Higher Ground

by Nan Lowe

  For my grandma, FMJ.

  You taught us all the meaning of “unconditional” and loved me when I couldn’t even love myself. I hope you know it saved me a time or two or ten.

  You promised life would go on without you, and it has.

  But I miss you every day.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  The room is quiet for the first time in weeks, and two dozen heads bow above the scratch of ink on paper. Occasionally, someone lifts a wrist to check the time. The final exam consists of a series of multiple-choice, fill-in-the-blank, and essay questions.

  A few knees bounce up and down. A guy in the back folds his hands, prays, and lets out a slow breath as he flips a page to move on. Beneath the fear and nerves, there’s an undeniable energy. Regardless of the results of this exam, today’s the last day of the semester.

  The ones who don’t live in Atlanta will be loading into cars or catching planes to go home for the holidays. An almost month-long break sweetens the deal, and they’re not the only ones excited.

  After today, I’ll be able to sleep late and stay in my pajamas all day, if I want to, or at least until Wade comes home. Just thinking about him gives me the urge to check my watch.

  Twenty minutes until freedom.

  One by one, students sigh or smirk, gather their things, and stop by the table at the front of the classroom to deposit their tests.

  “See you, Doctor Foster” is a popular goodbye on the last day of class. I wave and wish them well, relieved when the hour’s done and I don’t have to call time on anyone. It’s happened twice this week, and it’s never fun.

  When the room’s empty, I cut the lights and close the door. After a quick trip to my office, I make my way out of the building, buttoning my coat to ward off the chilly air.

  Wade texts twice during my MARTA ride to meet him, and he times the exit for his lunch hour perfectly. With pink cheeks and his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he’s waiting for me a few feet away from the station.

  “Hey.” He leans in for a quick kiss, takes my hand, and starts navigating us through the crowd.

  “Hey.” I walk next to him and lean in to touch his shoulder with mine, letting it warm me both inside and out.

  “All done now,” he says. “What are you going to do for the next few weeks?”

  “You mean after the craziness of the next few days dies down?” I glance up in time to catch his nod and twisted grin. “I hope it’s a lot of nothing.”

  He opens the door to our favorite sushi restaurant, holds it for me and a couple exiting, and follows me to the hostess stand. “I hate that my vacation doesn’t start until Christmas Day. We could do a lot of nothing together… naked.”

  “You have sick time.” I’m only half-teasing. I’d love for him to cash in a couple of those days to spend them at home with me.

  “It’s a busy time of year. Lots of people are out for vacation, and there are school programs and parties. We’re running on fumes as it is.”

  “At least we have this weekend,” I say.

  We follow our hostess to a table away from the bar in the quiet section of the restaurant. Midway through our meal, his phone buzzes on the table. He glances down at the screen but doesn’t open the text.

  “What time are we meeting Nick and Wren tomorrow?” he asks.

  “We need to be at the theater by 7:00. Wren mentioned dinner, so do you think you can leave a little early?”

  “I may have to meet you there, but considering I’ll be late tonight, I think I can make it happen,” he says. “Kevin wants to talk to me after work, but we’ll still be able to make a late showing of that movie you want to see.”

  “Did he say why?” I ask. It’s rarely a good thing when his boss calls someone to his office.

  “He said he’d explain later.” He shakes his head as he grins and snags my last piece of sushi with his chopsticks.

  “You know what this is about, don’t you?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile and eat at the same time. Even as he chews, his plump lips are upturned.

  He leans forward, rests his arms on the table between us, and takes my hands in his. “Maybe.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me?”

  “Not yet. I’ll give you every little detail when I get home.”

  I nod. “Okay. I’m going to hold you to that.”

  He settles our bill and then wraps his arm loosely around my waist for the short walk out to the sidewalk. The wind sends a shiver up my spine, and he pulls me into a full hug to share his body heat. The tip of his nose grazes the skin of my neck, and I feel his whisper against my skin.

  “I love you, Violet.”

  It takes me by surprise, because he doesn’t say it often. Daytime confessions are even rarer. He shows me every day in everything he does, though, and that’s what counts.

  “I love you, too.”

  He takes a step back, rests his hands on my hips, and leans in to brush his lips against mine long enough to tease instead of satisfy. “Thanks for meeting me. Seeing you in the middle of the day makes work feel less… hellish.”

  “You love your job.” I twist his green tie between my fingers, holding him in place a moment longer. I’d rather use it to drag him back to our apartment with me. His passion for his work is the only thing stopping me.

  “True,” he says, glancing at his watch. “I’d better go. Have fun this afternoon.”

  Since I have nowhere else to be, I watch him make his way down the block. The Braves coat looks out of place with his fitted, black dress pants and shiny shoes. Anyone else might have trouble pulling it off, but when he turns to wave goodbye at the corner, I’m reminded of his boyish charm and the beer-drinking sports lover who won me over the night we met.

  The wind catches his dark hair and pushes it forward until the curly ends lick at his thick, natural brows. I have to torture myself with hot wax to avoid comparisons to centipedes, but his are perfect.

  My hand lifts in a weak wave as he grins and disappears from view.

  The Dome Station is crowded with people hustling to get to work on time after their lunch breaks. The Doraville train is packed, too, but I manage a window seat.

  To celebrate the end of the semester, I decide to treat myself to a pedicure, complete with hot stones. My toes are a bright, festive red with green tips when I leave the shop. It’s winter, and no one will see them other than me and Wade. Christmas is his favorite holiday, though, so I know he’ll like them as much as I do.

  Hours disappear at Lenox Square as I shop for holiday attire. As much as I’d like a handful of new dresses, if I want to be able to afford gifts, it’s not in my budget. The idea of wiping out my savings account isn’t appealing, and neither is running up my credit card.

  One new dress will have to do.

  It comes down to a shiny, green sati
n number with a flared skirt or one that’s fitted, black, and knee length. The green looks good, matches my eyes, and compliments the natural gold highlights in my hair. The black is something I can wear and still be able to disappear into the crowd, so it’s the one that leaves with me.

  I’ve barely made it out to the sidewalk when my phone rings. Van’s name flashes on the screen until I accept the call.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I take it you survived exam week,” he says. My brother’s voice is home and happiness.

  “I did. Thanks for checking up on me.”

  “Corey and I took a little road trip last weekend.”

  “Where to this time?” They’re always on the go.

  “Chicago.”

  “Again?”

  “We got married.”

  I stop mid–step, blocking holiday shoppers on the sidewalk around me. “What?”

  “We’ve wanted to for a while. We both took vacation days Friday and made it a long weekend.”

  “You didn’t even call.” I move over to let the crowd sweep past, halting no one but myself.

  “It was supposed to be a shopping trip and a show. You remember Dustin, right? The guy I dated for a while my sophomore year? He’s in It’s a Wonderful Life and sent us tickets. Corey proposed right after we checked into the hotel.” He pauses and lets out a nervous laugh. “Well, after we got to our room. He packed all the stuff we’d need, had a ring, chilled the champagne… Everything.”

  “It sounds perfect.”

  “It was the best weekend of my life.”

  “I’m happy for you. I am,” I say. “I’m only sad I missed it.”

  “Everyone did, Vi. It was spontaneous, and just a few friends from the area were there.”

  “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re happy. Congratulations. I can’t wait to see you guys next week.”

  “Yeah, about that…” I can almost picture him leaning back and wincing. “I’m sorry to do this to you—really, I am—but Mom wants to have a reception for us… at home… next Friday. I know the plan was for everyone to meet at Ronnie’s this year for Christmas, but it doesn’t look like Miss Verity will be able to travel.”

  Our grandmother fell and broke her hip four months ago. We were told not to get our hopes up because of her age, but she’s recovered much better than the doctors expected. Admiring her spunk, they laughed when she told them she would, but none of them had any way of knowing Miss Verity could see her own future as well as theirs.

  “I talked to her last week,” I say. “She didn’t mention a turn for the worse.”

  He rushes to explain. “She’s not worse, but she’s not necessarily better, either. The airport would be hard on her, and a long car ride isn’t an option. I’m sorry, but it looks like Christmas is in New Orleans this year.”

  “I—”

  “It’s Christmas, Vi, and I’m married. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if you weren’t there at my reception.”

  The worry for my grandmother fades with his reassurance that she’s well, but then it morphs into the full-blown dread that always accompanies thoughts of going home to New Orleans.

  “Are you okay?” Van’s voice is soft, cautious.

  “Yeah,” I say, licking my lips and swallowing the past. “I’ll talk to Wade.” Thinking of him now makes me want to cry. He’s scheduled to work Christmas Eve. National news doesn’t take a break for the holidays. There’s always news.

  Last year, my brother and Corey hosted in St. Louis. Until three minutes ago, the plan for this year had been to go to my sister Ronnie’s place. Wade and I were set to drive down to Pensacola as soon as his shift ends on Christmas Eve. Getting stationed in a beach town was a lucky draw for my brother-in-law, and waking up to the sound of the ocean was everyone’s idea of a happy holiday.

  There will be no gift exchange on the beach. That’s abundantly clear. I’ve managed to avoid New Orleans for a couple of years, but it seems my luck’s run out.

  “You’ll come early for the reception, right?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You have to be there,” he says, ending the debate.

  Whether I want to or not, we both know I will be. My family specializes in guilt. My mom and sister will call in the next few hours. They always send Van in first to lay the groundwork and neutralize me. He’s my weakness, and everyone knows it.

  “I’m really happy for you,” I say. “Of course I’ll be there.”

  “I love you. See you next week.”

  “Love you, too.”

  I silence my phone and drop it into my purse. I’m not in the mood to talk to Ronnie or Mom. I don’t want to think about Van’s reception, especially since it looks like I’ll be going back to New Orleans alone.

  SkyHouse looms in the distance. Each MARTA stop is one closer to home, but there’s another city on my mind from a lifetime ago, one with streetcars and carriages. Lost in thought, I almost miss my stop.

  I’m shaking by the time I finally make it home. Inside, I wave to a few people I recognize in the lobby but keep a straight course to the elevator. No one joins me for the ride up, so I stare at the numbers flashing above the door and count from one to twenty.

  The hall’s empty, but each step is measured. The dress is folded neatly over my arm and clutched to my chest. I’ll probably need the green one, too, for Van’s reception. It’s nicer and more appropriate for a special event. After all, it’s not every day your little brother gets married.

  It takes a few moments to find my keys in the cavern of my purse. In the process, the dress, my bag, and all of its contents tumble out of my hands to the floor. Hot tears fall before I’ve had a chance to catch up with my emotions.

  On my knees, gathering lipstick and wayward pieces of gum, the words Miss Verity spoke to me ten years ago—the day I left New Orleans for good—echo around me.

  “You can’t change fate, Violet.”

  It was a hell of a thing to say to a petrified eighteen-year-old girl who was leaving her home and family for the first time to go to school hundreds of miles away.

  The apartment looks the same as it did when I left this morning: Wade’s running shoes are by the door, a stack of Christmas cards are on the table, and the blinds are cracked. The natural sunlight leaking into the room is more orange than bright, but it’s enough to illuminate the way to our bedroom.

  I don’t bother with the lights until I reach our closet. The dress joins half a dozen others on the rack in the back, and when I push them aside, the sight of a pink shoebox brings me to my knees.

  This is a bad day to do this.

  I should get up and check flight schedules to New Orleans, but I work the box out of its place at the bottom of a column of similar ones instead. Wedged between the stack and the wall is a small, flat package wrapped in brown paper that’s covered in postage stamps. I lean against the wall on Wade’s side of the shared space, draw my knees against my body, and hug them.

  I’m not sure how long I stare at the box before finally straightening my legs and pulling it into my lap. It hasn’t been opened in ten years, but I could list the contents from memory. Instead, I take a deep breath and lift the lid.

  The scent of crape jasmine lingers momentarily and then disappears so fast that I almost wonder if I imagined it. If I could will a smell to last, it would be that one, but it calls to mind summer on Saint Charles Avenue.

  Everything in this box will.

  A withered sprig from a crape jasmine bush sits on top of folded pieces of notebook paper with familiar writing on them. Block letters, black ink, and tic-tac-toe crosses cover most of them. There’s a theme park ticket stub, a plastic glow-in-the-dark skull necklace, and pictures.

  Pictures of me with long, straight hair and dressed all in black, standing next to a boy with hair that’s straight in the front, short in the back, and lighter than straw. Pictures of me alone, leaning against concrete, standing next to a rail overlooking the Mississippi River, and lying on
a hardwood floor under a lit Christmas tree.

  The last one’s a punch to the chest, and it falls on the floor in front of me. Nothing can hurt as bad as that picture, so in an effort to cool the hot knife in my heart, I pull the package out to redirect my focus, pausing only for a moment to look at the date stamped at the top before ripping the paper away.

  It seems fitting that my last gift from him ended up being a book. There are few things in the world I love more. I don’t want this one, though.

  Behind the Squall: Katrina in Pictures

  My fingers shake as they trace the letters of his name at the bottom. It’s been so long since I’ve let myself think of him. When this came in the mail four years ago, I shoved it onto a shelf on the bookcase at my old apartment. It’s been in the darkest corner of my closet here since Wade and I moved in a couple of years ago.

  The crying doesn’t start until I open it and flip past the title page to the dedication, and then everything blurs.

  To Violet, the calm between my storms.

  I once swore he’d get no more of my tears. Heaven knows I wasted enough on him through the years, but they come anyway, hot and fast. I can’t stand to turn the page, but I can’t tolerate staring at those words, either.

  Pictures of my city—desolate and drowning, wrecked and ravaged—pass with each turn of the page. He must’ve been outside for at least part of the storm. The action shots are like something out of a sci-fi apocalypse movie: rain blowing sideways, trees bent, and unforgiving skies.

  There’s photo after photo of destruction, but then midway through, there’s the journey of restoration and healing. When I reach the end, I flip back to the beginning, stare at the dedication, and cry alone in a dark apartment as the small bulb in the closet spotlights my plight. It’s a journey through time I didn’t want and wasn’t prepared for.

  “Violet?” Wade’s voice, raised in worry, calls out through the rooms, and a moment later, he’s hovering above me, staring down at me. “Jesus, you scared me. I thought something was wrong.” Upon closer inspection, he sees that something is. He drops to his knees beside me and looks down at the open book in my lap, the scattered notes, and the pictures on the floor. His arm pulls me closer, and I bury my face against his chest.