Roots of Wood and Stone

by Amanda Wen

  Lauren.

  “Are you out of your mind?” That was her greeting, so shrill he jumped up and shut his office door. If her pitch and decibel level were any indication, things were about to get ugly.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, Lo.” He crossed his office and sat back down.

  “Were you ever going to clue me in on your big elaborate plans? Or Grandma? Or were you going to sell the house out from under us and let us find out when the bulldozers showed up?”

  His mind whirred, trying to keep up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me.” She sounded like Mom. “I just got home from a shoot, and there’s a message from Warren Williams on Grandma’s machine.”

  “Warr …” The rest of the name tumbled down his throat, unuttered. “What?”

  “You’re telling me you don’t know who Warren Williams is? Now I know you’re playing dumb. That developer who’s gobbling up every square mile between here and the highway to build cul-de-sacs and crappy McMansions?”

  Now she sounded like Sloane.

  Garrett rubbed his right temple. Williams must’ve been the Wichita number he’d ignored. “I know who he is. I just never expected him to call. All I told Kimberly was I’d think about it.”

  “And who is Kimberly?”

  “She’s a real estate agent. Now I know it’s—”

  “Garrett Paul Anderson, you are unbelievable. You went behind my back? Talked to a real estate agent? A developer?”

  He dragged a hand through his hair. This whole thing was spiraling out of control, an unmitigated disaster. He’d wanted time to organize his options and present them to Lauren at a quiet moment when they had time for reasonable conversation.

  But all that had been torn away with one unexpected phone call.

  “Typical.” Fury shook his sister’s voice. “You don’t even have an excuse. You’ve just decided the house is inconvenient, so you’ll dispose of it as quickly as you can. Y’know, you’re exactly like Dad.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Are you finished?”

  “Yes.” The word knifed through the phone.

  “Would you like to hear my side?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Oh yes, I’d love nothing more than to hear you explain your way out of this one.”

  He pulled in a breath through his nose. “My explanation is this: unlike you, I’m willing to face reality. Grandma’s going downhill. Every time I visit, she’s lost the ability to do something she could the time before. Every single time, without fail, she loses something.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “You’re not acting like you do. You’re acting like she’s got a cold or something, and she’ll snap out of it any minute.”

  “Sure. That’s why I moved in with her. Because I think she has a cold.”

  “But because you moved in, you don’t see it.” Garrett’s chair creaked as he vaulted out of it and began to pace the small office. “You don’t see that she won’t be able to live at home much longer. The stairs, the land, there’s no way the two of you can keep up with it. I have to come down there every weekend as it is.”

  “You don’t have to do anything, Garrett.” His name sounded like an insult the way she flung it at him. “You want to wash your hands of this whole thing and take off like Dad did, fine. Be my guest. I didn’t ask for your help, and if it’s so inconvenient for you, then I don’t want it.”

  “Would you stop being emotional for half a second and listen to me?”

  The frigid silence over the line was permission enough.

  “I’m a planner, okay? I focus on the future, because that’s what I’m good at. It’s what my clients depend on me to do. What my family depends on me to do, because nobody else bothered to think of the future. Ever. That’s why we’re in this mess. Grandma’s life savings are practically down to nothing.”

  “What about Medicare?”

  “Medicare won’t kick in while she’s got the house. It’s worth too much. And if she’s got any of her wits about her at all, she’ll flat out refuse anyway. You know how she and Grandpa always were about accepting any kind of charity.”

  “So now you’re willing to admit she’s somewhat qualified to make her own decisions?” Lauren’s voice dripped with derision. “If that’s the case, why are you going behind our backs talking to Warren Williams?”

  “I wasn’t going behind your back. I was formulating a plan!” Through his office window, the administrative assistant shot Garrett a concerned glance. He plastered on a reassuring smile and turned toward the opposite wall.

  “Without consulting me. Or Grandma,” Lauren hissed.

  “Because whenever I try, you shut me down and tell me I’m being ridiculous.”

  “Maybe you are.”

  “Fine. Maybe I am. But at least I’m trying to do what’s in Grandma’s best interest.”

  Oops. Too far. He ached to reel in the words, but they were already out there.

  “And you think I’m not?”

  “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”

  “You think?” Her voice was so shrill he half expected to hear dogs barking in the background.

  “Look. All I’m doing is gathering information. Learning what our options are, what we could potentially get for the house, the land—”

  “I should’ve known. Money. That’s the only thing that matters to you, isn’t it? You don’t give a flip that Warren Williams wants to turn Grandma and Grandpa’s farm into Prairie Palace or Meadowlark Moonscape or whatever. You won’t even consider selling it to some family who’ll love it and take care of it. You just want to do the quickest thing, the easiest thing. Get it over with. Tell me again how that’s not exactly like Dad?”

  “Oh, for—are we really having this fight again?” His throat tightened. “Dad was by Mom’s side every day for eight years. He went with her to doctor’s appointments. Chemo sessions. Watched her lose every meal she tried to eat and her hair fall out strand by strand. As far as I’m concerned, Dad was a saint, and whatever he wants to do now, he’s more than earned it.”

  “So it’s fine with you that he abandoned his entire family and ran off to Florida with some floozy we’ve never even met?”

  “You’ve never met her. Debbie is a wonderful person, if you’d give her a chance to—”

  “We are not. Talking. About this.” Each word was an icicle.

  “Couldn’t agree more.” He sighed and switched tactics. Anger was getting him nowhere. “Lauren. You’re doing a great job with Grandma. Everyone in her situation should be blessed with the kind of love and care you give her. I need you to hear that.”

  “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, jerk face.” His sister still sounded angry, but her strident tone had softened. That and the use of her favorite childhood insult told him he could proceed, albeit with extreme caution.

  “I only spoke with Kimberly to get an idea of what kind of work the house needs and what it might go for. Because there’s going to come a time when it’s not safe for Grandma to stay there anymore, and unless we get started on some of these repairs now, we won’t have a snowball’s chance of selling.”

  He paused to give Lauren a chance to argue. Mercifully, she didn’t.

  “But Kimberly was honest and said that even if the place were in mint condition—which you and I both know it’s not—it could still sit for a long time, waiting for that perfect family. Meanwhile, months tick by and Grandma’s not getting any better.” He started another lap of his office. “Kimberly suggested an as-is auction, which would guarantee a set price and sale date without the need to fix it up. She also told me Warren Williams is interested in the land and would give us a fair price. Generous, even. I’ve committed to nothing, Lauren. I haven’t even spoken with the man.”

  “But you’re willing to consider selling to him.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Even if it means tearing down this house.” Her voice wavered.
“Watching these hundred-year-old walls get turned to splinters and seeing all the beautiful old trees ripped out and knowing that a bunch of soccer moms are driving their SUVs on the very land where Grandpa gave us tractor rides and let us chase the chickens?”

  The vivid memories brought a sting to his eyes. “This isn’t easy for me either. I have as many memories in that house as you do.”

  “And yet you’re willing to toss them aside.”

  “Because I have to be.” The words burst from the depths of him. “Grandma can’t make informed decisions about her care anymore, and you know Grandpa would want her to be taken care of. Which is why you’ve bent over backward for months. Turning your life upside down, moving out of your apartment, all while maintaining your blog and running your photo studio … God love you, Lo, aren’t you tired?”

  Silence. A sniffle. Then a sob that reached down and yanked his heart inside out. “Yes, Garrett. I’m exhausted.”

  He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I love you, all right? And what you’ve done for Grandma is amazing. It makes me so proud to be your brother. To be able to tell the world, hey, that generous, caring, kindhearted woman who put her whole life on hold—who reminds me so much of Mom—that woman is my sister.”

  “Thank you.” She sounded so small and pitiful, he wished he could reach through the phone and give her a hug.

  “I mean it. Every word.” With a weary sigh, he sank into his chair. “And I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”

  “Yeah, well.” She blew her nose. “I’m sorry too.”

  “We’re all we’ve got. We have to stick together.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate you a little bit right now.”

  A small smile dared to surface. “I didn’t expect it would. But please … For you, for Grandma, will you at least think about this?”

  “I don’t know, Garrett. Right now the idea, it’s just … I can’t.”

  “Then could we talk more this weekend?”

  “Maybe.”

  A moment later, he ended the call, set his phone on the desk, and cradled his face in his hands. He’d give all he owned to have his bike with him right now. To hop on and ride, mile after mile, far away from here. To let the wind in his face and the fire in his lungs obliterate everything else.

  But of course he couldn’t.

  As always, he had to be the responsible one.

  Sloane reached out from her cocoon of blankets to plug her almost-dead phone into the wall charger. It was nearly midnight, as usual with Garrett, and they’d hung up only out of respect for the morning that would come all too soon. That had become usual too.

  What wasn’t usual was Garrett himself. He seemed distracted. Upset about something maybe. He seemed reluctant to discuss the matter, so she didn’t press.

  But she did wonder.

  A couple taps on her music app and Billie Holiday’s sultry voice wafted out of the speakers as Sloane reached for her archival gloves and Annabelle’s diary. Despite the late hour, she wanted to check in with the girl before going to sleep.

  No sooner had she opened the diary’s worn pages, though, than her phone pinged. Her heart leaped as she grabbed it. Garrett again?

  No.

  Not Garrett.

  To: HistorICT

  From: Marinera72

  Hi Sloane,

  Here’s that letter I told you about. I’m not sure why we have it, and the first page is missing, so I don’t know who it’s to or when it was written, but it should answer some questions about where we came from. I think you’ll be able to read it, but if you can’t, let me know and I’ll try again.

  Sloane sat up in bed. Her fingertips pounced on the screen, but it proved too small for letter reading, so she tossed it aside and reached for her tablet. Tapped the email app and waited and waited and why, why, why was it taking so long?

  There.

  Slanted cursive on faded paper.

  Her great-great-grandmother’s handwriting.

  Nonna’s handwriting.

  The same DNA that flowed through the writer of those words flowed through the one who drank them in.

  So many words, as Nonna seemed to be telling her life story to the letter’s recipient. Sloane read in great, greedy gulps, trying to slake a lifetime’s thirst in a few short seconds. Some of the details would inevitably slosh over the side, unabsorbed, but she’d come back for them later.

  They’d come to America from Sicily when Nonna was only a toddler, settling in Cleveland, Ohio. Nonna had grown up there, marrying her husband, John, after a whirlwind courtship and simple church ceremony that had taken place shortly before the letter was written. She, the Italian immigrant, and he, the red-haired son of an Irish American farmer. What a country this is, Nonna marveled.

  The final paragraph was mostly personal salutations and well-wishes. Sloane started to scroll back up for another read, a deeper drink of the details she’d sought for so long.

  But then she saw the closing. The name. And all her muscles locked in place.

  I remain faithfully yours,

  Domenica Brennan

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  TENSION KNOTTED GARRETT’S shoulders as he crunched across the gravel to his grandmother’s kitchen door early that Saturday afternoon. In the aftermath of Wednesday’s argument, he and Lauren had been civil enough, so long as they stuck to bland, nondescript conversations about work, the weather, and the Royals’ four-game winning streak.

  But thanks to his morning tour of Plaza de Paz, the second of three retirement communities he’d see this weekend, that fragile truce could remain in place no longer. They had to discuss Grandma’s future. And he wasn’t looking forward to it in the least.

  He squeaked open the screen door to a warm, delicious-smelling kitchen. Cherry pie? Turnovers maybe? What would Lauren’s versions of those things taste like anyway?

  Didn’t matter. The aroma alone made his mouth water.

  “So how awful was it?” Lauren’s back was to him, though whether that was intentional or because she was reaching into the cupboard, he couldn’t tell.

  “Actually, not awful at all.” He placed Plaza de Paz’s informational brochure on the counter beside her and beat a hasty retreat to the table.

  Lauren set down a stack of small plates and glanced at the brochure with the same wrinkled-nose expression as if he’d put an insect there instead. “Looks like flipping Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.”

  “That’s the new memory care unit.” Pulling out a chair, Garrett prayed for the right words. “Lots of bright colors and pictograms to help residents find their way around, plus all kinds of special therapies and activities to help them maintain quality of life for as long as possible. It’s very state of the art.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “Looks like I’m rubbing off on you.”

  If she looked disgusted before, it paled in comparison to the face she made now. “Ew, you’re right.”

  At the teasing glint in her eyes, some of the tightness across his shoulders gave way.

  Despite this mountain of a disagreement they faced, they’d be all right. Like always.

  He cleared his throat. “As far as cost, it’s pretty brilliant. Residents are required to have a certain amount in the bank when they move in. It’s not a small amount, but if that ever runs out, Plaza de Paz guarantees care for the rest of their life, rent free. No charity, no government aid. They consider the care bought and paid for.”

  “Huh.” Lauren picked up the brochure and flipped through it. “Grandma might get on board with that.”

  A timer dinged, and Lauren opened the oven to retrieve a pan of—yup, cherry turnovers. “But I’m guessing she doesn’t have that required amount.”

  “She does not.”

  Lauren slammed the oven shut. “And we’re back to the elephant in the room.”

  “You said we’d talk about it this weekend.”

  “I said maybe we’d
talk.”

  “You knew I was taking some tours.”

  “All right, fine.” Lauren tossed her oven mitts onto the counter, right on top of the brochure. “Let’s talk. Where else did you go?”

  He blinked at her sudden shift. “Sunset Manor. It’s a little older, not quite as nice, but it could be adequate.”

  “Adequate.” Coffeepot poised over a ceramic mug, she spat out the word as though it tasted bad.

  “Those aren’t our only options. Sycamore Grove looks promising.”

  “Doesn’t that one have a two-year wait list, though?”

  “Yes. And depending on how long she’s there, it could cost even more than Plaza de Paz.” He tented his fingers. “Any way you slice it, Grandma’s going to need a lot more cash than she’s got, and there’s only one way to fix that.”

  “And now I’m done talking.” Lauren set a tray of coffee and turnovers on the table in front of Garrett. “Go take Grandma her snack.”

  Garrett glanced up at her. “You’re avoiding reality, Lo.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Lauren’s pointed question was a knife thrust straight into his mounting irritation. “Excuse me? Who’s the one spending the weekend touring care facilities and going over finances and making tough decisions?”

  “And in the meantime you’re not spending any time with Grandma. You come down every weekend, but you’re always running around taking donations to Goodwill or hanging out with Sloane or any of a hundred other things that mean you’re never here. So that begs the question, are you distracting yourself with busyness? And before you answer”—Lauren held up a hand—“I know what that looks like, because I’ve done it. When Mom was sick, I flitted around chasing boys and being in musicals and going halfway across the country to art school. I couldn’t handle seeing her sick. But you stayed.”

  The truth landed with a thud. “And now you feel guilty.”

  Lauren dropped into the chair across from him. “I missed so much, Garrett.”

  “No, you didn’t.” Leaning forward, he clasped her hands. “Mom would want you to remember her as she really was. Vivacious and bubbly and loving life. Not the sick shell she was at the end.” His throat tightened. “I’d give anything not to remember her that way.”