Georgia Rules

by Nanci Turner Steveson

  “She couldn’t talk?”

  Kori shook her head. “The night before she came, she was sitting in a booth at a Denny’s and watched her father out the window getting carted away by the police after a drug deal. There’d been a lot of commotion, so one noticed her for a long time. She still freezes when she hears a siren, and she won’t go near fireworks. CPS said the lack of speaking would be temporary, until she felt safe again, so we went about the business of making that happen. We put all three kids in bed with us every night, kept her with us night and day. The first time he saw her, your dad was smitten. He stopped by every day to check on her, and told her stories about a little princess named Magnolia Grace.”

  “About me?”

  She nodded. “He drew pictures for her, too. It fascinated Sonnet to watch his hands. I turned around one day and she was sitting on the floor with crayons everywhere. She’d gotten a box off the shelf and was coloring the wood.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. That’s when she started carrying crayons around in her pockets all the time. Now it’s a pencil. Then one day your dad didn’t show up. Deacon told us he’d gone for some treatments in a hospital. We tried to explain to Sonnet, but she shut down, so we gave her stacks of paper and all the crayons in the store. She colored frantically and constantly, and saved everything in a shoe box.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  “She has a few. Your dad looked different when he came back. He’d put on some weight and his energy felt lighter, easier, more peaceful. When Sonnet saw him, she got that shoe box and gave it to him. Then she smiled really big, and you know what happened?”

  Kori hesitated, trying to find her voice. I waited, silently.

  “She spoke for the first time since she’d come to us. She handed him her pictures and said ‘Magnolia Grace,’ plain as day. Her first words were your name.”

  Everything I thought I knew about Sonnet changed in that second. Her silence, her frantic sketching, the way she kept her distance from me but told Aspen and Jane I was brave. It all made sense.

  “I never thought she liked me.”

  Kori laid her hand over mine. “She doesn’t dislike you, Maggs. She still struggles to speak. Your dad taught her to use art to help with her anxiety. They had a special bond. Not like you and he would have had, but for Sonnet, it was a saving grace.”

  She watched me carefully.

  “Do you think she doesn’t like me being here?”

  “I think you came so soon after the accident, and you look so much like him, it’s been hard for her. But even if her distress feels directed at you, it’s not. It’s about what she lost.”

  Before I left, Kori handed me a brown bag with some presents in it for Mama and me to open the next morning.

  “One last thing,” she said. “The same way Sonnet’s grief isn’t about you, neither is yours truly about your mother. Think about that before she gets home.”

  FORTY

  Eleven o’clock. Three hours until Mama would be home from Boston. Three hours to be at home alone and try to figure out the next step in what had become a huge mess between us. I tucked myself onto the window seat and watched white flakes drift from the sky. Only two days in and I already loved winter.

  Outside, red and brown cardinals flew to the suet feeders. They clung to the wires and pecked at Nut N’ Berry and P’nuttier blocks. Sometimes one of the feeders would get crowded, causing a fight to break out. They settled their squabbles with a lot of sharp screeching, then went back to the business of eating.

  The clock ticked slowly. By eleven twenty-seven I’d been up and down from that window seat a half dozen times, pacing to the kitchen and back, opening and closing the front door, knocking icicles from the overhang on the porch, putting a kettle on the stove for tea, then turning it off because I didn’t really feel like tea, then climbing back onto the window seat. Nothing I did made the roller coaster inside me calm down. Only the peace of the snowy woods and the sugar shack would help clear my head.

  Unbroken snow came halfway up my calves and filled my boots. It didn’t matter. The woods were tranquil, and except for the buck who moved gracefully away when he saw me, they were all mine. That first day, when I’d stumbled upon the maple grove by chance, the shack was almost hidden by vines so tightly wound around the door, I’d barely been able to squeeze inside. In the fall, a carpet of scarlet maple leaves blew in and covered the brick floor. Today, snow swept past frosty windows and weighed down pine limbs, so the view was solid white over a bough of green.

  If I could bottle up the scent of snow-covered pine, mixed with the sweetness of leftover maple sugar still clinging to the inside of those cauldrons, I could take it with me anywhere. Wherever Mama moved us, I would have these woods with me forever. I sat at the table and ran my fingers over the initials. I missed my daddy. Even without ever really knowing him, I missed him.

  My fingers traced the J and the A and the plus sign. Then they followed the pattern of the D and the A and the equal sign. Only after those came the M and the G.

  Mama’s love for him came before mine. Like Sonnet, she’d loved him, too.

  Shadowy arms reached for me. I was afraid. He hadn’t come back like he’d promised. He’d left me alone. Strangers said he wasn’t feeling well, he’d gone to the doctor. They’d carried me home through the woods to Mama, who ran down the field, her arms stretched out, palms up, her face red and wet from tears. She grabbed me and held me so close I could feel her heart beating against mine.

  FORTY-ONE

  At ten till four, my finger hovered over Mama’s speed-dial number on my cell phone. I paced by the window, watching the driveway for a glimpse of red through snow that fell in heavy waves. Mama wasn’t a cautious driver already, but with this storm—I didn’t want to think about what might happen.

  The TV news mocked me with images of multiple cars piled on top of one another after skidding off the highways. Reporters switched to their “tragedy is upon us” voices and used words like treacherous and catastrophic. I raced to the family room, flipped off the TV, and threw the remote against the fireplace, then ran back to the front door to keep watch.

  Finally, the red Mustang swished back and forth up the driveway, narrowly missing the big oak tree. I yanked the front door open. A gust of wind blew snow across the front porch and into the hall. The Mustang swerved and swayed before stopping close to the steps. Mama got out and made her way carefully to the house, leaving the car engine running.

  I held the door for her, surprised to see her eyes shining. Snowflakes clung to the ends of her lashes. Everything about her vibrated. Without a word, she discarded her coat on the chair, stomped her boots to shake off the snow, then took me by the elbow and led me to the couch.

  “I was worried,” I said. My voice sounded so tiny.

  She put her hand against my cheek. “I’m sorry, sugar, I was afraid you might have tried to call me. I dropped my cell phone in the snow and it took me so long to find it, I think it’s ruined. I couldn’t call out. But that doesn’t matter. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She took both my hands in hers and squeezed.

  “Mama, I—”

  “Shhh, let me talk first. I know you’re angry and sad and everything else in the world, and I don’t blame you. I made a mistake. The way we lived in Georgia, it wasn’t right. I thought what I was doing would make you happy and would keep you safe. I should have known that wasn’t what you needed. You’re so much like him. I’m trying to make up for it now, sugar, I’m trying to give you what’s left.”

  She wouldn’t let go of my hands, like Lucy when we crossed the field to the river a lifetime ago. My heart thumped in my chest. The front door opened and a gust of wind blew through the house before it closed again. I looked to the hallway.

  “Who’s here?”

  Mama shook my hands. “Look at me, sweetheart, right here. These are people you need to meet. This is the best I can do, the closest I can get you to your dadd
y.”

  Deacon led a small man into the room. An even smaller woman followed close behind, trying not to trip over Quince, who ran excited circles around them.

  “Quince! Stop!” Deacon sounded nervous, sharp.

  “Are they my relatives?”

  “Not like you mean, but Mr. McCarthy is related to your daddy in another way.”

  Deacon got them settled in the wing chairs facing me and Mama. Quince stopped running and sat by the man’s side. He patted the top of her head.

  “You’re a good dog, yes, you are, a good girl—you know, don’t you?”

  They turned to look at me, but no one said anything. Nothing. Not one word. Forever.

  The woman had a round head, and even rounder chipmunk cheeks with circles of pink on the top of each one. Even her hair was a mess of mad brown curls framing her face. Mama went to stand in between the two chairs so all three of them could stare at me.

  “Well,” said the man. “You are Magnolia Grace, and I am Cornelius McCarthy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He gestured to the woman. “This is my wife, Jenna McCarthy.”

  In Georgia, I would have stood up and crossed to shake their hands, but my legs were shaking so hard I didn’t know if they’d hold me up. Deacon brought in two suitcases and took them directly to the guest room.

  “I don’t mean to sound rude, but you’re all making me nervous,” I said.

  “Nervous?” asked Mr. McCarthy.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know who you are.”

  He took his wife’s hand and they smiled at me. “Your mother went to a lot of trouble to get us here.”

  Mrs. McCarthy’s voice sounded like a bird chirping. Each word ended on an upward note.

  “Your father saved my husband’s life, Magnolia Grace. We came to say thank you.”

  “Were you the people in the car when he was killed?”

  “No, sugar, the McCarthys never met your daddy.”

  “Then how, what—”

  Mr. McCarthy stood up and took off his long navy coat and yellow sweater. He handed them to his wife and sat down again. Mama watched from between the two chairs. Spiderwebs of black mascara spread all the way down her cheeks.

  “Magnolia Grace,” he said. “When your father passed away, he left this farm to you, but he left something to me as well.”

  His fingers slowly unbuttoned his shirt. It was like some crazy dream where strangers act like they know the very heart and soul of you and behave in ways that would never, ever happen in real life and you can’t talk or move away.

  He opened the shirt a crack, just enough for me to see a raised red scar running all the way from his collarbone to the middle of his torso. Another smaller one went left to right about two inches below.

  “I didn’t meet him in person, but he still saved my life. Your father was an organ donor.” He tapped two fingers on his chest. “And, inside here, is his heart.”

  I watched the fat, ridged scar rise and fall. The only sound in the room came from the puttering of Quince’s breathing as she slept by his feet.

  “We waited two years,” Mrs. McCarthy said. “Every day we prayed, every day we waited for the perfect match. Finally, we got the call. Your father, Magnolia, he gave us the gift of my husband’s life when he lost his own.”

  I pointed a finger at the scar. “You mean my daddy’s heart, his real heart, is in there?”

  “Right in here,” Mr. McCarthy whispered. “Alive and beating.”

  Mrs. McCarthy stood up and led me to the chair next to her husband. After closing his shirt, she laid my palm on his chest, over where they’d opened him up to put my daddy’s heart inside, so one of them could live.

  “Can you feel it?” Mr. McCarthy asked.

  He’d put my tiny hand on his chest. “Can you feel it?” I’d nodded, but it wasn’t true. I couldn’t feel anything except soft hair and warm skin. “My heart will always beat for you and your mama.”

  “Not really,” I said. “I want to, but I can’t.”

  “Give her the stethoscope, Jenna. We bought a toy one so you could listen.”

  I plugged the pieces into my ears and Mrs. McCarthy slipped the little silver circle under Mr. McCarthy’s shirt. At first, the sound was soft and far, far away. Mrs. McCarthy pushed a little harder, and then I heard it. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. He was coming back for me. Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom. His heart. My daddy’s literal heart was still alive, still beating. Just like he’d promised.

  I listened to that beautiful sound and let tears fall onto Mr. McCarthy’s shirt. I could have stayed like that forever, hearing my daddy’s heart beat, remembering his strong arms that would never let me fall, and the way he smelled of grass and paint and Listerine, and the gentle lilt of his voice when he said “I love my girls.”

  Behind me, Mama finally let her real emotions bubble out through tears and sobs and spurts of laughter and sniffles. I knew she was sorry, and she’d done the best she could. And I knew she’d found this man and brought him here on a snowy Christmas Eve so I could hear my daddy’s heart. She didn’t have to say it out loud: she’d done it all because she loved my daddy, and she loved me. I leaned down and put my mouth up next to Mr. McCarthy’s chest.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I whispered. “It’s me, Magnolia Grace.”

  FORTY-TWO

  Brilliant yellow sunshine spilled through the windows on Christmas morning. Almost two feet of new snow sparkled in the field, as if someone had dropped a million perfect diamonds from the sky. I itched to escape down to the sugar shack, but I wasn’t the only one up early. Mrs. McCarthy and I built a fire and watched the flames flicker and curl around dry pine logs. The sweet scent made the noises in my head finally rest.

  I tucked myself into the window seat so I could see the birds outside at the feeder. Mrs. McCarthy sipped tea and watched with me. She understood I didn’t want to talk. Not yet. It was all too new, too fresh.

  A little after nine James showed up with a box of pies and an invitation to dinner.

  “Those people, the McCarthys, they’re still here,” I said. “That’s a lot of extra people to cram into your place.”

  “This is true,” he said. “One sec.” He turned away and punched numbers into his phone.

  I carried the box to the kitchen. Inside, stacked one on top of the other, were blueberry, buttermilk, and mince pies, all with perfect, crinkly crusts around at the edges. Wedged in between was a handwritten note:

  We tried to remember which was your favorite, but decided you liked them all. Here’s a sample pack to get you started. Merry Christmas, Maggie and Dee! Love, the Parkers.

  James came back with Deacon. “The moms said we can make it work there, or we can bring the dinner here.”

  “Over here? Yeah!”

  “Don’t you want to ask your mama first?” Deacon said.

  “We were going to eat Chinese because in all the excitement, Mama forgot to plan anything.”

  Mrs. McCarthy came up behind me, her cheeks puffed up like two tiny pink rosebuds. “The Chinese was my idea. I’m Jenna McCarthy. You must be one of Kori and Sue’s children.”

  “Yes, I’m James.”

  “Well, James, the others are still asleep here, but I’m an expert in problem solving, and I think that’s a lovely idea. Now,” she said, scanning the kitchen and living room. “How many people are there?”

  James counted with his fingers. “Fourteen including Ethan Edward.”

  “Do we have folding tables? We’ll need two. Eight-footers. Magnolia, how many chairs are there here? We won’t need side tables—those kitchen counters go on forever, and we’ve got that oak table by the window. We can serve ourselves buffet style. James, what will your moms be bringing?”

  As tiny and timid as she’d seemed at first, Mrs. McCarthy organized things like a boss. By one o’clock the sofa and wing chairs had been pushed against the walls, and two long tables covered with red, green, and gold plaid cloths took their place in the
family room. Mix-and-match china and silverware made up fourteen places. Leftover centerpieces from the tree lot sat in the midst of dozens of tiny tea candles.

  Mama was all aflutter. When she found out “her girls” were coming, she coated her eyelids with bright-blue shadow and put that awful sparkly stuff in her hair. “It’s their favorite,” she said.

  At one ten, Biz and Lucy raced in, tracking snow all the way to the family room.

  “Mrs. Baird!”

  “Mrs. Baird!”

  Mama scooped them into her arms.

  “Look what we got for Christmas! Charlotte’s Web! Let’s read it together!”

  Lucy held out the same book I had upstairs, the one that had been home to my daddy’s picture all those years. Mama oohed and aahed, then leaned in close to them. “Only if you do one thing for me first.”

  Two little people stood side by side, shoulders touching, eyes glued to Mama’s face, waiting, hoping what she would ask was manageable.

  “I’m not Mrs. Baird anymore. You can pick what you call me. Auntie Dee. Delilah. Mrs. Austin. Grandma, although it would be kind of a miracle to have a grandma younger than your own moms, wouldn’t it? But you pick. Then I’ll read.”

  She sat down on the bottom of the stairs and folded her hands in her lap. Biz and Lucy whispered to each other, then looked at Mama.

  “Okay, we decided,” Biz said.

  Lucy shoved her with her shoulder. “Quiet. I get to say it!”

  “Then say it!”

  “We want to call you Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “Elizabeth Taylor?”

  “Yeah. The moms told us you were prettier than her.”

  “We didn’t know who she was, so they showed us a picture and she was almost as pretty as you, but not quite.”

  Mama looked over to where Sue and Kori stood in the kitchen and blushed. “Your moms said—oh my goodness, well, what a lovely name, I don’t think I could have thought of one I like better myself. Elizabeth Taylor it is, then! Now, come sit with me. I think we have time for a chapter or two before we eat.”