Passing Through Midnight (5 page)

Perhaps it was the new view of death she'd been given
during the accident that was affecting her objectivity.

"Was she very young?"

"Too young to die, but at the end, it was almost a
relief," he said, looking out into the night, seeming to speak from far
away. "Sometimes it's hard to remember all the good times. All the
years before she got sick."

Her feet were cold. She pulled them up and buried them in
her bathrobe, pulling the muscles of her left leg to the point of
aching.

"The two of you remained close then, after the prom." It
was more a question than a comment, but for some strange reason he was
frowning when he turned to look at her.

Slowly his lips twisted into an ironic little smile and
his brow cleared and he nodded. "Yeah," he said, almost amused. "I
guess you could say we stayed close after the prom. We made Fletcher
together."

Dorie held her breath. She felt as if she'd stumbled into
a minefield and was afraid to take her next step.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

He shrugged. "I thought you did. Thought maybe Fletch told
you this afternoon."

"No, he… No. He didn't mention it."

"It was a long time ago. I remarried. Had Baxter after
that. Sometimes it doesn't feel like anything more than a dream," he
said. Then under his breath, so softly that it could have been the wind
whispering across the open fields, he muttered, "A nightmare really."

"Well, this seems like a nice farm," she said, standing up
abruptly as she changed the subject, unprepared for a snap in her leg
muscles that brought tears to her eyes. She bit down on her lower lip,
waiting for the pain to pass and her vision to clear. She couldn't see
much beyond the dim shaft of light from the living room window, save
shadows and sky. But she walked to the railing and gazed far into the
darkness, distancing herself both physically and emotionally.

She didn't want to hear about his nightmares. She didn't
want to know about his pain. She had her own demons to dispel. Her own
wounds to mend.

"Do you suppose the Averbacks will ever come back here?"
she asked, taking in the clean fertile smell of the High Plains,
wondering at its agelessness, speculating on its indifference to the
lives of those who work it.

"No," he said, leaning back in the swing, stretching his
arm across the back. His gaze took a slow upward slant along her
terry-covered spine. She was tall and perhaps a little too thin. Her
dark hair, the longer side facing him, caught the dull beams of light
from the window, turning it into dark, lustrous strands of red. Her
profile, painted with shadows and light, was fine and delicate with
large almond-shaped eyes and high, prominent cheekbones. He guessed she
was very beautiful once, though he thought Fletcher had understated a
little when he said she "wasn't half-bad to look at" now.

"If Fletcher decides to hang around, they'll probably
leave it to him," he said.

She'd been watching the Howlett men for over a month, and
aside from an almost daily skirmish about driving privileges, there
didn't seem to be an inordinate amount of tension between the father
and the son.

"Why wouldn't he hang around?" she asked.

"Kansas exports." She turned her head to look at him. He
went on. "It doesn't seem to matter that we always take first or second
place in wheat production. Or that we raise enough beef every year to
feed half the nation. Or that we produce over a hundred percent of our
own energy needs within the state. Or that our aerospace
industries—like Cessna, Beech, Learjet, Boeing—are
comparatively small potatoes here even though most of this country's
private and commuter airplanes are still built over in Wichita. What
Kansas is best known for are her exports. Her children. We give birth
to presidents and Rhodes scholars, and they scatter in the wind."

"Can't keep the boys on the farm, huh?" she asked, turning
to prop her bottom on the porch railing, hardly aware of the chill in
her toes. The sound of his voice warmed her. His presence blocked from
her mind such minor worldly details as frostbite and pneumonia.

"Girls either," he said, flashing her a grin. "Matthew
says that if the girls would stay, more of the boys would too. He's
convinced that men living together in groups, in caves, was a woman's
idea. And villages were invented so she could wander from one to the
next, shopping for the prettiest pots and the brightest beads."

She might have taken a gender-based affront to this theory
if it wasn't so plausible. Instead, she laughed.

It was a sound she'd almost forgotten. A sound Gil
wouldn't soon forget.

"Well, I'm certainly glad that
he
decided to stay on the farm. He could do some serious damage in the
field of sociology," she said, looking away when she caught herself
silently sharing something more than mild amusement with him, something
as intimate as like-thinking or a basic understanding.

"He'd paint a new picture for sure, but it would be better
than you think. He loves women. He's completely indebted to them for
the conception of fast food and microwaves."

She chuckled. Growing thoughtful, she asked, "What will you do if Fletcher does want to leave? Has he
talked about it yet?"

"No. But then I didn't either. Not until I had my mind
made up and it was too late for my folks to do anything about it," he
said. "Of course, I hope he decides to stay, but if he feels he has to
leave, I'll understand that too. Wheat and beef aren't the whole world.
Farming isn't for everyone."

"You left then. And came back?"

He nodded. "It didn't work out."

"Why? What happened?" He gave her a
boy!-you-ask-a-lot-of-questions look and yet, was about to answer her
when she stopped him. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business. Does
Fletcher know what he wants to be yet?"

He chuckled. "An Indy winner if his driving habits are any
indication. But first he has to get his license."

"Oh. He doesn't even have it yet, does he?" she asked,
marveling further at Gil's patience with his son.

"He has a permit but he won't be sixteen for a few more
months. It's hard on him though. He's been driving trucks and tractors
around here since he was ten or twelve."

She nodded her understanding. "You have nice boys, Mr.
Howlett."

"Gil." He sighed. "Thanks. I do. I'm a lucky man."

He was a lucky man—and she was glad he knew it.

"What about you?" he asked. "What do you do back in
Chicago?"

What
do
doctors do when they can't
doctor anymore? she wondered, not for the first time. What do you do
when the smell of a hospital gives you a head-ache; when the sight of
blood makes the room spin and turns your stomach upside down; when
sick, hurting people terrify you? What are you then?

"I'm a…" doctor, she was about to say. A
physician, she tried again.
Physician, heal thyself
!
The words echoed through her mind, growing louder and louder, rocking
her like a rowboat in a sudden summer squall. "…
secretary… in a doctor's office," she said, torn between the
truth and exposing herself as a coward. "I'm not even too sure I'll be
going back when I'm strong enough. I guess you could say I'm between
jobs at the moment."

He was thoughtful as he nodded his understanding. Medical
secretaries must make boatloads of money. A seasoned Porsche in the
garage. Renting an empty farmhouse indefinitely. Seemed to Gil, medical
secretary was a pretty lucrative profession… or she had
money coming in from elsewhere.

"You're not married," he said, making his assumption on
the obvious evidence. No husband. No ring. No stress in her voice at
being unemployed—and clearly, a huge divorce settlement would
keep the furrow of financial worries from her brow.

"No."

"Divorced."

"Four years ago."

He nodded, satisfied.

"Happens to the best of us," he said, wondering if her
ex-husband had been put through the wringer and hung out to dry as
badly as he had. Poor guy.

Suddenly, he wasn't feeling nearly as sympathetic or as
friendly or as attracted to her as he had been a moment before.

"Well, I guess I've kept you out here in the cold long
enough," he said, getting to his feet. "Freezing you half to death
wasn't what I had in mind when I offered my help."

"Not at all," she said, amazed by the truth. "I'm not cold
at all, and I… hadn't realized how lonely I was. I'm glad
you stopped by."

Lonely was something he knew. The thought of leaving her
alone in the big old farmhouse pulled uncomfortably at his
heart—but then his heart had been pulled and pricked and
stabbed and broken by things that were a hell of a lot worse than
loneliness.

"Call if you need anything," he said, mostly because it
was the Kansas way.

"I will. Thanks." She watched him hurry down the steps.

He glanced over his shoulder at her on his way back to the
pasture. She was too thin, he decided, too all-by-herself, too much a
woman in a weakened and vulnerable state.

"Why'd you come here?" he asked, blurting out his question
as suddenly as he turned to face her. "I know why this particular farm,
but why Colby? Why'd you leave Chicago? Don't you have family? Or
friends? Isn't there anyone to take care of you?"

It was a fair question, one she was ready for anyway.

"I don't need to be taken care of," she said, frank and
undisturbed. "I need time to heal and regroup. Pull myself together
again."

Okay. That was reasonable.

"Sounds like a good plan," he said, for lack of something
better to say. "I wish you well with it."

"Thanks. Good night."

No more afternoon naps.

It was a new, firm get-with-it rule she made as she
wandered the house, restless and zombielike until nearly dawn.

Clinical depression was a fact of life where she came
from. Her patients got it. Her colleagues got it. Most everyone in
Chicago had it during the winter. Even her mother was deeply down in
the dumps on occasion. She knew the symptoms.

For a while, being clinically depressed was okay. She
deserved it. It was understandable. Doctors were people too. They bled
and hurt and sank into the shadows of hell just like everyone else.
Being human was a good thing. Really.

Although, being human and knowing it; being able to
predict and define it was… well, it took a lot of the
gratification and enthusiasm out of it.

Being able to attribute every ache and pain in your body
to a specific muscle and cause was tedious and tiresome. Ascribing
every self-derisive thought, every derogatory opinion of the world,
every impulsive and bizarre act, every timely midday nap and every
half-formed or feeble decision about your life to something as common
as trauma-related depression was… Well hell, it sort of
wet-blanketed the whole thing.

It was dull and boring. Realizing that, Dorie thought
perhaps it was time to forget about the past and get on with the
future! Which was what for her? Good question.

Her newfound resolution was still pretty much limited to
staying out of bed during daylight hours and hadn't quite gotten to
going home and returning to work.

Falling into a pit of despair had been quick and
effortless on her part. But you couldn't simply fall back out of a pit.
You had to work your way out, climb, scale the walls. But first she had
to get up and decide to try.

"Dad! Look! It's the lady," Baxter exclaimed, pointing up
to the window and waving furiously as they walked back to the truck
from the barn that morning. Both Gil and Fletcher looked up.

Fletcher smiled, but Gil was thoughtful.

"Hi! Hi! I can see you!"

Dorie, holding the old lace drapes wide open, smiled down
at Baxter and wiggled her fingers in greeting.

"Are you better now? Are you done being sick?" he called.

She raised the window and bent to call back. "I'm getting
better. Thanks to you and your pictures. Did you bring me mother one?"

"No. I didn't have time. We had to go to Matthew's doctor
after school yesterday. He has a hole in his stomach and his guts are
stuck in it, and if he doesn't let Doc Beesley look at it, he won't be
able to go to the bathroom," he said in one breath.

"Oh my. Does he sometimes call that a hernia?" she asked.
She hoped.

"Yeah." Her acumen pleased him. "Do you have it too?"

"Not yet," she said, thinking of all the heavy bodies
she'd help shift from stretcher to stretcher and back again. "Hi,
Fletcher."

"Hey." He waved.

She wanted to address Gil directly as well, but somehow it
felt as if she would be singling him out.

Absurd—possibly another manifestation of her
disoriented id.

"What do you fellas do out there every day?" she asked,
motioning with her head toward the acres and acres of pasture behind
the house.

"Check the cows," Baxter said, like what else could they
be doing?

"Check'em for what?"

"We make sure they have food and water and that they're
all standin' up. If we see any layin' down, we go see why and sometimes
we kick'em and mak'em stand up, so we know they ain't sick."

"Aren't sick," his father corrected automatically.

"Aren't sick."

"And you have to do that twice a day?"

"It's best," Baxter said like a wise old farmer.
"Sometimes one gets sick and then they all get sick real fast."

"I see. It's probably best to keep up on those things,"
she said, while he nodded. "Are you off to school now?"

"Yep."

"Well, have a nice day then."

"I will. You have a nice one too," he said, waving and
climbing into the big pickup truck.

"Thanks." Then as his brother was about to follow him in,
she made a point of adding, "You, too, Fletcher."