Читать книгу The House On Sugar Plum Lane - Judy Duarte - Страница 11

Barbara Davila walked along the tree-shaded sidewalk to Pacifica General Hospital with slow, deliberate steps. She’d hoped that the trips to visit her son would get easier, but they hadn’t. Each day was still a struggle, and she suspected they would be until his discharge.

For almost two weeks now, Joey had been in the cardiac unit, and each time she pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby, she was swept back to a time in her life she’d tried to forget.

But maybe today would be different. There was talk of a heart bypass once his blood sugar level was acceptable, and she hoped that one day soon they’d announce he’d been stabilized, surgery had been scheduled, and he was finally on the road to recovery.

She was eager to get him home, where she could oversee his care and help him get back on his feet again.

She hadn’t told him or his wife yet, although she was sure they’d be delighted, but she’d decided it would be best if he recovered at her house in Rancho Santa Fe. It was so much more spacious and comfortable than the small condo in Fairbrook where he and his wife lived. Barbara could also afford round-the-clock help and would spare no expense at making him comfortable. She just needed to get him home.

Who would have believed that something like this could have happened?

At forty-eight, Joseph Davila Jr. had appeared to be the picture of health, with a ready smile, a booming laugh, and a robust complexion. He ran every day—and worked out, too—but on the inside, where no one could see, he was a mess. And to make matters worse, his pancreas had been acting up and his heart had been a ticking bomb.

She entered the lobby, walked past the pink-frocked volunteers, made her way to the elevator, and rode it up to the third floor. While awaiting the doors to open, she wondered if she should have chosen to use the stairway for the exercise. After all, she had no idea what shape her own heart was in. But she’d worry about that later. She’d never liked hospitals and had managed to avoid them ever since her husband’s recuperation at the military hospital in Honolulu, so she was in a hurry to get in and out.

Had it been anyone else, she’d have sent an expensive floral arrangement and come up with some plausible reason why she couldn’t stop by for a visit. But this was Joseph Jr., her only son.

Her only child. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—be anywhere other than here. So she pressed on and continued the forward momentum.

Whenever she found herself stressed, she’d learned to inhale deeply and blow it out, but she couldn’t do that here. The medicinal smell was enough to send her running and gagging.

Besides the odor, everything about the hospital—the irritating squeak of rubber-soled shoes upon the polished linoleum, the hollow clunk of a plastic lunch tray on a cart, the blips and beeps of the machines keeping people alive—seemed to send her back in time to the mid-sixties. But she’d fought the mental spiral by forcing her thoughts on the present.

When she reached the nurses’ desk, she waited for the woman on duty to glance up. When she did, Barbara said, “Good morning, Simone. How’s Joey doing today?”

The dark-haired Florence Nightingale managed a smile. “About the same. His minister is with him now.”

Barbara nodded, then proceeded to her son’s private room. She’d never understood how Joey had come to be so religious, since he hadn’t been raised in the church. Her mother had carted her off to Sunday school for as long as she could remember, and she’d refused to do that to her son.

So needless to say, Joey’s faith had surprised her.

She could understand why it would flare up now, when his health and recovery were questionable, when he was facing his own mortality. But he’d held those same beliefs for years.

It probably had something to do with his grandmother’s influence, which was one reason Barbara hadn’t encouraged much of a relationship between her mother and her son while he was growing up. But once Joey had gotten a driver’s license, there’d been no stopping him. He’d visited his grandma regularly, a practice that had continued even after he married.

In fact, as her mother slipped deeper into a fog of dementia, Joey had volunteered to take her in and let her live with him and his wife, rather than place her in a home.

Barbara had tried to talk him out of it, insisting that there were plenty of quality convalescent hospitals that were better equipped, better trained to handle Alzheimer’s patients.

“If we put her there,” Joey had said, “you’d never visit her.”

Barbara hadn’t argued that point. Everyone knew she hated medical facilities, even if they didn’t have any idea why. But her mother didn’t even recognize her these days anyway, so what would it hurt?

As Barbara entered Joey’s private room, she spotted Craig Houston, the associate pastor of Joey’s church, seated in the blue vinyl chair next to the hospital bed. When the fair-haired young man in his mid-twenties looked her way, she returned his smile.

There wasn’t even the slightest resemblance between the men, since Joey had inherited his brown hair—now silver-laced at the temples—and olive complexion from his father’s side of the family. Yet for a moment, seeing the two together, Barbara couldn’t help wondering what her son’s children might have grown up to look like had Cynthia, Joey’s wife, been able to carry a pregnancy to term.

“Good morning,” the pastor said. “How are you, Mrs. Davila?”

She supposed she should tell him he didn’t need to be so formal, but she hated to get too chummy with a man of the cloth. The next thing you knew, he’d be pressing her to attend Sunday services.

“You can call her Barbara,” Joey said, his voice softer than it had been yesterday.

Weaker?

Oh, please, don’t let him be failing, Barbara silently pleaded to no one in particular.

“Is that all right with you?” the pastor asked, his grin warm and friendly.

To call her Barbara? Not really, but she managed to revitalize her smile. “Of course.” She broke eye contact with the minister and focused on her son. “I’m not going to stay long, honey. I just wanted to check on you and say hello. Any news on the surgery? Have they scheduled it?”

“Not yet.”

An ache settled in her chest and fear clogged her throat, yet she tried to keep the optimism in her voice. “I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.”

A nurse popped into Joey’s room to check his IV and take his vitals, and Barbara turned her head away. Distancing herself further, she walked to the window, where several plants and floral arrangements sat along the sill to brighten up the room. There was a basket of various plants that had been sent by one of Joey’s neighbors, a vase of drooping carnations from someone at his office.

In the center of the display was a new arrival, a black ceramic vase holding a single red anthurium, an exotic, tropical flower with waxy leaves that reminded her of the many unique and colorful plants of Hawaii.

She felt herself hurtling back to 1966 all over again, and this time she couldn’t stop it.

The Beatles, Bob Dylan.

Walter Cronkite, Vietnam.

The phone call that turned her life on end.

Is this Barbara Davila?

Yes.

Is Captain Joseph Davila your husband?

She’d wanted to hang up, to pretend the call hadn’t come in, but she’d responded truthfully, her fingers clutched so tightly to the receiver that she’d thought her flesh would meld to plastic. Yes.

Your husband’s plane went down.

Somehow, she’d managed to get through the heartbreaking, blood-pounding call—maybe because the caller had offered her hope by saying her husband had been seriously injured but had survived.

She’d left Joey in her mother’s care that very day and had flown to Honolulu to be at Joseph’s side. She supposed she should be happy that he’d returned from Vietnam, even though he’d been scarred on the right side of his face and still had to use a cane to walk. Many other soldiers and their families hadn’t been so lucky.

Her mother had implied that Joseph’s injury had been some sort of punishment for Barbara’s rebellion.

Okay, so she hadn’t actually come out and pointed her finger or said those very words, but Barbara knew her mother better than she knew anyone else in the world. And the accusation had been in her eyes.

Admittedly, for a while, Barbara’s guilt had nearly consumed her, but she’d rallied; she’d had no choice.

From that moment on, she’d done everything she could to make things right, to be the best wife she could be, even though her husband had been left partially disabled.

And she’d succeeded. Hadn’t she been the one to push Joseph to return to college and attend graduate school? To be all that he could be?

She’d been a devoted mother, too. The fact that she was here now was proof of that, wasn’t it?

“Before I go,” the minister said, drawing Barbara back to the present, “let’s have a word of prayer.”

She bristled, not wanting to be drawn to Joey’s bedside and forced to pray. “I’m sorry. I don’t have time for that. I really need to go, honey. I have an appointment and don’t want to be late.”

Pastor Craig looked at her as if he knew she was uneasy with the religious talk, but it wasn’t as though she was a non-believer. She knew there was a creator, someone at the helm of fate. But it wasn’t anyone she wanted to connect with. At least, not in a group setting.

“Okay, Mom.” Joey cast her a knowing smile. “Thanks for coming by. We’ll pray that you have a good day while we’re at it.”

“You’re the one who needs strength and healing,” she said.

Again, the young pastor nailed her with an expression that suggested he could see right through her, which was another reason she hated church and religious people. They seemed to think they had it all figured out, and they didn’t.

No one did.

She made her way to her son’s bedside and bent to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Take care of yourself, honey. And give me a call if there’s any news. Or if you need anything at all.”

Then she turned and walked out of the room as if one of the fallen angels were giving chase.

The next time Amy drove out to the house on Sugar Plum Lane, she took Callie with her. It was easier that way, she’d told herself.

Who knew when Brandon would show up again and throw off her plans?

And, quite frankly, she didn’t appreciate his surprise visits.

“You’re going to that old house again?” Callie asked as Amy secured her in her car seat.

“Yes, for a little while. I’m supposed to help the owners pack some things in boxes.” Amy shut the rear door, then climbed behind the wheel and started the ignition.

She glanced into the rearview mirror before adjusting it and saw Callie fingering the straps of a pink Hello Kitty backpack that rested beside her car seat. The canvas pouch had been carefully packed with a coloring book, crayons, a couple of cartoon movies, and enough small toys to keep a child busy for hours.

Callie didn’t appear to be eager for the adventure, though.

“It’ll be fun,” Amy told her. “You’ll see. And on the way home, we’ll stop by Roy’s Burger Roundup for dinner.”

“Can I get chicken sticks and fries?”

“You bet.”

Ten minutes later, after parking in the driveway, Amy took Callie and several more empty boxes into the house.

As the child surveyed the living room, she frowned and scrunched up her nose. “It’s all dark in here. And it smells yucky.”

“There’s a definite odor, but the house has been closed up for a long time. It just needs to be aired out.” Amy strode toward the nearest window. “Give it a moment or two. It’ll get better.”

Callie dropped her backpack in the center of the floor, then plopped down beside it. “Will you turn on the lights?”

“Once I get things opened up, we won’t need to do that.” Amy pulled on the cord and drew back the drapes, letting in the sunlight. Then she unhooked the latch and slid open the window. There was a refreshing salt-laced breeze blowing in from the Pacific today, so that would help.

“Do you want me to put on a movie?” she asked the child.

“Okay. The Little Mermaid.”

Amy had brought along a DVD player, as well as some of her daughter’s favorite movie cartoons. So she went out to the car to get it, then hooked it up to Ellie’s television, put in the disk, and pushed Play.

While Callie settled in front of the TV screen, Amy carried a box to Ellie’s bedroom so she could pack the woman’s clothing and personal items.

As she progressed upstairs, the steps creaked in protest. She pressed on, using her free hand to grip the banister, which was made out of dark wood in a solid, bold style, the kind that tempted some children to use it as a slide. At least, that’s what Amy might have tried to do, if she’d lived here as a girl. But something told her there hadn’t been too many children in this house.

Maybe Ellie hadn’t liked having little ones about.

At the top of the landing, a picture of two cherubs hung on the wall, which was the closest hint of children she’d yet to see.

Just below the angels sat an antique table, the top of which bore what had once been a lush, green pothos. But the plant, its leaves and vines now withered from lack of water, was nearly dead. It was as if Ellie had developed dementia overnight, and the family had just let the house go.

Yesterday, while cleaning out the pantry, she’d found a bag of cat food. She’d looked all over the house and yard for any other signs of a pet, but didn’t see any. Hopefully, the plants were the only living things that had been abandoned.

Amy carried the pothos to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. After drenching the soil, she left the ceramic pot in the sink to drain and returned to the task at hand.

Once inside Ellie’s bedroom, with its pale pink walls and white eyelet curtains, Amy scanned the furnishings. She wondered if they’d be considered antiques by anyone’s standards. Some of them had to be at least forty to fifty years old.

The double bed had been covered haphazardly with a pink and white chenille spread. One edge hung noticeably lower than the other, as though it had been made by a child—someone Callie’s age.

There was an indention on one of the pillows, as if Ellie might have lain down to take a rest before being taken away. Had she been feeling ill? Tired?

Had she only dreamed of hippies piping marijuana through the vents? Or had it been a full-blown hallucination?

She supposed it didn’t matter.

A cedar chest sat at the foot of the bed, its varnish darkened and cracked with age. An old-style quilt with heart-shaped pieces had been folded carefully and draped over the top.

Interesting, Amy thought. The hearts were all the same size and stitched onto brown squares and quilted to a calico backing, but they had been made from a hodgepodge of fabric: satin, cotton, nylon, and flannel. Some of the material, like the pale yellow and white flannel with a baby duck print and the red gingham, appeared to have been washed many times, while the white satin hadn’t.

She couldn’t help running her fingers over the quilt, noting that the stitches were slightly uneven, the kind made by hand and not a machine. She wondered who’d made it. An older relative? A dear friend?

Ellie Rucker herself?

But enough woolgathering. She would never get anything done if she didn’t stop dawdling. So she released the quilt and went to the closet. As she slid back the door, she spotted a gap between the hangers. Some of the woman’s clothing appeared to be missing, but that would make sense if someone had moved her to a rest home.

After removing the remaining dresses, sweaters, and pants, she laid the clothing across the bed, then folded each item and placed it in a box. Next she emptied the drawers in the bureau, which was quick work. She suspected whoever had packed Ellie’s essentials for her move to the home also had taken undergarments and nightgowns.

In the top drawer of the nightstand, she found a daily devotional, a white handkerchief with H.E.R. monogrammed near the edge, a booklet about angels, and a travel brochure for a cruise to Hawaii, among other things.

As Amy carefully emptied the drawer, she scanned each object before placing it in a second box. But when she withdrew a bundle of old letters, she paused. A white satin ribbon that had been tied and untied many times over held the missives together, as well as a small box of some kind. Still, she couldn’t help noting the address on the top envelope, which had been sketched in a bold, cursive script.

Mrs. Eleanor Rucker

Star Route Three

Fairbrook, California

USA

It was from Private Harold Rucker.

Amy took a seat on the edge of the bed, untied the satin, and set everything but the top envelope next to her. Then she removed the letter, unfolded the aged parchmentlike pages, and read the words.

Friday Nite

June 1, 1942

My Dearest Ellie,

I sure do miss you, Baby. I don’t know how I’m going to get along without you for so long. I really do love you, Baby. All of my thoughts are of you. I can’t help but think about the day when we will be together forever.

I sure hope you don’t feel bad about getting married. I want you to know that I’ll never regret it and hope you don’t, either. I told you before that it was the smartest thing I ever did, and that’s saying a lot coming from a smart guy like me.

I know there’s a chance you could be pregnant, and if you are, it’s all my fault. I should have taken better precautions, especially on our wedding night. But I have to tell you, Ellie, while I’d hate to have you go through something like that alone, I kind of hope you are.

Sure, I know you would rather not be. I remember you saying something about that.

So Ellie hadn’t wanted children? Did she not like them? That certainly could be one reason there weren’t any pictures of grandchildren in the house. At least none that were displayed.

According to the research, Eleanor Rucker was Barbara Davila’s mother, so she’d at least had one child.

Amy continued to read.

I’ll tell you again how I enjoyed myself that nite and how I’m looking forward to many more years of the same thing. When I get home, you will probably be just like a blushing bride again, huh? We will have been apart for so long that I’ll have to start very slowly, like the first time.

Seriously, though, Ellie, I dream of the nights we spent together and of the ones in the future. No matter how distant they seem from us now, that day will come, and when it does, we will live happily together and raise as many kids as we can afford. OK?

That part didn’t sound as though Ellie hadn’t wanted children. Maybe it was just a matter of timing. After all, when this letter was written, Ellie was young and newly married. There was also a war raging in both Europe and the Pacific.

I love you, Baby. I know I keep saying that, but it’s all I can think of. While I’m away, I’ll probably write a hundred letters telling you the same things I just said, but bear with me because that’s all I have to hold on to and it’s all I can think about.

Well, honey, I have to go to chow in a few minutes, so I better sign off. We eat in groups, and if I miss my group, I miss chow. We only had one meal so far today, so I’m pretty hungry.

I know I’d told you that when I couldn’t telephone any longer, that I would write every day, but that may not be possible. The first two days I wasn’t feeling so hot, but today the sea is smoother and I feel better. Tomorrow, I’ll tell you what has happened to me so far. I was going to start today with a sort of diary of what we are doing, but I got sidetracked on how much I love you, so I won’t have time to do that now. I don’t know whether I will mail all my letters in one package or separately, but when we hit port, I’ll send them one way or another.

They’re calling me, so I gotta go!

All my love, all my life,

Harold

Amy fingered the age-worn stationery that the young soldier had once held, that Ellie had cherished enough to keep near her bed. Letters that hadn’t been meant for anyone’s eyes but the man and his wife.

Still, she couldn’t help reading the next dozen or so, which were just as touching and heartfelt as the first. But the last letter wasn’t from Ellie’s husband. It was from the War Department.

We regret to inform you that Private Harold E. Rucker was killed in action on June 10, 1942…

The letter was as cold as it was official, and Amy couldn’t imagine how Ellie must have felt when she’d received it. Had it been hand delivered, like it was often done in the movies?

But even then, it would have been a terrible blow.

Amy glanced at the box. She suspected it held a medal of some kind, and she’d been right. When she lifted the lid, she found a Purple Heart.

She ought to feel proud, patriotic, she supposed. After all, her great-grandfather had died for his country. But instead, she felt as though she’d lost someone, too.

As tears welled in her eyes and an ache settled in her heart, she sat on Ellie’s bed for the longest time, grieving for the young bride who’d lost the love of her life.