Moments In Time Page 8

  “Why didn’t you go there? Why’d you go away to school?”

  “And be under Frank Callahan’s watchful eye every minute of every day?” she asked, wide-eyed at the very thought.

  “I see.” He grinned.

  “You’d have to know my father to really ‘see.’ Anyway, to make a long story short, I dated Mace pretty much exclusively for the next three years. Everytime I stopped seeing him, he and my father would gang up on me until I went back with him. Then he graduated, and I guess I took advantage of the fact that he wasn’t there and I started dating someone else. Mace waited very patiently, and when this other guy dumped me and broke my heart, Mace was there to put me back together again. He acted like nothing ever happened, just picked up where we’d left off. That’s when I knew how much he really loved me. I didn’t think that anyone would ever love me that much again. And I figured I owed it to him to try to love him, too. Unfortunately, I never really did. And my family was really upset about the whole thing. No one’d ever been divorced in our family. It was a hard pill for them to swallow.”

  “Why? Divorce isn’t such a big deal these days.”

  “Well, you know, I was the first child, and I’ve always been close to my parents. Particularly my father.”

  “Daddy’s little girl,” J.D. teased.

  “More or less,” she admitted.

  “And it’s not as if you’re the only child, you know, what with a brother and three sisters. And you’re the only person I know who has a sister ‘sister.’ ”

  “Oh, you mean Frankie?” She grinned. “That’s Sister Mary Frances Joanna to you. And she’s not the only member of the family to take Holy Orders, you know. There’s Aunt Cecilia, my mother’s oldest sister—she’s been a nun for thirty-five years or so. And my cousin Agnes and my cousin Mary Rose—they’re both nuns, too. Now, as far as priests go, we have—”

  “Enough,” he laughed. “I’m thoroughly intimidated by a vision of a heaven peppered with Callahans, one in holy garb crouched behind every cloud. My family simply isn’t in the same league with that ecclesiastic lineup.”

  “That’s because there are so few of you and so many of us,” she laughed. “It’s just you and your sister, isn’t it?” He nodded.

  “You never mention your father,” she said, straightening the pillows and making a nest for herself.

  “He died when I was seven.”

  “I’m sorry. That must have been rough.”

  “It was,” he admitted. “It took my mom a long time to recover. It was maybe a bit easier on me, in some ways, because I didn’t understand what it all meant. All I knew was that he’d left for work one day and never came back.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Heart attack. He was only thirty-eight. I remember how confusing it all was. They let me see him in the casket—I suppose so that I’d understand that he was dead. But dead didn’t mean anything to me, and the man in the coffin didn’t appear at all like my father.”

  She looked at him quizzically.

  “My dad was always so lively, so animated,” he explained patiently, speaking slowly, the emotion in his voice very evident. “Always moving, always talking, singing, laughing… The man in the box was silent and still. I didn’t recognize him at all. So I guess I kept waiting for him to come back, and I grew more and more angry with him as time passed and he didn’t return. I didn’t really understand what dead meant until I was about twelve…” His voice faded.

  “What happened then?” she asked in a near whisper, caught up in his tale.

  “Went out one morning to feed my dog and couldn’t find him. So I went looking for him, up over the hills behind my mom’s house. I found him laying on the ground, his eyes open, but he was so still… It was just a bundle of fur there on the ground. And I knew he was gone. And that’s when I understood what being dead meant. And that’s when I stopped being angry with my father and finally began to mourn him.”

  He sat silently for a minute or two, a pillow propped behind his back, the vision of his father’s face suddenly vivid in his mind’s eye. He stared long and wistfully at the image. He still missed him, still had times when he wished he could sit and talk to him, like he did when he was a very small boy. Other than Judith, his sister, he’d never discussed this painful subject with anyone, avoiding any mention of his father for years. Yet tonight the words had come to him freely, and Maggie had listened to every one. She seemed to understand his silences, and he knew that he had found in her someone who would always listen, would always understand.

  He looked at her and smiled wryly. “Poor Dash, he’d just gotten caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Dash? Was that your dog?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a man who lives up the road; he goes a bit batty every once in a while. See, years ago, oh, maybe it’s been close to twenty-five years now, his wife took off with another man. Never came back. And from time to time, old George just sort of loses it, I guess, and goes out looking for them.”

  “Looking for them where?”

  “Up in the hills. Supposedly he’d found them together in a very compromising situation. He’d gone back to his house to get his gun, was going to do them in right then and there apparently. But by the time he got back, they were gone. Every now and again he goes out looking for them, where he’d found them before. I guess he takes his gun with him thinking next time he finds them, he’ll be ready. Only, of course, he never will find them, they’ll not be back—”

  “You mean he goes out looking for his wife to kill her?” Maggie leaned forward, incredulous. “I can’t believe he’s allowed to roam around like that, Jamey. He sounds really dangerous.”

  “Only to the occasional sheep that crosses his path at night. Or a dog now and then—that’s what happened to Dash.”

  “It would give me the creeps to think someone was roaming around outside my house in the dark with a gun.” She shivered. “Don’t you worry about your mother or your sister?”

  “Of course not. We’ve all known him all our lives. He’d not harm any of us. It’s his wife he’s looking for—”

  “Jamey, anybody who would mistake a sheep or a dog for his wife probably can’t be relied upon to be discriminate when he’s got a gun in his hands.”

  “Well, for the most part, we just feel sorry for him. It’s sad, in a way… I’d have thought you’d have more compassion.”

  “I’d be more inclined toward compassion if he was locked away someplace. The guy obviously needs help.”

  “And we obviously need to spend a little less time talking here.” He reached for her, pulling her to him. “You know, I never realized just how long a week could be…”

  The weekend had passed with incredible speed, and all too soon he found himself standing alone in the parking lot watching her drive away, feeling more lost than he’d ever felt before. Everything that made sense to him in this life, everything that made the sun warm to his skin and made food taste good and made the music come alive was behind the wheel of that car.

  He walked through the lobby and took the elevator up to his floor, pushed the door open with the key, and turned on the light. He stood at the window and watched the lights from the cars in the parking lot trace bright patterns with long glowing tails in the darkness. The room was so quiet now, and he felt very much alone. He lay on the bed and felt a sadness spread through him—a sadness stronger than he’d ever experienced. He knew it was more than just missing her physical presence. It was everything that Maggie brought with her, everything she took of him when she left, that filled him with an overwhelming sense of desolation. He could not have known that night that it would be a feeling he’d come to know well over the years, one that would be with him every night he’d spend without her for the rest of his life.

  8

  “CORRECT ME IF I’M WRONG, BUT WASN’T IT THAT friend of yours, Linda something or other—I ca
n’t quite recall her name—who was involved with Rick Daily all those years?” Hilary directed the question to Maggie, who all but froze at the thought of discussing that particular ghost on this particular occasion.

  “You mean Lindy. Lindy Burton.” Even with the microphone, Maggie’s voice was barely perceptible.

  “That was certainly a very tragic set of circumstances,” Hilary continued sympathetically, hoping one of them would elaborate. There’d always been something unsettling in Hilary’s mind about that whole episode, something that had seemed not quite right, but even her sharp instincts could never quite pinpoint what it was.

  “Yes, it was, for everyone involved.” J.D. attempted to draw the attention from his wife, knowing how painful the subject was for her.

  “You know, I met her several times some years back in London, with Rick,” Hilary went on, inwardly reflecting on the image of Rick Daily that had flashed through her mind.

  Now there was one exceptional man. “They were the most striking couple I’d ever seen, he so tall and handsome, and she so stunningly beautiful. Why do you suppose they never married?”

  J.D. merely shrugged. “I’ve no idea. I’ve never asked him.”

  “There was something about her that I could just never get a handle on,” continued Hilary. “I don’t know. Maggie, how would you have described her?”

  “Lindy was a very complex person,” Maggie said evenly.

  Complex? The word barely scratches the surface where Lindy was concerned. Manic-depressive was the clinical term, but screwed up more often came to mind. It hadn’t been her fault, of course; she’d had it rough from the beginning. And she tried sometimes to break through that wall she’d built around herself, tried to open up and let someone else in.

  Those times, Maggie recalled with a chill, were few and far between, and the glimpse that was permitted only served as a reminder that Lindy was the loneliest person she’d ever known. At times it had been so very difficult to be her friend; at times the bits of herself that she shared all but broke your heart…

  “Lindy, come into the kitchen with me. I need to find something for us to eat. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Maggie called to the figure reclining in the living room.

  Upon arriving at Maggie’s apartment after the weekend in Richmond, Lindy’d crawled onto the sofa, nursing the remnants of a fierce hangover. Lindy groaned and pushed herself up. “God, I feel like shit.”

  “You deserve to feel like shit, all the drinking you did this weekend,” Maggie teased, then added, “I hope it was worth it.”

  Lindy’s response was slow in coming. “Yes, it was worth it.”

  Maggie watched out of the corner of one eye. Lindy had seated herself at the small kitchen table, busying herself picking at her nail polish, a nervous habit she’d had for as long as Maggie had known her.

  “Well, you know, the band has almost a whole week off next week. Jamey’ll be here Friday through the following Wednesday. Maybe you could ask Rick if he wants to—”

  “No” was the simple, sharp reply.

  Maggie turned and looked at Lindy in surprise.

  “No.” Lindy was still peeling her nail polish off, leaving tiny chips of dark rose dust scattered like tiny petals on the table. “I don’t want to see him next weekend.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “It doesn’t mean I want to see him next weekend. Or maybe any other weekend.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Maggie turned her back, resumed measuring coffee grounds into the white paper filter, poured the water into the coffeemaker, and removed two cups from the shelf.

  “Maggie…” The voice was so low it was almost inaudible. “Maggie, I don’t understand me, so I can’t expect anyone else to. I don’t even make sense to myself sometimes.”

  “We all feel that way from time to time, Lind. Right now, you’re tired, you’re hungover and hungry and, let’s face it, you’ve spent the last few days with a mad man.”

  “Rick’s not really that bad, you know…” Her voice trailed off. “We spent a lot of time fooling around, but we spent a lot of time talking, too.” She looked up at Maggie. “It was nice.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “All kinds of things.”

  “Did you tell him about—”

  “About the fact that I’ve spent two-thirds of my life visiting a shrink twice a week? No, Maggie, I did not.” Lindy toyed with the spoon, stirring the coffee round and round in continuous swirls.

  “Lindy, you weren’t responsible for what your father did,” Maggie said gently, well aware of the burden Lindy carried in her soul.

  Lindy raised her head slightly, pulling the long blond hair back with both hands, the frantic look of a lost child crossing her face for the briefest of moments, then disappearing as quickly as it came.

  “Lindy, if this therapist hasn’t been able to help you to understand that much, after all this time, maybe you should look for someone else who can,” she suggested. It hurt deeply to see her friend in such pain, knowing she could do nothing to help heal the wounds.

  “Changing doctors means that I have to sit down and start at the beginning and talk about the whole thing all over again. And I just don’t want to go over it again and again. I can’t deal with it anymore. I’ve had to do it so many times over the past seventeen years, Maggie.”

  “But maybe you could learn how to stop shutting people out of your life.” Maggie rested an elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. “You know, you’ve dumped more guys than I’ll ever even meet.”

  “Maggie, I just don’t want to be in a position ever where it matters to me if someone stays or goes. And I’ve never had a problem attracting guys.”

  “That’s great while you’re young and gorgeous. What about when you’re seventy?”

  “I won’t live that long, so I don’t worry about it.” She shrugged indifferently.

  “Why do you say that? What do you think will happen to you?”

  “Oh, I don’t know exactly how it will happen, but I won’t make it to thirty-five. I’ve always known it.” Lindy appeared to be totally unconcerned. “It’s okay, Maggie. It doesn’t scare me.”

  The steady matter-of-factness of her voice and the cool, level, blank look in her eyes chilled Maggie all the way through.

  “Everyone dies eventually, Lindy, sooner or later. Most of us just hope it’s later.” She tried to make a joke but was unable to muster the lightness that she’d intended.

  “Sooner’s okay,” Lindy replied with frank nonchalance.

  “Lindy, isn’t there anything in your life that you feel really strongly about, anything you think is worth living for?”

  Lindy was pensive. Finally, she answered, “No.”

  “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be—”

  “I don’t want there to be, Maggie. That’s the whole point.” Lindy was becoming agitated. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand. You grew up in a real family, with two parents who loved you and gave you a wonderful home life and enough security that you could grow up to be a person who knows how to give and how to take.” Lindy lit a cigarette, her hands shaking. “Do you have any idea what it’s like for a little kid to deal with an alcoholic mother? And God forbid anyone outside the family should know that the beautiful, talented Andrea Burton had a drinking problem. How the woman ever managed to get paint onto her canvases is still the greatest mystery of my life. Other than why she had me or my brother in the first place. God knows she never wanted either of us.” She paused and took a sip of her coffee, carefully replacing the cup into the saucer before continuing.

  “My father took care of us and took care of her and arranged her showings and made excuses for her when she didn’t show up. I hated her. I have never, in all these years, shed a tear for her. And I’ve never felt sorry or guilty over it either. The woman gave me life, for what that’s worth, but as far as I�
�m concerned, she abandoned me the day I was born.”

  Her voice, so low and steady through her litany, had stopped. Maggie wondered if she was all right.

  “And then, I guess my dad just snapped. I had never been aware of how much he must have loved her, you know, it never had occurred to me that he did. But three weeks after she died, I walked into the garage, and there he was, hanging there. No note. No explanation…”

  “Lindy…” Maggie fought hard for words that would not express her horror at hearing it all, the same horror she’d felt the first time she’d heard it. How the nine-year-old Lindy had climbed onto the roof of the car and cut his body down with hedge clippers before calling the police, carefully shielding her six-year-old brother from the sight. And how she’d spent the next nine years in a clinic for mentally ill children, not speaking a word for the first twenty-three months.

  “Lindy, I don’t think your father made a rational decision to leave you and your brother. I think he just overloaded. People do that sometimes. They get to a point where they can’t take anymore. If he hadn’t been so unnerved by your mother’s accident—”

  “It wasn’t an accident. She had every intention of driving into that wall.” Lindy’s voice was harsh and bitter.

  “If he hadn’t been so despondent over losing her, he never would have put you two in that situation. As difficult as it must have been for him to live with her, apparently he couldn’t live without her. Lindy, you don’t know what went on between your parents—you were a little girl. You don’t know what forces were at work between them…”

  “Well,” she said, wiping the tears, “those forces will never be at work in me.” She sat motionless for a few moments, then whispered in a tiny voice, “I’m sorry, Maggie.”

  “Sorry? For what?”

  “I always seem to dump the craziest shit on you.”

  “I’ll always be there to listen to you as a friend, but I can’t help you. I don’t know the best way for you to deal with all this.”

  Lindy had made a pile out of the shavings of nail polish, her fingernails all bare now. “Mags?”