Part 5 (2/2)

”Tell me about them.”

She proceeded to tell me the stories I'd already heard but loved to hear over and over again. Tales from her past kept us busy until it was time for me to go.

When she went into the bedroom to retrieve my coat, suddenly I knew it was time.

For a brief moment, I was like a detective working on my own case. Except I wasn't all there. My detached self was working to solve the mystery of what had happened to my emotional self.

When Grandma returned, I asked her one question, a question I'd never been able to ask before. One was enough.

”Hey, Grandma, what kind of a father was Dad?”

Instead of answering my question, she posed one of her own.

”What do you mean, honey?”

For some reason, my stomach suddenly felt sick. I willed control of my voice and casually said, ”Nothing specific, just what kind of a father was he? I can't remember much about when I was really little and I just wondered what he was like.”

With that, I fell silent. It took her the longest time to answer. I struggled into my coat as I waited.

”Well,” she said, still thinking, ”when you girls were young, he liked to bathe you, and diaper you....”

As she continued to speak, I fought to control myself. At the words, ”He liked to bathe you,” my stomach had dropped and I'd felt the strangest impulse to burst out in laughter a” nervous, hysterical peals of mirthless laughter. I needed information, but I couldn't give information. I had to appear calm, almost disinterested.

My grandmother's voice, by now far away, went on.

”...later on, when you got to be older, he didn't take as much of an interest in your lives....”

I didn't hear anything else she said. Not about her son. Not about anything. As quickly as I could, I hugged her tightly, kissed her cheek, and ran out into the night, clutching the leftovers she'd insisted I take for my lunch the next day.

Driving home, the most absurd memory came to me. I remembered the swimming lessons my sisters and I had taken for several summers in a row beginning when we were ages six, five and four. We had all started in the beginning swimming cla.s.s, and failing to ever advance, had all ended in it. Undaunted, my mother brought us back, time after time, for the next session of beginning swimming. Every single session, all three of us failed.

For two summers, we grew taller and taller, and came back to each new session of the cla.s.s embarra.s.sed by our height, our age, and our inability to move on. In light of the fact that every single other child in each of our cla.s.ses pa.s.sed, my mother couldn't understand our failure. We were all three fit, coordinated children, especially Gail and I. Gail went on to excel at soccer. I played football, tennis, and baseball with the best of the boys. Finally, although she couldn't fathom it, my mother accepted that we would never be able to swim. We were grateful when we didn't have to return for further humiliation.

”My G.o.d!” I said out loud as I carefully steered my car on the snow-packed streets, ”I was four years old then.”

”I was four years old then,” I kept repeating over and over again, louder and louder each time until finally it became a high-pitched scream. My first conscious memory, and what a horrible one it was.

”Why couldn't we swim?” I whispered, because my throat hurt from screaming.

Perhaps we were terrified of the water, it occurred to me for the first time in my life. Not for its ripples, but rather for its touches.

I didn't sleep well that night.

Someone is attacking me. The person crawls into my bed and snuggles against me, flesh completely covering my little body, hands clutching my sleeper pajamas. I see my attacker's hands. They remind me of someone, but I cannot think who.

Chapter 6.

The next day at work, I sluggishly went through my paces. I rewrote an article, 'Ten Steps To A More Relaxed Pap Smear.” I called a few of my clients. I chatted with my employees (carefully avoiding time alone with Ann). Nothing spectacular, but it sure beat thinking about the past a” mine or Destiny's.

The next few days were much the same until Wednesday when I left work early to meet Marie Kenwood.

I drove east for what seemed like forever until finally, at the southeast edge of Denver, I found my turn-off.

Marie Kenwood lived in a moderately-priced retirement community, one of those ”planned neighborhoods” that has plenty of green beltways, few amenities and the appearance of security. Inside her complex, the streets meandered in every direction but a sensible one, and it was almost impossible to distinguish one residence from another. Even with the oversized address numbers and the color-coordinated blocks, it wouldn't have surprised me if half the residents had, at some point, tried to enter another person's house.

Twice, I drove past the golf course, totally lost. Finally, at wit's end, I stopped in at the clubhouse to ask directions. An elderly man told me he was going my way and offered to let me follow him. At a snail's pace, I followed his blue Pontiac to Mrs. Kenwood's doorstep. As he drove off, I waved my thanks; he tipped his hat.

I rang the bell and waited anxiously for Mrs. Kenwood. When at last she opened the door, I let out a sigh of relief. I think I had been afraid she'd be as intimidating in person as she'd been on the phone.

But how could she intimidate me? I towered over her, not because I'm extraordinarily tall, but because my 5'6” were giant next to her 4'10” (including stacked-up hair).

My relief came too soon.

”Mrs. Kenwood?” I asked politely as I extended my hand.

”Of course I am, young lady,” she said, ignoring my outstretched hand. ”Come in out of the cold.” She directed me past her into the foyer. I turned back to her, once again attempting to introduce myself.

”I'm Kristin Ashe. I'm pleased to a”” I didn't have a chance to finish my greeting.

”Of course you are. You're late,” she said, deliberately looking at the elegant lady's pocket watch hanging from a gold chain around her neck. ”Six minutes late, to be exact.”

”Er, yes,” I said apologetically. ”I would have been early, but I got turned around in the complex. Some kind gentleman helped me find a””

”Never mind,” she barked. ”You're here now. Would you like some tea?” she asked, sounding more like a platoon leader than a hostess.

I hated tea but I didn't dare ask for Dr. Pepper.

”Yes, please.”

”Fine, then. Have a seat. I'll be back shortly.”

She ushered me into the living room and disappeared around the corner. Delicately, I sat down on one end of her flowered couch, hugging the armrest for support, somehow fearing she'd burst into the room and claim I was sitting in her seat. Timidly, ever conscious of her nearby presence, I looked around me.

On every wall, there was a painting. Of mountain scenes. Of ocean scenes. Of trains. Of flowers. Each one was recognizable for what the artist had tried to paint, but that was the extent of the talent.

Her coffee table overflowed with magazines and newspapers. Catholic Register. Good Housekeeping. Ladies Home Journal. Farmer's Almanac. Nothing I wanted to read.

On the floor next to the couch, a large cotton bag held yarn and knitting needles. Straight ahead sat a television set. I glanced around the room and dread filled me as I realized I was sitting in the place that had the best view of the TV. That, combined with the bag, convinced me I was sitting in Mrs. Kenwood's favorite spot. I quickly scurried down to the other end of the couch.

And not a moment too soon. I had barely jumped up from her cherished seat when she came through the doorway carrying a silver tray. She set it on the coffee table in front of the couch and then sat in the exact spot I'd just occupied.

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