch him. The bird would watch her, its head bent slightly to the side as if it understood that she was the one who not only appreciated his music, but sympathized with his captive plight. Then the bird would begin to sing again. It wasn’t long before Charity was letting the bird out of the cage for a few hours every day. And it wasn’t long after that, that the bird had flown straight out the front door when Matt had come in after school one day.

Matt thought of that now, of how she had offered to buy him another birthday present to replace the bird, but she had never apologized for having set it free.

He thought of the days after his father had died, when he had watched her wander up onto the beach at Bishop’s Cove, where she would walk along the water’s edge—a shoe swinging from each hand, the wind whipping her hair around her head—lost in her grief.

Charity had been a woman who had appreciated freedom for all things, and who had celebrated her own. That she was now restricted to the confines of a room or two, with only an occasional trip outside,
brought tears to his eyes. It seemed so unfair that age and disease had taken so much of what she once had been; of all she had loved and treasured.

The only good thing, he realized, was that she had no idea of how much she had lost. If she did, he suspected, it would probably kill her.

chapter eight

Upon waking early that first morning in the front bedroom at Pumpkin Hill, Georgia had been slightly unnerved by the unfamiliar sounds that enveloped her new surroundings. In place of the street noise she’d become accustomed to back in Baltimore—the cars, the sirens wailing off in the distance signaling that some unfortunate soul was on his way to jail or to the nearest emergency room—she heard only birdsongs that wafted into the room on a morning breeze. All in all, she thought, it was not a bad trade.

She lifted her arms over her head in a healthy stretch, then sat up, dangling her legs over the side of the ancient poster bed with its lumpy mattress and feather pillows that felt as if they could have been original to the farmhouse. Standing, she tried to work out the kinks in her neck and in her back, mulling over the inevitability of buying a new mattress, even if she was planning on staying at Pumpkin Hill for
only a limited time. She couldn’t start every new day feeling as if she’d slept on the floor.

Leaning on the wide ledge of the side window and looking out at the first minutes of the new day, she grinned, lured by its prospect. The sun had risen gently—certainly not with the spectacular flair one might find on the beach at Bishop’s Cove—but with the same promise of a fine day ahead. The weather report had predicted temperatures would rise close to sixty—a veritable heat wave—which would be just right to do some exploring. She changed into jeans and a flannel shirt and sat on the edge of the bed to put on her sneakers. She groaned, swearing she could feel the bed rails through the quilt.

She would definitely have to look into a new mattress.

Breakfast was coffee and two of Mrs. Colson’s biscuits left over from the night before. She would have to drive into O’Hearn and do a little food shopping before lunch, she thought as she dribbled some of Hope’s delicious apple butter onto first one, then the other biscuit, or lunch would be a repeat of breakfast.