Chasing Rainbows A Novel

Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen




ONE


Some people leave behind notes. Some leave behind journals. Some leave life lessons carefully documented for the good of future generations.

My dad left cryptograms.

Word puzzles designed to tax my brain cells.

As if I needed any help in that area.

“Were you expecting something different?” My mother barely glanced up from the bed where she sorted Dad’s shirts and sweaters. Button-collared shirts. Flannel shirts. Crew-neck sweaters. Vests.

I wasn’t half as organized in life as she was in death.

“I wasn’t expecting anything at all.” Hell, I hadn’t been expecting him to die.

She emptied the contents of Dad’s sock drawer next to a stack of cardigans. “It’s the perfect time of year to get these to charities.”

The bright note of her tone didn’t fool me. She might be all perky determination on the outside, but inside her soul was just as shattered as mine.

Since my dad’s sudden death a week earlier, I hadn’t thought much could surprise me, but finding my mother here today, prepping Dad’s clothes for charity, had.

Actually, surprised wasn’t the best word.

Dismayed. Saddened. Stunned.

Any of those more accurately reflected what I felt.

My mother and I had sat with Dad for twelve hours after his aortic dissection, watching him slip away. Afterward, I’d driven her home, to the house where they’d spent more than fifty years together.

She’d stared out the windshield of my car, saying nothing. Her world had tilted on its side and I couldn’t fix it, even though I wished somehow I could.

“I’ll take good care of you, Mom,” I’d said.

And she had answered, “I can take care of myself.”

Her words hadn’t been sharp or short, but determined. She’d always been one of those women who turned heads simply because of the energy she emitted. Strong. Poised. Classic.

A survivor.

Maybe clearing out Dad’s clothes helped her cope, helped her survive.

On the other hand, I wanted to hold on to whatever I could.

I refocused on the pages of Dad’s book, skimming his meticulous printing.

“Bernadette?”

I looked up from my study of Dad’s perfect block lettering to Mom’s heartbroken eyes.

“Where’s Ryan?” she asked.

Was it horrible that my husband and I had separated three weeks earlier, and I hadn’t said a word? He’d stood beside me during the funeral. I owed him for that and not much more.

“He’s working, Mom.”

“He works too hard.” She shifted her scrutiny to the piles on the bed and separated a rogue pullover from the stack of cardigans.

“You have no idea,” I muttered.

I flipped back to the inside cover of Dad’s book, where he’d written a single sentence beneath my name. I smiled, hearing the words in his voice, the words he’d spoken so often during my life.

In life, you either choose to sing a rainbow, or you don’t.

What other words had he left for me? I’d never know until I deciphered the puzzles inside the book.

Cryptograms. I smiled, the sight of the encoded letters warming the cold space that had taken up residence inside me the moment Dad died.

Once upon a time, before college and work and marriage and life, Dad and I spent each morning at the kitchen table, racing to see who could crack the daily cryptogram first. He’d usually won, a master at analyzing letter patterns and knowing just where to start. There’d been a time, though, when I’d gotten almost as fast. Almost.

Mom tucked the ribbed top of one sock into another, neatly organizing gold toes for whatever stranger might sink his feet into the space where Dad’s had once been. Her chin dipped slightly as she feigned complete absorption in her task. “I’m sure your father thought he’d have more time.”

I blinked but said nothing, not trusting my voice.

What I wouldn’t give to share one more morning with my dad.

My mother shook her head slightly. “I didn’t even know he had that little book.”

But I knew. I’d asked him to write down the stories he’d spun for as long as I could remember. The jokes. The adventures. The legends.

I’d always known this day would come. The day when he’d be gone. I just never expected it to come so soon. So abruptly.

I’d asked for his words so that I’d never forget.

Instead, he’d given me cryptograms.

I clutched the book to my chest just the same, watching as my mother pushed away from the bed, headed toward the hall.

“I’ll make some sandwiches,” she said.

“Could I keep one of Dad’s shirts?” My voice cracked.

My mother nodded, her features going soft. “I kept two of his flannels.”

I sat on the edge of the bed after she’d gone, cradling the book of cryptograms as I stared at the walls, the family photos, the clothing piled on the bed. Then I set down the book and pushed to my feet, headed for Dad’s bureau.

There on the corner sat the tray where he’d kept his extra pair of glasses, his loose pocket change, and his watch. Each item looked exactly the same as last week, last month, last year, with one exception.

Dad’s gold wedding band now sat among his other belongings.

I’d never once seen the band off of his finger, so I reached for it, tracing the patterns of wear the years of marriage had left behind.

I shut my eyes and imagined Dad might round the corner at any moment, even though I knew he’d never round that corner again.

“Bernie, lunch,” Mom called out from downstairs.

“There in a sec.”

I kissed my father’s ring and set it back on the tray. Then I reached for Dad’s favorite plaid shirt and the book he’d left behind, grateful for any piece of my father I could call my own.

I’m sure your father thought he’d have more time.

Hadn’t we all.

o0o

I’d been headed home from my mother’s when my closest friend called me with an urgent plea. Her period was two months late, and she’d finally taken a home pregnancy test. The good news was she hadn’t started menopause. The bad news was she hadn’t started menopause.

Diane’s ob-gyn had squeezed her into the schedule, and I’d volunteered to pick up her daughter Ashley from school.

Why not? It was a good diversion from the fact my bereavement leave ended in the morning, and I could always count on Ashley to deliver sparkling teenaged conversation--something sure to lighten the mood of my week. Also, time spent in her company was insurance I wouldn’t lose touch with the latest slang.

I didn’t even know if slang was the right word for slang.

I frowned.

“I’m sorry your dad died.”

The teenager sitting beside me looked out the passenger window of my car as she spoke. Young enough to be blunt, she was apparently old enough to be uncomfortable with the topic.

“So, how does your heart split?” she asked.

She turned to face me, this question apparently worthy of direct eye contact. I slowed the car to a stop at a red light and returned Ashley’s stare. There had been a time when I’d diapered this kid’s naked behind. Now she sat next to me all long, sleek blond hair, braces and curiosity.

I flashed suddenly on the image of her mother at the same age. Although a redhead, Diane had possessed the same slender image, while I’d struggled through body waves, hot irons and crash diets.

Back then, I’d done anything and everything to fight my hair and my tendency to carry extra pounds. Some things never changed.

I forced my attention to Ashley’s question, wondering how long it would be before talking about Dad’s death would be easier. “His aorta split. It’s an artery in the heart. Not the heart itself.”

She shrugged and shot me an expression full of impatience. “It’s still his heart. Right?”

I nodded, squinting at her. Wouldn’t it have taken far less effort if she’d simply said, “Duh?”

“Dad said he’ll stick his head in the oven if Mom’s pregnant. Then I’ll have a dead dad, too.”

I bit back an inappropriate laugh and pretended to check my side-view mirror out of respect for Ashley’s fears. “That’s a figure of speech, honey. I’m sure your dad wouldn’t do that.” Though I had to admit the image of David’s head in an oven was not an entirely unpleasant one.

I mentally slapped myself. Bad, Bernadette. Bad.

I patted Ashley’s knee just as the light turned green. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“But what if my mom has a baby?” Her sharp, almost-a-woman-now tone dropped to a school-girl mumble. “What then?”

A lump tightened in my throat at the thought of a new baby. “Then that would be a miracle.” I forced a quick smile. “You’ll have a baby brother or sister.”

She nodded. “What about Dad and the oven?”

“I think you’re safe there.” I pulled my car into Diane and David’s driveway and shifted into Park. “Your dad was never much of a cook. I have a feeling he wouldn’t know how to turn on the oven.”

Ashley giggled as she unbuckled her seatbelt, then inhaled sharply. “Mom’s home.”

Sure enough, Diane’s minivan pulled behind my car. Ashley launched into motion, and I followed close behind.

Tears glistened in Diane’s eyes, her expression a cross between holy-shit-how-could-this-have-happened and I-thought-I’d-never-get-to-rock-a-baby-again.

“Ashley,” I called out, knowing her mother wouldn’t want to cry in front of her thirteen-year-old. “Aunt Bernie’s cooking. Why don’t you go order us two large pies? Whatever you want.”

“All right!” Ashley reversed directions and headed into the house.

I refocused on Diane. “You okay?”

“Please.” She shoved a hand through her too-long auburn bangs and rolled her eyes. “Like you have time for my troubles.” A tear tumbled over her lower lashes. The matching drop followed down the opposite cheek. “Why couldn’t this have happened for you?”

My heart hurt. Even though I had to admit I’d wondered the same thing myself, I hated that my inability to have healthy children had breached the perimeter of Diane’s moment.

I shut the door on my old heartache, closed the space between us and pulled her into a hug. “Stop it. What did the doctor say?”

“She said ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Snyder, that’s one strong heartbeat.’”

“That’s great,” I whispered against her hair, while the traitorous voice inside questioned why it couldn’t have been me. Why not? Just one more chance.

Diane sniffed so loudly my eardrum creaked. “I was kind of hoping for some major thyroid condition. That would explain the missed periods, and maybe she’d give me some pills to help me lose weight.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was refreshing to have a friend whose neuroticism matched my own. “Let’s go.” I hooked my arm inside her elbow. “Rumor has it David’s going to put his head in the oven, and I want a front row seat.”

o0o

Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the large mahogany box that held the memories of Emma. Had it really been five years? I resisted the temptation to count the months and days for fear the past might devour me alive.

I hoisted the heavy object from the bureau and set it on top of the bed. I pulled open the lid and drew in a slow breath before reaching out to trace my finger across each precious keepsake.

Once upon a time--before I knew better--I believed grief faded over time. Now I knew it never did. Not completely.

Just when you thought you were fine, the pain and sadness came crashing back, grabbing some time on stage like a washed-up dance hall girl hoping for one last chance at fame.

That’s how my grief for Emma announced itself now, roaring back to life, linking hands with the numb fog that had swirled inside me ever since Dad took his last breath.

The two danced together, twisting their fingers into my heart and squeezing tight.

When had I last peeked inside the box? Touched her things? Read and reread the congratulation cards that gave way to notes of sympathy?

Emma’s memory box had sat on my bureau for almost five years. In the beginning, we’d kept the box downstairs on an antique table that had been a gift from my grandmother.

Ryan and I had grown tired of the sideways glances our friends and family tossed toward the box. They never asked to look inside, never asked to see the lock of Emma’s beautiful, downy-soft brown hair. Never asked to see the tiny crocheted booties a volunteer had donated to keep Emma’s feet warm in the Neonatal unit.

They glanced at the gleaming mahogany box engraved with her name then looked away.

Why should they do anything different? Once we moved the box upstairs, Ryan and I barely looked at it ourselves.

Maybe Ryan sneaked moments like I did, as if the grief might win if we opened the mahogany box together and let the heartache out.

Yet, the memories held their position in our bedroom and in our lives, taking up far more space than their one corner of the bureau.

I shut the lid and ran my finger across the engraved brass plate. Five days. They’d been the happiest of my life and the most horrible. I remembered coming home from the hospital without her. I’d always thought people only swooned in the movies, but that’s what I’d done. I’d stood in her nursery and swooned.

And Ryan had caught me.

I reached for a pale pink card from inside the box and traced the inked image of Emma’s foot. I scrutinized the tiny lines and gentle creases that had been the print of her chubby sole.

I lifted one multi-colored pastel bootie to my nose, inhaling deeply. The yarn smelled like the inside of the mahogany box, no longer smelling of Emma, or of the detergent the hospital had used before they’d called us to pick up her things.

My heart had broken when I learned they’d laundered everything. Her tiny gown. Her blanket. Her booties. Each item scrubbed clean of any trace of our daughter, when traces were all we’d had left.

I flashed back on the piles of my father’s clothes. Were they gone already? Or could I dash back and grab just one more shirt? A sweater? Something more to hold onto, even though I knew that soon all traces of my dad would vanish just as Emma’s scent had faded away.

The minister had called Dad’s passing a natural part of living, the beginning of the next phase of life. In my head, I knew he was right, but in my heart, I only knew my father was gone forever. Just like Emma.

After she died, I’d cradled my tiny daughter until I realized I couldn’t sit in the neonatal unit forever. Eventually they’d make me go home. They’d make me let go.

So I had.

After Dad died, I’d held my mother tight against my side as we’d made our way back through the emergency room waiting room and out to the parking lot.

“We can’t just leave him,” she’d cried.

But we had.

I’d thought about letting her go back, letting her sit with him a little longer, but then we’d only have to leave again.

The anguish of walking away without him once was enough. No one should have to make that walk twice.

My tears came.

For Emma. For Dad.

I stroked my finger over the tiny bootie, back and forth along the weave, across the tiny bow, the tiny heel, the tiny toes.

Life was fragile. Grief was resilient.

I hadn’t quite figured out which had won during the years since Emma’s death.

I thought of Ryan then and wondered what he was doing, what he was thinking. When he’d first moved out, I’d questioned when it had been that our marriage began to die. But as I sat staring at Emma’s memory box, I knew the answer.

We’d buried our only child on a cold November day, and our carefully constructed world had begun a slow crumble.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised he walked out. Perhaps I should have been surprised he waited five years.

Life. Death. Marriage.

Each was fleeting. Each was enduring.

In life, you either choose to sing a rainbow, or you don’t.

I gently pressed my lips to Emma’s bootie and placed it inside the box. Then I wiped my damp cheeks and closed the lid.

o0o

As the sunlight slanted through the blinds the next morning, I opened my eyes and forgot. Forgot that Ryan had left me. Forgot that Dad was gone. In that moment of twilight sleep I found myself at peace.

I rolled over and faced Ryan’s pillow, empty except for the book of cryptograms. I’d tossed the journal there after my dismal attempt at the first puzzle. Reality rushed back, bringing with it a flood of memories. The voices. The faces. The loss.

I wondered how long this morning ritual would last. I couldn’t remember how many days it took after Emma died before I woke in the morning remembering, knowing, hurting. I couldn’t remember how long it had been before time had numbed the knife-like pain to a persistent, dull ache.

The alarm clock sounded, meaning only one thing. My bereavement leave had ended. The time had come to return to work and soldier on with the rest of my life.

I jumped into the shower, lathering the latest herbal wonder shampoo into my hair. Maybe this time the cosmetic company’s promise of lustrous, tangle-free waves would come true. It could happen.

I forced my thoughts back to my job--the job I loathed. Yet, there I stayed...year after year after year.

Ryan had told me to branch out, to try something new, but I hadn’t. He’d suggested once that I could dream bigger, but at some point in my life, I’d become the kind of person who embraced the status quo, no questions asked.

I hadn’t had the nerve to do anything about my job. And why would I? Sure, I might not like where I was, but I was safe there. I knew what I was dealing with, and--call me a cynic--I’d take the known over the unknown any day.

Just look at losing Ryan. Look at losing Dad. Look at losing Emma.

I wasn’t sure losing Ryan had hit me yet, but losing Dad? Losing Dad had blindsided me, setting into motion what felt like the unraveling of my little corner of the world.

Poindexter, my border collie wannabe, barked and I realized I’d never let him outside. I quickly rinsed off, wrapped a towel around myself and hustled the poor dog toward the back door.

I’d no sooner let him into the back yard than I heard a familiar noise--the low drone of an approaching airplane. Sure enough, Poindexter’s ears perked up. He froze in the middle of the yard, tipping his head. As soon as the massive plane cleared the treetops beyond our fence, he was off, racing from one side of the yard to the other, barking frantically.

Some people had dogs that chased cars. I had a dog that chased airplanes. Considering my house sat directly below the landing pattern for the Philadelphia International Airport, I had one busy dog. At least no one could ever accuse him of not dreaming big.

The phone rang on cue. I opened the door and hollered at Poindexter, but he was so deeply focused on his chase I’m sure he never heard me.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Murphy?”

I cringed. A card-carrying member of the school of formality, my next-door neighbor refused to address me by anything other than my last name. Granted, she called only to complain about Poindexter, which no doubt played a role in her tone of voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Cooke.” I smiled, having read somewhere that smiling while on the phone could set a positive tone for the conversation.

“Your dog--”

So much for the smile theory. I rubbed my eyes. “I was headed out back to drag him in when you called.”

“It’s quite unacceptable at this time of the morning,” she huffed into the phone.

“I apologize. I forgot to check the flight plan before I let him out.”

“You can do that?” Her voice rose suspiciously.

“Oh, yes.” I fibbed. “The airport makes their schedule available to all dog owners in the region.”

This, apparently, rendered her speechless.

“Have a nice day.” I hung up before she could say anything else.

Poindexter stopped barking, and when I reached the back door, he stood there waiting to come in, all wagging tail and panting joy.

I’ve heard people say dogs don’t smile, but whoever made that statement had never seen Poindexter after a close encounter with a jumbo jet.

o0o

I tried to hang on to Poindexter’s positive mental attitude as I made my way through the employee door at McMann Shipping. I readjusted the waistband of my skirt one last time. Truth was, I hadn’t been able to button the damn thing. Not even close.

I’d called upon a well-kept chubby girl secret, slipping a rubber band around the button, through the buttonhole and back again to give myself the wiggle room I needed. Pathetic, but effective.

My co-workers greeted me in fairly normal tones, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they likened my absence to some sort of bleak vacation.

“How was it?” Jane in the next cubicle over might ask.

“Lovely,” I’d answer. “You should have seen the flowers...and the procession. There must have been forty cars.”

“You don’t say?” She’d reply.

“And did you hear Ryan and I split up a few weeks ago?”

She’d shake her head. “Boy, you really have been busy. Welcome back.”

“Where’s the Cooper file?” The voice of Blaine McMann, our CEO, sliced through my thoughts and signaled the official end of my allotted grieving period.

I swiveled in my chair to look up at him, and I mean up. The man was at least six-foot-six and he loved nothing more than intimidating his employees with his size. If anyone ever tells you family-owned businesses are lovely, warm, fuzzy places to work, run the other way...screaming.

“The file?” He glared down at me, a well-practiced part of his intimidation repertoire.

“It’s in the pending customer files. Where I left it.” I gestured to the black file cabinet against the wall. “I’ll get it for you.”

“Save your energy.” His frown morphed into a smirk. “It’s not there. Do you want to know how I know it’s not there?” He patted his chest. “Because I looked. Then I had every employee in this office help look for that file. Your incompetence cost us valuable time and perhaps the account.”

He stepped away from me, pivoted and began to pace at the opening of my cubicle mid-rant. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like one of those moving targets at the boardwalk arcade. I wondered how many points I’d score for nailing him between the eyes with a rubber band.

I laughed a little bit. I couldn’t help myself.

Maybe the emotions of the past few weeks had finally taken their toll, but I found it completely impossible to hold myself together.

I suddenly imagined all six-foot-six of Blaine McMann with a fuzzy duck head, and I laughed again.

He stopped and glared at me. “You think this is funny, Murphy?”

I nodded, unable to speak. As much as I tried to control myself, once I started laughing, I couldn’t stop. And, the more I laughed, the more visibly angry Blaine became.

Truth was, he’d had it in for me ever since I’d corrected him in front of a client. Company policy dictated the customer was number one, but apparently, if that meant catching the boss’s mistake, the employee--namely me--had better be prepared for payback.

The missing Cooper file had given Blaine the taste of revenge he’d craved for months.

At one point he puffed out his cheeks in apparent frustration, but I was too far gone to care.

“Bernie.” Jane shushed me from her side of our shared cubicle wall. “Knock it off.”

Blaine stepped closer, towering over me now. “Are you having some sort of breakdown?”

I shook my head, even though I thought he might be on to something.

Blaine launched into a spiel about separating personal issues from the office, and I stopped laughing long enough to ignore him and dive into my thoughts.

This might not have been the opportune time to give Ryan credit for much of anything, but he’d been right about one thing. I despised this job. Yet, I continued to put up with Blaine’s shit, for lack of a better term.

Why?

Life was short. Wasn’t that what Ryan had said when he’d left? And wasn’t that what everyone had said when Dad died? When Emma died?

Good Lord. If I were to die right here, right now, would this be how I’d want to be remembered?

Hell, no.

What was to stop me from quitting? From walking out the door and never looking back?

I supposed there was the minor issue of income, but the new, soon-to-be-fearless me could surely handle finding a job. And even though Ryan and I were technically separated, he’d promised to keep up with his half of the bills, at least for now.

Everything else in my life had changed. Why shouldn’t my job? Better still, if I quit now, at least I’d have one development in my life that happened on my terms.

There was a whole world waiting to be explored.

Poindexter had the right idea. I should find an airplane and chase it.

“Are you listening to me?” Blaine leaned so close I could feel his breath against my hair.

Our eyes locked and a sense of empowerment flooded through me. I did something I’d wanted to do since the first time Blaine McMann opened his mouth.

I told him to shut up.

I thought about climbing up on my chair to make the moment more memorable, but when I thought about the possibility of serious injury, death or major embarrassment, I decided simply to stand instead.

Blaine’s eyes widened behind his trendy rimless glasses. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Shut up.’” I planted my fists on my hips and hoisted my chin.

Blaine narrowed his eyes. “I think you need to go home and give it another few days before you come back.”

Blaine. What kind of parents named their kid Blaine?

“Are you listening to me?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m through listening to you.”

He frowned. “I could put you on probation, you know.”

I faked a shudder.

“Bernie.” Jane peeked over the top of the cubicle wall. “Sit down and be quiet.”

I ignored her completely. “I quit.”

The words felt natural, as if they’d been waiting on my tongue, hoping I’d use them.

Blaine said nothing as I plucked my purse from beneath my desk, gathered the pictures of Poindexter from my work area, and turned for the hall.

I stopped at the opening to my cubicle, turned back toward the black filing cabinet and plucked the Cooper file from exactly where I’d left it. I slapped the folder on top of my desk and looked back at Blaine once. Just once.

As I marched toward the exit, I imagined my co-workers heralding my bold departure with thunderous applause. In my mind, I could hear them chanting, “Bernie! Bernie! Bernie!”

In reality, every last one of them sat slack-jawed in their cubicles as I marched past, stunned into submission by my uncharacteristic outburst.

I stepped out into the bright sunshine of the company parking lot and realized I could now do whatever I wanted to do. I could become whoever I wanted to become.

This was my time. My life.

My future was a blank slate, and nothing and no one could stop me now.

Not even the small, soft voice at the base of my brain wondering what in the hell I had just done.