Page 599 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

The woman nodded.

“I lost my aunt a few months ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” came the soft reply.

All of the hurt and pain swelled inside of Sydney until the emotion was so great that she felt like her heart would burst. She attempted to speak, but her tongue lay like lead in her mouth.

The shrill ringing of the phone sliced like a knife through the tense silence. Mrs. McClain looked toward it, as if deciding whether or not to answer it. “I’ll be right back,” Sydney heard her say.

A tear escaped from the corner of Sydney’s eye and she used her sleeve to wipe it away. What was she doing here? This was a mistake. She stood and clutched her purse under her arm. She stumbled to the door.

“Cindy!”

Sydney’s hand dropped from the doorknob.

“Don’t leave. I have something for you.”

Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks when her grandmother returned, carrying a box. She handed it to Sydney.

“These things were your father’s. He would want you to have them. I knew you would come back. Welcome home, Cindy.”

Sydney pausedand looked at the box before opening it. It was a tangible door to a past she’d never been able to close. How she’d longed to touch something familiar, something that had belonged to her dad. But now that it was in front of her, she was hesitant. It was like looking at Pandora’s box. She took a deep breath and tore off the tape with trembling hands. She reached for the item on top, a picture of her and her parents on the beach, taken when they were on vacation in Florida. She rubbed her hand over her parents’ faces. They looked so strong and full of life. She swallowed the sob building in her chest and placed the picture on the floor. The box contained a hodgepodge of items:bank statements, her dad’s watch, family photos, all bringing back bittersweet memories. It was near the bottom of the box that she saw the worn leather book. She opened it. Could it be? Yes, it was her father’s journal. She hadn’t realized he’d kept one. She looked at the familiar handwriting and could no longer contain her emotions. She began to sob.

She let her emotions have full sway until there were no tears left. Her body felt heavy and cold. She reached for the chenille throw, dragging it across the foot of her bed and down to the floor where she was sitting. She pulled her knees into her chest and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and hugged herself as tightly as she could. Her puffy eyes felt sore and big. She pushed back a strand of hair that had mixed with tears, getting matted to her face.

She replayed the conversation with Mrs. McClain over and over again in her mind. She tried to pinpoint the moment that her grandmother had recognized her. In her mind she saw again her grandmother’s startled expression when she opened the door and guessed it had been then, at the very beginning. Sydney knew that she bore an uncanny resemblance to her aunt Judith. It had been ten years since the accident that had taken her father’s life. She’d grown accustomed to her appearance. At first she could only see Judith when she looked in the mirror. But over time, she was starting to catch glimpses of herself now and then. Or maybe she just wanted to see Cindy so badly that she was only imagining it.

Aunt Judith never talked about Sydney’s grandmother. Sydney had been brave enough to ask about her only once. Rather than answering, Judith shot one of her death glares that could stop an entire army in its path.

Sydney never asked again.

The dull pain in her left thigh was intensifying. She massaged her leg, even though she knew the pain was being generated byher mind. Doctor Anderson called it aphantom pain.“You had third-degree burns on your lower back and upper right arm,” he told her. “We used your left thigh as a donor site for skin grafts. Your left thigh will be tender for a long time.”

A dry chuckle escaped her throat. What would the good doctor think if he knew she was still feeling pain in her leg after all these years? She’d be a candidate for the funny farm for sure.

Her grandmother had known Judith. That was obvious. She’d taken one look at Sydney’s face and recognized her, even after all these years.

She opened her father’s journal. Her visit to the house where she’d grown up and then to her grandmother’s brought everything full circle. Fresh tears welled when she saw again her father’s bold, steady handwriting. She thumbed through the first few pages until a particular date caught her attention. Her eyes widened. The entry was recorded only a month before his death.

Went to Mother’s today and sat out in the swing underneath the grape vines. I remember sitting there as a boy. There were so many dreams for the future. I feel so hollow inside. I’m trying to make sense of my life, and then I look at Cindy. She’s withdrawing more and more into herself, and she’s so pale. She’s been cutting paper-dolls out of magazines again. Doc. Bradford says it’s a form of coping that’s normal for her age, but I’m not so sure. I need to spend more time with her. I love her so much. But there’s this chasm between us. It keeps growing, and I don’t know how to reach her. I’m not sure if I can. I just can’t get rid of this fear that I’ll end up losing Cindy too.

A tear fell on the page and mixed with the ink. Sydney blotted the page with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and tried to continuereading, but the words blurred. She’d forgotten all about the paper dolls. She used to search through magazines and cut out pictures of families. Pictures of a healthy mom and a happy smiling dad. How she’d wished that she could jump into one of those pictures and go to a place where everything was right again.

Seeing her grandmother had made her feel close to Avery. She’d hoped the visit would bring her comfort, but it had done just the opposite. All of the old hurt rushed back like a giant tidal wave, and she felt like the helpless sixteen-year-old of her youth. She closed her eyes, letting the tunnel of black thoughts suck her back until her memories took over. The last ten years peeled back like the tide recessing into the ocean, raking the shoreline bare. And in her mind, she was back … back to the accident that had stolen her father’s life and left her scarred, back to when she was Cindy, back to where it all began.

Cindy would have givenanything if she could have ripped the bandages off of her back and arms so she could scratch her tight, itchy flesh. It took every ounce of control she could muster to keep from screaming. The scrubs were the worst. She did scream during those, but the nurses seemed to understand. The doctor had explained that the scrubs, as painful as they were, were a necessary part of the healing process.

A plastic surgeon, the best in his field, had been called in to fix her face. She’d heard him telling her aunt Judith that most of the bones in her face had been shattered. She could have told him that. “It will require a full reconstruction,” Cindy heard him say. She tried to convince herself that her physical pain was of little consequence. She was going to die anyway. She’d willedherself to die. What was the use of living? First her mother, and now her father.

“Cindy.”

Cindy didn’t turn her head toward the voice. She recognized it instantly. It was her aunt Judith. Judith visited her every afternoon. The bandages still covered her face but had been removed from her eyes. “It’s a miracle,” Dr. Anderson told Judith. “Her eyes are okay. They weren’t damaged in the accident.”

Some miracle, Cindy thought. Why couldn’t her father have lived? Now that would’ve been a good miracle.

“Cindy,” Judith said, her voice laced with frustration. “I’m not leaving, so you might as well turn around and look at me.”

Cindy continued to stare out the window.

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