Chapter 6

Eighteen Years Ago - Age Eight

I was entirely too old to believe in this sort of thing. Even all the kids at school in my class were saying there was no such thing as Santa Claus. How could a guy only come out once a year, on a flying sleigh, and give gifts to every kid in the world? Come on! Though I didn't tell anyone, not even Daddy, I wrote a letter to Santa one last time, just in case. I had even talked Daddy into taking me to the Concord Mall to see him. Because if Santa was real, he may be my only hope.

I was different from everyone else. Most kids asked for video games or movies or toys. I asked for my mother to come home.

On Christmas morning, I lay in bed, waiting to hear Daddy's footsteps in the hall. I hadn't slept much last night, but I was sure I hadn't heard reindeer hooves on the roof either. Maybe Santa wasn't real. Maybe I should just give it up.

Silent as a mouse, Daddy poked his head into my room. "Ah, you are awake. Should we go see if the jolly fat guy came?"

I grinned, threw off my covers, and ran down the stairs.

Only when I nearly plowed the tree down did I stop and look around. My heart started to deflate like a wilted balloon. No Mom. I rushed to the kitchen. No Mom. There was one place to left to look. Drawing open the front door, I glanced outside. The cold hit my face, then the defeat. No Mom.

"What're you doing, darlin'? The presents are under the tree." Daddy's voice indicated he thought I was crazy.

I sucked in a breath. Don't cry on Christmas morning and ruin it for Daddy. I bit my lip. "Just getting your newspaper."

Setting the Charlotte Observer on the coffee table, I eyed all the presents Daddy bought me. Some were from "Santa," some from him. Ian's mama had taken me a few weeks ago to buy presents for Daddy, so he would have some from me, too. I had bought a bottle of perfume for my mother, just in case Santa pulled through, which I'd hidden under my bed.

"Merry Christmas, Daddy," I said, when I really just wanted to crawl back in bed. Because Santa wasn't real, my mother wasn't coming home, and the magic was gone.

Present

I stepped out of the shower with a towel around me and checked the time. Nine o'clock. I still had an hour before I met the kids for class. I wiped the steam off the mirror and surveyed my reflection. My mother's blue eyes looked back at me.

My mother. I was still reeling from the intrusion. What if I couldn't keep the house? I wanted no part of my so-called mother. I'd gotten over the void long ago. Moved on. Except now, things were different. Maybe I should call her and try to be nice. If nothing else, try to gauge what she really wanted.

Matt wanted to talk to me, too. Perhaps he was feeling neglected since we didn't see each other often. Or maybe it was just me, being my paranoid self, throwing up a roadblock when one wasn't needed.

Foregoing makeup, I decided to visit Dee before class. I had this restless sort of energy I needed to get out. Dee would do that for me.

When Dee had moved to Wylie our freshman year of high school, I'd been immediately threatened by her. She was energetic and fun and wild. Everything I wasn't. I'd had a strange feeling Dee would pull Rick and Ian from my world, take them from me, making me obsolete. It had always been the three of us growing up, doing everything together. A newcomer threatened my bubble.

I should've had more confidence in our friendship, our bond. Instead of driving a wedge between us, she'd completed us. Dee could distract me from my troubles. She was a friend to talk to about girly issues I couldn't with Ian and Rick.

I put on cut-off jeans, splattered with paint in every color, and pulled on a white T-shirt. That was the beauty in being an art teacher. No one cared what I wore. During the regular school year, I was more conservative, but this was my Saturday art therapy class. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door.

Heavy humidity slammed me immediately. The crickets and fireflies from last night were gone and replaced with the calls of a whippoorwill and the heron that was frequenting Lake Wylie recently. Breathing deep, I took it all in for a moment to compose myself, and rounded the car port next to the side of the house, my feet crunching on the gravel drive.

Bypassing the Jeep I only drove in winter and my reliable Cavalier, I went right to my dad's 1968 Volkswagen Beetle. Slipping behind the wheel, it started it on the third try, so I gave it a silent hoorah and stroked the dashboard. Someday, it would finally give out on me as everything else did, but I hoped that someday was far away. Climbing out, I put the top down, eying the cherry red paint on the hood.

My mind drifted to when we were five and Daddy had taken a picture of us. Ian had been behind the wheel of this very car, me in the passenger seat with a bottle of champagne. Rick had been in the backseat holding fluted glasses with his feet crossed and propped on the center console. My father had taken the picture in black and white, giving a copy to the boys' parents. Ian's folks had just bought their Seasmoke home in Myrtle after vacationing near there every year.

I could still hear my father's laugh echo as I pulled out onto the street.

I parked in Rick and Dee's driveway, cutting the engine as Dee jogged out to meet me. Their two-story home was on the edge of town in one of Wylie's newer subdivisions. It rose high on a hill, which was what had sold Dee in the first place. There weren't any beautiful flowers scattered around, like at my home, since Dee liked the way the structure was on its own. Rick mowed the lawn like clockwork, unlike at my place. A few bushes lined the red brick, also trimmed routinely.

"It must be summer if the bugs are out."

I laughed at the reference to my car and gave my friend a long hug. It had been a few weeks since I had seen her, as they'd just gotten back from a trip to Virginia to visit Dee's family. "I can't stay long."

Dee made a pout face and gestured to the door. I followed her up the stone steps and into the house. Rick rushed up, a wide grin on his face, and before I could brace for impact, he threw me over his shoulder and spun me around. I screeched and slapped at his back as the room whirled around me.

"Come on," Dee insisted. "You're going to make her throw up all over my clean floor."

Rick set me down as I placed a hand on my head to stop the spinning. He grabbed a rubber band from his wrist and pulled back his shoulder-length, sandy blond hair. His features were softer than Ian's, making it difficult to take him seriously when he grew angry, which rarely happened. Rick's mellow temperament seemed to contradict his pure Irish heritage. Leprechauns didn't get angry, I suppose. Maybe I'd paint him as a leprechaun one day.

"I thought you had class," he said.

"Your place is on the way to the school." I shrugged. "Just wanted to say hi and bug you for a minute."

He frowned. "Girl talk or regular conversation?"

"Menstrual cycles and bikini waxes."

"In that case," he tugged on his wife's long, brown curly hair, and gave her a resounding kiss on her round cheek, "I'll leave you to it."

Dee smiled as he ran up the stairs. "I'll teach him manners someday."

I laughed and plopped on the couch, dangling my feet off the arm. The clock in the corner of the room ticked, and I loved its lonely, miserable sound. Dee had their house adorned with clocks, moons, and suns - her three obsessions. The large space had two walls painted burgundy. It would feel small if not for the enormous window facing east. The kitchen, which couldn't be seen from where I was perched, was on the other side of the house, where the aroma of one of Dee's baking creations lofted in.

"What smells so good?"

"Apple pie. Rick's parents are coming for dinner." Dee had a look on her face that said she wasn't buying my "stopping by" story. "What's up?"

Not bothering with the "nothing's wrong" automatic response, I sighed. "Matt said he loved me yesterday. Then he announced he was coming into town Sunday and has some news. He wants to talk."

Dee appeared to mull that over. "Last I checked, that's what people in relationships do."

In contrast to myself, Dee could sit and talk for hours about nothing. I would rather listen and nod appropriately. I knew Dee wondered if I ever really listened. I did. Just because I'd rather keep some things private didn't mean I couldn't socialize. "Very funny. I wonder if he's moving closer? Or seeing someone else?"

She leaned back in her chair. "Do you want either?"

"We agreed to casual, you know? I don't know."

Dee pressed me with an expression that told me she was really picking my brain apart with her eyes. "Maybe he wants more." She leaned forward, forearms on her knees. "Are you ready for that?"

"With Matt?" I thought about it, not liking the anxiety clawing my stomach. "I'll find out what he wants on Sunday," I said instead. "How was Virginia? Your parents? Everything good?"

She rolled her eyes, the avoidance obviously not lost on her. "Everyone's great. They say hello. You better go. It's almost ten."

I checked my watch and stood. "See you soon then. We'll talk more at lunch tomorrow. You can tell me about your trip." I kissed her soundly on the cheek and bellowed upstairs to Rick. "I guess we'll have to get it on later since Dee was home."

Dee smacked me playfully and pushed me toward the door.

A thunderous roar of laughter was Rick's retort from upstairs.

I pulled up to the elementary school I once attended and snatched my bag from the backseat, mentally preparing like I did every Saturday. The kids were already inside with their parents, but when I counted heads, I was missing one. Scanning the room, I discovered who it was. Jon Melbourne. I had gone to grade school with his mother before they moved out of the county. She had been one of the only people who was nice to me in school. Jon may just be absent because his oncologist hadn't released him for class, so I tried not to panic. Sometimes, with aggressive treatment, the doctors wanted the kids in the hospital or to remain in a more sanitary environment to avoid stress and contamination while the immune system was down.

Hiding my dismay, I unlocked the supply closet and put a small canvas by every easel station. The room was too small for a class my size and always smelled like sweaty, rancid gym socks, but it was the only room in the building for art. I opened a window to get some air. There was a board budget meeting coming up and I fully intended to voice a complaint. The arts were the first to be cut, "expeditionary" in their opinion. It was a proven fact that kids who were involved in arts and music excelled in other studies. The hierarchy didn't care. Well, they would when I was through with them. If not for my yearly charity auction, my art therapy class would have been cut years ago.

I'd accepted the teaching position in the York county school district immediately after college. The previous art director had resigned that year, leaving not only the elementary program open, but the high school one as well.

But teaching art wasn't enough for me. When one of my students had been diagnosed with leukemia my first year, I discovered just how much painting got him through it. It had also helped me cope with my father's death. So, I'd proposed my idea for the specialty class to the board, who'd only agreed if I paid for the supplies. That next year, I met Eric Holcomb through the Charlotte Art Museum, and my annual art benefit has thrived since, raising money for treatment, research, and my class.

I looked down when a small hand patted my leg. I bent to Emily's height - a girl from Rock Hill County - who was crying. Most of the kids weren't from Wylie, they came from other towns. When news of my class spread, they'd come from everywhere. Emily's mother, Barb, had her hand resting on her daughter's shoulder, attempting to console the girl.

"Emily, what's the matter?" I kept my voice quiet.

Her bottom lip quivered. "I left my brushes and paint at home. It was on accident."

I smiled gently and pushed her soft brown hair from her face, grateful she still had her hair. "Well, that's quite all right. See, I always have extras." I handed Emily some supplies, delighted the light returned to her eyes.

"That's what I told her but, you know her. Worries over everything."

I nodded at Emily's mother, biting my tongue. The girl had faced death before her third birthday. She had a right to an anxiety disorder.

My art therapy program consisted of children with a cancer diagnosis, mostly terminally ill or in recovery. Occasionally, other children with life threatening illnesses enrolled. Two years ago, I had a pair of siblings who were HIV positive and, last year, a child with cerebral palsy. Emily had a bone marrow transplant three years before.

Though I loved this class, there wasn't a need to expand it more often on the curriculum. I also taught Advanced Painting at the high school three days a week and was back here for Intro to Art at the elementary level twice a week during the regular school year. The board couldn't cut my Saturday afternoon class with the developmentally disabled children due to new legislation, though they did balk about kids from other counties being enrolled. I was still fighting them to separate the autistic kids from the ones with Down syndrome to have two separate lessons. I only taught that class during the school year.

One step at a time.