Return of the Song Read online

  “This is a lovely story that captures so well the mystery, as well as the inspiration, of the musical autistic savant. It is an astonishing, extraordinary condition explored in this tale in an intriguing, exceptional manner.”

  Darold A. Treffert, MD

  Agnesian HealthCare Treffert Center, A Member of SSM Health

  Fond du Lac, WI

  Author of Islands of Genius:

  The Bountiful Mind of the Autistic, Acquired, and Sudden Savant

  Also by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Christmas at Grey Sage

  Silent Days, Holy Night (October 2018)

  Return of the Song: Book #1 in The Rockwater Suite

  Copyright © 2018 by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Published by Gilead Publishing, LLC

  Wheaton, Illinois, USA.

  www.gileadpublishing.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Gilead Publishing, LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-68370-145-3 (printed softcover)

  ISBN: 978-1-68370-146-0 (ebook)

  Cover design by Jeff Gifford, www.gradientidea.com

  Interior design by Beth Shagene

  Ebook production by Book Genesis, Inc.

  For Mama,

  who patiently listened to every sour note,

  who proudly attended every recital,

  and who lovingly and diligently gave me

  every opportunity to learn the melodies,

  the harmonies, and the rhythms of my song of faith.

  Prelude

  Highlands of Guatemala

  Sinister clouds hung over the mountain peaks like a faded gray curtain and obscured the volcanoes in the distance. David spent his last few minutes with Ovispo and Sarita while Dr. Morris hauled the gear to the back of the pickup. The truck bed had been loaded with medical supplies when they left Guatemala City six days ago, but three villages and seventy-eight patients later, they were left with only their personal duffel bags and a six-hour drive back to the city.

  David knew what mountain storms could do in the tablelands, and he was anxious to get out of these mountains before the afternoon rains started. He couldn’t afford to miss his flight back to Atlanta tomorrow.

  He heard Josh slam the truck door. “Come on, David. I have your bag. It’s best if we make it to Solola before the weather sets in. Say your goodbyes and let’s get going.”

  Their final stop was here at El Tablon, a primitive village in the highlands of Guatemala. With the last of the medicine dispensed, their work was complete, and the villagers now gathered to see them off. David did not speak Cakchiquel, but speech was unnecessary to communicate the displeasure of parting.

  Sarita, the tribal matriarch, wordlessly spoke for all the women as she handed David a compactly folded bundle of white woven fabric secured with a handmade ribbon of braided thread. He untied the braid and unfolded the fabric in one brisk motion to reveal sprays of embroidered flowers around the hem of the cloth. Sarita had deliberately folded the piece to conceal the surprise and to protect the stitching.

  For a tourist who collected the needlework of the Mayan artisans, this tablecloth was a work of art. For David, it was a gift of great sacrifice. He knew the sale of this piece in the city would have fed Sarita’s village for a month. He held it to his face, inhaling the smell of smoke left from the open fire where the women gathered in the evenings to stitch by the firelight, just as women had done for centuries in this place.

  “Gracias. Gracias, Hermana Sarita.” David hugged her and wanted to tell her how much this wedding present would mean to Caroline and how it would grace their table for years to come.

  Sarita blushed at David’s attention and smiled broadly, exposing her broken and decaying teeth.

  He heard Josh calling again. “David Summers, if we don’t get down this mountain, Caroline’s trip to the airport to pick you up tomorrow will be in vain.”

  “I’m coming.” David turned to six-year-old Blanca hiding in Sarita’s shadow. Hatefully aimed bullets of rebels had robbed Blanca of her father three months before she was born, and an untreated infection sucked the life from her seventeen-year-old mother only days after Blanca’s birth. Sarita and Ovispo’s childless hut had become Blanca’s home. Blanca’s story—and countless other stories like hers—still ate at David and motivated his return to El Tablon with medical aid three times a year. She was his favorite village child, although he tried not to show it.

  Blanca walked shyly toward him, head down and hands behind her back. He knelt and reached out to her. She lifted her head, fixing her brown eyes on his, and not a muscle in her face moved as she took his right hand and turned it palm up. She relaxed the fingers in her doll-like fist, and placed a small, cloth bag in David’s palm. “Carolina,” she whispered.

  “For Caroline?”

  “Sí. Carolina.”

  Treasure in hand, David embraced her tightly. He could hear the truck’s motor running and thunder rumbling through the mountains as he held her at arm’s length, then blessed her with a kiss on her forehead, as was the Mayan tradition. At last he rose and stumbled back to the truck.

  “One of these trips, you’re going to decide this is home, Summers. Or maybe you’ll just take Blanca home with you, now that you’re getting married and she’d have a mother,” Josh said.

  Still clutching the small bag, David climbed into the truck, trying not to soil the tablecloth. “Maybe, but the decision’s not mine alone.”

  “Hey, man. If you can persuade that beauty to marry the likes of you, surely you can persuade her to take in a Guatemalan orphan.”

  “Perhaps I could. Time will tell. But for now I’ll settle for being a blissfully married professor.”

  Josh revved the engine, priming it for the bumpy ride along the ridge. He gave an inquiring glance at David.

  “Do it. You know how the kids love it.”

  Josh blew his horn until he rounded the curve and they drove out of sight.

  The ramshackle truck bounced over the rocks and gullies across the ridge. David scanned the patchwork quilt of small garden plots across the mountainsides. A year-round growing season kept these poor inhabitants in their staple corn and beans. Some patches were green and ready for harvest, and others lay dormant brown waiting to be planted. Although he daydreamed about living in this Land of Eternal Spring, he’d miss fall and winter.

  “Those guys must have legs like mountain goats,” David said as they passed farmers hoeing rows of corn.

  “If they don’t start home, they’ll need webbed feet or hides like elephants when that storm washes them down this mountain. The volcanic ash in this soil makes it slick before you can say ‘slick.’ ”

  David didn’t need to turn around to know the sky was growing blacker. The mist had thickened, and he noticed Josh’s frequent glances at the rearview mirror.

  “Hey, what time is it?” Josh’s fingers strummed the steering wheel.

  “About four thirty. Why?”

  “I was figuring. We have another hour along the ridge, then an hour to get down the mountain, and half an hour into Solola. I think we’d better stay the night there and drive into the city in the morning.”

  The sprinkles turned to rivulets down the dirty windshield.

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” David opened the drawstring bag in his palm and guided its contents onto the white tablecloth spread across his knees. A beaded bracelet. He held it up for Josh to see. “
A bracelet for Caroline. This must have taken Blanca days to make. Hey, look! She worked Caroline’s name into the beading.”

  In the few seconds that Josh glanced at the bracelet, the truck veered from the safe ruts. He jerked the steering wheel, nearly losing control of the vehicle. Last night’s rain had made syrup of this narrow road. The altitude would have turned it to dust again by now had the morning brought sun instead of heavy mist and the promise of more rain.

  “Whoa, that was close! Best to keep your eyes on this goat path,” David said.

  “Man, I’d prefer it if this truck bed was loaded right now. Would help hold us on the road. Guess I might as well slow down. The road’s too slick, and we can’t outrun this rain anyway. We should have left sooner.”

  “Sorry. My fault.”

  The drizzle turned into a battering assault on the cornfields and the jungle below. David could hardly see the hood ornament through the pelting rain. There was no break in the intensity for the next half hour as they traversed the ridge, leading to the turn that would start their sixty-five-hundred-foot descent down the mountain.

  Riding through the jungle was always cool and dark, but the storm, showing no mercy, brought a menacing darkness and an unusual chill as they descended. David knew Josh’s muscles must be tense from steering the hairpin turns. Water gushing through the crags on the hillsides had cut deep horizontal trenches across the ruts, which had all but disappeared.

  “Boy, these super-sized philodendron leaves are a gift. They usually swat me in the face when I come down this mountain with my window down, but they’re swiping my window now, and I’m glad,” Josh said.

  “Me too. That way we know we’re not too close to this ledge I can’t see over here.”

  The water bombarded the truck and drowned out their conversation. David sat quietly and fingered the yellows and reds and greens of the embroidered flowers on the tablecloth. Envisioning Caroline’s delight put a secret smile on his face.

  He glanced up.

  “Josh, look out!”

  The avalanche of water and mud gushed down the mountainside just in front of them. As David instinctively tried to open his door to escape, the wall of watery debris hit them broadside. He saw the splintered limbs of an avocado tree crashing through the windshield, striking Josh as the truck plunged from the ledge. In less time than it took to inhale and exhale, the violent torrent surged through the shattered glass, washing away all life and hope.

  The truck plummeted—the water’s force tumbling it like a tin can, flipping it over and over and slamming it into trees until it became lodged. His battered body now helpless, David clutched the beaded bracelet as the current propelled him from the truck. The flood-waters ran blood-red as time lost its meaning and a quiet peace silenced the thunderous roars of the rushing water engulfing him. The last thing David saw was the white tablecloth floating away as the cold river ushered him into a warm tunnel of light.

  Picture Windows

  Six years later

  Moss Point, Georgia

  The pendulum clock in the studio struck two. Caroline wished it were six. Painful memories and the dread of another anniversary had robbed her of sleep. She should have been lying next to David, wisps of his breath brushing her neck like a moth’s wings and an occasional audible sigh interrupting the night’s hush. Instead, the night’s silence shouted, “David is gone, and you are alone.”

  Six years of life without him. Six years of unanswered questions. Why, God, didn’t You hold back one thunderstorm for one hour—or maybe even a few seconds? Why did David have to be in Guatemala on that ridge that morning? Why didn’t I give in and go with him? He begged me to go. If I had, I wouldn’t be lying here by myself still longing for him.

  Tears of loneliness moistened her pillow. She untangled her feet from the crumpled sheet, rolled over, and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her eyes and pulling the scrunchie from her ponytail. Her thick, dark hair fell loose and free to her shoulders. Cradling her head in her hands, she stared at the floor and watched the moving shadows of the ceiling fan blades.

  Why do I keep up this act, trying to make everyone think I’m fine, that I’m no longer grieving for David, that my music and my students make my life complete? They don’t know that the music isn’t really music anymore. They don’t know the piano is where I hide. They think I have it all together. Why should they think otherwise? What would it help if they knew that my ordered, predictable life makes me feel safe? Not alive—just safe.

  Caroline stood up, brushed her hair back with her fingers, and twined the scrunchie around her ponytail again. The full moon seeping through the studio windows created a luminescence, making lamplight unnecessary for her trip to the kitchen for a cup of tea. She filled the kettle and turned to look out the window into the cottage garden. The air was still. Not even the plumes on the ornamental grass moved. She stood, twirling the string of the tea bag around her finger as she waited for the water to boil. Thinking herself the only mortal awake in Moss Point at such an hour, she longed for the familiar whistle of the teakettle to shatter the overwhelming silence.

  That was her life: still and quiet.

  She allowed the kettle to whistle two seconds before pouring the water over her tea bag and slumping over the sink to wait.

  Waiting. That’s what I do. I wait for the water to boil and for the tea to steep. I wait for the sun to rise. I wait for the summer. When will I quit waiting?

  She pulled the tea bag from the cup and squeezed it against her spoon, then fumbled everything and dropped the spoon, splattering tea on the floor. She stared at it. Normally she would have wiped it up immediately. Tonight she didn’t.

  Teacup in hand, she wandered into the great room where her grand piano reigned in the alcove surrounded by three twelve-foot walls of glass. The painted wooden floor felt cool to her bare feet as she walked across the room. In April she often opened the French doors to the terrace, and the fragrance of spring’s first roses drifted in on the sultry night air to mingle with the sounds from her piano before floating back out again. But not tonight. The doors remained closed as she sat at the piano, sipping tea and looking at the water garden. After a few minutes she set her cup down on the marble-topped table where she kept her appointment book and student files.

  The moonlight’s illumination of the keys was more than sufficient for her hands, so at home on the keyboard. Thoughts of David brought a familiar melody to her fingers: “David’s Song,” the most beautiful melody she ever conceived and yet never finished. She had written songs since childhood. She was trained to compose. She knew the fundamentals. When she’d begun this composition six years ago, the passionate rush of melody and lyrics had come together so quickly she could hardly record them fast enough. More than a song or a melody, this duet of voice and piano, capturing the essence of David and their passion, would have been her wedding gift to him.

  It had been exactly three hundred and sixty-five days since she had allowed herself to play this melody. At least outside her head.

  Caroline gazed out the window as she played its same notes over and over again. In six years she had not been able to get beyond this one unresolved phrase. Clenched fists finally replaced her nimble fingers, and a strident, dissonant pounding arrested the melody like David’s death had halted her life.

  At that moment, a shadow on the pond and a hasty movement across the water’s edge caught her eye. She stepped to the window. The tea olives next to the glass still shuddered. Her discordant pounding must have startled some creature.

  She turned to pick up her tea. Standing so near that the warmth from her cup fogged the pane, Caroline wondered how many more nights she would find herself here gazing through this glass. That was her life: looking through windows. Windows where she had glimpses of good things, then goodbyes.

  Twenty-one years ago she’d stood in Ferngrove, looking out the picture window in her parents’ living room, observing the delivery of her 1902 Hazelton Brothers piano: a seven
-foot Victorian grand made of burled wood and accented with hand-carved scrolling. This piano had become her emotional vehicle, defining her and filling her hours. It had become her safest place. Her love affair with that instrument had charted the course of her life.

  Nine years later, she’d stood at that same picture window as three movers, like pallbearers, removed her piano. The sale of it paid her college tuition. Often, over the years, she had imagined that piano, her first love, sitting in someone else’s living room and responding to a stranger’s touch. Even now she longed for the familiarity of those ivory keys.

  Windows. She’d been standing at a picture window when she first saw David. He had stepped through the door—and quite unexpectedly into her heart—at her best friend’s wedding.

  Her pulse still quickened when she thought of watching him walk up the sidewalk of the Baker house.

  Oh, David, we were so different, but we fit like the last two pieces of a puzzle. You were so full of life and so spontaneous. And your laugh . . . Your laugh could fill up a room. Me? I was more soulful, always analyzing things, and all I had to bring to a room was my music.

  You lived on the edge. I lived safely behind my keyboard. You wanted to teach the world to think and ponder life and its meaning. I just wanted to instill a love of music in one student at a time. You were bold and adventurous, and I was cautious. And look where it got us. You’re gone, and I’m alone. How could you just walk in and through my life like that?

  She had said goodbye to him at the Atlanta airport six weeks before their wedding. Standing at the terminal window, she’d watched him board his plane for Guatemala. A week later, she had stood at the same window awaiting his arrival as planned. He didn’t come. It was days before they knew what had happened. No David, no goodbye, no closure. Only days and nights of looking through windows, hoping he’d come walking up again.

  Her own life had been swept into a deep gorge like David’s vehicle, never to be recovered. Her faith told her he was in heaven, but her doubt asked, “Where is heaven? What’s it really like? Can he see me? Does he know how much I need him?”