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MIRA
May 2006
Featuring: Susannah Nelson
352 pages
ISBN: 0778323021
Hardcover
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Women's Fiction Contemporary
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Vivian Leary stood motionless at the corner of the
street,her eyes darting from side to side. She had no idea
where she was or how she'd gotten lost. After all, she'd
lived in Colville her entire life. She should know — did
know — every square inch of this town. But the last thing
she remembered was going out to collect the mail and that
must have been hours ago.
The street didn't look familiar and the houses weren't any
she recognized.The Henderson house at the corner of
Chestnut and Elm had been her marker, but it was nowhere
in sight. She remembered that the Hendersons had painted
their place white with green shutters.Where was it? she
wondered, starting to feel frantic. Where was it? George
would be upset with her for taking so long. Oh no, how
could she have forgotten? George was dead.
The weight of grief settled over her,heavy and
oppressive.George, her beloved husband, was gone — taken
from her just two months short of their sixtieth
anniversary. It had all happened so fast....
Last November,her husband had gone outside to warm up the
car before church, and a few minutes later he lay dead in
the carport.He'd had a massive heart attack.The nice young
man who'd come with the ambulance had told her George was
dead before he even hit the pavement. He sounded as if
this was supposed to comfort her. But nothing could have
eased the shock, the horror, of that dreadful morning.
Vivian blinked hard, and despite the May warmth of eastern
Washington,a chill raced up her bare arms.She tried to
extinguish her growing panic. How was she going to find
her way home?
Susannah would know what to do — but then she remembered
that her daughter didn't live in Colville anymore. Of
course Susannah wasn't at home. She had her own house. In
Seattle, wasn't it? Yes, in Seattle. She was married with
two precious children. Susannah and Joe's children. Good
grief, why couldn't she think of their names? Her
grandchildren were her joy and her pride. She could
picture their faces as clearly as if she was looking at a
photograph, but she couldn't recall their names.
Chrissie. The relief was instantaneous. Her
granddaughter's name was Chrissie. She was born first and
then Brian was born three years later. Or was it four
years? It didn't matter,Vivian decided. She had their
names now.
What she needed to do was concentrate on where she was —
and where she should go from here. It was already starting
to get dark and she didn't want to wander aimlessly from
street to street. But she couldn't figure out what to do
next.
If there'd been any other pedestrians around, she could've
stopped and asked for directions to Woods Road.
No...Woods Road had been her childhood address.She hadn't
lived there since she was a schoolgirl,and that was before
the war. For heaven's sake, she should be able to remember
her own address! What was wrong with her?
The place she was looking for was the house she and George
had bought almost forty-five years ago, when the children
were still at home. She felt a mixture of fear...and
shame.A woman of eighty should know where she lived.
George would be so frustrated and impatient if he ever
found out about this.... Only he'd never know. That didn't
make her feel any better, though. She needed him, and he
wasn't there to help her, and that filled her with anxiety
so intense, she wrung her hands.
Vivian started walking again, although she wasn't sure
where she was headed. Maybe if she kept moving, if she
concentrated hard enough, the memory would eventually
return to her.
Her legs tired quickly, and she sighed with relief when
she saw a bench by the side of the road.Vivian couldn't
understand why the city would place a nice wooden bench
there — not even near a bus stop. It was a waste of
taxpayers' money. If George knew about this, he'd be
fuming. He'd been a public servant all those years, a
superior court judge. A fine one, too, a man of principle
and character. How proud Vivian was of him.
Still, she was so grateful for somewhere to sit, she
wasn't about to complain. George had freely voiced his
opinions about matters of civic responsibility and what he
called city hall's squandering of resources. While she
listened to her husband's views, she didn't always share
them. She had her own thoughts when it came to politics
and things like that, but she usually didn't discuss them
with George.That was something she'd learned early in her
marriage. George always wanted to convince everyone of the
superiority of his ideas and he'd argue until he wore
people down.So when her views differed from his,she kept
them to herself.
Sitting on the hard bench, she glanced about, hoping to
find a landmark.Oh my,this was a busy street.Cars whizzed
past,their lights blinding her until she felt dizzy. She
wasn't nearly as tired now that she was sitting.That was
good, because she needed to think.Thinking was important.
She hated forgetting basic facts, like her address, her
phone number, people's names. This happened more and more
often now that George had died, and it frightened her.
Perhaps if she closed her eyes for a moment, that would
help. She'd try to relax, clear her mind, since all this
worry only made her memory less reliable.
It was chilly now that the sun had gone down. She
should've brought a sweater but she'd been working in the
garden earlier and it had been hot. Her irises were lovely
this spring, even though her garden was in sad shape.For
years,it had been a source of pride and she hated the way
it looked these days. She did as much as she could, but so
much else needed to be done.Weeding,pruning,planting
annuals... After dinner she'd decided to do some watering
and remembered that she hadn't collected the mail. That
was when she'd gone out, planning to walk to the
neighborhood mailbox.And now here she was,lost and
confused and afraid.
That was when Vivian sensed someone's presence and opened
her eyes. Joy coursed through her veins as she stared,
wondering if her mind had betrayed her.
"George?"
Her husband of fifty-nine years stood beside her, shadowed
under the nearby streetlight. His smile warmed her and she
straightened,eyes wide open,terrified he'd
disappear.George had come to help her, come to save her.
"That is you, isn't it?"
He didn't answer but stood there plain as could be. He'd
always been such a handsome man,she thought,admiring his
broad shoulders and his confident posture.
They'd been high school sweethearts and known each other
their entire lives.Vivian felt she was the luckiest girl
in the world when George Leary asked her to marry
him.They'd been apart for nearly three years while he was
fighting in Europe.Then he'd gone to college to get his
law degree on the G.I. Bill.That time of struggle had paid
off, though, and after a few years of private practice,
he'd been invited to join the bench. George had been the
one and only love of her life and she missed him
terribly.How like him to come to her now, in her hour of
need.
Vivian reached out to him, but George backed away. She
dropped her hand abruptly, biting her lower lip. No, of
course — she should've realized she couldn't touch him.
One couldn't touch the dead.
"I'm lost," she whispered."Don't be angry with me, but I
can't find my way home."
He smiled again and she was so relieved he wasn't upset
with her. She'd forgotten things before he died, too, and
sometimes he got frustrated, although he tried to hide it.
She'd even stopped cooking but that was because she'd
forgotten so many of her recipes.The ones in cookbooks
were too hard to read, too confusing. But George never
complained and often heated soup for both of them.
Vivian felt she should explain what had happened."I went
to get the mail and I must've decided to go for a
walk,because when I looked up I wasn't anywhere close to
the house."
He stretched out his hand and she got to her feet. "Can
you take me home?"she asked,hating how plaintive and
helpless she sounded.
He didn't answer. Then she realized that dead men couldn't
talk, either.That was all right; she didn't care as long
as George stayed with her. Six months it had been since
he'd died and every one of those months had seemed an
eternity.
"I'm so glad you came," she whispered, trying to hide the
way her voice cracked with emotion."Oh, George, I miss
you." She told him about the garden, even though she knew
she was rambling. He'd never liked it when she talked too
much, but she was afraid he'd have to leave soon, and
there was so much to tell him.
"George, I'm sure Martha is stealing. I just don't know
what to do. I watch her like a hawk when she comes to
clean, but still I find things missing. I can't let her
rob me blind, and yet I hate to fire her after all these
years.What should I do?" She hadn't really expected him to
answer, and he didn't.
Then,suddenly,she saw the house.They were on Chestnut
Avenue, where they'd lived since 1961. She walked
laboriously to the front door, holding on to the railing
and taking the steps one at a time.When she looked up to
thank George for helping her, her beloved husband had
vanished.
"Oh, George," she sobbed."Come back to me...please. Please
come back."
Susannah Nelson dumped the leftover broccoli salad into a
plastic container and shoved it inside the refrigerator,
closing the door with unnecessary force. Brian, her
seventeen-year-old, had mysteriously disappeared after
dinner, leaving her with the dishes. She shouldn't be
surprised. He had a convenient excuse every night to get
out of doing his assigned chores.
"Is something bothering you?" her husband asked from his
perch in the family room. Joe lowered the newspaper and
all Susannah could see were his dark brows and his eyes
behind the steel-rimmed reading glasses.
She shrugged."I don't suppose you've noticed, but this is
the third night in a row that Brian hasn't done the
dishes," she said, more sharply than she'd intended.
"I'll do them," he offered.
"You shouldn't have to do that," Susannah told him. "Nor
should I."
Joe set the newspaper aside."This isn't about Brian,is it?
You're upset about something else."
"Well, I am annoyed about the way he's been skipping out
on chores, but you're right, that isn't everything."What
concerned her most was her inability to identify a
specific reason.She'd been on edge for weeks, feeling
vaguely dejected.
It didn't help that she'd dreamed of Jake again last
night. Her high school boyfriend had been making nightly
appearances,and that unsettled her as much as
anything.Susannah was happily married and despite the
abrupt ending to her teenage romance, there was no good
reason for her to dwell on Jake. Her marriage had survived
the crises that any successful marriage does. Her children
were nearly grown; her daughter was in college, ready to
start her own life. Brian had summer employment, working
for a construction company, and would earn enough to pay
his own car insurance.The school break would officially
begin in a day's time, and she'd be free for nearly seven
weeks.Why, after more than three decades, was she dreaming
of Jake? It made no sense whatsoever.There he was, big as
life, filling her head with memories of a long-lost love.
"School's almost out," Joe reminded her. "That should
cheer you up."
He was right; it should.Today was the last day of classes
and her fifth-grade students had been overjoyed at the
prospect of summer vacation.Susannah was equally ready for
a break.Maybe for more than a break — a change.What kind
of change,she didn't know. She supposed she could think
about it over the summer — after tomorrow, anyway, when
she'd be finishing her paperwork.
"You've been restless since your father died," Joe
commented in a mild voice.He glanced at her across the
family room."Maybe you should talk to someone."
"You're saying I should talk to a counselor?"She hated to
think it had come to this.Yes, her father's death had been
a shock, but at the time her grief had seemed...formal.
Almost abstract. As though she'd mourned the idea of
losing a father more than the man himself. She'd never
gotten along with him.They'd tolerated each other, at
best. As far as Susannah was concerned, her father was
dictatorial,overbearing and arrogant.The moment she turned
eighteen, she couldn't get away from him fast enough.