A Father for Philip Read Free Page A

you declared
legally dead, or should I keep on waiting, hoping?”
    Hoping for what? she asked herself as
she had nearly every day. Hoping for the return of a man whose face was
disappearing from her memory, a man who, if he did come back would be totally
different? But people never change that much, she argued with herself. I
haven’t forgotten. I’ve never forgotten entirely. I can still hear his voice in
my dreams even though his face has gone from me.
    But what good are dreams, Eleanor?
You’re twenty-seven years old. Time is passing. And Grant, will he wait
forever? Who cares? whispered a small voice deep inside her. Who cares what
Grant might do?
    In the house, Eleanor sat with Philip
for a few minutes, then made him his usual bed-time snack—toast and peanut
butter—and supervised his getting ready for bed. After a story, a hug, and
several stalling maneuvers on his part, she gave him a final good-night kiss,
turned off his light, and closed his door. Then, she opened it again. “I’m
going to sit outside for a few minutes, honey. I’ll be in the arbor.”
    His mumbled, “’T’s’okay, Mom,” told her
he was nearly asleep.
    She smiled. He played so hard he slept
like, well, a played-out child.
    Outside, Eleanor sank to a bench and
leaned her elbows on the table. She propped her chin on her hands and let her
mind wander back… back to the past, to the day when she first met David.
    ~ * ~
    She’d wandered away from the house that
day, needing to be alone, full of the vague sadness of a March morning after a
storm. During the night the rain had come, thundering onto the farmhouse roof,
beating into the grayish slush left from the last—hopefully the last and not
just the latest—snowfall. When she awoke the world was new and clean, the earth
black and fruitful-looking, the sky clear and the alder trees just shaded pink
with the first touch of buds on gaunt, bare limbs. Eleanor strolled toward the
creek and stood for a time looking into the rushing brown freshet, and a
longing arose in her breast, an aching need to flee, to rush and tumble
headlong into life as the waters at her feet raced away into the distance to
join up with the Fraser River. There, combined with the thousands and thousands
of other small creeks, streams, and steep, narrow rivers all over the hills and
mountains of British Columbia, it poured into the Pacific and spread far away.
Distant lands would feel its touch, foreign tongues would speak over the sounds
of lapping waves. Oh! How she longed
to join those fast-moving, restless waters.
    She jumped across the creek, left its
exciting springtime babble behind and made for the edge of the forest, heading
for her quiet place, her place for dreaming.
    She entered the forest, walking silently
upon the thick carpet of needles covering the path. The moss beneath her feet
was thick and damp. Mud splashed the backs of her legs, but Eleanor cared
naught for that. Who was there to see her? Who was there to comment on the
appearance of this girl whom no one loved as a woman longs to be loved? And who
had no one of her own to love as a woman needs to love?
    Her private place, her little glade,
welcomed her with a single shaft of sunlight and Eleanor sat upon a damp log
near a small dogwood tree, not yet in leaf. She put her elbows on her knees,
her head in her hands. Her long hair fell forward to obscure her face. At the
sound of a male voice saying, “Hello. Are you real, or something left by the sylvan
gods for me to find?” Eleanor’s head flew up. Her hands swept the hair back
from her face and she stared up at the tall young man who stood not ten feet
away.
    He looked thin almost to the point of
emaciation. Her eyes took this in even while her heart began a wild and
tumultuous thundering, feeling like the brook running away with her into
unknown territory. His gray eyes stared into hers for a long aching moment, and
then he smiled. “My truck’s broken down. The engine overheated and now