Until Tomorrow

by Abbie Williams

  Before either of them could speak, I asked, “Marsh, will you play for a while? That makes me feel a little better. And I know Case can hear it, can’t you, sweetheart?” I leaned over the bed to kiss my man’s forehead, pressing my lips to him and breathing his scent. I wanted so badly to crawl onto that thin little hospital mattress and wrap around him; just imagining doing so made me feel incrementally better.

  “Sure thing,” Marshall said agreeably, to my relief, setting aside the chips and retrieving his guitar from where he’d propped the case against the far wall. He reclaimed his seat and said, “Shit. You wanna maybe get the door?”

  Ruthie rose to swing it silently shut, as so not to disturb other patients, as it had to have been past ten, at least. She folded her legs crosswise as she sat back down, angling herself just a little, so that she could unobtrusively watch Marsh as he played.

  “What would you like to hear?” Marsh asked softly. This summer I had grown to understand that Marshall possessed a deep well of sincere sweetness beneath the immature, pesky-kid-brother attitude he so often fronted. I peeked at Ruthie from the corner of my eye, hoping she noticed this, at least a little; he hadn’t exactly been displaying his best manners this evening.

  Ruthie was wearing an old Landon Rebels t-shirt, white with blue lettering, a little tighter across the breasts than I remembered from high school, faded jeans and dark purple tennis shoes. Her lovely face was free of any cosmetics, her beautiful golden-green eyes, exactly like Mom’s and Camille’s, fixed quietly on Marshall as he waited patiently for my response. Ruthie’s hair, long and dark and curly, as mine had been just days ago, hung in a single thick braid over her right shoulder. She clutched this now, stroking her own hair in a gesture that I recognized as slightly self-conscious.

  I looked back at Marsh, who was studying her through his lashes as he pretended to regard his guitar. He, like all the Rawley boys, was lean and handsome, with dark, wavy hair that fell along the sides of his forehead, finger-length. I would guess he hadn’t shaved in a good four days, but it suited him well and spoke of his worry over Case. He had dark brows and lashes, eyes of slate-gray, and a nose just a little too long and dominating for his face. Like Case, he had beautiful strong hands that handled a guitar with a great deal of ability and grace.

  “How about some Waylon?” I said, knowing this would nicely showcase Marsh’s voice; Ruthie had never heard him sing.

  He nodded agreement and began strumming the chords to the Dukes of Hazzard theme song. He offered us a sheepish grin and explained, “Case loves this one.”

  “It’s one of his shower favorites,” I confirmed.

  Marsh’s expression grew fond and he shifted his right shoulder towards the instrument, playing the song, singing softly and with perfect pitch; he was usually relegated to harmonizing when Case and Garth played, but he had a beautiful voice of his own. I willed Case to hear the song, to realize that we were here. I couldn’t bear this not knowing. I had to believe that he knew we were at the bedside.

  Marsh let the last chord fade softly on the strings and then gave me a wink. He did so almost unconsciously, his eyes flickering briefly to Ruthie, who was watching him with subtle admiration; he couldn’t know her well enough to notice this, but for whatever reason it made me glad.

  “That was really good,” she said softly, and Marsh lifted his eyebrows in a modest ‘thank you.’ He was too used to playing it cool to really react, but I noticed the hint of a smile he couldn’t quite contain as he strummed out the first notes of “Luckenbach, Texas,” which was another he and Case performed, though he hadn’t made it to the chorus before a nurse stalked into the room.

  “This is unacceptable,” she said without preamble, hands on hips. I recognized her from last night’s shift, one of the few who was not cowed by my attitude. She whispered angrily, “People are trying to sleep.”

  “I apologize, ma’am,” Marshall said at once, contritely. He set the guitar beside his chair and offered the nurse his most innocent expression.

  Though I understood she was in the right, I glared at her and she glared right back.

  “I’ll trust you to keep it quieter in here, Mrs. Spicer,” she said before retreating, and I loved being referred to as ‘Mrs. Spicer’ so much that I didn’t offer any sort of barbed comment.

  Once the door had closed behind her, Ruthie released a huff of laughter and whispered, “Tish, you’ll get us kicked out!”

  “I’d like to see them try to kick me out,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, I’d kinda like to see that too,” Marsh teased me.

  “You guys!” Ruthie admonished.

  “She’s not much of a rule-breaker,” I explained to Marshall.

  Ruthie huffed right up, again surprising me. She insisted, “I’ve broken rules!”

  Marsh and I both looked skeptically at her, but then Marsh allowed, “Yeah, I guess you were drinking beer that summer we were there. And you weren’t twenty-one then.”

  Ruthie gave me a look that clearly said, See?

  I said, “You’re a total criminal.”

  “So you’re still dating that same guy?” Marshall asked Ruthie, though I knew he knew the answer, as he’d asked me that very thing about her two nights ago.

  Ruthie looked questioningly at him. I could see the confusion in her eyes; Marshall’s tone didn’t exactly convey polite curiosity. At last she said, “I am,” and her tone subtly suggested, What’s it to you?

  Oh, he said without sound.

  Tonight was not the first time I’d heard Marshall mention that he’d claimed Ruthann for himself, all those years ago when he’d first seen her picture, the wallet-sized image that Camille used to keep in her purse, one that featured not only Ruthie and me, but Camille’s daughter Millie Jo. Case had taken one look at that picture and known that I was the woman for him, had kept it in his possession until his angry former wife had torn it to shreds to punish him. But I had never really taken Marshall’s claim very seriously; I was too used to him joking and exaggerating. But now, as I regarded his pretty damn dark expression, I reconsidered his sincerity.

  I wasn’t used to being the peacekeeper; ironically, that had usually been Ruthie’s role in our growing years. Maybe it was time I shouldered arms. I said, redirecting Marshall (at least I hoped), “Hey, you still haven’t finished that story.”

  Chapter Two

  Tish had no idea how much I missed her, how much I longed to see her on a daily basis. Ever since Camille had first gotten pregnant, way back in 2003 and a good ten years ago, Tish and I began to hang out more often, to my great delight. Before this I had always been the baby who constantly tagged along, crazy to be acknowledged. I had never let on just how much I valued Tish’s newfound attention; even in high school, Tish had turned to me before any other girls, any other friends, and I had been quietly joyful of this fact. It made me feel so important.

  In this cramped little hospital room, years later, I was struck by the realization that I still longed for her attention, even if that was slightly pitiful anymore. When Tish left Landon to go to school, back in the autumn of 2006, I had been secretly hopeful that she would decide she disliked Minneapolis enough to move straight back home. Clint, our cousin, had decided that very thing the same summer, and he still lived in Landon to this day, working as a firefighter for the township; he actually shared a tiny second-floor apartment in downtown Landon with my boyfriend, Liam Gallagher.

  But Tish harbored grander expectations of life, and had not returned home. Once she started school we rarely saw her, and for the first month I had cried every night with missing her. I felt as though a bright and glimmering light had been taken from my existence. It wasn’t that I didn’t find a great deal of joy in the rest of my family; in fact, Camille and I were closer now than we’d ever been. But I missed Tish to the point that my heart ached with it – though I wouldn’t admit this, for fear of seeming like a weakling. And besides, I was so proud of her for doing what she’d set out to do in
the first place, which was to earn a law school degree.

  I studied her profile in the dim, melon-tinted light of the bedside lamp, her face so familiar to me, the face I had looked to for all of my cues, once upon a time. Her formerly long hair was now short, reminiscent of our teenage years. Camille had helped her to trim away all of the burned ends. My older sisters were both so beautiful; I had always admired them so much that it overrode most of my envy. Even now, as exhausted and crazy with fear as I knew she was, I thought Tish was gorgeous.

  My heart tightened all over again, with worry for her; her agonized concern for her man, for Case Spicer, was so apparent that it hovered in the air all around her, a devastating rain cloud she could not escape. My eyes moved to Case, his tall, strong body so terribly still on the bed, his hands lying with palms up, fingers curled limply. His chest rose and fell with regularity, but not of his own power, not just now. I couldn’t claim to know him well, but he was my sister’s true love, and for that I loved him, and silently pleaded with him to come back to her.

  Wake up, please wake up, I begged him, studying his motionless profile. Please. My sister needs you.

  On the far side of Tish, Marshall Rawley leaned and rested his forearms on the metal bed railing, and at his movement my heart sped up, which I didn’t understand at all. I didn’t understand him at all, truth be told. Despite adoring all the rest of the Rawley family, I wasn’t overly fond of Marshall. Three summers ago, when the Rawleys had come to Shore Leave for an extended visit, he’d teased me almost relentlessly, acting like a middle-school boy, though I knew he was at least five years older than me. He’d scarcely left me alone, much to Liam’s annoyance – and Liam was one of the mellowest people I had ever known. In four years of dating him, I had never witnessed Liam get truly mad about anything.

  Anything other than Marshall Rawley, that is, who had slipped ice cubes down my shirt, seeming to take great pleasure in tormenting me specifically, Marshall who had pulled the back ties of my bikini top with maddening regularity, so that the entire thing fell forward and left me half-naked. Thinking back on it now, I suppose I should have maybe traded that particular swimsuit for another – it wasn’t as though I didn’t have any one-pieces I could have worn.

  But why give him the satisfaction?

  It only would have proven to him just how much he upset me. Although even at the time, I’d realized that he obviously enjoyed pestering me because I was so easily flustered and embarrassed (I had always been that way, had relied on Tish to stand up for me all through our school days, which she had without question). Many times though, when we were alone, she had impatiently attempted, with much sighing and eye-rolling, to explain to me that I was one hundred percent within my rights to dislike someone, etc., etc. And after all, everyone knew it was way more gratifying to tease someone who was clearly bothered by said teasing.

  Marshall, again being obnoxious, had pitched me into Flickertail Lake one night during their visit, when I’d made it entirely clear I didn’t want to get wet at that moment, as I’d been swimming all day and had since changed into a dry sundress. Not to mention, I’d been holding my cell phone in hand. Even though Camille, Mathias, Tish, Clint and the Rawley boys were all still swimming under the ebony, star-shiny sky, I’d been content to sit on the glider on the end of the dock, texting my good friend Fern.

  But Marshall had leaped onto the dock behind me, leaned to sweep me into his arms before I could even think of escaping, right against his dripping, bare chest, and cried “Geronimo!” exuberantly in my ear, before jumping the both of us into the black water.

  I’d been so upset with him, especially after a near-solid two weeks of teasing, that I’d gotten teary-eyed; he was pretty lucky that Liam hadn’t been there that particular night. Even though Marshall had apologized, he’d been laughing. He’d only laughed harder and pretended to cower when I’d smacked his shoulder with an open palm, before storming out of the lake, my wet sundress slogging against my thighs.

  Everyone laughed at me, and I’d been tempted to call Liam (though I would have had to use the phone in the café, as mine was now lost in the lake) and demand that he drive over to Shore Leave and take care of a certain someone. And by ‘take care,’ I meant beat to a pulp.

  But of course I hadn’t done such a thing; I would have felt terrible, even as steamed up as I’d been. Liam was huge, strong as an ox. Aunt Jilly teased that he’d been carved from the trunk of an oak tree; Marshall had already referred to Liam as ‘Paul Bunyan’ multiple times by that night, in my hearing (but not Liam’s, leading me to believe that he did possess a sense of self-preservation). And so, though Marshall was tall and had wiry muscles, he was pretty darn slim, and I figured he’d be no match for my firefighter (lumberjack – haha) boyfriend.

  All of these thoughts were in my mind as I sat here beside Tish, and indirectly beside Marshall, who I hadn’t seen since that summer until yesterday evening, here at the hospital. He had taken me by surprise, coming around the corner from Case’s room like someone on a mission. For a second I didn’t even recognize him, as he’d been completely clean-shaven when I’d seen him last.

  Again I found myself making unwitting comparisons between him and Liam; where Liam was blond and fair, a tribute to his mostly-Scandinavian roots, Marshall was lean and darkly-tanned, and I could have made an educated guess that he’d inherited his attitude from some outlaw ancestor. Liam could go days without shaving, whereas I suspected that Marshall would appear disreputable within a few hours after having done so.

  “Ruthann,” he’d said yesterday, before saying anything else, his feet stalling.

  I’d held completely still for an instant, my chin lifted in order to meet his gaze. I’d been walking quickly and we’d almost crashed into each other. I felt a fluttering at the base of my throat, my pulse having unexpectedly kick-started. I hadn’t known how to respond as our gazes held.

  “It’s been awhile,” he said finally.

  I nodded silently, agreeing that yes, it had.

  “You still look just like an angel,” he had stunned me by saying next. My eyebrows lifted almost to my hairline at these quiet words.

  “Your sister is in there,” he said when it was apparent I was embarrassingly tongue-tied, indicating with one thumb over his shoulder. He added, “She’s glad you’re here.”

  “Thank you,” I finally said. For some reason, my gaze felt trapped by his. I had never noticed that his eyes were so gray, the slightly dangerous shade of an August thunderstorm about to roll over the lake back home. I blinked and he flowed back into motion, stepping politely to the side so that I could pass him and enter the room, which I did. Almost.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said, still quietly, and I looked over my shoulder, but he was already headed down the hall. I stood at the door to Case’s room, within which Tish was talking with Clint, hanging onto the doorframe with my right hand, and found myself frozen for the second time, just watching Marshall walk away.

  Marshall was tall and lean, as I remembered, with dark hair that had appeared uncombed, dressed in a gray t-shirt and well-worn jeans, over which my eyes roved as though with their own agenda. As he walked, I could see the lines of his shoulder blades beneath his shirt, the way his shoulders shifted, the definition of the wiry muscles along his arms.

  At the elevator at the end of the hall he stopped and pressed the down arrow, completely unaware that I was still observing him, then plunged both hands through his hair, grinding the base of his palms against his eyes, his shoulders hunching forward. My heart lurched in concern at the sight of this, but it plunged down to my belly as he straightened and then suddenly looked back over his left shoulder and right into my eyes, as though prodded by some instinct, and even though we were many yards apart, I imagined I could still see the stormy color of his irises. In front of him, the elevator doors slid open soundlessly and I all but leaped into the room and out of his line of sight.

  That had been last night; I wouldn’
t even have seen him today if I hadn’t left the Carters’ house to come back here, borrowing Mom’s car to do so. Camille and Mom had been sharing one bed in the Carters’ guest room, Aunt Jilly and Clint a second, while I was relegated to the loveseat in the living room, partially because I was the youngest family member on the trip, but also because I was the least likely to complain. Of course Camille, nearly eight months pregnant, couldn’t sleep on such a small loveseat, and Clint was way too tall, and I would have felt terrible making my mom or my auntie sleep there.

  And so here I was.

  But I was especially glad to have shown up tonight, as Tish was sobbing hysterically, both the late night and the strain of not sleeping catching up with her. She had been crying to Marshall about not being pregnant, and he’d been listening quietly, patting her back. He hadn’t seen me come into the room either, intent upon calming my sister, but he hadn’t seemed surprised when I’d appeared behind Tish. Instead, though his face had not altered in expression, something in his eyes conveyed gladness.

  Probably he was just relieved that someone other than him could now deal with Tish’s crying.

  “You’re right, I was about to tell that story,” Marshall said now, in response to my sister’s request. I found myself caught up in looking at him, as though my eyes didn’t have the sense to stay away; staring at someone without speaking for more than five seconds was rude. Borderline creepy, in my opinion, and I kept doing that to Marshall. Though he hadn’t seemed to notice. I’d had a good excuse when he was playing his guitar and singing in a surprisingly true voice. It was an unexpected treat to hear him sing, watch him handle the guitar. He seemed very into the music, playing and singing with eyes closed, his fingers shaping to and flowing over the strings as though with minds of their own.