Ruby's Slippers (12 page)

I settle into the backseat with Otto since Tim seems too brittle to climb in the back. Soon we are off and out of the city and back on the Pacific Coast Highway, heading north. There’s no toll for crossing the Golden Gate Bridge moving out of the city. With Sophia driving, I sit back and absorb the scenery. The warm glow of the morning sun glints on the crossbeams, creating a golden halo for the bridge. I’ve never seen it in person before, only in pictures or on the news. It stretches out ahead of us, the traffic heavy on the other side with inbound commuters. “This is the jumpers bridge,” Sophia tells me, raising her voice over the road noise. “I saw a special on it. People still come here to jump. I’m not sure I understand that.” “Life gets to be too much of a burden.” Tim peers out the side window. “Sad, isn’t it?”

“Especially when this looks like such a hopeful place.” I look up at clouds tinged with gold around the edges, the blue sky streaked with sunlight.

“You’re right.” Sophia runs her fingers through her straw-colored hair. “There’s so much in life to be hopeful about.”

But I don’t feel all that hopeful these days. “What if someone lost all they had?”

Tim turns to look at me, but he stops part way, unable to meet my gaze fully. “I have. And more.”

I regret reminding him of his wife’s death. I know the pain of mourning for Momma. The grief never seems to end, and I imagine it’s only worse with the loss of a spouse.

“That’s how I found my Elizabeth.”

“
Found
her?” Sophia takes her eyes off the road for only a moment. She grips the steering wheel with both hands.

“I had to have surgery. Elizabeth had moved out here not long after I did. We saw each other occasionally. We were friendly but nothing more. Selfishly, I admit, I used her to find out what her brother, Duncan, and Ruby were up to. She’s the one who told me they’d been married.” He remains silent for a moment as if caught in his own memories.

“What did you lose?” Sophia prompts.

“I went with friends to a beach down south, and when I dove into the water, I hit something. Fractured my neck. Couldn’t even feel my toes or walk for a while. They put in a steel rod. I’m good as new now. Maybe better. Definitely better. Because I ended up with Elizabeth. She liked to say I was her Man of Steel.” He raises an arm like a body builder showing off his bicep.

His accident changed the course of his life for the better. Maybe good can come out of bad, as Sophia says. If the tornado hadn’t wiped out my farm, I wouldn’t be on my way to
find my father. And I never would have met Sophia and Tim. If I don’t watch out, I’ll end up an optimist like Sophia. I’m beginning to think it’s contagious.

“After Elizabeth passed away,” Tim turns back to face the windshield, “I didn’t think I’d go on after that.”

I follow his gaze, watch tourists walking across the bridge, many stopping to look over the edge.

“Can’t say I ever thought of jumping off a bridge.” Tim’s voice quavers. “But if my heart had stopped from grief, I wouldn’t have been disappointed to see my life end.”

“And now?” Sophia asks.

“Now, my dear, I miss Elizabeth as much as I ever did. But some of the darkness has lifted. I can’t say there’s a rainbow on this side of grief, but I manage to get through each day. Maybe the silver lining for me is meeting you two.”

“Being useful,” Sophia says, “that’s the ticket. Or it has been for me. I need to feel useful. I’ve known friends who received a diagnosis of cancer, like I did, who curled up in an emotional ball and just waited to die. The doctors didn’t give me much hope either. My cancer was pretty far advanced. They did the mastectomy as a last-ditch effort. But I’m still here. For some reason God isn’t through with me yet. The doctors said I was a miracle. They said that! I believe in miracles. This was surely God at work.”

“But you had to believe,” Tim says.

“You’re right. That is what it takes—believing. Don’t know how long I’ll be around, but for today I’m here. If I can be helpful to someone, it keeps my spirits lifted.”

“You’ve been a big help to me.” I reach forward and touch her shoulder.

Sophia grins in answer, meeting my eyes in the rearview
mirror. “You’re helping me too. Giving this old woman something to do. And, Tim, you’re being a big help to us both.”

“That must be why I feel so good today.” He looks back, his face solemn, but a twinkle sparks in his eye.

The ocean gives way to hills and cooler weather. We pass around the popcorn bag, and I feed a kernel to Otto. His little body keeps my lap warm, as the cooler air seeps right through the plastic top of the Jeep. The highway seems to hover along the bluffs overlooking the ocean. We skim past craft shops, bakeries, and bed-and-breakfasts. The weathered shingles of the shops match the gray sky and make the day seem colder.

“Did you ever watch
Murder, She Wrote
?” Sophia asks.

“Uh, sure. Wasn’t it about a writer who solves crimes or something?”

“Angela Lansbury.” Tim gives a sigh. “She was a looker in her day.”

“And sweet as can be.”

“You knew her?” I stroke Otto’s fur.

“Way before she became Jessica Fletcher.” Sophia waves her hand at white-picket fences we pass along the way. “Mendocino is where they filmed the TV show.”

“We could sure use her to solve the mystery of these blasted shoes.” I twist and fidget in my seat to find a more comfortable position. My eyelids grow heavy again as we move into heavier tree-lined areas. Using Abu, the odd monkey Craig gave me, as a pillow for my head, I doze in the back seat with Otto curled against me.

* * *

WHEN I BLINK myself awake, it’s darker. How long did I sleep? Is it about to storm? I lean forward to peer out the windshield. On either side of us are gigantic redwoods. I feel
like we’ve driven onto the set of
Honey, I Shrunk the Kids
. Giant ferns populate the forest around us.

Tim notices me when my hand accidentally brushes his shoulder. “You’re awake.”

Sophia flips on the Jeep’s headlights to illuminate the narrow road ahead. Darkness folds in around us, though it’s just past noon.

“This is what they call the old-growth forest.” Tim takes on the role of tour guide again. “Many of these trees are hundreds of years old. Some over a thousand. Makes even me look young.”

I stare out the window at the magnificent craggy trunks that seem to reach all the way to heaven. I keep one hand on Otto and peer out into the shadows. “It’s kind of creepy in here.”

“Oh, nothing to be afraid of.” Tim swivels in his seat as best he can to look back at me. “Elizabeth used to come up here for her photography. I’ve always found the forest endlessly fascinating. There’s something magical about being in one, especially one this size. Makes me feel small and yet a part of it all.”

“No lions or tigers or bears?” Sophia grins.

“Maybe bears. There are quite a few black bears roaming around. I’ve seen a few myself. And an occasional elk. We saw an Olympic elk, I believe it was, just grazing out in the meadow.” Tim laughs. “Mountain lions wouldn’t be unheard of.”

“Terrific,” I mutter to myself and hold Otto a bit closer.

We find a stopping point and walk among the gigantic trees. I feel small. Sunlight rains down through the canopy of leaves in golden splashes of warmth.

“Makes you really think, doesn’t it?” Sophia’s voice has a hushed quality as if muffled by a mound of leaves.

The twittering of birds sounds like an ancient hymn among the enormous trees. A blue jay swoops down to the forest floor and hops on skinny legs. A low guttural growl comes from Otto, and I grab him before he takes off after the bird. “Think about what?”

“How much there is to know, and how little we do know about things. There was a time when I thought I knew everything. I don’t know if everyone experiences that or not. Maybe it’s a teenage thing. But the older I get—”

“The more I don’t know,” Tim finishes her statement.

“Exactly!”

They share a smile between them. I’m at least thirty years their junior, but I feel the same. I’m not sure I ever felt like I knew all there was to know. There was always so much I didn’t understand. Maybe that’s why I liked math. There was always a formula to help me find the answer. But the answers to my life have always been shrouded in mystery.

“There’s always more for us to learn.”

“It’s like the seasons. Just when we think winter will never end, when life seems barren and hopeless, spring always arrives, offering rebirth and brave new possibilities, and we push on through what we once thought was dead. At any stage of life,” she smiles, “we can blossom.”

“I like the way you think.” Tim takes her arm in his. He leads her toward a giant redwood. The two of them walk slowly, shaking their heads in wonder. Sophia laughs, the sound lifting off the ground and toward the treetops like a bird in flight. Tim smiles at her. “See this spruce? It’s a Sitka spruce. Helps protect the redwoods from the ocean’s salty spray.”

“So many reflections of life here. You see these giants and you can’t imagine they need protection from anything. Do you know what my daddy says?”

“No.” Something cold and ugly wells up inside me. No one protected me from the cruelty of life. Momma tried, but she couldn’t. Maybe no one can. Suddenly I feel exposed to the elements, vulnerable and scared. “And no offense, Sophia, but I don’t want to know.”

Her eyes widen. Tim turns in my direction.

Instantly I regret my words. I don’t even know why I’m suddenly angry. “I’m sorry.”

I’ve killed the moment as thoroughly as if I chopped down one of these historic trees. Solemnly we all turn back toward the Jeep and quietly climb inside. I feel chilled down to my very core. Regret wraps around me like a heavy blanket but offers no warmth.

“I’m sorry, Sophia. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I don’t even know why I did. I just … well, I don’t know why, but whenever you talk about your father, it makes me angry.”

“It’s okay.” She turns the key in the ignition. “It’s my fault. I should have been more sensitive. I’m a stupid old fool.”

“No, you’re not. It’s my fault. I hate the bitterness and anger still inside me. I resent not having any words of wisdom from my own father. He wasn’t there for me, for my mother. He didn’t leave us any pithy sayings. He never—” My voice breaks and I stop talking before I embarrass myself further. “And he waltzed back into my life while I was unconscious and left me a pair of shoes with no explanation.”

The Jeep isn’t moving. I look up and find Sophia watching me in the rearview mirror. Tim sits quietly, his hands clasped in his lap, still as one of the petrified trees.

“I should have been more sensitive to your feelings.” Sophia’s voice and intonation are soft and feathery. “I’m sorry, Dottie. My father wasn’t there for me either.”

My gaze locks with hers in the elongated mirror. “But you’re always quoting things he told you. Are you just—”

“Not my
real
father.” She shakes her head, clenches her hands on the steering wheel. “No, my father died in the war. Somewhere in Africa. When I was a little girl, I’d imagine things that he might tell me. Sometimes I thought I could hear him calling my name, but it was just the wind. For a long time I drifted in life, afraid to love, afraid to depend on a man. Oh, I knew it wasn’t my father’s fault that he didn’t return. But I had learned that no man was dependable the way I needed him to be. And that’s probably the truth of it. Maybe that’s the truth I needed to learn. That truth is what ultimately led me to God. When I speak of my father, my daddy, I’m speaking of God. He adopted me, became my real father. He
is
my father. In heaven maybe, but as real as real can be.”

“I would have rather had a flesh-and-blood father.” Bitterness runs through my heart as thick and red as my own blood.

“That’s how my son felt too.” Sorrow deepens her voice. “So I quit talking about God so much, so I wouldn’t offend. I still lean on his wisdom though.” She sighs. “I don’t think that’s right either. It’s a hard balance. And now I’ve hurt you.”

“No,” I say, my voice breaking. “It’s okay.” I reach forward as she reaches back and we clasp hands, lock eyes.

“Should we be going?” Tim asks, his voice gentle as a summer rain.

* * *

A SONG SPINS through my head, blocking out my thoughts. Sometimes it feels like it’s driving me, pushing me. The words are odd and slip away from me.

Sophia didn’t actually lie to me. Maybe we all live with the reality we need to get through each day.

Can a person believe, truly feel like God is their real father? Frankly, it sounds like something a pink-haired televangelist might say. The words ring false from overdone lips, but from Sophia? She’s not some whacko on TV. My anger, I realize, isn’t aimed at her. God, perhaps. My father, most definitely.

My feelings about my father, how he abandoned me, deserted our family, have been projected onto God. To me, God has always been cold and uncaring, just like my father. To me, he has always seemed far away, just like my father. Always silent. But was he really? Did God send the tornado? If so, why?

I’ve always believed in God, never doubted his power to create something as magnificent as these trees or as tranquil as a prairie stretching out for miles and miles. Just like I never questioned whether Duncan Meyers was my real father. But I questioned my father’s love. If he loved my mother, Abby, and me, then how could he leave? How could he just walk away, never contact us? If he loved us, why didn’t he reach out to us? His reluctance was proof enough for me.

But he has reached out now. Which leaves me confused. Why? What does he want? Maybe answers aren’t easy or simple.

And so, maybe I’ve also believed God didn’t really love me. All this time I thought I prayed but maybe I never really did. Compared to Momma, my problems didn’t amount to much. Momma always put on a brave face, pretended not to need her husband or anyone else. Have I pretended not to need anyone all these years? Including God? Maybe I thought I had things under control. Or was my unbelief a way of not
being hurt? Of holding back my love, scared I’d be rejected. If I didn’t ask anything of God, then I couldn’t expect anything in return. And I couldn’t be hurt. Again.