But if Millie wants to ask, she keeps it to herself. “That must’ve been incredibly hard. I’m so sorry, Katie.”
I nod against her shoulder, where her heart beats strong and true.
James' voice rumbles near my ear. “When?”
“Early this morning.”
The hug tightens, and I breathe in their comfort. Their love is palpable and a force that surrounds me. We stay interlocked, intertwined, this knot of a pieced-together family. James says some comforting words that barely register to my ears, then offers a quick prayer—for Bobbie, for me.
Sometime later, we drift apart, and Millie puts on some tea and insists I eat the waffles and bacon she’s hastily made. Besides the theater, her happy place is the kitchen, and I know cooking my favorites is just another way she says “I love you.”
“My mom wanted to be cremated,” I later say over a syrup-drenched bite. I’m not that hungry, but Millie and Maxine sit beside me at the table, and Millie watches me with concerned expectation. “The state will bury her, but that’s not what she asked for. She told the chaplain she wanted her ashes to be spread ‘somewhere beautiful.’” They’d let me know how much it might cost, and I flat out don’t have the money. “I don’t know how I’m gonna pay for this.”
“We’ll handle it.” Millie hands me another slice of bacon, though I haven’t touched the two on my plate. “What did you have in mind for a funeral?”
I nearly choke on my waffle. “Funeral?”
Maxine takes a sip of coffee from a mug big enough to double as a mop bucket. “Yeah, sweet pea, you’ll want to have a memorial for Bobbie Ann, right?”
Great, now more guilt. “I was thinking…no.”
There’s a heavy pause in the room, and Maxine’s eyebrows shoot toward her blonde hairline. “No?”
“Definitely not.”
My grandmother crunches into her own piece of bacon. “But we’re Christian. And Texan. You’re gonna deprive us of an opportunity to receive casseroles from every God-fearing, Campbell’s soup-can-opening woman in James’s church? Do you even get how heavenly Florence Nefflehoff’s poppyseed chicken is?”
I rub my burning eyes, wishing I could prop my cheek on my hand and sleep right here. “Who would I invite, Maxine? Mom had few friends, and the ones she did have are not people I want to see. She had no family except for me.” And what would we say about her? Nothing I want anyone to hear.
Millie chimes in. “We could invite—”
“No.” I stand, abandoning my barely-touched plate and lukewarm tea. “There’ll be no memorial service. I’m going up to my room.”
As I climb up the stairs, I hear Maxine call, “Hey! Can I have your waffle?”
I spend the rest of the day tending to the business of losing a mom. I call Tate and Frances, keeping the calls short and deflecting any sympathy they kindly send my way. I text my roommates. Violet, of course, responds immediately, a gushing ramble of words and teary emojis. I email professors, letting them know it could be days before I return to campus. But then again, if I’m not having a funeral, what exactly do I need the time off for?
Despite Charlie’s directive to call, I text him as well.
My phone rings seconds later.
“Hey.” I lie back on my bed, making room for Rocky as he noses the door open and jumps up beside me.
“Hey, yourself.” Charlie’s voice is a salve on what feels like a gaping, infected wound. “How are you?”
“Exhausted.” I explain my evening that turned into morning.
“Katie, I’m sorry.”
“Me, too,” I admit.
“What can I do to help?”
If I was a fully-functioning crier, those words would cue the waterworks. But instead, I flop over to my side and pet Rocky’s soft ear. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Frances and I want to come see you.”
My best friend and Charlie have clearly been talking in the few minutes since I phoned Frances. “I’m going back to school in the next day or two. There’s not much to be done here.”
“Is Tate with you?”
“No. I made him promise to stay at school.”
“He accepted that?”
“I like a guy who honors my every command.”
“Katie.”
“It’s what I want, Charlie. I have my parents and Maxine. I don’t need a large grieving committee.”
“It’s okay not to be the strong one all the time.”
“I have a C in my fitness class due to my inability to do enough push-ups. I apparently take regular breaks from being the strong one.”
“I mean—”
“I know what you mean. I’ll be okay. I’ll spend some time at home, then head back to school.”
“I could be there by tomorrow.”
What would happen if I said yes? Would it change anything? Would it be the end of my relationship with Tate?
Would I want it to be?
Charlie is the guy I’ve never been able to get out of my system, the one I let get away. No matter how I’ve tried to inoculate myself to his captivating spell, I apparently still have zero immunity. But these feelings aren’t fair to Tate. You know, the guy I’m dating.
“You’re not alone,” Charlie says. “You get that, right?”
I do understand that. In my head. “Yeah. Sure.”
“That sounded very convincing.”
“It’s just the fatigue talking.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
There’s a Niagra Falls of emotions inside me, yet someone has plugged the flow. I feel overwhelmed but stuck. “I’m not sure what to think at this point. On the one hand, I’ve lost a parent, and that’s quite jarring. On the other hand, I lost a parent who didn’t really care about me.”
“You were a good daughter. I know your mom felt your presence beside her.”
It doesn’t seem like enough. Grief is the main course I’m dining on, but guilt is definitely my side-dish. “There were so many things we left unsaid. Maybe that’s how Bobbie Ann wanted it. But I still had stuff to say, and she didn’t get to hear it.”
“Did you tell her any of it during these last days?”
“Yeah, but she was out of it. Unconscious.”
“She could’ve heard you.”
“That’s what the chaplain said.”
His familiar voice lightens, teases. “Chaplains don’t lie.”
“I guess I need some time to process.”
“You should take it. Don’t rush the grieving. Your situation is pretty unique, so maybe the healing process will be too.”
“Someone’s been paying close attention in his philosophy class.”
“Three weeks in college and I’m already so wise.”
“You should probably go ahead and quit. There’s nothing left to teach you. You’ve reached maximum-intellect status.”
He laughs, a soft puff of air that crackles in my ear. “If you change your mind about wanting some company, you say the word, and I’ll be there.”
Like a last-minute flight was easily obtained and easily paid for. “You’re a good friend, Charlie Benson.”
“Don’t you forget it. And good friends are there for each other. You got it, Parker?”
“I think I get the idea.”
“Call me day or night. Don’t do this alone.”
“Sweet Pea!” Maxine yodels my name from the hallway. “I need your assistance!”
“I should go. Maxine wants to talk about her beauty pageant.”
“Take care of yourself. I’ll see you at Thanksgiving break.”
“Okay.”
“Katie?”
“Yeah?”
“I…” The pause hangs, poised over a cliff of things I wish he’d say. “I’m here. Just remember I’m here.”
“Bye, Charlie.”
We hang up, and I rest my head on my pillow.
Wishing Charlie Benson truly were here.
Chapter Twenty-One
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nbsp; I spend the next day in bed. The idea of returning to school makes me want to throw up all the chicken noodle soup Millie’s fed me. I nixed James’s idea of hanging out with him at church while he worked. This morning Millie asked if I wanted to go to her yoga class, but instead, I pulled the sheet over my head and went back to sleep. When my grandpa Sam Dayberry texted me an invitation to help out at my beloved Valiant theater, even that didn’t appeal.
I’ve somehow flitted the day away with intermittent naps and Netflix. Apparently, I’ve watched three rom-coms, but for the life of me, I can’t recall the plots or how they ended. My phone beeped and dinged by the hour, but I ignored it all. Talking felt like those push-ups I can’t do in fitness class—overly taxing, nearly impossible, and riddled with bad form.
I’m twenty minutes into an episode of Friends when Maxine knocks twice, then flounces into my room. “Well, hello there, sugar pie, sweet pea, honey bunches of beautiful.”
I pick up the latest People magazine Millie slid under the door earlier this afternoon. “What do you want?”
“Is that any way to talk to your dear, sainted grandmother?”
“Oh no. When you reference yourself in holy terms, I know something’s up.”
She sits on the bed, wearing head-to-toe black, from her shoes to the stocking cap sticking out of her back pocket. “Nothing’s up. I just need a teensy-weensy favor.”
“I’m too tired to rob a bank.”
She tosses her head back and laughs, a loud, forced guffaw that reverberates in the room. “Oh, the things you say!” Her smile drops, and that lethal gleam lights her eyes. “But seriously, I need help.”
Returning to my magazine, I make slow work of turning a page. “I’m right in the middle of a fascinating article.”
She sneaks a look and snorts. “Are Brad and Angelina getting back together? No. Now, back to me. I’d like you to accompany me on a bike ride to the general direction of Gloria Hardcastle’s house.”
“It’s eight o’clock, and I’m tired.” My head lolls back onto the pillow as if the muscles in my neck can’t hold it any longer. “Have Sam do it.”
Maxine blinks rapidly as if trying to dislodge her snippy thoughts. “We don’t need to bother dear Sam.”
“In other words, he’d disapprove of your mission?”
“I don’t like stressing him out. It affects his golf game. Now listen, Gloria Hardcastle is my main competition in Mrs. Silver Texas. She told Isadora Duncan that she’d secretly changed up her talent routine, and it was gonna blow everyone else out of the water.”
“What’s her old talent?”
“Riding a unicycle while juggling to Celine Dion’s ‘My Heart Will Go On.’ I was confident my routine was better because nothing good can come from reminding the judges Leonardo DiCaprio was just a martyr popsicle in Titanic.”
Maxine has a point. Not that I would tell her that.
“Can’t you just trust in your own hard work and abilities?”
“I am. I’m trusting in my hard work of spying and my ability to study Gloria’s routine and make mine even better. My intel says Madame Glorious has added an evening rehearsal with a new coach, giving us a sweet opportunity to take a look-see. Come on. It’ll be like old times.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You’re a college girl. By definition, you should be up for some wild adventure.”
“And you’re a grandma. By definition, you should be baking me cookies and knitting me weird things I’ll never wear.”
She looks down her nose. “Stereotypes are so limiting, and honestly, I thought better of you.”
“I’m not going with you to creep on someone. When has that ever ended well for us?”
“It’s how you met Charlie. Did that end so badly?”
I guess not.
In the tenth grade, I’d barely gotten my foster kid trash bag unpacked when Maxine recruited me to climb a tree and spy on a woman Sam Dayberry was spending time with, who happened to be Charlie’s grandma. When a limb broke, I ended up in the pool. Charlie fished me out, and I’ve pretty much been over my head for him ever since.
I watch water droplets glide down the glass that’s been sitting beside my bed since I woke up. “It was quite a first impression.”
“See? Who knows what kind of magic we’ll cook up this time.”
“Probably the kind that conjures arrest warrants.”
“Katie, I’ve got to see what Gloria Hardcastle’s up to. We’ll make it quick.” She grabs my face in her hands. “I need you.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll buy you a shake from the Burger Barn afterward.”
“I’m not that easy to sway anymore, Maxine.”
“I’ll throw in some cheese fries.”
My sigh whooshes from the depths of my weary soul. “Let me grab my helmet.”
Despite the delay caused by Maxine trying to dress me in camo, complete with well-placed leaves in my hair and small limbs jutting from my helmet, we finally get going. Many of our adventures have started with a ride on her tandem bicycle, Ginger Rogers. All of them involve me doing all the pedaling, while Maxine sightsees and narrates the trip like a tour guide. And let me tell you, the town of In Between does not need a tour guide.
Maxine’s full-bodied voice bugles in my ear. “Take a left at the stop sign!”
I steer left.
“Oops. Other left!”
I correct and go right, nearly taking out Mrs. Fitzsimmons and her beagle on their evening stroll.
“You could help, you know,” I call back to Maxine.
“I’m too busy strategizing.” She pats my helmet. “You’re doing a fine job. Just super.”
Ten minutes later, I’ve sweat through my shirt, my tailbone smarts, and I’ve swallowed two bugs. But we finally arrive.
“There’s the house.” Maxine points to a two-story gray craftsman with a cheery red door and black shutters. “There’s where my nemesis lives.” She sniffs the air. “Do you smell that evil?”
“I smell someone’s steaks on the grill.”
“Block out the Heinz 57 and sniff harder.”
I comply. “Maybe some hot dogs as well?”
“For heaven’s sake, sometimes it’s like we’re not even related.”
I smile like I always do when she says this. Occasionally I wonder if she remembers I’m adopted.
“I’ve got the neighborhood all staked out,” Maxine says. “We’ll go four houses down where they have some unruly shrubbery where we can hide Ginger Rogers.”
Oh, geez. She’s hiding her bike. That means she expects to stay awhile. “Did you at least pack snacks this time?”
“What do I look like, an amateur?” Maxine digs into her black fanny pack. “I’ve got granola bars, candy bars, and ice cream bars.”
“Why on earth would you bring ice cream bars? They’ll melt all over you.”
“Yep. I realized that about two blocks into our ride.” She smacks her red lips. “So I had to eat the whole stash. Sorry, you missed out, but if you’d like me to describe them in detail, I can oblige.”
“Can we just get this over with?”
Her face pinches. “I know you’re blue, hon, but I’d hoped some intrigue would perk you up.”
Finding the designated shrubberies, I aim us that way. “There is nothing in me that wants to perk.”
I follow Maxine’s lead, as she guides us back to Gloria’s. She cuts through one yard, zigs through another, before disappearing through a tall mess of a holly berry tree and pulling me through.
Minutes later, I’m regretting this mission. “You want me to do what?”
“Climb over Gloria’s privacy fence, unlock it, and let me in.”
“Maxine, this feels very breaking-and-entering-ish.”
“I’ve been to Gloria’s plenty of times. We play bridge together once a month. If we get caught, I’ll say we’re looking for an earring I lost at our last gathering.”
It’s worrisome how easily mischief and mayhem come to Maxine.
“At least give me a boost.” I step into Maxine’s joined hands, and she hoists me up, the moon levitating in the sky beyond us. By the time I open the gate of the privacy fence, I have two splinters and one majorly bad attitude. “Let’s hurry this up, okay?”
“We can’t rush a mission. What if the Eiffel Tower had been rushed? What if the Burger Barn had rushed your chocolate shake? What if Van Gogh had rushed the Mona Lisa?”
“She still wouldn’t be smiling, and I’d have had ice cream goodness much sooner.” I close the gate, frantically gawking about, certain the In Between police will show up any second. “If we get arrested, James and Millie will probably only save one of us, and it’s going to be me.”
“I’m gangster enough to handle a few days in the pokey.” Twigs snap beneath Maxine’s feet as she trespasses onto Gloria’s yard. “My competition has been practicing in her sunroom. She says the natural light gives her a youthful glow-up.” Maxine snorts. “I think she’s been inhaling too much Ben-Gay.” She stops at an oak tree thick enough to do collateral damage in a tornado. “You ready?”
I follow the directions of her gaze. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Is that territory we really need to cover again?”
“Not doing this. Nuh-uh. No, thank you, ma’am.”
“It’s an easy climb. We can’t just walk over and spy into her sunroom. It’s a room of glass walls, for crying out loud. She’ll see us. So…” Maxine jerks her chin toward the mighty oak. “Up we go.”
I grab a branch then pause. “Did it ever occur to you to simply practice your own routine and trust that it’s enough?”
She reaches for the same branch and grins. “Nope.”
A few minutes, two bruises, and one scraped knee later, I sit beside Maxine and pray the limb we’re perched upon holds us. You know, normal grandmother-granddaughter prayers.
“Do you hear that music?” She strains toward the sound of bass thumping in the breeze. “That’s not Celine Dion. That’s Little Bon Bon, that cool girl rapper everyone’s listening to.”
I no longer question things like why my grandmother knows more about rap music than I do.
Something to Believe In Page 12
