Crossing Oceans

by Gina Holmes

“Wow,” he said.

  “Wow, what?”

  “Even with your Medusa hair, you still manage to look beautiful.”

  I crossed my arms and looked him over in return. He wore a John Deere T-shirt, shorts, and grass-streaked tube socks that peeked up through crusty work boots. I started to say something smart about the way he was dressed but stopped myself. The truth was that he looked exactly the way a man should.

  He winked. “Even looking as raggedy as you do, I’d share a mattress with you any day.”

  I felt myself flush. “That’s enough.”

  He covered his mouth and fake-coughed the word prude.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. The last time I laid down my prudity, I ended up with Isabella.”

  “That’s not a word,” he said.

  “Isabella?”

  “No, prudity.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Oh, come on . . . prudity?”

  “It is so,” I said, trying to sound certain.

  “You wanna bet?”

  I combed my fingers through my tangled hair. “First, you compromise my reputation by being in my bedroom unchaperoned, and now you want me to gamble?”

  He bent over to pick a pillow off the floor. I found myself at eye level with his bottom. It was a fine butt, small and round, which I had no business admiring. Heat rose in my cheeks. I looked away as he straightened.

  “Listen, Mother Teresa, I’m not trying to take advantage of you or cause your backslide.” His smile faded. “I’m not David, Genevieve.”

  My hands clutched the blanket. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I actually care about you.”

  My heart grew heavy. “He cared once too.”

  Craig opened his mouth as if to argue, then closed it again.

  After a moment of silence, I gestured to his feet. “How in the world did you get past Mama Peg in those filthy things?”

  He looked down at his boots and then at me. “Crud, I forgot why I even came up here.”

  “Which was?”

  “I’m supposed to let you know that Ted’s down there waiting to talk to you.”

  I knew only one Ted, and the thought of him in my house gave me the same Alice-in-Wonderland feeling I got the first time I ran into one of my teachers at the grocery store. “Uncle Ted?”

  “He ain’t my uncle, but yeah, that’s the one.”

  “What does he want?”

  “My guess is it has something to do with his nephew’s daughter.”

  I sighed. Apparently David and Lindsey weren’t going to be the only Prestons I was going to have to contend with. I didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me until then that Isabella wasn’t just inheriting David, Lindsey, and Dr. Preston . . . but Ted, his wife, and the rest of the Preston clan. I flopped back on my pillow and yanked the blanket over my head.

  Craig tore it off.

  A gust of air hit my legs. “Go away.”

  He grabbed my ankles and pulled my feet to the floor.

  I batted his hands away from me. “Okay, already. I’m up.”

  Eyeing my upright position, he nodded smugly and sauntered out. Perspiration had soaked the back of his shirt in the shape of an upside-down heart. He started to close the door behind him but paused and peered back at me. “I wouldn’t take too long if I were you. Your father’s down there reading him the riot act about his brother.”

  My stomach cramped at the thought of what could be going on downstairs between these modern-day Montagues and Capulets. After changing into a clean lace-rimmed T-shirt, pulling my hair into a ponytail, and speed-gargling some Scope, I hurried down to intervene before blood could be shed.

  As I made my way to the landing, Isabella’s laughter fluttered in from the yard, and I wondered if Ted was entertaining her. The thought neither warmed nor disturbed me. He was the type who would offer a kid a sucker, then expect a quarter, but at least he didn’t have a god complex like his brother.

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw him sitting on the couch, looking as out of place in my living room as a vulture in a bluebird nest. He wore white work pants with a Ted’s Café silk-screened shirt tucked into them. His bald head gleamed more than usual, making me wonder if he had shined it up special for the visit.

  My father stood, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.

  Ted’s gaze fell on me. He jumped up. “Jenny, long time no see.”

  I gave him my best what-pray-tell-are-you-talking-about look. “I just saw you two weeks ago.”

  My father cleared his throat.

  Ted’s small eyes darted between him and me as he laughed nervously. “What are you talking about? I haven’t seen you since you left town. How many years has it been now?”

  I blinked a few times, wondering which one of us was the crazy one. I decided it was definitely him. “We’re not exactly hiding from the Mafia, Ted. What can I do for you?”

  My father’s eyes narrowed at Ted’s lie. No wonder the guy was about to sweat a river. Jack Lucas’s icy glare could unnerve the devil himself.

  Ted glanced at Dad. “I’ve never been a great-uncle before.”

  My father snorted. “This entire godforsaken town calls him ‘uncle.’ You’d think he’d gotten his fill of it.”

  “Stop being rude, Jack!” Mama Peg yelled from the kitchen.

  My father said nothing in his defense, but the scowl on his face deepened considerably.

  Perspiration beaded fresh on Ted’s brow. He pulled a balled-up handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his forehead. “Jenny, mind if we talk private?”

  My dad’s eyes further narrowed into slits. “Blood is thicker than water, Genevieve. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  I shook my head at his infantile behavior.

  With a black look on his face, my father plodded into the kitchen, leaving us alone.

  Ted sighed with relief, then gestured to a grease-stained brown sack resting on the coffee table. “Are you hungry? I brought you some burgers.”

  I was surprised my stomach didn’t lurch at the mention of food. “A little, thanks. How much do we owe you?”

  He gave me an incredulous look. “I’m not asking you to pay for them.”

  Shocked, I stuttered my thanks.

  “I know I’ve got a reputation for being cheap, but I’m not that bad.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “It’s common knowledge that not even your family gets their meals for free.”

  His face turned crimson. “Good grief. I lay a bill in front of my nephew once or twice to prove a point and people are still smarting off about it.”

  Hunger began to gnaw at my stomach. I was anxious to get some calories in me before the urge to eat took another two-week hiatus. “What is it that you want, Ted?”

  He sucked in his bottom lip and chewed on it before speaking. “I’ll bet you didn’t know your little one is the only grandchild in the family. The only one.” Fresh beads of sweat formed on his brow. “We—I—would like the chance to get to know her.”

  “If Isabella wants to get to know her Preston relatives when she’s grown, that will be her choice, but for now . . .”

  He looked even sadder than the night the café was robbed. I felt sorry for him, but I couldn’t base my decision for Isabella’s future on feelings—his, mine, or anyone else’s. Still, he was her great-uncle and an okay guy despite his last name.

  I needed time to think this through, list the pros and cons, maybe talk it out with Mama Peg and Craig. I wanted to do what was right, but I suspected that the right thing for the Prestons wasn’t going to be what was right for Isabella. She had to be my utmost consideration. I rubbed at my temple, trying to clear my mind. It didn’t work. I couldn’t think straight with him watching me. “Ted, thanks for coming. I know you’re interested in Isabella, but I need some time to consider this.”

  He wiped his forehead again. “Jenny, this family feud has gone on long enou
gh. I know my brother messed up with your mom. I understand your daddy’s anger, but that little girl, she had nothing to do with any of that. She deserves to know her family. All her family.”

  “I’ll be in touch.” My words sounded strange and distant.

  Ted laid his palm on my arm. “There’s something else you need to know. David’s talking about suing for custody.”

  I reached out for something to hold on to but my hand grasped only air. “What?”

  “I tried my best to talk him out of it. I told him we should settle it among ourselves. That once it went to court, any chance of reconciliation would be lost forever.”

  A cloud exploded in my mind. “Full custody?”

  “Don’t worry, Jenny. He won’t get it, I don’t think. No judge worth his spit would take a little girl from her mama.”

  No, I thought, but if the mother was dying . . . The air no longer seemed to contain adequate amounts of oxygen. I breathed faster, but the more air I tried to suck in, the faster the room spun. “He would really try and take her away from me?”

  “I think he just wants to share . . .”

  Ted said something more after that, but his words swirled around my head as jumbled as alphabet soup. The ground rolled under my feet. I wanted to ask if he felt it too, but no words would come. Ted’s mouth opened wide as he reached out to me . . . a second too late. I heard a thud as the floor slammed my head, and the room faded to black.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The combination of bleach and alcohol was almost pungent enough to drown out the smell of disease and misery clinging to the air. Chatter laced with medical jargon, intermingled with banging cabinets, clicking heels, and squalling monitors, returned me to a place I’d never have come willingly—to replay memories I’d give anything to erase.

  My father leaned into my mother and pressed his pink, healthy lips against her cracked and pale ones. “Hang in there, honey. There’s a clinic in New Mexico I just heard about. You get past this episode and we’ll—”

  She winced as she struggled to raise her hand to his cheek. “No . . . more.” The words dribbled out, barely a whisper.

  He turned his tear-soaked face toward me. “Jenny, tell your mom the promising things we heard about—”

  “Stop it,” I hissed. “Haven’t you put her through enough? Look at her!” I stared him down, not bothering to hide my resentment.

  My mother had been given a patient-controlled analgesic pump filled with morphine that could alleviate her suffering—if my father hadn’t kept it just out of reach. Instead he insisted on a daily dose of healing massage—though she found even the slightest touch painful. Classical music playing through the night, every night—despite her request for peace and quiet. Enough was enough.

  Mama Peg stood by the foot of her bed, breathing heavier than Darth Vader. “Jack, tell her it’s okay to go. I think she’s waiting on your permission.”

  My father and I jerked our heads in my grandmother’s direction. Just because I hated the militant approach he used to battle Mom’s cancer didn’t mean I wanted her to stop fighting altogether. I wanted her to beat this, but on her own terms.

  Her skeletal hand reached out toward me. I flinched and pulled back. Anguish glinted in her mustard-colored eyes, maybe from the rejection, maybe from pain. A nauseating smell like rotting fruit permeated the room. I turned away as I tried in vain not to inhale the stench, hating myself for feeling revulsion toward my own mother.

  “Jenny,” she whispered, reaching out her bony fingers once again. This time I let her hand make contact.

  “Tell her it’s okay.” Mama Peg stepped toward the bed, leaned down, and kissed Mom’s forehead. “You fought the good fight, Audra. It’s okay. I’ll take care of them. Me and Jesus. Don’t you worry, love. Don’t you worry.”

  I thought I’d cried so much over the past few weeks that my well had long since dried up, but tears still managed to spring anew.

  Tell her, my conscience whispered. Tell her! it screamed.

  I closed my eyes and laid my head on her now-flat chest. Through the thin hospital gown, her jutting ribs pressed against my cheek. “Mom. Mommy. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.” I’d always been taught that it was wrong to lie. I wouldn’t be okay without her. None of us would. But telling the truth right then seemed like the bigger sin.

  Her chest rose and fell fast. Then slow. Fast. Then slow. Shallow, then shallower. The breaths grew further and further apart, each one so solitary, it seemed as if it would be the last—each new straggling gasp for air a surprise. I counted between each rise and fall of her chest, thirty seconds, forty, one minute, then two . . .

  My mouth felt desert dry. I tried to lick my lips but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I opened my eyes, unsurprised to find fluorescent lights beaming down on me. A brunette dressed in navy scrubs hung a bag of fluid on a pole next to my hospital bed, then glanced at me and gasped. I doubt she could have looked more surprised if I’d strolled out of the morgue with a toe tag still attached. She hurried into the hall and soon returned, followed by my father.

  “Thank God,” he said as he made his way to my side. Dark bags hung under his eyes.

  I pushed myself up and winced at the IV catheter poking the bend of my arm.

  He motioned to me. “Jenny, lie back down.”

  I couldn’t stand the thought of any man, anyone, telling me what to do, how to live, and especially how to die. I would not spend my last days like my mother, no matter how uncomfortable it made him or anyone else.

  I draped my legs over the side of the bed.

  His eyes widened in horror. “Please, Jenny. You’re d—”

  “Dying? Yes, I’m well aware.”

  His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. “I was going to say dehydrated.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled, feeling like an idiot. “Is that why I passed out?”

  “Probably, though Ted thinks it was shock.”

  Memories filled me with dread. “He wants Isabella.”

  My father’s brow furrowed, making the fine lines on his forehead turn into full-fledged wrinkles. “Ted?

  I almost laughed. “Now there’s a scary thought. He’d slap a bill down next to her bowl of morning Cheerios and tell her gratuities not included.”

  He smiled wearily.

  A pink plastic cup filled with ice chips sat on my bedside table. I drank the melted water in the bottom. Nothing had ever tasted so good. “No, David. He’s suing for custody.”

  My father sat beside me, making the bed sink under his weight. His gray eyes were veined with red. I waited for him to say something about David being unfit for parenting or some other Preston-related insult, but he said nothing.

  “Who throws a terrified child into a pool?” I demanded. “What kind of father would he make?”

  “I’m not arguing with you.” He took the cup from my hand. “Jenny, please lie back down.”

  I nodded to the bag of fluids flowing into my arm. “How many of these have I gotten so far?”

  He squinted at it. “I’ve seen them change at least three. Of course I left a couple of times to check on Bella and your grandma, so it may have been more.”

  Isabella. She’d already seen more than I’d intended, and the worst was yet to come. I wanted to hold her so badly. “How’s she doing?”

  “Bella? She’s scared, but we reassured her you’d be home soon.”

  Of course she was scared. She’d never so much as seen me with the sniffles. Now here I was, passing out and spending hours in bed, incoherent from fever. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what must be going on in that little mind of hers. Things were going to get much worse before it was over. I needed to do a better job of sheltering her from my illness, though I had no idea how.

  I motioned to the IV catheter in my arm. “They pull the needle out of these things after they put them in, right?”

  He answered slowly. “Yeah, I watched them put it in.”

  I pinched a corne
r of the clear, filmy dressing covering the site and before he could protest, yanked, pulling it off and the tiny plastic tube out of my skin. His mouth dropped open, and he was actually stunned silent for a moment. A drop of blood beaded on the bend of my arm where the tube had been. Liquid meant to flow into me now leaked onto the floor, forming a small puddle.

  I signed myself out of the hospital against medical advice, and within the hour, I was kissing Bella’s cheek and enduring another familiar round of cold stares from my father.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Southern towns are generally known for their quaintness and hospitality, particularly small Southern towns. Tullytown was all of those, with its rolling pastures, dogwood-lined Main Street, and giant sign reading, “Home of the world’s finest sweet potato pie. Come and getcha some!” But to the residents who lived here, what really set us apart wasn’t our friendly smiles or country colloquialisms. It was the unique ability to spread gossip faster than warm apple butter.

  So it was no great shock to see David’s car pull into my driveway less than thirty minutes after I’d gotten home from the hospital. I believed my father when he said he hadn’t told Ted about my diagnosis. Nonetheless, David had managed to find out. Whether Dr. Preston had read my chart, someone had overheard nurses talking, or something else entirely had happened really didn’t matter. The damage had been done.

  At the kitchen table, Isabella played Go Fish with Mama Peg while I slipped out the front door. Humidity better suited for a steam room stole my breath—that and David Preston standing close enough for me to smell the spearmint on his breath.

  Sadness glinted in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I studied him, trying to decipher whether he was really grieving the news or just putting on a convincing show. I came to no conclusion. “What does it matter?”

  He gathered up my limp hand. “So it’s true?”

  It was pointless to answer. He probably had more information on my diagnosis than I did. I slipped my fingers from his grasp.

  He studied me a moment. “I’m sorry.”

  When his hand cupped my cheek, my weak emotional barrier cracked and affections not buried nearly deep enough began to seep out. My breath quickened and I leaned into his touch . . . until I remembered Lindsey. I stepped back. “What do you want, David?”