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“That was a clear Wizard of Oz reference.”
“I read books, Skye.” Actually my mother read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to Ben and me at bedtime. The word “wonderful” was dropped for the movie.
“Anyway,” she continues, “it hopped away from me again and again, and it was great fun to follow it, until I realized I had no idea where I was. I was shorter than the corn, and all around me was more corn. I freaked out. I can still feel my little heart pounding against my chest. It was like my whole body became my heartbeat. I started running in no particular direction and kept tripping over roots and stalks.”
She’s clearly agitated just telling the story. Part of me wants to stop her. Her discomfort makes me feel uncomfortable myself. She stops talking for a moment, inhales slowly. Exhales. Then—
“I started screaming bloody murder, and eventually I ran into a scarecrow and knocked myself out. The next thing I remember is waking up in my bed with my mother next to me holding a clammy washcloth on my forehead.”
“So they found you.”
“They did. I wasn’t very far from the yard. It just seemed far to a frightened little girl.”
I understand better than she realizes, and I’m moved—moved that she shared something that obviously still frightens her to this day. She went out of her comfort zone to tell me this story, and she’ll be rewarded. I think about telling her how much her little story means to me. I think about grabbing her and kissing her senseless. I think about the feelings flowing through me, how they’re new and vibrant and all linked to her. I think about all of this, and then I say, simply, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”
…
I’m back in the office by three thirty, and I have a rare couple of hours without meetings. I tell Claire that I don’t want to be disturbed, and I close the door and sit behind my desk.
After returning a couple of phone calls that can’t wait, I sit back and put my feet up on my desk. I rarely relax in the office, but Skye’s story of the cornfield haunts me.
It haunts me as much as my own childhood, which I don’t let myself think about often. Ben tries to talk to me about it once in a while, but I always tell him to shut up.
He does.
The older-brother card still works when it comes to discussing the past.
Seeing my brother and father every day has become as natural to me as air. I’d take a bullet for my brother. As for Dad? He wasn’t a perfect father. Far from it. But I’ve moved past his shortcomings as a parent and husband. He’s an asset to the company. He’s more than proven his worth.
Still…
Skye’s story…
And little Benji at the food bank.
Though I finance the place and volunteer, I rarely let myself think about those days when Ben and I would walk in there with our mother, each of us holding one of her hands, part of her lovely face always hidden by a scarf. Most of the time the volunteers were kind.
Except for once.
…
“Come on, Brady,” Momma said, urging me along.
I’d stopped to watch a teenage girl with a new puppy. The puppy was wriggling out of her arms and wagging its tail. It had brown fur and striking blue eyes. I couldn’t stop looking at it.
“The puppy, Momma,” I said.
“You know we can’t have a puppy. Now, come on.”
Momma always said we couldn’t afford a dog, but dogs were free. You could go to the pound and get one. I didn’t understand.
Frowning, I left the puppy with its new owner, wishing I could feel the love of a puppy’s kisses on my face. Wishing I could throw a ball and have it bring it back to me and then wag its little tail.
We walked into the shelter. The line was short today. That was a good thing. Until—
“Hurry up, lady!” a gray-haired woman said to Momma. “We ain’t got all day here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Momma said. “Come on, Brady, Benji.”
