* * *
Gram reads to Pap, while I sit on the couch beating myself up. I’m sure I’ll snap out of it, but failed experiments do have a way of wounding my ego.
I’m not sure if it’s even possible, but I tried going back to the vision about the masked strangers. In the past, I’ve been able to replay things I’ve already seen, to be sure I didn’t miss anything. But I’ve never tried picking up from where it left off. Then again, they usually play themselves out the first time around.
But it didn’t work.
Each time I remember my mom’s words—just as she wanted me to—I can’t help but wonder if this other vision has something to do with her warning. I’m sure it’s unrelated, but I don’t have much else to go on just yet.
Nevertheless, my eyes are open.
No more shutting out visions and jamming the fast-forward button in my mind.
These images come to me for a reason, and it’s time I take responsibility for my gift. If I’m truly the strong person my mom believes me to be, it’s time I start acting like it.
For the first few hours, we take turns reading to Pap from his favorite books of poetry by Yates, Dickinson, Browning, Longfellow, and Whitman.
As a child, I loved sitting in his study while he spent hours reading from his favorite excerpts. I notice the Walt Whitman book on the table, one passage in particular coming to mind that always stuck with me.
There is no endowment in man or woman,
that is not tallied in you.
There is no virtue,
no beauty in man or woman,
but as good is in you.
No pluck, no endurance in others,
but as good is in you.
No pleasure waiting for others,
but an equal pleasure waits for you.
That was from Pap’s favorite poem called, To You.
He’s always been an incurable romantic. I’m sure his passion for the written word had a lot to do with winning Gram’s heart.
I grab the Whitman book from the table, smiling to myself at memories of the most amazing man I’ve ever known.
I look up to see his peaceful face.
With one hand gripping a book—and the other holding Pap’s hand—Gram reads Yates to her beloved husband.
My heart warms at this touching vision before me.
In the old days, letters were hand-written and intimate. It seems archaic now with the advancements in technology. So impersonal—yet convenient. The idea of someone writing down their favorite poem and mailing it to someone they love, well most people would find the notion absurd. But not my Pap. Gram still has boxes of poems and notes he sent her all those years ago.
As a society, we’ve become inherently lazy. Everyone’s always taking the easy way out—looking for the quick fix. It’s no wonder love is no longer appreciated the way it used to be. It’s no wonder love has lost its meaning.
Pap always told me, “If a man can’t give you the name of at least one famous poet or author, don’t waste your time, Chloe. A man with love in his heart will have it filled with poetry . . . and the rest are animals.”
And I’ve always believed him.
These days, actual poetry’s been lost through song writing. When a guy starts spouting lyrics, he assumes you should go weak in the knees. Yeah, right!
Sure, some songs are pretty. But for the most part, it’s the music or the melody that grabs your heart. Not the words. Poetry on the other hand, doesn’t need musical accompaniment to make it beautiful. It just is.
Perhaps the next time I see Hunter I’ll test his knowledge of poetry. I can’t imagine a tough guy like him would have the first clue about the classics. Considering the fact he enjoys talking like he’s in an old black and white film, it’ll be fun to find a weakness.
I need to start bringing him down off that pedestal in my mind.
And speaking of Hunter, I haven’t seen him yet today.
Maybe he won’t be coming by after all.
Sadness seeps through my chest at the thought.
Not to worry though. It’s not like I need the distraction.
Gram closes the book and turns to Dru. “Your turn, dear. Why don’t you read him a story this time?”
Dru grabs a book from the table. “I think that can be arranged.” He takes a seat opposite Gram—then begins.
My brother has the most soothing, melodic voice. The inability to hear it in person for six years gives me a newfound appreciation for its tenderness.
As I sit in the corner listening to Dru read from Pride and Prejudice, I take a moment to look at Pap’s surroundings; what he’ll see when he wakes up.
If you take out the monitors and tubes, it doesn’t even look like a hospital room. There’s nothing clinical about it. Instead, the walls are an earthy shade of garnet, and my pap rests comfortably beneath a coordinated pattern of chocolate, burgundy, emerald green, navy blue, and crème linens.
We’re thankful for the oak table and chairs. Much better than the cold, impersonal waiting room. But you can usually find me parked on the cozy loveseat—mainly because I enjoy the soft, glowing light from the floor lamp.
Each wall wears a painting of various outdoor scenes: Vibrant, crisp autumn leaves; a gorgeous, spraying waterfall; and an artistic field scattered with a multi-tonal array of flowers. They sort of have a Thomas Kinkade feel to them.
It’s a masculine atmosphere, but it feels more like a den in your home than a hospital room. When Pap wakes up, he’ll feel more than comfortable here.
I continue listening to Dru tell the captivating tale of Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Even though I’m not a romantic like Pap, this story moves me. It’s one of my favorite books, and Jane Austin remains one of my favorite authors. If ever I dare to dream about love and an unfathomable happy ending—it’s when I read this book.
Dhelia took Gram and Aunt Morgan to pick-up something for lunch that’s better tasting than cafeteria food. I look up at the clock on the wall, my growling belly reminding me I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. And maybe I should have ordered something more substantial than a grilled chicken salad. Oh well. I’m sure it’s too late now.
The fam must be close. Dru slams the book shut and walks to the open door with a victorious smile. “Lunchtime.” He’s such a show off.
I jump up from my cozy spot on the couch.
Just as we make it to the hall, the elevator doors swing open. To my surprise, my family isn’t alone. The delicious Hunter Payne steps off with them.
Yum. I didn’t realize I’d ordered dessert with my lunch.
As if stuck on a giant flytrap, I remain glued in place while everyone walks inside. Hunter, however, stops in front of me. “Good afternoon, Miss Chloe.” He nods in my direction.
My god he’s gorgeous. His radiant smile and sparkling eyes could melt steel.
“Hi! I…I didn’t think you were coming by today. It’s late for you.” Pipe down, Miss Chipper. You’re acting like a bubble-headed-schoolgirl again. Why don’t you just hold up a neon sign that says, “Caution: children at play”.
“Yeah well, it’s my day off, so I slept in as long as I could. It was a really long week.” He stretches before me like a well-fed house cat.
“I don’t blame you then. I love sleeping in any chance I get.” Oh, who am I kidding? I sleep in even when I don’t.
“Yeah, me too.” He chuckles, looking over my shoulder inside Pap’s room. “Hey, don’t let me keep you from your lunch. I don’t want your gram mad at me.” Right on cue, his hands find his pants’ pockets. The Hunter Payne signature move.
“Yeah, they’ll be yelling for me. She’d never get mad at you though. She thinks you’re the next best thing since Armani.” My cheeks flush, so I turn my attention to the floor as fast as I can.
Ha. The Chloe Bishop signature move.
He laughs his adorable little laugh, eyes twinkling like stars catching the full moon’s reflection. “Now, if only her gran
ddaughter felt the same.” He sends me a wicked grin.
Did he really just say that?
Chapter 7
OPEN MOUTH, INSERT TRUCK!
Tethered (A BirthRight Novel #1) Page 11