Chapter One
Healing Grace, a novel
copyright by Lisa J Lickel
Grace Runyon paused in the
doorway of the little house. She listened to the real estate agent drive away
with a little zip and a crunch of the gravel drive and felt a moment’s panic.
“Not
buyer’s remorse at this stage of the game, my good woman.” She marched inside,
carrying two overloaded paper bags of supplies from the convenience mart. “And
stop talking to yourself.”
The real
estate lady had checked the lights to make sure the local electric company in
tiny East Bay, Michigan had “turned her on”—her words. Grace’s responding
chuckle came out like a zebra snort, one that smelled lion and was trying to
warn the herd.
“You’ll
be all right,” the plump, business-like woman reassured her before she left.
“It’s a ways out of town, but not too far, and the neighbors are good people.”
She looked down at the drive and stirred some gravel with her brown patent
pump. “In fact, this place used to belong to one of the brothers next door.”
She
pressed a card into Grace’s limp hand. “Now, here’s my card. You just call any time.”
One of
the brothers? Not information pertinent to the deed, she hoped.
Grace
had merely glanced at the place before signing the papers yesterday. “The house
hasn’t been opened in a number of months. The last occupant was ill,” the agent
said. “I can give you the name of a good cleaning crew.”
“A
little dirt doesn’t scare me. I can handle it,” she’d blithely replied.
Today,
in the sparse rays of early spring through fly-specked windows, she wondered if
she’d been a little hasty. The dusty, braided rug did not look like an inviting
place to set down the sacks she toted in from her green Subaru.
Deep,
calming breaths read the story of the place: sickness and neglect hovered
almost tangibly. Cobwebs, glittering dust motes. Dangerously lopsided drapes.
A lonely
pile of toys, a car and some plastic figures she didn’t recognize huddled
beneath a cobwebby weight bench in the corner near the open stairway.
Passing
through an opening across the long, narrow room, she found herself in the
kitchen—a sad, neglected kitchen—and definitely not the heart of this home. She
set the bags on the table and dumped her purse on a chair and turning slowly. What
made her crazy enough to buy this house?
“Who
paints a kitchen ice-green? And what’s up with the grinning daisies? Honestly.”
Her
Tennessee kitchen had been painted a cheerful yellow and kept as spotless as
her exam room at the clinic.
Something
rustled in the cupboards. Hopefully only mice. She sighed and picked up two
forks and a bent serving spoon that had been left on the kitchen table. Flotsam,
napkin bits, and nut shells of some kind decorated the cracked and scorched
ancient linoleum countertops.
She
opened one of the packages of cheap paper towels she’d purchased and used one
to gingerly swipe away attached spider webs. With a grimace she quickly thrust
the wad into a trash bag and cinched it with a zip tie. You wish it was that
easy to erase your past, don’t you? Created a web of a mess. Ran—right from the
funeral. Who’s left to clean up after you?
Grace
blinked and twisted the porcelain handle of the tap. Warm orange gunk gurgled
out and spewed thickly around the stained sink bowl. At least it didn’t smell
bad. She cheered when it soon cleared up.
“Call me
easily pleased. And, seriously, stop talking to yourself.”
She
pulled a pad of paper from her leather handbag and toured the one and a half
story cottage, making notes of the supplies she needed. Clean first, then
patch. Definitely paint. And figure out some furniture. Something to sleep on.
“Do I even have a hammer? Talk about starting from scratch.”
Putting
together a whole new life after everything she’d been through was risky. She
wasn’t exactly hiding, but neither did she care to let anyone know where to
find her. Yet. In good time. When the wounds weren’t so fresh and raw; when the
wonder of her failure faded from their memories. Jonathan had been a good man.
He hadn’t deserved his fate.
Her
heart ached for him, for what they’d lost, even though he’d been dying for a
long time. Losing him was more of a release.
Still,
they blamed her. And rightfully so. So she gave them what they wanted. Her
absence.
Time for
a normal life, remember?
A good
night’s sleep will do wonders.
By the
time the sun faded, Grace had exhausted herself. Scrubbing the kitchen and a
cubby of a room behind it she’d claim for her own took buckets of hot water and
a pair of neon-yellow rubber gloves, but at least she’d have a clean spot to
lay her mattress and sleeping bag. Too tired to eat, she’d stretched herself
out and groaned. Thirty-five-year-olds should not be this out of shape.
The room
seemed to whirl in a nauseating kaleidoscopic frenzy. No! She wasn’t ready to
think about it. Not yet. When she focused again, she stood in bright daylight,
looking down into the newly dug hole. Without looking up she knew they were
there, standing around her and staring, accusing.
“Your
fault! You let this happen! You let him die when you should have saved him!”
“I
wanted to!” God knows she wanted to save Jonathan. “He was the one—he told me
not to try again.” At first, she’d tried to help. Of course she did. He was all
she had left. Everyone needed him. Everyone loved him. But it had hurt so much
when she touched him. She hadn’t complained, but after that second time when
they had to revive her in the ER, shocked out of her ability to feel anything, Jonathan
made her go home. Alone. She’d been more afraid of that than the pain.
She
drifted into the nightmare again. Jonathan’s father had his back to her. As she
watched, they all, one by one, turned their backs until only Lena, her best
friend, was left. “Please, Lena, not you too!”
Running
away over the clipped grass of the cemetery seemed the smartest thing she could
do. Run, run! Why couldn’t she get anywhere? Her high heels stuck in the lawn
and she couldn’t pull free.
Grace
reached automatically for the warmth that was no longer there anchoring the
other side of the bed. She forced her eyes open against the sleep-tears that nearly
welded them shut. The blackness of the room calmed her frantic breathing. She
lay still a moment, stars from smacking her head against the wooden floor
buzzing like angry lightning bugs. She pushed the tangled sleeping bag from her
legs and got to her knees, willing her legs to hold her, her ankles to be
strong. She stood. So much for sleep tonight, the first in her new home. If she
had to be alone now, at least it was amongst strangers who didn’t know what
she’d done.
><
By the
third day and the fifth trip into town, Grace decided to treat herself to a
side trip. She had passed often enough the sweet chalet-style building that
housed the local library. Time to stop in.
“So,
you’ve taken over the Marshall house? It’s an afterthought—you know—a whad’ya
call it, mother-in-law’s cottage? Built on the edge of a big apple orchard,”
Marie Richards, the town librarian, told her when she went to apply for a card.
“The Marshalls, now, they did real well. Put this town on the map, you know.
Keep us alive these days through the co-op.”
Grace
nodded and smiled as if she knew what the woman was chatting about. The
librarian went on to tell her that the property edged East Bay, and was not
actually in the village limits. The apple trees had been torn out and not
replanted.
Uh-huh,
well, there was something Grace could do on rainy days—dig up local history.
Something new to learn, instead of the almost intuitive understanding that came
with being raised in Woodside, where their story was almost like an extra rib
or a twenty-fifth vertebrae. “Thanks, Marie, bye now.” Next errand.
The
local resale shop proved to be a blessing filling in for her missing wardrobe
and no one there said a thing when she went back three days in a row, modeling
the former day’s purchase. Casual clothes…something she’d found grimly amusing
for her new life of leisure. Her beautiful suits and silk dinner dresses would
be so out of place here; running away as she had might have been a blessing in
disguise, if she wanted to try to fit in. She certainly had no need of her
uniforms. She’d missed the nice leather recliner set she and Jonathan had
purchased for the family room, though. Could she stomach buying something
others had used, touched with their germy hands, mite-infiltrated clothing, infested
pets? Maybe slipcovers for a sofa and some chairs would be all right. She could
use some dishes instead of paper plates.
Service
for one.
><
On
Saturday Grace was so intent on brushing cobwebs down from the high ceilings
she didn’t notice company coming until pounding on the front door rattled the
pane. She screeched and nearly tumbled off the kitchen chair. A peek through
wavy glass revealed her visitors: a delegation of two.
“One and
a half,” she amended as she pulled off the threadbare tee shirt covering her
hair. She cautiously opened the oak front door to a man and a small boy. “Good
afternoon.”
The man
was very tall, black-haired, and comic book gaunt. He leaned on one crutch and
stared through narrowed eyes, frowning, as though he had not expected to see
her. A little boy held a pillowcase with something lumpy inside and the other
hand of the man. She thought she recognized them from the day at the bank when
she went to sign the closing papers for the house. She had been surprised to
find no one besides the real estate agent and the bank’s vice president at the
meeting. The former owners had not been able to stay and meet her, but
everything was in order, she was told.
The man
cleared his throat and spoke at last, breathlessly. “I—we—wanted to see that
you were all right,” he said, glancing down at the child and then back at her
face.
“Yes,
thank you, I’m fine. Last occupants apparently left in a hurry,” she replied.
“Um,
right. I guess the place is a mess. If you need help with anything…” His voice
fell away. Grace guessed the “you can call me” would be meaningless, and not
just to her. His sallow face paled. Perspiration trickled down his temple, even
though the air was cool. His left arm and leg started to quiver. Sweat rolled
past the startling white rictus of a scar, along the premature age line around
his eyes, and dripped down his jaw onto his faded navy shirt labeled “Sleeping
Bear Dunes.”
Grace
slumped against the doorframe, breathing shallowly, trying not to scream or
burst into tears. God’s sense of humor escaped her. Why did he insist on making
her the butt of a cosmic joke? The last few days had only been a calm moment in
the midst of a virtual hurricane. This
man, whistled in her inner ear; This
is why I brought you here. For your touch.
She
willed the voice into silence and shuttered her heart. No.
Grace waited
on the porch until the silence became uncomfortable.
“Are you
all right, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
The word came out more clipped than she’d intended; ice instead of pleasant.
“How may I help you?” As she spoke, she blinked away the thought of his eyes echoing
the color of the Morning Glory pool at Yellowstone. Jonathan’s eyes had been a
mossy brown. Grace looked down at the child. He stood behind the man’s legs,
clutching the bag to his chin, and peeked back at her, anxiety creasing his
forehead.
Really,
God? Is it necessary to punish me this way? Grace bit the inside of her cheek
so hard she tasted sweet rust. But she would not, not, not, let anything touch
her heart. Ever again.
The man
urged the child forward.
“Give
Mrs., ah, Mrs. …”
“Runyon.”
“…Runyon
the bread.”
A
miniature grubby hand thrust the pillowcase in Grace’s direction.
“Good
job, Eds. I’m Ted Marshall,” he said, apparently recalling they had not
exchanged names. “And this is my son, Eddy.”
Eddy
stuck his head sideways from around the side of his father, eyed her solemnly,
and then disappeared again.
Grace
took the bundle. “Nice to meet you both. I’m Grace Runyon.” She did not offer
to shake hands. Although running away from Woodside more than likely lessened
the strength of the gift, she wasn’t taking chances. Besides, it was strictly
forbidden to let strangers know what happened there. “Thank you for your
thoughtfulness.”
“I—can—work
a bread—machine.” He wobbled and reached a hand out to steady himself against
the jamb.
She
reached out anyway, stopping just short when he held up the same hand to ward
her off. “I’m all right. Just give me a second.”
“Um,
thank you, Mr. Marshall, and Eddy, for the bread. Would you like to come in and
sit for a minute?” The case felt cozy in her hand, warm from the fresh-baked
loaf and the child’s hand.
“Ted.
Call me Ted. We have to get back.” He straightened using the crutch. “I have an
appointment, but thanks anyway. We’re over there”—he indicated a hedge of tall
scraggly bushes— “on the other side. At the house.” They turned and clumped
across the gray-green, cupped porch boards. Eddy looked back through the open
door. Grace followed his gaze to the abandoned toys piled in the middle of the
room. He turned and bent to grasp his father’s crutch to help him manipulate
down the steps.
Ah. “One
of the brothers” now made sense. She watched, her mouth pursed. How old was the
child? Maybe four? Too young to have to help a parent.
She
looked up at the ceiling of the living room, free of webs but showing cracks in
the white paint. “I will not, Lord! No! You brought me here for a reason, but
not that. Please, not yet… I want to be free for a while! Away from sickness
and everyone else’s hurt. Let me heal myself, first.” Sinking down and slapping
the tee shirt against the smooth floorboards, she hunched up her knees. Staring
at nothing, she let her forehead rest against her wrists and rocked. No tears.
You promised. No feelings. If you don’t feel, you can’t hurt.
A long
time later Grace ate dinner, butter melting on the re-warmed slice of bread.
She sat at the now shiny chrome kitchen table, occupied with thoughts about her
visitors. Ted was obviously the former occupant. Her medical curiosity took
over and thrust back the emotion threatening her slim self-control. What was
the nature of his illness? He had received some terrible injury, evident in the
scar on his head, but was it related to the need for a crutch? Usually a head
injury didn’t count as “ill” like the real estate lady said.
Well,
her neighbors were none of her business. She took her dishes over to the sink
and ran some water. Not that sweet little boy with the poignant eyes. Certainly
not his enigmatic father. And no way was she interested in knowing where Eddy’s
mother was. If she didn’t get to know them better, it would be easier not to
care. If she didn’t care all that much, she wouldn’t feel obligated to help
them. If she didn’t try to help them, she wouldn’t fail. If she never had to
fail, she couldn’t be hurt by it. If she wasn’t hurt, she’d win. If she beat
the emotion game, maybe someday she could blend in here, her new home, and
nothing could drive her away.
When she
accidentally splashed suds on the wall next to the sink, she picked at a bubbling
daisy. Underneath, the walls had once been sunny yellow.
