The Wonder of All Things (24 page)

She tried to read the man’s expression, mining it to discern whether or not he was telling the truth. It was all very foggy and uncertain for Carmen. She could see his face, but it was as if he were far away and gaining distance. She thought for a moment that it was Macon, but she knew that could not be true because he was off trying to find Ava and Wash. And that was where he was supposed to be, she knew—even as she resented him for it. Even as she resented the fact that he had left her here to bring this child into the world or to lose it. The entirety of the decision and responsibility was hers to contend with. She covered her belly and held her baby, as if he had come to take it away. “Is my baby going to be okay?” she asked.

Then she was asleep and dreaming, and Dr. Arnold was gone, though she could still hear the sound of his voice asking where her husband was.

And then her husband was there, only it was not Macon; it was Charles, her first husband, the first man she had loved and believed would be by her side for the rest of her life. He looked older than she remembered. But he had aged well, and she hated him for that. She hated the way her heart stirred at the sight of him even though she had grown to hate him over the years. Why would he come to her now, at a time when she was moving on with her life, about to bring into the world the child she had always wanted? That
they
had always wanted.

“It wasn’t my fault,” she said to her husband. “I did everything I was supposed to,” she continued.

“I know,” he replied. His voice was warm and even, the way he always spoke. He had never been an excitable man.

“It would have been easier if you had died,” she said. “You didn’t have to leave,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“You did everything you could,” he said.

“I tried to make you stay,” she said.

“You never let go,” he replied.

“You shouldn’t have run out,” she said.

“You shouldn’t have sent me away,” he replied.

And then he was gone and there was only darkness and something swirling about her that felt like wind and she thought she could hear the sound of someone screaming, far off in the distance. Her body tightened and she waited, though she did not know exactly what she was waiting for. It was as if she was waiting for the world to be created, waiting for the mountains to rise up out of the darkness of her mind.

But again there was the sound of someone screaming in the distance. She could not tell if it was a man or woman, child or adult, boy or girl.

But she was not alone. There was another life here.

“You shouldn’t have left,” she said to no one. “And I should have let you go.”

* * *

The fire department was finally getting a handle on the blaze. The trucks had doused the flames for long enough and they were receding. It was the people that were the concern now. Everywhere there were injured and dead.

The firefighters were doing what they could and, mingled among them, were townspeople and strangers and other Samaritans lending aid. They raced from person to person, tending wounds and, sometimes, simply checking for signs of life. It was when the fire near the center of the event was all but extinguished that Isaiah Brown came across Sam’s body. It was torn and broken, but Isaiah could still recognize the childish face of the man. Somehow it had eluded being burned. Though there was blood upon him, Sam looked asleep, caught in a perpetual dream.

Isaiah lifted his brother and moved him onto the grass in the center of the park. It was a place that the rescue staff decided was centralized enough and far enough away from the dying fire that they could take care of the injured and, when necessary, serve as a place for the bodies of the dead to be identified. He kneeled beside the covered body of the brother that he could not save, that he could only love over the years, and he pulled back the sheet that covered him. He reached down and stroked his brother’s face. Already the man was cold, the color of his face ashen.

“I did everything I could, Sam,” Isaiah said. The thought came to him that there were Bible verses appropriate to this moment. Final words of solace that he often gave at funerals.

But eulogies and epitaphs are not for the dead, but for the living. Sam would not hear his words. He was gone, to make a place for him on the other side, and to await the day when they would be able to speak to each other again—the day when the apology that Reverend Isaiah Brown felt he needed to give his brother would be heard, understood and, he hoped, accepted.

So for now he only leaned down and kissed his brother’s forehead and tried to keep from crying. “All the broken things will be made whole,” he said softly. Perhaps he said the words out of habit. Perhaps he said them because he hoped that, even though he was dead, Sam was there with him still, watching, listening, able to hear that his brother still loved him enough to say such things.

Or perhaps the words were intended for his own ears. Perhaps it was his way of letting go: of both the brother he lost in the car crash long ago, and the brother that had come into his life after, the one who wanted nothing more than to have things go back to the way they were, the brother who heard Isaiah say, “Nothing is ever healed,” and who took the words to heart and, because of it, would not forgive himself.

“You were never broken, Sam,” Isaiah whispered. “Never.”

Ava and Wash had spent the day playing Commando, slogging through the creek and the bushes and briar. The logging company owned most of the mountain on which they were adventuring and the ditches were six feet deep and nearly twice as wide and they were always filled with water—stagnant and brackish in some places, running and almost clear in others.

The shadows grew at the base of the trees like spikes. The air cooled and the clouds came up out of the west—gray and heavy—promising the evening’s shower that always came at this time of year. The crickets would soon sing.

“What’ll we do tomorrow?” Wash asked.

“I say we go pick briar berries,” Ava replied.

“They’re called blackberries,” Wash said.

“That’s not what my mom calls them. And she says that things can be whatever we call them.”

Wash thought on this for a moment. “Well,” he said finally, “I don’t know if I want to.”

“That’s just because you fell into that bush last time,” Ava replied, giggling a little.

Wash blushed.

They walked in silence for the rest of the way. The mud and water caked upon their clothes hardened with each step. Their skin itched and they wished the rain would come sooner rather than later. The clouds were scraping their shaggy bellies over the peaks of the mountains, but remaining stingy.

When they reached Peterson’s Fork, they parted ways. They waved goodbye to each other and set off for home. Wash’s grandmother lived on the north end of town, near where the mountains had yet to be much affected by the imposition of humanity. Where the trees were old and rooted deeply into the earth. It was a place where generations of Stone Temple children found themselves and their place in this world—among the shadows of pine and cedar and white oak.

Ava had heard that Wash’s grandmother owned much of the forest and, for reasons many in the town could not understand, would not let the logging companies have their hands at it. There was money to be made in the selling of the timber, after all. And if Stone Temple lacked anything, it was money.

When Ava arrived home, she was nervous approaching the house. Her clothes were caked with mud and, no doubt, her mother would have a great deal to say about it.

When she reached the house, she found it empty and silent. There was only the low hum of the refrigerator and the sound of the wind fluttering the curtains now and again. She called for her mother.

No reply.

On the kitchen table she found a letter, the contents of which led her to the barn. It was in the barn that Ava found her mother hanging from the rafters, a length of rope coiled around her neck. An overturned chair at her feet. The only sound was the buzzing of carpenter bees in the bones of the wood and, now and again, a gentle creak of the wooden beam as it struggled to bear the weight it had been given.

TEN

WASH COULD NOT
tell how long he had been sleeping, but it could not have been very long because the fire was still burning. The cabin was warm and comfortable, in spite of all of the gaps in the walls through which the wind crept. He could smell the sweat from Ava’s skin along with the scent of the pine logs burning. He lingered there on the floor of the cabin, his body cradling Ava’s. All he could think of was the kiss that she had given him and he wondered what he should do next. He closed his eyes and could feel her lips against his: the tenderness of the skin, the cold air washing over them both. The moment grew into hours in his mind, one that he could live in for an eternity.

But there was a fire that needed tending to. He decided that he should check on it. When he went to lift the arm that was draped across Ava he found her fingers intertwined with his. She held him there.

“Ava?” he called softly.

“I’m awake,” she answered in a low voice.

He sighed. “Good. You had me worried.” He felt her squeeze his hand.

“I remember her,” Ava said.

“Remember who?”

“I remember my mom,” Ava said. “Every time I help somebody, I remember her, the details about her, I mean. The way she smelled, the sound of her voice, the softness of her hands. I didn’t really know how much I had forgotten about her until now.” Her voice shook. “I couldn’t remember the sound of her voice before all of this. I couldn’t remember the color of her eyes. How does that happen?”

Wash was thankful that Ava had her back to him, that she could not see the despair in his eyes. More than anything, he wanted to say the right thing. But, in the end, he said nothing. The only sound in the small cabin was the fire burning.

“But I can’t remember all of it,” Ava said. “I just get pieces, glimpses. And I try to talk to her. I try to ask her why she did it, why she killed herself. But she never answers me. It’s like she’s in a play and can’t change her lines. It’s like she can’t stop what’s going to happen to her.”

“I’m sorry,” Wash replied. It was the only thing that he could think to say.

“It’s okay,” Ava said, her voice soft, like a secret told in a cathedral. “I’m okay with it all now,” she said.

It was then that Wash could smell it: the scent of vomit. He sat up and there, on the floor in front of Ava, was a pool of bile and blood. “Jesus,” he said, bolting up from the floor. “Oh, my God, Ava,” he said. He took her arm and helped her sit up. She swayed drunkenly back and forth. He waved his hand in front of her and it took her a moment to focus on him. “We’ve got to go back,” Wash said.

“I know,” Ava replied. “I just wanted more time with you. I just wanted to—”

“You can’t save me,” Wash said suddenly. His voice was so low that Ava hardly heard him. But she did hear him. “I’m smarter than the average Pomeranian,” he continued, trying, unsuccessfully, to lighten the mood. “I may not know a lot of things, Ava Campbell. But I know you. I know what you’re thinking.” He took a deep breath and held it. And when he released it, he spoke slowly and there was fear and resignation in his voice. “I know about the leukemia. Everybody thinks that I don’t. Nobody wants to talk to me about it, like that’ll make it go away. But I know about it. I heard one of the nurses talking about it when I was at the hospital. I don’t think she meant for me to hear, but I did. People are rarely as good at keeping secrets as they think they are.” He looked around. “I guess not telling me about it was everybody’s way of helping me. And I guess my pretending that I didn’t know about it was my way of helping everybody else.” He laughed. “That doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“Wash,” Ava began.

“It’s okay,” he said, holding up a hand to stop her from speaking. “I’ll be okay. I’ve researched it and I’ve got a chance. The survival rate is low, but not impossible. It’s like spotting a white whale, and that’s happened before, right?” He tried to laugh at the joke, but the comedy was not there. “You can’t save me, Ava,” Wash said slowly. “It’ll kill you. We both know it. And I won’t let you try.”

“You’re something else,” Ava said. Suddenly the shivering began again.

Wash sat on the floor beside her and placed his arm around her and pulled her close. “You can’t even save yourself,” he said. “But I’ll take care of you. I’ll sing badly and read books you don’t like so you’ll get better, if only to make me shut up.”

Then he reached over and took her earlobe between his fingers and tugged it, the way she had done to him in the hospital. “I’ll always take care of you.”

* * *

It was the dim glow of their firelight that caught Macon’s attention. He could just make out the small cabin planted in the elbow of the mountain, the light from it flickering like a candle in a difficult wind. From outside the cabin he could see a glimmer through the cracks in the broken wood and he could see the silhouette of someone sitting by a dim light of what looked like a wood-burning stove. He could see that it was a child, and he could tell arms were wrapped around their legs, but he couldn’t discern exactly whether it was Ava or Wash.

He did not hesitate any longer.

“Ava,” Macon called as he came through the door.

She looked up at him with an expression on her face of fatigued expectation, as if she were finally waking from a moment she knew, all along, was nothing more than a dream.

“Hey, Dad,” she said softly.

Macon crossed the room at a lope and placed his arms around her. He hugged her and, simultaneously, began checking to see if she was injured. “Are you okay?” he asked, then he turned to Wash. “Are the both of you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Wash said.

“Ava,” Macon said, taking his daughter’s face in his hands. “Ava, what were you thinking? You could have been killed. You have to know that.”

“I needed to get away,” Ava replied. “Even if it was just for a little while.”

“Where did you think you were going?”

“Nowhere. Just here. Just away from everyone.”

“Jesus,” Macon said, and he hugged her again. He held her tightly and kissed the top of her head. “You could have been killed,” he said. “I could have lost you.” He took a moment and studied her face, and it was as though he were seeing her for the first time in years. Finally, more clearly than he had before, he saw the thinness of her face, the way the skin seemed stretched too tightly over the bones. He saw circles of exhaustion around her eyes. He felt the texture of her hair—dry and brittle, as if it, too, were worn too thin. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for all of this. But running away isn’t the answer.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Ava said.

“I know,” Macon replied. “I know you don’t.” He sat beside her. Wash eased down onto the other side of the girl. “I know you want to get away, you want for all of this to end, but I’m sure you also know that we can’t sit here and pretend that the two of you running away into the night is something that we can just let happen.” He sighed and looked down at his hands, as if laying blame upon them. “We’ll go back and things will be different,” he said.

“No, they won’t,” Ava replied. She leaned against Wash. “They’ll never leave me alone. This will never stop.”

“That’s not true,” Macon said, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it. “I’ll find some way to make all of this better, to make everyone go away and leave us alone. I can fix all of this. I can get our lives back to the way they were, back to normal.”

“She’s not going to do it anymore,” Wash said. “Not for you, not for anyone.” He looked into Macon’s eyes as he said it. Even though he was still a child, and a Southern child—raised with all the rules of formality between adults and children, indoctrinated with the belief that parents knew what was best and it was a child’s position to do as they were told—regardless of all of that, he still cared for Ava and he had promised to take care of her. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

“I know you won’t, Wash,” Macon said. “And neither will I. I promise it’ll be different. It’ll be like it was. It’ll just take some time to sort out, is all. I’ll admit, people won’t forget quickly or easily.” Macon sighed. “You’re able to help people, Ava,” he said, taking his daughter’s face in her hands. “You’re able to help people and give them hope and do things that no one else in this world is able to do.”

“She deserves her own life,” Wash said.

“And she’ll have it,” Macon said.

“They’re always going to want something,” Ava said. “There’s always going to be someone who wants me to help them. And I’ll have to tell them no—over and over again. I’ll have to say no like I did to the boy at the church and I’ll have to see that look he had in his eyes.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to have to do that,” she said. Her voice began to tremble. “But I can’t keep doing this, either,” she said.

Both Macon and Wash searched for the words to comfort the girl. They knew what they wanted to say, how they wanted to reassure her that there was another possible outcome to all of this. But when they both imagined all the ways that the future might unfold for Ava from this point forward, the consequences of her gift upon a world that longed for such things was irrevocable and undeniable.

She would never be allowed to rest. Never be allowed to live a normal life. She would always be imposed upon, always hounded, pulled in a million and one directions.

“I’m sorry,” Macon said.

“I want to help people,” Ava replied. She looked up at her father. “If it was just that I got tired or sick after I did it, I could handle that. I’d get through it. I’d keep doing it. But every time I do it, I remember Mom. Every single time, something that I had forgotten about her comes back to me. And that wouldn’t be so bad, but I wonder...I wonder if I could have helped her. I wonder if I had it in me to heal her before she killed herself and I missed it.” She was crying now. “I can’t help but think it was my fault.”

Macon pulled her close and hugged her tightly. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “It wasn’t your fault.” He repeated the sentence again and again. Saying it to Ava, but also saying it to himself.

“Why did she do it, Dad?” Ava asked. Her voice was full of years of pain and longing, full of too long spent not understanding how it could be that a mother, a wife, could end it all, step off into the darkness of eternity, leaving a family adrift in the world behind her.

“I don’t know why she did it,” Macon said. His voice shook, and he was crying, as well, though he did not know when it had begun. “I wish I could say why she did it, but the truth is that I don’t know. I’m not sure one person can ever truly know or understand why someone does something like that. But I do know that it doesn’t mean she loved you any less. It doesn’t mean you missed something or failed to do something. It doesn’t mean it was your fault,” he said.

And then the two of them wept together, and Macon rocked back and forth slowly and squeezed his daughter more tightly and he wished that he, finally, started to believe for himself that his wife’s death had not been his own fault. He had carried inside himself, over the years, just as much guilt about Heather’s death as Ava had. Likely as not, he carried more, because Ava had only been a child at the time when, if Heather had given any signals about what she was about to do, they might have been noticed. But he was the one who had missed the signs. He was the one who had been too busy or too distracted or whatever it was that made a person not realize when something so terrible was on the verge of happening.

He had blamed himself for his wife’s death. Each and every day he blamed himself, though he did not realize it until now, when his daughter wept in his arms, begging to be forgiven for something that was not her fault.

“It was nobody’s fault,” he repeated. “We both loved her. And she knew that we loved her and she loved us back. That’s all we can ever hope for in life.”

* * *

The march back to town was long and winding. Macon carried Ava in his arms. She was limp, drifting in and out consciousness. Eventually they emerged from the forest with Macon, and a crowd raced to them, cheering.

Macon called for an ambulance and, maybe because he was the sheriff but more likely because the Miracle Child was sick and needed help, the paramedics came immediately and they began the long drive to the hospital.

Wash would not let Ava out of his sight. “We’ll get her to the doctor,” everyone said. She was placed on a stretcher in back of the ambulance and she, Macon and Wash started off over the mountain. There was a crowd of people and cars along the road, but they parted when they heard that the ambulance was carrying Ava.

“You kids gave everyone a good scare,” the paramedic in the ambulance said. He monitored Ava’s vitals as he spoke. “I can’t believe I’m the one who gets to save you,” he said to Ava. Outside the van, as they passed alongside the mountain, they could see the flashing of camera lights as they zoomed over the two-lane road out of Stone Temple. The world would not let her go. They would be there in Asheville, she knew, waiting, snapping photographs, waiting for her to tell her story.

But she would disappoint them all. For now, she simply had to hold on.

“Has anyone heard anything about my wife?” Macon asked the man in the back of the ambulance.

“Who’s your wife?” he responded, though his attention was still focused on Ava

“Shit,” Macon said. He took out his phone and called Carmen. No answer. When he tried Brenda, the result was the same.

“Is Carmen okay?” Ava asked.

“I’m sure she is,” Macon replied quickly. “She’s at the hospital with Brenda. We’ll check on them when we get there and get you squared away.”

“Did she have the baby?” Wash asked.

“I don’t know,” Macon replied. “I don’t know anything,” he added.

When they had finally made their way through the sediment of people and were starting down the mountain properly, the paramedic driving reached into his pocket and took out his phone and started a conversation with someone. “She’s right here,” he said proudly. “I get to bring her back. Can you believe that?”

Macon reached out and snatched the phone from the man’s hand. He dropped it to the floor and stepped on it without explanation or apology.