Mr. White

by Tessa Layne

  She gulps in air and wipes her eyes. “I want to. I-I want someone to know about her. Someone besides me.”

  And it strikes me like a hammer to the head. She’s looking at her future. And she wants someone to know her mother. Someone who won’t forget. “Tell me all about her, sweetheart. Anything you want.”

  She picks up another frame. “This was my thirteenth birthday.” They’re at the beach. “My dad rarely took a vacation, and that year, in October they piled me into the car and drove all night. And when I woke up on the morning of my thirteenth birthday, we were at South Padre Island.” Her eyes are bright with the memory. “We spent the day hunting for sea glass and sand dollars. And we ate dinner at this seafood shack right on the beach. The kind with the big plastic bibs for napkins.” She gently places the frame back on the dresser. “I still have a jar of sand from that trip.”

  “Is that the jar that’s in the bathroom? Sitting on the window sill?”

  She nods. “Yeah.” She grimaces and takes another deep breath. “We planned to come back for my Sweet Sixteen, but by then, dad was in here.”

  She refers to it like it’s a prison. I resist a shudder, because she’s right. It is.

  I pick up Ingrid’s wedding picture. “What was your dad’s name?”

  She laughs a little. “Ivar. A good Norwegian name.”

  I study the young faces beaming up at me, filled with giddy excitement and hope for the future. For better, for worse. They endured so much ‘worse’. I glance from Em to the woman sleeping peacefully on the bed, and back to the frame in my hands. What hope do I have for the future? It hits me that I’ve never thought of the future in any other terms except what number I want in my bank account. I’ve never hoped for children, or love, or even companionship. I can’t fathom the eager expectation staring out at me from behind the protective glass. If I allowed myself, what would I long for? Not children, not a legacy. That shit scares the crap out of me. But in that deep, dark place that only Emmaline seems to be able to get at, a small ember flares. It’s the tiniest of sparks, so faint that a light breeze would snuff it out. But if I consider it, I wish that I could look upon Emmaline in twenty-five or thirty years, to see a face similar to the one lying on the bed, and see her smiling at me the way she does now, when I’ve done something to make her happy. That’s what I hope for.

  My hand trembles a little when I replace the frame. “You look just like your mother.” I glance over, and she’s smiling at the photo, too. “And someday, I want to see you with flowers in your hair.” A Viking princess crowned with flowers in her unbound hair.

  She smiles at me with love in her eyes, and my heart eases a fraction. “Shall we sit? There’s not much to do.”

  “Do you want to sit next to your mom?”

  She shakes her head. “No. She’s fine right now. And she knows I’m here.” She drops to the couch with a sigh, and I settle in next to her, tucking her in the crook of my arm. She toes off her shoes, and curls into me. “I should have called,” she says quietly. “But I didn’t want you to feel obligated. And then my phone ran out.”

  I drop a kiss to her pale head. “Being with you is never an obligation. It’s the best part of my day.”

  “Even when it’s watching my mother die?”

  “Especially then, Em. No one should do this alone.” And I realize that whenever it happens, no matter how fractured my relationship is with my family, and my brothers, that I won’t let them go through this alone either.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It’s nearly dawn when Emmaline steps out for another cup of coffee. I scoot over to the bed. I study Ingrid’s peaceful face, which seems to have grown younger in the hours that we’ve kept vigil. I clear my throat and look away, suddenly overwhelmed by a huge sense of loss. How Emmaline has stayed so calm, so stoic is beyond me. She has the strength of a thousand women.

  I take Ingrid’s hand. It’s delicate, like Emmaline’s. Long fingers that I can imagine stirring over the stove, or wiping away a little girl’s tears. It won’t be long now, though. Her hand is cool, limp - as if she’s already got one foot on the other side.

  The back of my throat burns, and it’s hard to speak, but I push the words out. “I… I want you to know that I’m going to take care of your daughter.” Now that I’ve started, the words tumble out, like they’ve been waiting for the okay. They come out in a hushed breath, rushed - because I have to finish my declaration before Emmaline returns. “Even if she doesn’t want me to, I’ll make sure she’s provided for, that she’s okay. And God forbid. If she needs care like this, I’ll make sure she has the best, and-and…” I choke on the next words, grief rushing up like a great wave. “I’ll stay with her at the end. I’ll make sure she’s not alone.” My voice catches on the last words. “I love your daughter, Mrs. Nilsson. More than my own life. I don’t know how, but I’ll do right by her, and do my best to make her happy.”

  My declaration seems trite, insignificant. But if the hospice people are right, and she can still hear, then I want her to know. I have to believe that somewhere, there’s a part of her brain that still remembers her daughter, no matter what Emmaline says. And that she’d want to know that her daughter’s going to be safe. Provided for. Loved. I bring her hand to my lips and press a kiss on the paper-thin skin. Maybe my assurances will ease her passing in some small way. I hope so, because that’s literally all I can do.

  I stay there, holding her hand, battling a riot of emotions, and when Emmaline returns holding two cups of coffee, she catches me that way - unwilling to let go, holding Ingrid’s hand for dear life. I can’t tell if the sigh she lets out is one of exasperation, or one of gratitude. I hope the latter. I’m an incapable fuck when it comes to emotions, but I hope she sees I’m trying. “Thank you,” she murmurs as she hands me a steaming cup and drops a chaste kiss to my forehead. I glance up. Her eyes are tumultuous. Grief-stricken. Grateful. Relieved. I don’t know how to read all that’s there, but I let go of trying to decipher it. Instead, I nod and offer to move.

  She shakes her head. “No. I’ll sit on the other side. So she has two hands to hold.”

  The day passes more slowly than the night. Emmaline croons and pets her mother, singing bits of songs in halting Norwegian. Her voice is pure and sweet, and utterly heartbreaking. I can barely breathe for the beauty of it. She hums a haunting melody, singing nonsense words, but as long as I live, I’ll never forget it. Her cheeks are shiny with her tears, and though her voice wavers and hitches, she sings on. But when she catches me staring, rapt, she falters. “Don’t stop,” I plead. “It’s beautiful.”

  She looks up, blinking hard, face pulled tight with grief. “Mama sang it to me every night when I was little. It’s called the Brudemarsj fra Sørfold - she promised to sing it at my wedding.” Her face twists and my heart along with it. She pulls in a shuddering breath and wipes her face. “I’m sorry,” she says after a long pause. “I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

  I want to go to her. To wrap her in my arms, to promise that it’s going to be okay, that I’ll take care of her. But I’m rooted to the plastic chair. Glued to it. I’m helpless in the face of her heartache. So, asshole that I am, I remain seated, still holding Ingrid’s hand. It’s late afternoon when Ingrid’s spirit slips out of her body, the golden beams of the soon to be setting sun cutting across the bed. It’s strangely beautiful, and I’m not prepared for the emotions that rise through me. I slip my hand from hers, planning to give Emmaline space to say her final goodbyes in private.

  “Don’t go.” I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or her mother. But then she looks up, utterly broken, and I freeze. I can’t move. “Please,” she whispers. “I can’t do this alone.”

  I nod, throat too tight to speak, and sit back down.

  She fusses with Ingrid’s hair, murmuring final words to her mother, laying her head on Ingrid’s chest, now still, then kissing her cheek, her forehead. When she rises, she shoots a stricken glance my way. “I don
’t know how to leave,” she says, panicked. “I can’t.”

  This time, my feet move. I go to her and pull her into my chest. “We can stay as long as you need,” I answer with so much gravel in my voice, it doesn’t feel like my own.

  Her shoulders shake uncontrollably. “I’m sorry,” she gasps, ducking her head.

  “I love you Emmaline. For as long as I live.” The words slip out effortlessly. And I mean it with every cell in my body. I will love Emmaline until the day I die. And I want her to know it. “You’re not alone” I murmur into her hair. “I’m here as long as you need."

  We stay, bodies fused together as golden light fades to shadow. Em steps out of my embrace, and I feel the loss of her with a pang, as if she stepped away with a piece of my soul. Fear lands on my shoulder, as light and gentle as a feather, but it’s there, and it seeps into my bones. She plants a final kiss on her mother’s forehead. “Goodbye, Mama. I love you.” Her voice catches on the last words, and she draws a fortifying breath and rolls back her shoulders. She turns to me, resolute. “I’m ready.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I offer my hand, and she steps forward to take it, gripping it with everything she has. I’ll take it. Let her try and crush my bones. It means she’s warm, and alive, and most important - here. With me. She blinks as we step into the harsh light that permeates the hall. A pair of Hospice volunteers wait patiently.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs, extending her other hand their way. “For taking such good care of Mama.”

  They exchange additional words, but I concentrate on the tips of my shoes. I’m an interloper in these conversations, but she still has my hand in a death-grip. A moment later, she gives my hand a tug, and we make our way to the lobby. “Where do you want to go?”

  “Anywhere but home,” she replies.

  “I’ll send a driver for your car.”

  She nods mutely and follows my lead. This… this I can do - take charge. Meet her every need. I tuck her into the front seat and by the time we’ve left the parking lot, I’ve made arrangements for a driver to return her car to Prairie. I turn toward downtown. “Are you hungry?”

  She places a hand on my thigh and turns to me, face pale and luminous in the light of the dashboard. “Declan.”

  Something in her voice causes me to slow the car. The tiny feather of fear has returned, and it makes my heart pound erratically. I swallow. “What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?”

  She squeezes my leg, hand drifting up my thigh. “I can’t make any more decisions right now. Just… take care of things? Please?”

  I know what this has cost her, to place her full trust in me, and I’ll die before I let her down. “Of course,” I answer, knowing exactly where I’m going to take her. She needs sustenance, and then sleep. I haven’t seen her consume anything but bad coffee for the last twenty-four hours, and knowing her, that’s all she’s had since she left Prairie. I make a phone call, and in twenty minutes, I’m pulling off 70 and onto Broadway. We make our way past the Kauffman center and into the heart of the Crossroads, where I pull to a stop in front of the Crossroads Hotel.

  Valet takes my car and I usher her inside to where the concierge is waiting with the key card. “Your room is ready Mr. Case.”

  This is my home away from home when I make trips out to Kansas City and the Whiskey Den. The suite is large enough for me to conduct business, and their service is impeccable. Not only will there be a bottle of 24-year Teeling’s, and a wine refrigerator stocked to the hilt, there will be a spread from the Thai restaurant across the street waiting on the dining room table.

  “Shower first, or food?” I ask once I’ve closed the door to the suite.

  She stares at me blankly for a second. “Food, I think. Food.”

  The adrenaline is starting to wear off. She’ll crash soon, and I agree, she needs food. And a shot. I pull out two crystal tumblers and open the bottle. “I don’t know that whiskey can cure a broken heart, but it helps.” I measure out three fingers and hand Emmaline a glass. “To your mother.” I touch my glass to hers. “May she and your father be dancing in Valhalla.”

  She ghosts a smile, and her eyes crinkle. “My parents loved to dance with each other. Always in front of the fireplace.” She brushes at her eyes. “Thank you.” The glass sparkles in the light as she raises it. “Skal.” She tips her head back and takes a drink.

  I join her. “Skal.”

  We sit at the table, lingering over the whiskey, and she begins to talk. But it’s not about her mother, or her childhood. She wants to talk about me. “Tell me about growing up on a wine estate,” she asks, eyes relaxing as the whiskey hits her bloodstream.

  I freeze. What am I supposed to say? That I was a poor little rich boy whose older brother beat him for fun? That my dad was a puppet master, pitting us against each other like a Punch and Judy show? That qualities like compassion and empathy were pounded out of me? I smile and shake my head. “Nothing to tell. You’ve met those types. I’ll leave the details to your imagination.”

  She lays her hand on mine. “Declan. I need to talk about… something besides my mom. Tell me why you’re estranged from your family.”

  I shake my head, fear clawing at my insides. I was all set to tell her about it the other day, but now, I’m not so sure. “I don’t think-”

  “Declan. We promised no more secrets, and right now, I really, really want to think about something normal.”

  “Then you definitely don’t want to hear about my family.”

  She gives me that look. Her eyes bore into me, cutting under all my defenses. I look away. I’ve never felt so raw, so… vulnerable. Yet in the face of all we’ve endured the last few days, in the face of her clear-eyed acceptance that she had to let her mother go, I can’t avoid it. She rises and comes to straddle me, settling herself in my lap. She unbuttons my shirt and tucks her hands inside, running them over my skin. Settling her fingers at my scars. “Tell me about these.”

  I surrender to her touch, to the sweet concern in her voice. I should be comforting her, not the other way around. I let out a heavy sigh, and make one last ditch effort. “It’s not pretty.”

  “The unvarnished truth never is.”

  “Jason. Jason gave me those scars, and a matching pair to my brother, Austin.”

  She inhales sharply. “Jason?”

  I nod.

  “But- but.”

  “I know. You’d never believe it from looking at him. He abused all three of us. Mostly mentally, but the same day I got this” - I run a finger over the bridge of my nose - “I got those, too.”

  “How awful. Didn’t anyone punish him?”

  I shake my head. “We were terrified to tell. Terrified of what he’d do to us if we told. But about six months later, he got caught beating up one of the migrant worker’s kids, and Dad sent him off to some kind of school for assholes. And from there, he went to West Point, so I didn’t see him much after that. And by the time he was done at West Point, I think he’d been beat on enough that he had a different perspective. And we were nearly as big as he was, by then.”

  Emmaline shakes her head, face still showing shock. “But Millie adores him.”

  I shrug. “Maybe losing a leg changed him.”

  “Maybe love changed him,” Emmaline answers.

  “Do you really think love can change people at their core? There are a lot of serial abusers out there.”

  “I think it can,” she says slowly. “But I think people have to want to change. Maybe something happened to your brother to make him want to change.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Have you talked to him?”

  “Not really. We got into it right after I landed in Prairie, and I left the door open to talk, but he never followed up.”

  “Then you’ve done all you can, I guess. What about your parents?”

  “Nothing like yours,” I say wistfully. “Dad rules with an iron fist. I can see where Jason learned it. Dad’s definitely a survival of
the fittest guy. He’d pit us against each other, thought it was good to keep us fighting. We were all assholes to each other growing up. Austin and Nico and I have grown out of it over time, but we’re definitely not close. And I wouldn’t say any of us trust each other.” It’s a relief, to have it off my chest.

  “What about your mom?”

  “She’s… not a nurturer. I think in her mind, she fulfilled her duty to provide her husband with more heirs, and once she was done with that, it was off to the country club.”

  “Whoa.”

  “So now you know why I had a vasectomy. I didn’t want to bring a kid into that.”

  She sighs heavily. “A week after I had to put my mother into full-time care, I had my tubes tied.”

  My eyes snap to hers. “What? Why didn’t you say so?”

  She gives me a sad smile. “Not exactly first date material.” She drains her whiskey. “Hi, I’m Emmaline, and I’ve decided to alter my body - permanently - to not have children.”

  I’m stunned. I mean, I get it. But still… “Are you sure?”

  She lets out a noise of frustration. “Why is it okay for guys to make that decision, and not women?”

  “Because all women want babies.”

  “Not.” She smacks me on the shoulder. “Your mother didn’t, and look how it’s hurt you. And do you think I’m ever going to put my children through what we just witnessed?”

  “But everyone’s parents die.”

  “Not at fifty-four.”

  Point.

  “And until you’ve experienced the utter heartache of having your existence mentally erased, you can’t begin to understand. I’m not putting a kid through that,” she says flatly. She takes my face in her hand and turns it so that I feel the full force of her intense gaze. “Declan, my own mother couldn’t recognize her child. The life she carried inside of her, the life she nourished with her body.” The tears spill out of her eyes. “That is worse than her death. To me, at least. That my mother died not knowing she had a child whom she loved, and who loved her. Desperately.” She gazes to the ceiling and wipes her eyes, and I’m there with her, wiping her eyes too, and kissing her, whispering words of love.