The Wishing Jar Read online

  Both east and west stretch out

  before me.

  I can see it all—

  yesterday’s dawn, tomorrow’s dusk,

  from the rising of the sun

  to its setting,

  from one broad curve of earth

  to the far horizon.

  And yet at my feet,

  in the cleft of the rock,

  my eyes linger on

  one small, new-budded flower.

  18

  Decisions

  Abby inserted her key in the door and looked down at the modest diamond ring that had been pinching her finger all evening. Leaving the key dangling in the lock, she wrenched off the ring, dropped it into the side pocket of her purse, and rubbed at the indentation it had left behind.

  Her knuckle was swollen. From the moment she put the ring on—and throughout the thirty-minute drive to Flat Rock, the three hours of the play, and the half-hour drive back to Asheville again—she had been intensely aware of it, clamped around her finger like a vise, chafing her skin, its intrusive, annoying presence demanding her attention. Had Abby been the superstitious type, she would have seen it as an omen, a harbinger of irritations to come.

  But she wasn’t superstitious, and she could ill afford to find fault with a man like Charles Bingham.

  Birdie had been right. He was a nice guy. So what if his kisses didn’t exactly generate fireworks? Such passion was for younger women—women who hadn’t already spent their lifetime allotment of the universe’s favor. With John Mac she’d had twenty years with a soul mate. Two decades of love and laughter and challenge and growth—the kind of relationship other women envy.

  She had already had perfect. Who was she to complain about nice?

  The house was quiet when she entered the foyer. Mama was probably already in bed asleep. She slung her coat onto the hall tree, hung her keys on the rack next to the door, and tiptoed into the living room.

  She smelled the odor first—a charred, pungent scent. Her brain snapped into high alert. Then she saw the wrinkled rug, the Wishing Jar lying on its side. And a hand outstretched, reaching for the jar.

  “Mama!” Abby ran to where her mother lay on her side, on the floor next to the sofa. Her eyes were open and Abby could see that she was breathing, but she had a strange expression on her face. She was staring toward the center of the room as if seeing something invisible to the rest of the world.

  Abby flung herself onto the floor next to the sofa, grabbed the phone from the lamp table, and dialed 911. “I need an ambulance!” she shouted into the receiver.

  “No ambulance,” Mama muttered. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re fine?” Abby parroted, incredulous. “Mama, what happened?”

  The garbled voice on the other end of the line was asking questions. Abby gave the address, threw down the phone, and focused her attention on her mother.

  “Fell,” she slurred, sitting up slowly and shaking her head. “Tried to run to the kitchen—”

  Fire! Abby’s mind screamed. She lunged to her feet and bolted into the kitchen. The charred smell was more intense here, and the red oven light was on, but there was no fire. She opened the door. In the bottom, splattered across the electric heating element, lay a molten lump of plastic mixed with burned cheese and cremated pasta. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned off the oven and went back to her mother’s side.

  Mama was now sitting upright with her back against the sofa, but Abby didn’t dare move her for fear something might be broken. Then the reality of the situation struck full force, and a wave of guilt washed over her. “You put your dinner in the oven instead of the microwave,” she deduced. “And when you smelled it burning, you tried to get to it and fell.”

  Mama nodded.

  “And you’ve been lying here on the floor for”—she glanced at the clock on the mantel just as it began to chime midnight— “six hours? Maybe more?”

  Mama nodded again. “But I’m all right. Really.”

  In the distance she could hear a siren drawing nearer, and lights began to flash through the window. “The paramedics are here.”

  Mama shook her head firmly. “No. I’m OK.”

  “We’ll let them decide that, all right?”

  Abby opened the front door for the ambulance team, and within minutes they had determined that Mama had no broken bones, had not suffered a heart attack or another stroke, and seemed to be in no immediate medical crisis. “Still, we’d like to take her in, just to make sure,” the female EMT told Abby. “She might have experienced another mild neurological episode.”

  Abby leaned over the gurney and took her mother’s hand. “We’re going to the hospital, Mama, just to make sure you’re all right.” She looked up at the paramedic. “Can I ride with her?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Give me just a minute.” She bent back over the stretcher. “I’m going to leave a note for Neal Grace, Mama. She’ll meet us at the hospital.”

  While the paramedics loaded her mother into the ambulance, Abby grabbed her keys off the rack and went to the kitchen. Rummaging in a drawer, she came up with a notepaper and pen. Granny Q taken to Mission Emergency Room, she wrote. Bring my car and meet us. Mom. Leaving the note and the car keys on the kitchen table, she dashed out into the dark night without even bothering to lock the door.

  By the time Mike killed the engine of his motorcycle half a block from Quinn House, Neal’s whole body was vibrating. She peered at her watch, its dial dimly illuminated by the streetlight above her head. Ten minutes to one.

  She exhaled a pent-up breath through gritted teeth. She should have been home hours ago. Mom had probably called out the National Guard by now, and no doubt T. J. had gone through the third degree. She’d be grounded until she was twenty-one.

  But it wasn’t her fault, not really. She had told Mike she needed to get home, and he hadn’t listened. Around eight o’clock they had left the cabin, and Neal had thought they would come straight here. Mike, however, had other plans—plans that included a tour of several sleazy bars, two grease-soaked burgers, a couple of pitchers of beer, and one interminable game of pool. She hadn’t had any choice in the matter.

  Neal shook her head. Yes, she did have a choice. She could have refused to go with him in the first place. She could have called Mom on the cell phone and asked to be picked up. She could have—

  Well, it didn’t matter now. What was done was done, and she’d just have to live with the consequences.

  “I gotta go, Mike,” she said as she slid off the seat. He grabbed at her, pulling her to him for a final kiss. His breath smelled like stale beer and week-old ashtrays. She pushed away.

  “Hey, whatsa matter?” he protested. “Don’tcha wanta kiss me?”

  “It’s late,” she said. “I’ve got to get home.”

  She turned her back on him and walked toward the house. Behind her, she heard him cursing, then the Harley roaring to life and speeding off down the street. She didn’t look back.

  Quiet settled over her, the welcome silence of solitude. No matter what this day cost her in the way of punishment, it would be worth the price for what she had learned—namely, that she never wanted to see Michael Damatto again as long as she lived.

  She hadn’t broken the news to him yet, and wasn’t quite sure how she was going to do it. But one long day alone with him had convinced her. Being with Mike was like being handcuffed to a roller coaster, whipped up and down, around in circles, over and over again. His need, his possessiveness, his seething anger, his self-pity. If she had to listen one more time to his grandiose dreams or his pathetic speech about how she was his whole world, she thought she would throw up.

  She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. How could she ever have found him remotely interesting? How could she have been so stupid? How could—

  Neal stopped short at the sidewalk in front of the house. The lights in the living room were on, which meant Mom was probably still up. Waiting for her, no dou
bt. She didn’t want to face her mother—or anyone—at the moment. All she wanted to do was take a hot shower, rid herself of the last remnants of Michael Damatto, and go to bed. Alone.

  Heaving a heavy sigh, she shouldered her backpack and began walking slowly toward the front porch. Her mind searched for credible excuses for the late hour and the smell of cigarettes and beer. Maybe she’d get lucky. Maybe Mom would be asleep and she could sneak in without having to face a confrontation.

  If she did get by with this, she swore to herself, she would never, ever be so stupid again. She would go back to being her old self—trustworthy, reliable Neal Grace—and never complain about anything.

  How much would it cost in dollars and pain, she wondered, to have a tattoo removed?

  She fished for her key. When she went to insert it in the lock, the door pushed open under the slight pressure. Her heart began to pound rapidly, painfully.

  Mom never left the door unlocked, not at this time of night.

  Her imagination launched into overdrive. What should she do? Call the police? Go inside? What if some burglar—or a rapist or a murderer—was lurking inside the house? What if Mom or Granny Q was hurt—shot, stabbed, bleeding to death? What if—?

  She pushed the door open a crack. Silence.

  Forget about sneaking in. All she could think about was seeing her mother and her grandmother alive and safe and well. A hundred worst-case scenarios flooded into her brain, as if someone had lifted a spillway gate. What would life be like without her mother? She couldn’t imagine. And her grandmother! She remembered with remorse how she had treated Granny Q since the stroke—avoiding her whenever possible, acting like, well, she didn’t want to remember how she had acted.

  Fear ran a cold finger across her neck. If something had happened to Granny Q, she’d never forgive herself.

  “Mom? Granny Q?” she whispered. No answer.

  She slipped through the foyer and into the living room, holding her breath. Nothing seemed out of place, except that the rug was bunched up and the Wishing Jar lay on its side in the middle of the floor.

  “Mom? Granny Q?” she called again, louder this time. The only answer was the ticking of the clock on the mantel. The hands jumped. A click. And then—

  BONG. The clock struck once, and Neal nearly jumped out of her skin.

  She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. Through the dining room she could see that the kitchen lights were on. Her nose caught a whiff of an odor—like something burning.

  Dropping her backpack on the sofa, she made her way into the kitchen. Something had burned, but she couldn’t determine what. Then she saw the hastily scrawled note on the counter, weighted down with her mother’s car keys.

  Granny Q. The emergency room. Mission Hospital.

  “No,” she muttered under her breath. She grabbed the keys and ran for the door.

  “Please, God,” she whispered as she slid behind the wheel and started the car. “Please, let her be alive.”

  Abby sat in the chair next to the hospital bed and watched her mother sleep. There wasn’t anything really wrong with her, the doctors had said, other than the lingering effects of the stroke, but they wanted to keep her a day or two. “For observation,” they said. Run a few tests, cover all the bases. Just in case.

  Abby smiled to herself, thinking that Mama’s cynical observation about physicians just might be correct. Doctors practice medicine, she used to say, the way a five-year-old practices the piano. They never quite get it right, but that doesn’t stop them from torturing everyone around them and expecting to be applauded for the effort.

  She looked at her watch. It was one-fifteen, and the hospital corridors had grown quiet. Where on earth was Neal Grace, and why hadn’t she come? Shortly after they had arrived at the hospital, she had called T. J.’s house. T. J.’s father had answered the phone, obviously half-asleep and grumpy. No, he said, Neal wasn’t there. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been around for several days.

  She had then called Birdie, who was a little more gracious about being awakened in the dead of night. Birdie hadn’t heard from Neal Grace either. She offered to get dressed and come to the hospital, but Abby had declined.

  Now she fidgeted in the chair, wishing for company. For someone—anyone—to talk to. If only—

  A soft knock on the door startled her, and she jumped to her feet. “Neal?”

  The door swung open noiselessly, and Charles Bingham’s face appeared in the gap. He was still dressed in the suit he had worn for their date, his tie loosened and the neck of his shirt unbuttoned. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  Abby bit her lip. “Birdie called you.”

  “Yes.” He entered the room a few steps, his polished loafers clicking on the linoleum floor.

  Every click sounded like a gunshot to Abby’s ears, and she glanced toward the bed, where Mama still slept. She put a finger to her lips. “Shh. She’s sleeping.”

  He drew closer and reached out for her. “Is she all right?” he whispered.

  “Yes. At least I think so. But they want to keep her here a couple of days.”

  “Let’s go to the visitors’ lounge,” he suggested. “It’ll be easier to talk out there.”

  Reluctantly, Abby left her mother’s side and followed him down the hall to an open area across from the elevators, furnished with upholstered chairs, a small dinette table, and coin-operated snack and soft drink machines. He rummaged in his pocket for change, bought a diet soda, and offered it to her. She shook her head.

  “Let’s sit down, then.” He pulled out a chair at the table, and when she was settled took the seat opposite her. “Tell me what happened.”

  Abby briefly sketched out what she knew of the events of the evening—the plastic plate of leftovers charred in the oven, Mama’s attempt to get to the kitchen, the fall. “That’s all I know,” she finished, “except that she was lying there on the floor, alone, for hours. I feel so guilty.” She tore a paper napkin into shreds and looked up at him. “Birdie called you, you said?”

  “That’s right.” He ran his fingers around the top of the soda can. “When I got home, I phoned to tell them the good news, and—”

  “Good news?” Abby stared at him.

  “About our engagement.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Abby had completely forgotten his proposal. She quickly thrust her hands under the table so he couldn’t see that she wasn’t wearing the ring.

  “Anyway,” he went on, oblivious to her discomfort, “after Birdie talked to you, she called me back. She thought, under the circumstances, that you’d want me here with you, to support you.” He peered into her face. “She was right, wasn’t she? You do want me here?”

  “Of . . . of course,” Abby lied. The truth was, Charles was the last person she would have thought of in a time of crisis. She wanted Neal Grace. She wanted John Mac. She wanted . . .

  “Given the circumstances, I think we need to make some decisions,” he was saying.

  Abby frowned. “Decisions?”

  “Yes. About what to do with your mother.”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean, what to do with her?”

  “Well, Abby, if we’re going to be married soon, we should be making these decisions together, don’t you think? You can’t go on like this. Obviously the best thing would be to admit her to a facility of some kind, some place where she can be properly cared for.”

  Abby blinked, not believing what she was hearing. “I care for her.”

  “Of course you do, darling. But you’re not thinking clearly. You can’t possibly watch her twenty-four hours a day. She’s starting fires and falling. She could hurt herself badly, or burn the house down. You can’t always be there to look after her. There are professionals who are trained do this. It’s their job.”

  She’s my mother, Abby’s mind protested. It’s my job. “But once . . . once we’re married,” she stammered, “I can be there for her full-time. You said I didn’t need to work unless I wanted to.”


  A curious expression passed over his features, and she saw the muscle in his jaw quiver. “Don’t you see, sweetheart,” he said, his voice oddly quiet. “Once we’re married, we’re going to need time together, just the two of us. Neal will be going away to college next year, and—”

  “Wait.” She held up a hand to stop him, to halt the forward movement of a conversation that was beginning to get away from her. “It sounds like you have this all planned. Put Mama in a home, ship Neal Grace off to college—”

  “It’s not like that.” He smiled at her and captured her hand in his. “I’m only thinking of your best interests. And your mother’s.”

  Abby jerked her hand away and stood up so quickly that she pushed the chair into the wall behind her. “I can’t think about this right now.”

  “Of course not,” he soothed. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have brought it up when you’re so overwrought.” He rose, came around the table, and pulled her into his arms. “Tell you what. Let’s just get your mother well and out of here, and we’ll discuss this later. And if you decide you want to care for her at home, well”— he shrugged lightly—“we’ll just make the best of that, too.”

  Abby’s stomach was churning like a cement mixer, and her mind spinning at a comparable rate. “OK. Look. Why don’t you just go on home and get some sleep? I’ll be fine. I’m sure Neal will be here any minute.”

  He pulled back and looked at her. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I appreciate your coming, Charles, but I—well, I believe I’d really prefer to be alone when Neal Grace arrives.”

  “All right, then. Whatever you say.” He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. “Call me.”

  “I will.” She stood there until the elevator doors closed behind him, then sank down at the table, put her face in her hands, and began to weep.

  When the elevator door opened, the sight that met Neal’s eyes caused her heart to sink. Her mother, sitting in the visitors’ waiting area. Alone. Crying.

  She had come too late.

  Granny Q was gone.