by Edie Claire
“I told her it was wrong,” May barked coolly. “I told her she had to make it right. But she wouldn’t listen to me.”
Laney made no reply. Her Gran had been spouting off equally unintelligible statements for days now. Laney merely smiled as they sat in Gran’s favorite armchairs, which Amy’s sons had managed to stuff against the wall opposite the bed. The family clock sat on a credenza between them, its sound magnified tenfold within the confines of the small studio apartment.
“I understand why she did it,” May continued dully. “She’d just lost Jimbo, and that was all the hurt her heart could take. She couldn’t lose you, too.”
Laney tuned in. Jimbo, aka James Robert Miller, was her own late father, an Army corporal who had been killed during a training exercise shortly before the tornado. At least May seemed to know who Laney was at the moment. “She didn’t lose me, Gran.”
“Oh, but she did,” May retorted, her chin beginning to quiver. “The tornado took you away, and you never came back.”
Not this again, Laney thought uncharitably. With all the actual loss May had endured, Laney had diminishing patience for her lamentations over something that never happened. “I survived the tornado, Gran,” she said again. “It was a miracle, but I did. It was in the paper, remember? I was famous for a while.” She tried to smile again, but her effort was poor.
“They never found her body,” May pronounced.
Laney raised an eyebrow. This was a new one. “Whose body?”
“Our little Laney’s,” May insisted. “It was just gone with the wind, I guess. Maybe blown into the river. We’ll never know, now.”
“Gran,” Laney replied, trying and failing to remove the frustration from her voice. “Terri Turner found me in the field behind their barn, remember? Everybody was out looking for me, and they found me. And they called Mom and she came racing over, and it was happiest moment of her life. Remember what she always used to say? That God gave her a miracle?”
To Laney’s surprise, May scoffed. “Oh, it was a miracle all right,” she said derisively. “For somebody else.” She looked straight at Laney. “You had the cutest blond hair, curly like your daddy’s. And those big old, baby-blue eyes.”
Laney made an attempt at levity. “Yeah, I was cute as all get out. Still am, don’t you think?”
“I think that’s what did it, you know,” May continued, seeming not to hear her. “The blond hair and blue eyes. You were smaller than our Laney, but so much like her. I looked at you and my heart just dropped into my shoes, but my Christi, she didn’t bat an eyelash. Just stood there stock still for a second, then gathered you right up in her arms. ‘My God,’ she said. I can remember it like it was yesterday. ‘My God, it’s my baby. You’re my baby.’ And after that very moment, you were, you know.”
Laney’s blood went cold.
You’re the other one, Gran had said before.
“Are you saying…” Laney lost the thought and tried again. “I don’t understand, Gran. I am your Laney. Yours and Christi’s. Look at me!”
Gran expression didn’t waver. She had been staring at Laney the whole time. “No, honey,” she said softly, compassionately. “Our Laney died. But we loved you just the same.”
Laney’s legs jerked her to her feet. She shouldn’t be listening to this. May was delirious. She could be saying anything, making up anything… to assume there was anything to it would be lunacy. If the real Laney Miller had died, who the hell was she? Had Christi adopted her somehow?
Impossible. Laney had read the newspaper articles a million times. The whole affair had happened within hours!
“I think you’re tired, Gran,” she pronounced. “And so am I. But I’ll come back to see you tomorrow, okay?”
But now May was crying. “She didn’t mean any harm. Truly, she didn’t. The other parents were dead, both of them. And she had so very much love to give! It wasn’t fair; it just wasn’t. She was only trying to make things right. She didn’t mean to hurt anybody. Oh, sweet Jesus, He’s simply got to understand!”
Laney froze. The other parents were dead. Images flashed through her mind of yellowing newspaper and blobby Courier print. A whole family of out-of-towners had died in the Peck tornado. A young couple and a baby.
Of course! she thought with relief. There was one body that was never found, true, but it had only been that of a little baby! That was why no one was particularly surprised when it didn’t turn up. Debris of all sizes had scattered for miles; several missing animals had never showed up again, either. Her Gran must be getting the old stories confused!
“It was a baby who died in the tornado, Gran,” she insisted. “Not me. I was nearly two years old, remember? I was walking around! Maybe you’re thinking of another tornado?” She let out a nervous breath. Of course, that would be it. May’s mental timeline was nonexistent; she could be remembering any tornado.
May’s tears continued to fall. Her mouth formed a grim line. “No one else knew what you looked like, not really. Christi said that you were her Laney and who was going to argue? You did look like her. Blond hair and the bluest eyes! Our Laney was bigger, but you were a smart little thing. So smart! You were already talking as good as she was. Nobody knew. Nobody questioned. Babies change every day, people know that. And my poor Christi, I swear she didn’t even know herself! Not after. She wasn’t in her right mind, she wasn’t. It should be me going to hell, not her, for letting her keep pretending. My best little angel, she didn’t deserve to suffer like that! She had so much love to give! I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t. And I didn’t say a word, and I never will! If hell’s the price I pay for it, then so be it, and may God have mercy on us both!”
The room around Laney was spinning. She wanted to comfort her great-grandmother, but no words would come. She couldn’t move; she wasn’t sure she was even still breathing. But she did know that Gran’s pain was real. May couldn’t be making up everything she was saying!
“You’d best be getting ready for bed now, Ms. Burgdorf,” the merry aide who entered the room announced in a sing-song. “You ready to try out your new shower? The controls might look kind of strange, but come on now and I’ll help you figure them out, all right?”
May’s countenance changed in an instant. “Is it time to go home?”
“It’s shower time,” the aide repeated. “Then we’re all going to have a special late-night snack. What’s your favorite flavor, Ms. Burgdorf? You like chocolate or vanilla?”
May rose. “Vanilla,” she said decisively.
“Ooh, that’s my favorite, too!” the aide chuckled, even as she caught Laney’s eyes and gestured her surreptitiously toward the door. “Some people think it’s bland, but I just love vanilla icing, or vanilla pudding either one. You like those vanilla wafers? You know, the little round cookies you get in a box?”
Laney backed her way to the door and slipped out into the hall. As May’s response about preferring Fig Newtons echoed into the corridor, she felt her feet moving her toward the exit. Her heart pounded. Her mouth was dry.
Not possible, she assured herself.
It’s just not possible.
Chapter 8
Tofino, British Columbia, Present Day
Jason jogged up onto the beach, his split-toed surf boots making their usual weird, hooflike prints in the wet brown sand. The sky was blue this morning, the waves were awesome, and Ben was having a blast. Though the oceanographer/boat captain was every bit as lousy a surfer as he said he was, he clearly enjoyed being out in the ocean — as opposed to sitting inside a building studying it — and his childlike joy was infectious. Jason didn’t often get the opportunity to instruct a bona fide resident of Hawaii on the art of surfing, even one as unaccomplished as Ben. But he’d been having a rather excellent time himself, particularly after Ben offered to return his hospitality with an open invitation to stay at the couple’s condo on Maui — which apparently was sitting empty while they spent the academic year in Victoria.
Yet
even as Jason’s head filled with giddy thoughts of surfing a warm ocean in nothing but board shorts, he could not stop thinking about Laney. He’d heard nothing about or from her since last night, and he couldn’t help wondering whether he should deliver the rest of her stuff whether she called him or not.
He pulled off his gloves, reached into the bag he’d left on the beach, and pulled out his phone. He had several texts, as he usually did after he’d been out on the water awhile. Two were from women he’d met only recently, both fishing for meetups. The first, a surfer from Australia who’d rented some equipment from him, was a definite maybe. She was in town for two weeks and appeared to be the sort of fun-loving free spirit whose company he most enjoyed. The other, a new resident who’d just taken a job at the Tofino municipal center, was a definite no. Never mind that she was smart, funny, and by far the more attractive of the two. He could tell she was looking for a long-term relationship, and that was a nonstarter. “Forever girls” might make wonderful mates for other men, but if they fell for him they’d get hurt, and he didn’t do that kind of drama.
He hesitated over the text from the Aussie, then decided to answer her later. His third, unopened text seemed more compelling, despite its coming from an unknown number. He clicked to open it.
Hi, this is Laney Miller, of near-death fame. I hate to put you out again, but the next time you’re in the area, if you could bring my backpack, I’d appreciate it. Thanks.
A broad smile spread over Jason’s face. He looked out over the ocean, wondering if Ben was ready to take a break. The men exchanged a series of gestures, and Ben rode the next wave towards shore. Then Jason popped off his hood and called one of the backups who covered his front desk. Within half an hour, he was on his way.
***
Laney stared with annoyance at the built-in hospital cabinet where her phone and laptop were stored. They hadn’t technically been confiscated; she could get them if she wanted. But she didn’t really want them. Not if she also wanted a head that didn’t pound with pain.
Light, as it turned out, was a highly undesirable thing for brain tissue that had just been violently slammed against the inside of one’s skull. She had been introduced to this fact while trying to use her phone last night, reintroduced to it when the sun rose this morning, and then whopped upside the head with it when she had tried using her laptop a couple hours later. The sad fact was that until her headaches were under control, the sun was barred from her window and any and all screens would remain powered off.
Naturally, she was bored to tears. She was also consumed with anxiety, which was unlike her. The doctor had assured her after her exam this morning that all signs were positive and that most likely her memory would return to normal within a day or two. She was improving all the time; as of this morning she had no more trouble remembering things that happened after she’d come to the hospital or recalling particular data bytes like her own last name. But she still didn’t know why she was in Canada.
She reached up and touched a hand to the staples in her tender scalp, grateful that at least her hair was clean now. She’d insisted on getting a shower and shampoo the first minute the staff would allow it. She might not give a rat’s behind how she looked, but she hated the feel of greasy hair. Her blond locks fell limp and straight as a stick even when—
She broke off the thought as a wave of horror swamped her consciousness and unsettled her stomach. She dropped her hand from her hair and stared at the tent in the blanket created by her toes. Her heart beat fast, every muscle tensed. Had something happened? What was wrong? Why didn’t she know?
Her mind searched for some explanation. She’d heard of panic attacks, but never experienced one. Most likely, the strange feeling was just another fun symptom of concussion. Anyhow, it was already fading.
You’re fine.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in!” she practically ordered, not caring who it was. If the visitor could distract her from both her boredom and the bizarre panic she would happily welcome any and all salesmen, marketing surveyors, cult missionaries…
It was the hottie who owned the hostel.
“Hi there. I’m Jason Buchanan,” he explained, seeming unsure whether she would remember him. From the way he was squinting, she supposed he couldn’t see her well in the darkness. The light in the hallway was blindingly bright in comparison to her room, a fact that resulted in another zing of pain behind her eyes. “I brought your backpack,” he added cheerfully.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” she said sincerely. “Do me a favor, close that door and don’t turn on the light, okay? Can you see well enough to sit down?” She had texted him earlier — or rather, a friendly housekeeper had done so for her — but she hadn’t really expected him to show up. At least not this fast.
He shut the door behind him as requested, felt his way to the chair by the window, and sat down. “I’m guessing the light hurts your head,” he said sympathetically. “Which probably means no screens either. Bummer. You bored?”
“Beyond all endurance. Thanks for coming so quickly. You really didn’t have to.”
He shrugged. Then he set the backpack beside her.
She was trying to face him as a polite person would do, but the narrow sun streaks that stole in around the blinds behind his chair were enough to set off the eye-arrows again. She gave up, closed her lids, and concentrated on the backpack. She felt around, found the small front pocket and pulled out her keyring. “Wait,” she exclaimed, fingering it. “My car keys are gone!”
“You told me you came on the bus,” Jason said. “You asked me about renting a car.”
“Renting a car?” Laney repeated, confused.
“Sorry,” the voice said sympathetically. “But I can only tell you what you told me, which wasn’t much.” He described the conversations they’d apparently had both over the phone and when she arrived at his hostel. But other than the part about her not having much money to spend — which was always the case — nothing he reported made any sense.
“I’m sure I was driving, at least when I left Missouri,” she insisted.
“Was it an old car? If you had a breakdown somewhere and had to leave it in a shop, that would explain the missing keys.”
Laney contemplated a moment, then huffed out a laugh. “It’s a 2003 Malibu, and now that you mention it, it would be a miracle if it did make it all the way up here.” She braved opening her eyes. Her alleged lifesaver was relaxing in his chair, looking perfectly at ease in a dim hospital room with a crazy person.
“It must be frustrating,” he said mildly. “Not being able to remember something from your own past.”
“Frustrating is a word,” she said glibly, wondering why he was still here. A man who looked like he did was bound to have better things to do on a sunny afternoon. She waited for him to make his excuse and leave.
“Have you reached any other relatives yet?” he asked. “Or friends, or whoever?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I spoke with my aunt last night. Everything’s fine at home.”
He smiled. “Well, that’s a relief.”
An explanation for his solicitousness suddenly occurred to her. “I hope you’re not sitting here listening to me whine because you’re afraid I’m going to sue or something,” she said bluntly. “The accident was my own stupid fault. End of story.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” he said with humor. “Canadian courts don’t do windfalls for pain and suffering like American courts do. Besides which, you weren’t technically on my land when you fell.”
“Ah,” Laney replied. “So why are you sitting here listening to me whine?”
He regarded her for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he stood up and ran a hand through his hair. When he began to pace near the foot of the bed, Laney was glad. Away from the window she could look at him more comfortably, and he was very nice to look at.
“I’ve been concerned about you,” he answered finally. “I do feel r
esponsible that you got hurt while staying at my lodge. But there’s something else.”
Laney waited. The man got more interesting all the time.
“I told you I opened your suitcase,” he confessed, sounding guilty. “I really was looking for something that would help the hospital locate your great-grandmother. But what I found was your newspaper articles… and I couldn’t help but read them. It was such an amazing story. I couldn’t read something like that and not be curious about you.”
Laney blinked. “What are you talking about? What newspaper articles?”
He blinked back at her. “The ones about the tornado.”
The tornado.
She drew in a sharp breath as the damnable black feeling suffused her again. Her muscles stiffened and her heart raced. The tornado. No, no… The thought was diffuse. Unformed. But it was very, very bad…
“I’ve seen lots of tornados,” she heard herself say. “Which one are you talking about?” Her voice was weird. Way too cheerful.
“The tornado in Peck, Missouri,” he answered. He was looking at her oddly, which was understandable. She felt odd. “The one when you were a toddler.”
“Oh, that!” the ninny voice replied. She even heard herself giggle. She never giggled. “Yeah, I was kind of famous for a while.”
Her desire to change the subject was overwhelming.
“I’m curious how you came to be a meteorologist,” he continued. “After experiencing something like that… What drove you to want to study tornados?”
Stop saying that word!
“I’ve always been fascinated with weather,” she said evasively. “That’s all.”
He was standing still now, looking at her. Thank goodness the light was so dim. She could feel beads of sweat breaking out all over her body.
Change the subject! “What I really need to do right now,” she said earnestly, “is figure out why I came to Canada.”