Ransomed dreams, p.21
Ransomed Dreams, page 21
When Eliot awoke from a drugged stupor, the honorable Mr. Cole greeted him with a list of two addresses: Noelle’s and his parents’. He also showed him two eight-by-ten glossies, one with the girl and the other with Eliot receiving a handful of uncut diamonds.
The message was loud and clear. Eliot could look the other way or he could lose his lifelong dream-come-true in a heartbeat.
The passage of twenty-seven years had done little to diminish the horror of that moment.
Eliot gazed at the ceiling, his hands behind his head on the pillow—
Hands behind his head? Arms raised?
Well, that was odd. His shoulders weren’t screaming at him.
How much of the painkillers had he taken? He hadn’t had more since eleven last night, had he?
He hated the regimen of taking pills to mask the pain, but it worked. He was mobile—at least semimobile, anyway. He didn’t have much of a choice whether or not to take them.
He’d made it through the previous day with very little of the pain medication. Did he dare view that as a hopeful sign? He wasn’t sure. It was such an odd day all the way around.
Wouldn’t that be grand, though? To wake up without that drugged stupor . . .
The fading dream slammed back into his imagination, an instant replay in vibrant technicolor.
He was sitting in a courtyard, not in Caracas but right there in Topala behind the house. Harrison Cole was spoon-feeding him pills, an ugly sneer on his face.
Eliot cringed at the vivid image. His stomach turned.
That was exactly what had happened those many years ago.
Exactly?
Were his arms tied? his feet glued to the floor? his brain checked at the door?
“God.” Eliot listened to the sound of his own voice addressing the Almighty. “I was doing my job. He took advantage of me.”
He sighed. Whining! At his age!
“All that aside, I made idiotic choices. I was pompous, full of myself. Please forgive me. And I’ve been angry at him. Please forgive me. I’ve been fearful. Please forgive me. I’ve cheated on Sheridan by not revealing everything to her. Please forgive me.”
He shut his eyes. Tears seeped out.
Help me to . . .
He swallowed. His ears needed to hear what was in his heart.
“I want to forgive Harrison. Please help me.”
As Eliot wept, he did not analyze. He did not debate. He did not negotiate.
He just let it happen.
Chapter 44
Chicago
Clearing the air with Sheridan at the funeral home had been a good thing, Calissa thought. Fussing at her about meeting Helena and picking up that stupid note from their mother and letting Calissa greet visitors half the day all by herself had been a good thing. That Sheridan had poured out her fears that Eliot and Harrison might have met in Caracas and neither one had told her was a good thing.
It was always good to talk straight to each other and not avoid the tough subjects.
Calissa reminded herself of all this now as she sat in the back of the hired car and watched pedestrians along Michigan Avenue travel faster than the vehicles.
She wanted to tell the driver which route to take to get them out of there faster.
She wanted to tell Sheridan, seated beside her, to take a hike.
Instead she bit her tongue and reminded herself about the hug at the funeral home and the shared tears at Ysabel’s sweet words. This day, too, would all work out. It would.
“Lissy, I’m sorry.”
Calissa sighed.
Sheridan said, “You may as well say it out loud rather than just keep exhaling like a locomotive.”
She looked at Sheridan and wrinkled her nose. “That was a sigh, not a huff, and it meant, ‘Oh, nuts, my heart just turned to mush.’ You play me like a harp, Sher. You always have.”
“I have not.”
“Have too.”
Sheridan frowned. “All I said was ‘Lissy, I’m sorry.’”
“Exactly.” She shook her head in dismissal. “Go on with the apology. You’re sorry because you huffed your way through Saks and Neiman Marcus. Because you whined as if the hairdresser and manicurist were torturing you. And that disdainful lip twist says it all—that hiring this car is the biggest waste of money when we could have driven ourselves downtown.”
Sheridan laughed and laughed. “Actually, no, that’s not what I wanted to apologize about. Those things are just me, right? I’ve always been like that.”
Calissa narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“I appreciate it all, Liss, really. I needed new clothes for the funeral. I didn’t want to look like I just got off a cruise ship wearing all my good finds from Mexico.”
Calissa had been appalled at what Sheridan had brought with her from home. Brightly colored tops and skirts. One sweater and a lightweight jacket. That was for a funeral in Chicago in the spring? Then Calissa had been informed that Sheridan didn’t even have most of her clothes at the house in Topala. They were packed away in a storage unit out east with their other possessions. Why on earth, she said, would she need pearls and black cocktail dresses and business suits in a village tucked away in Podunk, Mexico?
Well, Podunk was Calissa’s term. That sure was what the place sounded like.
“And,” Sheridan said, “I did need a haircut. I like it.” She touched the new, shorter style. Layers had loosened the natural curl, reviving its old bounce. “And the car is not a big deal. Factor in gas and parking and the chiro adjustments we’d need after hauling sixteen bags around, the cost is not that much more.” She stopped talking.
Calissa watched her forehead furrow and her lips crease, pulling her mouth downward. If it didn’t resonate with guilt, she didn’t know what would. It was probably a Luke thing. The two of them had begun to exchange looks, the kind that hinted at something below the surface. At dinner the one night, Sheridan had outright flirted with him.
“Sher, you can tell me. What is it?”
“This.” She pointed to her face and burst into tears.
“Oh, hon.” Calissa dug through her bag for a pack of tissues and handed them to her. “These things happen, and after what you’ve been through, it’s totally understandable.”
Sheridan dabbed at her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d understand. It sounds like such a fabricated excuse. Post-traumatic stress disorder. How do you measure that? And honestly, eighteen months later? But I’m a mess again. The city unnerves me.”
Post-traumatic? Not sleeping with Luke? “You—you seem okay.”
“You didn’t notice. I kept dodging people on the sidewalk. I almost jumped out of my skin every time I heard a siren. Those first days here I slept well, but not anymore. I’m eating like a horse. I want to go home. I don’t want to go home. What am I going to hear about Eliot now? What if he did meet Harrison? He almost would have had to. A young diplomat, wet behind the ears. A visiting politician on the prowl for young diplomats wet behind the ears. What if Eliot is involved with all of that business? I would know, right? But we didn’t know about Harrison.”
“What does all this have to do with Luke?”
“Luke? Nothing. Unless maybe with him and Bram in D.C., I’ve lost a sense of security. Though I’d hate to admit that. I was making progress. I really was.”
“Oh.” Calissa adjusted her impression of Sheridan’s turmoil. It wasn’t Luke and romance, just leftover stress cropping up again. “Do you need to talk to someone? clergy or counselor?”
Sheridan thought for a moment. “I need to go to church. Actually, I’d like to visit the church where Mamá used to take us.”
“You got it. We’ll swing by there on the way to the house.” She unclipped her seat belt and leaned over the front seat to give the driver directions. Seizing the natural opportunity, she also suggested a turn coming up that might get them to Lake Shore more quickly.
He smiled like a father indulging his child. “Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled back. “I am a pushy prig at times.”
He chuckled, and she slid back next to Sheridan.
“Liss, I’m sorry. You’re still taking care of me, like you’ve done your whole life.”
She gave Sheridan a one-armed hug. “That’s what big sisters are for, hon.”
* * *
The quiet, empty church seemed to calm Sheridan immediately. Calissa sat in a rear pew while her sister went to one nearer the front and knelt.
Things had not changed inside Sacred Heart. The wood still shone; the stained glass still glistened; the scent of incense still lingered in the air. The large crucifix above the altar still wrung her heart.
Calissa’s memories were good ones. Ysabel had loved the place and the people. She made going to church a fun adventure. Harrison even accompanied them to services when Calissa was small, before Sheridan was born, before life seemed to get complicated.
Through the years, Calissa went her own way, different from her mother’s. She believed in God but never thought she needed to be in a pew on a regular basis in order to talk to Him. When she attended church, she preferred the larger and livelier group not far from her condo downtown. They made a big deal about Jesus, but He too was larger and livelier there, not always hanging on the cross.
Networking-wise, the people she met were better connected. But in all honesty, some of them, most especially the pastor and his wife, reminded her of her mother. Ysabel would have enjoyed them.
Harrison would not have. Nor would he have cared for the congregation at his wife’s former church. Calissa still wasn’t sure about her decision to have the viewing at the funeral home, but the choice for funeral location was an easy one. It would be at a nondescript church where he had sometimes put in an appearance. He figured most of his voters liked at least a passing nod to tradition.
Funny, she thought, how he got by without really mentioning the name of God.
Eventually Sheridan made her way back down the aisle, her face serene, almost luminescent.
Calissa nearly jumped at the sight. She was looking at their mother, at an inner light that radiated from her at times.
It was obvious that Sheridan was like that, like Ysabel. She possessed the same faith, that same huge heart for others. Also like Ysabel, she was in a marriage that defined despair, yet she continued to give herself away.
Calissa prayed that the resemblance to their mother ended there, that Sheridan would not abandon all hope.
* * *
Wilmette
Calissa waved at the neighbors heading across the drive to their house. She shut the front door, locked it, and pushed at Sheridan’s shoulder. “Quick, turn off the lights before somebody else drops by with food and condolences.”
“It’s after nine.”
“Wagners came at 8:52 last night. Not that I noticed the time.”
Sheridan smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s turn off the lights.”
A short while later, the house dark except for one small lamp in the kitchen, they sat down at the table with cups of tea.
“Sher, are you okay? There’s been a lot of commotion since we got home.”
“I am eyeing that cherry pie over there.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Calissa smiled. During the string of visitors that evening, her sister hadn’t ducked out once. “So you really like the hair and the clothes?”
“I do. Thank you for getting me out there.”
“I’m sorry, hon. I cannot begin to comprehend what you’ve been through. To think that you didn’t even have a nice black dress to pack.”
“Liss.” She chuckled. “That was the least of my worries.”
“I know, but I can almost imagine not having a dress. I can’t imagine not having my home or career or friends. You lost it all in the blink of an eye. If I had to start over in a new city, without knowing a soul, I’d crack up for sure.”
“It’s more than that,” Sheridan murmured softly.
Calissa waited, unsure if her sister wanted to speak or not.
Sheridan sipped her tea. “Imagine being married to Bram. By the way, when was the last time he proposed?”
“A week or so ago.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’m imagining we’re married. It’s not that difficult anymore.”
“Hm.”
“Hm yourself. Now what?”
“Now take away his personality.”
“Huh?”
“Bram has stopped calling you ‘darling.’ He’s not interested in his business. He never laughs. Never. Nuances in conversation go over his head. Not that there are many nuances, because conversations revolve around how much he hurts and what he can’t do and when he takes his next dose of meds. He’s short-tempered. He never initiates a hug or a kiss.” She paused. “He doesn’t want you in his bed.”
Calissa stared at her and felt a tightness in her chest.
“It’s just the way it is. Kind of like you pulling big-sister duty. It’s not my fault. This isn’t his fault. It’s not what I signed up for, but . . .” She shrugged.
“Whew.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I do anything for you?”
Sheridan smiled softly, her eyes sad. “Make him well?”
Calissa reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter 45
Chicago
Sheridan held the crisscrossed shoulder strap of her new black bag tightly between both hands and stared straight ahead. The upholstered seat rumbled beneath her as the train began to roll. In her peripheral vision, through the window, the platform blurred.
Breathe.
“That helps,” she murmured to herself and tried it again. “Okay. That’s good.”
Maybe she should have heeded Calissa’s concern. What was she doing heading off on the el, the day of their father’s viewing, to wander around downtown by herself? Her sister had protested vehemently. “You said you’re a mess being in the city. That it unnerves you. And you were with me! Why would you do this alone? Are you nuts or just a masochist?”
Sheridan had replied that God told her it was time to push past her fears.
Calissa went ballistic on that one. “God told you? God?”
Sheridan wondered now if she’d heard wrong.
“Breathe, Sher. Breathe.” She was glad not to have a seatmate listening in on her monologue.
She and Calissa had finally reached a compromise. She swore to go straight downtown and not to her old stomping grounds at the university campus. Calissa would drive her to a Red Line stop, thereby eliminating a train change, a complication that might, according to Calissa, upset her. Sheridan agreed to take a cab to the funeral home no later than three o’clock.
She gave up trying to explain to Calissa what had happened. It wouldn’t have helped her case.
The thing was, she had prayed in the church the other day. She had prayed Niebuhr’s words, that God would grant her serenity in the things she could not change. Such as Eliot’s condition. And she asked for courage to change what she could. Such as the ostrichlike existence. Self-imposed limitations based on her fears needed to go.
So there she was, zipping along on the train, all by herself, because apparently God had heard. That morning she’d awakened with an undeniable, unshakable determination to find a missing piece of herself, the one that had gotten lost over the past year, the one that was buried on an October morning in Caracas at twelve minutes, thirty-five seconds past ten.
Breathe, Sher; breathe.
She loosened her grip on the strap and smoothed her skirt. It was a pretty floral print, muted grays and whites and blacks with a few splashes of red. The gray jacket, white blouse, and pearls were too somber, but she wore them rather than debate over one more fashion matter with Calissa.
She forced herself to look around the train car. It wasn’t rush hour, which explained the sparse crowd. There were two teenage girls in tight jeans and T-shirts, chattering excitedly. Perhaps it was spring break for them and they were going into the city to play. One young man slept hard, a uniform jacket on his lap. Perhaps he had worked all night at a hotel. Another guy looked like a college student, his head buried in a book. There were a handful of business-type men and women, young and middle-aged. A spry elderly lady fiddled with her cell phone.
Sheridan took it in, the microcosm of the city she had loved.
Loved.
Could she love it again?
She wasn’t sure.
She relaxed, let go of the strap altogether, and watched the neighborhoods go by.
* * *
Breathe.
Sheridan smiled to herself. The city was a glut of aromas.
It was the scents that at last released emotions buried for over eighteen months in the deep recesses of Sheridan’s heart. As she emerged from the underground stop at Lake and State streets, the stuffy air tight in her nostrils with metal and oil gave way. She inhaled acridness, that every-city concoction of fuel, smoke, concrete, and warmth held captive between skyscrapers. Putrid garbage, cloying designer perfume, fried food, Asian spices, and unbathed bodies added their odors in passing waves.
Sheridan smiled, stood still, and shut her eyes. If she concentrated hard enough, she could pick up a hint of river water.
In the past, friends teased about her fondness for offensive smells. But to her the odors represented the fragrance of humanity, life in all its messiness. And it was in the messiness that she came alive.
She had caught her mother’s dream to help poor women. With her own gifts, the ones her mother recognized so long ago, she had forged the dream into a work. She was at her best creating programs and teaching, mingling with humanity.
Those things she had not engaged in for over eighteen months.
“Let’s not go there.”
She inhaled the sour bouquet and smiled. Something loosened inside of her. It felt a little bit like hope.
Over the sounds of traffic and passersby, she heard her phone ring and remembered she had promised to call Calissa the moment she landed.
