by Meg Moseley
But what a gift. He wouldn’t waste the opportunity.
He’d better find the hospital and learn her prognosis. Then he would look for basic necessities. Coffee, a coffee maker, a change of clothes, and toiletries. For the kids, he would try to find a decent bookstore somewhere in the godforsaken hollow called Slades Creek, and the books themselves could do the rest.
She floundered in a black sea of pain. Heavy fog weighed her down. Waves slapped her.
Don’t make waves, somebody scolded.
She flew to the edge of the cliffs. The wind flapped her cape like a bird’s wings. She was a starving bird, blown off course. Drifting between worlds, she floated past misty, spring green moss on rocks.
She opened her eyes to a smooth white wall. Spinning, spinning, spinning, it never went anywhere but never held still. Closing her eyes, she saw mossy rocks again and muddy tree branches flying past—and heard footsteps—
“Hey there, Miranda,” a man said.
No, I’m Randi. Let me be Randi.
“Good Lord, girl, you took quite a tumble.”
She forced her leaden eyelids open and saw him, from the shoulders down. In a wrinkled raincoat, the man weaved back and forth, moving but not moving.
Her eyes couldn’t take it. She closed them. The inside of her eyelids rotated in a lopsided swirl.
He wasn’t Carl. Carl never wore raincoats.
Carl was long gone. She remembered now. The chastisement of God. Her fault. So stubborn.
The letters. The sugar bowl. Jezebel.
She couldn’t move. Her limbs were shackled. Her mind was heavy, clogged with pain.
“Miranda,” the stranger said.
She dared another narrow peek at the spinning world. He still stood there, making that ceaseless, side-to-side motion.
“Are you awake?” He leaned closer. Dark eyes, curly hair. “I’m Jack. I don’t know … but if you can …” His warm drawl drifted in and out, soothing her.
Jack. She knew that name. He was … who was he? She couldn’t rouse her tongue to ask.
They’d given her … pain meds, they’d called it. So innocent. But Mason said drugs were witchcraft. They would lure her into giving her soul over. Out of her control. She’d go off the rails again and—
“Why did you name me as guardian?” the man asked. “You don’t even know.…”
Guardian. Jack. Of course.
She slipped into a dream, a memory, a long-ago day. Lemonade on the porch. They were talking, laughing. Sunshine in the storm.
He was kind. Sensible. He would keep the children safe.
“Miranda.” His voice stroked her like a gentle hand on a cat in the sun, making her want to purr.
He had to stay. He was her lifeline.
“It’s all right. I’ll take care of the kids …”
But he would make waves. He would upset … somebody. She couldn’t think who.
She wanted to run. She wanted out. She wanted the sunshine.
A white car pulled into her drive. The state seal.…
Nausea rolled over her. She fought it. Consoling drowsiness curled in on her and pulled her into a soft pillow of black.
Too close to the wood stove for comfort, Jack propped himself against the smooth-planed planks of the wall and waited. He’d already given all the kids the simple and optimistic prognosis, but with the two little ones in bed, it was time to give the older four a more detailed report. He had no intentions of addressing the issue of their mother’s psyche though.
Darkness seemed to run in the veins of the Hanford men and in the veins of the women they married. Even Ava, for all her upbeat energy, had sometimes shown a streak of melancholy that had scared him half to death.
Part of his mind occupied itself with counting the tight, spiraled rows of the braided rug. The other part stayed on Miranda’s battered face and petite frame. And on the contents of the plastic tote he’d brought from the hospital. It held her ruined clothing and her trashed, mud-caked Nikon. The camera was a serious piece of equipment. Film, not digital, it had a vintage look. It must have cost a bundle when it was new, or even more as a collector’s item.
Rebekah herded Gabriel and Michael down the stairs and toward the decrepit couch. The couch was a tweedy brown that wouldn’t show dirt, which was fortunate, as the archangels had been in some kind of muddy trouble. They needed baths, pronto. All elbow jabs and jiggery pokery, they bounced their bottoms on the cushions. Their big sister, the peacemaker, squeezed between them.
Timothy came in from the kitchen but remained standing, his lean face expressionless. If he’d worn a horned helmet, he could have been a ferocious young Viking.
Knowing the smaller boys couldn’t sit still for long, Jack started right in. He’d already decided not to mention the collapsed lung; it sounded too scary.
“Okay, here are the details. Your mom has a concussion, and she broke some ribs, messed up one shoulder, and tore up her right leg. She’s lucky though. Instead of falling straight down, she must have slid from one ledge to another. She was groggy when I stopped by, but that won’t last.”
Gabriel’s forehead puckered. “What’s a concussion?”
“That’s what they call it when you bang your head so hard that you black out. She’ll have headaches and be tired and dizzy and sick to her stomach for a while, but her doctor says that’s to be expected.”
Timothy didn’t move a muscle. The other kids sat on the couch like big-eyed owls on a branch, staring.
Jack was still trying to grasp the situation. “Who needs to know what happened? Family? Folks from church?”
Michael scowled at the floor. “People from church don’t come around much.”
Rebekah elbowed him. “There’s our pastor. His name’s Mason Chandler.”
Jack wasn’t eager for help from that quarter, but he tucked the name away in his memory. “What about relatives?”
Rebekah hesitated. “We don’t have any.”
Hard to believe. It might explain a few mysteries though.
“Isn’t there anybody who needs to know your mom’s in the hospital? Neighbors? Friends?”
The kids regarded him in mute puzzlement.
Jack asked more questions and learned that the children had never set foot in a school building or a McDonald’s or a mall. A trip to the grocery store was an unusual event. Miranda did most of her shopping by mail order or from a food co-op that delivered to their door.
The kids had never touched a computer. They had never been to a movie or an amusement park. They had never been allowed to browse at the library—Miranda left them at home with Timothy in charge and selected their books herself—and that high-handed censorship was the clincher.
“All right.” Jack resisted the urge to indulge in some salty language about his sister-in-law. “That’s very … interesting. I’d like to know how—”
“Michael, Gabriel, you need a bath,” Timothy said. “Go. Get the water started.”
The archangels bolted. Timothy stalked after them, muttering that they needed supervision, although it wasn’t likely. The only bathroom was downstairs, practically in the living room.
“The clean towels are in the laundry basket,” Rebekah called.
She returned her attention to Jack. Her gaze was clear and direct, like he remembered her mother’s. That was years ago, though, and he might have modified the memory to suit himself.
“Why did Mother pick you to be our guardian?” Rebekah asked.
That question, again. “Who did you expect her to choose?”
“I never thought about it.” Rebekah frowned. “Do you even know her?”
Jack weighed how much to tell. Rebekah was an extraordinarily capable young lady for ten, but it wasn’t likely that she knew much about real life.
“Okay, here’s the story,” he said. “Your grandpa’s first wife was Celia, your dad’s mom. When your dad was a little boy, your grandpa left them. He divorced Celia and married a woman named Eleanor. My m
other.” Jack took a breath and skipped his mother’s fate. “My father died when I was in my twenties. After some years passed, I wanted more family than I had, so I stopped by to meet your dad.”
“You’d never even met him?”
“Never, and I thought it was high time. He wasn’t home, but I introduced myself to your mom. We sat on the porch and talked. Timothy was about three, and you were about a year old. You thought you were queen of the world because you’d learned to walk, but you wore yourself out and fell asleep in your mom’s lap.”
Rebekah smiled toward the window that overlooked the porch. “Then what happened?”
“We swapped phone numbers and planned to get together again. It was like finding a ready-made brother and sister-in-law for me, a brother-in-law for her. When your dad came home, though, he wasn’t too pleased to meet me.”
She met his eyes again. “How could you tell?”
“Well … he said I shouldn’t come back. So that was the end of it.” Except for the letters Jack had written, for years. Wasted effort, all of them.
“That still doesn’t explain why she picked you.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t.”
“When she’s feeling better, we can ask her.”
“Yes, we can. Meanwhile, I located her attorney this afternoon, and he gave me the name of a reliable woman who can stay with y’all tomorrow while I run to Chattanooga. Mrs. Walker. Yvonne Walker. Do you know her?”
“No.”
Of course not.
One of the boys shrieked angry words. Rebekah excused herself. Jack stayed put, having no desire to involve himself in the bath melee, but he heard everything.
“Get clean all over,” Timothy ordered. “All over, Gabriel! Wash your ears.”
Timothy was wound way too tight, but he’d had a terrible day. Apparently it had started with finding his mom at the bottom of the cliffs.
How had he known to search for her, though, so early in the morning? The unanswered questions kept piling up.
Rebekah’s voice ran through her brothers’ wrangling like a calm undercurrent in a tumultuous stream. After a few minutes, water gurgled down the drain. Timothy and Rebekah returned to the living room. Her dress was sprinkled with bath water, but he’d stayed dry.
The archangels followed, wearing damp skivvies and smelling like citrusy shampoo. They hadn’t wasted much time in drying themselves, and their young limbs were shiny with water. Michael ran up the stairs while Gabriel darted to the front door and flung it open.
“I have to find my—” Cold air flooded in. Gabriel’s feet thudded across the porch and down the steps in the dark. He reversed the process and hurtled inside clutching a slingshot. “Got it!” He slammed the door so hard that Jack cringed.
“Now your feet are filthy,” Timothy said, pointing. “You need another bath.”
“No.” Rebekah slipped between them. She marched the half-naked boy into the kitchen and knelt to wipe his feet with a kitchen towel. “There. Clean all over. Off to bed, Gabriel, and say your prayers. Good night.”
“G’night.” Slingshot in hand, he stormed through the living room and up the stairs.
Rebekah stayed on her knees like a nun at her devotions, her habit made of denim. After a moment, she rose, slinging the dirtied dish towel over her shoulder, and walked toward the bathroom.
Jack guessed what she would do. Ten years old, she would play mom to her brothers. She would wipe the wet floor, tidy the towels, pick up the shed clothing.
Dazed, he thought of the pricey Glenlivet he’d bought the week before. If he’d had it with him, once the kids were out of his hair, he would have exercised his right to unwind somewhere in peace and quiet. Except, if Miranda didn’t allow caffeine in her house, there was no hope whatsoever for a good Scotch whiskey. Demon alcohol.
He turned to Timothy. “Gabe’s quite a handful.”
“His name is Gabriel.”
Nicknames were against their religion too? Jack kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help thinking of the changes he would make if the kids were his. Lord willing, they never would be. But he was responsible for their welfare. He had to know where each one slept, at least. If the house ever caught fire.…
He climbed the creaky, steep stairway. It was narrow, with a wobbly handrail. God only knew the condition of the electrical system and the furnace, if there was one, and he’d seen no sign of smoke alarms or carbon monoxide detectors.
He gained the second floor, half the size of the main floor and dimly lit by night lights. One of the bedrooms held two sets of bunk beds. In plaid pajamas, Michael and Gabriel huddled in the top bunks and argued softly with each other. Jonah was sound asleep in the bottom bunk on the left. Crowded close to the safety rail, he clutched a quilt to his chin. He was sucking his thumb, his mouth moving around it like fish lips.
“Good night, gentlemen,” Jack said quietly.
“G’night,” the archangels echoed in unison. They resumed their subdued argument without missing a beat.
The other bedroom held two twin-size four-posters, two dressers, and two school desks, all painted in pastel colors that glowed ghostly in the half light. Martha was sacked out, hugging the Seuss book he’d found in the grocery store down the street from Slades Creek’s little hospital. It was the closest thing to a bookstore that he’d found.
She smiled in her sleep.
Jack grinned, rocking back and forth on his heels. Martha was already a book addict like her worldly uncle. A taste of Green Eggs and Ham would be good medicine for a literalist.
In his brief conversation with Miranda’s attorney, Alexander Whitlow, Jack had learned that a guardian was required to abide by the parents’ religious convictions for the children but had some freedom to make choices about their education. He hadn’t asked Whitlow if a ban on Seuss would be called a religious conviction or an educational decision. It was a moot point anyway; Miranda’s authority hadn’t been transferred. Jack was simply Martha’s uncle who happened to pick up a book to entertain her while her mom recovered.
Whitlow had not revealed why Miranda had changed her will, nor who the previous guardian or guardians had been, if any. He’d cited client confidentiality.
As Jack reached the bottom of the stairs, Rebekah emerged from the downstairs bedroom, carrying a wicker laundry basket heaped with bedding.
She smiled timidly. “I put fresh sheets on the bed for you.” Her eyebrows wobbled up and down. “Uncle Jack,” she finished, her cheeks turning pink.
Her bashful use of the honorific—new to her, but sadly nostalgic to him—moved him. He hadn’t been an official uncle since his divorce cut him off, not only from Ava, but also from her sister’s kids, and it still hurt.
“Thanks, Rebekah. I can sleep on the couch though. You didn’t have to—”
“Oh, no. Take the bed,” she said, sounding like a grown hostess. “That’s what Mother would say.” She hurried away, shifting the laundry basket to her skinny hip.
No doubt Miranda wouldn’t want him anywhere near her bed, but he checked out the room. The high four-poster was spread with an intricately pieced quilt in shades of blue and green. A stiff, symmetrical swag of dried flowers hung on the wall, flanked by three little needlepoint pictures on each side. The frames were lined up with an inch separating each one from its neighbor. Miranda seemed fond of regularity and order, or maybe that was Carl’s influence.
Everywhere were family photos, some posed and some candid. Many of them were artsy black-and-whites with a photo-journalistic flair out of sync with the stiffness he saw elsewhere.
Rebekah may have been right about having no relatives, because Jack saw no photos of anyone but Carl, Miranda, and the children, and there weren’t many of Miranda. She must have been the official family photographer, behind the camera more often than in front of it.
Now her vintage Nikon was trash.
Now a man she didn’t know had taken charge of her children.
That explained the
panic he’d seen in her eyes when she fought through the pain medication and connected with reality. Maybe she’d begun to question her crazy decision.
She might question it even more once she woke in her right mind, or in whatever passed for a right mind in her strange world. A world where children didn’t use computers or read fiction. Where they didn’t even know Dr. Seuss.
Tomorrow, Jack would enroll six young students in Normal American Life 101. He couldn’t stay long, but while he did, at least he could say he was homeschooling them.
four
Miranda struggled out of a groggy sleep and recalled a man standing beside her bed. “It’s all right,” the stranger had said. “I’ll take care of the kids.”
No, not quite a stranger. Jack. Unless she’d dreamed him.
What was he doing in her bedroom?
She fingered the bedding. It was wrong. A fuzzy blanket instead of her soft quilt and smooth sheets. And her hand hurt.
Everything hurt.
She fought to open her eyes. Her head drummed with a dull ache that was pierced by daggers when she made the slightest movement. She turned anyway and saw closed blinds on an unfamiliar wall. Everything kept spinning and thumping.
She closed her eyes. The throbbing continued. Desperate to know where she was, she turned slowly in the other direction before she opened her eyes again.
A pale blue curtain hung from the ceiling. A room divider.
A hospital room. That antiseptic smell. That quiet bustling.
Past hours came back in bits and pieces. Intense pain encasing her chest, her shoulder. Ice packs, bandages, IV lines.
A move from one room to another. A nurse who hummed and a roommate who snored.
A doctor who pried her eyelids open and mumbled at her.
Something rustled. The room divider swayed. A thin woman in a green shirt loomed over the bed, out of focus, and fiddled with the IV bag.
“You awake, hon?”
“I … I think so.”
The nurse smiled. “Maybe not, then. Do you remember what happened?”
Miranda lay still, trying to sort memory from nightmare, and nightmare from dream. “I fell?”