Forever (This #5)
Page 27
“Already got the bait today.” I get up from the table to get the mayonnaise. Pop continues, “Ah, I should have gotten that out for you. I forgot you’re like your mother and like mayonnaise on your tomatoes.”
I look back over my shoulder and wink. They just put salt and pepper on theirs. I put mayo. I can’t help it. “It sure beats putting mayo on your pears. Talk about gross.”
“Hey, you don’t know what you’re missin’. Pear salad is delicious. In fact, I think Elizabeth will have to make you some of those tomorrow,” Papa teases.
“Ha, she can make them all day. I’ll even help. But I’m not eating a mayo-filled pear. And if that’s not enough, you add cheese and a cherry. Just gross.”
Papa takes a bite of the fried cornbread. “Be nice or we’ll fix you some of that good ‘ole ham hock soup to go with it.”
I squint my eyes at him. “You wouldn’t!” I pout.
He grabs his belly as he erupts into laughter. “Of course, I wouldn’t.”
Ham Hock Soup has to be the most disgusting combination of food ever. It’s diced ham, stewed tomatoes, and macaroni. If you want to torture me, then you’ll feed me that. I don’t know what makes people find that appetizing. Just the smell and sight of it rolls my stomach.
Papa interrupts my thoughts. “So you’ll be ready then first thing in the morning to go get out there before it gets too hot –”
There’s a loud boom. It causes all of us to jump. The clashing of silverware hitting ceramic plates, my heart starts thumping in my throat. “What was that?” I exclaim.
Memaw and Papa look at each other. “I don’t know,” Papa replies. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and puts it in his plate. “I’ll go outside and check to see if I can figure out what it was.”
I nod and mirror his movements. My appetite is suddenly gone because of the nervousness in the pit of my stomach. “Okay.”
He walks outside and comes back in quickly. “I hear a lot of sirens.” He looks to Memaw, his brows furrowed. “I’m gonna ride and check that out.”
“I’ll go with you,” she offers, almost worried.
I stand up, not understanding what the big deal is. Memaw can be dramatic. I just figure Papa wants to see what the excitement is all about. “Yeah, me, too,” I plead. “Maybe we can ride to get an ice cream for dessert from MacDonalds?” I glance to Memaw and smirk. It always amuses me when they call McDonalds MacDonalds.
He shakes his head from side-to-side. “Okay. I suppose so.” As we’re gathering our things, he mumbles, “Fifteen years later and she still has me wrapped right around that pinky finger of hers.”
We pile into their big Mark III van. I remember when Papa brought this home. We couldn’t believe he’d gone and bought a new van. My great aunt moved away a few years ago, but that summer, she brought my second cousin when she came to visit. We thought it was the coolest thing that we could climb up on the top, and it has a television for the people in the back seat, a cooler, and a table. It’s almost like having our own RV, except there isn’t a bathroom. That would be nice. I remember the look on Pop’s face that day. He looked so proud and excited to share it with us.
Sirens are getting closer, and louder. Then there’s another explosion as we’re riding to the end of the street. It’s obvious when we get to the stop sign that there’s been a horrific accident at the next intersection to the right. It’s not the lights that are so blinding. It’s the blazing inferno that the firefighters are working to extinguish. It smells different. I’m not sure what it is, but my nostrils are filled with an almost sweet, but pungent, nauseating stench. The cars involved are hard to make out from so far away and all of the emergency vehicles in front blocking the view.
A loud rumble comes overhead, and I look through the skylights to see a helicopter. It’s really low. I have no idea where they’d land that, but I’m pretty sure it’s one of those medical helicopters. My thoughts immediately halt.
We are all silent. I don’t know about Memaw and Papa, but I’m not sure I’m even breathing. For some reason I have this sickening feeling. I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it doesn’t go anywhere. My mouth has suddenly become so dry I can barely move my tongue. My heart is pounding so loudly that I can hear the magnified sound in my ears. It’s like I’m beside a car blasting their music with the bass maxed out.
This is why Papa wanted to check it out, and why Memaw insisted on coming. There’s no way it’s them. It just can’t be them. My parents have one of those fancy car phones in a bag that can be changed from car to car, but my grandparents don’t. I wish right now more than anything that we could call them. “Papa, can we go home and call them to see if they are okay?” I ask, hopeful.
“Yeah, Alex. There’s no way we’re going to get close enough to that scene to know what’s going on.”
Memaw reaches over and places her hand on his leg. I can see what I’m almost positive is worry in her eyes. Papa turns the van around in the street and heads the short distance back to the house.
I pray the entire way there that they answer. We need to hear they are okay.
Papa shifts the gear to park when we are back in the driveway. “Why don’t y’all wait here. I’ll go try to call.” He looks back to me and winks. “Then, once we know they’re safe, we’ll go for that ice cream.”
I smile at what I think is his effort to lighten our spirits. Maybe he’s not even trying to lift our spirits. Maybe he’s willing them to be okay. Because they have to be okay. My hands come together in my lap and my fingers start moving in circles, fidgeting with each other. These few minutes of waiting seem to last an eternity.
The look on his face when he comes out is not one that I will ever forget. I watched on television once that sometimes parents just know when their children aren’t okay. I think this must be a prime example. The color has left Papa’s face. He walks stoically to the car, and as he opens the door to climb back in, he calmly says, “They aren’t answering. It went straight to their voicemail.”
“No, that means the phone is off,” I blurt out. Tears that I’ve tried to keep at bay begin to push their way out of my eyes. I shake my head. “They wouldn’t have it off. It’s always on when they are in the car.”
He looks back to me through the rearview mirror. “I know, Alex.”
“There has to be some other explanation, Lee.” She reassures us. “Maybe we should stay here instead of going for ice cream in case they try to call, or so we can keep trying. They’re probably in a bad area.”
Before another word can be said, a car comes down the hill. In that moment, we all know there will be no ice cream tonight. Memaw gasps and immediately starts to sob. All I can say is no. No. No. No. No.
I watch as the police car pulls onto the side of the road and two officers put their hats on as they exit the car. Through blurred, teary eyes I know this is my worst nightmare coming true. That’s what this has to be. It’s got to be a nightmare. I want to wake up. Someone help me wake up. “Please wake me up!”
“Oh, Alex,” Memaw cries. “Oh my sweet, baby. Come to Memaw.”
I painstakingly start to make my way out of the van and fall into her arms, all the while never taking my eyes off of Pop and the officers. When they are close enough, they say a few words and I watch my Papa fall to his knees. I feel mine getting wobbly. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m being suffocated. I feel like someone is burying me alive, piling bricks onto my chest. The lump that’s been in my throat since I saw, what I now know was my parents’ unrecognizable car, is growing by the second. I think I know what it feels like to die. I think I must be dying.
J.B. McGee was born and raised in Aiken, South Carolina. She is the mother of two beautiful children and a stay-at-home mom/entrepreneur. She finished her Bachelor of Arts degree in Early Childhood Education at the University of South Carolina-Aiken in 2006. During her time studying children's literature, a professor encouraged her to become a writer.
In 2011, it was discovere
d that both her children, she, and her husband have Mitochondrial Disease, a disease that has no cure or treatments. Being a writer allows J.B. to remain close to her family, raise awareness for mito, and to lose herself in the stories she creates for her readers.
J.B. McGee and her family now reside in Buford, Georgia. She is an Amazon Top 100 bestselling author of her debut series, the 'THIS' Series.
Broken (This #1)
Mending (This #2)
Conspiring (This #2.5)
Forgiven (This #3)
Skipping Stones (A stand alone)
To Chad. Thank you for not complaining on the nights I stumbled into bed at crazy hours because the words seemed to flow more in the evening, during our time, than any other hour of the day. Thank you for being accepting of this sexy cover, abs and all. Thank you for being interested in my success. Thank you for picking up the pieces when I got so sick, I required a week in the hospital. While I hated being so ill, I enjoyed having you home. It did nothing but motivate me to try my best at writing in hopes one day you can go back to being a stay-at-home dad. I love you, and I know I say it in every book, but I couldn’t have picked a better husband and father to our children than you. Thank you for all you do for us. You are as selfless as they come.
To Noah and Jonah. Thank you for understanding that I needed to write and supporting me. Noah, your excitement for my word count helped me finish this book. Thank you. I love you!
To Katie Ashley. For two years you’ve said to just write a whole book—to finish one of the many partials that were sitting on my computer. You said it didn’t matter if it was crappy because crappy is better than nothing. When I started writing again, your words kept me going when I doubted myself. You’ve never allowed me to give up, and I can’t thank you enough for believing I could do it when I didn’t think it was possible.
To Deb Hart. We make a really incredible team. Once again, this book wouldn’t be what it is without our many brainstorming conversations. Your friendship to me is priceless. *winks* Thank you for always being available to read my snippets as I write them, even when they are totally out of order and kind of make no sense at the time.
To April Holm. I’m so glad we’ve grown closer. I love hearing your feedback. I love you’re brutally honest with me, and if something doesn’t sit right, you’re not afraid to tell me. Thank you for being excited to read as I write. Your nearly immediate feedback and yearning for more kept me going and helped me finish on time.
To Becca Dawn. Surprise. Thank you for spending so much time trying to help me with a plot twist my characters wouldn’t allow me to use. Your insight into the blood type and donation process helped me with the new plot twist. And also, thank you for explaining how many hours medical students work and that phase of Sam’s life. Thank you again.
To Amber Goleb. When you stepped up to help me and be my PA, I thought my head was going to explode. I was near the point of a massive panic attack. It’s been two years since I did this, and I’d forgotten how much work goes into a release, especially a last minute one. Thank you for your countless hours of making sure readers got my message this book was coming, for refusing to let me talk myself down, and believing in me.
To Karen Russell. Thank you for always being the last read before I let this go into the world. Your eagle eyes and feedback always prove invaluable.
To the bloggers who signed up for the cover reveal, the release blitz, and the blog tour, I can’t thank you enough. Being gone in this industry for two years is like starting over. It’s been so uplifting to be welcomed back with open arms. Your support means so much to me.
To you, my reader. It’s been over three years since Broken was released. My plan had never been to do more than three books when I started the series. It was called the This Trilogy. But somehow in the excitement and writing, the characters kept telling me more stories. Then, they stopped. For two whole years. I tried to write their stories even though they were ignoring me, but it just wasn’t right. So, I tried to be more patient. For part of those two years, I doubted my ability to even tell another story from start to finish. Somehow, in October, the block went away. The words started flowing like a rainstorm on a hot summer day. I know you expected three more books, and in a way, I have over promised and under delivered. But I want to thank you for reading this book, for not giving up on me, and for supporting me through two of the hardest years of my life.
Connect with J.B.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Skipping Stones Preview
About the Author
Acknowledgements