by Karen White
She smiled softly. “So that you could help Owen through this. Take care of him after I’m gone. Be a mother to him.”
I shot up from my chair, my purse falling with a thud to the floor. “I’m not a mother. Mothers make the right decisions; they know what’s best for their children. They’re strong.” I stared at her, the next words unspoken but understood. Like my mother. Like you.
Her eyes sparkled, as if all the light that had seeped from her body had settled there. “You’re strong at the broken places.”
I looked at her, surprised she knew Hemingway. Then again, there was very little about Loralee Purvis Connors that didn’t surprise me. I returned to my seat, somehow depleted. “You’re wrong. I don’t have a clue how to be strong.” I paused, trying to control my breathing and to find the right words. “But I can promise you that I will take care of Owen the best way I know how. I don’t want you to worry for one second about that.”
She opened her hand on the mattress, and I put my own hand into hers, her fingers sending me a feeble squeeze. “Thank you.” She closed her eyes and I waited for her to fall asleep, but after a moment she began speaking. “You are capable of so much love, and you are worthy of it, too. I think I know who is responsible for making you forget that, and I’d like to open up a can of whoop-ass on him.”
A laugh that sounded like something between a bark and a sob escaped from my mouth. “Please don’t make me laugh. Not now. Not . . . here.”
A smile teased her lips. “My mama used to always say that laughter is the best medicine. I’d like to add chocolate to that, though. Not that I think I could stomach any right now.”
“How can you joke at a time like this?”
“Because I’m not sad about dying. I’ve had the most wonderful life. You know how some people come back from a vacation and they’re sad because it’s over? I just smile because it happened.”
“Did Hemingway say that, too?”
She shook her head. “Dr. Seuss, I think. You need to brush up on your Dr. Seuss. Owen will grill you on it.”
This time I didn’t even try to hide my sob. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t know much about this dying thing, either, but I’ve learned that if you just keep moving forward, even if you’re stumbling or being dragged, you’ll eventually get to the other side.”
I squeezed her hand and watched as her eyelids fluttered shut. “You can do this,” she whispered.
“I’m not that strong,” I argued. “Broken places or not. But I will do my best for Owen.” After a moment, I added, “For both of you.”
Loralee had already fallen asleep, and my words slid unheard to the linoleum floor, then rolled into the empty corners of the room.
* * *
I stopped walking, struggling for breath, and quickly searched my brain for an innocuous fire fact. Smoking is the primary cause of death by fire in the U.S. The second-most-common cause of fire deaths is heating equipment.
I sucked in a deep gulp of air saturated with the scent of the marsh. I looked around and realized I’d somehow managed to walk from the marina down to Waterfront Park. I’d been dropped off at the house to pick up my car before getting Owen, but had been stopped on the porch by the sound of the wind chimes. I remembered the first time Loralee had seen them and had called them mermaid’s tears. I ran back down the steps and just started walking. I was surprised that I’d walked this far by myself so near the water, surprised that I found comfort in the sound and smell of it.
I remembered sitting at the kitchen table while Loralee worked with Owen on his math, and her telling him that our bodies were made of more than fifty percent water. Maybe that was what brought us back to the water, even if it was the one thing we feared the most. Or maybe it was the simple fact that we’d floated for nine months before birth that made us seek that memory of water and the one time in our lives when we were truly content.
I looked down at my hands, where I expected to find my purse and instead found only crumpled brochures and information sheets about hospice care and ovarian cancer that had been given to me by the social worker.
A motorboat skipped across the water, a man at the wheel and a woman with a long, flowing yellow scarf shooting out behind her. I wanted to shout at them, to make them stop. I wanted everything to stop. Loralee was dying, yet the world insisted on turning.
I stumbled away from the water toward a large grassy spot in front of an open-air stage. A band was setting up, and there were about ten people milling about, running cords and moving equipment, each with his or her own job. They had an air of competence about them, the confidence of knowing what had to be done, and I felt an odd envy as I watched them.
In other spots near the stage, food vendors were setting up for a busy night. The Water Festival was in full swing, but it seemed like a world removed.
I sat down on one of the long rows of cement steps that led down to the grassy area and stared up at the blue sky, wondering why there weren’t any clouds.
“Merritt?”
I shielded my eyes with my hand as I looked up at Gibbes.
“What are you doing here?” I asked ungraciously. I wanted to be alone, to lick my wounds in private. To pretend that if I hid long enough the world would stop and I could get off.
He sat down next to me without waiting for an invitation. “Deborah Fuller called me from her car and mentioned she’d seen you walking down Bay Street toward the marina. I left my car at your house and followed the boardwalk until I ran into you. You wouldn’t answer your phone.”
“Sorry you went to all that trouble. I’m not good company right now.”
I studied the stage again, seeing it transformed bit by bit, like watching a flower bloom. I felt Gibbes looking at me but didn’t turn my head.
“How’d you get home?”
“I hitched a ride with a nurse who lives on Charles Street. I didn’t want to wait for you. Like I said, I’m not good company right now.”
I wanted him to leave, wanted him to understand that every time I looked at him I saw my own failure to recognize someone’s needs besides my own, my inability to hold on to anything precious in my life, to admit that everything Cal had ever said about me was true.
Unable to take a hint, Gibbes stayed where he was, his elbows on his knees as he watched the stage setup. “Do you dance?”
I whirled to face him. “What? No. I don’t dance.”
“They’re having a bunch of bands coming to play beach music during the festival, and everybody will be here to shag.”
“Excuse me?”
He sat up, bracing his arms on his hands. “Shagging as in the South Carolina state dance, not the Austin Powers shagging.”
I stood. “Loralee is dying. I really can’t think of anything besides that right now—especially not dancing.”
He stood, too. “I know. That’s why I mentioned it. Before I left the hospital I went to see Loralee. She told me that you want her to come home with you, where she can be near Owen. Even with the hospice nurses, it will be hard on you. She asked me to take you out. To take your mind off of things.”
If anything, that made me feel worse. “She’s a saint, isn’t she? Even while she’s dying, she’s worried about other people.”
“True. But you’re the one who’s bringing her into your home.”
“Like I could leave her to die alone? Surrounded by strangers?” I shook my head. “Not even a consideration.”
He was looking at me steadily. “You don’t have to do this by yourself, you know. I’m here—call me anytime. Even if it’s just to shout at me because you need someone to shout at.”
I shook my head. “I’ll be fine.” Looking at my watch, I said, “I’ve got to pick up Owen and figure out what I’m going to say to him. I just have no idea what that’s going to be.” I began walking back the way I’d come, along the walkway that bordered the river, which no longer seemed so threatening in comparison to the other monsters out there.
>
His long strides caught up to me just as his cell phone rang. He answered it and spoke briefly before hanging up. He was silent for a moment, and I felt his brooding presence beside me.
“What?” I asked.
“Deborah found out something, but I told her it could wait.”
I stopped, breathing heavily as I realized I’d been practically running, feeling nearly sick to my stomach from the heat and the worry. The grief. “Is it something that might distract me from thinking about Loralee? Because maybe I need to hear it right now, if only so I don’t stand here in the middle of the walkway and throw up.”
Gibbes briefly looked behind me toward the water before turning back to me. “She found your grandfather’s death certificate. Cause of death was listed as a plane crash, July twenty-fifth, 1955.” He paused. “His was one of the two unclaimed bodies.”
“Unclaimed? But he was married. Why wouldn’t my grandmother claim his body?”
“That’s a very good question. And he’s buried in Saint Helena’s churchyard.”
“Here,” I whispered.
“Yes.”
I stared at Gibbes without really seeing him, thinking about the South Carolina AAA book I’d found in my grandmother’s things after she’d died, and the way Cal had spotted me on the street and followed me to the museum to meet me. How whenever he looked at me it seemed he was expecting to see somebody else.
“Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?” Gibbes asked.
“Please, I need to be alone.”
I turned around, then quickly walked away from him, not slowing down or stopping until I’d reached the front porch, oblivious to the sweat mixing with the tears running down my face. The wind chimes swayed and sang, their marred and stained surfaces, earned from tumbling about the ocean’s waves for years, strangely beautiful. They reminded me of something Loralee had said about our scars, and how we should be proud of them because they showed where we’d been.
Reaching up, I touched the bottom stone on one of the chimes, wrapping my fingers around it, feeling how hard and ungiving it was against my skin. You’re strong at the broken places. I let go of the stone and walked up the steps and sat in one of the rockers. Pulling out my phone, I dialed Maris’s mother to let her know I was coming to get Owen. After I hung up, I listened to the wind chimes while I tried to figure out how to tell a ten-year-old boy that his mother was dying.
chapter 30
LORALEE
Loralee lay back against the pillows propped up on the headboard of the antique bed. She still felt bloated and nauseated, but the pain had lessened so that she felt well enough to smile at the hospice nurse as she took her vitals and checked her medications. Her doses of pain meds had been significantly increased—way past time, according to Dr. Ward—but not to the point where she couldn’t think or talk or still be a part of life. She intended to do all three until her very last breath.
Owen said that he wouldn’t have known any different except that she spent a lot of time in bed. He spent most of his waking hours watching her with his father’s blue eyes, as if by being vigilant he might be able to prevent whatever came next.
She thought that way of thinking most likely came from his father’s side, seeing as how Merritt had been behaving the same way ever since Loralee had come back from the hospital, hovering like a fly over fried chicken at a Sunday picnic. Even now, she sat in the chair in the corner of Loralee’s room as if she didn’t trust the nurse to know her job.
But Loralee wasn’t going to find fault with Merritt, because she’d been the one who’d had to tell Owen how sick his mama really was. Loralee was grateful, because her little boy had been prepared and strong when Merritt had brought him to the hospital to see her, and that had given her heart comfort, had told her—as if she hadn’t already known it—that Merritt would make a terrific mama for Owen. It was at that moment that she’d allowed herself to not give up exactly, but to stop fighting so much. She wanted to leave this world the way she’d come into it—not in a Walmart parking lot, of course, but without a lot of fuss. Her own mama had been a good example of dying with grace. They’d been watching their favorite soap on TV, and when Loralee had returned from the kitchen with a glass of sweet tea, it had looked like her mother was sleeping. But she wasn’t. Loralee had seen enough of death to know when only the shell of a person was left behind. Sort of like a lightbulb that had just been switched off but was still hot to the touch.
“You’ve got a good bedside manner,” Loralee said to the nurse. “And such a beautiful voice. I like listening to you hum my favorite hymns while you work.”
The nurse took off her glasses and let them dangle from a long strand of colorful beads over her ample bosom. “Thank you. I do think it’s my calling, but it’s patients like you who really make it worthwhile. I must say, though, that I’ve never had such an accepting patient.”
The nurse, whose name was Lutie Stelle, and who Loralee had already discovered was recently divorced with two small children, and who lived with her mother, was about Loralee’s age, short and plump with warm brown eyes.
“Maybe because I’m not afraid of dying.”
“Loralee,” Merritt said with reproach as she stood and walked to the bed.
Loralee turned to the nurse. “My stepdaughter doesn’t like me saying that word, but I’m all right with it. We’re all dying. Some of us are just lucky enough to know when.”
The nurse considered her for a long moment. “You’ve got a strong faith. I also think you are wise beyond your years. I hope you’ve figured out a way to share all your thoughts with your son.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Loralee patted the pink Journal of Truths that was never out of reach those days, and which had only a few empty pages left. She’d already written in it that morning as she’d watched Merritt sleeping in the chair she rarely seemed to leave. You will never be truly happy if you keep holding on to the things that make you sad. And then she’d added, Hemorrhoid cream is the best cure for enlarged pores on the face and nose. Because beauty advice was always practical. Yes, the journal was intended mostly for Owen, to teach him things she wouldn’t have time to. But it wouldn’t hurt for him to know about beauty and fashion, too. The future women in his life would appreciate it.
Gibbes had come to visit Loralee every day since she’d come home, but Merritt always made sure not to be around. It seemed to Loralee that all the good things she’d seen happening between Merritt and Gibbes had been erased the day they’d rushed Loralee to the hospital. Merritt refused to talk about it, but Loralee could almost believe that Merritt was punishing herself for feeling happy, that she felt guilty for moving on with her life. As if she were personally responsible for her husband’s death and Loralee’s cancer. Or for the hurricanes and earthquakes that rocked the Earth on a regular basis.
The nurse packed up her things, said her good-byes, then left, seeing herself to the door, leaving Merritt and Loralee staring at each other.
Merritt gave her a tight smile. “Owen’s with Maris and her family today. They took a trip out to Hunting Island so Owen could climb the lighthouse. I gave him my iPhone to take pictures to show you.” She paused. “He didn’t want to go at first, but I told him it was okay, that . . .”
She stopped, her face horrified at the words she was about to say.
“That I wasn’t going to die today?” Loralee gave her a warm smile. “I’m glad he went. He needs to have as normal a life as possible. I’m glad he has a friend, and I think Maris and her family will be a good comfort for him.”
Merritt’s lower lip trembled as her face compressed in an effort to keep her emotions under control. There was so much of Maine still in the girl.
“You are going to give yourself a heart attack if you don’t let yourself cry, Merritt. And then where will we be? Beaufort Memorial won’t know what to think if we both end up there again with you the patient this time.”
An unplanned laugh escaped from Merritt’s m
outh. “Let me refill your water pitcher.”
“Actually,” Loralee said, taking a moment to gauge how she felt, “I’d like to go downstairs and sit on the front porch while I still can. It’s not so hot today, and there’s a nice breeze. I know that because the wind chime Owen had Gibbes hang outside my window is chattering like two old ladies at a church social.”
Loralee carefully sat up and slid her legs over the side, practically falling off the bed in her rush to put on her slippers—the ones that technically belonged to Merritt—before Merritt could not only get to them first, but slip them on Loralee’s feet.
“Do you need a sweater?”
Loralee looked at her stepdaughter, trying hard to have gracious thoughts, knowing Merritt’s concern came from the right place. “If I find that I need it outside in ninety-degree weather, I’ll be sure to let you know. What I do need is some lipstick.”
“I’m sorry. . . .”
“It’s all right, Merritt. We’re all learning right now.”
At least she’d convinced Merritt that she didn’t need to wear her stepdaughter’s hideous robe and instead was in a comfortable pair of yoga pants and a cute royal blue T-shirt. Merritt grabbed a lipstick from the dresser and handed it to Loralee. “How about this?” she asked, holding up Loralee’s favorite shade, Hello Dolly.
“You’re a quick study.”
Merritt pulled off the cap and rolled the lipstick up—too high, but she was trying—then handed it to Loralee, who put it on without a mirror because she’d done it so often she could probably do it in her sleep.
Handing the lipstick back to Merritt, Loralee stood and put her hand on the corner of the dresser to steady herself, feeling slightly dizzy. “You can give me your arm. I think it’s the bird food that I’ve been eating, and the meds have made me a little weak. I’ll even let you help me down the steps.”
Out on the porch, Merritt settled her in a rocking chair and stood watching her for a moment, as if to see whether Loralee remembered how to rock. “Maybe you shouldn’t have quit your job,” Loralee suggested.
