Carrie Weaver - The Road To Echo Point

Ian shifted, cleared his throat.

“I hadn’t seen her for a while. Been on the road. I should have figured it out sooner. Not Vince.”

A twinge of remorse nagged at her. She’d done this. She’d made this guy worry more than he already did. He didn’t deserve it, any more than she did.

But the touchy-feely confidences had to stop. Because if they didn’t, then she’d have to reciprocate, tell him something deep, dark, revealing. And if she started, where would she end? Her stomach rolled at the very thought.

“Okay, I get the gist. Prodigal son is racked with guilt, throws away a promising career to care for his mother. Very commendable. More than I’d do in the same situation.”

“I don’t want sympathy. You asked about the sports stuff and I told you.”

“Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his big leather chair. “No? That’s probably what makes you so damn successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortune.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t create the system. I’m just damn good at what I do.”

“I’m sure you are.”

VI MUMBLED obscenities around the pen clenched between her teeth. The computer screen went blank again, only to be replaced by gibberish. For the second time today.

There was a tap at her door. “Ten o’clock. Your shift.”

Not already. She’d barely made a dent in the files she’d ferried in from work. There were a couple demand packets to review along with adjuster recommendations for settlement. Not to mention twenty or better status reports, case reserves and the usual inter-office B.S. to go through.

“In a minute,” she lisped around the pen.

This time the rapping was louder. Hard knuckles. “Vi, ten o’clock. Get a move on.”

Sighing, she removed the pen. “I’m coming already. Don’t get your shorts in a wad.”

Silence.

Maybe just one more file.

“Vi. Now.”

“Oh, all right.” She threw one last look at the computer screen and left the room.

Ian gave her barely enough room to squeeze through the doorway into the hall. He waited, arms crossed, ready to escort her to her own personal hell.

Frustration made her middle finger itch, the thumb and three other fingers started to bend of their own accord. She reminded herself that obscene gestures got her nowhere. Clamping her rebellious fingers into a tight fist, she rapped on Daisy’s door. “It’s me, Vi. Can I come in?”

“Go away. I don’t know a Vi.”

This was turning into a nightly ritual. Even though Vi had been there nearly a week, Daisy could not, or would not, understand that Vi was there to help. She refused to call her by name, always referring to her in the third person, like she wasn’t there. And then it was usually to accuse her of some heinous crime, such as stealing her paintings, locking her in her room or making a mess. A mess, coincidentally, that only occurred when Daisy was around.

“She’ll get used to you,” Ian assured her for the hundredth time, as he rapped gently on the wooden door. “Mom, Vi’s coming in now. She’ll keep you company, just like Annabelle did.”

“Don’t need company.”

“Sure you do. And I betcha she’ll even sing to you,” he wheedled.

It was the only way Vi could get into the room. The only way the woman would accept her. Good thing she had a passable voice.

“The Daisy song?” came the muffled reply.

Vi groaned.

Not again.

“Go on,” Ian urged, as he landed an elbow to her ribs.

“I’ll sing you the Daisy song,” she promised.

The door swung open and she was admitted to the inner sanctum. “I’ll bring you a daisy a day, dear…” she sang. “I’ll bring you a daisy a day.”

It was a lovely old ballad, all about the endurance of love. The suitor vowed to bring his love a daisy a day. And after she died, he brought a daisy a day to her grave. The first time she’d heard Ian sing it to Daisy, goose bumps had prickled her arms. Full moon, PMS, the Celtic part of her soul, the Hispanic part of her soul, whatever the reason, the song always made her throat ache, her eyes mist.

Daisy climbed into bed as Vi sang, humming right along. Framed by the crisp white pillowcase, her face relaxed, the lines and worries smoothed away. Her smile was angelic, her eyes unfocused and dreamy.

Vi usually sang her to sleep, then tiptoed to the daybed tucked away in an alcove. But tonight Daisy didn’t drift off. As Vi sang, the old woman’s eyes became more focused, inquisitive almost.

“You’ve a beautiful voice, dear.”

“Thank you.”

It was the first time Daisy had acknowledged her directly, other than in wild accusations.

“Edward used to sing that song to me.” She sighed, her finger doodling across the patterned chenille bedspread. “He was tall, like Ian. Made me feel so fragile, cherished.”

“Oh. That’s…nice.”

Fragile? People only hurt you if they knew you were fragile. Cherished, now that sounded good. She’d never experienced it, but it sounded good. Safe.

“He’d watch me dance, for hours it seemed. And he’d hum that song. It was as if we were the only two people left on earth. Alone, but so close to Heaven I could almost hear the angels sing.”

“Angels. Sure. You bet. What do angels sound like? Celine Dion? Alicia Keyes maybe?”

Daisy reached out and patted her hand. Her smile was warm, her eyes sparkled. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? It was an allegory, dear. To illustrate my point, about love being the closest thing to Heaven we can find here on earth.”

“An allegory. Sure.” What next, a discussion on the origin of the species? World politics?

“And dance. The next best thing to sex.”

Vi tried to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “You danced? Professionally?”

“I danced. Still do, when the joints allow. Not professionally of course. I met Edward in New York, when I was auditioning for the ballet. It was a wonderful time. I met Edward and knew he was the one. Everything else paled in comparison. Even dancing. We were married by the justice of the peace and left New York without even finding out if I’d made the cuts. It just wasn’t important anymore. Only being with Edward was.”

Daisy’s eyes shone. Edward must have been one helluva guy.

“How’d you give it all up? All your hopes and dreams?”

“New hopes, new dreams. Different, but better in some ways. A family, my own dance studio…”

“Did you ever regret it?”

The other woman’s eyelids drooped, her smile faded. “Only once.”

Vi wanted to shake her, make her explain. But Daisy’s eyelids fluttered shut and she snored lightly.

THE NOISE reached Vi’s ears, as if filtered through layers of cotton. It was a rattle, like a doorknob. Somewhere though the layers, she knew it was important. Something she should do about it. Burglar?

She bolted into a sitting position. The night-light in the hall illuminated the room. No burglar. Whitewashed stucco walls, big rustic beams holding up the ceiling. Ian’s house.

She glanced around the room. Not her room. Her room didn’t have colorful paintings anchored to the walls.

Daisy’s room.

She turned to check Daisy’s bed. Empty. How could that be? It seemed only a moment ago that the woman had drifted off to sleep after reminiscing about her dance studio.

Vi muttered an oath as she swung her legs over the side of the daybed, ignoring the dull throb in her temples. Her bare toes curled away from the cold tile, but she pushed through the discomfort. No time for slippers. The reflective tape was cool, eerie beneath her fingers, as she followed it toward the bathroom. The door was open.