The Lake of Dreams - Kim Edwards [149]
Ned was on his feet at once, reaching down to help Iris stand. She took his arm. I stood, too, and clasped her hand for a second. Her fingers were cold. I told her that I had something I’d like to show her, once she’d had a chance to read the letters and digest them. I explained about Frank Westrum and the windows and Rose, though I wasn’t sure how much she was taking in. Ned was interested, though, and he paused with Iris in the hallway.
“You say there’s a whole museum, full of stained-glass windows.”
“Yes. Rose helped design them. She knew the artist. They were very close, in fact. She modeled for him.”
“I see. Well, I think we’d all be very interested in knowing more, when my mother feels up to it.”
“Yes,” Iris said, and they started moving slowly back down the hallway to her room. “I would like to see them.” Yoshi and I stood for a few minutes longer, talking with Carol and Julie. I gave them the brochure I’d brought about the Westrum House, along with a description of the chapel.
“It’s just overwhelming, I think,” Carol said, as she opened the door. “I know I’m overwhelmed, so I can only imagine how Iris feels. She has to reconsider her whole life.”
She walked with us to the car, admired the Impala’s sleek golden lines, and promised they would be in touch. From the end of the long driveway, she watched us disappear into the leaves.
“I’m worn out, too,” I told Yoshi as we drove. “I’m emotionally wiped out. How about you?”
“Not so much. It’s not my family, so it’s just interesting from afar. Though, you know, my mother’s family is from southwest England, near Bristol, I think. So maybe we’re related, too.”
“Oh, don’t start.”
He laughed. “It’s incredible, though. The whole story is. And that you found her, after all these decades.”
“It really is.”
We talked about this as I drove, leaving Elmira for the blooming fields, daylilies running through the ditches like fire, the fields alive with butterflies and insects, the lakes deep blue and shimmering as we drove along their shores.
Halfway back we’d settled into a companionable sort of silence when the car began to shake and fill with a steady thump-thump-thump. I eased the Impala onto the side of the road and checked—sure enough, the front passenger tire was completely flat. Yoshi rummaged in the trunk—there was no spare—while I called my mother to see if she had a road service. She did, and I put in a call for help.
We were on the edge of a field high between the lakes, water visible in the distance. It was warm, and I was so worn out that I walked a few feet into the field and lay down, trying to ignore the buzz of insects, the cloud of dragonflies that lifted, translucent, from the edge of a nearby puddle and flew away. After a minute Yoshi came and sat down beside me; I shifted so that my head was resting on his leg. He stroked my hair, letting his fingers linger on the soft skin below my ear. Beneath me the earth felt alive, rich with growing things, and beneath his touch I felt alive as well, alive and sleepy and nearly content. I ran my hand along Yoshi’s calf, hard and muscled, thinking how good it was to be here in this sunny field with him, the deep blue lake set like a bowl into the green fields of the earth. Then we heard the truck arrive, the door slam, and we both stood up, shaking seeds and bits of grass from our clothes.
A man in a white cap had left his tow truck and was rummaging in the Impala’s huge trunk, which Yoshi had left ajar. He’d pulled out an empty red plastic gas can, a bag of tools, a folded blanket, and my father’s tackle box, and placed them carefully on the gravel shoulder. “They don’t make trunks this big anymore,” he said, looking up and smiling at us when we drew near. “Just thought I’d take a look-see, maybe there’s a compartment for the spare.” Yoshi stood close to me, his hand warm on the small of my back, as the man searched and came