Time blurred for Abby as the weeks passed. The day-to-day effort of traveling to and from school with Lisa, followed by helping with the house every evening, became an anesthetic; numbness replaced anger, tiredness replaced grief.
Abby watched the battered red truck pull into the circular driveway of Milton Fritch Senior High, as the church bell across the street chimed twelve times. Lisa reached across the seat and opened the door. “Hey there. Summer vacation, here we come.”
Abby climbed in, slammed the door, and slouched in the seat. “Can’t wait.”
Lisa peered around at other kids spilling out the doors, down the sidewalks, and onto busses at the curb. “You’re welcome to have some friends over. We could have a barbecue, play some badminton, ride bikes, that kind of thing.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Abby gestured to the bodies that passed by without a glance, most of them smiling, waving to each other, getting in cars together. “See any friends out there? I like being by myself. And please, badminton? What, next you’ll be all ‘Where’s the shuttlecock?’ That would so boost my popularity.”
They drove home in silence. The rhythm of the tires on the asphalt lulled Abby into a fitful doze, where one by one she watched everyone she knew drop out of her life. Dad’s pain-filled face, urging her, “Go do something with your pals,” didn’t work in her dreams, any more than it had in reality. She’d shut out the world, except for him, until no one remembered she existed. Which, by then, she didn’t, not really. When he died, he’d taken along the feeling part of her heart. She didn’t have the energy to mourn for him or for herself.
Abby woke with a start when the truck stopped. Lisa pulled on the emergency brake, then disappeared into the barn without a word. And why not? Not even her mother wanted to deal with the total bitch she had become.
She climbed the wide board steps, crossed the porch, and opened the screen door. Tossing her backpack in the cubbyhole under the stairs, she wandered from room to room, as if seeing the place for the first time. Through the pounding of nails, the swish of a paintbrush, and the addition of personal items, the house had become beautiful. In the living room, soft lace curtains framed the bay window. Sunlight shone through the dining room casements, illuminating the strips of stained glass above them.
Abby wandered into the kitchen, sniffing the aroma of cinnamon and apples that lingered in the air from the warm pie on the counter. A pleasant sense of hunger moved through her belly for apple pie with chocolate ice cream. Most people ate pie with vanilla; her dad had said that was “only for wimps.” She ran from the aroma—and the memory—and stumbled onto the front porch to get some fresh air.
At the bottom of the steps Lisa struggled with a long board, dark blue with a hand-painted border of flowers entwined in a bright blue ribbon. In script it read: Bikers’ Rest.
“Help me hang this, Abby. You do the honors.”
It occurred to Abby in a flash that the still, quiet comfort in her belly resonated as an almost-happy feeling. And she owed it to Lisa. “This is all about you. You had the idea, you planned it, you named it—it’s all yours.” When she smiled her muscles felt stiff, unused, almost painful.
“No, it’s ours.” Lisa leaned the sign against the porch railing and placed a ladder against the gutter. She didn’t look at Abby. “Your father and I talked about opening a place like this when we first got married. We had dreams—then.”
Abby surveyed the orange daylilies, purple wild geranium, and red poppies peeking through the slats of the picket fence. Along the porch steps, tightly closed buds peppered the dark foliage of two deep red rose bushes. Turning, she caught a glimpse of the river flowing endlessly through the trees, murky umber against a profusion of pale green. Had her dad really dreamed of a day like this? How could Lisa know so much about him?
“Okay, I’ll do it.” Abby climbed the aluminum ladder, hung the sign on twin brass chains from the gingerbread trim under the eaves, and re-joined her mother.
Conflicting emotions raged through her brain. She realized her mother waited for a response. “Great, good, love it. I … um … I have some things to do.” She chewed a ragged fingernail.
“Like gnaw on your nails? Why not take the Cannondale for a spin? The pie will wait until you get back, and then we’ll celebrate.” Lisa clapped her hands together, like a small child. “I even got ice cream—French vanilla, the best.”
“I know you don’t understand—I can’t expect you to get it—but I just can’t ride his bike.” She escaped as tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, trying to ignore the sound of Lisa’s big sigh.
“Wear a bike helmet if you change your mind!”
Lisa wanted her to be safe. Abby smiled all the way to the barn. She looked around the dim space, and her eyes fell on her old purple bike in the corner of the front horse stall.
“No, I won’t.” Abby shook her head but reached over to squeeze the front tire. “You need air. I’m not riding you, but I can do some bicycle CPR.” Abby inflated both tires with a hand pump and wiped dust off the seat. She pushed up the kickstand and rode in a small circle inside the barn. “I guess it’s true; you never forget how to ride a bike.” She glanced at the bike helmet on a hook but left it hanging there.
Moments later she glided down the path from the house onto the gravel trail surface, passing a small sign: Youghiogheny River Trail. The breeze blew her hair straight back in a cool, cleansing rush, even through the mid-day heat.
The chirping of insects accompanied the crunch of bike tires on limestone. Both were drowned out when a train passed by on the other side of the river, wheels clacking, whistle blowing. Abby lost track of time, weaving between dappled shade and sun-drenched sky.
The smell of wildflowers tickled her nose, and she sneezed. She recognized a patch of Queen Anne’s lace, braked, and got off the bike. The huge blossoms, comprised of multiple, tiny white buds, grew in profusion. She searched through them; hidden in the center of one flower she found a single, bright red bud.
“I remember you.” Abby ran her index finger over the velvety flowers that some called weeds, but her dad saw as beautiful. Queen Anne’s lace grew in the meadow at home.
Ages ago she’d taken a walk with her dad and picked a bouquet. “I love them, Daddy,” she told him that day. “They’re like princesses and weddings and happily-ever-after.”
Her dad found one with a red center. “These are very special. I call them Queen Abby’s Lace. The red center is the heart of the flower. When you see one, always remember you’re my heart, little princess. I know you’ll live happily-ever-after. I promise.”
Abby sniffled and blinked back hot tears. She picked the red-centered flower from its stem and tucked it in the pocket of her denim shorts, even though she couldn’t imagine the promise of “happily-ever-after” working out. She got back on the bike and pushed off, her fair cheeks and shoulders burning in the hot sun. A cramping ache spread from her thighs, to her knees, to her ankles as out-of-shape muscles protested.
Pop.
She veered across the trail as the front tire deflated. Struggling to maintain control she braked too hard and skidded. The bike hit a rock, plunged into a ditch, and flipped over, knocking her off.
The rough gravel, rammed into Abby’s knees, brought pinpoint jabs of pain. A sharp, hot gash traveled across her cheek. She bounced onto her back, landing in damp weeds that reeked of onion. With a loud whoosh, her lungs emptied; she gasped for breath. Her head smacked into something hard and unyielding, with a loud crack of bone on stone. She lay still for several minutes, afraid to move until it became obvious something had to change.
With great care, she stretched each limb, relieved to find her body responding the way it should. Craning her neck back, she searched for what her head hit. She saw a weathered gray tombstone, rounded at the top with straight sides. The granite appeared to be moving. Hundreds of bugs covered the surface, their bodies bright red like blood, wings black, heads quivering with antennae.
Abby rolled over, scrambled to her feet, and brushed a squirming insect off her forehead. “I’m in a freaking cemetery with a skinned knee, bug bites, and rotting corpses.” Every image she’d ever seen of putrefied, decaying bodies came into her mind. Each one had the face of her father.
Abby gagged and vomited into the weeds, until dry heaves took over. Finally she took a deep, shuddering breath and waited until her heart stopped pounding. Wiping her lips with the back of one hand, she grimaced at the sour taste in her mouth and wished for a tall, frosty glass of water. The gurgling of real water brought her head up. From her vantage point on a small rise, she caught a glimpse of the Youghiogheny as it rippled around a fallen tree at water’s edge.
She limped toward the river to splash her face then stopped, realizing it meant walking through the cemetery. It would be her first time in such a place since her father had been buried. She had to think he rested in peace, rather than rotted in pieces. She took several tentative steps through the overgrown brush and around a tilting headstone. A huge shadow appeared against the trunk of a gnarled tree, looming over her.
Abby ducked and screamed.