Something True

by Karelia Stetz-Waters

  Sarah put her hand on Krystal’s shoulder.

  “He’ll be with God soon.”

  “But I want him to be with me.”

  Sarah frowned.

  The figure in the bed stirred. Tate jumped.

  “Is he in pain?” Tate asked.

  “No,” Sarah said.

  “Sarah’s a hospice nurse. She takes care of people like him.”

  Tate heard pride in Krystal’s voice.

  “How long does he have?” Tate asked.

  “Krystal-Anne, go downstairs and fetch a glass of water and make sure Brother Zacharia isn’t playing with the chickens.”

  When Krystal had disappeared downstairs, Sarah sat wearily in a faded wingback armchair.

  “About a week. Less probably. He’s just using up the last of his air. That’s what my gram used to say. It’s one last, long sigh, this part of life is.”

  Gingerly, Tate lowered herself into a facing chair. In the dim light, Sarah looked older and less stern. She rubbed her hands together and gazed past Tate.

  “I knew it would come down to this. Him dying and the rest of the family not knowing to grieve or to just thank the Lord for a safe passage. But I didn’t figure on her.” She glanced toward the door.

  “Krystal was in foster care since she was ten,” Tate said.

  “Probably for the best. Frank had the devil in him,” Sarah said, as though Tate were not in the room.

  “Why are you taking care of him here?”

  “He’s my brother.”

  Blood is thicker than water, Tate thought and felt glad that she had picked her family. At the same time, she appreciated something in Sarah’s plain speech. It was clear: In her world there were some things one had to do out of duty because honor called for it. Perhaps Sarah wasn’t that different from Laura. Weren’t these the same reasons Laura had pushed her into the closet? Wasn’t it all because of her family’s greater calling?

  “You could put him in a hospital,” Tate said.

  “God brought him back to me for a reason.”

  Krystal appeared with the water.

  “Maybe so I’d meet Krystal-Anne,” Sarah added. “Set that water down for your father then come and talk to your Miss Grafton.”

  “Tate,” Tate said.

  Sarah gave her a closed smile and said nothing.

  “Tell her what your plans are,” Sarah said to Krystal.

  “I’m going to stay here with my dad,” Krystal said.

  Tate hesitated.

  “And after…?” she asked.

  “I’m going to learn about my family.”

  “What about your GED?” Tate asked.

  “We’ll see to it she gets her education,” Sarah said.

  “I’m going to be a certified nursing assistant like my cousin Louisa.”

  “Are you sure this is what you want?” Tate held Krystal’s gaze again. “Maggie is down at the foot of that logging road, and she’s waiting to take you home if you want to go. No one cares about those videos.”

  “I didn’t post those videos.”

  “No one cares if you did,” Tate said.

  “Well, I’m staying.”

  Tate looked from Krystal to Sarah.

  “Back home there are people who care about you. Maggie thinks of you like a daughter.”

  “I’m his daughter!” Krystal pointed toward her father.

  Tate stared at the man in the bed. There was so little left of him. It was hard to imagine that he was anyone’s father, but Krystal sounded as certain as she had ever been about anything.

  “He is my father,” Krystal said.

  Tate tried to picture Krystal’s life. She could stay with Sarah and wear a modest dress in a house without electricity. She could be a CNA and tend to the sick with Christian devotion. Maybe she would marry a logger and have a brood of children. Or maybe she would walk back down the hill, dye her hair Crayola purple, and spend her twenties barhopping and taking anthropology classes at community college. Maybe she would start her own coffee shop or become an activist or meet a girl and join the Peace Corps. Tate thought, This is the moment when you choose.

  What about the choices she had made? What would have happened if she had picked her studies over Maggie’s coffee shop? What if she had waited in Laura’s closet? For that matter, what if she had tolerated her stepbrother’s abuse, stayed in the house, lived with her mother? There was no way to know. It seemed to Tate one simply had to walk blindly forward into the world, hoping for solid ground.

  “I won’t force you to come back,” Tate said. “But please, will you at least write to Maggie and let her know you’re okay? She’s so worried.”

  “You can tell her,” Krystal said. “I can’t tell her. I know what she’s done for me, but I can’t be her daughter like that.”

  “She’ll write,” Sarah said. “I’ll see to it she appreciates those that helped her when she needed helping. Now, Miss Grafton, I think you’d better go.”

  They were halfway down the stairs when Tate heard the sound of branches snapping and an engine roaring. A second later, the little boy flew into his mother’s skirts.

  “They’re here,” he said, his voice muffled. “They’re here. The bad men who want to take Uncle Frank.”

  “Get back in the cellar,” Sarah barked. “Krystal, you lock yourself in your father’s room. Stay away from that window.”

  Tate followed Sarah down the stairs, but when she reached the bottom step her bad leg buckled beneath her and she sank to the ground. Cowering in the stairwell, unsure whether to fight or flee, and unsure how she would go about either one, she wished that she and Krystal were in the root cellar with the boy, but it was too late.

  Through the brown lace of the front curtain she could see the grille of an enormous vehicle, the chrome like shining teeth. The engine growled to a stop. A car door slammed. Hard, angry footsteps marched up the wooden stairs outside. Sarah grabbed the shotgun and braced herself against the kitchen table, the rifle trained on the door. The door flew open.

  At first, Tate thought she was hallucinating. Perhaps the sound she had taken for the door slamming against the wall was really a gunshot. She touched her chest. Perhaps she had been shot. This must be a last, fading dream, for it appeared to be Laura Enfield bursting through the door in high heels, a navy skirt suit, and too much gold jewelry.

  “Laura!”

  It did not make sense. She looked like a cutout from a magazine pasted on the Andrew Wyeth painting that was Sarah’s house. And she was walking directly into the muzzle of Sarah’s shotgun.

  “This is unnecessary,” Laura said, as though this was a business meeting she could control with a stern tone. “Put that thing down before you kill someone.”

  “Get back,” Sarah said.

  “Drop the gun.”

  Tate heard the ominous click of metal locking into place.

  “Sarah, no!” Tate yelled. “I know her.”

  “I said put it down,” Laura barked.

  Tate watched the next seconds in slow motion. Laura reached for the shotgun. Sarah took a step back and stumbled against the table. A shot rang out. Instinctively Tate closed her eyes. One arm flew up to cover her face. She heard Laura yell “No!” Then a painful ringing silence followed the shot.

  Chapter 32

  When Tate opened her eyes, Laura was standing in front of Sarah. Both women held the gun, its muzzle pointing toward the empty kitchen.

  “Tate!” Laura called.

  Tate staggered to her feet, grasping the banister for support.

  “What have they done to you?” Laura ripped the shotgun from Sarah’s hands and pushed her with the butt end. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

  “Stop. She’s my friend,” Tate said, lurching forward. She wasn’t sure who she was referring to. It really wasn’t true of either one of them. “Sarah, she’s not here to hurt you. Laura, put down the gun.”

  From the top of the stairs Krystal called out, “Oh my God! Wh
at happened?” She hurried down the stairs, her footsteps echoing in the sudden quiet. When she got to the bottom, she asked, “Is that Hillary Clinton? It is! What’s she doing here?”

  “Just leave us alone.” Sarah sagged into a kitchen chair, her hands displayed in protest. Her eyes darted from Tate to Laura. “Please. Take whatever you want, just leave me and my family.”

  Laura looked around the room. “Take what? I only came for Tate.”

  “I knew you’d be back.” Krystal bounded down the stairs. “Because of the videos.”

  “You said no loose ends,” Sarah said.

  Tate saw the Krystal she knew reassert herself. Krystal put her hands on the hips of her long dress.

  “They’re not my loose ends. It’s not my fault those two can’t figure it out. I told them. They’re in love, and they won’t admit it. No one ever listens to me. Sheesh!”

  Sarah opened her mouth and closed it without a word.

  Laura grabbed Tate’s arm.

  “We’re getting out of here.”

  She still held the gun.

  Sorry, Tate mouthed to Sarah, allowing Laura to pull her toward the door.

  Outside, Laura hurried Tate to the door of an enormous black SUV.

  “Quick. Get in.” Laura glanced at the house as she closed the door behind Tate. Then she hurried over to the other side. “Is she going to come after us?”

  Tate shook her head.

  “Are you sure?”

  “She’s harmless.”

  Laura took the shotgun and tossed it, muzzle first, into the underbrush. Then in one incredibly graceful and authoritative movement, she swung up into the enormous vehicle, started the engine, and roared out of the clearing with a burst of speed that knocked Tate’s head back against the headrest.

  “My God, look at you,” Laura said as the SUV bumped along, crushing the small saplings and blackberry vines that lined the narrow path. “What did they do to you? You’re limping. Your face!” Laura reached tentatively toward Tate’s face, but even the SUV’s massive suspension system could not smooth over the rocky path Laura had cleared through the underbrush, and her hand bounced away before she could touch Tate.

  “I’m fine,” Tate said.

  They reached the logging road, which was much closer when one reached it by crushing everything in the way with a vehicle the size of a tank.

  Laura said, “How long have you been up there?”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “They beat you.” Laura’s voice was strained, and she looked at Tate so intently Tate pointed to the road to remind her of the trees they were coming close to hitting.

  “They didn’t beat me. I’m fine.”

  Eventually, they reached the bottom of the road, where Lill’s van was still parked and Lill, Maggie, Vita, and Janice were still milling around like bystanders waiting for a traffic accident to clear.

  Laura turned off the SUV. She made no move to get out or roll down the window. For a long time, she looked at Tate, then very tenderly she brushed her cheek.

  “What happened, baby?”

  The term of endearment and the tenderness in Laura’s voice nearly broke Tate’s heart. It would be so easy to fall into Laura’s arms, to forget that they were entirely wrong for each other, to forget what she had known lying on the Hawthorne Bridge surrounded by the Portland Gay Men’s Choir: that she might be able to steal another kiss, but in the end she was careering toward heartbreak. It was up to her to look, clear-eyed, into the future and protect herself from ruin.

  And then she was in Laura’s arms.

  Her body betrayed her. Laura reached across the gap between the seats, and, a second later, Tate’s head was cradled against her shoulder. Laura was stroking her hair with one hand, pulling her close with the other. The warmth of Laura’s body and the comfort of her touch were too much. Tate heard a soft moan escape her own lips.

  “Talk to me,” Laura said. “What happened?”

  Tate didn’t trust her own voice. She felt exhausted, as though the weight of the past three days had crushed her.

  “You’re shaking.” Laura held her tighter, and Tate winced. “How did you get this bruise? I need you to tell me.”

  “My bike. I lost control on the bridge. What are you doing here?”

  Laura’s fingertips grazed her side, lifting the hem of her shirt.

  “Oh, God, you’re bruised all over.” She released Tate from her embrace as though suddenly afraid to break her. Then very gently she pulled her shirt up, exposing the whole blue-and-purple expanse of Tate’s ribs. Laura drew in a sharp breath. “What happened? Why didn’t you call me? You shouldn’t be up here. What did the doctors say?”

  Tate pulled away, wiping the threat of tears from her eyes.

  “I can’t afford a doctor. You know that.”

  Tate pushed the car door open and stepped out. She was reeling, trying to take in the strange juxtaposition of people and events. Sarah waving a shotgun. Krystal standing over the bed of her murderous father, now reduced to a husk of a man. She turned back to Laura, who was getting out of the car too.

  “Why are you here?” Tate asked.

  She did not get to hear the answer. Maggie was at her side.

  “Where is she?” Maggie asked. “What happened? Why didn’t you get her? She’s not there. She’s dead, isn’t she? This is all her fault.” Maggie pointed at Laura.

  Tate walked over to Lill’s van. The sliding side door was open. She sat down on the running board of the van and rested her chin in her hands.

  Vita was trying to explain something about Laura. Lill was talking very quickly. Tate caught a few snatches, like “carbon footprints” and “…rare species of trillium crushed into nothing!” Maggie leaned in close.

  “What happened? Who’s up there? Why didn’t you get her?”

  Tate did not know what else to do, so she started at the beginning.

  When Tate was done with the story, Maggie said, “You have to go back.”

  “What?” Tate looked up.

  “Krystal’s alone up there, with some crazy woman and drug dealers trying to kill her. Laura!” Maggie called out. “Laura, take her back up there.”

  Laura still had not explained how she came to be charging up a hill in a rented SUV, nor had she added anything to Tate’s telling of the story. Now all eyes turned to her.

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “We have been here too long already.”

  “You have to!” Maggie pleaded.

  “Honestly, I don’t think she wants to come back,” Tate said.

  “She doesn’t know what she wants,” Maggie said.

  Tate shrugged. “He’s her father. He’s dying. And he’s here. She’s desperate to have him in her life.”

  “She has us!”

  “It’s not the same.” Tate felt very tired.

  “But it’s better,” Maggie said. “This is the family we choose.”

  “I know.” Tate dropped her head into her hands. Her foot throbbed, and she felt like she might faint. “But this is a gift. That’s the whole point. You took her in when no one else would.”

  “So why would she leave?”

  “She feels like she owes you. She’ll always owe you, and even though you never would, you could take it all back. But these people…”—she shrugged weakly—“…for better or for worse, they will always be her family. No one can take that away, and she never has to pay that back.”

  Tate looked up. It was a miracle, that kind of gift. When she looked back on her own life, she saw it clearly. There was no getting out from underneath that kind of debt.

  “She doesn’t owe me anything,” Maggie said.

  “She owes you everything.” She did not know if she was speaking for Krystal or for herself.

  A second later, she felt Laura’s hand on her shoulder. She stared down at the ground. In her peripheral vision she caught Laura’s slender ankle and her gold-tipped heels.

  “But what am I supposed to do?” Tate hear
d Maggie’s voice as if from a great distance. “You’re gone. Lill’s gone. Out Coffee is gone. Krystal’s all I’ve got. I’ll be all alone. Tate, go back there.”

  Somewhere in the outer atmosphere, Vita said, “Maybe Maggie’s right.”

  Tate stared at the ground again. She was very, very tired. For a second her vision went black. The conversation above her head blurred into a murmur from which she caught only phrases.

  “Those people…”

  “…if he’s dying.”

  “Tate won’t mind.”

  “I mind.” That was Laura. She spoke again. “Look at her!”

  It took Tate a moment to realize Laura meant her.

  “She can barely walk. She has a black eye. Look at her.”

  Tate rather wished they wouldn’t.

  “Oh, Tate.” Maggie clasped her hands to her chest.

  “What the hell did they do to you?” Vita asked. “Those bastards!”

  “She had a black eye when you dragged her up here,” Laura said. “You just didn’t notice.”

  It wasn’t really fair. The bruise on her face had faded to a pale yellow. It was just a shadow now.

  “Tate, is that true?” Maggie asked.

  Tate nodded wearily.

  Laura said, “I’m taking her to the hospital, which is what you should have done before you came charging out here.”

  “I’m fine,” Tate mumbled as Laura slipped a hand under her elbow and lifted her from the running board.

  “Wait!” Maggie called after her.

  But the doors to the SUV were already closed, and Laura’s hand was on Tate’s knee.

  “I’m sorry, Tate. I’m so sorry.”

  Tate slept most of the way back from Eddyville, both because she was exhausted and because she feared that speaking might bring on a deluge of tears.

  When Tate finally opened her eyes, they had pulled into the parking lot of a hospital off Highway 217.

  “Laura, I can’t afford a doctor, and I’m fine,” Tate said.

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Yes, I do,” Laura said.

  Inside, the urgent care clinic was blessedly quiet. Tate let Laura lead her into the building and usher her into a seat like a child.