Chapter Thirty-two
A push of Amy’s feet kept the porch swing floating back and forth with the wind on a balmy Saturday afternoon. Jack and Molly were home and their hollers and footsteps sounded out the open upstairs window in a muffled song of family. The air was warm and clean after a two-day rain. Phil had opened all the windows as spring teased them with its late arrival. The daffodils he and Molly had planted last year poked their heads out, opening their petals to the sun.
She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of her family, to the pleasant dissonance of the various birdcalls. Hope—that was what she felt. Spring represented hope. The undercurrent of sorrow beneath her breast would be a constant reminder of what she’d done, of how she’d almost discarded her soul in a search that ended on her front porch. Yet spring and hope both existed.
Carol Anne’s car pulled up to the curb. She jumped out and waved at Amy, then leaned into the backseat and pulled out a pile of papers.
She climbed the steps to the porch and sat down next to Amy, dropped her parcel on the porch. “I need your help.”
“You got it. What do you need?”
“Okay, here’s the deal. A client just hired me to do her new home—”
“How? You didn’t go back to Farley, did you?”
“Nope—it’s a brand-new customer. Never used Farley—he can’t go after me. And—get this—this client was referred to me by one of Farley’s clients. Oh, if he only knew . . .” She looked up to the sky. “Anyway—it’s the Picker house on Fourth.”
“The old neoclassical building on the corner?”
Carol Anne smiled and stomped her foot. “You got it, darlin’.”
“What a coup. That is awesome! I told you it would work out—I told you.” Tears filled Amy’s eyes. “What do you need from me?”
“Well, it’s more than a little favor—they want to restore it to its original look. And I can’t really help them without my best friend.”
“The entire house?”
“Yes, and I promised them it would be authentic right down to the last banister.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll help. What, are you kidding?”
“Okay, that took a lot of convincing.”
“You know how much I love doing this. It’ll be perfect. You’ll make sure it looks good and I’ll make sure it’s accurate.”
“Exactly.”
Amy hugged her, then reached down for the papers. She opened the first folder and sighed at a picture of the front entryway. “This needs wrought iron.”
“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” Carol Anne said as a truck rumbled by. “Who is that?” She pointed to a dark blue van pulling up to the curb.
“Darby Youth Foundation. I’m donating all those boxes in the hall.”
Amy stood to wave at the large man who jumped down from the driver’s seat. She winced as the bruised rib on her left side sent out a searing pain, reminding her that all wounds take time to heal. She had to give Phil time. And she would.
There was, as he said, nothing she could do.
The man from the van stepped up to the porch. “Hello there. I’m Mr. Adams from the Darby Youth Foundation to pick up your donations.”
She opened the front door and swept her hand across the boxes in the hall. “All this is yours.”
“All these? You want me to take all these?” He leaned against a porch pillar.
“Yes. The whole shebang.”
“Looks like you’re moving.”
“No, just cleaning out stuff I don’t need anymore.”
The man hitched his fingers into the straps of his overalls. “Okay, then. This’ll take me a while.”
“I’ll help you.” Amy picked up a box.
Carol Anne grabbed another box. “I’ll help, too. Let’s get this stuff out of here.”
Molly and Jack came down the stairs. Jack threw a bag over his shoulder and moved toward the van.
Those who loved her still surrounded her, she realized. She was humbled.
“Yeah,” Molly said. “Whatever it takes to get Mom to quit going through all my stuff. This is it, right, Mom?”
“Whatever, Molly.” Amy laughed, walked toward the van with her box.
When the entire load filled the back of the van, Mr. Adams, wiping his sweating neck with a bandanna, asked, “We done now?”
“I think so,” Amy said. “Would you like something cold to drink?”
“Yes, ma’am, I would. A nice glass of ice water would be great.”
She walked into the house, kissed her children, hugged Carol Anne, and thanked them for helping. “I’ll be right back.”
She grabbed a glass of ice water from the kitchen, then walked through the front hall to Mr. Adams. She glanced at the hall table with an empty space above it where a mirror used to hang. She cringed at the memory of Phil hurling the book into the mirror, of the diamond cross dangling from his fingers.
She opened the top drawer of the table and stared at the necklace she had hastily thrown there. She lifted the chain and pendant, and then closed her fist around them. It was time, past time to give it away; she opened the front door and handed the water to Mr. Adams.
He chugged the water and handed the glass back to her. “I’m sure the Foundation appreciates all these donations. Thank you, ma’am.”
“There’s one more thing I want to give away.”
She opened her fist and reached her hand out to Mr. Adams. “Here, take this, too.”
“Diamonds?”
“Yes. Please take it.”
“Are you sure you want to give that away? Really sure?”
“Very sure.”
“Well, thank you. . . . Have a beautiful day.” Mr. Adams plucked the necklace from her fingers and walked down the front steps toward his truck.
She turned back to the house. Phil stared at her through the screen door; he’d watched her give away the necklace. She hadn’t even heard him come home. He wiped his face with his hand and turned away. She didn’t call his name, didn’t reach for him, as there were times when he couldn’t face her desperate need for forgiveness and reconciliation.
Carol Anne came out, hugged Amy goodbye. Amy sat back down on the swing and closed her eyes until the lowering sun slid behind the house and she shivered. She walked into the house to climb the stairs to her bedroom and grab a sweater.
She stopped short at the bedroom doorway: Phil’s things. His blessed and scattered things: his ashtray with coins, pen and gum wrappers on the dresser, his comb on the highboy, his dirty shirt in the laundry pile, his book open with reading glasses hanging crooked on the bedside table.
She sat on the edge of the bed and touched his book and glasses. A rustling noise came from the bathroom and she glanced up; Phil leaned against the door frame, stared at her.
She lifted his glasses. “Your stuff.”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, Phil.” She started to cry, reach out her hand for him. But he didn’t move and her fingers found only air. She closed her hand into a fist and dropped it onto her lap.
“You know—if you wanted me to listen, there were better ways to tell me than running off with Nick Lowry.”
“I tried.”
“You didn’t think I cared. You didn’t think I heard you.”
“Yes—but that’s no excuse.”
“You know, I’ve done everything I can to take care of you—to prove I love you. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m telling you now—it was something horrible of me—not you. I was afraid to tell you I felt ignored or extraneous, and I was scared to talk about how seeing Nick made me feel. It was horrible, and I wanted to be who you wanted me to be. And yes, I was afraid you wouldn’t hear me anyway.”
“You could have tried.”
“I know.” She dropped her face in her hands. “I know. I’m a coward.”
“No, you’re not that at all.”
For a second she expected his touch. Yet it did not come.
“These”—he swept his hand across the room—“are just my things.”
She nodded.
“I’m here for all of us—for the family.”
“You aren’t . . . here for me?” she asked.
“Yes and no. I love you.” He exhaled a shaky breath. “I want . . . this. All of this. But these are just things. I’m still not sure how much of me is here yet.”
She nodded again, bereft of any more explanations or arguments. She closed her eyes and listened to his familiar footsteps on the uneven pine floors as he walked out of their bedroom. When he was gone, she stood and walked to the dresser, ran her hands across his pocket change and pens, and wept.