“Is something wrong?”
“No. Look, I know I said I wasn’t going to call, and I really wasn’t. But then I found the card you left on the coffee table.” There was a pause, the sound of smoke being inhaled and then exhaled. “After you left, I got to thinking about . . . well, about everything, and I realized I never said I’m sorry. I may have said the words, I can’t remember, but if I did I meant I was sorry for me. It wasn’t about you—about how I hurt you—and it should have been. That’s why I’m calling.”
Christy-Lynn sagged back against the pillows, wondering where this fresh wave of contrition was coming from—and where it might be going. A few hours ago, her mother had shown her the door. Now this. Had she changed her mind about the money after all?
“It doesn’t matter now, Mama.”
“Yes, it does. And there was more I should have said. So much more. I always swore that if I ever got the chance I’d make sure you knew how much I regretted it all, and then there you were, right in front of me with that necklace in your hand, and all I could think about was getting rid of you. That’s why I rushed you out the door—because I was ashamed. I could see what I’d done to you—then and now.”
Christy-Lynn said nothing, letting the silence stretch.
“Christy-Lynn?”
“I’m here.”
“The thing I should have said—the thing I need to say now—is that I hope you find a way to be happy. I’m sorry I never gave you the kind of life you deserved, sorry I broke my promise to you, sorry about all of it. But please, baby girl, don’t let that stop you from making a life of your own.”
“Mama—”
“I have to hang up now. I’m at the pay phone on the corner, and I don’t want Roger to wake up and find me gone.” There was a brief pause then a jagged breath. “I promised myself I’d never ask you for another thing, including forgiveness, but I’m breaking that promise now and asking you for one thing. Please, Christy-Lynn, let yourself be happy.”
And then she was gone.
Christy-Lynn stared at the blank phone screen, imagining Charlene Parker standing in her housedress at the corner pay phone, not to ask for money as she had initially suspected, but for forgiveness. And to wish her happiness.
I could see what I’d done to you—then and now.
The words seemed to echo in her head—and her heart. Was she such an open book? So glaringly transparent that her mother—a woman she hadn’t seen in twenty years—could see through all the careful layers of veneer to the emptiness beneath? It was a daunting thought, particularly when others seemed to be echoing similar sentiments.
It was time to let herself be happy, to stop closing doors, to make a life of her own.
It must look so easy from the outside.
From the foot of the bed, Tolstoy eyed her quizzically, stretched out like a pasha amid the strewn manuscript pages. She’d managed to get through the last page before passing out. Now, as she began gathering them up, she realized she’d probably never know how the story ended—unless The End of Known Things wound up on a shelf in her store one day. She hoped it would. It was certainly good enough or had the potential to be.
The house was still as she padded to the kitchen with her empty mug, the quiet like a shadow stalking her down the hall. On her way back to bed, she lingered in front of the closed door to the spare room, hand poised above the knob.
All the things we won’t let ourselves have.
The door seemed to open of its own volition. It hadn’t of course. Doors didn’t open on their own. You had to choose to open them, to consciously cross the threshold and glimpse what lay beyond. She flipped on the overhead light, sighing as she scanned the jumble of half-packed boxes and unused furniture she should have donated months ago. But then it wasn’t like she had a real use for the room. Maybe that’s why she’d been dragging her feet, because she didn’t like the idea of it sitting empty, like a great big glaring hole in her life.
On impulse, she dropped to her knees and began picking through the nearest box. They were Carol’s things mostly, items hastily left behind when she moved to Florida: lamps, linens, chipped dishes. She’d held on to most of it—in case Carol changed her mind and wanted it sent. But she hadn’t. Maybe because she’d already taken the things that mattered.
Conspicuously absent from the boxed-up castoffs was any trace of personal memorabilia, no scrapbooks, photographs, or family keepsakes. Nothing that represented Carol Boyer’s real life. Those things she’d been careful to take.
Now, as she thought back to the night she left Clear Harbor, it struck her that the only things she’d been careful to take were an old photograph and a tarnished necklace. That’s what she’d chosen to hold on to, reminders of pain and loss, because there were no happy memories to cherish. She hadn’t bothered making any. Instead, she’d built a careful life with nothing to look back on and even less to look forward to.
The tears came then, like a dam giving way after a storm, as Wade’s words, Missy’s words, even her mother’s words, crowded in on her. It was a moment of terrible clarity, the kind that usually came at the start of the third act, while there was still time for the heroine to save herself. Sadly, that train had left the station. There was already a big hole in her life.
But if she was being honest—and it was well past time for that—she had to acknowledge that the empty places in her life were of her own making. Not her mother’s. Not Stephen’s. Hers. She’d been living in a kind of bubble, playing it safe while the world went by, but somewhere along the way, that had stopped working. She wanted more. Was it too late to change, to salvage something after all the lost years? She honestly didn’t know. She only knew she wanted to try—and she knew exactly which door to open first.
FORTY-SEVEN
Sweetwater, Virginia
September 10, 2017
Christy-Lynn dropped into the deck chair with her phone and her coffee mug, sipping as she checked her messages. So much had happened in the past couple of weeks, so many things she needed to share with Wade, though things on that front didn’t look particularly promising. They hadn’t spoken in weeks—since the morning she’d left him in her bed to drive to Walterboro—and he had completely stopped coming to the store.
Not that she blamed him after the way she’d left it. She’d been very convincing when she said they’d made a mistake. In fact, she had almost convinced herself. But the truth was she missed him, his smile, his sometimes harsh but always well-meaning advice, his presence in her kitchen—and her life.
She had tried his cell several times, but the calls always went straight to voice mail. Either he’d shut off his phone or he was purposely declining her calls. Finally, she’d sent him a text. Finished the manuscript. Was wondering how to get my notes to you.
It had taken him two days to respond. His tone had been distant, even for a text. Out of town. Don’t know how long. I’ll let you know.
She had replied immediately. I’ve made some decisions. Can we talk?
He hadn’t bothered to respond.
Now, as she sat watching Sweetwater Creek tumble smoothly past its bank, it occurred to her that some people might be meant to simply pass through a person’s life, to touch briefly and then move on. Perhaps that’s why she and Wade had crossed paths again after so many years. He had been her fresh set of eyes, a new lens through which to see herself, and perhaps rewrite her life. And now that she had, or was at least trying to, he had moved on.
She stood, turning her back to the creek, and carried her mug inside to the sink. She had things to do, a final run of boxes to drop off at Goodwill, the borrowed ladder to return to Hank, the vintage lamp she was having rewired to pick up from the shop.