The Distance Home Read online

  “I guess you know why I’m back?”

  A crow caws from a nearby tree and I look around self-consciously.

  “I don’t understand, Mom.” I drop my voice in response to another caw. He doesn’t need to hear my discussion with my dead mother. “Why did you go to the therapeutic program? And why would you guys hide that from me?”

  Jilli’s accusation roars in my head. My mom wasn’t crazy. Or had I just been too young to recognize what was in front of me?

  I look at the marble headstone to the right of her. Beloved Mother, Wife, Daughter. Forever in our hearts. My mom’s stone is strikingly absent of sentiment. Her name and the dates. No flower, no Star of David, no hints to the outside world about whom she left behind.

  “Did you understand him? I wish I could remember how you were together. Have you been up there watching us tiptoe around each other all these years?”

  No, she couldn’t have been. She would have found a way to fix us. Not that I fully believe in spirits. And the proof is, if she had been watching, she wouldn’t have let him send me away.

  “It’s been sixteen years, Mom. I light a candle every year on your birthday. And mine. Did you know that?” Oh my god, I have to stop doing this. I rake my hands through my hair. Of course she doesn’t know, she’s dead, she’s been dead for over twenty years.

  Why would my father mandate my return to Emmitsville and a visit to the cemetery? He wasn’t sentimental, and by the naked base of the headstone, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been here since the last time he came with me. There are no stones announcing recent visitors like on the other Jewish graves. That means he had a plan. Of course he did. I’m here to learn something. Of course I am.

  Except this one I’ll have to sort out on my own.

  The black bird flies off without so much as a parting caw. I shiver despite the unseasonably warm weather.

  “Did you know about his drawings? He was really good. He hid those, too. Jesus, what didn’t he hide from me? There’s one woman he seemed to draw a lot. There’s something familiar about her but I can’t place her.”

  So many unanswered questions. There has to be someone who can help me piece together my family puzzle. I pull the phone out of my back pocket and dial the number for the stable. I’m told Rena is sick and won’t be there today. Rena is never sick. Even the few times she should have stayed home, she was at the stable ordering everyone around. So it won’t be Rena, at least not today.

  I glance at my watch and am surprised to see that I’ve been at the cemetery for an hour. I stand and brush the seat of my pants. “I need to go, Mom. I’ll be back, though.”

  The rental crawls through the deserted roads of the cemetery until I reach the main exit. The map on the passenger seat ruffles in a sudden breeze. “Okay, I’ll bite.” Relaxing is unlikely and I’m not sure a day that starts with a visit to the cemetery can be classified as fun, but it’s a beautiful day and Lucy may just have had a point, maybe a bit of exploring is what I need.

  The roads are narrow and windy, rolling up and down through wooded areas and stretches of farmland. These aren’t roads for speed or noise and I turn off the radio, content to listen to the squelch of tires on asphalt, cows mooing, birds calling. I breathe in air thick from the cows. Funny how a smell that makes your nose twitch and throat close can also bring back a wave of nostalgia.

  The deeper into the unknown countryside I drive, the quieter my brain gets. The corner of my mouth crinkles when I realize I haven’t thought about Howard or Bruce in the last forty-five minutes. I haven’t thought about the mounting e-mails or barreling deadlines. I haven’t even thought about my father or what family secrets are waiting in ambush.

  “Well what do you know, Lucy just might be the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

  According to the map, I should be coming close to my first official stop. The road takes a gentle turn and the trees give way. Spreading before me is what could be a snapshot for a postcard. A white post-and-rail fence gleams against the lush green grass; a weeping willow tickles the top of a large white wood sign that says THE SPINNING EWE, the words painted like colorful yarn letters. I turn onto the gravel drive, smiling at the rainbow of flowers waving me forward. Fluffy sheeps’ heads pop up from their grazing, only mildly curious about the trespasser.

  In the small parking lot is a classic Chevy pickup, its ocean-green paint in bold contrast to the canary-yellow house in front of it. A sign in the same smile-inducing font welcomes me.

  I stand at the open door and peer inside. Obviously someone is here, or has been, since the door is wide open, but a bleat from the pasture and chirping birds are the only sounds. I tap my knuckles against the yellow wood door. “Hello?”

  “Oh hey, perfect timing. Can you help me?”

  The voice sounds friendly enough and I step inside. In the middle of the room is a display unit that, had it been standing upright, would probably reach chest height but is leaning at a precarious angle. A hand reaches through an open slot and waves at me.

  “I obviously didn’t think this through very well. Can you help me right this stupid thing?”

  “Oh my god, are you okay?” I grab at a shelf and pull the unit upright. “Ouuf, that’s heavier than I expected.”

  “Right? Damn thing is solid. Which is great except when I’m trapped underneath.” The silver-haired lady chuckles and extends a hand for me to help her stand. “Probably better if you help me.” Her puff-do of short curls bounces around her head as she leans into my assist and hoists herself up.

  “Do you need these?” I grab for a pair of crutches propped against a nearby table.

  She waves them away and hops to a chair, heaving her left leg onto another chair. Her toes wiggle at the opening of a purple cast. We both stare at the fluffy sea of colors on the floor next to the now-upright shelf.

  “What happened?”

  She releases air that sends several curls straight up. “I decided to move what’s left of the summer colors down so I can show off my new fall balls.” Her hazel eyes sparkle, the gold flecks adding an extra measure of playfulness to the concept of fall balls.

  “Fall balls?” I hear the skepticism in my voice. She laughs and points at a small mountain of yarn, twined into rounded shapes that resemble dinner rolls. What’s Lucy done to me? I’m fantasizing about bread and visiting a yarn farm.

  “Beautiful colors.” I finger one twisted roll in shades of green from dark to light and back to dark.

  “Thank you. Are you looking for something special?”

  I reach for another roll, this one a mishmash of greens, oranges, browns, and gray. “Nothing special. I don’t even knit. Or crochet.”

  “Gift for someone then?”

  I want to say yes, to have a reason for being here. But there’s no one to buy for and I’m here because of a map.

  I shake my head and offer a sheepish shrug.

  “So what brings you to me? I don’t usually get a lot of drive-ins, except for open-farm dates. I’m not complaining. I’d be sitting under that damn shelf until Pete decided to come check on me. Which, knowing him, wouldn’t be until dinnertime. By the way, I’m Ceila.”

  “Emma. I’m staying at the Mountain Inn for a few days.” I swallow. A few too many days.

  “Ahhh, Lucy sent you then.” Ceila pushes up from the chair. I reach forward as she totters precariously on one leg but she shoos me away and pulls the crutches under her arms.

  While Ceila clops her way to the pool of wool and begins stacking the balls into cubbies, I wander to the back wall where a window overlooks the fields. Hanging from the curtain rod are two clothes hangers, one with a knit sweater in shades of purple and another with a scarf in shades of turquoise. I pull the scarf down and wrap it around my neck, turtling into its softness.

  “How much is this scarf? It’s fabulous.”

  “I could sell it to you or I could teach you how to make one just like it.” Ceila’s dark eyebrows arch like playful caterpillars.
/>   I snort and slap my hand across my mouth, then fuss with unwrapping the scarf. “I’m hopeless with my hands. And I have zero patience. Your beautiful yarn doesn’t deserve what I’d do to it.”

  “Nonsense. I bet thirty minutes with me and you’ll be crocheting like a pro. Come on, pick a color.” She lifts a crutch and sweeps it in an arc. I wince as it narrowly misses a mug filled with an assortment of crochet and knitting needles in the center of the table.

  “No, really, I don’t want to waste your time.” I refold the scarf as I walk to the front and place it on the counter, then reach for my wallet.

  Ceila narrows her gaze at me. “What’s your ‘me time’?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your ‘me time.’ You know, what you do just for you. How you relax, unwind, forget about your day. Erase your anxiety.”

  “Does the gym count?” Aidan’s kickboxing classes are a great way to shed anxiety. But somehow I don’t think that’s what she means. Her expression confirms my suspicion.

  She drops the crutches and eases onto a chair. “Grab that one. With the blues, yellows, and greens. That’s a good combination for you.”

  I do as I’m told then perch on the edge of an uncomfortable-looking wood chair across from Ceila. Her hands move at a speed that rivals her mouth. I watch, fascinated by the way she wraps the yarn around the index finger of her right hand, the way her left secures the yarn and allows her short pulls to get through, the way the needle twists and ducks and pokes and pulls.

  “Just like that,” she says and places a perfect rectangle of stitches in front of me.

  That doesn’t look so hard.

  I imitate Ceila’s hold on the yarn, clutch the needle in a death grip, then twist and duck and poke and pull. Except, the row of stitches I manage look nothing like the elegant knots she’s created with no effort at all.

  Ceila takes the tangle from my hands and pulls it apart. I watch as she repeats the previous movements in slower motion.

  With a ta-da flourish, she hands over the reballed yarn and crochet needle and talks me through the steps. After I’ve almost successfully made it through two rows, Ceila excuses herself, picks up the crutches, and stumps away.

  “Well look at you.” A bottle of water waves in my peripheral vision. Ceila is leaning over my shoulder, pulling at the scarf my fingers have succeeded in crocheting.

  I shift, suddenly realizing my butt is numb.

  “Wow. Look at me.” I smile up at her. “I’m actually doing it.”

  “More than doing it. Honey, you’ve done it. However, unless you’re planning this for an NBA player, you might want to stop now.”

  She leans over and pulls the end of the scarf so I can see the length.

  “Oops.” I laugh. “I didn’t realize how long it was getting or how quickly it grows.”

  Ceila gives me a funny look and laughs. “Quick? Sweetie, you’ve been at it for over two hours.”

  “No way.” I twist to look at the clock ticking steadily above the door. “Holy shit. How did that happen?”

  The funny look transforms into a strange mix of confusion and disbelief. “You were relaxed. I thought you were joking about the gym being your only downtime? Guess not.”

  “Not really.”

  “You, dear girl, need to find your way to inner peace.”

  I can only imagine my face looks as surprised as Ceila’s. Inner peace. Not words I would use to describe myself. When was the last time I so completely lost myself in an activity? And no, working past midnight because I didn’t realize how late it had become doesn’t count.

  “Everyone needs an escape once in a while. My sister, she meditates. The girl can sit on a pillow, pretzel-style with her fingers together, and breathe for half an hour. Thirty chirping minutes. I timed her once. Didn’t believe anyone could listen to koi-pond sounds from an iPhone app and just sit for that long. But damned if she doesn’t do it every day. Me? Five minutes and I’m peeking from under half-closed eyelids, hoping for a natural disaster to free me. But give me needles and yarn, and I lose all sense of time. It’s fabulously therapeutic.”

  She makes a little sound, something between a sigh and a purr. “The shawl hanging over there.” Ceila points to a yellow-and-orange shawl draped over a mannequin. “Lucy made that. She’s part of our Monday Hookers group.”

  “The what group?”

  She coughs a laugh. “Monday Hookers. There’s five, sometimes six of us who meet here every Monday morning to crochet and knit. I make a big ol’ pot of coffee and someone brings bagels and we lose ourselves for a couple of hours. It’s a great way to start the week.”

  “Really? Every Monday?”

  “Really. Every Monday. You should try it.”

  I look around the room and try to picture myself sitting in this same spot with a handful of women, crocheting and talking. Not likely. Even if I were here long term, which I won’t be.

  When I don’t respond, Ceila pats me on the shoulder, repositions her crutches, and clanks away. “Try that pile over there. I think you’ll find some colors that are perfect for you.”

  My eyes follow the direction in which she’s pointing. Red bleeding into orange melting into yellow before pooling into purple. Like a woman possessed, I walk to the shelf and plunge my fingers into the soft yarn. By the time I make my way to the front counter again, I have my starter scarf and three skeins of the sunset-colored wool, generously donated by Margo, one of Ceila’s ewes.

  Half an hour later, I’m back in the car, inching down the driveway and craning to see the sheep grazing in the field, wondering which one is Margo. Next to me is a larger bag than I expected to leave with. In addition to the wool, I ended up buying a how-to book titled The Happy Hooker, the shawl Lucy crocheted, and two bamboo needles in different sizes.

  At the end of the drive, I consult Lucy’s map and decide to bypass the next two stops. I have a scarf to finish and inner peace to channel.

  10

  Inner peace lasts until I find my left hand bound in a colorful but unruly mass of wool. The more I tug to free the strand, the more convoluted the mass becomes. One hour on the Mountain Inn patio and I’ve undone the relaxed state I’d left The Spinning Ewe with.

  “What about this is fun?” I shove the offending wool into the bag at my feet, grab the shawl—thankful for the last-minute decision to buy it—then, wrapped in its warmth, melt into the lounge chair.

  The patio is deserted except for me and a tiger-striped cat. He’s strolled by several times, careful to ignore me and careful to make sure I notice he’s ignoring me. We’ve been sitting in comfortable ignoring. Except that now, without the busy hand activity, I’m restless. My companion opens an eye, stretches a paw, and releases a large yawn.

  “Easy for you. You’re used to being lazy. This isn’t me. I never do this.” My knee bounces. Tiger cat curls his paw underneath but his slitted eyes stay fixed on me. I glare back. “Oh don’t be so smug.”

  He’s right, though. I’m in a lovely setting, quiet, peaceful even. And my insides are churning like a blender on frappe. As if to make a point, my phone vibrates along the ceramic-topped table next to me, a text from Bruce glows against the black screen, deafening in the soft country evening.

  I breathe in, slow and controlled, then release to the imagined rolling tempo of a cantering horse.

  My father moved us here for the more relaxed pace and nurturing environment. At least that was the party line. And yet, my childhood was anything but relaxed or nurtured.

  That’s not exactly true. I had a nurturing environment. It just wasn’t in my own home.

  I close my eyes and let my head drop back. The final ray of sun strokes my cheek before disappearing for the night.

  A sharp, high-pitched whinny sounds somewhere in the distance and is quickly answered by a less urgent one. I wonder if it’s dinnertime or someone has been turned out into the field and can’t find his buddy.

  Jack used to do that. Every time I’d release
him in the paddock, he’d stand by the gate and whinny three times, short, quick, get-over-here whinnies, and Soldier would come trotting from whatever corner of the field he’d been grazing in. They’d touch noses in an equine hello, then wander off side by side, big black fancy show horse next to his hairy, miniature, brown-and-white best friend. Soldier could almost walk under Jack’s belly, but he was the fiercest of companions.

  I wonder who protects Jack from the hay and best-grass-spot muggers these days. I didn’t see Soldier when I was at the barn. Then again, I hadn’t really looked. I hadn’t even given Jack a proper hello.

  Guilt can be one hell of a paralyzer. Or is it regret? Either way, I let it keep me from reaching out to touch the horse who’d stolen my heart and filled my emptiness.

  Maybe Soldier was in the stall after all. He was pretty short and I wouldn’t have seen him from where I was standing. I hope he was in there with Jack. No one should have to lose their best friend.

  I bend my legs and wrap my arms around my knees, curling the ends of the shawl into my fists, creating a protective cocoon.

  I’d always marveled at the loyalty between Jack and Soldier. Jack would snatch bites of hay from the wall-mounted hay cage and drop them on the ground for his short friend. They were never far apart.

  People aren’t as straightforward. I’d so wanted to believe that Jilli and I had been meant to find each other. Maybe it was even true when we first met. But by the time the raging-teen years kicked in, there were cracks in our friendship. Cracks I tried to ignore, cracks I tried to patch.

  “Meow.” Tiger cat is sitting on his haunches watching me, head cocked to the right.

  “Meow.” He deepens the angle of the tilt.

  “It’s really not that interesting of a story.” I look around to make sure there are no humans on the patio.

  I push up from the lounge chair and grab the bag of yarn. With a final look at my feline companion, I walk into the inn. On the sideboard in the hall is a bag with my name on it. True to her word, Lucy has packed a light dinner for me. I take it and climb the stairs to my room.

  * * *