by Lyla Payne
I can only assume the girl-child that came home got a name not given to her by Mary or Anne, as well, and if her cousin never told her about her mother, there won’t be any way to discover that line. It might be possible, with online genealogical records these days, to find trace Mary Read’s living relatives at the time of her death.
If that was even her real name.
Anne’s gaze settles on me, eyes almost iridescent with what’s becoming a familiar but no less potent mixture of sadness, fire, and anger. She shakes her head, maybe in response to my statement.
“You don’t know what became of the girl? What about Jack? If he lived with them after he left you, it’s possible his family—if he has any—might know where hers is. They had a unique bond, after all—” I stop talking and stare in shock at the tears leaking from her eyes.
They roll down her cheeks but disappear before they can drip off her chin and land in this world that no longer belongs to her. The horrible grief that attacked me in the woods slams into my chest again, twisting my heart like a rag. I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the pain, when the sounds of footsteps and voices flutter in from the hallway.
The torturous desperation dissolves, and before I open my eyes I know Anne must have left, too. I can’t for the life of me figure out why she’s so flighty, and the mystery of why she trusts me is starting to intrigue me far more than what happened to her son.
I close my eyes again, in case I want to pretend I’m asleep when the people in the hallway enter the room. Whispers, too soft at first to be discernible, tickle my ears like feathers, but as the figures sneak through my door they bleed into familiar frames and faces, unforgettable no matter how long it’s been.
My first instinct is to keep acting like I’m asleep, but Aunt Karen has no volume knob so the ruse will be up sooner than later.
“Wally, I told you we had time to stop for a doughnut and some decent coffee. We could have stopped at the craft store, too; Dad’s still sleeping.”
“Karen, the craft store isn’t open. You made me get up at the ass-crack of dawn. Waffle House isn’t even open. And keep your voice down. Your dad can’t hear a damn thing, but Graciela’s not deaf.” Uncle Wally’s voice warms over my name like a hug. He’s always been sweet to me, even after my falling-out with Amelia.
I watch Aunt Karen glance at me through the slit in my eyes, her lips pursed as though she’s sucked on a lemon. To be fair, that’s pretty much her default expression, and at least she has a reason this time, because as everyone and their mother has pointed out, I look like hell.
A sigh snakes its way free of my lungs and runs into Aunt Karen, letting her know I’m awake. Her fake smile almost makes me gag, but Uncle Wally gives me a real hug, which feels even better than the verbal one. My aunt pats my knee when I swing my battered legs over the side of the bed that faces Gramps. The chair where Anne sat smells normal, sits empty, and for the briefest moment, I miss her.
“Good morning, family.”
“Humph. What’s he done this time? Refused to use his walker and fell? Forgot to take his meds? Isn’t this why you came to take care of him, so he could stay at home and things like this wouldn’t happen?” Her words are a branding iron in the shape of my failures, glowing red and searing my skin.
It hurts to breathe them in, to hold them in my lungs while they eat me away from the inside out. She’s not wrong. This is why I’m here, but I wasn’t there yesterday, when he needed me. It takes all of my effort to keep the shame from my face. Aunt Karen is a predator—she can smell fear.
“It wasn’t any of those things, Aunt Karen. And I’m sorry we interrupted your vacation.”
She flinches at the suggestion that her trip to Savannah is more important than caring for her ailing, elderly father. She’s made it clear that most things are more important. It’s a small victory, because everyone knows Aunt Karen doesn’t have feelings.
“Never mind that. We’re retired now and travel quite a bit.”
“Fantastic. Would you like to know why I called?”
The gesture she flicks my direction feels dismissive and commanding at the same time, but it makes no difference. They’re here to help me convince Gramps to get the feeding tube, not so we can all hug and sing “Kumbaya” while looking at old photo albums.
I tell them about the pneumonia, and the food aspiration, then Gramps’s directive before taking a pause to study their expressions. Neither of them looks surprised, but even Aunt Karen can’t hide her dismay. Huh. She does have feelings, after all. “We have to convince him to do it.”
The room is quiet except for the soft beeping of Gramps’s monitor. We all watch him, as though he’s going to disappear before our eyes. Maybe he’s already started to.
“He won’t agree to it. You know that, Graciela.”
I might know it, but hearing her say it, not hearing Uncle Wally argue, makes me angry. They should at least want to fight to keep him.
“We have to try, Aunt Karen. We can’t just lose him.” Her gaze shifts to me, edged with the anguish spilling into my blood. “He’s going to die. Is that what you want?”
Her green eyes, so similar to mine and Amelia’s, go cold at my accusation. When she speaks, ice crusts around her reply. It freezes the air between us, making me shudder even though the room is warmer than is comfortable, in truth. “Of course that’s not what I want, Graciela Anne. Do you think I’m a monster? I want him to live forever, but that’s not going to happen.” She bares her teeth like the badger she is. “I can see you still haven’t mastered the maturity to know when it’s time to let something go.”
Her harpoon hits home, but I grit my teeth, more determined than ever not to show her how it hurts. I swallow, glad they’re here for Gramps but wishing I had some support of my own. “Where’s Amelia? She didn’t think this warranted an appearance?”
“For one thing, you didn’t provide any details on the phone, so she had no way of knowing if you were exaggerating your concern or not. Second of all, Jake returned early from his conference and wanted her to himself for a few days.”
There’s something about the way her voice trembles at the root of her disdain, especially at the end of her explanation, that makes me thing she’s lying. Maybe not about Jake coming home early, but something. It settles a hard cramp in my stomach that refuses to leave and eradicates the rest of my doubt that something is seriously wrong. I whisper a quick, fervent wish into the void that it’s nothing to do with the baby.
“If Gramps won’t agree to the tube I know she’ll want to say good-bye. Make sure you tell her everything.”
“Do not presume to lecture me on how to handle my daughter. I’ll tell her what I see fit, and she’ll do as she pleases.”
“She usually does,” I mutter, more nostalgic for my cousin’s bossiness than disgusted.
Gramps stirs, and Aunt Karen rushes to his side. Uncle Wally stared out the window during our snapped exchange, but he focuses on the bed now, too, and I limp over to the foot as my grandfather’s blue eyes open and find focus. He smiles at his daughter, because he has always been and will always be a better person than I.
I can’t forgive Aunt Karen for leaving him alone so soon after Grams died, or for missing her own sister’s funeral two years ago. Then again, Amelia had missed that, too.
“Hiya, Martin.” Uncle Wally breaks the silence with his typical booming greeting. “You’re looking fine.”
“Wally, you’ve never been one to piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. No time to start now.”
“Daddy, we came as soon as Graciela thought to call us. I wish she had done it sooner.”
Gramps shoots me an apologetic look, but I smile and squeeze his big toe. The last thing he needs is to be worried about me, and I’ve had a few years experience dealing with Aunt Karen’s snottiness. It didn’t start in earnest until after Amelia and I fell out, but she’d never been overly fond of me. She’s nothing if not a social climber and thought for year
s that Amelia’s attachment to me prevented her from making more appropriate—read, Charlestonian—friends.
“Gracie’s been taking good care of me, Karen, don’t you worry. Just got a little cough that won’t shake loose, that’s all.”
She shoots me a look, her thin eyebrows raised in question. I take the hint and a deep breath, steeling myself for however this conversation is going to end. Praying for the strength to be the kind of person who does what’s best for Gramps, regardless of my heart.
“The doctor came in with your test results while you were sleeping yesterday, Gramps. You have pneumonia.”
He looks at me with squinted eyes, then shakes his head and points to his ears, looking old and helpless.
“PNEUMONIA,” I repeat in a tone closer to Aunt Karen’s normal decibel level. Grief pulses in my throat, choking the word.
“Oh. Well, even if it means they pump me full of crap, I can’t say I’ll be sorry to get rid of this cough.” He’s never been a complainer—it’s a trait he passed on to me. The pain dimming his eyes and paling his cheeks betrays him, though, and it’s clear he’s hurting.
I take a deep breath and plunge in the rest of the way, telling him about the aspirating and that he can’t eat on his own until they adjust his muscle memory with physical therapy. He frowns halfway through my explanation, and by the time I’m done, he’s shaking his head. Determination finds his jaw, setting it hard as he clenches his teeth and shifts to cross his arms over his chest.
“Gramps, it’s just for a while, until you’re better. No different than medicine.”
Before he can tell me no aloud, not only with his posture and expression, handsome Dr. Fields strides in looking as though he got eight hours of great sleep and maybe a little good sex in the on-call room, even though it hasn’t been that long since the last time I saw him. He pauses, taking in the growth in our party, then Uncle Wally extends a beefy hand from his spot in front of the windows.
“Wally Cooper. This is my wife, Karen.”
“Dr. Fields. I’m sure Martin is happy to have you both here.” He nods and flicks a glance toward me that seems to say he wasn’t sure of my capability of this decision on my own. Aunt Karen sucks harder on her imaginary lemon in silent reply.
“Hey, Doc. You know what we’ve talked about. No machines.” The comment, as well as the nonverbal exchange that takes place between them, gives me a start. I hadn’t realized Fields was Gramps’s regular doctor.
“I understand, Martin, but this is a bit of gray area. The tube wouldn’t be because you can’t feed yourself, only because you shouldn’t for a while.”
“How long?”
“A week, maybe two. Your lungs will shut down if you continue to eat. The rest of you will throw in the towel if you don’t. Excuse me.” He steps past Aunt Karen and checks a chart that lists Gramps’s vitals through the night. His frown deepens, and Gramps’s eyes never leave the doctor’s face. “Running a bit of a fever, Martin. How are you feeling?”
“I’m a little chilly. Chest hurts, too, like that ayatollah nurse is squatting on it.”
That makes the doctor chuckle, even though he tries to hide it behind a yawn. “I’ll send her in with some stronger antibiotics and some painkillers, just for you, my friend. Talk things over with your family, and don’t be too hasty. This place would be far too pleasant without your company.”
Dr. Fields scribbles a few notes and walks out of the room. Aunt Karen lays into Gramps, giving him the hard sell for the feeding tube, but it all sounds far away. An argument all but lost.
My brain scrambles for purchase in a world that refuses to stay the same. I said my reasons for coming back to Heron Creek revolved around caring for Gramps, and while that’s true, it’s also true that I wanted to come back so he could take care of me. I need a hand to grasp while I find my footing, work out a way to step forward without falling into the deep well of regrets in my past, maybe even rediscover the brave girl I’d always thought I’d become. To make sure I can find my way back.
Now he’s going to leave me alone. I know it, have known it, and I love him too much to make him feel guilty for being ready to go. He’s been sick more often than not over the past ten years and has hardly been comfortable. Part of me knew after Grams left us, that he wouldn’t be far behind.
It’s selfish of me to stand here and cry. To want him to decide to fight this one last thing because I need him.
“Come here, Gracie-baby.”
I limp forward, shouldering past Aunt Karen, and flop into the chair closest to my grandfather. The sheets underneath him are cool on my face, his hand is warm in mine, and for the moment, my feet stop slipping. It’s hard not to let him see how badly I’m hurting when he knows me so well, and trying only makes him smile.
He pats the top of my head. “How’s your foot? Because your face ain’t too pretty.”
My laugh sounds a little like what it is—a sob. Exhaustion threads his voice even though he’s been awake for less than a half hour, after almost an entire day of sleep, a fact that tells me if he doesn’t elect for the feeding tube, we’re probably down to days together, not weeks.
“And the mayor, how’s he?” He’s trying to distract me, maybe even irritate me a little, but it doesn’t work.
At least not on me.
“You know Mayor Drayton, Graciela?” The incredulous, aghast way Aunt Karen asks the question wriggles under my skin. It only took half a dozen insults to get to me this morning.
“I thought I felt my ears burning.”
Chapter Fifteen
I twist around, wondering how on earth I’ll ever seduce him after he’s seen me banged up, crying, and full of snot more often than he’s seen me clean. The warmth in his eyes as they seek mine suggests maybe it doesn’t matter, and somehow his presence pours energy into my limbs.
He looks like he stepped off the pages of GQ with his shower-damp curls, crisp purple tie, and pressed pinstriped suit that’s tailored to skim every hard line of his body. His slight smile shows off a hint of his dimples and squeezes me in places I can’t talk about in front of my family. He still irritates me with his insistence on coming around even when no one asked him to, but I can’t pretend it’s not nice to see a face that’s 100 percent on my side this morning.
“Mayor Drayton, this is my Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally, from Charleston. This is Beauregard Charles Drayton, the mayor of our fine little town.”
The mayor rolls his eyes toward the heavens at my overdone introduction, which is, of course, my whole purpose in doing it. Aunt Karen shoots me a sour look and reaches out a hand, and Uncle Wally does the same.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Mayor,” my aunt gushes. “I don’t know if you remember, but your mother and I worked together in the Junior League for years.”
Now it’s my turn to cheek the ceiling for pockmarks. She’s more transparent than dead Anne.
“I’m afraid I don’t, but I know those things kept Mother busy for many years.” The way he says it, as though Junior League isn’t worth many words, tickles me pink. “Martin, you’re looking much better. You’ll be back to watching those Braves games and talking me into bringing you buffalo wings in no time.”
Gramps does the smile and head bob thing, but I think he did hear what Beau said, because he makes a face at being ratted out over the buffalo wings. Those are definitely not on his heart diet, but I’ve been known to get a mad craving myself, once in a while. Every week.
Beau pats Gramps’s hand, the one still covered by mine, and I worry the jolt of electricity is going to set off my grandfather’s pacemaker. It doesn’t.
“Graciela, since your family is here to keep Gramps company, I was rather hoping to take you to breakfast.” He glances down at my wrapped ankle and his eyes darken. “Wait here a moment, if you would.”
My emotions jerk back toward annoyed, since he doesn’t even wait for me to agree to go to breakfast. The time away from Gramps’s beloved face argues against it, while
the fact that I’ve done nothing but stare at these four walls for almost twenty-four hours argues in favor, but either way, actually being asked would be nice.
“What’s going on here, Graciela Anne?”
The question snaps me out of my internal argument about whether to get out of the room for a while or stand on my principles and be hungry. Aunt Karen’s query doesn’t make a lot of sense, but that’s never been a prerequisite for speaking, as far as my aunt is concerned. “What do you mean?”
“Are you dating the mayor? You’ve only been back in town a couple of weeks!”
“Yes, Aunt Karen, I work fast. We’re already married, actually. Your invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. You should really figure out how to use your phone.” The sarcasm comes out of nowhere, but it feels good. Maybe all of the worry and depression and vodka have been keeping it down.
“Don’t be ugly, Graciela, it was just a question. I think it’s a bit soon to be dating after everything that happened back in Iowa, don’t you?” She trails off, mostly, I figure, because she has no idea what happened in Iowa. Gramps knows, but he’s the only one—or he was, before nostalgia opened my mouth with Mel. Neither of them told Aunt Karen anything, so she’s fishing. Which really boils my blood. “Anyway, I was only asking because you blushed the moment he walked through the door. That shade is quite unbecoming on you, did you know?”
I ignore her but file away the slant of jealousy in her words for later consideration. Even if I did marry Mayor Drayton, he wouldn’t be a bigger prize in her eyes than Jacob Edward Middleton III. Amelia had landed the son of a U.S. senator, and her husband would probably be one himself sooner or later.
He’d fit right into Washington, the little skeezeball.