The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  Grabbing hold of his grandfather's arms, Griffin began pulling Robert up. "Shit, Pawpaw." He groaned. "You're heavy."

  After tucking Robert in, Griffin left his side to try and scrounge up something for them to eat.

  Emerging from the house, Griffin noticed storm clouds beginning to form. As he rushed toward the chicken coop, he witnessed lightning strike a tree beside him that was only a few feet away, and it split it down the middle. Reaching the coop, he snatched a hen from her nest before the storm was fully upon them.

  On the run back, Griffin snapped her neck, and as he reached the back porch, lightning struck again, much closer than the last time, causing the entire house to shudder. After sprinting down the hall, he chucked the chicken down the basement stairs, fetched the bucket of rainwater next to the windowsill, and set it at the top of the stairs.

  "Griffin!" Robert screamed. "Where are you?!"

  "Coming!" Griffin shouted back, heading toward Robert's bedroom. When he arrived, Griffin was startled to find Robert already sitting in his wheelchair, ready to go.

  "What the hell?" Griffin said, eyeing him suspiciously. "What . . . Did your paralysis come and go?"

  Robert tried to respond, but Griffin couldn't decipher what he said over the chaos unfolding around them. A fire was lit beneath Griffin's rear as the force of the wind blew out a couple of the bedroom windows. Faster and faster Griffin jogged with his grandfather. He hoped they could reach the basement floor before their house was completely destroyed.

  Griffin slung the basement door open, and began easing Robert downstairs. Out of the two, Robert was the one who seemed to be remaining calm. Once they'd reached the bottom, Griffin passed by Robert so he could shut the door, and he caught a glimpse of a smile on Robert's face. Thundering noises of doom shook the entire house as he secured the door, and then fetched the bucket of water at the top of the stairs. Upon his return, Griffin found that a full smiled had formed on Robert's face, as if everything was well, and their lives weren't in danger.

  "What are you grinning about?"

  "I saw her."

  Fed up with the hallucinations Robert had been having lately, Griffin moaned, "Who did you see this time?"

  "Martha. I saw Martha. She helped me in my chair."

  "Memaw's dead, Pawpaw," he said. "She's been gone for six years." Ending the conversation, Griffin began to prepare the chicken.

  In the beginning they would spend the entire day in the basement, without a clue as to when the storms would end. Lately, the storms were getting shorter, lasting only what seemed like a couple of hours.

  Their canned foods were running low. They'd been able to survive for months on those by sharing one can per day for lunch and dinner. Hunger was something they felt on a daily basis. Luckily they were equipped with a small butane tank and fryer stand, so Griffin didn't have to worry about how he would cook the chicken. What worried him was what they would eat a month from that very moment.

  If it weren't for Robert, Griffin would have tried to journey home months ago, and he had surprised himself by not doing so. His conscience had never spoken to him. Griffin loved his grandfather, but he welcomed Robert's death, as it would mean freedom—the freedom to journey to the comfort of his sister's welcoming and understanding arms. When he looked at Emma, Griffin saw someone who always made the right decision. But when people saw him, Griffin imagined they thought, Screwup.

  By the time the chicken was boiled through and they had finished their lunch, the two could hear that the storm had finished tearing their land to pieces. It was then that Griffin decided to help Robert upstairs, but he dreaded laying eyes on the damage the storm had caused.

  Emerging from the basement's depths, they noticed leaves and pine needles scattered throughout the house. The wind had blown the front and back doors open, tearing out the latch and lock. Some of the chickens had escaped from the coop and were grazing about as though they owned the place.

  Griffin wheeled Robert into his room, and helped him to bed. He then left his side to gather the chickens that were roaming in the kitchen. After he returned them to their coop, he leaned a large piece of plywood against the entrance of the pen where the door had been torn from its hinges.

  Arriving at the front of the house, Griffin found that a tree had landed just inches from their doorstep. Some of its branches had punctured through the living room windows, but thankfully that was the most significant damage he found. Broken windows—that was something they could handle. But a tree landing in the middle of their home? Not so much.

  Avoiding the branches, Griffin managed to enter the house without being scratched. By that time the sun had nearly set, so Griffin decided to bid his grandfather goodnight before heading to his own room. But as he entered the doorway, he found that Robert wasn't alone. A young, redheaded girl sat on the edge of Robert's bed, cradling his hand in hers. Startled, Griffin shook his head in disbelief and stepped back into the hall. Gathering his courage, Griffin peeked inside and saw that the girl had vanished, leaving his grandfather grinning.

  "You saw her, didn't you?"

  "Who was it?"

  "Your grandmother."

  "But, but," he stammered. "She, she was young."

  "All grandmothers were young once, you know," Robert replied, seeming annoyed.

  "What does it mean?" Griffin asked, hoping his grandfather could give a logical answer.

  "I think it's almost time. I think she's here to take me home."

  Griffin wasn't a spiritual person, and he'd always found his family's beliefs idiotic. He had felt they held too close of a resemblance to the fairy tales Emma used read to him. For years Griffin hadn't been able to wrap his mind around the possibility of a spirit watching over them, but seeing his grandmother had him thinking, Could this be an act of God?

  As usual, they went to bed hungry, but sleeping proved difficult for Griffin. He tossed and turned, thinking of nothing but his grandmother. He thought of her soft hands and sweet smile, and the sounds of her cheering him on from the stands at his football games. At every game she'd worn the same red pullover with his school's mascot on the front, and his number, seventy-eight, on the back.

  When Martha had suffered her third and final aneurysm, everyone had been there for her except Griffin. Emma had tried calling him several times, and she'd left countless messages, but Griffin had been arrested for marijuana possession. Since it was his fourth offense, they'd held him for three days. Griffin hadn't been informed of her death until after his release, and he'd returned home to find Emma parked in his driveway, crying.

  During the days following Martha's death, Griffin had spiraled out of control, diving deeper into drugs and ruining any relationship he had with his father. For six years, her death had haunted Griffin, and seeing her now brought back memories of letting his family down—of letting his Memaw down.

  Lying in bed, Griffin flipped through an old photo album and admired the black-and-white images of her and his grandfather in their younger years. Robert had always been clean-shaven, with a military cut, pressed trousers, and a plaid, button-down shirt. In almost every picture, Martha's long and wavy hair was pulled up in a high ponytail, with a bow that was tied or clipped to it. Her wardrobe seemed to consist of knee-length, flower-printed dresses, and flat shoes. She hadn't been tall, but Robert had been. They had been a handsome couple, and Griffin wondered how Robert had been blessed enough to snag a beauty like her.

  The next morning, Griffin woke bright and early. By the snores coming from the other room, he knew it was too early for Robert, so he decided to watch the sun rise over the pasture. Opening the front door, he was greeted by a bundle of twigs and pine needles. He eased himself under the branch that was blocking his path, and he was thankful to find that the porch swing had been left untouched.

  During many of their family gatherings Griffin and Emma would slip out to sit on the porch when they felt crowded, which was most of the time. As he sat there Griffin imagined his sister next
to him, asking how life was treating him. Usually the answer he'd given had been a negative one. "Being happy is a choice, you know," Emma would say. "You need to wake up and be thankful for the things you have." But he still hadn't chosen to be happy, and on account of recent events, Griffin figured he never would be.

  Ignoring the rumbling in his stomach, Griffin focused on the sun rising over the pasture, and for the first time in a long time he felt warmth in his heart. At that moment he and his grandfather were alive, and that was something to be thankful for.

  Rising from the swing, Griffin was immediately stilled by the sight of a figure climbing the porch steps. It was a cloud of every color imaginable, but it sported a distinctively red top. Griffin fell back down on the swing in fright. With every step the figure made, the image became clearer. It looked as if a puzzle were piecing itself together before him. Just as it reached the swing, the being found its final piece, revealing what turned out to be his grandmother dressed in a flowery dress and flats.

  "Hello," she said, sitting down next to him.

  "Hey," he replied, shifting nervously in his seat.

  "Long time, no see." She smiled, looping her arm through his.

  "Sh-shouldn't you be see-through? Like a ghost?"

  "But I'm not a ghost, silly," she replied, pinching his cheek. "I'm an angel."

  "An, an angel?" he stammered, attempting to scoot away from her. "Why are you here?"

  "I've come to take Robert."

  "But, but I—"

  "It's time for you to leave this place," she said, taking his chin in her hand. "Your sister needs her brother. You need to leave befo—"

  "I need her, too," he interrupted. "Hey, Memaw?"

  "Yes?"

  "Why are you young?" he timidly asked, afraid his question would offend her.

  "When we die"—she paused—"the good Lord allows us to choose the age we'd like to be—the age when we felt the happiest."

  "Oh," he said, still doubting the Lord's existence. "Okay."

  "My happiest time was when I gave birth to my first child." She smiled, ignoring the disbelief that was etched into her grandson's face. "I was only eighteen. It was, you know, your father."

  "I know," he said. "I know."

  "You still don't believe, do you?"

  "Sorry." He sighed. "Can't say I do."

  "Before it's all over, you will," she whispered, seeming to stare sternly into his soul.

  "You know something I don't?"

  "I know many things," she said, on the brink of tears. "Many things. Things I wish I didn't."

  "I just . . . I just find it hard to believe there's a bearded dude in the sky who has the power to save us, but who refuses to do anything," he said. "Why don't He just beam down—or whatever He does—and take me back home?"

  "The time will come when you need Him. The time will come when you'll shout for help, and only one will answer." Embracing Griffin, she whispered in his ear, "No one is superior to Him. The pain you've felt. The disappointment. The loss. No person has suffered more than He. I was brought here to ease Robert's passing." She sighed, sensing the newfound faith brewing inside of her grandson. "That's true, but there's also something else I believe I've accomplished."

  "Yeah?" Griffin scoffed, attempting to hide the enlightened expression etched upon his face.

  "You no longer believe my presence is a bizarre coincidence." She grinned. "Do you?"

  "No," he said childishly, meeting her gaze. His tone became gentle. "I've missed you."

  "Same here," she said, caressing his cheek. "Same here. I'll give you today. Use it to say your goodbyes."

  "Tomorrow then?" he asked as tears welled up in his eyes.

  "Tomorrow." She nodded, and draped her arm over his shoulders. "Tomorrow."

  Chapter 8:

  Tom & Cooper

  Bolting upright, Cooper woke to screams coming from outside. Clothed in only his socks and boxers, he struggled out of bed and peeked through the nearest window, but he couldn't find the shrieks' source. Nudging Tom awake, he pulled the covers from his brother's face before waddling carefully downstairs, his brother following behind him. As Cooper cleared the landing, he tripped over Mrs. Maples's muddied gardening boots. Despite his clumsiness, Cooper arrived at the front door before Tom even made it downstairs.

  "Wait," Tom insisted as he struggled to button his jeans. "Wait for me."

  "I'm already here." Cooper shrugged, turning the knob. Opening the door, he found a girl crumpled on the top step. "There's a girl," he whispered. "I, I think she's . . . " He noticed the blood trickling down her forearm. "She's hurt!" he exclaimed, spotting the laceration trailing from her elbow to her wrist.

  Reaching his brother's side, Tom knelt beside her and began lifting her from the porch. She cried out, which forced him to pause.

  "Cooper," he said. "Look under her shirt."

  Taken aback, Cooper stammered, "You, you want me to . . . ?"

  "Yes, damn it," Tom said. "Do it now."

  Squatting before her, Cooper looked to Tom, who nodded his head for his brother to continue. Reluctantly, Cooper lifted her shirt, and he was frightened at the realization she had been stabbed.

  "She's, she's," he stammered. He began to hyperventilate.

  "Breathe, Cooper," Tom said. "Breathe. Collect yourself—and go hold the door open."

  Once inside, Tom rushed her to the kitchen, where he laid her gently on the table. They'd unknowingly left a trail of blood behind that led from the porch to where they had gathered the supplies necessary to stitch her up.

  Awakened by the rambunctious racket the brothers had caused, a wobbly Mrs. Maples hurled herself downstairs, and then noticed the suspicious trail.

  "Boys, what the hell is all this mess?" she said groggily, reaching the landing. Once she realized the substance was blood, she rushed into the kitchen.

  "What's happened?" she asked.

  "She's been attacked," Tom answered, keeping pressure on the girl's side.

  "Th-that's Olivia," Mrs. Maples whispered. "Honey, who did this to you?"

  "Ethan." Olivia whimpered. "It . . . it was Ethan. It hurts."

  "I know, baby," Mrs. Maples replied, tending to her wounds. "I know."

  "Isn't that her boyfriend?" Cooper asked, handing over the peroxide.

  Ignoring him, Mrs. Maples looked to Tom and said, "We've got this. I need you to fetch Doolie. Can you do that for me?"

  Sprinting from the kitchen, he shouted over his shoulder, "Yes, ma'am!"

  As Tom exited the house, the sun had just begun clearing the trees. It wasn't until he reached the Clerys' sign—the one with their surname burned into cedar—that he realized just how beautiful it was outside. It was a sunrise that had gone to waste, as Tom was forced to turn away from it, and he began pounding on the door.

  "Mr. Clery!" he shouted. "Hey! Mr. Clery, wake up!"

  He waited in anticipation as the low beat of Doolie's footsteps emanated from the back room. These sounds were followed by the ferocious growls of Doolie's loyal companion, who arrived at the door first. The grouchy man opened the rather large, screeching door, and allowed Rambler to run out ahead.

  "What's going on?" he said, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "What the hell is it?"

  "There's a girl. She's hurt. Someone cut her bad."

  Seconds was all it took for Doolie to be fully clothed, and then together they sprinted up the driveway.

  They arrived at Mrs. Maples's steps, but before they could grasp the knob, she slung the front door open. Her face was pale, and her hands were stained with blood.

  Stepping over the threshold, they found Cooper rocking back and forth on the couch, trying to wipe the blood from his hands.

  "Is she . . . ?" Tom asked.

  "She bled out!" Mrs. Maples cried. "She didn't have a chance."

  "Did she say who did this?" Doolie asked.

  "Ethan."

  "Well, shit, Georgia," he cursed. "What do I do now?"

  "Go get hi
m," Mrs. Maples growled through gritted teeth.

  When Doolie waved him over, Tom was on the sofa, consoling his brother. Rising from the cushions, he pecked Cooper on top of the head, and then met up with Doolie down the hall. Together they left through the back door and headed toward the bunker. Tom had passed it many times, but had never risked entering without permission. Opening the latch, Doolie instructed Tom to wait for him at the top of the steps. Only seconds went by before he reemerged toting two AR-15s.

  "What's your plan?" Tom asked, eyeing the weapons.

  "Here," he said, handing one of the rifles over. "I'm gonna need the rest of the boys, too."

  "You trust me enough?" Tom asked, gripping the automatic rifle.

  "I think." He shrugged. "After a couple weeks of knowing you, you're pretty trustworthy. Besides," he said, "I'm gonna need all the help I can get." Doolie motioned for Tom to follow. "Help me wake my nephews," he commanded.

  ***

  Once Maddox, Winston, and Lyle had been roused, they, along with Doolie, Rambler, and Tom, began to make their way toward Ethan's house. Only a few minutes into their journey, their ears perked up to the crunching of someone approaching them from the woods.

  Wheeling around, Doolie immediately lowered his weapon, and exclaimed, "Damn it, Emma!"

  "What?" she said. Stella was by her side.

  "What the hell you doing up so early?"

  "The usual. Setting snares. Why? What's going on?" she asked, but everyone chose to remain silent. "Y'all are starting to scare me. What is it?"

  "Emma," Doolie said, stepping forward. "Something's happened to Olivia."

  "What happened?" she asked, clasping a trembling hand over her mouth. "What?"

  "She's passed, baby doll. She was attacked. We think her man did it. We're going after him now."

  "Have you seen Jane?" Emma asked. Tom was shocked at her lack of tears and concern over Olivia's death.

  "No?"

  "She's with Ian!" Emma frantically exclaimed. "She didn't come home last night. When she doesn't come home, that's where she is!" Startling Tom, Emma sprinted past them.