Hummingbird Lane Page 11

  “My mind is reeling.” Emma grabbed Sophie in a fierce hug. “All these years and now I find out that I’m really, really damaged goods. Even if I could ever be”—she wiped her eyes—“in a relationship, who would have me? Please don’t tell the others. I couldn’t bear the sympathy right now. I need to sit on this for a while before we tell anyone else, not even Rebel.”

  “Whatever you need, I’m here. We can talk. We can take walks. Whatever you want to get through all this. It won’t be easy.” Sophie hugged Emma again. “It’s up to you when we tell other people, if we ever do.”

  “I blamed myself.” Emma wiped her wet cheeks on her shirtsleeve and then buried her face in Sophie’s shoulder. “Even in the hospital before I ran away, I knew I was at fault. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have had any of the champagne. No one would ever have believed me if I had told. He was the big shot on the football team. So I made myself believe that it didn’t happen. Do you think the nightmares will ever stop?”

  Sophie hugged her even tighter. “Like I said before, and I’ll say every day from now on, none of this is your fault. Remember that most of all. Hopefully, in time the dreams will stop.”

  “Do you really think that’s even possible?” Emma’s chin quivered.

  “Yes, I do. You will find your strength, Em, right here away from everything and everyone in your past except me. I love you like a sister. And the other three folks here—well, they already care about you, so you’re among friends. If you want to throw stuff or scream or curl up in a ball and cry, I’m right here for you,” Sophie said.

  “Look at us.” Emma tried to smile. “We look like we did that last day when we knew we wouldn’t see each other again. We both cried, and after Rebel left with you, I curled up in a ball in my bed and wept until there were no more tears.”

  “Tears wash our souls,” Sophie told her as she stood up and went to the kitchen.

  “Tears on the outside fall to the ground and are slowly washed away. Tears on the inside fall on the soul and stay and stay and stay,” Emma whispered. “I’m glad you are sharing this soul cleansing with me.”

  “Who said that?” Sophie opened the refrigerator and brought out a quart of strawberry yogurt.

  “It was a framed quote on one of my many therapists’ walls. I have no idea who said it.” Emma took the last paper towel on the roll and wiped her swollen eyes. “I thought friends cured their emotional pain with ice cream.”

  “Not artists.” Sophie handed Emma a spoon. “We color lizards purple and neon green, and we eat strawberry yogurt right out of the container when we hurt.”

  Chapter Seven

  The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Sophie’s eyes popped open. “My poor Em,” she sighed. “I’m not sure I’m smart enough to help her through this, but I’ll do my best.”

  She went to the bathroom, washed her face in cold water, and then headed to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. While the coffee brewed, she went out to the porch and stared at the painting she’d been working on. No wonder Emma couldn’t paint. She had related that last work she’d done with the horrible experience.

  “Nothing smells better than coffee in the morning.” Emma yawned as she made her way into the kitchen. “Do you still know how to French braid?”

  “Of course, but I still can’t braid my own hair. You want to do it for me?” Sophie stepped inside the trailer. “How are you holding up?”

  “I was afraid to go to sleep last night,” Emma answered. “I finally got up and went out on the porch. I told myself that those stars up there were the same ones that were shining the night all that happened, and they’d gone right on living, so I could, too. I’m not sure if knowing what happened is any better than not knowing. Then Coco showed up and followed me into the house. She curled up beside me, and then I slept like a baby.”

  “We should get a cat when we go back to Dallas,” Sophie said.

  “I’m not ready to go back, Sophie. This is where I’m figuring out things. I don’t even know why, but I love it here—all of it. The trailer, the cat, the people, and maybe someday, if I stay long enough, I’ll even love myself.” Emma waved her arms to take in the trailer and everything that made up Hummingbird Lane. She crossed the living room and opened the refrigerator door. She took out the milk and made herself a bowl of cereal, shaking the box in Sophie’s direction as if to offer.

  How could Emma think about food at a time like this? Sophie’s heart was breaking again for her friend, and yet she understood so well that comment about maybe someday even loving herself.

  “I’m not hungry right now. I’ll eat later. You want to talk some more about things?” Sophie asked.

  “No, I want to put it away for a while. If I keep reliving it every hour of every day, I’ll never be able to move on,” Emma said.

  “So, you want French braids this morning?” Sophie changed the subject.

  “I’ll do yours if you’ll do mine. With all these layers, it’s hard to keep it up and off my neck.” She sat down on one of the two barstools.

  Sophie brought rubber bands from the cabinet drawer and then pointed at the calendar. “We’re celebrating Easter today. We celebrate everything here. Cinco de Mayo. July Fourth. We’ve been known to even celebrate things like National Ice Cream Day, and sometimes, like now, we don’t celebrate it on the day that it really is.”

  Emma giggled and then stopped abruptly and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “That felt strange. I can’t remember the last time I felt like laughing. But why are you celebrating Easter when it’s already over with?”

  “The folks here always wait until I’m here to celebrate Easter because they know how much I love it, and Filly likes to buy the little plastic eggs when they go on sale after the holiday. And when you laughed, it reminded me of when we were kids.”

  Emma pointed to the mirror. “I love the idea of not sticking to a strict schedule. It’s so artisty. But look at me, Sophie. Do I look like I’m about to go to church services? Mama would stroke out if she could see me, especially when I wear my flower-child clothes.”

  Sophie shook her head slowly and then laughed out loud. “I should snap a picture of you when I get your hair braided and send it to her.”

  Emma dug into her chocolate-flavored cereal. “She would drop dead if she saw me like this, and I’d have to wear one of my long skirts to the funeral.”

  “Then she’d raise up out of that casket and give you a lecture,” Sophie said.

  “Yep, she would, but thinking of Easter Sunday, it seems fitting that I figured out things last night, doesn’t it?” Emma shuddered at the picture of her mother in a casket.

  “How’s that?” Sophie was suddenly hungry, so she popped a sausage biscuit in the microwave.

  “I feel a little like I’ve been resurrected from being dead after what happened to me. Like maybe someday I’ll be all right.” Emma yawned.

  “Then happy Easter again.” Sophie poured two cups of coffee. She handed one to Emma and raised her cup in a toast.

  Emma touched her cup to Sophie’s and then took a sip. “I don’t expect an instant miracle. When I think about having to be in the presence of big men, I may always get jittery. I know I’ll always hate satin. But knowing what the problem is and facing it is half the victory. At least that’s what all the therapists have said. I know I said I wanted to put it out of my mind, Sophie, but everything keeps working its way right back around to the rape. The way I handled it has robbed me of so much.”

  “We can talk or not talk anytime you want,” Sophie assured her.

  “Do you think I’ll ever be comfortable enough to have a relationship with a guy?” Emma sipped on her coffee.

  “Give it time to fade away. After a while you will get to where you don’t think about it every day,” Sophie said.

  So, when is the day coming when you don’t think about the baby you lost? the aggravating voice in her head asked.

  This isn’t about me. It’s ab
out my best friend, Sophie argued.

  “I wish I’d drunk all that champagne so I would have been knocked out altogether, but I was just groggy enough to know what was going on and not be able to fight back. I cried and begged him to stop, but I’m glad I didn’t really kill them.”

  “Me too,” Sophie said.

  Emma swiped at a tear rolling down her cheek. “Thank you for that and for everything. You rescued me, Sophie. Maybe someday I can repay you, but with your strength, I don’t think you’ll ever need it.”

  Sophie laid a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Together we can conquer anything.”

  “I believe you.” Emma nodded. “I remember what Rebel used to tell us.”

  “You are two smart little girls,” Sophie said.

  “You are two strong little girls who will go far in life,” Emma quoted.

  “Together you can do anything,” they said in unison.

  “So, let’s just concentrate on one day at a time, and get each other’s hair braided,” Sophie said.

  Emma nodded again. “This is Easter. I’m resurrected. Let’s just rejoice in that and worry about tomorrow when the day gets here,” she said. “Are we going to hunt eggs today?”

  “Oh, yes, we are.” Sophie brought out the rubber bands. “Will you do mine first?”

  Emma headed down the hall to the bathroom to get a comb. “There’s no kids here, so who’s going to dye them? Or are all the eggs plastic?”

  Sophie sat down on the floor in front of the sofa and laid the rubber bands on the coffee table. “Honey, artists never grow up. We’re like Peter Pan. This afternoon, we’ll all meet at the picnic table, and each of us will dye a few eggs. Then, after supper, we will have an egg hunt behind the two empty trailers. Arty hides them, and the four of us will go look for them.”

  “What about Arty? Doesn’t he get to hunt them?” Emma sat down on the sofa and started working with Sophie’s hair.

  “He says that his joy is hiding them,” Sophie answered, “and then he teases us about the ones that we can’t find. There’s even a prize egg. We take turns putting something special in that one. There’s candy in the other plastic ones. I look forward to it every year.”

  “The last time I hunted eggs was that spring before Mother . . . well, you know,” Emma said. “Rebel hid them for us, and then we hunted them even though it was the Friday before Easter. Wouldn’t it be great if sometime she were here to help us dye them and maybe even enjoy hunting them with us?”

  “She would love that.” Sophie smiled. “Good Lord, girl, how tight are you braiding my hair?”

  “The strands will loosen up in a little while.” Emma chuckled. “If I do it right, the braid will last a couple of days.”

  “Not washing your hair for that long?” Sophie giggled. “You’ve turned into someone else entirely!”

  “Yep, I have,” Emma said. “And I love it. Maybe letting my inner soul come out and play will heal me.”

  “Does the inner you worry about what Victoria thinks?” Sophie asked.

  “More than I like to admit, but then I can’t expect to get over more than thirty years of Victoria conditioning in a few days or even weeks,” she answered.

  Friendship was a powerful thing, and the bond that she and Emma had shared when they were kids had just been lying dormant, like the trees in winter, waiting for them to get together again to bloom.

  Josh was glad that not one single wispy cloud floated in the blue skies so he could draw that morning. His eagle was far enough along that he could finish it inside if it rained, but he felt like he did his best work outside. Butterflies flitted about the cactus blooms, and he had caught sight of an eagle floating through the air when he took his morning coffee out on the porch at daybreak. If things went right, he might be able to finish the project he had been working on all week. Leo would be coming by in a few days, and Josh would love to have the eagle done when he arrived.

  He slipped his canvas into a waterproof sleeve and made sure he had enough ink and pens in his backpack for the morning. He added four bottles of water, a couple of protein bars, and another couple of candy bars and slipped his arms in the straps. His equipment was ready, but Josh was nervous about spending several hours with Emma. What if she got bored, or worse yet, what if she hated being with him? He did not carry on conversations well—not with anyone other than his trailer park people. Besides all that, he’d never spent that long with a woman—especially a beautiful one like Emma.

  A memory of his grandfather flashed in his mind. They were sitting at the edge of the pond on the estate where Josh’s folks lived, and Harry was on the other side of him. The wind was blowing, and Harry had been holding his old floppy hat down with one hand.

  “Grandpa, why am I like this?” he had asked.

  “If God made everyone just alike, the world would be a boring place, now wouldn’t it?” Grandpa had answered.

  “Accept who you are and be good at what you do. Now, if you’re going to finish the drawing of that duck, you’d better get busy,” Harry had said with a chuckle.

  When he came around the bend, he could see Sophie painting and Emma sitting on the porch steps with a backpack beside her. When he was only a few feet away, Sophie waved with a paintbrush in her hands. Emma looked up and nodded.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he said.

  “Mornin’,” Emma and Sophie both said at the same time.

  “Want a cup of coffee?” Sophie asked.

  “No, I already had too much caffeine this morning, but thank you,” he said and then glanced over at Emma. “Are you ready?”

  “I hope so,” Emma said with a shy smile. “Sophie expects me to be productive today, but I haven’t painted anything in years.” Emma stood up and slipped her arms through the straps of her backpack, fastened the hook in the front, and gave him a brief nod. “I’m ready,” she said.

  “Not quite,” Josh said. “You need a hat.”

  “He’s right. Take this one. It’s got a good wide brim.” Sophie jerked her straw hat off her head and handed it to Emma. “I’ve got another one in the house.”

  “Thank you,” Emma said.

  “Y’all have a good morning,” Sophie called out as they walked away.

  Josh waved over his shoulder.

  With her dark hair all done up in braids, Emma was a pretty woman, and when she smiled, her brown eyes sparkled. Josh had the urge to draw her in pen and ink with that twinkle in her eyes. If he could capture the sadness that surrounded her but still get the eyes just right, he would have a masterpiece for sure—one that he probably would never want to sell.

  Neither of them said a word until they reached a copse of mesquite, where he removed his backpack. “I thought we’d set up right here. I’m almost finished with my project, but if I can see the eagles, it inspires me.”

  Emma unfastened her backpack and laid it on the ground. “This is a great place.”

  They brought out their folding stools with canvas seats and popped them open. Emma sat down, and her eyes darted from one flower to another as if she was trying to decide whether to really work that morning or just study the landscape.

  Josh assembled a portable easel and got out bottles of ink and several pens. “Need help with anything?” he asked.

  “No, I’m good. It’s just been years since I’ve had brushes in my hands. I don’t know whether to sketch first or just start painting on a canvas.” Her tone sounded downright bewildered.

  “There’s no wrong way to start. You are the artist. It’s your work, and you can even toss it when you’re done if you don’t like it.” Josh dipped his pen in the ink and made a few strokes on the eagle’s wings.

  Emma got a small stretched canvas from her backpack and then brought out a palette and several brushes. Her chest tightened up so badly that it ached. Visions of the cloud picture that she’d slashed chased through her mind. That moment had tangled together the fact that her mother was right about her being too weak to make her own decisions
and the pain in her body from the rape.

  Deep breaths, she reminded herself when she felt a panic attack approach.

  “Are you all right?” Josh asked.

  “I’m just trying”—she inhaled deeply—“to decide what to paint. Everything is so beautiful.”

  “When you decide, you’ll dive right in.” He smiled.

  I’m not ready, she thought.

  Today just touching them and thinking about painting would be enough. She sat on her small stool for several minutes, staring at a pink bloom on a cactus, memorizing every detail.

  Tomorrow I’ll paint, she promised herself. Today I’ll just study that flower.

  Tomorrow never comes, the voice in her head said.

  With trembling hands, she picked up the small tube of red paint and squirted a tiny bit onto the disposable palette. A soft breeze stirred the scent and sent it straight to her nose. At one time that smell had been like vitamins to her, too. She had hummed and even whistled while she worked, but today all it did was bring back the taste of fear as she had a flashback of slinging open the door to her apartment and inhaling the pungent aroma of oils.

  “I have to do this,” she muttered. “I have to overcome all of it.”

  She held her breath as she squirted a dollop of white paint beside the red and used a knife to stir the two together to make the color of the cactus flower. She couldn’t work without breathing, so she let the air out in a whoosh and forced herself to think about the flower.

  “It’s like riding a bicycle, I would imagine,” Josh said. “It will all come back to you when you get started.”

  “What if I’ve lost my touch?” she asked.

  “No one says everything we do has to be perfect. Sometimes we all make something that’s pure crap. Just do whatever you want because it makes you happy,” he answered.

  “Paint the lizard purple,” she muttered.

  “What did you say?” Josh asked.

  “Just thinking out loud,” Emma said as she looked at the sky and picked up the tube of blue paint, and then the green and the burnt umber.