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?