crossing Oceans
By Gina Holmes
Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2010
Gina Holmes
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4143-3305-2
Chapter One
Nothing deepens a stream like a good rain ... or makes
it harder to cross.
Just a few hundred feet away from the home I'd sworn
never to return to, I sat on the smooth surface of a boulder.
With my jeans cuffed and toes wiggling in the cold water,
I reflected on how recent rains had caused these banks to
widen and swell.
Perhaps a decent relationship with my father might also
rise as a result of the storm we'd endured. Much could happen
in six years. Maybe my absence had, as the adage promised,
made his heart grow fonder. Maybe my homecoming
would be like that of the Prodigal and he'd greet me with
eager arms. Together we'd cry for all that had passed between
us-and all that should have but didn't.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
It's going to go just fine, I told myself as I traced the slippery
surface of a moss-covered branch with my foot.
"What's funny, Mommy?"
Isabella's voice startled me. I didn't dare admit that what
my five-year-old interpreted as mirth was really a grimace,
because then of course she'd want to know what was the matter.
"Nothing, sweetness."
She threw a pebble at the water, but it dropped inches
from its goal, clinking against slate instead. "You were smiling
like this-" She bared her teeth in a forced grin.
Gently, I pinched her cheek.
"You're beautiful, Mommy."
"Thank you, baby. So are you."
"Yes, I am."
I smiled at that. I smiled at just about everything she said
and did.
"Mommy, why'd we drive here 'stead of Cowpa's house?"
Cowpa was her name for grandparents of either gender.
I probably should have corrected her long ago, but I found
the odd term endearing. Besides, I reasoned, she'd grow out
of baby talk all too soon without any help from me. I found
myself wondering what other lessons she would learn in my
absence.
The thought overwhelmed me, but I refused to cry in
front of my daughter. Unloading my heavy burden onto her
delicate shoulders was not an option. I might not be able to
control much in my life lately, but I could still protect her.
Nothing mattered more.
"This was my thinking place when I was a little girl. I
wanted to show it to you in case you wanted to think sometimes."
I breathed in the area's familiar fragrance-a combination
of damp leaves, pine, and earth-and eyed my
surroundings. Same trees. Same sounds. Nothing much ever
changed in this spot. That, more than any other reason, was
why I loved it so much. Especially now.
I'd spent half of my life here, sitting on this unyielding
rock, trying to make sense of the world. The loss of my
mother. My father's neglect. The sometimes-sweet, often-bitter,
words of my ex-boyfriend, David. It was here I'd first
gotten real with God, begging Him not to take my mother.
Railing at Him when He did.
Isabella bounced on one foot. "What did you think about
here?"
I poked my toes through water, watching droplets glide
down my pink toenails. "Well, when I was little, I thought
of catching frogs and grasshoppers and wondered whether I
would ever have a best friend to share my secrets with."
"Did you find your best friend?" A dangling pine needle
twirled from one of her curls.
Love overwhelmed me. "Yes, sweetness. I got you."
She gave me one of her endearing smiles, pulled the debris
from her hair, examined it, then dropped it in the stream. I
scooped a handful of the cool water and let it slip through my
fingers like the life I'd just left behind-my studio apartment
that never really felt like home, the corporate ladder I'd just
begun to climb, my coworkers who never became the close
friends I had longed for. All of it now gone, as though it had
never existed at all.
My daughter looked at me askance. "I wanna go."
The hum of nature faded. The only thing I heard now
was the sharp tick of my wristwatch reminding me just how
short time was. Standing, I assured myself that I could do
what I had come to do. For Isabella, I could do it. I slipped
my damp feet into my Birkenstocks and brushed off my rear
before collecting my daughter's chubby hand in my fingers.
I forced one leg in front of the other and made my way
past my car, along the winding dirt road.
A familiar picket fence dressed in tangled braids of morning
glories came into view. I clutched my daughter's fingers
tighter, feeling more like child than mother.
Placing a hand over my heart, I stopped and took it in.
I'd forgotten how beautiful my childhood home was and
how much I'd missed it. As I remembered running barefoot
through this yard and cannonball jumping into the pond
out back, joy pricked at me ... until my gaze settled on the
bare dirt beneath the stairs. How many times had I hidden
under that porch, wounded by my father's words? Too many.
My smile died.
Isabella looked up at me eagerly, giving the motivation,
if not the courage, I needed to continue. Ghosts of summers
past faded as the fragrant scent of roses washed over me,
and with it another wave of doubt so tall and wide, I felt as
though I might drown in it.
What if my father wouldn't receive me? Or worse, what
if he didn't accept my daughter? I felt sure Mama Peg would
embrace her, but could he? Accepting me had proven impossible
for him, but perhaps a child as charming as Isabella
could thaw his arctic heart.
Now on the second stair, I paused to look behind me at
the road, feeling a sudden urge to retreat. Isabella bounced
on the balls of her feet, anxious to continue.
When we reached the porch, I squatted to her level. "Are
you ready to meet your grandpa and great-grandma?"
The longing in her maple syrup eyes needed no words,
but she added them anyway. "Jane has a cowpa, Natalie has a
cowpa, Carter has two cowpas, and ..." She gave me a look
that said,
Must I continue?
"Okay, I get it." I stood and lifted a fist to the door. Before
I could knock, Isabella lurched forward and did it for me.
She tapped her sandaled foot twice, then reached to knock
again.
I grabbed her hand. "Give them a chance."
The oversize wildflower wreath swayed as the door creaked
open. An elderly woman with thick gray hair fashioned into a
bun stood before us, oxygen tubes protruding from her nostrils.
Deep wrinkles fractured her leathery skin. Her eyebrows
were bushes, her lips were shriveled like raisins, and a heavy,
floral perfume emanated from her.
Isabella gasped, but I beamed. "Mama Peg."
My grandmother winked at me before turning her milky
gaze to her great-granddaughter. "You must be Bella."
Isabella's mouth opened and a strange squeal escaped. I
don't know who was more horrified at that moment-Isabella
at the sight of Mama Peg, Mama Peg at Isabella's revulsion,
or me at their initial reactions to each other.
Mama Peg broke out in a deep belly laugh, intermingled
with emphysemic hacks. Isabella leaped back as though she
expected my grandmother and her tank to explode.
I laughed so hard tears streamed down my cheeks. That
seemed to calm Isabella, and soon she was grinning too.
"I'm a wretched sight now, little girl, but not so long ago,
I used to be as pretty as you," my grandmother managed
through her own amusement.
Isabella looked at me to dispel this ridiculous claim. I
could only nod. I should have prepared her for this.
Mama Peg raised an unruly eyebrow at me. "I don't think
she believes me."
Catching my breath, I wiped my eyes. "I'm not sure I do
either." I added a wink to soften the jab. I knew she had been
lovely, of course. I'd seen the proof in photographs. She still
was in my eyes-one of the most beautiful women I had ever
known, despite the cruel effects of tobacco and time.
An exaggerated scowl deepened her wrinkles. "Genevieve
Paige Lucas, you're still a brat."
Leaning in, I hugged her with all I had. "I missed you,
Grandma."
"You too, Jenny. You stayed away far too long." She hugged
me tight, then slowly pulled away from me. Her eyes glistened,
but her tears, every bit as stubborn as she, refused to
fall. She scanned the porch. "Where are your bags?"
"In the car. I'll get them later."
She squinted past me at the empty brick driveway. "You
parked in front of the stream, I gather?"
I nodded.
A glint of understanding crinkled her eyes as she stepped
back, motioning us into the house. My grandmother, more
than anyone, understood my need to commune with nature.
When I entered my father's home, my heart once again
found my throat. I ushered Isabella across the threshold and
hastily scanned the living room, searching for him. I watched
Isabella take in the cozy surroundings. Braided rugs protected
the hardwood floor. Vases of garden flowers rested on lace-covered
tabletops. Everything was just as I remembered ...
including the chill creeping through me, which had nothing
to do with air-conditioning.
"It's beautiful, Cowpa!"
Mama Peg shut the door and turned to me. "What did
that child call me?"
"That's her word for Grandma-" I cleared my throat-"and
Grandpa."
My grandmother shook her head, eyeing my daughter.
"Call me Mama Peg. Understand?"
Without responding, Isabella made her way toward the
stone fireplace, enthralled with the portrait hanging above
it. A woman with long chestnut curls flowing about her
narrow waist sat sidesaddle on a white horse. My mother's
painted gaze followed me. Her sad little smile made me long
to comfort her.
Isabella moved as close to it as she could without stepping
onto the hearth. "It's you, Mommy."
Mama Peg grabbed the black handle of her oxygen canister
and rolled it to where my daughter stood. "That's your
mama's mama. They look a lot alike, don't you think?"
Isabella nodded.
"She died before you were born."
A familiar ache settled within me as memories of my
mother's last days forced their way into my mind, elbowing
away more pleasant memories.
Isabella picked at the glitter on her T-shirt. "Where do
you go when you die?"
I flashed my grandmother a warning look. "Never mind."
I had no desire to explain death to her at that moment.
"Where's Dad?" I asked.
Mama Peg's shoulders sank. "Upstairs being him."
"What did he say when you told him I was coming?" I
held my breath and fingered my thick braid.
"You know him. He ..." Without finishing the thought,
she made her way to the kitchen and we followed. The hard
rubber heels of her shoes scraped against the tile floor as she
shuffled to the back door. She pulled the lace curtain to the
side and looked out the window at the pond out back.
Isabella lifted the top from a white candle in the table's
center, releasing a waft of vanilla.
I wrinkled my nose at the sickeningly sweet smell, took
the lid from her, and replaced it. "You didn't tell him everything,
did you?"
"I told him he had a granddaughter."
"That's all?"
Her voice began to break up. "Of course. A mother should
never have to tell her son-"
"Bella?" I interrupted before Mama Peg could say more in
front of my child than I was prepared to answer for.
Isabella's gaze ping-ponged between us.
"See if you can find Sweet Pea." The thought occurred
to me that there I was, trying to avoid the subject of death,
and the cat might be long gone. I lowered my voice, though
Isabella stood no farther away than Mama Peg. "He is
still-?"
"Alive?" With a chortle, she let the curtain drop back into
place and turned to face me. "His Royal Stubbornness refuses
to cash in his ninth life. You really must want to change
the subject badly to send your sweet girl searching for that
homicidal monster."
Isabella's expression filled with alarm.
"Not a monster." I tousled her soft curls. "Just a kitty."
Mama Peg hacked, her skin taking on a grayish hue.
I rubbed her back, hating the plastic feel of her polyester
top. When her cough subsided, she plucked a napkin from
a pile on the table and wiped her mouth. "That furry devil
will scratch her bloody."
"She'll never catch him."
"You forget, six years have passed. He's old and slow
now."
Considering what the tabby might do to Isabella if she
tried to pet him gave me pause. I took her hands in mine and
squatted to eye level. "Look for him, Bella, but don't get too
close. He's got a bad temper and sharp claws that will give
you boo-boos."
She promised obedience, then raced off for the hunt.
Mama Peg turned to me. "She's braver than you were at
her age."
"Who isn't?" I had never been the fearless child Isabella
was. She saw everything as a ray of sunshine living just to
warm her. No matter how many times I counseled her that
not everyone had her best interests at heart, she refused to
believe it. After all, she loved everything and everyone, so
why wouldn't they love her back?
Mama Peg adjusted the tubing threaded over her ears.
"When are you going to tell your father?"
I walked to the stove and picked up the teakettle. Finding
it heavy, I set it back down and turned on the burner. A snap
preceded a flame.
"I want to see how he treats her first."
"Of course he'll love her. She's part of you. Part of your
mother."
An old, familiar dagger lunged into my chest and I hated
that even now it could penetrate me. "He hasn't loved anything
since Mom passed."
"That's not true," she whispered, as if saying it softly
could somehow breathe truth into the falsehood. She pulled
two ceramic mugs from the cupboard. "He's a good man,
Jenny."
I felt a sudden heaviness about me as I pulled a chair away
from the table to sit. "A good man with a hardened heart."
She dropped a square of tea into each mug. "Having
someone you love taken from you has a way of changing a
person."
I crossed my arms.
She averted her gaze. "Stupid thing to say to you, I guess."
"I guess."
"So what if you don't like the way he is with her? Then
what will you do?"
It was the question that had kept me awake for the past
two weeks. The most important question in my world.
"I'm not her only parent."
"I guess now would be the time to tell me who her father
is." She raised my chin, forcing me to look at her. After several
seconds of reading me, she withdrew her hand. "As if I
don't already know."
My face burned and I opened my mouth to say his name,
but it stuck in my throat-a dam holding back half a decade's
worth of tears. "I never told him."
Mama Peg's face drained of what little color it held.
I could almost feel her heart splinter. "Oh, Jenny."
I deserved her scorn. But she wrapped her sagging arms
around my shoulders, smothering me in her generous bosom,
flowery perfume, and acceptance. Relief overwhelmed me.
"I found him! I found him!" The pattering of feet accompanied
my daughter's shriek.
Mama Peg released me, and we turned to the doorway in
anticipation of Isabella's excited return. She appeared, dragging
my father by the hand.
His short, wavy hair was more gray now than brown.
He wore his polo shirt tucked neatly into creased pants and
a leather belt fastened around his trim belly. I'd have better
luck trying to read Chinese than gauge his emotions by his
stoic expression.
My fingernails dug into my palms and I felt the need to
sit before registering that I was already seated. When his gaze
met mine, he gave me a quick once-over. I studied the lines
around his eyes. Was he fighting a smile? If so, was it due to
smugness that I'd come crawling home or joy at seeing me
after so long? Or was I imagining it all?
Without a word, he walked to the kitchen window, held
his hand over his eyes, and panned the side yard.
Mama Peg threw me an annoyed glance. "What the dickens
is he doing?"
He turned around, this time donning a sly grin. "I'm
looking for the airborne swine."
The dumb look on his face told me he expected laughter,
but I just sat there slack-jawed.
"As I recall, you said you'd come home when pigs fly."
Though I promised myself I would curb my usual retorts,
my mouth opened before I could will it not to. "Yeah, I get
it. I'm smarter than I look."
He surprised me by waving his hand in dismissal. "So
after six years of nothing, you've finally decided to let me
meet my granddaughter. How very humane of you. I assume
you're here because you're broke?"
My thoughts flashed back to the phone call home I'd made
after leaving. I'd tearfully told my father I was pregnant. Five
minutes into a lecture on the sins and consequences of fornication,
I hung up without a word and never called again.
Every day for two weeks after that, his number showed on
my caller ID. Not want wanting further berating, I never answered
or called him back. After several months of silence, the number
flashed again. This time I picked up, but it was my grandmother
on the other line, not my father. Never again my
father.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from crossing Oceans
by Gina Holmes
Copyright © 2010 by Gina Holmes.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.