Chapter 19

© Copyright 2007 by Elizabeth Delayne

The last Tuesday of July, five weeks to the day after Chad delivered it, Joanna finally forced herself to deal with Bethany’s box. She was a little bored, a little needy. Rod was tied up in a business deal in California, his mind and time focused in on what he needed to do. They still talked on the phone, but their conversations were brief, little etchings of time that he made for her in his schedule.

Telling herself she had no right to feel neglected, she cleared the kitchen table and set the box on top. With trembling fingers, she traced the cardboard flaps, taking slow, cleansing breaths, scolding herself for being a coward.

The doorbell interrupted Joanna’s mental lecture just as she wrenched the flaps free.

“Steven,” Joanna welcomed brightly before she saw the pale look on her brother’s face. A knot formed in her stomach and she remembered a day, so close in her mind with the box opened in the kitchen, when he’d come for her before, his face ashen—the day Bethany and her little boy ... .

The memories were so fresh that she stumbled a bit trying to decipher time. “What’s wrong? Helen—”

“No, Helen’s fine. The boys are fine. It’s—” he reached out with his right hand and gently touched her left arm uncertainly. “Why don’t we sit down?”

He walked passed her into their family living room. Joanna shut the door and followed him, feeling her hands shake as she tried to remain calm. She lowered herself slowly to the sofa when he sat down.

“Matt called,” he stumbled a bit, his voice deeper, a tone somewhere between gentle and lost, “he said mom—it’s about mom, Joanna, she’s ... she died yesterday morning.”

“Died?” Joanna repeated the word, not sure if the sound actually left her lips. The air wasn’t entering or exiting her lungs. “How? When—mom? I ... .”

The words simply bounced around in her head. Her mother was ... dead?

She folded her hands together in her lap—tried to sort through the confusion in her mind. No, her mom ... she had not seen her mom. No one knew where their mother was. She had to be fine ... alive.

Steven waited patiently, and she saw the grief and uncertainty that mirrored her own eyes.

“How ... ?”

Helplessly, Steven shrugged. “Apparently she’s had cancer for awhile. She died at a hospital in Wichita Falls. Just slipped off ... suddenly, Matt said. The doctors called him according to her request. She didn’t want us to know, he said. She didn’t want us to suffer.”

“She was all alone—was she all alone?”

Steven met Joanna’s confused, hurting eyes with his own pained ones. “I don’t know—” he shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “I just don’t know. We weren’t with her. We should have been with her.”

Joanna hated seeing Steven so weak. He’d been so much of her strength, so solid, especially in the last six years. She suddenly felt helpless ... so small.

“Matt called Jeff last night after he found out and wired him money for a ticket. He’s on his way in from France—should be here by tomorrow afternoon. Helen’s finding a sitter for the boys so she can help you prepare the house. We’ll bury mom near granddad in the family plot.”

The word family brought tears to Joanna’s eyes. “Do we ... has anyone heard from dad. Does he know? Does anyone know where he is?”

The answer was obvious, but the need to ask was instinctive. Their father was gone.

“I don’t know.” Steven’s voice caught and he leaned back against the sofa, trying to pull himself under control. His eyes scanned the room, a room full of so many memories for all of them.

Joanna reached for his hand and they sat in silence, neither knowing what words to say or if there were any words. Their eyes roamed, memories, good and bad, pouring into their thoughts.

Finally, Steven stood, turning to Joanna, in control and a little detached. “Will you be okay until Helen gets here? She’ll be in by tonight.”

He rubbed his hands over his face, as if it would brush away the weariness, “Everyone will probably stay here. It’s easiest.”

Joanna nodded, feeling numb, wishing half-heartedly that she didn’t have to deal with family when needed to be alone.

“You’ll be okay for a little while?” he asked, his eyes probing hers. She nodded again, unable to speak, knowing she needed the quiet time.

She stayed on the sofa long after Steven left, letting herself weep in her sorrow. “Mom,” she whispered hoarsely into the empty room, “where have you been all this time when we could have been together? Why did you have to die by yourself? Why?”



After Helen finally went to bed, exhausted, Joanna walked the large, quiet house alone. She looked at things she had avoided seeing all day, noticing the faint scratches from little boys fighting and worn edges from time and neglect.

Putting Bethany’s box away unopened, Joanna sat at her kitchen table alone and stared at the cold cup of coffee she fixed out of habit. It reminded her of her mother, the countless mornings a cup of coffee would grow cold while her mother smoked her first two cigarettes of the day. The dark liquid stared back at her, reflecting an emptiness she felt that she couldn’t quite sort through.

Ann Berkley ... mom. My mom died this morning.

She repeated the phrase over and over to herself, trying to make it seem real. Six long years had passed since she had seen her mother—since anyone had heard from her beyond a few short post card messages.

Rubbing her face with tired hands, Joanna heard the soft tinkling of her charm bracelet. She turned her wrist, taking comfort in each of the small symbols of Rod’s love, holding onto it desperately. She hadn’t been able to take the bracelet off, even to protect it as she and Helen worked to get the house ready for the family to return. She wanted to remember his voice, his assurance of his love.

She’d called him minutes after Steven left, nearly hanging up the phone just when he picked up on his cell, unsure if calling him was the best thing to do with him in the middle of a business deal.

“Hello?”

“Um—”

“Joanna?” he guessed, his voice sharpened. “What is it?”

“It’s ...” It had been so hard to find the words, to tell him the unbelievable truth when she was having a hard time accepting it. “My mom—Rod, my mom died. She’s dead.”

She’d stunned him, but he’d pulled out of it much better then she had, talking to her over a long distance mobile call for a good half hour before he felt that she was handling things well enough that he could disconnect. He called repetitiously after that, informing her of his plans as he made them, when his plane would be in, when he stopped for something to eat.

She couldn’t remember much of their conversations—still in shock, feelings and memories reeling over and over in her tired mind.

For awhile she had felt nothing. Making beds and preparing the bathrooms had been routine. Her concentration was centered on things as she dealt with them. With nothing left to do, she simply stared at the cold cup of coffee, her eyes occasionally lifting to look around the kitchen, the memories returning hard.

So many years had passed ... how could Ann Berkley’s presence be so strong?

“Oh mama,” Joanna moaned, “why couldn’t things have stayed the same? Why’d you have to change and go away ... why did you have to die all alone?”


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