Crossing Oceans
A cloud slid in to dull the sun while fatigue crept back into my bones. If I hadn’t been so close to my intended destination, I might have abandoned my mission and returned home to bed . . . but just ahead I spotted my mother’s grave.
I knelt on the grass, ignoring the lumpy ground pressing into my bare knees. Though some found it sacrilegious to set foot on a grave, let alone sit atop it, to me it was as close to my mother’s lap as I’d get on this side of heaven.
Half a dozen white roses, no more than a few days old, rested in a cement urn set against her headstone. My father, who’d seldom given her flowers when she was alive, made sure she had a steady supply in death. It was surreal to think he might do the same for me.
I fingered a blade of grass and peeked around to make sure I was alone. “Hey, Mom.” I felt silly speaking to her when I knew she wasn’t there. Bones did not hear. I turned my face toward the sky. “I’m going to be with you soon.” A smile crept across my lips as I really digested that these were more than mere words. Soon I would hold her hand. Feel her kisses. Did spirits hold hands? Of course they did. What kind of heaven would it be without affection?
I could hardly wait to tell her about Isabella and all the stuff I’d sworn she was wrong about growing up but found to be right once I became a mother myself. I don’t know how long I knelt there, daydreaming about our reunion, but after a while my neck began to ache. I looked back down to her headstone.
Here lie the remains of Audra Ann Lucas, beloved wife, mother, daughter, friend. Do not mourn her, for she lives.
As if I hadn’t seen these words a thousand times, I stared, amazed at the profoundness of them. I closed my eyes, letting sun rays soak into my anemic flesh. They felt as nourishing to my soul as Isabella’s kisses or Mama Peg’s touch. The simple joy of breathing fresh air, feeling the sun, and being among the green God created filled me with amazement. I scanned the trees with their heavy limbs, the grass cushion under me, and the wisps of white sailing on a sea of blue above. The simple grandeur of it all took my breath away.
Placing a hand over my heart, I marveled at such beauty—so familiar and yet it felt new. I’d had all this at my disposal my entire life, but I’d never really appreciated it. I realized then that it was only the tip of the iceberg of what I’d been taking for granted.
The thought saddened me, but I figured I could spend my time either regretting the past or enjoying the present, but not both. I opted for the here and now. Though there were times that fear of the unknown crushed me with panic, at that very moment, surrounded by sunshine and warm thoughts, I found myself actually welcoming death.
I wished I could have bottled that rare feeling of peace so that when I found myself in the throes of depression or gasping for one last breath, I could drink of it. There was nothing to fear, and yet so often I had . . . and knew I would again.
I stood and brushed flecks of dirt from my knees. Looking over my shoulder, I eyed an unmolested hill. My hill. The place where my body would lie. I would be the first to break the seal of that new ground, unless some unfortunate soul beat me to the finish line. I tried to remember the bearings of the plot I’d bought for myself.
Like a pirate searching for treasure, I stood in front of the pine tree landmark and walked ten paces to the right. I stopped on the spot that would be my final resting place. My breath caught as a feeling came over me, so foreign I could no more assign words to it than describe the color of a smell. I was standing on my own grave!
I wasn’t sure why, but I felt a sudden compulsion to lie down. With a brief scan of the area for witnesses, I caught only a blur of color from a distant pedestrian not close enough to worry about. I laid myself down in the direction I assumed my body would be buried, ignoring twigs and uneven earth jutting into my back.
Grass tickled my cheek as I turned my face to the right and considered the smooth stone mausoleum standing there. I looked to my left at the tree, watching a squirrel scurry up it, disappearing into greenery. Then I looked to the sky because I figured that’s how I’d be planted, facing upward, unless they dropped my casket when they lowered it and didn’t bother to fix me. But I didn’t guess that was likely. The bizarre thought made me laugh. I’m lying on my own grave, I thought, laughing like a lunatic. This made me laugh even harder.
So there I lay for a while, feeling strangely pleased about my purchase and my view. I wasn’t far from my mother’s grave, and though I had wished it was closer, I was now glad they weren’t side by side like the misfortunate family.
I closed my eyes and covered them with my palms, trying to experience it in utter darkness, though under the direct sun, my eyelids still glowed with red. I heard the soft patter of footsteps and realized that I probably looked more than a little nuts lying there on the ground in a cemetery. Still, I chose not to get up. Impending death has a way of making a person not care quite so much what others think.
A familiar smell passed by and I turned, trying to get a better whiff. Slowly I opened my eyes and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Craig bent over me. “Interesting spot you’ve chosen for a nap. Very gothic.”
I jumped up and brushed grass from my legs. “Don’t scare me like that! What are you doing here?”
The smile left his lips. “Mama Peg asked me to come. Jenny, David called. He’s really doing it. He’s asking for full custody.”
If Craig hadn’t embraced me then, I might have collapsed. His strong arms loaned me the strength I needed to stand. I leaned against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, until he at last pulled back.
“He won’t get it,” he said. “But you know, he probably is going to be awarded custody when you . . .” He looked down, then looked back up with a solemn expression. “This is yours, isn’t it?”
I nodded. The reality of my condition seemed to hit him then because the color drained from his face.
This time it was my arms reaching out to him.
Chapter Twenty-two
We stood in the wide, marbled vestibule of the largest and busiest law firm in all of Duncan County. David’s attorney had asked us to come to see if we couldn’t work out “this whole mess,” as he called it, rather than leaving it to a judge who didn’t know what was really what in our lives. As angry as I was with David, the thought of taking my chances with Judge Hendrickson didn’t leave me feeling as confident as I would have liked, and so I’d agreed to at least listen to what they had to say.
Well-groomed men and women came and went as we waited to be called into the office. Hushed chatter whirled around us, intermingled with the clicks of heels and an occasional cough. Isabella’s fingers wriggled restlessly in my grasp. My father sat by my side. With his charcoal suit, silver hair, and wire-rimmed glasses, my father still looked every bit the lawyer, but he would not be representing me today. He’d instead hired an up-and-coming hotshot his ex–law partner had recommended. A lawyer who apparently was quite popular, as he kept running into old friends. At that moment, he had left us to walk a pretty redhead to her car.
“Dad, thank—”
“Genevieve, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” He checked his watch for the umpteenth time.
I might have argued that there’d been plenty he hadn’t done for me. Instead I said, “I know you hate being here.”
“Not as much as you do, I’m sure.” He glanced at me, pity glinting in his eyes.
It was a look I’d come to hate almost as much as the cancer itself. When I turned away, my gaze fell on David and Lindsey, who occupied two chairs on the opposite side of the waiting room. He wore an expensive-looking three-piece suit and an expression that hinted he had better things to do with his time. In contrast, Lindsey appeared meek and mild with her hair pulled neatly back. Her pink dress was patterned with checks. Over it she wore a matching cardigan. Cashmere no doubt. Probably a gift from her doting husband.
When hatred filled me, so did shame.
Her doe eyes looked everywhere but in my direction. Her bony fin
gers clutched her husband’s arm. I hated that she clung to David, my David, as though she were being thrown around in an angry sea and he alone could save her. Of course, I had done the same, but when our storm came, he simply pried my fingers off and swam for shore alone. It seemed I’d been treading water ever since.
My father gave his earlobe a rub. “Now, remember, we’re just here to talk. See if we can’t decide outside the courtroom what’s best for Bella . . . which of course is staying with us. ”
“I get it, Dad. Honest. What if they won’t compromise?”
“Then a judge will decide.”
My heart ached. “Judge Hendrickson?”
He didn’t answer.
Isabella yanked my arm in an attempt to escape. I knew she wanted her father, but I just couldn’t let her go. “Bella, knock it off.”
She scowled as her hand went limp in my grasp. I addressed my father again. “I’d like to get this thing settled today. The last thing I want is for him to win custody after I die. She’ll be traumatized enough.”
Isabella jerked her head toward me and I realized what I’d done. I was thankful when she voiced no questions, though her expression made it clear she had them. The knots in my stomach tightened with the realization that I could no longer postpone our talk.
My father crossed, then uncrossed, his legs. “I’ll be glad when this whole thing is over. If I never have to hear the name Preston again, it’ll be too soon.” The name dripped from his lips like venom.
Isabella’s troubled expression moved off me onto him. It dawned on me that she was 50 percent Preston and knew it. So when my father bad-mouthed them, he was—in her eyes—also putting her down.
I cleared my throat and gestured in her direction, hoping he’d catch my drift. Instead, he pulled a cough drop out of his jacket pocket and tossed it at me. Rolling my eyes at his pathetic sense of perception, I handed it back.
Down the hall, a door opened and a tired-looking man wandered out of it. Strands of white dragged from the tattered hem of his well-worn jeans. Lindsey turned to watch, giving me a view of the back of her head and the mother-of-pearl combs securing her simple braid.
Isabella tore her hand out of mine and pointed in her direction. “Hers is different!”
Lindsey and David turned toward us at the same instant as though the response had been choreographed.
Heat crept up my neck as I pushed her pointing finger down. “Not so loud. What’s different?”
She patted the back of her head. “Mine’s fat! Hers is skinny.” She tore at her hair, disheveling the braid I’d fixed for her that morning. I grabbed her hands to stop her. My face broiled. With today’s meeting throwing off our routine, I knew my normally sweet child might be having a hard time, but even I was caught off guard when she howled as though someone had struck her.
“Stop it,” I whispered, squeezing her hands and wishing for a vortex to be sucked into. Of course she’d have to have a meltdown today of all days, right in front of them.
Her hair stuck out wildly as she shook her head like a lunatic. “I want to look like Lindsey! Fat braids are ugly. I look ugly! Ugleeeeeee . . .”
Frantic to quiet her, I pleaded, “Shh . . . I’ll fix it. Just be quiet.”
She stopped yelling, though the scowl on her face only deepened. I squatted behind her, clamping her narrow hips between my knees to keep her still and me steady. Combing through her hair with my fingers, I went to work. Lifting my arms felt more like lifting fifty-pound barbells as I tried to create the type of inwardly woven braid that Lindsey wore.
Ignoring my aching muscles, I gave it my best but just didn’t have the skill to make it work or the energy to keep trying. With my last bit of strength, I fashioned the only type of braid I knew how—one identical to the one she had just yanked out.
My arms fell to my sides. “There,” I said, trying to sound confident.
She reached behind her to feel, but I guided her hands back down. “Don’t touch or you’ll ruin it.”
“Does it look like hers?” she asked.
I turned her around to face me and gave a weak smile. “It’s beautiful like you.”
When her lips tightened and eyes narrowed, I knew she’d called my bluff. Before I could react, she thrust her hands back and felt my failure.
Her face contorted. I braced myself for the inevitable tantrum, but just as she opened her mouth, Lindsey’s skinny legs appeared before me. Feeling compromised in my squatting position, I stood.
“I’m sorry, Jenny. I couldn’t help . . . I, um, wasn’t eavesdropping or anything. . . .” She wrung her hands as she mangled an attempt to spit out whatever it was she was trying to say.
My father’s expression hardened as he positioned himself between us. “Mrs. Preston, it is completely inappropriate for you to initiate dialogue with my—”
I sighed. “Dad, please.”
He glared at me, paused, and stepped aside.
Lindsey gave Isabella a shy smile. “I could fix her hair like mine if you want me to.”
Just like that, apparently all was forgiven because Isabella beamed at her. I wanted to say something horrible and scathing to Lindsey. Something that would make her slink back to David humiliated, but of course, my conscience wouldn’t allow it. “Thanks, Lindsey, that’s kind, but I’ll take care of it. She’s just tired because—”
“Oh, I don’t need an explanation.” She fingered the strand of pearls that lay against her collarbone. “I know how kids are.”
I wasn’t sure what it was in her words that flipped my switch—the presumption that Isabella was like all other children, or just raw jealousy—but on it went. “You might know how kids are, but you don’t know how Bella is.”
She blinked at me, looking not angry or hurt, but confused. For some reason that fueled my irritation. Why wouldn’t she take the hint? I wasn’t being cryptic about my desire for her to leave us alone.
I pointed across the hall. “I think David wants you.”
She turned to look at her husband, who glowered his obvious disapproval.
Isabella batted her lashes at me. “Please, Mommy?”
My chest felt as though someone were sitting on it. “I told you I would fix it, and I will.”
When Lindsey walked back to David, I once again knelt behind my daughter. I had no idea how I was going to accomplish something I’d already proven I couldn’t do. It was crazy, and I knew it. I should’ve just let Lindsey fix her stupid braid. But in my mind the inability to do this equated with my inability to take care of my daughter and ensure her future. Lindsey had already proven she was more worthy of David’s love. Now she was about to prove she was also more worthy of being my child’s mother.
Isabella crossed her arms. “Why don’t you want me to be pretty?”
Her question and the bitterness in her tone caught me off guard. “What? Why wouldn’t I want you to be pretty? That’s silly. I can do this. You’ll see.”
With everyone’s eyes on me, I felt like I was performing onstage naked. I separated her hair into sections and tried to reverse my usual braiding process, though I doubted that would accomplish the desired result. My arms trembled and ached. Not only did the braid I was fashioning bear no resemblance to Lindsey’s, it bore no resemblance to a braid. Hot tears of frustration leaked down my cheeks.
I covered my face, conceding defeat, and sobbed into my hands. After a moment, I peeked through my fingers at my daughter.
“It’s okay, Mommy. I like this braid. It’s pretty.”
Her troubled expression looked just like the one she had worn while crouched in the corner of my bedroom when I was racked with fever. I hated that.
She tilted her head and laid her soft palm on my cheek. “I don’t need a skinny braid. Don’t worry, Mommy; I won’t go with Lindsey. Okay? Don’t cry.”
I willed my tears to stop falling and faked a smile, determined to do a better job of sheltering her innocence. “Bells, you should have a beautiful braid and you s
hould be able to go say hello to your daddy.” I lifted her small hand from my cheek and kissed it. “Go visit with them.”
She hesitated, but I ushered her forward.
I felt like Scrooge standing next to the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come as my father and I looked on. Isabella went right up to Lindsey and sat on her lap as if she’d known her all her life. And as though nothing had happened between them, she talked David’s ear off while Lindsey plaited her hair with ease.
I sagged against the wall, paralyzed. The three of them had become a family despite my attempt to keep them apart. It was clear that they were already tattooed on each other’s hearts and would remain so, regardless of whether David and Lindsey cared for her one weekend a month or every moment of every day.
I considered the contrast between the fear in her eyes a moment ago and the carefree joy on her face now. A five-year-old shouldn’t be forced to witness her mother’s slow and painful decline. It had almost killed me to watch my mother’s grueling last days and I’d been much older than Isabella. I couldn’t even braid her hair, for crying out loud. Soon I wouldn’t have the strength to kiss her good night. She deserved better than that. She deserved a mother and a father. She deserved them even if they didn’t deserve her.
An office door opened and a suited man poked his head out. He held up his hand and waved for Lindsey and David to come in.
My father gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You’d better get Bella. He’ll speak to them privately for a few minutes and then call us in too.”
Feeling as though I had a millstone around my neck, I trudged over to David and Lindsey. Instead of retrieving my daughter, I forced out the words, “She’ll live with you. Just give me tomorrow to say good-bye.”
David’s mouth hit the floor.