When the plane door opened she wheeled her bag out, grabbed a rental, and was on the road within twenty minutes after arriving at the gate. However, her foot was not mashing the gas pedal to the floor as usual. Instead, she drove at a sedate fifty miles an hour. Michelle had no desire to rush toward what she had to face.
According to her brother Bill, their mother had woken up in good spirits, eaten a bowl of cereal for breakfast, and worked in the garden. Later she had played nine holes of golf at a nearby course, returned home, showered, gotten dressed, warmed up a casserole for her husband, watched a show she had earlier recorded, and was heading out the door to meet with some friends for a late dinner when she collapsed in the garage. Frank Maxwell had been in the bathroom. He had gone into the garage a bit later and found his wife sprawled on the floor. Apparently, he believed Sally had been dead before she’d hit the cement.
They weren’t sure what had killed the woman—stroke, heart, aneurysm—but dead she was. As the trees on either side of the road flew by, Michelle’s mind raced even faster, from her earliest memories with her mother to the last few encounters, none of which had been particularly memorable.
An hour later she had talked with her four brothers, two of whom lived relatively close by their parents, and one, Bobby, who lived in the same town. The fourth, Bill Maxwell, who resided in Florida, had been driving to see his parents for a visit when he’d gotten the news barely an hour out. Michelle was the last to arrive. She had next spent several hours with her father, who was equal parts mute and staring off, before erupting from his malaise periodically to take control of the funeral arrangements.
Frank Maxwell had been a cop most of his life, ending his career as a police chief. He still looked like he could jump out of a patrol car and hoof it after someone and do something with the person once he caught him. It was from her father that Michelle had gotten her physical prowess, her drive to succeed, her sheer inability to ever finish second with a smile on her face. Yet as Michelle watched from a distance, catching her father in unguarded moments, she glimpsed an aging man who had just lost everything and had no idea what he was supposed to be doing with the time he had left to live.
After absorbing all she could take of this, she retreated to the backyard where she sat on an old bench next to an apple tree weighed down nearly to the ground with fruit, closed her eyes, and pretended her mother was still alive. She thought back to her childhood with them both. This was tough to do because there were blocks of her youth that Michelle Maxwell had simply eliminated from her memory for reasons that were obviously more apparent to her shrink than to her.
She called Sean to let him know she’d arrived okay. He had said all the appropriate things, was supportive and gentle. And yet when she hung up, Michelle felt about as alone as she ever had. One by one her brothers joined her in the backyard. They talked, cried, chatted some more, and cried some more. She noted that Bill, the biggest and the oldest, a tough beat cop in a Miami suburb that could reasonably be classified as a war zone, sobbed the hardest.
Michelle found herself mothering her older brothers, and she was not, by nature or inclination, a nurturing type. And the close, grief-stricken company of her male siblings started to suffocate her. She finally left them in the backyard and returned to the house. Her father was upstairs. She could hear him talking on the phone to someone. She eyed the door to the garage accessible from the kitchen. She hadn’t gone in there yet. Michelle didn’t really want to see where her mother had died.
Yet she was also one to confront her fears head-on. She turned the knob, opened the door, and stared down the three unpainted plywood steps leading to the two-bay garage. A car was parked in the nearest bay. It was her parents’ pale blue Camry. The garage looked like any other. Except for one thing.
The splotch of blood on the cement floor. She drew closer to it.
Blood on the cement floor?
Had she fallen down the steps? Hit her head? She eyed the door of the Camry. There was no trace there. She gauged the space between the rough steps and the car. Her mother was a tall woman. If she had stumbled forward, she had to have hit the car. She really couldn’t have fallen sideways because the stairs had half-walls on both sides. She would have simply ended up slumped there. But if she had stumbled because she’d had a stroke? She could have bounced off the car and then hit her head on the floor. That would account for the blood.
That had to account for the blood.
She turned and almost screamed.
Her father was standing there.
Frank Maxwell was officially six foot three, though age and gravity had stolen more than an inch from him. He had the compact, dense muscle of a man who had been physical his entire life. His gaze flitted across his daughter’s anxious face, perhaps trying to read all the content there. Then it went to the spot of blood on the floor. He gazed at it as though the crimson splotch constituted an encrypted message he was trying to decipher.
“She’d been having headaches,” her father said. “I told her to go get them checked out.”
Michelle slowly nodded, thinking that this was an odd thing to open the conversation with. “She could have had a stroke.”
“Or an aneurysm. The neighbor down the street, her husband just had one. Nearly killed him.”
“Well, at least she wasn’t in any pain,” Michelle said, a bit lamely.
“I don’t think so, no.”
“So you were in the bath, Bill said?”
He nodded. “Showering. To think that she was lying there while I…”
She put a hand on his shoulder and clenched it tightly. It scared her to see her father like this. Right on the edge of losing it. If there was one thing her father had always been, it was in control.
“There was nothing you could have done, Dad. It happens. It’s not fair. It’s not right, but it happens.”
“And yesterday it happened to me,” he said with finality.
Michelle removed her hand and looked around the garage. The kids’ things had long since been purged from her parents’ lives. No bikes or wading pools or T-ball bats to clutter up their retirement. It was clean, but stark, as though their entire family his
tory had been washed away. Her gaze went back to the blood as though it was the bait and she was the
hungry fish. “So she was going to see some friends for dinner?”
He blinked rapidly. For a moment she thought he was going to dissolve into tears. She suddenly recalled that she had never seen her father cry. As soon as this thought fully formed in her head, she received a jolt somewhere in her brain.