Larkspur Dreams - By Anita Higman Page 0,52

of that aside, had the accident truly been their fault? One unforeseen patch of ice causing them to careen into a ravine. Maybe the same thing would have happened if I had been driving. But then how could it have happened with me? As Marty said, I never took Mom and Dad anywhere. Had it been true? Had he been so busy trying to impress his parents with hard work that he’d forgotten to just be their son?

He flipped off his music. Oddly, he only listened to the classical music to stimulate his mind for higher productivity, not because he had a passion for it. He felt like a fraud.

Back to his headache and what felt like the beating of a bass drum inside his skull. Everett yanked open one of the top drawers on his desk, thinking he might have stuck his medicine inside. No medicine. Great. Instead he saw some crumpled documents inside. He rummaged through the pile. Hmm. Old insurance paperwork. Funeral expenses for Mom, Dad, and Greta. The brake job on my last car. Brakes. Why does that word always stick in my head? In fact, for the last several years, every time he heard that word, it was as if he were searching in his mind for a lost piece of a puzzle.

Brakes? My car. My family’s funerals. Mom and Dad’s car. My responsibility. That’s right. Once his parents had gotten elderly, Greta and Marty had watched over their house, but it had been his job to take care of his parents’ car. Had he forgotten about some car repairs? Brakes! That was it. He was supposed to have had their brakes worked on. Had he been too busy? Why had he blocked it from his memory. . .until now? Out of convenience? Hidden guilt?

Everett squeezed the temples of his forehead. He’d let his parents down, but more than that, perhaps the brakes were the real problem when the car went out of control. His body jolted back in the chair. A dead nerve seemed to twitch back to life. What’s happening to me? Maybe now I’m feeling the stinging guilt Marty has suffered for years.

Everett took out a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his forehead. He put his hand to his stomach. All of a sudden he felt quite ill. He raced to the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet. Was it bad quiche? Maybe Lark was interfering with his stomach now. He already knew the answer as he leaned over for another heaving wave of nausea. The food isn’t the problem. It’s your life.

He allowed dozens of thoughts to drift in and out of his consciousness. His life had become just like his parents’ car. Careering off into an abyss. He’d missed so much. A relationship with his brother. The volunteer work he’d given up. Friendships he’d walked away from. He flushed the commode and wiped off his face.

And why had he insisted on closing up his heart all these years—the coldness masquerading as a good work ethic. To punish his brother? To destroy himself?

Or had he conjured up some magical thinking? He wondered if subconsciously he’d kept emotionally vacant in case that could keep life from zapping him again. And did his noxious mixture of emotions include anger toward God? So many questions.

Once his stomach settled, he knew what he had to do. Since he was already on his knees, he decided to stay there. God, where do I even begin with this prayer? How can You forgive me for what I’ve done to Marty? I guess people don’t have to be artsy to be irresponsible. Obsession with my career has accomplished that very well.

Everett continued his prayer, asking for forgiveness and guidance. Then he rose feeling different. He knew the cold, dispassionate cement he’d built around his heart was crumbling down. Okay. I guess I’ve got a job to do, and this time it won’t be at my computer. The relationship with his brother had suffered too long with a festering wound. The time had come for healing.

Just as he headed to the bathroom for a shower, the doorbell rang. Lark? Marty? He hurried to the door. When he opened it, he found a woman standing on the porch looking anxious.

“May I help you?” Everett asked.

“I’m your neighbor, Melba Sanders. Next door to Lark.”

“I’m Everett Holden.” He noticed the older lady had a pleasant smile and held a plant of some kind.

Melba reached out her