The Noel Diary Page 12

  And to make it worse, she was with someone who I didn’t think deserved her. Not that I really knew that; I’d never met him and no doubt my judgment, as a matter of self-interest, would be skewed. But I knew for certain that I never would have talked to her the way he just had. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I needed to tell her how I felt.

  I got a mini bottle of Jack Daniel’s out of the refrigerator, poured it into a glass with a Coke and ice, and took a drink. After a few sips my thoughts changed. What was I thinking? This woman was getting married. She had already ordered the flowers and booked the reception center. I had only known her for a few days. I ran a great risk in telling her. She would shut me out. No, it was better to just follow the plan.

  I grabbed the remote, then sat back in an armchair and turned on the television. The Arizona Cardinals were playing the Denver Broncos. I watched for a few minutes, not that I cared about either team; I really just needed a distraction while I drank.

  After a second drink, I remembered Noel’s diary. Rachel had left it on the nightstand next to her bed. I picked it up, then turned off the television and took off my shoes and lay across my bed.

  August 6, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  Something horrible beyond words happened. While I was at the doctor’s, Charles climbed a tree and grabbed on to a power line. He was electrocuted. Little Jacob was with him. He ran back home and got his mother. When I got home the ambulance was still at the house, but no one was moving quickly. When I got close I saw his little body covered by the sheet. I confess, my first fear was that it was my little Jacob. I felt guilty about that. I don’t know what will happen with me. Maybe they will send me to another home. Not my home. That would never happen. I still haven’t read the letter from my mother. I don’t know if I ever will. There is so much pain in this world.

  Noel

  August 13, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  I am halfway through my pregnancy. It’s hard to even think of me or my baby at this time. Charles’s funeral was last Thursday. It was the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. When they shut the lid on the coffin, Mrs. Churcher fell on the ground and wailed. I worry for her. She has not stopped crying. She doesn’t eat. She stays in her bed all day with the light out. She has told me at least five times that she wants to die. One time she asked me to bring her sleeping pills. When I came in she yelled at me because she wanted the whole bottle. I just left her room. I knew she wouldn’t come out. She never comes out.

  Noel

  August 20, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  Things here are not getting worse or better. The world is stuck in a hopeless limbo. There is a darkness that pervades everything. Through it all, it’s as if they’ve forgotten that they still have a son. My poor little Jacob. He clings to me all the time now. I hold him. He kisses me at night when I put him to bed. I am all he has, mostly. Mr. and Mrs. Churcher got into a big fight. I heard something break. Mr. Churcher came out of the room. He looked at me, and I could see his pain.

  I finally opened the letter my mother wrote me. I wish I hadn’t. She told me that I was such a disappointment to the family, and that she has racked her brain trying to figure out where she had gone wrong. Then God told her the truth. She hadn’t gone wrong—I had. She was relieved of her guilt and is now worried about my soul. She said I was a chewed piece of gum and no one would want me. I wish she would worry less about my soul and more about me. Or even the baby she pretends doesn’t exist. I wish I had never opened the letter. I wish I had never been born. Then I wouldn’t be the cause of so much trouble.

  Noel

  August 27, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  I am having a little girl. A sweet little girl. It’s hard for me not to name her. Before I came here, my father told me not to name my baby. He said it would make it much harder when I gave my baby up. Then he told me that when he was little he lived on a farm and they raised pigs. He named one of the pigs Wilbur after the pig in Charlotte’s Web. Then they slaughtered Wilbur for Christmas dinner. He said it was his worst Christmas ever. I think that was the worst story ever. Did he really compare my baby to a pig?

  I’m not going to name her.

  Noel

  It was dark outside when I heard the doorknob turn and the door open. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past nine. I walked out to the foyer. Rachel was letting herself in, trying to be quiet about it.

  “Hi.”

  She turned to me. “Oh, hi. I thought you might be in bed already.”

  “No. I’m a night owl.”

  She walked up to me. “I’m so ashamed about what I said to you. I don’t know where that came from. I’m just such an emotional mess. I’m getting married in four months. I shouldn’t have come. It was selfish of me.”

  I looked at her, disappointed in the conclusion she’d arrived at. “Taking care of yourself isn’t selfish. Especially when others aren’t.”

  She forced a smile, though her eyes still looked dull and puffy. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to take a shower and go to bed. Thank you for this lovely room.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Good night.” Then she walked into her room and shut and locked her door, leaving my heart and mind still reeling. Mostly my heart.

  My heart hurt. I was in love. And I was stupid to let my guard down. When had my feelings crossed that line? I went to my room and lay back on the bed. Laurie was right. I never should have stirred the ashes.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-One

  September 3, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  I know I wrote that I wouldn’t give my baby a name, but I can’t help it. I know that it won’t even keep. I’m calling her Angela. Like an angel. That’s what she is. And if she’s born on Christmas like I was, she’ll be a Christmas Angel. This was a pretty good week. Nothing big or important happened. Maybe that’s why it was a good week. The weather is getting colder. No matter the weather, I think this is going to be a long, long winter.

  Noel

  September 17, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  Looking through a National Geographic magazine at the doctor’s office, I saw a picture of a boa constrictor that had swallowed a pig whole, and I thought, That looks just like me. Well, without the scales and fangs. I’m huge. Someone in the doctor’s office asked me if my husband wanted a boy or a girl. I told her that he was fine with either. I feel so alone. I’m so tempted to reach out to Peter, but I won’t. I’ve made enough mistakes in my life. If he loves me, he’ll come back to me. If he doesn’t love me, why would I want him to?

  Noel

  DECEMBER 18

  I woke early the next morning. Rachel was still sleeping, so I wrote her a note, then put on my bathing suit and went out to the pool. I was still hurting from the night before. I was seething with jealousy and there was no reason for me to believe that she would leave him. Part of me didn’t even want to see her.

  There were only a handful of guests in the pool area and only one other person actually in the pool.

  I jumped in and started swimming laps. About a half hour later I noticed that Rachel had come out. She waved at me. I swam over to the side of the pool. She looked like she felt better than she had the night before. She looked lighter.

  “Don’t wear yourself out,” she said, crouching down near the edge of the pool. “I was thinking, since we have the time, maybe we should hike Camelback. Want to? The concierge says it takes about two hours each way. She gave me a map.”

  “I’m game,” I said. I got out and went back to the room and got dressed. As I walked out of the bathroom, Rachel was sitting on the couch.

  “How are you feeling today?” I asked.

  She looked at me with soft eyes. “I still feel bad about my behavior last night. You’ve been nothing but good to me.” She shook her head. “It was the guilt. And I took it out on you.”

  “We don’t need to talk about it,” I said. “I understand.”

  She sm
iled a half smile. “At least one of us does.”

  I took her hand to pull her up from the couch. “Let’s go climb the mountain.” I lifted her.

  After she was standing, she still clung to my hand. She smiled awkwardly, then let go. “Sorry.”

  We stopped at a sundries shop in the resort for lip balm, sunscreen, and water. I bought myself a hat and Rachel a bandana, which I helped her wrap around her head. She looked really cute.

  We parked near the base of the mountain and took the Cholla Trail to the summit. The trail was well marked and the landscape was rugged and beautiful with saguaro cacti popping up around the mountain.

  We made it to the craggy summit in a little more than an hour and a half. We had a 365-degree view of Phoenix, a checkered grid of dusty green flora, red tile roofs, and blue swimming pools. From this vantage, Phoenix looked like anything but Christmas. There was a nice, steady breeze, and I sat down on a flat, wide rock to take it in.

  There were others on the summit, at least a dozen or more hikers, and they were generous with their water. One man had carried a dozen bottles up just to hand out along the way. He told me that just two months earlier a man from France had died of sunstroke near the summit. He hadn’t thought to bring any water with him.

  Rachel walked around the summit and, not surprisingly, several men flirted with her. She was laughing with them, innocently, but it still felt like little pinpricks on my heart. I kept waiting for her to come sit by me but she never did. Finally I got up. “We better go back down.”

  “Wait,” she said, walking over. “I want to get a picture of us.”

  She beckoned one of the flirting men over to take her phone. Clearly a body builder, he was wearing a tank top that exposed muscular arms the size of my thighs. He switched her phone to take a selfie. “Sorry,” he said. “Got a picture of me. You can keep it, no charge.”

  Rachel slid up next to me on the rock. “Okay, do it right this time,” she said. Even though she had apologized about last night, I still felt cautious and was being less physical with her. Or maybe she was being less physical with me and I was reacting cautiously. Either way, our pose looked anything but natural. Finally she leaned back against me and said in a tone that could have been flippant or earnest—I couldn’t discern which—“It’s okay if you act like you like me.”

  Without saying anything I put my arm around her. Rachel made the man take about a dozen pictures. She thanked him, then sat back down on the rock next to me and offered me a bottle of water. “Have some water.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Drink,” she said. “That’s an order.”

  I took the bottle and drank half of it, then handed it back. “Happy?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be happy?” she said, standing. “I’m with you.” She took my hand. “Let’s go.”

  It was almost one when we got back to the hotel. I took a quick shower, then went out to the suite’s living room. Rachel was waiting for me. We walked out to the front. I had called for my car and it was parked next to the valet desk.

  “Do you need me to look up the address again?” Rachel asked.

  “No. I’ve got it.”

  I pulled out of the resort’s parking lot, and we headed off for Mesa.

  It was Sunday and the Phoenix traffic was considerably lighter than it had been the day before. We arrived at my father’s house ten minutes early. This time a white Subaru Impreza was parked in the driveway.

  “Nervous?” Rachel asked.

  I looked at her and forced a smile. “Why would I be nervous?”

  She looked at me sympathetically. “What are you most nervous about?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, why am I even here?”

  “The same reason I’m looking for my mother. You want to know yourself.”

  “I’m not him.”

  “No, but he’s part of you.”

  I took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s get this over with.” I looked at her. “You’re okay waiting in the car? I may be a while.”

  “That’s all right. If you’re long, I’ll go for a walk.”

  “I’ll leave the keys.”

  She grinned. “You mean, just in case we need to make a quick getaway.”

  I grinned back. “Exactly.”

  I opened my door. I walked up to the front of the house. The front door opened before I could ring the bell. My father stood in the doorway. I knew it was him instantly. He was still handsome, though he was completely bald. Actually, he had no facial hair, including eyebrows and eyelashes. My mind was flooded with a myriad of thoughts. Cancer. Was he dying? Was this why he was so eager to see me? Deathbed repentance?

  Other than his lack of hair he looked healthy. He had bright eyes and a slight paunch of a stomach that comfortably filled out his khaki slacks and the short-sleeved Tommy Bahamas Hawaiian shirt he was wearing. For a moment neither of us spoke. Then his eyes welled. “Jacob.”

  I swallowed, my feelings spinning around like a wheel of fortune, waiting to land on something. “Scott.”

  We just stood there, neither of us sure what to do next. His wife, or at least the woman I’d spoken with the day before, walked up behind him. She was smiling. “Scott, why don’t you ask your son in?”

  It was like he had suddenly woken from a trance. “Of course. Come in. Please.”

  “Thank you.” I stepped inside. The house was cool and bright inside. Skylights allowed the sun in and the interior design was modern and clean.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Scott said.

  “Sure. I’ll have a beer if you have one.”

  “I’ll get it,” the woman said.

  “This is my wife, Gretchen,” Scott said.

  “We met yesterday,” I said.

  “It’s good to see you again,” she said. She turned to Scott. “Did you want something to drink?”

  “Please,” he said. “A beer too.” He turned back to me. “So, have a seat.” He gestured to a couch, a light-gray sectional with chrome legs and bright-crimson accent pillows. On one of the side tables was an eight-by-ten framed photograph of my father and me. We were standing on the porch of my childhood home, me in a coat and hat, my father holding my hand.

  Lying on the glass coffee table in front of us, next to a porcelain figurine of Santa Claus, was a hardcover copy of my latest book. I guessed he had put it there so I would see it. Probably the photograph as well.

  I sat down, and he sat close to me in a matching chaise. His eyes were still red. I could tell that he felt awkward, but I could also tell that he was glad to see me.

  Still, neither of us knew what to say. It’s not like there’s some approved script for this. I thought, It’s a shame I haven’t written about something like this in one of my books. At least I’d have something to fall back on.

  Scott was the first to bridge the gap. “So, what brings you to Phoenix?”

  “You,” I said.

  He just nodded.

  “How have you been?” I asked.

  “I’m okay.” He gestured to his head. “Lost all my hair.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Yeah. Testicular. That chemo took all my hair.”

  “Did it help?”

  “The doctors think they got it all. Old age aside, I feel pretty good.”

  “That’s good,” I said.

  His head bobbed a little in agreement. “So, you live in Coeur d’Alene?”

  “How did you know?”

  He gestured to my book. “It’s in the back of your book.” He smiled. “I’ve read your books. All of them. They’re excellent. You certainly didn’t get that talent from me.”

  Gretchen walked in with two mugs filled with a dark amber beer. “This is Scott’s favorite.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Thank you, honey,” Scott said.

  After she left, I took a drink and said, “You always keep my book on the table?”

  He grinned. “I put it out because you were coming.”<
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  “Honesty,” I said, nodding. “And the picture of me?”

  “No, that’s always been there. Has since we moved here twenty years ago.”

  I let that sink in. “So, what are you doing now for work?”

  “I’m semiretired, but I still do a little in social work. I’m a consultant. I work with hospitals and their mental health workers. I was in Tucson yesterday. It keeps me busy. And you? Book writing keep you busy?”

  “Book writing, promoting, all the junk that comes with it.”

  “It sounds exciting.”

  “It has its moments.”

  The moment fell into silence. We both took another drink. Then Scott leaned back in his chair. “Thank you for coming. When Gretchen told me that you had come by, well, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I was hoping to see you at your mother’s funeral. I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t, but I was hoping. I hear she left you the house.”

  “I’ve been cleaning it.”

  He looked at me curiously. “Why?”

  “Because it’s a mess. She was a hoarder.”

  “I know; I meant, why you? You’re an important man. You could hire someone to do that.”

  “I guess I thought I’d dig through the relics myself. Maybe answer some questions.”

  “I can see it being cathartic,” he said. “Has it helped?”

  I took a drink, then set the mug down on the napkin. “Not really. But maybe it’s good to confront the pain.”

  He nodded knowingly. “Would you like to ask me anything?”

  I looked at him for a moment. Then the words just shot out of my mouth, the verbal equivalent of projectile vomiting. “Yeah. Why did you leave me there?”

  The words hung like smoke in the air between us. He looked down and his face fell with sorrow. He took a drink, wiped his mouth, then took another. Then he looked at me with red eyes. “Because I was stupid. At the time, I thought it was for the best.” He exhaled. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions, right?”