A THORNE REMAINING
By Jo Anzalone
PART FIVE:
Leaning his left shoulder against the side of the archway that led from the dining room into the kitchen, he observed the dynamic between the sisters. Allison, her lap full of plates and silverware, was setting the table while Addie bustled about near the stove. There seemed almost more of a mother/daughter dynamic to it than one of siblings.
Addie was talking non-stop about the book she was writing, the intricacies
that had involved her characters in the beginnings of the American Revolution.
Allison arranged the dinnerware and he saw her slide her hand down into the
pouch, her fingers caressing her tablet.
He wondered what she was thinking and wished he had some
way of communicating with her. Earlier, by the stream, she had repeated a couple
of phrases he'd said. Perhaps, if he tried really hard, there might be some way
he was able to get through to her thoughts? "Allison," he said, "I want to know
about the chair. Tell me about the wheelchair."
She sighed, putting her hands together in her lap, playing idly with her
fingers. "Sometimes it's just so...hard."
"What, Allie?" Adelaide asked, not turning from the pot she was stirring.
"Getting where I want to go."
Adelaide set down her spoon, leaning against a counter, looking at her sister.
"I know, darling."
"Like today," Allie continued, "just trying to get back from the stream."
"Perhaps you shouldn't go down there," Addie replied, bending to open the oven
door.
"I have to!" Allison blurted. "It's his...."
"His? Who his?" Addie threw a glance at her over her shoulder.
Allison bit her lip. She didn't really want to explain to anyone how close she'd
felt to Terry down there today. "Just that it's lovely there, that's all. And I
want to paint it."
"You said 'his'," Addie pursued. "What did you mean by that?"
"Mr. Thorne. Terry. His room has a view of it so I was just imagining he must
like that spot."
"Very possible," Adelaide agreed, "but no real concern of yours, now is it?"
"I suppose not." Allie's voice trailed off. "It's just..."
"What?"
"I don't know, maybe because I've got his room. He seems sort of...real...to
me." She shrugged, trying not to make that seem as important as it had actually
become.
Adelaide came over, squatting beside the chair, her hands curved over one of its
arms. "Listen, little sister, I know you've been alone ever since I married
Rodney, but don't let yourself go off into some silly fantasy world of the man
who owns this house. From what I understand, neither of us is ever likely
to meet the bloke and that's fine by me. You and I are
together again...like we used to be. Can't that be enough?"
Allison looked at her sister. Adelaide had had a rough go of it, married to
Rodney, who'd turned out not to be a one-woman man. Addie had said she was
through with men and Allie believed her. Her sister was never so happy as when
she was in the midst of writing her books. She tended to disappear into
them, though, much as if she poured her being through some funnel into their
midst. Allie's art wasn't like that for her. She enjoyed it, knew she was
good at it, but it wasn't...everything.
Always she'd felt like there was more for her than that...than this. She'd
come out here with her sister because Addie seemed so alone after Rodney had
moved out, because Addie needed that comfortable feeling of mothering she
experienced when watching over Allie. It was a gift Allie was giving her,
letting herself be watched over. She'd lived alone for five years and managed
rather well but, newly separated from Rodney, Addie was searching for a past
that was familiar. Most of her days were spent mentally in Colonial Virginia,
but when she came up for air, she liked knowing Allison was there.
Allison had not expected to like this place so much, had been surprised by her
growing sense of expectancy the closer they had gotten to it. She'd never been
here before. How could a place she'd never been be calling to her so? Then
when she saw Terry's room, saw the stream, she knew she belonged here. She
thought of her own bedroom in the apartment she'd rented in Coffs Harbour. It
had held all her stuff and yet she'd not felt as at home in it as she did in
Terry's room with almost none of her personal possessions about. She hadn't
wanted to put them out, to layer them over his things. She loved it the way it
was...his.
Perhaps she had been on her own too long after all? At 22 she'd had
a relationship with a young man who'd thought he'd be able to handle the fact of
her wheelchair. In the end, he couldn't, and she hadn't dated since. She just
didn't feel moved to...look.
Had all her feelings of femininity, then, been stored up over the years so that she was letting them out by her daydreams of some man whose room she happened to occupy, whose face she'd never seen, whose face she'd never see?
She knew it didn't make any sense and yet she couldn't seem to help
herself. This house, his room, the stream...it had all worked together and
now she was...involved.
She hadn't answered Addie, didn't want to answer, didn't want to say, "No, Addie,
I want more than that." After a moment, Addie stood up and went back to the
stove. "I'll be right back," Allie said softly, and wheeled herself across
the hall, Terry following.
She needed to go back to his room, for just a moment, needed to refresh the
feeling of it in her heart. Rolling through its doorway, she paused, looking
across the room. She knew she'd not left the French doors open, yet there they
were, both of them wide to the porch.
"Oops!" Terry said. "Didn't think about that. Sorry."
She continued on to them, putting her hand on one of the knobs. "Guess I
didn't latch you well enough and the wind blew you open." She sighed, looking
out at the porch. "If only it was you, Terry. If only you'd come home and walked
out to see your stream."
From two feet behind her he said, "I did, Allison." His hand reached out,
hovering just over her hair.
She leaned forward, burying her face in her hands. "How can you feel so close?
How can you be in Peru or China and yet I feel you so close in this room?"
"Dinner, Allie!" Addie's distant voice called.
She was quiet during the meal, stirring her mashed potatoes aimlessly with her
fork, not really hungry. The phone rang and she jumped a bit. Adelaide picked up
the wall phone, listening intently, said, "Oh, my goodness," and then, "Yes, I
understand. Thanks for letting me know." She sat back down and stared at
Allison.
"That was the realtor. He's had news of Mr. Thorne."
Allison's eyes widened. Terry said, "Oh, shit! Not like this!"
"Seems he's been killed. Somewhere in South America. But the realtor says
that it's all right for us to stay here for the duration of our lease."
Allison had gone entirely white. "K...killed? Terry?"
"Yes, some rescue work or something he was doing. I don't know any details.
Realtor said he was buried right there where he died so there won't be any body
being shipped home or anything. But at least we don't have to leave.
That's good."
Allison was already wheeling as fast as she could go back to his room.
"Allie!" Addie called after her, but Allison had closed the door behind
herself, locking it. "Allie, let me in!"
"Not now," Allie gasped. "Just leave me alone."
She wheeled to the bed, leaning forward, burying her face in his blue covers.
Something inside her was cracking in half. As foolish as it was, she had
actually hoped, hadn't she, that one day he would walk into his house and find
her there. Now that was gone and the intensity of the loss of it was squeezing
her being unbearably. Fisting her hands into the blue, she began to sob, her
body sagging so that the chair rolled back and she slid to her knees down the
side of the bed, ending in a little heap on the oval rug.
He was stricken to his core, watching her mourn for him, and crouched beside
her, wanting to comfort her, wanting her to know that he was there, right there.
He'd never felt so blasted helpless.
She cried for a long time, huddled into a ball there on the rug, her hair nearly
hiding her face. Finally, worn out, she drifted into sleep, her right hand
falling limply out just past her face. He sat as close as he could get,
his back resting against the side of his bed. his hand not far from hers.
Sometime, later, she moved slightly in her sleep and her hand groped out, her
fingers encircling his.
He stared at them unbelievingly. He felt no need for food or for rest...and yet
he could feel the warmth of her fingers.
"I'm here," he whispered to her. "It will be all right. I'm here."