Finding Noel (13 page)

“Macy just shook her head. They've sealed all our records.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They say they wanted privacy.”

“Who's ‘they'?”

“My sister and her new family.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“I didn't think so either. I guess my best bet is still to find my father. Do you know where he is?”

Bonnie frowned. “He lost the house a year or two after you all left.”

“Do you know where he moved to?”

“No. If he hasn't died.” She noticed the look of distress on Macy's face. “But I doubt it. I read the obituaries every day and I haven't seen him there.”

“He's not in the phone book,” Macy said. “If he's as bad as you say, he might not even remember who took her.”

“Things will work out,” Bonnie said. “Remember the Psalms: Be still and know that I am God. That means God is at the helm. It's right there in the Good Book. Look how we found each other.” She looked into Macy's face. “It's so good to see you again.”

“It's good to see you again,” Macy said.

“Now, tell me about this boy.”

“Mark's a friend of mine. He's from Alabama.”

“My old neighborhood. You're a long way from home.”

“Yes, ma'am, I am.”

“Where 'bout in Alabama?”

“Huntsville.”

“My people are from Montgomery.” She smiled and patted Macy's thigh. “I'd love to have you both for Sunday dinner.”

“That would be nice.” She turned to me. “Are you busy, Mark?”

Her question was only a formality. “No, I'm free.”

“I have church until one o'clock,” Bonnie said. “Would dinner at two be okay?”

“Two's great,” Macy said.

Bonnie and Macy exchanged phone numbers, and then we got up to leave. The dog, Fred, jumped up and ran around us, barking frantically.

“Hush up, Fred,” Bonnie said. “Hush.”

We stopped at the door. “What can I bring for dinner?” Macy asked.

“Just yourself. And this boyfriend of yours.”

Macy didn't correct her. “Then we'll see you Sunday.”

“Wait. You never left without a kiss for Nanna.”

Macy smiled, “Sorry, I forgot.” She kissed the old woman's cheek.

“You can kiss me too,” she said to me.

I kissed her on the other cheek.

“See you Sunday—come hungry.”

When we got back into the car, Macy started to cry and didn't stop until we were halfway home.

When we were back in Salt Lake, I asked Macy, “Want to get some lunch?”

“No. Not unless you do.”

“I'm okay.”

She looked back out the window.

“Are you okay?”

“What if I never find her?”

“You'll find her. It will work out.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It's like Bonnie said: fate plays a hand in these things. I mean, look how we found Bonnie. What were the odds of that?”

“You're right.” A moment later she said, “One of our regulars at the Hut is a private eye. I wonder if he'd help look for my dad.”

“I'm sure he would. I bet this kind of stuff is easy for him.”

She smiled. “You know, I
am
kind of hungry.”

We stopped at a McDonald's for fish sandwiches. An hour later I dropped Macy off at home. “Do you want to come in?” she asked.

“I need to get to work. I'm already late.”

“I work tonight too.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Anytime. I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, have fun at work.” She ran into the house, and I drove to work wishing that I didn't have to leave her and wondering where our journey would take us next.

Sometimes you can't go home again.

MARK SMART'S DIARY

When I returned home from work, I found a note my landlord had pushed under my apartment door. It read in hurried scrawl, “Call your Aunt Marge collect,
no matter the hour.
” A phone number with a Huntsville area code was written beneath. Aunt Marge was my mother's only sister and one of the three women in the car accident with my mother. I was surprised to hear from her and was worried by the note's urgent tone.

I put the note in my pocket, walked outside and down the street to the corner 7-Eleven's outside pay phone. The headset was cold against my face. I asked the operator to make the call. On the fourth ring, a sleepy voice answered. “Mark?”

“I have a collect call from Mark Smart,” the operator said. “Will you accept the charges?”

“Of course.”

“Go ahead, sir.”

“Aunt Marge,” I said.

“Oh, Mark, I'm so glad you called.”

“I'm sorry to call so late. I just got off work and got your message. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing new. I've just been so worried about you.”

I was relieved to hear there was no bad news.

“Are you back in school?”

“Not yet. I'm saving for it. But it's going to take a while.”

“Can I help?”

I knew she meant it, but I could never in good conscience accept money from her. She had been divorced eight years earlier, and with four children and minimal child support, her life had been a constant financial struggle. “Thanks, Aunt Marge, but I'll get by.”

“Mark, I promised your mother that I would look after you. When are you coming home?”

“I don't really have any plans to come back.”

“But you'll be home for Christmas?”

I hesitated. “I don't know.”

“What do you mean?”

“There's really no reason to come back.”

“What about your dad?”

This question was easier. “The last time I spoke to Stu, he told me not to come home.”

She was quiet a moment. “I know. He told me. He regrets saying it.”

In twenty-one years I had never heard Stu apologize for or retract anything. “Stu told you that he regrets saying it?”

“In so many words.”

I figured as much.
“Well, he seemed pretty sure about it when he said it to me.”

“He was just in a bad way. He's having a hard time.”

“He can join the club. We've got jackets.”

She was taken aback by my sarcasm. “Mark, you're not the
only one suffering. Alice was his wife, and she was my sister and best friend.”

“I'm sorry, Aunt Marge. I didn't mean to be disrespectful. I appreciate your concern. It's just… there's really nothing back in Huntsville for me. Stu and I just don't get along.”

She was silent for what seemed like a long time. “You know, Mark, people aren't always who they seem to be.”

“You can't tell me that Stu's a good father.”

“I'm telling you that you don't really know him.”

“With all due respect, I think I know my father.”

“You know what you know. But you don't know the whole story.”

“What story?”

“Your parents' story.”

“Then tell me.”

“It's not mine to tell. But someday you'll understand. Hopefully it won't be too late. For your sake, and your father's.”

I didn't know what to say. I couldn't imagine any scenario that could change how I felt about him. After a moment I said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“You were with my mother in the accident?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

I had asked a difficult thing, for both of us, and she paused to gather herself. “I really didn't want to do this over the telephone.”

I sat down on the cold concrete, the metal-wrapped phone cord stretched taut. “I know. I just need to know.”

She was quiet for another moment, then her voice came more softly: “Alright. You know we ladies get together every month. We went to the Sandpiper for lunch. On the way home it started raining, hard. The wipers could barely keep up. Your mother was driving. We weren't even going very fast, but suddenly there was a truck stopped in front of us. Your mother swerved to miss it and we went off the road and flipped over an embankment. The car rolled three times until it struck a tree and stopped upside down. We hit on your mother's door.”

I began to cry. I was afraid to ask the next question but I had to know. “Was she killed instantly?”

“No. We tried to help her, but we couldn't get her out of her seat belt.” Her voice started to tremble with emotion. “I held her while we waited for help. She bled to death before the paramedics arrived.”

It was a moment before I could speak. “Was she in a lot of pain?”

“She didn't complain of it. But she was in shock.”

I wiped back my cheek with the back of my hand. “Did she say anything?”

“Yes. She wanted me to tell you that she loves you with all of her heart and always will. And that she'll be watching over you.”

I wiped my eyes. After a moment I asked, “Did she say anything else?”

“Yes. But it wasn't for you.”

“Who was it for?”

“Stu.”

“Could you tell me what she said?”

She hesitated. “I don't know.”

“I'm just trying to hold on to everything I can of her. It would really help me to know what her last thoughts were.”

She pondered my request for another moment. “Maybe I should. It might help you. It might help both of you. She wanted me to tell him that she was sorry.”

I suppose that I had expected anything but this. Something about it ignited my defenses, turning my grief to anger. “
She
was sorry? For what?”

“You'll have to ask him.”

I was speechless. I couldn't comprehend anything that my mother could be sorry about. All I could see was that my father had made her life miserable. All of our lives miserable.

“I'll let you go,” she said. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Mark, please consider coming home. You can stay with us if you like, but please give him a chance.”

After a minute I said, “I'll think about it.”

“If you change your mind, just call me. Call me collect, anytime, day or night. I'll pay your airfare.”

“Thank you. I'll let you know.”

“You still have my phone number?”

“I have it written down.”

“Okay. You take care of yourself. I'll check up on you later.”

“Thanks for calling, Aunt Marge.”

“You're welcome, Mark. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I stood and replaced the phone in its cradle. My heart ached as I walked back to my apartment. It was like hearing the news of my mother's death again for the first time. In my mind I played out the last moments of my mother's life. Her brown Impala flying through the air in slow motion. But what stuck with me the most was my mother's last words—her apology to Stu. What could my mother possibly be sorry about? I fell asleep with this on my mind.