Chasing Rainbows A Novel

EIGHT


“MUMDORCM SPR WRV SPMDM PM FT PIY VR ZMWFC SPMDM PM SIT.”

-DFNPIDY J. MUICT

When I woke up the next morning, I knew exactly where to start.

The days of neglect and inactivity and less-than-ideal food choices had taken their toll. I felt like a blob.

I was due at Mom’s that afternoon, so I sketched out an exercise and eating schedule, deciding there was no time like now to put my plan into action. The inches weren’t about to melt away, but with any luck at all, I’d be able to fit into something other than my stretchy sweatpants in time for the holidays.

I stepped into the bathroom, intending to weigh myself, but one look at my full-faced reflection in the mirror told me everything I needed to know. Seeing the numbers on the scale wouldn’t do anything but send me running for Walgreen’s candy aisle.

No worries. Today was the first day of the rest of my life and I would never be this heavy again. I frowned, remembering this was the exact speech I’d given myself the last three times I’d decided to get in shape.

I fumbled through the medicine cabinet until I found the little gem I’d bought last year.

A pedometer.

I held the cobalt blue beauty in my hand and relived the promise of the infomercial. Ten thousand steps a day would ensure a new, slender, energized me. How difficult could that be to achieve?

I shimmied into my baggiest sweatpants, pulled on my favorite sweatshirt and shoved my feet into my well-worn sneakers. Eyeing my hair in the mirror, I considered the options for taming my out-of-control waves and decided there was no hope. I leaned over at the waist, shook my head, then straightened.

I carefully programmed the pedometer to measure my stride, then I headed out, full of enthusiasm and vigor.

If nothing else, getting some exercise would help keep my mind off of Emma’s birthday and my argument with Diane. Losing the weight I’d gained might actually be easier than negotiating a truce.

Five minutes later, however, I fantasized about calling a cab to take me home.

No matter.

Surely I was well on my way to racking up my ten thousand steps. I pulled the pedometer off the waistband of my sweats and glared at it.

Three hundred and fifty-seven steps. That was it?

Let’s see now. Three hundred and fifty-seven was a hell of a long way from ten thousand. At this rate, I’d have to do what I’d just done another...another...how many times?

I had no idea.

Sweat blossomed on my upper lip. I dragged my sleeve across my face, refastened the pedometer and marched on.

My feet hurt, my hair had grown big enough to be visible in my peripheral vision, and I had a catch in my side that couldn’t be good.

When I stepped on a pebble and twisted my ankle, I did an about face and headed for home. I might have failed at my first attempt to hit my goal, but there was something to be said for self-preservation.

As I rounded the corner of my street, I dared another peek at the pedometer from hell. Each time I’d checked it during the walk, the readout had proclaimed far fewer steps than I knew I’d taken. How could I rely on an inaccurate pedometer?

I squinted at it now. Eighteen hundred. I blinked and looked again, thinking I’d missed a zero.

Still eighteen hundred.

Who could actually do the ten thousand, and why would they want to?

I bounced the little cobalt blue device in my palm, considering my options.

I glanced around. The only sign of life on the street was a moving van parked a few doors down.

I made my decision and took action, letting the pedometer slip between my fingers. It hit the sidewalk and bounced once before I stomped down, twisting my foot, crushing the tiny plastic torture device to pieces.

All of the emotions of the previous days and weeks joined forces, morphing into anger--hot, raw, unadulterated, glorious anger.

Heat fired in my chest and face, and I knew the sensation had nothing to do with exercise.

Unlike Ryan’s crystal swimmer, the sound of the pedometer meeting its end filled me with satisfaction--misguided, perhaps--but satisfaction, just the same.

“Did you need some help?” A male voice rumbled from somewhere close by.

I squatted and tried to scoop up the shattered pieces of the pedometer as I searched for the source of the voice. A man I’d never seen before ambled toward me, the upturned corners of his mouth suggesting he’d seen the entire pedometer desecration.

“Aidan Kelly.” The stranger stopped close to where I still squatted and held out his hand.

Countless childhood warnings about talking to strangers flew through my head, but I took his hand just the same.

He pulled me to my feet then shook my hand. “I’m moving into number thirty-six. And you?”

I wondered if I’d be smarter to offer up an excuse for what I’d just done, or if I should say nothing.

I chose nothing.

“Number thirty-two,” I answered, working up a polite smile. “Bernadette Murphy.”

“Nice to meet you, Number Thirty-Two.”

He nodded to the pedometer pieces in my opposite hand. “What is it?” He grinned, the move lighting up his dark blue eyes. “Or rather, what was it?”

“A pedometer.” I wrapped my fingers around the shards of plastic to hide them. “Must have fallen off my waistband.”

“Must have.” But, the glint in his eyes suggested he was not a man easily fooled. “You run often?”

“Pretty regularly.” I nodded. Why go for honesty now when I was handling the fabrication so smoothly?

“Great morning for it,” he said, and I kept nodding.

Suddenly, I remembered how I’d looked when I left the house. I could only imagine how incredibly scary my appearance must be by now, while the man standing before me looked anything but scary.

His gray T-shirt had gotten smudged with something black, probably from loading or unloading the moving van. His dark brown hair was long enough that he’d shoved it behind his ears, but it was his smile that captured my stare.

I couldn’t remember the last time one of Ryan’s smiles had reached his eyes. Number Thirty-Six’s smile not only reached his eyes, it crinkled the skin around them.

“You live alone down at number thirty-two?”

My back stiffened instantly. Why in the hell would he ask me that? “No...er...yes. I mean. Now I do.”

I wanted to say something a bit more coherent, but this was the first time I’d had to address the issue of living alone.

The reminder of my newly found marital status rocked me to my core. Then I thought of something I’d forgotten.

“I have a dog.”

Number Thirty-Six nodded slowly, his probing gaze never leaving mine. “I have a cat.”

A cat? This guy looked nothing like any cat person I’d ever known.

Damn. He’d said something and I missed it. “Pardon?”

My new neighbor’s grin widened and the move shifted his entire face from alluring to...well...wow.

“I asked if you’d like to stop by for coffee sometime.” He nodded at the smashed pedometer in my hand. “Maybe after one of your runs.”

I bit back my laugh. Runs. Good thing he’d only caught the last part of today’s little show.

I realized a good neighbor would invite Number Thirty-Six to her house, seeing as he was in the middle of unpacking. I, however, was not a good neighbor.

“No thanks.” I spoke a little too sharply and the man’s smile faltered. “I mean, no coffee for me. Doctor’s orders, but thanks anyway.”

I jerked a thumb toward my house. “Better get going. Don’t want to keep you from your unpacking. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

The grin returned to his face, and I had to admire the man’s ability to remain charming after his encounter with...well...me.

Truth was, if Ryan hadn’t left me, I’d have no problem sharing coffee with Number Thirty-Six. I’d be perfectly comfortable, because I’d be married, and I--unlike the man to whom I’d once pledged my love--had never considered being unfaithful.

But now...well...now I was available, wasn’t I? I wasn’t sure I wanted any part of that realization. Of course, Number Thirty-Six most likely didn’t want any part of my availability either. He’d merely been neighborly, and I was about to run like a scared girl.

“Nice to meet you,” I mumbled as I turned for the safety of my house.

“See you later, Number Thirty-Two.”

I gave a quick wave over my shoulder and picked up my pace. I could feel Number Thirty-Six’s eyes burning into the back of my head, but I didn’t look.

I concentrated only on making it to my front door, wondering how many more steps I’d accumulated in the process.

o0o

A pair of feet showed beneath the bumper of my mother’s car when I parked in front of My mother’s house later that day.

“Mark?” I asked as I climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“How’s it going?” my brother answered.

“Good.” I shrugged, not that he could see me. Whatever he was doing had him so preoccupied, he didn’t move from his position. “You?” I asked his feet.

“Same. Mom’s inside.”

The front door sat slightly ajar, so I pushed my way inside. My mother appeared from the kitchen, pressed a kiss to my cheek and wrapped me in a hug. If she could bottle and sell the security and love I felt just then, she’d make a small fortune.

“What’s Mark doing?” I straightened and jerked my thumb toward the driveway.

“Someone hit my car up at the market. He’s trying to bang out the dent and touch-up the paint.” She looked through the storm door and smiled at my brother’s feet.

“So why is he under your car?”

“I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

An irrational bubble of emotion sprang to life inside me, a mix of jealousy and guilt. Mark had apparently rushed right over to help my mother fix her car when I still hadn’t looked at the paperwork I’d promised to take care of.

I cut my eyes toward the top of the stairs, hoping Dad would appear from his office, reading glasses in one hand, crossword puzzle in the other. He’d smile and tell me not to worry so much, and that thought just made me miss him more.

Silence hung over my mother and me, as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

I wondered how many times she stood in this same spot and stared up at the door to the office, praying she’d imagined everything that had happened. Wishing Daddy would appear at any moment--alive and laughing.

“You won’t believe the nightmare I had,” she’d say, and then they’d happily sit out back on their porch and listen to big band music as they read the paper.

“You ready to go?” Her voice cut through my thoughts, her tight, choked tone not escaping my notice.

I nodded as she gathered up a pair of rubber gloves, a small jug of water and a bucket she’d left by the front door. I didn’t ask her what they were for. I already knew.

Once, when we’d visited Emma’s grave, the brass marker had been caked with mud, and the sight had brought me to my emotional knees. It was hard enough to visit the cemetery, but the dirt and unkempt marker had added insult to injury.

My mother had gone prepared to scrub ever since.

I wondered if I would have been that sort of mother if Emma had lived. I hoped so.

“Where are you two going?” Mark called out as we climbed into my car. He’d emerged from beneath Mom’s Buick and stood frowning at the fender.

“Running some errands,” my mother answered. “We’ll be back in a little bit. There’s lunchmeat in the fridge if you get hungry.”

“Why don’t you tell him the truth?” I asked after we’d both shut our doors and sat safely out of earshot inside my car. “Tell him today’s his niece’s birthday and we’re going to the cemetery. She’s my daughter, Mom, not an errand.”

I regretted my sharp tone as soon as I spoke the words, but my mother merely gave me a tight smile and patted my knee. “Everyone grieves differently, honey.”

No kidding.

“Did he pick one of Dad’s jackets yet?” I was not about to let this go. It felt good to sink my teeth into something, even if it was at my brother’s expense.

“Give him some time.”

Our family had done an oddly polite dance around each other for as long as I could remember. Sometimes, I wanted to scream, but my mother’s voice was so flat when she answered me, I knew I’d better shut up.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” But she turned her head toward the window, as if she didn’t want me to see her face. “And don’t mumble. Nothing drove your father crazier than your mumbling.”

I rolled my eyes and pulled the car out onto the street.

We didn’t say another word to each other until I’d parked along the side of the lane next to Emma’s cemetery section. My mother and I climbed out. She grabbed the bucket and gloves as I reached for the water.

We walked wordlessly up the small hill to the spot where the brass marker rested, one corner covered by a patch of thick grass that had grown up and over the marble base.

Mud had been caked onto the engraved poem and the date of Emma’s birth.

I swallowed, frozen to the spot.

Mom dropped to her knees, reaching back for the water jug, but I didn’t hand it over. Instead I dropped to my knees beside her, and reached for the scrub brush.

“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll get it.”

But tears swam in her eyes as she lifted her gaze to mine. “It’s not okay.”

I remembered calling my parents’ house after Ryan and I had gotten home from the hospital. I’d never forget the pain in my father’s voice when I’d told him Emma was gone, much like the anguish that spread across my mother’s face now.

I studied her features, the pain and love so blatant in her eyes.

I wasn’t the only one who’d lost Emma. Ryan had lost her. Dad had lost her. Mom had lost her. I wasn’t alone in my sorrow. I wasn’t alone in my life.

Suddenly, I had no idea why I hadn’t picked up the phone to call Mom the moment Ryan walked out.

“Ryan left me,” I said.

Mom nodded, her eyes still moist with unshed tears.

“You knew?” I leaned toward her, staring intently into her dark eyes. They softened as she looked at me, as she reached for my cheek.

“I’m your mother.”

The emotion of the moment grabbed me by the throat and held tight.

Why hadn’t I told her sooner? She was my mother, and she’d do anything for me. Much like my argument with Diane, that realization made me realize the time had come to do some things for myself.

Mom patted my cheek and reached for the scrub brush, but I covered her hand with mine. “I can do this.”

“I know you can.” Her tone lost its soft edge, growing sharp and determined.

When her eyes met mine this time, I knew she wasn’t talking about scrubbing Emma’s marker.

She was talking about life. My life.

I only hoped she was right.

o0o

On Sunday afternoon, I knew the time had come to face the paperwork I’d promised to handle for my mother.

I thought about Mark working on Mom’s car and my vow to face life head on. I stared at the piles I’d spread across my coffee table.

I’d separated the papers and notes into categories. Retirement account. Life insurance. Banking. Pension. Health insurance. Utilities. Homeowner’s insurance. Car insurance.

The manila envelope holding my father’s death certificates sat farther away than anything else. I’d shoved it to the end of the table as if it were a cobra waiting to pierce my heart with its lethal bite, yet my gaze continued to land on the words I’d scribbled in handwriting I’d never recognize as my own if I didn’t know better.

Death certificates.

The enormity of the task threatened to swallow me whole. I couldn’t help but wonder if this wouldn’t have been easier before my shock and denial wore off. Now that I’d become aware and determined, my heart ached as if an elephant sat on my chest.

This to-do list would be emotionally devastating if the paperwork had been for anyone, let alone for my dad.

I understood life ceased at the moment the heart stopped beating, but as far as the rest of the world was concerned, life stopped at the moment they received a completed form, a properly worded letter and an official copy of the death certificate.

My gaze traveled again to the manila envelope and froze there. The contents all but dared me to peek inside, to see if this time I’d be strong enough to study them without dissolving into a puddle of tears.

I traced a finger along the edge of the envelope then released the clip that held the flap closed. I reached inside, sliding the neat stack of ten notarized certificates from within. I swallowed, a vain attempt to fend off the sob mercilessly snaking its way up my throat.

I skimmed the words typed onto each page. Name. Social security number. Time of death. Cause of death.

The words blurred and I wiped at my cheeks before the tears tumbling from my eyes could drip and mar the pristine pages--pages that screamed what my heart knew but still wanted to deny.

Dad was dead.

And at that particular moment in my life, that one fact--that one morsel of understanding--seemed almost more than I could bear, yet I refused to quit.

I pushed the envelope away and fell flat on my back, staring up at the textured ceiling and the line of recessed lights. One bulb sat dark and I frowned. When had that happened? Today? Yesterday? Last week?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to stem the steady trickle of tears, trying to regain my composure but I couldn’t. Tears streamed from the corners of my eyes down the sides of my face, running into my hair and my ears. Slick. Wet. Cold.

A cold nose nudged the side of my face and I blinked my eyes open. Poindexter hovered above me, probably more concerned over whether or not I’d be able to provide for his nutritional needs than he was about my emotional state. But then his expression changed. I mean, I think it changed. Maybe my imagination was simply more active than usual, and that was saying something.

Poindexter frowned a little, tipped his head to one side and dropped to his belly. He sprawled beside me on the carpet and lowered his chin to my stomach. I looped one arm around his neck, sinking my fingers into his fur.

We stayed like that for a long time. I’m not even sure for how long. It seemed like hours, but could have been just minutes. All I knew was that Poindexter loved me. Okay, so his actions may not have been entirely unselfish, but I’d like to think they were.

He loved me enough to flop down with me on the family room floor while I succumbed to my latest wave of grief. And for however long we stayed there, Poindexter’s nearness comforted me, soothed me. Sure, I had a momentary flash of realization that this was what my life had come to--me in tears, comforted by the dog.

Then I realized, just as I had the night before, that only by lying like a slug in the middle of my floor would I be a complete and total failure. All I had to do was get up.

Get up.

I gave Poindexter a squeeze before I headed for the kitchen. After I tossed him a treat and put on a fresh pot of coffee, I decided I was ready to face my dad’s paperwork. Ready to face whatever else life had to dish out. Though I sincerely hoped the surprises were through for at least a little while.

I carried my steaming mug back to the coffee table, took a deep breath and reached for the first pile.

o0o

“Everyone who got where he is had to begin where he was.”

–Richard L. Evans