Love Mercy

by Earlene Fowler

  It was only after she’d changed into warm sweatpants and a faded red Cy’s Feed and Seed T-shirt and went into the living room with her drink that she noticed the flashing light on her phone, set in the far corner because it was the only place that had an outlet. The phone was one she’d bought cheap at Costco and hadn’t bothered to read its description. It didn’t have an audio message indicator . . . or if it did, she couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. And, of course, she’d lost the instruction book that came with it. Half the time, the person who left her a message had to call her again, hoping to catch her at home, because she forgot to check for the tiny flashing red light.

  She hit the Message button.

  “You have one new message,” the phone woman’s bland voice informed her.

  “Ma’s dead,” the voice said. Its Boston accent sent a steel wire of painful memory down Mel’s spine. “We gotta talk.”

  NINE

  Love Mercy

  On the drive back home from the drugstore, Love decided that she’d drop off the things she bought Rett, then go to the grocery store. Those steaks had been in her freezer for a month. She wanted everything fresh for her granddaughter’s first dinner in Morro Bay. She’d buy some Romaine lettuce for a Caesar salad and some sourdough bread. A couple of baking potatoes. Corn on the cob. Everyone loved corn on the cob. She could make garlic bread, if Rett liked garlic. She wished she’d had time to bake some cupcakes. Butterscotch spice, maybe. With cream cheese frosting. But, she could defrost that cake she had in the freezer.

  She pulled into the driveway and climbed out of her Honda, laughing at herself. For heaven’s sake, she was as nervous as a girl on her first date. Rett would either like her or not. She’d either understand when Love explained her side of what happened or not. Whatever conversation took place about it, Love would not, if she could help it, say anything negative about Karla Rae. Criticizing someone’s mother had just never seemed right to her. She’d be as truthful as she could, but not accept all the blame. More than anything she wanted Rett to know that she’d always thought about her, always loved her and that she was happy they’d have a chance to start a new relationship. Things would work out.

  She opened the door leading from the garage into the kitchen. Ace’s mournful howl was the first sound she heard. Love froze. Ace was not a howler, not even at the rare fire truck or police siren. The only other time she’d heard that sound was when she let him in the bedroom to see Cy right after he died. She ran into the living room, calling Rett’s name.

  Rett lay curled up on the floor in a fetal position, thin arms hugging her chest, shaking like she’d been cold for a hundred years. Ace stopped howling the minute he saw Love and started barking.

  “Oh, Sweet Pea!” Love cried, the name she’d called her as a child. She dropped down to kneel next to Rett. “What happened?”

  “I’m sick,” Rett whispered, her teeth chattering so dramatically Love was afraid she’d chip one.

  She leaned over and placed her lips on Rett’s forehead, testing for a fever in the same way she had with Tommy when he was a boy. Her skin was burning up.

  “We need to get you in bed,” she said, helping her sit up. “It’s probably just the flu.”

  Please, God, Love automatically thought. Let it only be the flu. She actually had no idea what was wrong, because she knew virtually nothing about this girl.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Rett said. “Please.”

  “Can you make it by yourself?”

  Rett nodded. “But . . .” Her face was a pale green.

  “I’ve got them in the kitchen,” Love said.

  She helped Rett into the bathroom, hesitating while she clung to the porcelain sink.

  “I’ll be okay,” Rett whispered.

  Love reluctantly stepped out of the bathroom and rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the drugstore bag. Back in the bathroom, she thrust it at Rett, who sat on the toilet’s closed lid.

  “Thanks,” Rett said, taking the bag. Her face, tight and determined, reminded Love so much of Cy and his last days when he sometimes refused pain medication because it drugged him too much, and he couldn’t talk to his many visitors.

  Love closed the door but lingered right outside, ready to rush in and help the minute she heard any sounds of distress. The minutes dragged, then she heard the toilet flush and the water run. Finally, she couldn’t help herself. “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?”

  The door opened slowly, and Rett, gripping the doorjamb, looked up at her. “I think I need to lie down.”

  Rett’s words slurred slightly, her Southern accent more prominent in her weakened state. Cy used to say that Love was the same way, that her mountain drawl would show itself more when she was tired or sick.

  “Let me help you,” she said, putting her arm around Rett’s thin shoulders. She felt a sharp pang inside. It was the first time she’d held Rett since she was four years old. The depth of feeling caught Love by surprise, reminding her of that first time she cradled Tommy, moments after he was born, that overwhelming feeling that she’d do anything, anything, to protect him.

  Rett didn’t protest when Love helped her out of her jeans and T-shirt and into a pair of Love’s own cotton pajamas, the legs miles too long for her. Heat, like a raging furnace, radiated from Rett’s body.

  Rett closed her eyes when Love settled the sheet over her body.

  “Are you allergic to any medications?” Love asked.

  Rett shook her head no.

  “Maybe I can give you some Tylenol for the fever.” Love brushed a strand of hair from across Rett’s pale, smooth forehead.

  She went to the kitchen cupboard where she kept her medicine and stood in front of the open cabinet door, contemplating what she should do. Should she give Rett anything when she didn’t have any idea what was wrong? What if . . . oh, Lord, what if she was pregnant? Was Tylenol okay if you were having a baby? She couldn’t remember. It had been almost forty years since she’d been pregnant, and so much had changed. She didn’t keep up on it simply because it was information she’d never had any use for. No, wait, Rett couldn’t be pregnant. Her period was the reason Love went to the drugstore. Unless she was lying. Heavenly stars, she thought. This was going to be more complicated than she anticipated.

  Then she remembered something. Her boss, Clint, the owner of San Celina County Life magazine, had a son who was a family physician in the Bay Area. And, as luck would have it, he was visiting his father this week. Clint had complained a few days ago about this annual father-son bonding week that Clint said they suffered through because he’d promised his late wife before she died. Mostly, Clint said, he and his son watched sports on television and argued about politics.

  She closed the cabinet door and picked up the phone. Clint answered on the second ring.

  “Good afternoon, Clint,” she said.

  “Hey, Love,” he said.

  “I have a problem—”

  “No, you can’t have an extra day for your column. I need it yesterday. You know Bob the printer gets his panties all in a bunch if I ask him to work even a modicum of overtime. And he charges me an arm, a leg and a couple of fingers even without overtime. I ought to sell this rag. What was I thinking? It’s nothing but a money pit.”

  “No, Clint, I—”

  “I’m serious. Owning a magazine might have been my dream at one time, but it’s turning into Dante’s nightmare. Is that a correct literary reference? Probably not, but nevertheless, it’s exactly what it feels like. I should have stayed at my old job. Putting rapists and wife beaters in jail was much less stressful.”

  Four years ago, after thirty years on the bench as one of the toughest, most feared criminal judges in San Bernardino County, he’d retired to the Central Coast. After six months of fishing, he was ready to retire from retirement, so he bought the struggling regional magazine.

  “I—” Love started again.

  “Okay,” he interrupted. “For you, I’ll do it. On
ly because I’m a sucker for smart, good-looking broads with silver red hair who bake killer chocolate rum cupcakes. Have the cupcakes in my office by nine a.m. tomorrow. With a mug of joe.”

  “Judge, I need your help.”

  His voice grew serious in a flash. She only called him Judge when she was upset. “What’s wrong?”

  “Isn’t your son visiting you this week?”

  “He’s probably reclining on my leather sofa gobbling down my favorite Wasabi-flavored potato chips and watching a police-chase video as we speak. Why?”

  “My granddaughter is sick, and I’d like him to look at her. I’m sure it’s just the flu, but I . . . I don’t know that much about her health.”

  There were ten seconds of silence. “Your granddaughter? I didn’t know you and Cy had a granddaughter.”

  “Actually, we have three. Long story. I’ll tell you all about it someday, but right now I need your son.”

  “Nine-one-one?”

  “No, I think it’s just the flu, but I’d feel better—”

  “He can be there in ten minutes. Would you like me to come by?”

  “Not tonight. I want you to meet Rett, but I’m sure she’d prefer feeling a little better before I inflict my friends on her.”

  “Inflict? Knife to the heart, Love. I’ll have you know young women have always adored me. The young law clerks often compared me to Paul Newman.” He paused, and Love knew the punch line was coming. “Or maybe it was Alfred E. Neuman.”

  “You, my dear friend, are a little of both,” she said, relieved. “Thank you. I will make you those cupcakes.”

  “Wait until after my son leaves. He’s a human garbage disposal. I honestly have no idea how he stays so thin.”

  “I can make a double batch. What is his name again?”

  “Garth.”

  “That’s right, like the country singer.”

  “Actually, Beth named him after the illustrator, but no one realizes that now.”

  “Of course. Garth Williams. The Little House books. Thanks again. My column and photo will be on your desk in a few days. I promise.”

  “I knew that. What is it about?”

  She paused a moment before answering. “Gifts.” Actually, the one she had finished was about hearts, since it was for the February issue. But Rett’s arrival, the moments at the drugstore, made her want to explore the idea of gifts.

  “Appropriate for Valentine’s Day. As always, I’ll look forward to giving it a vicious critique.”

  She laughed with him, both of them knowing that he wouldn’t change a thing. When he bought the magazine and was considering changing the format and content, he’d seen her photographs with their humorous captions in the Buttercream and thought they were just what he was looking for. He proposed she write a monthly column illustrated by her sometimes mystifying and always controversial photographs.

  “Only if I have complete creative control,” she’d told him.

  “Sold,” he said. “My only request is that they be controversial. I love it when people get all hot and bothered.”

  She cemented her place in his heart with her first column about the magazine’s new publisher. The photograph showed the scales of justice sporting a grinning Ken doll head on one scale and a fresh fish head on the other. The caption read, “What kind of name is Clint Lawhead?”

  To his delight, people talked about what it “meant” for weeks. The reason he and Love clicked was because they both understood, it didn’t really mean anything.

  “Judge Lawhead, you’re the tower of pizza,” she said.

  “Or at least a bowl of ravioli. Let me know how she’s doing.”

  After they hung up, she checked on Rett again. Ace lay next to the bed, his head down on his paws, his liquid brown eyes worried. Rett’s eyes were closed, her breathing slow and even.

  “She’ll be all right,” Love said, bending over to stroke the dog’s head. “She’ll be playing ball with you in no time. I promise.”

  “For sure,” Rett murmured.

  Love bent closer. “Rett, I’ve called a friend who is a doctor to come and look at you. I didn’t want to give you any medication until he checked you over.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. “But, really, I’m fine.”

  “Your mother—” Love started.

  Rett’s eyes flew open. “No. Do not call her.”

  She didn’t want to upset her granddaughter so early in their relationship, but it bothered her that Karla Rae might be wondering where Rett was, worrying if she was safe. Rett had never been a mother. She didn’t know that heart-in-the-throat feeling of panic a parent felt when they didn’t know if their child was safe. No matter what kind of relationship Rett had with her mother, Karla Rae had a right to know that her daughter was all right.

  “Rett, she’ll be worried.”

  “Doubt that.” Rett closed her eyes again.

  She stared at Rett’s vulnerable face; its smooth, flushed skin; the fine, strong line of her chin. Love wished she could capture this moment on film. In Rett’s wide, high cheekbones, Love could see her mother; in her long, dusky eyelashes, Love’s brother, DJ, lived again. When she was a girl, Love used to complain that DJ got the eyelashes she should have received.

  “Don’t call my mom,” Rett said again, her voice weak but determined.

  Love didn’t answer. The girl had inherited Cy’s stubbornness too. It wouldn’t do any good to argue with her right now, but like it or not, Love would find out where Karla Rae lived and let her know Rett was safe. She dreaded speaking to her daughter-in-law, but it was the right thing to do.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the front door causing Ace to dash out of the bedroom, barking.

  “Hush,” she told the dog, grabbing his collar.

  Love opened the door to find a fortyish man wearing a San Francisco Giants T-shirt and baggy tan chinos. He clutched an old-fashioned leather doctor’s bag, something that surprised her. The only photos she’d seen of Garth were in Clint’s office. He had been in his UCLA football uniform and much younger. She was struck by the physical resemblance to his sixty-two-year-old father. Both had silver-streaked chestnut hair and tall, long-limbed bodies.

  “I’m Garth Lawhead. Where’s the patient?”

  Ace growled and pulled against Love’s hand. “It’s okay,” she told the dog. “Friend.”

  Garth held out his hand for Ace to sniff, then once the dog was satisfied, scratched Ace’s white chest.

  She let go of Ace’s collar. “I’m Love Johnson. Nice to finally meet you. Thank you so much for humoring a worried grandmother.”

  He grinned. “It’s a grandma’s prerogative and duty to worry. Glad to help out. Dad promised me some awesome cupcakes for my effort.”

  “Oh, you share your dad’s sweet tooth,” she said, ushering him into the house.

  “When it comes to sweets, we try not to share at all,” he said, laughing. “The cupcakes are mine.”

  “I’ll make a double batch. Rett’s in the bedroom at the end of the hall.”

  He followed her into the bedroom, his manner turning completely professional when he walked over the threshold.

  “Hello, Ms. . . .” He turned to Love, his face questioning.

  “Rett Johnson,” Love said.

  He turned back to Rett, whose eyes were open and suspicious. “Hello, Ms. Johnson. I’m Dr. Lawhead, a friend of your grandma’s. She says you’re feeling a little under the weather.”

  “I’m okay,” Rett said, struggling to sit up, her face flushing with embarrassment.

  “I’m sure you are,” Garth said. “But let’s just set her mind at ease. I’ll do a quick examination. I promise I have a real license and everything. Are you eighteen?”

  She closed her eyes. “Eighteen and a half.”

  He glanced over at Love, and she nodded, verifying her age. “So, this’ll just take a minute.” He smiled at Love and waited.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, taking his hint.
“I’ll go into the living room.”

  Less than ten minutes later, Garth came out of the bedroom, zipping up his doctor’s bag.

  “Well, Grandma Love, you called it right. My professional guess is it’s just a little flu. Considering all the truck stops she’s been in the last few days, she was exposed to about a billion germs. She’s young and healthy, so my diagnosis is she’ll be over the worst of it in a few days. Tylenol, lots of liquids, dry toast and maybe some chicken soup when she’s up to it. Last, but very important, I prescribe an occasional hug from Grandma. That should do the trick.”

  “Truck stops?” she couldn’t help repeating.

  He put a finger to his lips. “That was supposed to be between Rett and me. She had quite the little adventure getting to the West Coast from Knoxville. I’m sure she’ll eventually tell you about it.” He shrugged. “Problems between her mother and her. Not so unusual. I barely spoke to Dad from age eighteen to twenty-one. And seeing as I was quite the jerk during those years, he might have been okay with that.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  He shook his head no. “But I’m sure she’ll open up sooner or later.”

  Love wasn’t as sure, but she thanked him anyway while walking him to the door. “Tell your dad I’ll have the cupcakes at his office tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Good. I’m leaving day after tomorrow. I’ll bring them back to the wife and daughters. If what Dad says about the cupcakes is true, I might be off the hook for Christmas presents.”

  She smiled, shaking her head. “They aren’t that good, but I think your wife will like them if she likes chocolate. How old are your girls?”

  “Eight and ten.”

  “Then you have a ways to go before they start hitchhiking across the country to escape you.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” he said, looking up to the ceiling. “Right now, they still think I’m relatively cool.”