Excerpt of Beyond the Quiet by Brenda Hill

CHAPTER ONE

The sharp buzz of the doorbell jarred me awake. Ignoring the
intrusion, I rolled over to face the back of the sofa and
tried to go back to sleep. I didn’t want to see anyone and I
certainly didn’t want anyone to see me.

The grandfather clock struck three, and I knew from the glow
of sunlight through the closed satin drapes that it was
afternoon.

Someone jabbed the bell again and again in quick succession.
Damn. Stan and Maggie must be back from their vacation,
ready to pester me again about food. I’d assured them I’d
eat and I had—if you could call nibbling on a stale slice of
bread or a piece of cheese eating.

Closing my eyes, I willed them to go away.

Then the pounding began, loud, heavy, hammering pounds that
would surely splinter the door. Annoyed, I sat up on the
sofa, my robe bunched above my knees.

“Open up, Mom! It’s me!”

Shanna! What was she doing here? She wasn’t supposed to be
here until...when? Oh God, I couldn’t remember. I didn’t
even know what today was. Somehow the days seemed to slide
into one another and I couldn’t keep up.

“I know you’re in there, Mom,” she called, still pounding on
the door and ringing the buzzer. “Open up or I’ll call the
police!”

Bolting off the sofa, I rushed to the door.

Even behind large amber sunglasses, my daughter looked
exasperated. For her flight, she’d worn a short sleeve
pullover with gabardine trousers and had Kyle, my
nine-month-old grandson, in one of those harness things with
wide blue straps secured over her shoulder and around her
slender hips. A diaper bag and suitcase sat at her feet, and
behind her, I could see a green and white taxi backing out
of the drive.

“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” Shanna demanded, picking
up her suitcase and barging past me, her straight blonde
hair bouncing from her shoulders. “Why didn’t you meet me at
the airport? I waited over an hour.”

Barefoot, I dragged the diaper bag into the living room,
barely able to look at her. I knew I looked a mess. I was a
mess.

“I’m sorry, honey. I just—”

“Never mind,” she said, “I got here.”

Putting Kyle on the floor, she handed him his purple
dinosaur and took off the harness. Then her critical gaze
turned to me, raking over my faded wrinkled robe and the
greasy strings of graying hair hanging in my eyes.

I cringed, wondering how long it had been since I’d bathed,
but my thoughts were as fuzzy as if I’d been on a month-long
drunk.

“You look terrible,” she said, giving me a peck on the
cheek. “This isn’t like you. Are you sick? Maybe we should
get you to a doctor.” That was Shanna, all efficiency. I
longed for some comfort, for some glimmer of understanding.

“I’m okay,” I said, dropping to the floor beside Kyle. It
had been a month since I’d seen him, a month since Mac’s
funeral. Babies change so quickly at that age.

He smiled and jabbered to me, his big blue eyes watching
every move I made. His hair, the same coppery shade as his
father’s, shone like silk even after the long flight. I
gathered him into my arms and held him close, breathing in
the fresh scent of baby powder. He didn’t seem to mind that
I looked like a bag lady and probably smelled like one as well.

“I miss Dad too, Mom,” Shanna said. Her eyes were a rich
coppery brown, speckled with gold flecks like her father’s.
I had my mother’s eyes, gray with thick black lashes. Waif’s
eyes, I’ve been told, large and sad. The only thing Shanna
inherited from me was my petite build.

“I can only stay a week,” she continued, dropping her purse
beside the diaper bag. “Then I have to get back to work. You
have to pull yourself together, you know.”

Pull myself together. Sure. As if I could do that at her
command. I’d cared for her father day and night for over a
year, helplessly watching him deteriorate a little more each
day from the proud, self-sufficient man who’d routinely
tracked elk over the Sierra Nevada mountains to someone who
couldn’t take a breath without his oxygen tank. Didn’t she
realize his illness and death had affected me as well? I
felt drained of all energy, void of any feeling, overwhelmed
with a lingering malaise that hadn’t eased.

But since she’d made the trip from Minneapolis to help me
sort her father’s things, I’d better do something—at least
get dressed. That would be a start—if only I could work up
enough energy to get off the floor.

“It’s beautiful outside,” Shanna said brightly. Too
brightly. “We’ll let some of that Southern California
sunshine in.” She pulled the drapes open all the way,
spotlighting the cluster of dirty glasses and cups on the
coffee table, the layers of dust on the furniture. I wanted
to sink into the floor just like the Wicked Witch of the
West. She opened some windows.

“Some fresh air wouldn’t hurt,” she added, throwing open one
of the windows.

Muttering something about putting on some clothes, I got to
my feet and headed to the bathroom.

“Take a shower while you’re at it,” she called after me.

Stepping out of the shower minutes later, I heard the clink
of dishes and silverware from the kitchen and knew my
daughter was cleaning up. Shame rippled through me. All the
time she was growing up I’d stressed cleanliness and
efficiency, and now I could imagine how the kitchen looked.
Except for making coffee, getting a Diet Coke or zapping a
couple of frozen dinners in the microwave last week—at least
I think it was last week—I hadn’t been in there long enough
to do anything since the last person had left after the
funeral reception. My fridge had been stuffed with covered
dishes, but they hadn’t looked appetizing, so I think I
opened a can of something, soup perhaps, and ate from the
can. Had I thrown it away? I couldn’t remember.

I wished I felt differently, wished I could just put the
last year into the past and go forward, wished I felt like
dressing each day. But it was simply too much trouble. I
hadn’t even been able to read, something I’d enjoyed since I
was a child. A stack of novels leaned toward the sofa, still
untouched. Oh I’d tried, but a book was too heavy to hold,
so I sat in front of the TV, staring at the screen day after
day and well into the next morning.

Perhaps I was sick, but I had to get it together, at least
while Shanna was here. Maybe her visit would energize me
enough to get some things done. I hadn’t even looked at my
checkbook since paying the bills the month before Mac died.
Thank God for Stan, Mac’s older brother and executor of his
will. He’d taken care of all the funeral arrangements and
made sure everything was running as it should before he and
his wife, Maggie, left on a well-deserved vacation.

Just as I slipped into my comfortable cotton pants and
pullover, Shanna cracked open the bathroom door.

“Mom, really. There’s no food except some moldy stuff in
some casserole dishes. They can’t be from the funeral, can
they?”

Why did she always sound so critical when she spoke to me?
It had been the same for years, that brisk, detached tone
that always seemed to hold a slightly patronizing edge.
Shanna, my precious daughter, the one person on earth who,
for a short time, had truly been mine. How I’d rejoiced when
she was born. Finally I had someone who would love me
unconditionally, as I would love her.

When, exactly, had it changed?