Coming Home (10 page)

All evening, Grandmother had dropped names with abandon, which seemed pointless because Jessie wasn’t familiar with half of them, but it did explain the photos here in the guest room. Two walls were filled with garish snapshots of her grandmother with nearly every important classical musical figure in the world. It was blatant and embarrassing, and Jessie wondered if her guests didn’t see right through it.

Front and center, the largest photo showed her grandmother, in much younger days, with an affectionate arm around Vladimir Horowitz himself. Standing on the other side, his wife, Wanda Horowitz, the daughter of the famed conductor Toscanini, looked less than pleased. She scowled defensively at the camera as if worried the camera might steal her husband’s world-renowned pianistic soul. All this made Jessie wonder again how Bill, the awshucks handyman, fit in with Grandmother’s world.

The hardwood floor began to feel harsh beneath her feet. She sat on the white-laced bed, removed her shoes, and searched for the appropriate location for them. She thought of Darlene and the misguided promise to call her upon arrival. She wouldn’t arrive in Oregon anytime soon.

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Jessie quickly disrobed and slipped into her striped pajamas—
“antiromantic apparel,”
Darlene had called them.
“When you get married, I’d trade those in,”
she’d said and the irony of it hit her between the eyes.
I won’t be getting married anytime soon, either
.

She lay back on the bed, closing her eyes as the events of the entire day swirled in her mind: visiting the old gift shop, weeping like a baby in front of the old house, eating ice cream at the Rock House, visiting with Mrs. Robinette, who couldn’t stop talking about Andy, who was, by now, a happily married man.
“My word, he’s tall now… .”

Jessie smiled wistfully.
Life goes on without me
.

Then there was Laura, the ghost-obsessed girl. She pondered Laura’s perky behavior and felt a closeness to the youngster.
“Molly knows me,”
Jessie remembered telling her. Laura had said,
“Maybe you’re a ghost! They keep doing the things they did when they were alive.”

Pretty much fits me,
Jessie thought.

As a desperate girl of twelve, she would never have imagined she’d finally return here of her own free will. The surreal sensation was even more pervasive now. She felt her mother’s presence everywhere she turned in this old house.

Jessie pulled herself up slowly and went to the window. She placed her hand against the wall to steady herself, almost too weary to stand, and spotted her car across the street. She felt a wave of claustrophobia when she realized that Bill had locked the gate with her car outside of the fortress.
I can still get out,
she consoled herself.

“Nobody locks anything in the Broadmoor, but you know how your grandmother is,”
Bill had said.

Yes, I sure do,
she’d thought. And with her car parked outside the protection of her grandmother’s wrought-iron estate, it certainly seemed as if she were truly half in and half out. It struck her that she’d lived her entire life that way: poised to live but never really living.

She turned and sat on the window seat, facing the door. She thought of her mother’s room again, just a few feet away. Was it locked? She swallowed hard. What would happen if she slipped inside … just for a moment? Just thinking about it, she was once again gripped by a mixture of muddled emotions—fear, curiosity, sorrow—but none stronger than longing. She felt literally pulled toward the room.

Before she could change her mind, she rose and went to her bedroom door. Cracking it open, she winced at its whining creak. She peered down the dim hallway, first one way, then the other. Seeing no one and hearing nothing, she tiptoed across the hall. In a flash, her hand was on the knob, twisting. The door was locked, and she felt a sudden twinge of despair. She worried that Bill might have heard the clicking of her attempt, and nervously she glanced down the hallway again.

She crept back into her own room, closed the door, and turned out the light. Slipping beneath the covers, she pulled them up to her neck and held them tightly as her eyes became accustomed to the dark. In spite of her fatigue, sleep did not come immediately.

Her mind wandered, as she tried to process everything. She was struck with the realization of how easily she was remembering things she thought had been buried in her mind. It called into question Dr. Roeske’s declaration eight years before.

… “You’ve repressed your entire childhood, Jessie.” She’d responded flippantly, “So what?”

“Repression is a form of emotional protection, but it carries a heavy toll,” the doctor replied.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Jessie asked.

Roeske tried to change the subject, perhaps weary of her combativeness. But she pressed him, ready to argue. “C’mon. You said you’d play fair.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I can do complicated.”

“We need more time,” he argued.

“Give me your best textbook explanation, Dr. Roeske. Repression 101.” She was taunting him, but he complied anyway.

“In your case, it’s the habitual avoidance of painful memories, leading to memory specific amnesia. You’ve buried the pain, but you’ve also buried the memory within your subconscious. For the moment it seems to work. Unfortunately, pain refuses to be buried alive. It claws its way to the surface until you find yourself experiencing acute emotional responses with no apparent cognitive source. You must uncover and solve the cognitive—the memories—in order to alleviate the accompanying painful emotions.”

“English, please?”

“You asked for complicated.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

“Visit a mental institution,” he said curtly, “and you’ll see a few extreme examples.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s called insanity, Jessica. Worst-case scenario, repression can lead to insanity.”

“Oh, puhlease,” she whispered to herself….

Her memory of that session was laced with regret, and she now wondered if she had wept because she’d been denied the chance to apologize for her poor behavior.

Her mind drifted to her mother’s old room. The last time she’d seen it, there were stuffed animals on the bedspread, huddled beneath another four-poster white-laced canopy bed. The rich oak wood flooring was accented with a braided multicolored wool rug and pieces of her mom’s childish artwork graced the wall closest to the fireplace.

Beneath the tall windows was another window seat, with interior shutters opening outward toward the expansive backyard, overlooking a rich, dense collection of maples and oaks, which rarely thrived in Colorado. Like Peter Pan’s entrance into a fantasy world.

Jessie had asked her father about the room, and as usual he was
not
impressed.

… “Mom loves it,” Jessie had protested. “It’s cool. It’s like going back to when she was my age.”

“Your mother doesn’t understand what your grandmother is trying to do,” her dad said, looking away as if he’d said too much.

“Do what?”

Preoccupied with his tools, her dad was silent.

“Trying to do what?” she repeated.

Her dad sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

No kidding,
Jessie thought….

Her head pounded and the room swirled. Leaning up on her elbow, she felt dizzy and a little nauseous. She made her way to the private bathroom adjoining the guest room and found an aspirin in her travel case. She filled the crystal glass beside the sink with water and swallowed the bitter-tasting tablet. A strange revulsion swept through her, and she gripped the sides of the sink. Her field of vision went black, and for a moment she considered slipping to the floor slowly instead of fainting but struggled against it. Suddenly she found herself kneeling on the floor anyway, and for a moment she wasn’t sure where she was. She took several deep breaths, now grasping the sink legs. Confusion overwhelmed her.

Too much, too soon,
she thought faintly. The whole day, including her encounter with Brandon last night, was like overeating and suffering from indigestion. “That’s all …” she whispered. “I’m emotionally exhausted. The old memories have thrown me for a loop.”

But you didn’t remember everything, did you, Jess? You’ve barely grazed the surface. Hardly a nick. If you
did
remember—truly remember—your life would never be the same… .

She shivered. The words seemed to come from outside of her.

Where did they bury your mother?

Jessie pulled herself to her feet, violently pushing the thoughts or words or whatever they were to the back of her mind, and held the edges of the sink with both hands, leaning down. She was making an effort to get back to the bed when another wave of nausea swept through her. She slumped to the bathroom floor again, realizing that nothing she’d eaten tonight was going to be digested.

Fifteen minutes later, she finally made it back, slumping into bed only to encounter an immediate spinning of the room again. She closed her eyes tightly and took deep breaths.
It’s the altitude,
she told herself and eventually her mind settled down. She fell asleep just after midnight.

Chapter Twelve

IT WAS FIVE-THIRTY when Andy rose for the day. He showered, threw on a pair of khaki shorts and blue T-shirt, and slipped into his sandals. He’d slept restlessly, glancing at the clock off and on all night.

He stopped at McDonald’s, picked up a large coffee, and headed for the mountains. Highway 105 was nearly deserted on a Sunday morning as he headed south. He opened the windows and let the wind blow through his hair.

“Mom, Dad, there’s something you need to know.”

“What is it, son?”

Andy shook his head and sighed. He’d never really appreciated the expression “stuck between a rock and a hard place” until lately. “What am I supposed to do?” he whispered to the wind, but his vague prayer only seemed to bounce off the morning sky.

Why do I feel so alone?

When he reached Palmer Lake, he considered turning around. It was only seven, and he’d been driving around for an hour. Instead, he continued on Highway 105 to Monument, stopping at a greasy spoon for breakfast. After eggs and hashbrowns, he read the Sunday paper for an hour, sipping coffee refills.

Long about eight-thirty, he decided to go to his old childhood church, just down the street, if for no other reason than for something to do.
Who knows?
he thought.
Maybe I’ll see someone I know.

Jessie …

Jessie opened her eyes. The frilly see-through curtains billowed in the slight breeze, cooling her face. Early dawn was breaking through. Had she slept at all?

Jessie …

She held her head up, holding the sheet to her chest, eyes darting about the room. The whistling wind played tricks with her mind. Flat on her back again, she stared up at the underside of the canopy, gripping the covers all the way to her neck and shivering.

Jessie …

She closed her eyes.
I’m dreaming …

Where was the voice coming from? Eyes open again, she turned to the door. How could she have forgotten? Her mother’s room was across the hallway! She pushed the covers off and swung her feet to the cold floor. Her slippers were still packed away in the car. She sat there for a moment, staring and imagining the door beyond that, straining her ears….

Jessie …

“Is it you?” she whispered back.

She thought of her robe, packed away. In her pajamas, she made her way to the door and placed a tentative hand on the knob. She twisted it slowly, then pushed it open, revealing the door across the hall. It was partially open. She squinted her eyes.
It can’t be
.

Last night it was closed. Locked. From across the hall, she peered into the room, unable to distinguish anything in the murky darkness.

Jessie …

“I’m coming, Mom.” She was halfway across the hall when she heard steps to her left. She turned and was startled to see her grandmother in a blue robe.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Grandmother asked.

“I heard a voice.”

“Impossible,” her grandmother snapped, her face sinister in the morning shadows.

“My mother is in there,” Jessie insisted.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

A man came up behind her grandmother. It was Bill. Without speaking, he exchanged worried glances with Jessie’s grandmother, then headed back down the hallway. What was he going to do?

“Jessie, I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been imagining things again.”

Again?

Her grandmother extended her hand. “Come with me.”

Now frantic, Jessie ignored the outstretched hand and pushed her mother’s door fully open. She groped for a light switch and clicked it, but nothing happened. “Mom? I’m here!”

And then Jessie saw her. She was looking out the window to the backyard wearing the beautiful yellow sundress.
I was right all along!
she thought.

“Mom?”

But her mother didn’t budge. She was still gazing out the window. Jessie couldn’t even see her face, but she began to run into the room, reaching for her mom, but she couldn’t make any forward progress, as if she were running on a treadmill. Panic shuddered through her. Desperation filled her lungs. “I’m coming, Mom!”

But her mother didn’t hear her. Jessie kept running, running, running, but she couldn’t get any closer. Tears of frustration burst from her eyes. Surely, her grandmother was right behind her. And what was Bill doing? Had he gone to make a phone call? Who had he called?

Something grabbed her from behind and she was being pulled backward. The men in white coats had already arrived. “No!” she screamed. Something like a shirt was thrown over her head, and her arms were pulled violently behind her. “Please, no! Please, no! My mother is still alive!” She kept screaming. “Don’t you see her? She’s wearing the sundress. She needs me!”

Jessie startled herself awake breathing heavily, blinking away the fading images of the dream. Gradually, her heart rate settled down, and she regained her composure. From the lingering bits and pieces she recognized it as her least favorite dream, the variation where she believed her mother was still alive. She shuddered. She hadn’t struggled through that particular dream in a very long time.

When she finally looked around the room, she felt the momentary confusion that comes from waking up in a strange place. Then she remembered driving to Colorado from Kansas yesterday … driving to Palmer Lake, and then … here.

She sighed, feeling foolish indeed.
What was I thinking?
Whatever she
had
been thinking, she was thinking more clearly now. Surely her grandmother wouldn’t assume a relationship based on one short visit.

She sat up, pulling her legs over the bed and touching the hardwood floor with her pinky toe. Cold.
Put one foot in front of the other,
she told herself, testing her weight on both feet.
I’ll be leaving here soon
.

She headed for the bathroom.
Talk about overreacting,
she thought, remembering yesterday. Who cared who owned her parents’ old house?

The whole confrontation thing was beneath her.
Grandmother can have the house
. Yes, it was a very good thing she was leaving soon. Tomorrow, she’d be on her way to Oregon, and by the time she arrived she would have forgotten this ill-advised trip down memory lane.
Who says repression is so bad?

In the Sunday morning sunshine, the bathroom fixtures were winter bright. Everything seemed whiter—the tile floor, the sink, the Jacuzzi tub—in the morning light. A wallpaper border met the ceiling with a strip of colorful red and yellow flowers woven into ivy.

She took the longest shower in memory, shampooing and conditioning her hair and shaving her legs. When she was done, she felt like a steam-cleaned raisin. Jessie reentered her bedroom with a towel wrapped around her body and dressed quickly in baggy jeans, an oversized gray T-shirt, and pink slip-ons.

When she wandered downstairs, the house was still. She crossed the oversized entryway and headed toward the grand room, where kitty-corner to the elegant fireplace, her grandmother’s white Steinway glistened in the morning dawn. On the wall beside the fireplace was a larger collection of framed photos.

Off the grand room was another door, which led past an additional stairwell to the upstairs, then on to the kitchen, where Jessie discovered Bill sitting at the table in the sunny alcove. He was reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee.

“G’morning, sunshine,” Bill greeted. “Up early, aren’t you?” He was wearing a plain T-shirt and black-rimmed glasses were balanced on his nose. His silver hair had a tinge of blue-gray in the morning light. Bill offered her the paper, and she read the headlines while he got up and began tooling around the kitchen. Jessie looked out the window and noticed the gazebo. “That’s beautiful, Bill. Did you build it?”

Bill cracked an egg into a white bowl. “You like gazebos?”

“I could
live
in a gazebo,” Jessie said with a chuckle.

He regarded her curiously, then resumed his task. “Your grandmother’s church is one of those ritual types, complete with a feelgood sermon. Pain free, if you’re so inclined.”

Jessie hadn’t promised anything yet, but if Grandmother’s church was as Bill described, no problem. After all, she’d set foot in Darlene’s church … once.

“Will you be going, too?” Jessie asked as he mixed the eggs.

“I’ll be dropping you off,” he replied, tossing the eggshells into the garbage beneath the sink. She saw the hesitant, unsure side of Bill again, but his smile quickly returned. Turning back to the paper, Jessie was already dreading his imminent absence.

Her grandmother made an entrance minutes later, and suddenly the temperature in the kitchen seemed to drop a few degrees. Grandmother was dressed in Sunday go-to-meeting style, a white V-neck blouse, an embroidered hip-length cardigan, and an anklelength rayon skirt.

Bill poured her a cup of coffee, and she chattered about the weather, the garden, her neighbors, her bridge club, her country club, her charity group, and her piano teacher friends, who were hoping to meet Jessie. Obviously, Grandmother’s social tentacles were everywhere. She was still talking when Jessie realized she had nothing to wear for church, that is, if she intended to go.

But Grandmother seemed delighted. “I’m sure I have your size.” Then she frowned. “Are you comfortable with wearing one of your mother’s old skirts?”

Jessie was still considering this when her grandmother added, “I certainly don’t think you’d appreciate
my
style.”

“I’m sure my … mother’s skirts might fit … if you don’t mind… .”

“Not at all.”

Grandmother returned with a collection of skirts and dresses—solid pleats, crushed velvet, floral patterns—nothing Jessie remembered.

She still has all of Mom’s clothing,
she thought.

She selected a conservative floral-print skirt with a dark blue background and a white blouse. When Jessie sniffed the collar, she let out a small sigh of relief. Her mother had never worn it.

Her mother’s favorite perfume had been Charlie, and in Jessie’s experience, the aroma of Charlie lasted forever. In fact, she had an unsent letter from years ago that still emanated the scent.

She went upstairs to dress and apply blush and eyeliner. Staring into the mirror, she wondered again why Bill, who seemed to be so enmeshed in her grandmother’s life, didn’t choose to attend her church. And he’d seemed almost secretive about it.