by Sharon Sala
When the laundry cycle ended, she threw the sheets in the dryer and put her own bedding in to wash. Next came the floors. She got out the broom, then followed up with a dust mop. When she was through, grabbed a dust rag and the lemon oil, began wiping down the tables and the chairs, then all the woodwork.
She'd prided herself on keeping the old house clean, even as it began to fall down around them, but the dust storm last week, and then these last four days of Delia's sudden deterioration, had made cleaning the last thing that mattered.
It was late evening by the time she'd remade her bed, but the floors were spotless, all the surfaces dust-free. The rooms smelled of Pine-Sol and lemon oil. The old house was as presentable as it could possibly be, but Gracie looked like hell.
She had the box fan on in the kitchen, and the one going in her bedroom. It didn't cool anything, but it did stir the hot air. She was tired and hungry, but too dirty to eat. So once again, she showered, then put on her PJs, and went to the kitchen. She made herself a ham and cheese sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and carried them outside to the back porch to watch the sunset as she ate.
In the old days, Daddy would have been out here with a cold beer at his elbow, playing his guitar and singing songs at Mama's request.
Sometimes, James would join him, adding his harmonica to the music Tommy Dunham skillfully coaxed from the old guitar. Daphne and Mamie would dance—sometimes a two-step, sometimes a waltz, and sometimes a line dance, interpreting it with steps of their own when they forgot what came next.
Then Daddy had been killed in a car wreck, less than a mile from their house, and after that, the music had died.
She finished her sandwich and milk, and then sat in sweet silence as the sky turned vivid shades of red and orange, two of Mama's favorite colors, before fading into dusk, then full-on dark.
She was tired and needed sleep, but she didn't want to go into that house alone, and so she sat, waiting for the first coyote of the night to let out a little yip. When it did, it was the signal for the chorus that followed.
Gracie closed her eyes, letting their song of the prairie fill her. She felt battered and sore, like she'd been in a fight. Her spirit was down—really down, and listening to the coyotes took her back to the good times, when Daddy had still been alive, and Mama had known their names.
Finally, the coyotes moved on, and when they did, Gracie got up and walked out into the yard, grateful for the gentle breeze against her clean skin. She looked up at the night sky, then out across the dark prairie. She'd never felt so small, or so alone. She needed to be heard. She needed people to know she was still here, thinking God needed a reminder, too, that she was still alive—still dreaming.
And so she tilted her head back and thrust a fist into the air, shouting aloud into the night.
"I, Gracie, am not the Dunham who died. Life did not beat me. Mama couldn't kill me. The war is over, and I'm still standing."
Then she turned around, grabbed her dirty dishes, and went inside. The ritual of putting the house to sleep was as familiar as putting her mama to bed. She began going through each room, locking all the windows and doors.
She was so tired, she was numb. She hadn't slept more than an hour at a time in the past thirty-six hours and wasn't sure she could unwind enough now to relax.
She kept thinking Mama needed her, and then would remember Delia had no need of anything on this earth again. Gracie was sad, but she was not going to cry because Mama was gone. She'd prayed too many nights for God to come get her.
She accepted that the tears would come when the need arose. She opened the windows beside her bed and turned the box fan toward her face. She sat down on the side of the mattress, pulled her long hair over her shoulder, and slowly braided it to keep it off her neck as she slept. And when she was through, she turned out the lamp, crawled between the freshly washed sheets and rolled over onto her side toward the open window, feeling the cool spot on the pillow against her face.
It would be heaven if the central air conditioner still worked. Even at night, summer in Texas was brutal. But she wouldn't be here much longer, and it didn't matter anymore.
She was just about to close her eyes when she remembered she hadn’t notified her sister-in-law, Darlene. So she sent her a text, with the same info she’d given her siblings and then hit Send, and waited for an answer. It came within moments.
I’m sorry about Mama D. But I will not grieve her passing. It is a blessing for her and for you. You already know how much I loved her. And you know how much I love you. I just sent money via Venmo, as usual. Don't argue. The kids and I are fine. I don't want anything from James Dunham, and wherever you're going, you are going to need it. Love you.
Gracie sent a text through a veil of tears.
Love you, more. Thank you for saving us. You will always be my sister of the heart. Don't lose touch with me. You're all the family I have left.
She hit Send, put the phone back on the charger, found another cool spot on the pillow, and settled in.
As she shifted her shoulder, a pain shot through the muscles all the way to her neck, and for a moment, the memories that flooded put a knot in her stomach. Then she sighed and let it go. It wasn't anything but a remnant from living with Mama.
The last thing she remembered was the moonlight on her face as she closed her eyes.
Brother Harp always said his bedtime prayers on his knees at the side of the bed, but tonight, he was struggling with a heart full of guilt. He could hear Ramona banging around in the bathroom. The ceiling fan over their bed was circulating the flow of cool air from their HVAC system, and his belly was full from their evening meal of fried ham and biscuits with gravy.
It was one of his favorite meals, but it hadn't set well with him tonight. Probably that third biscuit he'd eaten.
He kept thinking of how hot the old Dunham house had been, and how worn out everything looked—including Gracie. She was at least twenty pounds thinner than he remembered her, and he'd been shocked when she'd let them into the house last night.
He hadn't seen the dust on everything, or the circles beneath her eyes, until the next morning. She'd obviously devoted the majority of her time to the care of her mother, but he'd had no idea of how sparse their existence had become until sunrise. And he had no one to blame but himself.
Gracie Dunham had shamed him today, and he deserved it. But there was no way to fix his sin of omission, other than to ask the Good Lord to forgive him because he feared Gracie would not. So, down on his knees he went and spilled his guts to God.
By the time Ramona came to bed, he was lying on his side, pretending to be asleep. He did not want sex. He did not want to talk. He did not want to listen to her complain. He just wanted to forget what a pitiful excuse for a preacher he had become.
Mamie received Daphne's text about the services while she was still at lunch with her friends and went straight to the mall after lunch to buy herself a new black dress.
Once she got home, she'd amped up enough tears to call Joel, telling him about her mama's passing, soaking up all of his sympathy and basking in his promises that he would be on the next plane out of Portland.
That night as she was getting ready for bed, she decided to take the tags off her new dress. Joel didn't need to know how much it had cost, and she'd make it up to him with some good hot sex anyway, so it didn't really matter. Tomorrow, she would make an appointment to get her hair done, and then make a reservation for a Thursday arrival at the La Quinta Inn and Suites by Wyndham in Sweetwater. It had a pool.
It was going to be dicey, explaining to him why they were no longer welcome at the old house, but one lie at a time was how Mamie rolled.
Being a realtor, Daphne had the freedom to take time off when she needed, although she rarely did, because living as a single woman meant she was also the only one bringing in a paycheck.
She did well for herself, and her fancy Dallas townhouse was evidence of that. She'd notified the other realtors in the
office about the death of her mother to make them aware of her upcoming absence for a couple of days. They were instantly sympathetic and loving, which made her guilt about Gracie even worse. She had a horrible feeling that no one was hugging and loving on her baby sister in her time of grief, and that made Daphne feel like throwing up.
She couldn't believe it was only this morning when Gracie had called. It felt like forever. After she'd heard her sister's voice and the news she'd imparted, a part of her had kept trying to turn back time.
She needed a do-over, but God wasn't about that. What He did teach was redemption, but she didn't know how to go about redeeming herself in her sister's eyes. What she'd done from the free will He had given her had turned into selfish choices, a horrific level of betrayal with a huge dose of shame to go with it.
She kept thinking about the times right after that Easter revelation when Mama had told them of her diagnosis. It had been a shock, but the reality of it had not set in until Christmas. That first one had been strange. Mama kept calling her by the wrong name, and then hadn't known what the foods were she’d been eating. She hadn't remembered she had grandchildren and kept asking who they were. But it was the second Christmas that had ended it for Daphne.
Mama had picked up food with her fingers. Told Mamie she looked fat and hadn't remember James's name. It had devastated him. And then she’d scared the grandchildren, and that had been the last time they'd set foot in that house.
She'd called home after that, but she'd always talked to Mama. Never to Gracie. And when Mama had finally forgotten who Daphne was, she'd quit calling altogether and had consoled herself with the thought that Delia couldn't miss talking to someone she didn't know.
Never once, had she let herself go there and wonder how Mama treated Gracie now that she didn't know her, either. She couldn't imagine Mama being mean, but she'd suspected she would be a handful. Still, Gracie is the one who’d offered to stay, and that's how Daphne had shelved her guilt, until now—when it was too late to matter.
She'd made a list of things to do tomorrow.
Book a room at the La Quinta.
Send flowers to the funeral home.
Buy a new dress for the service and get her hair done.
It would be hot as hell out at the cemetery, but she wore her blonde curly hair up, so a little heat and wind wouldn't ruin the style. And there was always hairspray to keep everything in place.
She finally went to bed because she couldn't focus on TV and was dreading the moment she closed her eyes, fearing she would see the people she had betrayed, wearing stern, solemn expressions.
And she did.
But in her dream, they turned their backs on her and walked away, leaving her the one abandoned, as she had done to them.
James had been home all afternoon and was a six-pack of beer into the wind, trying to get up the courage to call his ex-wife, Darlene. She needed to know what had happened.
He cleared his throat, pulled up her number, and then waited. It rang and rang, and he sighed. They didn't talk anymore. He just sent alimony and child support, and he'd messed up so many times on visitation days that his kids no longer wanted anything to do with him. She might not even answer.
When she finally picked up, and the sound of her voice brought tears to his eyes.
"What do you want?" she snapped.
"Uh...I called to tell you that Mama passed this morning, and to give you the day and time for the services."
"I already know. This has been a long, damned time coming. The children will not be attending the service. Caleb has to work, and Joanie will stay with Mother."
Then she hung up in his ear.
He laid the phone down on the bed beside him and stared at the floor. So, Darlene knew more about Gracie than he did. And his nineteen-year-old son had a job he didn't know about. And Joanie, his daughter, had hated his guts ever since the summer she'd turned thirteen, when he'd forgotten to pick her up after a soccer game. She'd had to call her mother to come get her, and by the time Darlene had arrived, Joanie had been the only kid left at the field. Neither one had talked to him for a year afterward.
He'd cheated on his wife with her best friend and lost his family. Then he hadn't called home since the Christmas his mother hadn't known who he was. He'd been so stricken and so shocked that he no longer existed in her cognizant world, that he'd balled himself up in grief, bemoaning how sad it was for him not to be remembered, when all along, he was the one who'd forgotten both of them.
He hated himself.
He hated what he had become.
He got up and went to get another beer from the refrigerator, only to realize there weren't any more.
As the eldest child and only son, he kept thinking there were things he needed to do and preparations to be made. But then he would remember he'd abdicated his throne and his rights for his personal freedom. So, he staggered back to the bedroom and passed out on the bed, fully clothed.
Chapter Three
A storm was blowing up from the south, jacking up the wind coming through the open window by Gracie's bed and rattling the old blinds above it.
In her sleep, the rattle triggered a memory. She moaned and rolled over onto her back in a subconscious move to protect herself, but it was too late. The memory had downloaded the event into nightmare form, and once again, she was caught up in the matrix of the past.
* * *
Gracie stood at the kitchen sink, washing up their breakfast dishes. The radio was on Delia's favorite country station, and she could hear her mama humming along and mumbling a word of a song now and then.
It was a day just like all the others she'd had in the four years she'd been here, and she was thinking about making a grocery list. As soon as she gave Mama her medicine and put her down for a nap, she could make a flying run to Sweetwater for groceries, because it was no longer possible to take Delia with her.
Delia scared people with her loud voice and belligerent behavior. However, one of the medicines the doctor had her on now made her sleepy, and when she finally laid down to rest, she always slept for at least two hours, which gave Gracie plenty of time to get to town and back.
Gracie heard the chair scoot back from the table, and then the sound of feet shuffling around on the old wood floor. Mama was dancing. She often danced when music was playing.
Gracie turned around and smiled. Mama was dancing with her eyes closed, probably dreaming of Daddy. Gracie picked up a handful of flatware and carried it to the table for mama to put away. Delia liked to feel useful, and she still remembered how to sort the flatware into the sideboard.
Delia stopped dancing and snatched them up.
"Here you go, Mama," Gracie said, and pulled open the drawer where they stored the flatware then turned around to go back to the sink.
She didn't see the light go out in Delia's eyes, nor the panic that ensued.
Gracie was halfway to the sink when she heard footsteps behind her. Before she could turn around, Delia was screaming, "Get out of my house! Get out of my house!" and stabbing her in the back, over and over.
At first, Gracie was in shock and barely registering the pain. But blood was flying, and she was begging, "No, Mama, no!" and trying to take the knife away. Then as Gracie turned, Delia began stabbing at her chest, too.
It was Gracie's instinct for survival that saved her. With her last bit of strength, she knocked the knife out of her mother's hand, and then doubled up her fist and hit her square on the jaw.
Delia reeled backward, dropped down onto the floor in her daughter's blood, and started crying and rocking where she sat.
Gracie staggered to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?"
Gracie was fading in and out of consciousness. She had to get this said, or she would die.
"Help. Help...Gracie Dunham... Mama stabbed me...crazy...dementia... blood everywhere...10473 Highway West...Help me... I..."
* * *
Gracie woke wit
h a gasp, bathed in sweat, her face wet with tears, and then realized it wasn't sweat. Rain was blowing in the window. It hardly ever rained in July, but it was raining tonight.
She flew out of bed and shut the window, then ran into the bathroom and grabbed a towel to mop up the floor. She was halfway down the hall to her mother's room to close her windows when she remembered Mama was dead, and she'd already closed them before she went to bed.
Her heart still pounded, but her shoulders slumped as she went back to her room. She stripped off her wet clothes and the bed sheets, then made it up again with dry ones. Weary, she took everything to the laundry and started it to wash before heading to the bathroom.
The lights blinded her as she flipped the switch, then she paused in front of the mirror, eyeing her nudity. Without thinking, she ran her fingers along the thin scars on her chest, and then turned sideways in the mirror, eyeing the thicker, ropey scars on her back and shoulders. She vaguely remembered the voices of paramedics speaking in loud, frantic tones. They’d called for another ambulance to take Delia to the psych ward. Hours later, she’d woken up alone in a hospital, hooked up to machines with a continual beep, bandaged all over her upper body and frantic about her mother's welfare.
Gracie shuddered, then washed her face and grabbed a clean nightgown before going to the kitchen. She got a cold can of Coke, popped the top, and went out onto the back porch.
The rain was blowing beneath the overhang. The air had finally cooled, and so she sat down on the porch swing facing the prairie. With the rain blowing in on her feet, she drank her Coke and watched the storm.
But the dream from before wouldn't let go. She kept remembering going home from the hospital alone, and then spending hours trying to clean up the blood. But too much time had passed, and it had long since soaked into the old wood floors.
