The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (59 page)

A young woman stood in a field of flowers. Her head was flung back, her arms outstretched. She was laughing and singing as she began to spin around. Her hair flew around her face, and she spun faster and faster. Her clothing became a blur, until the scene stopped. Caught in a freeze frame, the woman’s face was clear. It wasn’t Vicki. It was me. Wearing a twisted mask of agony.
 

***

“Why did you give me that key?” I asked before I'd even gotten out of the car.

“Good morning to you, too, Sunshine,” Sheena said. She lifted her head from the book she was reading and squinted her eyes into the bright sun.

I slammed the car door and stormed up to the bench where Sheena sat in front of the store.
 

“Good morning,” I said, trying to control my voice. “Why did you give me that key?”
 

“It was your key to have,” Sheena said. “I assume you opened the trunk?”

“How could you be sure I’d know what it was for?”

“I knew.”
 

I twisted my fingers around the hem of my blouse. “That’s not an answer.”

Sheena leveled her gaze and her eyes held me in place, stilling my fidgeting. “That was your key to have. You need everything you found in that trunk.”
 

“That’s just it—there’s nothing in it. Only some stupid art supplies and old pictures.”

“It will help.”

“Help with what?”

Sheena didn’t answer, but she didn’t look away either.
 

I glared at her for a moment. I knew it wasn’t her fault; there was no way Sheena could know about my problems, or that I used to paint once. She couldn’t know. Just because Jason presumed to know things didn’t mean this strange hippie lady knew anything, either.
 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“The energy is strong up at the cabin. It will help.”

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice shook with every word. “Energy, chi, spirits. Whatever. This is a waste of time. A big fucking waste of time.”

I spun on my heel and left her sitting in a cloud of dust as I tore out of the parking lot. The anger I couldn't explain pulsed hard and heavy in my temple.
 

***

I drove fast, but only got as far as the bridge before I pulled the car onto the weed-covered shoulder, leaned back against the head rest, and let out a guttural scream.
 

I remembered reading in Express Yourself that releasing pent-up emotion could be therapeutic and cleansing. I wasn’t sure about cleansing, but at that moment it felt damn good to feel the heat in my throat as I let loose.

I'm not sure how long I sat like that, giving my rage an outlet, but when I finished, I felt better. Damned if it didn't work.
 

Movement out the window caught my eye and I had only a fraction of a second to compose myself before Jason's truck pulled up beside me.

Fortunately, he didn't unroll his window to talk to me. He gave me a look—are you okay?—and he moved on up the road after I nodded. Likely on his way up to clear more logs.
 

I waited until the truck was out of sight and ran my hands through my hair in an effort to pull myself together. I adjusted the rearview mirror and looked at my reflection.
 

I looked normal. More than that, I felt normal.

Maybe I was onto something with the screaming?
 

But I still needed answers. How could I be in those pictures, when I didn’t even know Rainbow Valley existed? How come no one told me my mother was an artist? What else didn’t I know? Too many questions, and there was only one person who could answer them.

I dug my cell phone out of my purse, powered it up and dialed my brother’s number. It was time Dylan told me what he knew.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Dylan, I need to know something.”

“Becca? Where on earth are you?”

“You spoke to Jon.”

Crap.

“Of course I did. I tried to call you for your birthday, late I know, but when you didn’t answer your cell, I tried you at home. He was flipping out, Becca. We’re all flipping out.”
 

“I needed a break.”

“But you took off? You just left Kayla at school?”

“I didn’t just leave her,” I said. “Jon was going to pick her up. What version exactly did he tell you?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re okay. What the hell happened?”

The thought of explaining to my big brother that my husband was oblivious to what was going on around him, our father had totally lost his mind and thought I was our dead mother, and I was definitely in the running for the world’s worst mother award, was too much.
 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “But I do need to know something.”
 

“What?”

“What do you know about a place called Rainbow Valley?”

I heard Dylan draw a sharp breath.

When he didn’t say anything else, I told him how I discovered the cabin, leaving out the small detail that I was actually staying in it.
 

When I finished, the silence on the other end of the line was palpable.
 

“Dylan,” I said, forming the words carefully. “What do you know?”

“I didn’t know they still had the cabin,” he said, finally.

“You knew about it, though?”

“Well, yeah. We lived in Rainbow when I was a kid. We moved when you were still a baby. Mom went back a few times on her own. I didn’t realize Dad kept the house after, well, after she died.”

I looked out the window at the river with the bright flowers dotting the grassy banks. “How could I not know this place existed?” I wondered aloud.

“This place?” Dylan’s voice picked up. “Are you in Rainbow right now? Christ, Becca. You are, aren’t you?”

“Dylan. Promise me you won’t say anything to Jon.”
 

“I don’t kn—”

“Please. I just need a little more time to figure things out. To work through some stuff. I can’t have him showing up here right now. I need to be alone.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. What’s going on? Talk to me.”
 

“Don’t get all brotherly on me now. I haven’t seen you in years and now you care.”

“Of course I care. What on earth are you talking about? What is going on with you, Becca?”

“Whatever, Dylan.” I took a deep breath and tried to compose myself. I needed him. “I really don’t want to get into it. But, please just tell me about this place? How come I never knew we lived here? Why was it a secret?”

“I don’t think it was a secret so much as something we just didn’t talk about. After we left, I remember Mom getting really sad whenever I mentioned it. I think Dad tried to cheer her up and send her back for visits, but she came home even sadder. And then, well, the accident and we moved from Crescent City to Silverdale, which was even further away, and, well, you know the rest.”

“Why did you leave if she loved it so much?”

“I didn’t really know at the time,” he said. “I was just a kid. I was excited to move, and go to a school instead of being home taught. But I liked it up there,” Dylan’s voice turned wistful. “There used to be a swimming pond right outside the house.”

“It’s not really right outside the house.”

“You found Prince’s Pond?”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “Someone showed me.”

“Who?’

“Jason.” My heart sped up just saying his name out loud. “He’s the guy that looks after the rental houses for the owners. He helps out Sheena.”
 

“Sheena?”
 

“Do you know her?”
 

“No, but I was pretty young when we left,” he said. “I don’t remember everything. She might have been a friend of Mom’s. But it was a long time ago. I'm not sure I really remember her.”
 

“Well, she's still here and she remembers you.” I experienced a flash of guilt for the way I’d just yelled at the older woman. “Hey,” I said, changing the subject. “Do you remember Mom drawing or painting?”
 

“Painting? All the time. It’s what she did,” Dylan said. “She used to paint pictures and on weekends we’d visit all the little towns and sell them in the markets. Looking back, I can’t imagine it paid very well, but Dad was the valley handyman and Mom painted.”

“I never knew that. How come no one ever told me? There’s so much I didn’t know.”
 

“Becca, you were so little and all of that—Rainbow Valley—it was a lifetime ago. Don’t be upset.”

I looked out the window again. Don’t be upset? There’s a whole other life I never knew about; how could I not be upset? I opened my mouth to tell him so, but instead, I said, “Well, I’m here now.”
 

“You should tell Jon.”

“Are we back to that? Because I really don’t want him to know. Please, Dylan. I need this right now. I need to think.”

“I don’t know.” I could hear the hesitation in his voice.
 

“Dylan, please.”

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “I won’t tell him. Yet.”

“Thank you.”

“Promise me you’ll call again to let me know you’re okay.”

“I promise.”

Chapter 16

By the time I pulled the car up to the cabin, I’d calmed down. Talking to Dylan had helped, at least a little. I still needed answers, but I no longer felt the intense anger building inside me that I’d woken up with. I knew enough to know it wasn’t only anger about the uncertainty of my past. No, there was more to it than that. And when I realized Jason’s truck wasn’t in the drive like I thought it would be, I knew for sure where the rest of the emotion was coming from.

I’d been so distracted by the trunk, and trying to figure everything out, I hadn’t had time to think about Jason, or the kiss. At least, I hadn’t had as much time. There was no denying the man got under my skin, but there was something else, too. I hadn’t kissed another man since I’d met Jon. Jason didn’t know what he was talking about. I hadn’t wanted to kiss him.

Right?

My insides twisted just thinking about the taste of his lips on mine, the way his hand had stroked my cheek.

With a sigh of frustration, I slammed the car door and went inside. I poured myself a glass of lemonade and my gaze landed on my book, sitting on the counter where I’d abandoned it earlier. It taunted me to read it. But the thought of reading anymore about relationships in trouble, or how I had to accept fault for the destruction of my marriage, made my stomach turn.
 

I opened a drawer and shoved the book inside.
 

My thoughts flipped back to Jon and the girls, and for a moment I thought about calling them again. But what would I say? I knew I was being selfish and I didn’t care. I couldn’t handle the thought of hearing Jon pleading with me to come home. He didn’t get it. I needed the break. But for what?
 

I went to the bedroom, grabbed the sketchbook from the pile I’d made the night before, and went outside to give it another look.
 

In the light of the day, I was struck immediately by the first picture. A simple drawing done with colored pencils, each line magnified the beauty of the blossoms on the page. The picture was almost an exact replica of the meadow in front of me. It was as if the artist, my mother, had been sitting in the same chair, sketching the very same flowers that had been enchanting me since I’d arrived.
 

A chill ran up my spine.
 

Maybe she had.

The date in the corner of the page: 07/1965

I stared for a few moments before flipping the pages. There were a few more drawings of the meadow at various stages in the season. According to the dates, the pictures captured most of the summer and early fall. There were a few close-up sketches of individual blossoms. Each picture was labeled. Pushing out of the chair, I walked through the meadow, letting the flowers calm me while I explored and discovered which was which.
 

The mystery of the vibrant red petals was finally revealed. Allegro poppies. The tall blue giants at the back of the field, near the tree line, were wild delphiniums. I didn’t even know they could be wild. The white daisies were easy, but their yellow and brown counterparts were called Brown-Eyed Susans. Flipping the pages, I could see there were wild rose, pink fireweed, and delicate blue bells. I couldn’t locate all of them, but it was still early in the season; according to the dates, many of the flowers wouldn’t be in bloom until much later in the summer.
 

Returning to the porch, I settled in to take a closer look at the book. Looking at art used to soothe me. Something about losing myself in the brush or pencil stroke of another artist could calm my senses and inspire me at the same time. My mother, Vicki, had captured the intricacy of the petals, the leaves, and even details such as a dew drop on the head of a blue cornflower. I ran my fingers along the page, barely skimming the surface. It looked so real.
 

It was easy to appreciate the artistry in each drawing when I looked at them in the full light, as opposed to the muted glow of the night before. Even in art school, I’d never had considered myself an expert on art. I hated the pretentious people who stuck their noses up at certain pieces because they didn’t approve of the media, or the technique, the artist used. I knew what I liked, and more importantly, I’d always done my best to create art that held my heart and soul, which translated into pieces people could connect to. At least, I used to.
 

I hadn’t painted in so long I probably couldn’t even call myself an artist anymore. There had to be a time limit on such things.
 

I looked up at the meadow that had obviously been a source of inspiration for my mother, and felt the familiar twitch in my fingers again. When I looked down, they were curved as if I were holding a brush or pencil.
 

Could I paint again? Or even draw?

What would it feel like to create the pencil strokes? Or turn an empty canvas into a world of color?