by Karen White
I opened my mouth to protest, but she actually shushed me as if I were an errant child.
It took nearly a minute for her to gather strength, but not nearly long enough for me to prepare myself.
“I know you don’t like saying his name, so I will. Cal found out that his grandmother knew who and what had really brought down that plane, and that’s why he left—either because he couldn’t stand living with his grandmother anymore, or because he was looking for some warped kind of justice. He found you instead, and you feel like a dummy because you married him, having no idea what his story was—believing you were on an even playing field because you both came from pasts you didn’t want to talk about.”
She’d paused often during her speech but took a long rest now, breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling, but the look in her eye told me I shouldn’t interrupt.
She continued. “Knowing you, you feel responsible for your grandmother’s actions, and maybe even just a tiny bit feel like Cal’s taking his anger out on you was justified in some crazy way. It is well documented that women in abusive situations adopt a warped way of thinking just so they can manage their lives. Like telling a person so many times that they can fly that one day they believe it and jump out a window.
“But Cal loved you, Merritt. Even you admit that. Why else would he have married you? When he discovered that your grandmother was dead, he could have let it be. Maybe he thought that you could redeem each other—and maybe for a bit, you did. But he was sick, honey, and I don’t think anybody could have changed him. He knew it, too. He walked into that burning building on his own two legs, of his own free will. Don’t you be hanging that around your neck, either, because that’s just wrong. We make our own choices, and he made his. And now it’s your turn. Show Gibbes the letter and take it from there. You are not the guilty party here, and I promise you that Gibbes won’t think less of you or want to punish you.” She took another deep, rattling breath. “You’ve been dealt a tough deck of cards, that’s for sure, but it’s time to pull up your big-girl panties and move on. Like my mama used to say, you can’t move forward if you always have one foot on the brake.” She closed her eyes, as if all her energy had been completely emptied.
My whole body shook with anger. “You have no right,” I began, then faltered, because I didn’t know what else to say. She had every right, simply because there was nobody else.
“Good, I’ve made you mad. But you’ve got to get louder than that so I’ll pay attention. Go ahead and yell and scream at me and tell me I’m wrong.” She paused, wheezing in and out as she struggled for a deep breath. “A good hissy fit every once in a while is good for you. And if you want to cry your heart out about all the injustices in the world, then do that, too, but come over here first so that I can put my arm around you and pat your shoulder while you cry. Crying alone is never recommended.”
I began to sputter, hot, angry tears I didn’t know how to shed somehow finding their way down my face.
She held up her finger, her voice now considerably weaker and making me feel even worse. “And the last thing I’m going to say on this subject—unless you actually ask for my opinion on it—is that you should give Gibbes a break. Not only is he not too hard on the eyes, but he’s smart, and funny, and kind—not to mention great with Owen. If you would just stop putting up walls where they don’t belong, and wondering whether he sees you the way you think Cal used to see you, I think you two would make a nice couple. And for heaven’s sake, show some leg once in a while, and use a bit of mascara and lipstick. You have no idea how pretty it will make you feel.”
I stood there, crying harder than I ever remembered crying, feeling like the little girl I’d once been whose mother had made her swim away. You are so much stronger and braver than you think you are. I just wish you could see you as I see you. I still had doubts that Gibbes was right, but maybe it was time I stopped fighting the words I didn’t want to hear. Maybe Loralee was right, too, that I’d had one foot on the brake for far too long.
She patted the bed next to her and I curled up at her side, being careful not to jolt her, and let her stroke my shoulder while I cried and hiccuped until I couldn’t. We lay there for a long time in silence, the irony of the situation suddenly hitting me and making me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” she asked, a smile in her voice.
“That I just let a dying woman comfort me. As Owen would say . . . awkward.”
She laughed gently, and I tilted my head to look at her, amazed that I no longer saw her as my enemy, as the woman who’d stolen my father from me, but as a friend. The kind of friend who let me cry on her shoulder despite her own pain.
“Is that what you meant by ‘opening up a can of whoop-ass’ on somebody?” I asked.
“Pretty much. Except I went easy on you, seeing as how you’re family.”
“Bless my heart,” I said.
Her shoulder shook beneath my head. “You’re learning, darlin’. You’re learning.” She looked at the bag I’d dragged up on the bed with me. “What’s that?”
“I brought you a surprise.”
She smiled again, and I saw how the wattage hadn’t dimmed. I hoped Owen saw this, noticed how strong his mother was, how she counted every blessing even when the basket of blessings was almost empty. That was something she’d said to me when I asked her why she kept smiling, and then she’d written it in her pink journal.
I sat up and upended the bag and watched as the DVD set of Gone with the Wind spilled out onto the bedclothes. “I’m tired of being the only person in the world who’s never seen it. Since we finally have a DVD player and it’s conveniently located in your room, I thought now would be a good time.”
“It’s always a good time to watch Gone with the Wind, and I happen to have time right now.”
I took off the wrapping and removed the first disk before placing it in the player. I returned to the bed and plumped up Loralee’s pillows before fluffing the extra ones and placing them against the headboard next to hers. “You ready?” I asked, holding up the remote control.
“Not yet. We definitely need a box of Kleenex in the bed between us. I’ve never gotten through this movie without using at least half a box.”
I slid off the bed and retrieved a box from her dresser. “These are for you, then. I never cry at movies. Ever. Besides, I don’t think I have any tears left.”
“Uh-huh,” she said primly as she leaned back against her pillows.
I pushed “play,” then pressed the “next chapter” button to get through the opening credits.
Loralee put her hand on my arm. “What are you doing? The music score is the wings of the movie—it’s part of the experience.”
I looked at her dubiously. “All right, if you say so.” I lay back next to Loralee and we listened to the opening strains of the theme song as she pressed a tissue into my hand.
* * *
Four hours—plus five potty breaks, two food and water breaks, and two phone calls—later, Loralee was sound asleep and I was staring at my lapful of used tissues. My phone pinged and I saw it was a text from Gibbes saying he was at the front door and could he let himself in. I responded yes and waited for him to find me in Loralee’s room.
I hit “pause” on the remote and looked up to see him standing in the doorway. He held a paper bag with liberal dark spots of grease on the bottom that smelled like heaven. I was glad Loralee wasn’t awake to comment on how my nose and eyes were red and that I probably should have at least brushed my hair or put on lipstick.
“I didn’t want to wake her, which is why I didn’t ring the doorbell.” He glanced from me to Loralee, then back again. “Have y’all been wrestling?”
I snorted through my nose, too exhausted to care what I might look or sound like. “Gone with the Wind. I just got to the part where Melanie dies. Please tell me it gets happier at the end.”
“You’ve never seen Gone with the Wind or read the book?”
“I know. I’
m an anomaly. That’s why I was watching it.”
He took the remote from my hand and turned it off. “Let’s just say the ending is inconclusive.” He held up the bag. “I brought something to eat.”
I looked over at Loralee, who still appeared to be sleeping. In a loud whisper, I said, “It smells fried. I don’t think she’s . . .”
“Not for her—for you. I know you’ve been taking care of Owen as well as making Loralee’s meals and getting her to eat as much as she can, but I’m thinking you probably haven’t been paying much attention to your own needs.”
I felt my spine stiffen, but Loralee’s words about putting up walls came back to me, and I settled against the pillow. “I am pretty hungry. I usually eat with Owen, but he’s at Maris’s tonight. I did have some popcorn while we watched the movie.” I jutted my chin at the bag. “What’s in there?”
“A shrimp burger and hush puppies from the Shrimp Shack over on Saint Helena. Best food you ever put in your mouth. The shrimp is fried before it’s put in the burger, so you might overdose on grease, but you’re with a doctor, so it’s all right.”
“Good to know,” I whispered back, picking up all of the used tissues before carefully sliding off the bed. “Let’s go to the kitchen and grab some plates.” I glanced over at the clock. “She won’t need more meds for another hour.”
I made to move past him, but he didn’t budge. “Have you been avoiding me?”
I looked anywhere but his eyes. “I’ve been busy.”
“I know. I see this a lot with caretakers, how they make themselves sick because they’re too busy taking care of other people. You need to take time for yourself.”
“There’s really nothing else I want to be doing.” I met his eyes for a moment, and then glanced away, not yet ready to take Loralee’s advice. I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
“Another band is coming next weekend to Waterfront Park, and they’re expecting shag dancers from all over the state. It should be fun.”
“I told you—I don’t dance.”
“Great. Because I’m a great teacher.”
“I don’t—”
“She’d love to,” Loralee interrupted.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” I said before facing Gibbes again. “I really can’t. I think I was born with two left feet. Besides, I don’t have anything to wear.”
Loralee grinned widely. “I think we were just saying how much you needed a red dress. Problem solved. And I get to do your hair and makeup.”
Knowing how much the thought probably excited her, I didn’t argue. Instead I picked up the remote and handed it to her. “I’m going downstairs to eat an early dinner, but I’ll be back as soon as I’m done. You can finish watching the movie if you like. I was at the part where Melanie dies.”
“Did you cry?” she asked.
“Like a baby.”
She opened her hand and I squeezed it.
“And you feel better, don’t you? Having a cry is good for you.”
I looked at her closely, seeing how translucent her skin had become, how sharply her cheekbones jutted from her face. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Just a little uncomfortable. We can ask the nurse tomorrow about upping some of my doses. But I’ll be fine for tonight. You two go on and have your dinner.”
I started to move back, but she held on to my hand, bringing my head closer to her. “You are strong enough. And he’s not Cal,” she whispered.
Impulsively, I leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”
She winked at me, then mimicked putting lipstick on her lips with her finger, and I rolled my eyes before turning away and snatching up her tube of lipstick on the dresser before leaving the room.
“Don’t forget to use a mirror,” she called back, her voice weak but still audible.
I felt my face heat while Gibbes struggled to hide his laugh with a cough as we headed down the stairs.
chapter 33
MERRITT
I sat at Loralee’s dressing table, staring in the mirror at a prettier version of myself than I was used to seeing. Loralee sat on the bed behind me, propped up to get a good view of my face’s reflection. She told me that I needed to learn how to do it myself, but we both knew she was too weak to hold her arms up for long enough to curl my hair or flick a mascara wand through my eyelashes.
“Is the light on the curling iron green yet?” she asked. Her voice was reed thin, but still held the unmistakable twang of Alabama behind each syllable.
“Which one’s the curling iron?”
She at least had the energy to roll her eyes. “It’s the one with the round barrel. The flat one is the straightener.”
“I could just wear my hair in a ponytail and not worry about either one,” I suggested, already exhausted from the makeup lesson. Who knew that making one’s face look natural took so much effort?
“There are no shortcuts to anyplace worth going.”
I turned to look at her. “Is that in your little book?”
“Not yet. But I don’t think I have the strength to write in it.”
“Would you like me to do the honors?”
She nodded, and I stood to retrieve the pink journal and the pen that she always kept nearby. I opened it, surprised to find that all the pages were filled with her elegant handwriting. I flipped to the back and read her last entry. Try to remember that the best days of your life are still ahead of you. I blinked back the sting in my eyes and held the pen poised over the page. “You’ve only got half a page until the book is filled. I’ll have to go find you another one—although I don’t know how easy it will be to find another pink journal.”
She didn’t say anything, and I didn’t look up as I wrote, my handwriting looking large and childlike next to hers. There are no shortcuts to anyplace worth going. “There,” I said, closing the book and sticking the pen in the last page. “I think there’s room for one more.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll start thinking of a good one. An appropriate one for the end of the book.”
“Of volume one, anyway. I have a feeling you’ve got a few more journals in you.”
“That’s for sure,” she said, her breath rattling. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“After I die, can you make sure that Owen gets my journal? That’s why I’ve been doing it, so that he’ll sort of still have me even after I’m gone. I want you to read it, too.”
“Sure,” I said, working hard to keep my voice steady, and even managed a smile. I turned back to the mirror. “Are we done here?”
“Almost. Just pick up the curling iron—don’t touch the metal part or it will hurt like the dickens, and I speak from experience—and twist it into those front sections of your hair like I showed you.” Her breath came in gasps, her chest rising and falling. It was difficult to listen, but I also knew that Loralee’s favorite thing to do was talk, and I wasn’t about to tell her that she couldn’t.
I did as she told me, although with questionable results, and returned the curling iron to the dresser before unplugging it and the straightener. I made a move to stand, but she called me back. “Don’t forget the hair spray—in this humidity you have to spray it to death or you will look like a drowned rat in less than thirty minutes. Don’t be all delicate on me now; hit that pump and just keep going.”
There was a fog of hair spray around my head by the time I was done. I quickly fanned at it to make it dissipate before it reached her. “What is that—shellac?”
“Just about. You can only get that brand at beauty-supply stores—and I think a few of the contents are probably forbidden in some countries, but it gets the job done.”
I glanced sideways at her to see whether she was joking, but before I could ask, the doorbell rang. “That’s probably the nurse. She said she could stay until we get back—which won’t be late—so you won’t be alone. And the movie Owen is seeing with Maris and her dad is over at
nine, and he should be home shortly after that.” I slid her cell phone closer. “But you can still call me at any time, all right?”
The doorbell rang again and I went to answer it, finding Lutie Stelle at the door, and Gibbes walking up behind her.
“Well,” Nurse Stelle said as she stepped inside. “You look pretty as a picture. Let me see that dress.”
I gave a little twirl, just enough so the full skirt swished about my knees. It was deep red, my “signature color,” as Loralee called it, having an almost Jackie O. look to it, with a portrait collar and a tightly fitted bodice. I’d gone shopping by myself, but had taken more selfies in one day than I had in my whole life and sent them to Loralee until she and Owen selected what they both considered the perfect dress. I couldn’t imagine wearing it to a funeral, and refused to think beyond getting through the coming night.
Gibbes closed the door behind them and gave a low whistle. “It’s not going to matter if you can’t dance. You can just stand still in that dress.”
Remembering what Loralee had taught me, I bit back any arguments and just said a simple, “Thank you.” I noticed the bouquet of flowers in his hands. “I’m assuming those are for Loralee? Come on up—I think there’s room in the vase from the flowers you brought last time.”
We all headed upstairs, where Loralee greeted us with one of her big smiles. I noticed she’d put on some of the lipstick I’d left on her nightstand.
Gibbes kissed her cheek as I arranged the flowers in the vase and moved them to the dresser so they’d be closer. Nurse Stelle settled herself in the chair by the bed and began checking the clipboard and rearranging the medicine bottles.
“Don’t you worry about us,” she said. “We’ll hold down the fort until you get back—and no need to rush. Loralee and I always have a good time, don’t we?”