Beads of rain clung to spiderwebs strung between branches like celebratory bunting, chickadees and cardinals called to one another and Hannah’s old hiking boots squelched through soggy undergrowth. A light wind rustled dying leaves that clung on and refused to let go, and sunrise streaked through the treetops on Saponi Mountain.
Thirty-three hours since her son had tried to kill himself. Thirty-three hours that felt like thirty-three years.
Hannah pulled out her phone. No service up here. What if Galen was trying to reach her with the password of the day? Ridiculous worry—it was far too early for him to call. The night staff were probably still on shift at the locked psych ward.
Locked psych ward. Three words that made her want to scream until she was hoarse. But this time—thanks to Will—she could see her son, something she hadn’t been able to arrange after the first suicide attempt. Not one but two. Two suicide attempts forever stamped across his medical files. A repeating pattern. He might not have actually cut himself the first time, but he had been suicidal.
Third attempt lucky, a dark thought taunted.
Hannah huddled into her hoodie and kept walking. Yesterday’s cold front had blasted the temperatures into fall. The drought and never-ending Indian summer were already forgotten. Winter would soon be tapping on her door, and she welcomed it.
Following the route of the old trading path, Hannah veered right at the conservation easement sign. With the trails hidden beneath layers of leaves, it would be easy to get lost on the mountain, but intuition guided her.
Random thoughts tumbled. When she got the call about Galen in September, it had seemed vital to find the positive, to use work as a way of regulating a life that was spiraling into anarchy. And yet today nothing mattered beyond the basics. Life had compressed into a bite-sized to-do list: exercise the dogs, eat breakfast, get to the hospital. In September and October she’d wanted to hold on to normalcy; in November she wanted to let go.
My son wanted to die.
Brushing aside a branch, she paused to stare at her left hand. For the first time in years, the absence of a wedding ring stung. Alone, she would be handling this alone.
I will not cry when I see my baby.
I will be strong enough for two.
I will not cry—
The tears came, and Hannah kept walking. Maybe it was better to give in. To grieve for the little boy she had lost, to accept the man he had become. Life could never be the same, nor should it be. She would grieve now, with no one else around, and by the time she arrived at the hospital, she would be ready to step inside this new phase of her life. This ugly twist of motherhood that she had no choice but to embrace. There was no out, there was no reprieve; there was only forward motion, because whatever the future held, she would be Galen’s mother until the day she died.
Since her father’s suicide—yes, she would use that word until it no longer hacked at her heart—she’d been running from the very thing she should have been running toward: the knowledge that depression was a family disease, that she could pass on the defective gene as easily as she could pass on color blindness. If only she had been hypervigilant, watched for signs of depression. If only she had listened the way her mother had encouraged her to do.
But no, always she needed people to be happy, because if her mother had been right—that Hannah, too, could hear the thoughts of others and experience the horror of their darkness—then being psychic was also genetic. Unlike Will’s mom, her mother was never labeled mad, never called a freak, but still, their family was different. Come Halloween, her mother was the parent handing out crystals, not candy.
Had the desire to be the same, to blend in, been the reason she’d turned her back on negative emotions time and time again? Was this why Inigo’s betrayal had blindsided her; why she had blocked Galen’s depression; why she had devoted her life to finding peace in death?
Death—the lunar halo that now surrounded her son.
How could she look Galen in the eye and not wonder about the scar that could never heal? For twelve years she’d shielded him from the stigma of suicide, but once the bandages came off, he would be forever branded a suicide survivor. The world would stare; the world would judge. And she could not protect her son.
She should never have followed Galen’s lead in the past month, never have been satisfied with, “I’m in touch with my therapist and social worker in California.” Why had she not snooped, monitored, intervened? And yet. And yet.
She’d had no power then, and she had no power now.
The doctors couldn’t discuss his case with her. She would have to be satisfied with secondhand information edited from Galen’s perspective. He was beyond her legal grasp; she was powerless, and the only person they both trusted to help was heading back to New York.
Black tree trunks surrounded her like mourners gathered around a grave, closing in to offer comfort. Hannah released her mood into the forest, let it reverberate off the trees and bounce back with solace.
The wind shook dew from the branches of a small sassafras with mismatched foliage the color of burnished orange. Three different-shaped leaves on the same tree and aromatic bark. Nature at its most resplendent. Hannah admired a clump of wild ginger, stooped down and ran her fingers through the fronds of a fat fern.
With a sigh, she stood and sidestepped a fallen tree limb covered in moss so bright it seemed to light her way. She filled her lungs with the scent of pine needles and raised her face to the high-pitched whistle of a tufted titmouse. Farther up the mountain, a pileated woodpecker piped. Even in the darkest moments, the birds sang. They never stopped singing.
Galen could look like hell and still she would give him a mother’s kiss, stroke his hair and show him how proud she was to be his parent. Her touch would reveal that her love was nonnegotiable, that she would always see him with the wonder that said, That’s my son. My son.
An owl swooped in front of her, warning her off its roosting spot, protecting its own little corner of the world, and the dogs startled a herd of white-tailed deer. Six deer sprung through the trees, racing away from a perceived threat, surviving as a pack, as a family.
Her family would survive. Her idiosyncratic, dysfunctional family would survive. Galen was alive and he was safe. For today, that was enough. And when he came out? Anyone could feed and love a newborn, but a young man battling depression deserved a parent who would not falter, who would not flinch. She would be that parent.
She would go to the library and check out every book on depression. She would research her way to becoming the mother of a depressive. She would open her mind to darkness. She would welcome every negative emotion her son hurled at her.
Will had carved out time for Galen every night; she would do the same. If she had any hope of earning her son’s trust, she would have to prove that things could change, that she could change. She would move her work life out of her personal life, separate the two worlds that collided constantly. As Will had pointed out rather nastily—but he had been naked and humiliated—she needed to establish boundaries.
Setting up an on-site office with a separate phone line would be the first step. Treating pets and owners in their homes would still be a priority, but some appointments could be dealt with as office visits. That wouldn’t be so hard. Perhaps she would establish regular office hours; perhaps Poppy could help. Whatever happened with Jacob, Poppy remained at a crossroads. She was about to get kicked out of her apartment, and her business had stalled into a time-consuming hobby. Art therapy had seemed a good solution, but there’d also been talk, a while back, of a course in horse massage. What if Hannah agreed to fund it in return for part-time hours?
The cottage could easily be turned into an office. Hannah could claim the front room and the rest could be Poppy’s. With Poppy living there, it would be easier to deal with after-hour emergencies.
Rosie stopped, and Hannah stumbled over her flank.
She peered at the ground where, two feet ahead, a copperhead lay coiled and camouflaged in a nest of dead leaves.
“Good girl.” She patted Rosie’s rump. “Let’s take a detour.”
Keeping an eye on the venomous snake, Hannah swung around in an arc, stepping off the path. Up ahead was an opening, framed in early-morning light.
Why not?
For months she’d avoided the private road that scarred Saponi Mountain. The rumblings of logging trucks throughout the spring had been distressing enough. For fifteen years, this mountain had been hers. Would neighbors post no-trespassing signs and refuse her access to the old trails?
Hannah pushed aside a cluster of spindly sweet gum saplings, jumped over a culvert and landed on tarmac. According to the large for-sale sign, there were still two open lots—each twenty acres. Apart from the one mansion that was finished and inhabited—an angular block of steel and concrete that screamed, I don’t belong—several of the houses on the ridge were already framed. In the winter, when the forest was bare, there would be no escaping the sight of these homes. Did the owners realize how isolated they would be? A mere dusting of snow or thin coating of ice and the road would be impassable.
But the view. Her whole life she’d dreamed of a view like this—reserved, surely, for the birds. Her mother would have talked about destiny or reincarnation, but maybe it was a simple case of belonging. To be ripped away from this land? She couldn’t begin to imagine....
The sun was struggling to rise above the forest, and a red-tailed hawk drifted across the blue sky. When Galen was little, he was fascinated by birds of prey. She would bring him here when he came home—if he came home. Suppose he decided to stay with Inigo? Suppose he decided to move back to California?
For years she had fretted over his separation anxiety. Three feet tall and his favorite phrase was, Don’t leave me, Mommy. Now she was the one who wanted to cry, Don’t leave me.
Hannah stared down the mountain to where her house stayed concealed. Her empty home. Since her boys had learned to walk, she’d wished them independence and happiness. Especially Galen, who was always so withdrawn, so sensitive, so easily hurt. He seemed to believe he was incapable of receiving love. Undeserving. Something else he’d inherited from her.
Rosie butted her. “I know, baby. Dawdling’s good for the soul, but this is avoidance, isn’t it? I guess it’s time to face Will.”
They started walking down the road—the shortest, quickest way back. Will had been up at 4:00 a.m. loading something into the trunk of his car. Packing, no doubt, although she had chosen not to watch. Part of her hoped he had left already. But no, a bigger part of her hoped he would wait and say goodbye. Goodbyes were more important than hellos. And this one, she would get right.
From the moment Will had arrived, she’d known he would leave. Falling in love hadn’t been part of the plan, but maybe it had been part of her journey. Her mother would have approved, would have told her that people crossed one another’s paths for a reason. Hannah’s mind meandered back to the decision she’d made in the middle of the night. Nighttime decisions rarely held up in daylight, but this one still fit. Will was a free spirit and she couldn’t keep him here. Nor should she have tried. She had chosen a gift for him, a gift that would, hopefully, allow him to leave Orange County with better memories than when he’d arrived.
* * *
Will leaned back against one of the cedar posts supporting the deck, crossed his ankles and resumed his vigil. The Prius was packed and all that remained was to wait. The air smelled cold and fresh; the leaves were the colors of spices.
From here, he could see Hannah before she saw him. He could watch her stride down the mountain with the dogs, her cheeks flushed, her hair loose. Why she bound those corkscrew curls in tight ponytails, he couldn’t fathom. If he could just watch her for two minutes, he could say goodbye silently from a distance.
Aiming away from a clump of wintergreen with scarlet berries, Will dumped the cold contents of his coffee mug on the ground. As soon as his dad was awake, he’d make a fresh pot. Microwaving coffee was a new habit that needed ditching. Starting today, he was going to rediscover the things that used to matter. First off—no more zapped coffee.
Wind rippled through the trees like babbling water, and a chain saw revved, but there were no sounds of dogs crashing through the undergrowth, and no flashes of a Tar Heel blue sweatshirt, size unknown. Was Hannah a small or a medium? Really, he knew so little about her. Would know even less once he left. She wasn’t fat, though, and she wasn’t skinny. She was just right. Practically perfect, like Mary Poppins. He blew out a sigh. One of his jobs this week would include boxing up the Disney DVDs. Maybe he could donate them to a local children’s hospital.
He heard the dogs before he saw them, but coming from the direction of the road, not the forest. That was weird. The dogs came into view—all of them, even Rosie. But no Hannah. He threw the coffee cup to the ground and ran.
Daisy barked and met him halfway, and Rosie turned her head. If Hannah was surprised to see him running toward her in some lame Heathcliff-Cathy moment, she didn’t show it. But like him, she was good at pretense. Or maybe this wasn’t an act; maybe, despite everything she’d said the night before, she didn’t care. That bothered him, too.
“Something wrong?” she said, not varying her pace.
Rosie slowed to flank her mistress. Was her doggie sense warning her to protect?
Will stopped. “I saw the dogs without you. I thought, you know, something bad had happened.”
“I’m fine.” She pushed her hair behind her ears, and he tried to believe she’d worn it loose in some secret signal of love. Or lust. Anything other than indifference.
“Right,” Will said. “Can we talk?”
“Before you leave?” Hannah glanced at the Prius.
“Yeah, something like that.”
A battalion of birds—robins, pigeons and blue jays—rustled through the fallen leaves.
“Have you had breakfast?” she said.
“I’m not very hungry this morning.”
“Unfortunately, I am. Would you mind if I ate while you talked?” She started walking toward the house, and he followed. Always, he followed.
“I spoke with Galen last night,” Will said.
“You did?”
“I wanted to repeat an invitation to come to New York. You’re invited, too.”
“Thanks.”
“Is that a Yes, I’d love to, or are you just being polite?” Will said.
“Are you that insecure?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Finally, Will Shepard. An honest answer.” Hannah petted Rosie. “I’ve found my peace with what happened between us. No regrets.” She glanced up, her eyes clear and bright. “How about you?”
“I haven’t regretted it for one minute. And that’s the most honest answer I’ve ever given a woman.” He drew alongside Rosie—The filling in the sandwich, Freddie would say. “Our timing was appalling, but it was inevitable.”
Hannah smiled. “We’re not very good at this, are we?”
“No. But the sex—” he couldn’t contain the grin “—was incredible.”
“It’s a bit blurry for me. I remember seeing shooting stars, though.”
A whole galaxy of them. “Maybe next time we meet we could, you know, try it without the drugs?” He fiddled with his fingers. “I don’t want this to be...”
“An end?” she said quietly.
He sighed. “Yeah.”
“Me, neither. By the way, I have a gift for you.”
“Really?” When was the last time someone who wasn’t on his payroll gave him a gift? Obsessed female fans who sent sex toys didn’t count.
Hannah opened the front door—unlocked, of course—and he closed it behind them. If only she would take more care with her personal safety. She lived in the middle of nowhere and didn’t even have an alarm. When he was a kid, no one locked anything, but he’d started checking the local news. The rash of recent break-ins told him she needed a better warning system than a motley collection of mutts who rarely barked. He could offer to fund an alarm—use his dad as the excuse.
“Here.” She picked up a framed photo from the storage bench in the hall, handed him the panorama of Occoneechee Mountain.
“I can’t take this, Hannah.”
“I insist. It has your name on it.”
He flipped it over. “‘For Will,’” he read aloud. “‘Nothing but good memories.’”
He held the photograph flat against his chest. “I’ll hang it above my desk.” Next to Freddie’s picture.
She leaned in to kiss his cheek and, for a moment, he wanted more. But Daisy passed gas and the air stank of deer scat. Could they not have one romantic moment without real life intruding?
“How serious were you,” he said, “about a trial run with my dad?”
“Very.”
“In that case, I have a proposal. A compromise, I guess. My dad’s still on the wait list for this place at the bottom of Occoneechee Mountain. I really liked it when I visited. They have a housedog, this big, old black Lab that wanders around, slobbering on everything. Farts, too.” He grinned, and so did she. “All the rooms have a view of the mountain. It’s not as fancy as Azalea Court, but I think Dad could be happy there. Could take a while, though, till they have a vacancy. You guys want to dad-sit in the interim?”
“I wouldn’t have suggested it if we didn’t, Will.”
“Okay, but here’s the deal—you have to agree to a test run, and so does Dad. Azalea Court’s willing to hold the apartment for a week. That gives you and Poppy time to figure out if it’s working or not. We’d have to talk every night, and if you guys are struggling by the end of next week, I’ll come back and move him into Azalea Court. And the four of us need to meet. I want us all in agreement.”
“What changed your mind?”
“My dad—talking about roots. His roots are on that mountain, and I realized it’s all he has left.”
She leaned back against the white wall and gave him a hard look. “Except for you and Freddie.”
“I should go finish packing.” Such a lie.
“When are you leaving?”
“After the four of us have talked. I’m assuming you want to go to the hospital first.”
She pushed off the wall. “Yes, but I’m not planning to stay long. I don’t want to tire Galen. I just want to give him a hug.”
A hug. He would give the world for one last hug with Freddie. “I have to go check on Dad.”
“You’re both welcome to join me, for breakfast.”
“Thanks, but no.” He walked to the front door. “I think I’ll take him out for blueberry pancakes. There’s this fancy diner on Main Street....”
“A last breakfast?”
“Kind of.” Will paused. “And thank you, Hannah.”
“For what?”
For being you. “For everything.”
“Will?” Hannah said, but he didn’t turn. “You’re doing the right thing—for your dad.”
The doorknob was cold and slippery. Tightening his grip, he eased the door open and stared at the giant post oak by the side of the cottage, its shriveled leaves turning brown in defeat.
No, I’m doing the right thing for me.