Patchwork to Healing, page 10
She once again stared up at the watermarks and faded, stuck-on stars. The ceiling needed a fresh coat of paint, Rebecca decided.
She sat up with a new determination. Fresh paint. I could do that.
She needed to do a makeover on the house to make it more to her liking, but first she had to come up with a vision, and that was a challenge, considering she had no idea what that vision was.
If she followed in Mrs. Getchel’s path, she’d simply update each room with its current intent, but things had changed. Rebecca should have technology, a learning center, and perhaps even a game room.
Rebecca mulled over the possibilities and became more excited by the minute. Maybe, she thought, she could make the house into a place for teens that would soon transition out of the system; a kind of community center that taught kids how to live successfully on their own. A bridge from foster care to independence. She certainly had the space in the big old house. Would the town of York approve a transition home?
Soon her excitement faded. The daunting task became too enormous for her to do on her own. This irked her immeasurably. By all rights, she shouldn’t have to do any of this alone, but Ben was leaving. And that was that.
Emily, she recalled, had gone through something similar recently, so she at least had her friend as a resource. As Sophie would always say, “One step at a time.” Rebecca would follow that advice.
For now, she thought it best to first figure out where she’d live. She could either move in to the house, or find a more suitable place for just herself, then determined that she really needed an overall plan. Her frustration was settling too deep to think about it anymore for the day.
She flicked off the lights and allowed the ghosts of her childhood to recede into the woodwork.
***
Rebecca, exhausted from the day, couldn’t wait to crawl into bed. She entered her apartment and sloughed off her coat, then traipsed to her room to put on some comfy clothes. She pulled out a pair of worn sweats and threw a hoodie over her head. She slid on her slippers, then headed to the kitchen to make a hot toddy. She added a shot of bourbon to her now microwaved mulled spiced tea, added a squirt of lemon, and a heaping teaspoon of honey. The steam rose to her nose and instantly transported her to a place of comfort. A time when her mom had made her hot tea, and they’d sit for hours in front of the fireplace, piecing together puzzles; a time when crackling fires didn’t scare her. As the smooth warmth of the drink ran down her throat, she savored the moment.
Benjamin Daly intruded yet again into her mind. Why couldn’t she shake him? It was as though she were back in tenth grade, when her crush over him bored into her innermost thoughts. Now, she was a grown woman, and her desire for him had grown in ways she never thought it would.
She’d been with men, in the romantic sense. But those relationships had been fleeting and she’d simply gone through the motions, until the boredom of the situation made her call it quits. No one, except for Benjamin, has filled her with desire and want, but he’d been a fantasy. The fact that she never thought she’d see him again made it safe to indulge in those fantasies, but now that he was here, she needed to stuff them down. He wasn’t interested in her. Why would he? He lived on the romantic island of Kauai, filled with beautiful, bikini-clad women. For all she knew, he already had a girlfriend.
Rebecca curled up in her favorite oversized chair and wrapped her favorite fluffy blanket over her lap to enjoy the rest of her hot toddy. Perhaps it was all for the best that he was leaving. No sense having him stay if he was just going to resent it and be unhappy. She cared too much for him to see him unhappy. Rebecca shrugged at the idea that he was remotely attracted to her, anyway; she was damaged goods.
Rebecca tipped her head back to rest it on the chair back. The nightcap was doing its work; her eyes grew heavy, and she drifted off to sleep.
A dream formed. She was once again a kid. She was playing with her cat outside. Bubbles floated in the wind and a cat jumped to pop each one. Eventually, the bubbles turned to cold water droplets that showered all around her. They didn’t touch her or the cat, but the feline ran away into the now gray-filled air. The sound of crackling surrounded her and intensified. Flames licked at her, lashing at her arms and legs. She woke in a pool of sweat, gasping for air. Hyperventilating, she fought back the need to breathe with the urge to scream, alone in the dark, once again.
It took her a few minutes to realize that she’d been dreaming. The same dream had haunted her for years, but every time, it left doom and despair in its wake. Terror abated, and anger set in. “For once, will you leave me at peace?” she screamed at the phantom interloper. “Just once, I’d like to sleep! Is that too much to ask?”
She flayed and kicked at the blanket to escape the nightmares. She shook as she made her way to her bathroom sink. Rebecca splashed water on her face to snap out of the fear and to wash away the cold sweat that beaded across her forehead, down her neck, and into her cleavage. She ran a brush through her hair and pulled her hair up in an elastic, then stripped down and crawled into bed, praying above all things that the nightmare wouldn’t come again.
Everything was uncomfortable. Her pillow was too stuffed. The bed was too firm. The blankets were too light. She kicked the blankets off her and threw her pillow across the room--as if any of that tantrum was going to help her sleep.
By now, she was wide awake, cursing at the night. Well, Rebecca, it only serves you right. You prayed you wouldn’t have nightmares, and now you can’t sleep. Prayer answered.
Rebecca threw on her robe and slippers, then trudged across the creaking floors. Her eyes adjusted to the night with the help of the glow from the full moon, which guided her path toward the kitchen so she could get a glass of water. The next thing she knew, she was in her sewing room and perusing her stacks of fabric. She was grateful that she’d thought to put shelving units up before her fabric obsession became too great. Now, she could see all her pink, blues, greens—a rainbow of colors. Creating a new quilt was just a matter of matching designs at this point. She thought of getting a head start for her next project, and pulled a selection of fabrics for the next child on the list she’d received from the Office of Child and Family Services via Mrs. Getchel. Rebecca jotted down a quick note: see about getting a direct contact with OCFS.
She’d been told Katrina was a twelve-year-old girl who had a large birthmark that covered a third of her face. She’d been tormented and teased mercilessly because of it, and Rebecca knew her pain too well. Rebecca’s own abnormalities were mostly covered, and to this day, she had a hard time wearing anything other than high necks and long sleeves. She hated the questioning looks and assumed Katrina had it worse because she couldn’t hide hers.
One positive thing Rebecca had learned about Katrina was that she loved to read. Rebecca had been quite a reader too, but she didn’t wise up to that until she was older. Had she realized the pleasure earlier, it would have helped her through some of the worst times of her life. She wouldn’t have lain in her hospital bed and foster homes feeling sorry for herself; she would have had an escape from the loss of her parents. Maybe reading would also have given her another way to avoid her deep, debilitating pain and guilt.
Katrina S. would have a quilt that would incorporate two things that would, hopefully, help her on her journey: comfort, and happy ever-afters. Rebecca’s creative mind would design what looked like a bookshelf, filled with book bindings--some laid down, some upright, others falling over. The books would appear in many colors, prints, widths, and heights. She would leave the titles blank to show Katrina’s imagination. She would embroider only a few exceptions: one book would be titled Katrina S., another would be titled I’m on Purpose, and the last, I Am Beautiful. All in all, the quilt would contain a hundred books, with twenty-five on each shelf. Rebecca was excited for the challenge of making the shelf unit look three dimensional. She only wished she could see Katrina’s expression upon receiving it.
By now, she grew weary, and her bed called her. She was grateful for a slow schedule for the day and only needed to place a few orders and put away some deliveries. Tomorrow, she’d keep it simple. No stress, no overthinking, and no regrets.
Dreams weaved in and out until the break of dawn, but this time, they were as if she were being guided in the way of her future. A vision solidified in her mind that she would build a bridge for kids who were about to age out and had aged out. She wouldn’t be a mother figure or grandmother figure. She’d be a mentor, teacher, and caring resource.
When her eyes opened, Rebecca was surprised that she wasn’t exhausted. If anything, she was invigorated. She opened the notes app on her phone and tapped in her inspired thoughts about building a bridge for kids so she wouldn’t forget. Yes, this could work. She could envision each room’s purpose—her purpose—and for the first time in a long time, she felt like the shoe was a perfect fit.
Chapter 14
For a change of scenery, Ben popped into the local coffee shop. Grounds was bustling. A gathering of ladies sat at one of the larger tables, chattering away. The smiling server named Jillian delivered another round of hot cocoas. As she set each one down, stating that she’d made them with her special ingredient: love. They giggled their thanks and ate it up.
Ben chose a quiet corner with a comfortable-looking leather chair where he could see out the window. He pulled his computer out of his bag, set out a note pad, and his pen, then meandered through the other customers to find his place in line. Before long, Jillian greeted him with an exuberant hello.
“You’re new around here, aren’t you?” she asked with a swish of her ponytail.
“Sort of?” Ben replied.
“We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting.” She stuck out her hand for a shake.
“I’m Jillian, the owner here at Grounds.”
“Name’s Ben, Ben Daly,” he said as he met her hand.
“You seem familiar,” she said with an upturned corner of her mouth and a tilt of the head. “Family in town?”
Ben smiled at the use of the word family, but he didn’t want to share his life story. “I guess you could say that.”
“Well, either you do or you don’t, Benjamin.” Her use of his formal name and inquisition took him off guard. Outside of his commanding officer in the Navy, he wasn’t used to people talking so directly.
“A woman, that could have been my grandmother passed away, and I’m here to pay my respects.” He couldn’t believe he was answering her questions. It certainly wasn’t any of her business, and he owed her absolutely no explanation, but, he guessed, she had a way of pulling information out of him.
“Oh! You must mean dear Mrs. Getchel, right?” Jillian didn’t wait for a response and kept on. “She was such a lovely lady in the community. We will all miss her kindness and what she did for all those kids over the years. Are you one of her kids—from the foster program?”
Now Ben was beyond taken aback by her directness.
Before he could get a word in, she jumped in again. “What can I get you? It’s on the house. To lose such a person in your life must be sorely felt. Coffee, tea, cacao? I’ll even throw in a cinnamon twist from Proposals.” She stood with her hands on her hips, waiting for his response, and for the life of him, he couldn’t speak. “I’ll surprise you.,” she said, then spun on her heels.
Ben shook his head in astonishment, then went back to his seat. He wanted to understand as much as he could about Becky’s history. He’d found little information online, but Jillian seemed familiar with Mrs. Getchel and her kids. Maybe she knew something about Becky’s past.
A few minutes later, Jillian was at his side with an as promised cinnamon twist, and a mocha latte. “If I can get you anything else, just let me know.”
“Yes, actually, there is something.”
Jillian’s eyes brightened.
“You mentioned Proposals. Do you know them well—the people who work there?” What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, he thought as he peppered her with questions. “Doesn’t everybody?” she replied. “They’re like family to me.”
“Do you know much about Rebecca Mills?”
“Well, I hear she just inherited Mrs. Getchel’s home and fortune, and I say, good for her. She deserves it after all that poor thing’s been through in her life.”
“Oh?” Ben bit back his irritation that word had gotten out; small towns. He couldn’t help himself but to ask. “What happened?”
Jillian leaned in to whisper in his ear. As if gossiping was more acceptable that way. “I read once—or maybe someone told me…” She cocked her head, trying to recall where she’d heard the information, then waved the thought off with a flit of her hands. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I think the poor dear was nearly burned alive, along with her parents.” She stood to wave at another customer coming through the door, then turned back to meet Ben’s gaze. “Can you imagine?”
“No, I can’t.” A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.
She went on to say how grateful she was that Becky had found her way to work at Proposals. Said they were good people and she should know because she, herself, was practically like family. Seemed she dates Duncan Philips, whom Ben remembered as Becky’s accountant friend. As she continued to chatter, her words became background noise; all he could think about was Becky.
He pictured her as a kid dealing with a scary situation like that, and he could only imagine what her scarred body would be like as a vision played over in his mind. If true, he thought, he now understood her need to wear long sleeves. He’d been burned with the butt of a cigarette many times over as a child, and simply couldn’t image the pain she must have felt, never mind learning her parents had perished in that fire.
He’d witnessed survivor’s remorse, both in the service and search and rescue operations. It was never an easy thing to get over, and he felt for her.
“Well, Benjamin Daly,” Jillian said. “I’ll check back in with you in a bit to see if you need anything else.”
He wondered, as she flitted off, if she repeated names to remember them, or if it was just her quirky nature. He took a bite of his cinnamon twist. Flakey pastry stuck to his fingers, and he licked them absentmindedly.
He’d intended to check his emails and get some work done. He figured it was the least he could do since he wasn’t there to help, but Miss Jillian was a fountain of information, and her story piqued his curiosity. For all he knew, it was all rumor, but it made sense, and Jillian had some connection. Even so, he clicked around on his laptop for confirmation. He guessed at the timeline and searched for house fires in Maine with deaths. A headline read, Devastating Loss of Unbearable Proportions Hits Kennebunk Family, jumped off the page, inviting him to read more. He scrolled through the article, but no names were mentioned. It simply said, a professor and his wife had died at the scene, and a minor was taken to the hospital with life-threatening burns and smoke inhalation.
Ben leaned back in the leather chair and stretched his arms over his head before settling his clasped hands together behind his head. He looked on as Grounds buzzed with conversation. Jillian strutted her way to his seat.
She peered into his empty cup and picked up his plate. “Can I get you a refill, Benjamin?”
“I’m all set, but thanks.”
“Are you sure? I hate to see empty plates and cups.”
“Tell you what, I’ll take a cinnamon twist to go.”
“I should have known. Most people can’t eat just one of Emily’s twists. I’ll get that packaged right up.” She scampered off in the direction of the group of ladies, removing plates along the way.
Ben once again leaned forward and clicked on some additional news articles, but no further information regarding the professor, his wife, or the minor appeared, and so he called it a day. Jillian returned with a white paper bag containing his twist. He dug a couple bills out of his wallet and was about to hand them to Jillian, when one of the boisterous ladies approached, swaying her weight around.
“Jillian, I’ve got this,” she said in a commanding voice.
Ben stood to meet her, realizing that she’d been one of the ladies in the group near him. “No, I couldn’t—I…”
“Now Benjamin,” Jillian said. “Don’t take away Mrs. Bennington’s joy.”
At that, Ben had no response. Jillian’s comment completely derailed him and he felt no other choice but to accept the gift from a stranger.
“How nice of you, Mrs. Bennington.” Jillian said.
“I confess. I overheard you say you were here to pay your respects to Norma Getchel—God rest her soul.” Mrs. Bennington made the sign of the cross over her heaving chest. “Please accept my condolences. It’s the least I can do for one of her kids.” Her words were spoken so loudly that he was sure the entire population of Grounds heard.
“Thank you for your kindness, Misses….” he hesitated, picking up on a cutting edge to her condolences, while he tried to recall what Jillian had said her name was.
“Mrs. Margo Bennington.” She extended her hand, and for a moment, Ben thought she was expecting him to bow and kiss it, but he gave it a shake.
“Mrs. Bennington.” He nodded as if to say thank you and good day, but she didn’t move.
“It was so good of you to be here for Norma’s service.” She tsked. “To have one of her poor kids carry Norma to her final resting place would have meant the world to her. Why, I bet most of the people at her memorial were a part of your—family.” Her pursed lips and her condescending tone didn’t sit well with Ben, but he did his best to swallow it down and act unaffected. “Lord only knows what will happen now. I wager to guess her home will become an estate for some nice family instead of—well—you know.”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Mrs. Bennington. We plan to do whatever we can to bring her home back to life, helping kids from all walks of life,” he said with a coolness that made Mrs. Bennington shudder.
