“Like he shot her and then ran and took the cross off her neck before anyone showed up.”
I stuck out my tongue. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not.”
“Look, Paige, I’ll be back in France in a few days. I’ll go buy her another Huguenot cross. I’ll buy ten of them if it’ll make you feel better.”
I could tell Hannah was getting a little annoyed. “Okay, forget it. I’m nuts.”
“You’re not nuts, but it’s just not important.” Without warning, she burst out laughing. “But hey, I know why you’re so concerned. That cross is your inheritance! We were all at La Grande Motte, and Daddy said we were going to Montpellier for Momma’s birthday to get her a special gift and then eat at a restaurant.” Hannah’s eyes were shining. “You were what, four or five?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“And we went into the fancy jewelers, and Daddy bought that eighteen-karat-gold cross, and Momma was so proud and began explaining the symbolism.” Hannah imitated Momma’s deep Southern accent. “Now girls, just look at this beautiful cross. It’s very symbolic—do you know what that means? See here, the crown of thorns is twisting around the cross and those little knobs on the end of the cross symbolize the eight beatitudes, and here, if you count the points, it’s the twelve apostles. And the beautiful little dove that hangs from the bottom of the cross is symbolizing the coming of the Holy Spirit, how He came down from heaven when Jesus was baptized. . . .”
Hannah took her eyes off the road for a second and glanced at me. “But you weren’t paying one bit of attention. And when Momma tucked you in to bed that night, you reached up and touched the cross, which was now hanging around her neck, and asked, ‘Momma, why is there a dead bird hanging from your cross?’”
We both cracked up, as we did every single time we told that story. I didn’t really remember the incident the way Hannah did, but I remembered what Momma said to me so often in the years following. “My little stinker. I tell you what—I’ll give you this cross when you’re old enough to understand the significance of that little dove. It’ll be yours.”
I laughed along with Hannah, but inside I was frowning. That cross still belonged to Momma, and suddenly I wished I had already inherited it, and she could see it hanging around my neck now that she’d awoken from her coma.
As Hannah parked the car, and we got out and walked to the entrance to the hospital, I clicked on my phone and scrolled down to read the text I’d received. It was from Drake. I remember something else about The Awful Year. I’m coming home tomorrow night. Save the evening, and I’ll explain it all.
Okay, I texted back. Momma has opened her eyes. She may be coming out of her coma.
I sent my text into cyberspace and felt the tension in my cheeks, the tension between a smile and a frown.
Hannah and I arrived at the hospital at nine thirty. Daddy was sitting beside Momma. To us, she looked exactly the same, intubated, eyes closed, unmoving.
“She’s just resting a bit now,” Daddy said, his voice still carrying enthusiasm.
Soon Dr. Moore, the wiry little surgeon with the thick-rimmed glasses, came into her room with a host of medical students surrounding him. He introduced us to his team. As they talked amongst themselves, the nurse practitioner pulled me aside.
“I know you don’t have a lot of warm fuzzies for Dr. Moore. He has a pretty pitiful bedside manner, but his brain works great. I just want you to know that your mother’s brain, and the rest of her, couldn’t be in better hands.” The nurse’s eyes met mine, twinkling, and I nodded.
“Thanks,” I whispered. In the six days we’d been keeping vigil at the hospital, I had come to respect the nurse practitioners as the ones who would tell me the truth. I took a deep breath and moved closer to where Dr. Moore and his cluster of students stood.
“So I hear our patient has opened her eyes,” he said, directing his gaze toward Daddy. Then Dr. Moore went up to Momma, very close, and shook her on the shoulder. “Mrs. Bourdillon. Josephine. Can you hear me?”
Nothing. But when he reached over and pinched her forcefully on her neck, she squirmed enough for me to detect movement. Her eyes flew open.
“Well, what do you know! What about that! She’s come out of that coma! Good for you, Josephine.”
The doctor was laughing. He turned to his students and said, “Mrs. Bourdillon was at a four on the Glasgow Scale when she came in. Fortunately, the bullet entered and exited the right lobe; it missed the high-value real estate such as the brain stem and the thalamus and the ventricles. . . .”
There he went again, talking about real estate! But this time, I smiled with him.
“She had barely progressed to a six in the past five days, but now, well, now . . .” He glanced down at his chart. “This is the beginning of the sixth day and look at her! Eyes open, responding to pain. She’s moving from the VS”—Dr. Moore looked over at Daddy—“the vegetative state, into the minimally conscious state, what we call the MCS. All things considered, this is remarkable.”
JOSEPHINE
I knew those voices, voices of absolute joy! Hannah! Paige!
“Momma, oh Momma! We love you. We’re here with you.”
I heard my girls, but a thought kept swirling somewhere in my subconscious. Hannah? Hannah shouldn’t be here. Hannah was in France.
Both girls were leaning over me, so close that I could see their beautiful faces! Hannah brushed her fingers across my cheek, and I tried to smile. Then Paige kissed my hand.
“She looks afraid, or in pain,” Paige was saying.
No, I wasn’t in pain, but I was thirsty! So thirsty.
“I don’t think she understands what has happened,” Patrick said.
Had he told me before? I had no idea where I was. Something was very, very wrong, but everyone was whispering and assuring me that everything was very, very good.
Patrick’s face came into focus. I could understand the words he was saying. Hospital. An accident. I wanted to ask him what kind of accident, because I didn’t remember anything about that at all.
“But she knows us. That’s a miracle! People are praying, and God is answering, and she knows us.” That, of course, was Hannah.
I tried to tell them again that I was thirsty. I needed a drink. But no sound came out of my mouth at all.
PAIGE
Hannah and Daddy were still in the room with Momma when I slipped out and rode the elevator down to the lobby to order a chai latte from The Bean Shop. I texted several of my girlfriends at school about Momma’s amazing progress. I also wanted to check to see if I had another text from Drake.
I did. Marvelous! it read. Give her my love.
The Bean Shop had specialty coffees and teas, other beverages, and hot and cold lunch entrées, and one hundred percent of their profits went to funding special projects for the hospital. That sounded pretty good to me. At the moment, the shop—which was actually just a long counter with tables and chairs to the right of the hospital entrance—was empty except for a young woman who stood vacant-eyed in front of the shelf displaying sandwiches. I could hear her sniffling and saw out of the corner of my eye that she kept wiping tears. I walked to the counter and placed my order. She glanced up at me, and I nodded her way and said, “Waiting is always hard.”
“Yes.” Her voice was a shallow hiccup.
“Is someone from your family here?”
“My boy. My six-year-old boy. He had open-heart surgery.”
I had two thoughts at once—she didn’t look any older than Hannah, and maybe she was that blond man’s wife.
“Is your husband Henry?”
She eyed me warily and wrinkled her brow. Then she gave the barest nod.
Seeing her anxiety, I explained. “I’m Paige. My mom’s in the ICU up on the fourth floor. I met your husband on Monday night and then saw him again yesterday.”
“Monday night?” Now she looked terrified and drew her arms around herself. She cleared her throat as if she were going to say something,
but didn’t. Finally she managed, “You’re Mrs. Bourdillon’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes. That’s right. Your husband told me about your son. How’s he doing?”
She swallowed several times, coughed, and whispered, “Henry told you about Jase?”
“Yeah. I guess we just started talking in the middle of the night to help us forget how worried we both were.”
She was thin, really too thin, and her strawberry-blond hair was twisted up in a loose knot, and she wore on her face the traces of a hard life. But her eyes were a piercing green, almost startling with their beauty, even when she’d been crying.
She gave a tentative nod. “I’m sorry if my Henry’s been bothering you. He means well. He just doesn’t always read all the signals correctly.” She stared at me intently, as though she desperately wanted me to understand something. “He feels things so strongly. He got very upset about your mother. He has a real tender heart for people who are hurting. He even checked two of your mother’s novels out of the library.”
That scared—no, terrified look came into her eyes again.
“He hasn’t been bothering me. He was very kind, concerned. Respectful.”
Her expression softened. “Oh, well, good. And thank you for asking about Jase. He pulled through the surgery. We don’t know any more. I’m just getting something to eat and then I’m going back in to sit by his bed and talk with him.” She chose a chicken and tomato sandwich enclosed in plastic and said, “I’m so sorry about your mother. Any change?”
“She’s actually just come out of the coma.”
Now her face relaxed, and she smiled. “That’s wonderful news. That’s amazing. I’m sure you’re thankful for that.”
“We are.”
She paid for the sandwich and then motioned with her hand. “Well, I’m going to go back to my boy.”
I wished I could have offered her something. If I were Hannah, I’d promise to pray, and I would pray. In fact, Hannah had spent most of her time at the hospital praying—as she sat by Momma’s bed or in the little chapel on the third floor. And once a day she updated the CaringBridge site with how to pray for Momma and how God was answering those prayers.
But I didn’t pray.
So I just said, “Yes, of course. It’s nice to meet you, and I hope your boy gets better real soon.” I watched her walk away, shoulders slumped forward, arms crossed tightly across her chest, and I felt just about as sorry for her as I did for her husband.
HENRY
I was getting near the printing plant, only gonna be a few minutes late, when my phone rang. I don’t like to answer the phone when I’m driving, because I don’t have a Bluetooth thing. Don’t even have one of those smartphones. Jase one time called mine a dumb phone, and that made Libby and me chuckle a little. But I went on and answered it and then wished I hadn’t.
“Hello, Henry.”
I felt my mouth go all dry. “Hey.”
“You screwed up.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“You there?”
“Yeah, Nick. Yeah, I’m here.”
“Well, what’re you doing getting that lady spread all over the news, all over everywhere, and her not dead?”
“She moved right when I pulled the trigger.”
“That’s not my problem.”
I knew he was right, but I didn’t want to admit it.
He was yelling now and cussing up a storm. I was having a hard time concentrating on the road.
“You planning to finish her off?”
“Mighty hard to do that right now.” My voice was all choked up, when I needed to sound confident.
“That ain’t my problem either. My problem is that I haven’t gotten my second half of the payment.” He stopped talking for a few seconds, then took this deep breath. Could hear it over the phone. “Well, I tell you what, Henry. You let her live. You do that. But I know about your son and his heart problems, and I know you have a real pretty wife. Hate to see something happen to one of them.”
Now my hands were shaking on the steering wheel. I found a gas station where I could pull off. Usually it was the side effects of my meds that made me a little jittery. This time, I guess it was the side effects of fear.
How’d this man know about Libby and Jase? I wished I’d been taking the meds after all, because then I would be thinking clearer.
“Listen to me, Henry.” Now his voice was all syrupy sweet. “And listen good. If I don’t get my share of the pay in two days, I’ll go ahead and give your information to the real person who hired you. I bet she’s awful mad right now.”
She? Somehow I hadn’t pictured whoever wanted Miz Bourdillon dead to be a she.
“She’s got a screw loose, that woman. First time I talked to her, she started quoting some song to me. Like it was a twisted kind of prayer to kill someone. She said, ‘Take her life and let it be consecrated Lord to Thee! You take Mrs. Bourdillon’s life. That’s your job. Take her life!’ Tellin’ you, she was nuts.”
Why’d he have to keep yelling at me?
“You better get that money to me one way or another, Henry, or your son won’t leave that hospital alive. I promise you that. You want to take that writer lady’s life, or you want someone else to take your boy’s?” He chuckled like he’d said something real clever. “You decide.”
“I’m not supposed to pay you, Nick! That’s not how it works!”
“It’s how it works now.” And his phone went dead.
CHAPTER
10
THURSDAY
PAIGE
Daddy must have called Aunt Kit with the news as well, because she burst into Momma’s room a little after noon. She was wearing a bright pink, tight-fitting exercise shirt and black leggings and tennis shoes; her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her sunglasses were pushed up on her head. She pecked me on the cheek and said, “Oh, thank God! Thank God! She’s opened her eyes. She’s back. My JoJo is back.”
I wanted to beg Aunt Kit to stop talking so loudly, but Daddy gave an almost imperceptible nod, as if to say, Let her be. We’re all just so thankful Momma’s opened her eyes.
“I rushed here as soon as your father called—right in the middle of my gym class.”
“Thanks, Aunt Kit.” I glanced at Daddy, who motioned for Hannah and me to follow him out of the room.
“We’ll leave you to spend a little time alone with Josephine,” he said, but the excitement that had been in his voice all morning had disappeared.
JOSEPHINE
In and out I went, in and out. The light and the dark and the light again. I knew they were around me, the people I loved, or was it the angels? The angels had been there at some point. I felt a strange calm as I pronounced the words in my mind, my very favorite words, “Lord Jesus! Lord Jesus!”
Then darkness.
I woke again to a shrill cry and laughter, rough and deep, and then I felt tears on my face as Kit leaned over and kissed me.
“Oh, JoJo!”
Her face was tanned and pulled taut, her lips painted bright pink, and when she moved her hand near my face, I saw the same shade of pink on her perfectly manicured nails. Dear Kit! My crazy, beautiful Kit!
I smelled her exotic perfume. . . .
———
2000 . . . “Well, you certainly have it made in the shade, JoJo. Two little girls and another contract for a novel.”
Josephine didn’t say anything. She wished Kit would celebrate her successes for once instead of acting jealous.
“Wish I could sit back and write books for a living.” She took off her sunglasses and lifted her eyebrows. “And this view. Oh my! I could kill for this view!”
They were sitting in rocking chairs on the wraparound porch in the newly built home on Bearmeadow Mountain, sipping ice-cold lemonade and watching the sky fade into a soft lavender, casting shadows of ever-deepening green across the undulating peaks.
“You must be making a small fortune to be able to afford
this.”
How Josephine longed for the heartfelt conversations of their younger years.
“We’re indeed thankful to have found this spot of paradise. You’re always welcome to visit.”
Kit gave a long cackle. “No longer afraid I’ll steal your precious Patrick, I guess.”
“Kit!” Josephine surprised herself with her harsh tone. She stared at her sister until at last Kit met her eyes. “Stop it! Stop your ridiculous chatter and talk to me! Talk to me the way you used to. You used to see into my soul. Now all I hear is bitterness and pain.”
Kit’s face went hard. “Easy to judge when you’ve got everything.”
“I said stop it!” Josephine’s voice rose another decibel as streaks of violet and crimson and amber painted an astonishing scene before them. “You of all people know how hard my life has been! I won’t let you sit there and feel sorry for yourself!”
Kit melted a little, set down the glass of lemonade, and turned to look at the sunset. Her profile so perfect, so paint-brushed perfect. “I’ve ruined my life, JoJo. It’s completely run away from me, and I have no idea how to get it back.”
———
“JoJo! Can you hear me, Jo? Thank God, you’re awake. I was so afraid, Jo! I thought you were going to die, I really did.”
I could feel her clutching my hand, and I tried to squeeze it back, tried to blink my eyes.
She didn’t seem to notice, but kept talking in that way she had, nervous energy and high-strung emotion. “They told me not to talk about the past, only happy things, but not everything’s old news, JoJo. You know that. All I’ve been thinking since the assassination attempt was that if you died before I could talk to you, I’d blame myself for so many things!”
I heard her words assassination attempt, blame myself, smelled the perfume, and floated off into blackness again.
PAIGE
In spite of Momma’s amazing improvement, I felt an almost literal heaviness descend on my shoulders. Aunt Kit seemed to have that effect on me. I rode the elevator down to the main floor, slipped outside into the nippy October afternoon, and walked around the parking lot, staring out at the mountains surrounding me. Ten minutes later, I was chilled and ready for my afternoon cup of tea.
When I Close My Eyes Page 15