The Shadow of Your Smile (7 page)

Lee Nelson’s front yard resembled one of her homemade lemon meringue pies. Snow drifted in swirls across her driveway, out toward the lakeshore. Ravenous waves from the storm the night before had devoured the ice buildup onshore, leaving only jagged crumbs, now crashing together as the current moved them. They tinkled like the wind chimes Lee hung over her deck during the summer, the wind gusting now and again to add a rattle to the pane.

Lee shivered as she stood at the picture window, zipping up a vest. Not so long ago, Clay would have covered this window with plastic to stave off the wind. She could get Derek to help her hold up one end, secure it with tape, and blow-dry it taut. But the kid usually arrived home after dark, exhausted to the bone after basketball practice, ate his dinner with a sum total of five words, and fell asleep in the spine of his algebra book.

Add to that games on Saturdays, his part-time work bagging at the grocery store, and church on Sundays, and the boy had no time for chores.

Not that Lee had extra time, either. With her volunteer positions around town, as well as her new treasurer duties at church, if she managed to cook something from scratch, she counted it a triumph.

No wonder they still had six cords of unsplit wood in the shed and a pile that needed stacking outside the wood burner.

Why on earth couldn’t Clay have installed a gas heater? But no, he wanted to be efficient, and with the acreage his family left him, they could log off their own land, keep themselves in wood until the end of time.

Except he hadn’t counted on leaving her with the work. Sometimes she could still see him, his body lean and strong from hours with the wood splitter, covered in shavings, smelling of poplar, cedar, and pine, grinning at her as she gathered up the wood to stack. Their Saturday morning dates. She’d bring him coffee, bundled to the gills, and they’d talk about the kids and how they would manage to send Emma and Derek to college on a cop’s salary.

The wind shook the house, the sun low on the horizon, bleeding through the late-afternoon shadows that hovered over the lake.

She had to shovel if she hoped to get her car out of the garage for Derek’s game tonight. She planned on surprising him. It seemed the only time they talked was when she trapped him in the car.

Lee checked the fire grate, made sure it was secure before she went into the entryway, pulled on her Sorels, her down parka, Clay’s old beaver hat, and her work mittens with the wool liners. She added a scarf so that only her eyes showed, then, taking a breath, opened the door.

The chill had the power to freeze her eyelashes to her face. She shut the door quickly behind her, hating how the cold slicked up her nose, made her eyes water.

She picked up a scoop of kitty litter in a bucket next to the door and sprinkled it on the fresh snow as she packed down a new trail to the garage. They’d lived in the two-car garage for a year before they finished the cabin, building on as their family grew. Clay added an attic to the garage three years before he died, a place for Emma and Kelsey to practice.

Emma . . . do you need anything?
Lee had tried not to betray her concern in her voice this morning—Emma had become so distant in the past three years, and it seemed every time she offered her support, Emma simply pushed her away.

No, I’m fine.

No, she wasn’t, but Lee had no idea how to fix her. Or any of them. She just kept trying to survive a little bit better every day.

Lee hit the garage door button and let it open. A three-foot shelf of snow tumbled onto the cement. Oh, to have a snowblower, but that went out a year ago. She hadn’t had the heart to ask Eli to fix it. He already did too much.

Eli.

She hated the wretched hurt in his voice last night when he’d called her. At 3 a.m. She probably should have been sleeping, but she’d been hoping he might call, if not stop by.

She hated herself a little for that—the happiness she found in his friendship. He was such a kind man, the way he showed up to cut wood, shovel, unplug a drain, mow her lawn, repair a broken faucet, help her sort out the statements from the insurance company.

Clay had picked well when he campaigned for Eli for sheriff. A better man—besides Clay—she didn’t know. It helped that Kirby and Derek had played ball together since middle school; it became a natural reason to sit together at events, to become friends, to share hopes and dreams, back when they had them.

Noelle didn’t even realize what she had in a man like Eli. Lee tried not to resent Noelle. . . . Okay, she probably did a little. But she could forgive her—after all, Lee had lost her past, her present. Noelle had lost her only daughter. Her future.

Hey, Lee.
Eli’s voice, in the padding of darkness, had made her heart do a forbidden dance. He had a deep, resonant voice, a seasoned calmness, a soft familiarity that she needed when the moon lit the lake, lonely in the night sky. “I’m in Duluth. Noelle had an accident.”

“What happened?” she asked, her voice quiet. Hopefully the ringing phone hadn’t woken Derek.

“She fell and hit her head outside the Mocha Moose.”

“Did she break anything?”

“She has some bleeding in her brain—”

“Oh—that’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” He sounded tired. And as if he might be talking to her in an enclosed, echoing place.

“Where are you?”

“At a hotel near St. Luke’s. I’m in the bathroom—Kirby is asleep. We stopped in at the ICU. She seems to be stable, thankfully. But . . .” He sighed.

She could see the sigh. Could see him sitting on the side of the tub or leaning against the counter, dragging his fingers through that dark, curly hair. She wanted to rest a hand upon his cheek, smooth away the stress.

Lee banished that thought. It was just compassion. She knew what a midnight vigil felt like. They’d even shared it—she and Eli and Noelle.

“She can’t remember me.”

The words stripped her of a response. Noelle couldn’t remember him?

“She looked right at me and didn’t know who I was.”

“Oh, Eli. I’m sorry.”

He blew out a breath. “Thanks. I just wanted to let you know that Kirby won’t be at tomorrow’s away game. Can you ask Derek to tell the coach?”

He wanted to let her know at 3 a.m.? She had no comment for that. “Of course, Eli. And I’ll be praying too.”

“Thanks, Lee.” He’d clicked off, and she wanted to say more, to offer something, but the words wouldn’t surface.

Probably it was better that he’d hung up, that they couldn’t say any more in the middle of the dark night.

Hopefully he would forget her words, so ill spoken, about starting over. About him already being alone. She’d regretted them since the minute they left her mouth. She hadn’t meant he should start over with her. Just . . . that things might be different for him, for Noelle.

But not like this.

The snow had turned heavy today, and Lee could only tackle the top layer, tossing it feebly to the side before going back for another dip. At this rate, she’d be out here until the spring thaw. Maybe she’d just put on the four-wheel drive and back out her SUV like a monster truck the entire sixth of a mile to the road.

She leaned down for another shovelful, filled it up, lifted.

It was then she felt it, the hitch in her neck, as if something slipped. The pain, sharp, bright, lit up inside her.

Then it was gone. But her arm hurt, an ache that scooted the length of it.

She tossed the snow away, and the pain shot down to her fingers as if someone had taken a match and lit.

“Ow—oh—” Her voice seemed feeble in the encroaching night. Shaggy, snow-laden trees muffled the sounds of the road, protected the house from the sight of neighbors. If Lee collapsed in the snow, no one would find her until tomorrow.

If Derek didn’t come home after Saturday’s game, then maybe not even then.

She put the shovel down. The pain burned brighter, creeping up to her neck, clenching the muscles there. Oh, she’d done something bad.

Ice. She needed ice, and quickly. Turning back to the garage, she hiked along the tiny trench she’d made, set the shovel on its hook, then trudged to the house. By the time she reached the door, she could barely lift her arm to grab the handle.

Shaking off her coat, her hat, her gloves, she piled them on the bench. She wanted to scream as she bent down to remove her boots and finally kicked them off and headed toward the freezer.

She pulled out an ice pack and positioned it on her neck. Then she hobbled to Clay’s recliner and climbed in.

Hey, babe, you all right?

In her mind, Clay came over, sat on the hearth, his strong hands picking up the knit afghan his mother had gifted them for their wedding. He draped it over her, then pushed her hair back and pressed a kiss to her forehead, right above her eyebrow. Sometimes she could still smell him, feel the caress of his fingertips on her skin.

The sun had all but disappeared, the final brilliance of light nearly blackened. She searched for early stars high above but saw nothing.

In the hearth, her fire had started to die, embers crackling.

No. No, Clay, I’m not.

The pain pulsed down her neck, seeping into her bones as the night wind shook the cabin. And in the echo of the wind, Lee heard a tiny whimper.

Her own.

Noelle might as well have been a prisoner. There had to be some sort of law against the hospital releasing a patient into the hands of virtual strangers. But as Eli so brutally pointed out, where else would she go? Especially since her headaches had diminished and she otherwise felt fine.

Noelle rode in the front seat of a black truck, beside the man who claimed to be her husband—although she had to have been cracked in the head long, long before this to have married someone who looked like he’d emerged right beside Grizzly Adams from the depths of the forest, having just wrestled a bear.

The man even smelled like wildlife.

The only reason she got into the truck at all and didn’t just check herself into some church shelter was Dr. Anne Standing Bear’s vigorous belief that not only was this her life, but Eli was a safe, good man.

Right.

But Kirby could make a girl rethink her headstrong ways.

She liked the boy. He had a gentleness and compassion in his green eyes that convinced her that, even if she didn’t know him, she might have been proud to be the mother of such a son. Over the past day, he’d sat by her bed, told her stories of his life. He played basketball—a point guard, apparently—and football for the Deep Haven Huskies. He hoped to land a scholarship next year to the University of Minnesota at Morris or Duluth. Or even the Twin Cities campus.

He had a kind smile, too, and fetched the nurse once for her when her migraine overtook her and made her retch.

All the while, Eli—her husband—wandered in and out of the room like a prowler.

The man gave her the willies, with his dark demeanor, his wary, even angry eyes. If he hoped she’d recognize some life they shared together, he might not want to walk around with his bristly side out.

So far, she didn’t even recognize her own body. She was . . . well, she was
fat
. She sat in the bathroom last night, staring at all the unmuscled, flabby flesh around her stomach, at the faded white scar of a cesarean section, running her finger into the stretch marks below her navel.

She had given birth—twice.

Which meant . . . She glanced at the man beside her, then looked away. Oh. My.

“I haven’t said much to anyone about . . . well, you know. About your memory thing,” Eli said.

Her memory thing? Wow, the man had superb verbal skills. No wonder he’d barely spoken to her the entire two-hour drive into the backside of the earth, where the trees seemed to loom higher, loop over them.

Like coils of barbed wire.

“Normally we’d go to church tomorrow. But I’m thinking maybe we should stay home,” Eli said.

That meant she at least still had her faith. Probably the only thing that kept her from fleeing in the dead of night.

Although, funny, she didn’t feel like she and God were on a talking basis.

“I need a drink,” she said.

“There’s a convenience store in Little Beaver; you can get a coffee—”

“I hate coffee. But I’d love a Diet Coke.” It suddenly occurred to her—“Do I have any money? A job? My own account?”

“We share everything. And no, you don’t work outside the home.”

She didn’t? Then what did she do all day? Her question must have resonated in the little sound of confusion she made because Kirby leaned up from the backseat.

“You volunteer a lot at the school. In the concession stand and taking tickets at the games. You also help some of the little kids with their reading.”

“Am I a teacher?” She never wanted to be a teacher. In fact, she didn’t even like children. They had runny noses, grimy hands. They were loud and messy.

“No. You just like being a mom,” Eli said.

Oh.

“What else do I like?” Indeed her tastes must have changed considerably since she wore leggings and a baggy sweater to class, because in the plastic bag over the door of the hospital bathroom, she’d found a pair of ugly black dress pants, a flimsy blouse, and a suit jacket. She did like the killer boots, however. Clearly she hadn’t lost her taste in shoes.

“You like gardening and cooking, and you do the crossword every day,” Kirby said.

“The crossword.” What, was she
eighty
?

“Kyle gave you an advanced crossword book last Christmas. You do one every morning. You always say it helps you to . . . not lose your . . .” Eli made a face. “Mind.”

Yeah, that had worked.

“But you used to play Scrabble a lot with the kids.” Eli sounded like he’d rather have his fingernails sanded off.

Kids. Right. “Where’s . . . uh, what’s his name?”

“Kyle? Your oldest son?”

“Please don’t use that tone, like I’m annoying you. I met him for five minutes.”

“You’ve known him for twenty-three years.”

“You act like I did this on purpose. Like I really don’t want to remember.”

“Sorry. I’m just worried, is all.” For the first time, another emotion crossed Eli’s face. Sorrow? Regret? “It just feels strange to explain your life to you.”

She bit back a response, hearing the fatigue in his voice. He had been at the hospital for nearly two days.

They pulled into a small town, the speed limit cutting down to thirty, and drove past a pair of gigantic Adirondack chairs, the entrance to a resort. Then a tall A-frame restaurant and a scattering of small lakeside houses all pumping out gray smoke. A strip mall advertised a restaurant, a bakery, a gift shop. Beside it, snow covered the playground equipment of a day care center connected to a one-story metal church.

Eli turned in to the gas station beside it.

“I’ll get your Diet Coke, Mom,” Kirby said as Eli got out to gas up the truck.

Mom.
Mom?
Oh, when would she get used to that?

And how had she ended up so far from civilization? What about her art?

Eli got back into the car, staring at his hands on the steering wheel.

“Do I still paint?”

Her voice shook a little, and she hated the fact that so much hinged on his answer. That she might have lost even that from herself.

“Not since college.”

Noelle closed her eyes.

Kirby climbed into the truck. Handed her the soda. She took it, but her hand trembled.

They drove home, silence wedged between her and Eli, Kirby trying to dislodge it with the play-by-play of his last game. She wanted to weep for the boy who needed her to remember him, to cheer for him.

They drove through Deep Haven—she vaguely remembered the town, a shadow from her childhood—and continued on up the highway.

“How far out of town do we live?”

“About twenty minutes,” Eli said.

She stared out the window as they curved along the ribbon of highway. The lake had a rhythm to it, the waves piling the ice upon the shore. Trees hugged the shoreline, glistening with frosting. Houses, their driveways bordered by mounds of fresh, white snow, created a storybook feel.

Maybe this place had wooed her with a mystical, still-hidden charm.

Maybe she could find the charm again.

They turned up a dirt road, followed it into the woods, the trees closing in as they turned again, this time onto a rutted driveway.

At the end sat a small Cape Cod with cedar siding, a bright-red door. Two sad dormer windows watched her. A garage sat twenty feet from the main house. Snow buried a car parked next to the garage.

A black dog trotted out to meet them, barking.

“That’s Riggins,” Kirby said. “She’ll be really happy to have you home.”

“Has she been out in the cold all this time?” Noelle opened the door, held on to the handle as she slid down and steadied herself on the snow. The dog came up to her and sniffed. Noelle patted her head. “You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?”

“She has a heated doghouse and plenty of food,” Eli said. “Wait there; I’m coming around to help you.”

“I’m fine. I don’t need help.” She closed the door, however, and nearly slipped. So maybe she’d take it easy. The last thing she needed was another crack on the head.

Although, if it could snap her memory back . . .

But wait . . . did she really want it back? She glanced at Eli, who picked up a shovel near the garage and started plowing a path to the door, fresh snow flying. She had a Hansel and Gretel moment, staring at the house.

“I don’t want you to fall.” Kirby came around the car, stuck out his arm to her. What a gentleman. She couldn’t help but wind hers through his. If she’d been his age, she would have had a crush on him.

She felt closer to her son’s age than her husband’s.

Weird.

Yes, indeed, she needed her memory back. She appreciated his help as they walked up the snowy path to the doorway. Then she took a deep breath.

Her life. This was her life.

She entered the house, stamping her feet. The entryway, a small room off the kitchen, overflowed with snow boots and winter jackets and hats stuffed in a bin and mittens scattered on a bench, a collection of helmets in a big basket by the door.

Didn’t anyone clean? She looked at the grime on the floor, shoved into the corners. Men.
Men
lived here.

She hung up her coat, then entered the kitchen. At least this was clean. Small but functional, with a breadbox, a mixer, a view of the backyard. A round, red rug lay in the middle of the floor before the sink.

Red. She’d always been a pink person, so perhaps red wasn’t too far off.

A long table with a blue checkered tablecloth hosted a bowl of brown bananas. So that was the smell in the air.

She wandered down the hallway, seeing three doors.

Kirby pushed past her. “This is my room.” He opened the door to a basketball shrine. Minnesota Timberwolves, Golden Gophers, and Bulldogs paraphernalia decorated the walls; a basketball hoop hung over his bed. The place smelled like a boys’ locker room. She tried not to grimace.

“You helped me decorate it.”

Wow. So she’d lost her decorating style over the years, too. She found a smile, nodded.

“Whose rooms are these?” She turned toward one but Kirby shook his head. “Kyle’s. The other is empty.”

“A guest room?”

Kirby’s smile faded a moment, and he glanced behind her. “Yeah. That’s right.”

“Do you need anything? Maybe want to lay down?” Eli asked. He still wore the coveralls, although he’d taken off that disgusting cap. His hair lay matted, curled and greasy.

Her head did hurt, the migraine a dull ache simmering in the back of her head. “Yes, please.”

He nodded. “Our room is upstairs.”

Our . . .
“Uh. I don’t . . . think . . .”

Eli glanced at Kirby, back to her. “Don’t worry. I actually . . . I don’t sleep there.”

“Where do you sleep?”

He sighed. “Down here. In the den.” Something in his voice bespoke shame.

But, well, good. She could only jump back into her life so far. Besides, whatever had happened between them to make him move to the den, she had no idea how to fix it.

Or if she wanted to.

He led her upstairs to one of the dormer rooms. Quaint, with a sloped ceiling. She didn’t look at the king-size bed or the pictures on the dresser. A large window on the side wall overlooked their acreage. She stared out across the smooth plain of white and caught a view of the lake through the bordering trees.

Behind her, she heard Eli opening drawers, closing them.

Noelle turned. “What are you doing?”

He held clothes in his arms. “Getting some things for a shower. I need to clean up.”

She glanced toward the bathroom. “You’re not going to—”

He followed her glance, and an emotion flickered across his face. Pain? Frustration? “No. I’ll use the bathroom downstairs.” He backed out of the room. “I need to run some errands. Will you be okay? Kirby will be here, so you can call him if you need anything.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She tried a smile, but the moment he left, she closed the door.

Locked it.

So this was her life. Her home. Truthfully, driving home in that truck, she’d expected a cabin in the woods, no running water, portable electricity. This room, however, seemed feminine, and yes, she approved of the green walls, the pink pillows, the light-blue bedspread. She studied the pictures of the two boys as babies in their frames on the dresser. They were cute; she could admit that.

In a larger frame, a woman who looked like her wore a fluffy wedding dress, holding hands with a much-younger version of the curmudgeon downstairs. He reminded her very much of his son Kyle in this picture. And look—he could smile.

Next to the bed sat a bookcase. And there, in a frame on top, was a picture she recognized.

She had always guessed herself to be about two years old in this shot, sitting on the lap of her very young father, he in a white T-shirt, boasting a crew cut and smiling down at her. Her mother sat on the arm of his chair, leaning on his shoulder, smiling at the camera.

Noelle had toted this picture, in exactly this frame, to college.

She picked it up. Laid her hand upon it.

Oh.

Oh.
Her breath began to leak out in soft bursts. She hugged the picture to her chest, then went over and sat on the bench in the picture window.

This life
did
belong to her.