Coming Home (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

JESSIE OPENED THE BROWN ENVELOPE at the stoplight. It was her mother’s death certificate, just as she had suspected—handwritten and faded. What was the point of going to the library now? Here it was—proof of her mother’s death.

In the moments before the light turned green, she pondered her next stop. She checked the time. Almost two o’clock. She had three hours before Andy planned to pick her up for dinner.

I’ll study this at the library,
she decided, glancing at her mother’s letter, which rested on the passenger seat. The confrontation with her grandmother still echoed in her ears, including her cryptic half statement:
“Your mother is …”
Present tense.

Jessie wasn’t the only person living in the past. In their own ways, neither of them had accepted the reality of her mother’s death.

Jessie touched the letter, noticing the residual scent of Charlie—something she hadn’t noticed before because the entire
room
had smelled of the fragrance. Either the letter had been sprayed with the cologne or it had absorbed the scent of the room. She traced her mom’s handwriting with her fingers. Mom had still been alive when she’d written this letter. And, for a moment, Jessie felt as if she were still here….

“My mother is dead,” she whispered. But those words never sounded emptier—not empty in the sense of sadness, but empty in the sense that the whole of her being still couldn’t say them and truly believe. “My mother is alive,” Jessie whispered next, and the statement felt true.
Maybe Brandon was right,
she thought, her spirits sinking.
Maybe I need help
.

She steeled herself again.
No. I’m okay,
she thought, squeezing her eyes shut.
I’ve come a long way since Friday
.

The traffic light turned green.
I can do this… .

Doris sat on her garden bench on the stone patio with colorful petunias and daisies all around. She looked out at the gazebo. The backyard was so peaceful and quiet, inhabited by finches and blue jays, surrounded by large, healthy trees. At the edges of her private paradise, the tall cedar fence eliminated all visibility.

In the midst of the city she felt totally protected, separated from any sense of connection to the hustle and bustle of modern life. The yard was like a miniature Garden of Eden and yet, in spite of the calming beauty, in the midst of her well-planned environment, her world was falling apart.

“Hi Mommy, I brought you some flowers,”
little Olivia had once said when she came home from school. Doris had reprimanded Olivia for picking them, reducing her sweet little girl to tears.

“If only I could have it all back,” Doris whispered to the memory.

Her mind was a jumble of emotions. She’d always had the best of intentions, but she’d learned years ago that good motives don’t protect you from terrible mistakes.

“You stole my mother,”
Jessie had said and it was true. Doris had lived with the guilt of that. At times, she thought she had effectively submerged it below everything, buried it so deep within her it would never haunt her again. But it came up anyway, like the weeds in her garden.

She had to keep culling her garden of regret, but while a few flowers grew to obscure the weeds, the soil of her life’s garden was basically corrupt. Staying ahead required exhausting vigilance, pulling them out one by one, but the guilt was never far away. There wasn’t enough clamor of life, enough busyness, to cover her pain.

“You stole my mother.”

She’d rehearsed it often in her mind, telling herself that she’d made the right decision. Surely, there had been no other decision to make. But the guilt of it all was nearly destroying her. And memories of the past were obviously ruining her granddaughter’s life.

She sighed deeply, as if to exhale the pain, but it couldn’t be released that easily. Doris held her chest and her breathing was labored again.

Olivia had once said,
“Mom, no matter what happened when I was a child, I forgive you.”

Doris had answered flippantly,
“Livvy, please …”

Olivia had discarded her religious roots and gone radical. She’d become a “born again” Christian.
“I know you were doing the best you could,”
Olivia had said.

Doris had wept later, just as she did now. Sometimes she still stood in her daughter’s room and closed her eyes, and little Livvy was back again. Doris clearly remembered the little-girl voice:
“Mom, look what I painted.”
Life was still full of possibilities. Redemption was in reach.

But nothing could erase that dreadful Tuesday. The people at the mental health center had called her in the morning. She’d known the moment the phone rang but refused to answer. Maria had been the one to finally pick up the phone.

“Do we have the right number for Olivia Lehman’s family?”
they’d asked her.

“That’s correct,”
Maria had answered, her voice breaking.

They aren’t even sure of our number,
Doris remembered thinking later.

She was still sitting on her bench when Bill strolled out, his eyes worried. “You okay?”

“I need to be alone.”

He thumbed toward the house. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

She nodded absently. He ambled back in, and her mind wandered off again.

I’ve lost her,
she realized. For the past decade she’d wanted to repair her relationship with Jessica, but in the end, she simply wasn’t capable of it. She thought of Bill, realizing how much she depended on him, and she wondered for the life of her what she would do if he ever left.
And yet, how can I blame him?

If he knew the truth about her, the
whole
truth, life as she knew it would be finished in a heartbeat. And yet … would that be so bad?

Bill was at her side again. “Dory, please. Come inside.” He put his hand under her elbow, and this time she allowed herself to be led inside.

“I’ve lost her, Bill.”

He put his strong arm about her. “Everything will be fine.”

“No, Bill. Nothing has ever been fine.”

Jessie entered the silent world of bookshelves. Students sat in study cubicles; old men sat on couches reading newspapers from far away. At the front desk she asked for a letter opener. She found a row of study cubicles, each containing a computer. Most were occupied, but one was empty. She sat next to a couple of college girls, giggling as they typed.

Removing her mother’s letter—it was only one page—Jessie braced herself and began reading….

My dear Jessica,

If you’re reading this, then know I’m looking down on you bursting with pride at the wonderful young woman I’ve always known you would become… .

Jessie closed the letter, unable to read any more. She held it in front of her so it wouldn’t become spotted with tears. Taking deep breaths, she exhaled slowly.

She buried the letter within her shirt, then picked up the death certificate again, analyzing the details, as if she might actually sear the truth into her mind. The certificate included name, date of birth, social security number, level of education, last known residence, certifying physician, place of death—including the room number—time of death, and cause of death—in this case: dementia—and a plethora of other seemingly insignificant cold facts. Nothing about what a wonderful mother she had been. No space for the details that
really
mattered.

Jessie studied the document for a while longer, noticing that several lines were left blank, including cemetery/crematory and method of disposition.
So much for checking the funeral home,
she thought.

Actually, the whole thing seemed fishy. Why was the death certificate handwritten anyway?

Imagination working overtime,
she thought.

She glanced at the computer.
I’m here now,
she thought, connecting to the Internet and typing in the El Paso County Department of Health and Environment Web site from Andy’s list. When the site loaded she clicked on Birth and Death Records and read the instructions. It offered hoop-jumping details for obtaining a death certificate, which Jessie didn’t need anymore. She wanted simple verification of this one—the one Bill had given her.

She found the number instead and dialed it on her cell phone.

After swimming through a series of recorded messages, Jessie remained on the line. Finally a real person answered, “El Paso Vital Records.”

Jessie presented her request but was denied. “Only in person,” the woman said. “With proof of kinship.”

“Can you just verify that you have—”

“Only in person,” the woman repeated. “We’re across from Memorial Park.”

Jessie thanked the woman and hung up.

She navigated to the Web site of the Colorado Department of Public Health and Environment and found the same song and dance. She could obtain a death certificate online, in person, or by mail. The online and mail procedure would take days, or she could make a request in person—in Denver. She dialed the direct number and her request for over-the-phone verification was denied again.

I’m just wasting time,
Jessie thought. She went back to the last Web address, then logged on using Susan McCormick’s user name and password. After clicking on Search For Your Ancestors, Jessie typed in her mother’s name and last known residence. Nearly a hundred matches returned, countless Olivia Lehmans spread out under Census Records; Birth, Marriage, and Death Records; Military Records; Periodicals and Newspapers; and Membership Lists.