We Speak in Storms

by Natalie Lund

“Ha. I never thought I’d die in our living room. It’s so—antique.”

  Callie laughed. “You picked all this out.”

  “For the Victorian Christmas tours. Not to die with.”

  “Well, I can move it. What would you prefer in here?”

  “The farm table.”

  “I can’t move that.”

  “I know.” She smiled. “That’s exactly the point. This isn’t the way I want to go, but none of us can stop this thing. It’s happening exactly as it is. Tassel lamps. Velvet chaise. Vases and all.”

  Callie’s mom closed her eyes, a signal that their conversation was over. Callie blotted her mom’s forehead with a washcloth and stood up. She walked into the dining room and stared at the farm table. Its blocky legs, which she’d bumped her knee on so many times. Its surface—scratched by Callie, the Gallaghers, Celeste, Mrs. Vidal, her mother, her mother’s mother, and the mother of them all, Margaret Peterson. She liked that this table would never move, that when they sold the house, the new owners would live with this reminder of previous lives. It was possible to preserve a legacy, even in death.

  * * *

  * * *

  Mrs. Vidal was waiting outside St. Theresa’s when Callie arrived. She looked like someone had wrung her out until there was nothing left but wrinkles, bones, and dry hair. Callie opened the door for her and then helped her into the seat. The car filled with Mrs. Vidal’s scent, a mossy, wet smell, like earthworms.

  While Callie drove, Mrs. Vidal cleaned her glasses over and over on the sleeve of her floral-print dress.

  “Are you nervous?” Callie asked.

  Mrs. Vidal shook her head but didn’t stop buffing the lenses.

  Callie parked on the street right beyond Brenna’s driveway and led Mrs. Vidal into the cemetery, the woman leaning shakily on Callie’s arm.

  “Frederic picked out the pink stone, but I was the one who insisted he get a plot near a tree. It’s a good one, don’t you think?”

  Callie nodded. “Why’d you engrave My Sky?”

  “That’s what we called her. She was our sky. And everything else, too.” Mrs. Vidal shuffled closer to the stone. “Can you help me sit? I’m feeling a little—” Mrs. Vidal held up her hand so Callie could see the tremor.

  Callie walked her closer to the stone and then held on as the woman lowered herself toward the ground. She was heavier than Callie had expected, or Callie had just grown accustomed to her mother’s lightness. Mrs. Vidal scooted until her back was against the stone and her legs were out straight. She tilted her head back and looked up at the ancient oak. Its leaves were yellow with a few blazes of red. Behind it, the sky was chalky and heavy.

  “These trees are older than us and they still haven’t learned that they can’t hold up the sky,” Mrs. Vidal mused. “Come on; sit with me.”

  Callie hesitated. She’d never touched a grave before; it seemed sacrilegious. But soon a stone would mark her own mother, and she wanted to be able to touch it if she needed to.

  Callie sat on the other side so that the stone was sandwiched between them. She tilted her head back, following the oak’s branches to the gray sky beyond. The wind blew, and Callie felt an underbite of ice. The branches dipped in the gust, leaves fluttering. A few let go, lifting once, twice, and then floating to the ground by Callie’s feet.

  The coldness from the stone seeped into Callie’s back. She shivered, and Mrs. Vidal reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. Callie tried not to shudder at the waxiness of the woman’s skin.

  “What should I do?” Mrs. Vidal asked.

  “Try talking to her.”

  Mrs. Vidal was silent at first. Then, quietly, she began to speak. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to your funeral,” she said to the fall breeze, to the tree, and the leaves above them.

  Callie waited—not sure what to expect. There was no Ouija board for Celeste to spell out her forgiveness. What signs would she send? Birds? Snakes? Lightning?

  “I’m sorry I didn’t teach you to love Mercer. I’m sorry about the dog and the comments about your weight. I’m sorry I didn’t see you off for the dance. I’m sorry I didn’t support your dreams. I’m sorry I wasn’t the best mother for you.” The woman was sobbing. “I’m trying to be better now.”

  Just a couple of weeks ago, this would have been agony for Callie. This intimacy. These feelings of regret.

  “It’s her,” Mrs. Vidal said suddenly.

  Callie looked around, but the cemetery was unchanged. The bluish stones amid the gray and white and My Sky’s pink. The old stones still jagged and broken, their inscriptions worn away by wind and rain. The dry leaves rustled in the breeze, but it was otherwise silent.

  “It’s her,” Mrs. Vidal said again, and Callie closed her eyes.

  On the wind, she could smell buttered popcorn and caramel. A laugh bubbled out of Callie before she could clap her free hand over her mouth.

  “She’s delightful, isn’t she?” said Mrs. Vidal. “So much joy.”

  “I wish I’d met her,” whispered Callie.

  Mrs. Vidal squeezed her hand. “Me too,” she said.

  The facility where Dot’s mom lived was beige brick, mesa-flat, and long. There was a fenced-in shuffleboard court to the left and a few trees to the right that had lost their leaves and were clawing at the sky, bare-branched and sad. Dot closed her eyes and took deep, shuddery breaths.

  Inside, the home was equally dingy, yellowed wallpaper peeling at the seams and gray floors. There were depressing Halloween decorations on every door, pumpkins made of construction paper that seemed to be wilting, black cats and bats missing their googly eyes, a vampire who’d faded to a pale purple.

  Brenna asked for Mildred Goddard, and a nurse pointed Brenna toward a door with a wrinkled ghost. Dot stopped in front of the door, looking skeptical. “My mother never decorated,” she said.

  Brenna knocked.

  “Come in,” a woman called.

  Dot’s already-pale skin blanched. “It’s her voice, isn’t it?” Brenna whispered.

  Dot nodded. “I haven’t heard it in so long.”

  Brenna swung open the door. Dot’s mother was perched on the bed, her hands folded over her belly, a book of large-print crossword puzzles nearby. She seemed like a benevolent Buddha to Brenna, her flesh a gentle mound resting in her lap.

  “Hi, I’m Brenna. I’m from Mercer.”

  “For a second I thought you were my Dotty,” the woman said. “I could have sworn I heard her voice outside the door.”

  “Actually, you did. I’m here with her,” Brenna said. “With Dot. She wants to talk to you.”

  “You’re with Dotty?” The words were small, barely audible. “Are you foolin’ me? Trying to take advantage of a dying woman?”

  Brenna looked at Dot for help. “Is there a way you can help me prove you’re here?”

  “She made a pumpkin pie the day after he left,” Dot said. “It was his favorite.”

  Brenna repeated the message, and Mildred shut her eyes, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Am I dead? Is this the judgment?”

  “No. Dot just wants to talk to you.”

  “I prayed for this moment for so long,” the woman said, her eyes roving around Brenna, as though she were hoping to catch sight of her daughter. “I’m so sorry, Dotty. I think about you all the time. How I was blind. How awful he was. How I didn’t do anything to help you. How I just let him walk right up to our door after what he did to you.” She spat the word how each time, like she might get the poison out. “I was foolish and lonely. And you were—”

  “I was your blood,” Dot said, her voice choked.

  Mildred wiped her eyes, and sat up straighter. “I heard her. It was very quiet—practically a whisper,” she said to Brenna. Then, in the general direction of where Dot was standing: “You are my blood, Dotty. You are my blood.”
>
  “Was,” Dot repeated. “I don’t belong here now.”

  “You’ll find where you belong. I’ve always known it. Come here.” She patted the bed beside her for Dot to sit. Reluctantly, Dot moved to sit beside her.

  “She’s there,” Brenna said softly.

  “I saved up and fixed the VW. Toured the US after I quit the diner. You always wanted a bigger life for yourself. I thought I could try to live a little of it for you.” She smiled, as though remembering a sweet time. “The VW broke down in California, and I had to sell it to pay for a bus ticket back home. I was old by then anyway.” She turned toward her daughter. They were so close, their noses almost touched. Mildred began to sing what sounded to Brenna like gospel music:

  Soon we’ll come to the end of life’s journey

  And perhaps we’ll never meet anymore.

  Till we gather in Heaven’s bright city

  Far away on that beautiful shore.

  “You learned to sing for me,” Dot said. “You hated music.” She traced her mother’s cheek with her fingertips, and Mildred tilted her head as though she could feel it. Dot began to sing softly along with her. Her mother’s voice was thin and high where Dot’s was warm and low, but still pleasant and sweet. Dot didn’t seem to know the lyrics, but somehow she wrapped her voice around her mother’s, knitting it with hers, until they both fell silent and the air hummed on without them.

  Joshua lied to his mom about having a daylong event with his newly founded LGBTQ+ club. Ruthie looked suspicious, but his mom was thrilled and kept asking him if he needed her to buy snacks for their event. He accepted, pleased to have Goldfish crackers and Oreos for his road trip.

  After their visit with Luke Senior, Joshua had sat with Luke on the curb while the man pulled tufts of his hair out and held them in his palm like they were clues to what was happening to him.

  “I think it might be because you don’t belong here,” Joshua had said.

  “I don’t know how to leave.”

  “Is there something else you need to do? Someone else you need to talk to?” Joshua asked.

  Luke had chewed his lip, staring at the wolf fluff in his hand.

  “What if we went to Indiana?” Joshua said. “What if we found Eddie’s grave?”

  * * *

  * * *

  Before leaving, Joshua printed Eddie’s obituary, which listed the town and the church. From there, they’d rely on small-town friendliness to find the exact house. Joshua rode his bike downtown to avoid Ruthie’s spying, and met Luke at his father’s. The old man had agreed to loan them his truck without even bothering to ask Joshua if he had a license yet. Maybe, after hearing his son speak from beyond the grave, he didn’t see the need to bother with earthly things like laws. Joshua wasn’t worried either; he had driven around his grandfather’s farm as soon as he could reach the pedals.

  “I printed this for you,” Joshua said, and handed Luke the obituary.

  “He collected cars? But I was the one who knew about cars. He could barely keep the Pontiac running.” Luke was wearing the mechanic’s uniform unzipped so the fire department shirt—Eddie’s shirt, Joshua realized—was visible.

  “Maybe he kept them to stay close to you. Or maybe it was a message to you.”

  Luke looked doubtful. “Let’s get going. Just warning you, the truck shakes like a sinner on the highway, so you should take the country roads.”

  * * *

  * * *

  As they drove, there was a metallic, oily smell that seemed to be emanating not just from the truck, but from Luke. Joshua tried to focus on the landscape. Indiana wasn’t that much different from Illinois: the yellowing corn, the flat land, the courthouses like monuments. When they got closer, Joshua noticed that the Indiana town’s Main Street was lined with antiques stores and bars, just like Mercer’s. There were churches at every corner, and it didn’t take them long to locate St. Benedict’s. It sat across from one of the new cemeteries, the kind with flat stones for easy mowing.

  Eddie’s plot was right next to Carolyn’s. They shared a white stone with their names and dates. Luke was silent the whole time, but Joshua couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed. In Mercer’s Blue Light cemetery, where all the tornado victims were buried, everything felt connected—the Mercerites in the ground and all those walking on it and even Luke, who seemed to be doing both. There were trees pushing their roots through the coffins. Everyone’s bones were mingling down there, becoming one great soup of history. In Eddie’s cemetery, there were no wilting flowers, tiny flags, or trees.

  “I hope he didn’t feel like he had to,” Luke said.

  “What?”

  “Marry her. Carolyn. Out of guilt or shame or something. I hope he wanted to. I hope they were happy.”

  Joshua looked at the stones again. Wanting the best for someone even if your heart had been broken by them? That sounded like more than just love. It sounded like forgiveness.

  * * *

  * * *

  When they left the cemetery and found the farm, there was a FOR SALE sign up. But the land was unkempt. Trash from the road was caught in the high brown grasses. The trees needed trimming, and the house was missing some siding. There was a pole barn, and a newly constructed building that seemed to be the garage.

  Luke tried a side door first, but it was locked. He tried the garage door next, and it slid up easily. No wonder people thought the Pontiac had been stolen.

  Right up front was the spot where the Pontiac seemed to belong—the car-shaped pad of still-white concrete. No oil stains. No dirt. Along the back wall were army-green motorcycles. On each side of the Pontiac’s space was a much newer car. One a deep shade of blue. And another black. The Pontiac must have stood out: white, glimmering chrome, the size of a boat.

  Unselfconsciously, Luke dropped to his knees and then rolled onto his back on the clean space the Pontiac left. “I was a little glad the Pontiac got destroyed in this last tornado,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I felt like the storm had left the right person standing this time.”

  “He hurt you,” Joshua said. “That seems like a natural thought.”

  Luke sucked his teeth. “Maybe.” He splayed his legs and arms, and Joshua thought of a wild cat stretching. “I wasn’t around long enough for the pain to stop, you know. I think I wouldn’t have been so angry if there’d been time to—” He stared at the rafters, seeming to search for a word.

  “Heal?” Joshua suggested.

  “Yeah. I imagine it feels something like this.”

  Luke patted the floor beside him. Joshua lay down. The concrete pressed into his spine, but the space above and around him felt wide-open—and all his.

  WE HEAR THE WIND

  We hear the wind gathering itself: shrill and bitter. It tunnels through Mercer, whipping the leaves off trees. This storm is pewter, slate, and flint. This storm is nails. Is bite. No one expects it. Not when summer stayed so late. It seems too providential. Too well-timed.

  But time is a tricky thing. Sometimes it skips by, smooth as a river stone. Sometimes it crawls. Vast empty beds of it, desert-dry.

  It’s been well over fifty years since 1961. A blink in the scheme of the universe, but enough time that we’d now be retired, losing ourselves in crossword puzzles and fumbling with technology we don’t understand. Grandchildren would climb into our laps, weaving their tiny fingers through our thin hair. We’d be taking them for ice cream and blotting crumpled napkins against their sticky chins.

  For Callie, time has been freight-train fast, tornado fast. Each day speeding toward the inevitable end. One uneaten piece of toast closer. One visit from Aunt Toni. One moment of confusion. One moment of lucidity. One hospice nurse. Another.

  This storm takes its time, shifting from wind to rain to sleet. We’re tempted to chorus and whisper and call our storm song.
But tonight we are silent. Tonight we are still.

  The night nurse, a freckled Irish woman, woke Callie and her father to say that her mother was having a hard time breathing and that her pulse was erratic. It might be coming, she said, and Callie briefly thought she meant the storm her mother had been predicting. Despite the weather app’s clear skies icon, the windows were shuddering in their frames and the wind whistled through the chimney.

  The nurse pulled two antique chairs alongside the hospital bed. She’d tied the green scarf poorly, and Callie pinched the tail of it, rubbing the silk between her fingers. Callie’s mother hadn’t been awake since the day before, when Callie had spoken to her before leaving for St. Theresa’s. Just one day later and her mother’s face wasn’t recognizable anymore. The mask over her mouth, the sharp slabs of her cheekbones, the temples that had become valleys, the wishbone jaw. She’d been sleeping fitfully, her legs and arms jerking violently.

  “You can take her hand,” the nurse said softly. Callie took one and her father took the other, and they tried to tame her movements, tried to hold on as best they could.

  Her comforter had been removed and folded on the armchair. Only a thin blue sheet covered her. The room smelled like rubber gloves, and there was gentle music punctuated by wind chimes playing—something her mother never would have listened to. Callie wanted to pay attention to her mother, to these final moments that would be her last forever, but she was distracted by everything that was wrong: the scarf, the jerking hand, the sheet, the smell, the music.

  Callie half expected Mrs. Vidal, with her impeccable timing, to appear. She would tell Callie what she was supposed to do and say, what she herself had done when Frederic stopped talking to the people in the television and started “actively dying.”

  The wind howled outside, and Callie felt like the house was wheezing in and out like an accordion around them. She wasn’t aware of the passing of time, but at some point, the light outside became gray and ice balls started tapping their windows. At some point, the jerking stopped. At some point, the CD ended and no one chose another. At some point, Callie retied the scarf and her father dragged the comforter back onto the bed. At some point, her mother’s eyes opened, but they were vacant and dilated. At some point, with a few words to Callie’s father, the nurse switched off the machine helping Callie’s mother breathe.