A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  I sucked in a gulp of air—I hadn’t realized I’d stopped breathing—and nodded.

  “And just so you know, I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to be right here by your side, no matter what, okay?” He squeezed my fingers and winked. “You’re stuck with me.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and then let him lead me down the corridor to where my father and friends waited.

  ~ ~ ~

  They must have heard us coming because a moment later, my father—looking oh, so much older than he had the last time I saw him—swept out into the corridor in front of us. His hungry eyes took us in, a wretched sound shattering the fragile facade of courage I wore, and then he started toward us, picking up speed until he was running. I froze, afraid to take another step, my legs like wobbly noodles beneath me, and then his arms were around me, holding me and crying into my hair, one hand pressing my head to his shoulder.

  “Savannah, oh Savvy-girl,” he said, over and over, his voice broken and joyous at the same time. “Savannah, you’re home. Thank you, Jesus.” My conservative, reserved father, standing in a public place, weeping openly, embracing me for the entire world to see. Or at least for the three people in scrubs around the nurses’ station at the other end of the hall. No one else came out of the waiting room where Dad had been.

  “Mama?”

  I turned in my father’s embrace, which wasn’t exactly easy, considering he barely loosened his grip on me, and smiled over at Killian in an attempt to let him know I was all right. For such a little guy, he was extremely protective of me. My little man.

  “Who dat?” he demanded, lifting a stubby finger to poke Jordan in the jaw. Then he turned toward my father with narrowed, sleep-puffy eyes under furrowed brows. “Who dat?” he asked, this time, his voice a little more shrill, clearly not very happy with the whole situation.

  I didn’t know what to say. My mouth opened, and for a moment, it just stayed that way.

  Jordan smiled down at the frowning little boy and said, “I’m Jordan. What’s your name?”

  “Killer,” he replied, his scowl still firmly in place. “Who dat, Mama?” Killian repeated, his eyes darting back and forth between my father and Jordan, still not sure of it all.

  “I’m your Grandpa Ron.”

  Those words, spoken so gently by my father to my son, made my knees go weak. But I pulled away from him and reached for Killian, who all but threw himself out of Jordan’s arms to get to me. Due in part to the lifestyle we led, and in part to his gregarious personality, he was probably more upset about his disturbed sleep than he was about waking up surrounded by strangers, but I didn’t want to give him any reason to throw a temper tantrum like the one he’d had earlier that evening.

  Besides, it had always been Killian and me against the world, and I wasn’t quite ready to relinquish my hold on the way things were until I had a better idea of how things were going to be. I looked back at my father. He stood, legs braced, his fingers toying with the ridged seams running up the outsides of his jeans. And he studied my son, his eyes gentle, but hungry, like they’d been when he first saw me a moment ago. Killian turned away from him and rested his chin on my shoulder, gazing back down the hall the way we’d come.

  “Where’s Marek?” he asked, his sleepy voice loud in the stillness. He said the name in one syllable. I ignored the curious look Jordan shot my way; even Killian called the man by his Gypsy king name.

  “He’s at home,” I whispered against his ear, kissing his cheek. I didn’t want to think about where Marek might be at the moment, but I kind of hoped, in fact, that he wasn’t home yet.

  “I wanna go home.”

  “I know, baby.” It hurt me more than anything to hear him say those words, to know that my son considered a man like Marek ‘home.’

  Fortunately, Killian just sighed and turned his head on my shoulder so his face pressed into my neck, his breath warm below my ear. He began toying with one of the multitude of tiny braids threaded throughout my hair, something he often did to soothe himself. He didn’t suck his thumb or carry around a threadbare blanket, but his little fingers couldn’t stay away from my braids. Which was why I always wore them.

  I turned back to Dad. “How is Mom? Have you heard anything?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing yet. It will probably be another hour, from what the nurse tells us. I’m glad you’re here, Savannah. It will—” His voice cracked as he turned to Jordan. “Thank you, son,” he whispered, his words strangled and rough.

  Jordan shook my father’s hand and clapped him gently on the back, and then Dad nodded toward the door to the waiting area where the others presumably were. I was glad they’d given us these few moments of privacy, but I was now overwhelmed by fear again. Dad must have sensed it, because he reached over and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “I’m glad you’re here, honey,” he said again, dipping his head to look me in the eye. I must have grown a little since I’d left home. Either that, or Dad had shrunk. Was it possible?

  “Um, Dad?” It felt so strange to call anyone that, but it made me realize that Killian wouldn’t understand so much about life outside our caravan and the alternative world we lived in. “I don’t think he knows what a grandpa is.”

  My father’s expression fell, and I quickly tried to explain that it wasn’t against him personally. “Or any other family title, for that matter. Except Mama, I mean. He calls me Mama, but he thinks that’s just his special name for me since no one else calls me that. Like Killer is mine for him. We all go by our first names in our group, so he knows my name is Savah. I mean, that’s what he knows me as everywhere else. So I guess he doesn’t really know me as Savannah, but it’s close enough to Savah…”

  I sounded like a windup doll. I clamped my mouth shut. The more I said, the more apparent my complete and utter abandonment of my past became. I’d left behind my family and my real identity, not just physically, but in every way, not even teaching my son about who he was or about those who came before him.

  Dad took a deep breath—he tried to hide it, but I saw his chest rise and fall slowly—and then he stepped back. “Then I guess we’ll have to come up with a couple of special names of our own, won’t we?” He was being so careful, and a wave of guilt washed over me. This was not the time or place to have to deal with any of this, and yet here I was, forcing myself—and presumably up until an hour or two ago, unbeknown to him, his first and only grandchild—on him. The man was already reeling over what was happening with his beloved wife, and I show up to heap more troubles on his shoulders.

  “Do you want me to come back later?” The words were out before I even thought about how they’d sound. But I was so accustomed to catering to Marek and his ups and downs, his unpredictable moods, that the question was formed and ready on the tip of my tongue at all times. “I mean… well, I can take Killian to get something to eat and come back after you have news if that would be easier. He’s a little cranky, and I—I don’t want us to be in the way.” They kept spilling out, even as my throat tightened against them.

  “Savannah,” Jordan murmured reassuringly, putting a hand on my back and nudging me forward. My father looked confused, like he was waiting for the rest of the joke.

  “Sorry.” I gulped, my eyes closing briefly. “Lead the way.”

  Dad cupped one of my elbows with one hand and escorted me down the hall while Jordan flanked me on the other side. My own personal bodyguards, I thought, and then panicked as I wondered what kind of reception I’d need guarding against.

  We stopped again a few feet away from the door, and my father rested his arm around my shoulders, careful not to bump Killian, who kept his head down. I could tell, even without looking at him, that he was awake and alert, peering at the world from under my chin, a hand clutched tightly in the hair at the back of my neck.

  “Savannah…” My father spoke convincingly, his voice sounding almost exactly like Jordan’s had a minute ago. “Everyone in that waiting room is expecting you.
Both of you. It will be all right. We’re here now to focus on Mom, and that’s all, okay?”

  I knew what he was saying—that everyone present had been forewarned and threatened, if need be—and although I knew I wouldn’t be dealing with shock and surprise, there would be no way anyone could hide the unasked questions hanging heavy in the air. But Dad was right. This was about Mom. There’d be time enough for questions—and maybe a few answers—later.

  At that moment, the door opened, and Stella Ransome poked her head out into the hall. That woman was completely guileless. Watching her react to seeing us there was like watching the sun burst out from behind a cloud. I could have sworn a light went on inside her body, because she practically beamed all over. She slipped out, pulling the door closed behind her, and had Killian and me wrapped in a motherly hug before I could even come up with an appropriate greeting.

  “Your mother is going to be absolutely thrilled to see you, sweetie.” Then she swept back my hair and brushed the palm of her hand against Killian’s cheek. “And you, too, little man.” Killian didn’t turn away, and I thought I felt his cheek bunch a little against my shoulder; a good sign that he might have actually smiled for Jordan’s mom. But then, Killer loved the ladies. Any size, shape, and age; he loved them all.

  Besides, Mrs. Ransome knew her way around boys. She had four grown sons of her own, Jordan the youngest of the lot. Tish had come along two years later, the only girl in the family. So I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be long before Killian was wooing his way into her heart the way he did every other female he encountered.

  Just like his father.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I was awakened by the sound of Jordan’s phone ringing and the movement of his shoulder as he fumbled to grab the device out of his back pocket. As I straightened up, I pushed the hair from my eyes; I’d fallen asleep with my head resting on his shoulder. Across the room, Killian lay like dead weight in Mrs. Ransome’s arms.

  “What time is it?” I asked gruffly as Jordan studied the screen on his phone.

  “Almost eleven,” he muttered. “Your dad just headed out to the nurses’ station to see if they have any word.”

  Jim Ransome sat beside his wife, his head leaned back against the wall, his eyes glued to the television where an old Elvis movie played too quietly to be enjoyed. His hand covered one of Mrs. Ransome’s hands where it rested on her knee, their fingers laced. I felt the corner of my mouth hitch when I saw Tish and Sebastian, a few chairs down, sitting in almost the exact same positions.

  Just then, Sebastian turned and caught my eye. He smiled at me, and I knew without a doubt what had made Tish look twice at a guy for the first time in her life. In all the years I’d known her, I’d never seen her with anyone but Tom Campbell, her best friend and band mate. She used to say she didn’t have time for love—her music career came first. The way she looked at Sebastian Jeffries, though, made me believe she’d been convinced otherwise. I supposed it helped that he was now in her band, too. The girl could have her musical boyfriend cake and eat it too.

  Sebastian Jeffries. The guy who’d stepped into the empty place I’d left behind. My emotions regarding him waffled between being exceedingly grateful for how much he obviously cared about my parents and resenting him for being there when I wasn’t. No, when I couldn’t be.

  I’d heard enough of his story to know that he’d needed my parents as much, possibly even more so, than they’d needed him. His father, one of those monsters you only hear about on the news, had been convicted of several counts of aggravated assault, including his attack on his own son, the murder of his wife almost twenty years ago, and the murder of a homeless man named Foster Creed only last year. According to Jordan, Mr. Jeffries was still awaiting trial on several other felonies and there was talk of another unsolved murder being linked to him. Sebastian couldn’t have asked for a better sanctuary than my parents’ home, and for him—for them all—I was glad. I was glad they had each other.

  But his presence, even in this small, teal-toned room, left me feeling out of place, unseated, so to speak, and uncertain of where I fit in, or even if I fit in at all.

  Why I was even thinking this way was beyond me. I had no clue where I would sleep tonight, so worrying about how I was going to fit in around there should have been the least of my worries. And yet, it was the probing question of the hour for me. Now that I’d made contact with my parents, with Jordan and his family, I knew I couldn’t completely disappear again, but I really didn’t think I belonged on Maple Avenue anymore. Sebastian moving in with my parents only muddied the waters.

  In the best way possible, I had to admit. I saw the way he watched my father, how attentive he was, unwilling to go home even when Dad insisted. And of course, since Sebastian refused to leave, Tish wasn’t going anywhere either. According to Jordan, my mom and his mom had become close friends after Sebastian moved in, and the two families shared many family meals together.

  I think Jordan stayed at the hospital for my sake, a thought that made my pulse quicken.

  “You just called me.” He spoke quietly, but his guarded tone made the hairs at the back of my neck stand up.

  “What?” I absentmindedly patted the pockets of the burnt-orange hoodie I wore, and then I froze. “Marek.” The name clawed its way out of my mouth.

  “He has your phone?”

  I’d forgotten to tell Jordan I’d left it behind. “I didn’t realize it was missing until I got to the car, and then I wasn’t about to go back for it.”

  “I would have—”

  “We were in a hurry,” I cut him off, not wanting to discuss my situation here.

  Jordan nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he finally said. He silenced the phone, shoved it back in his pocket, and then stood. He held out a hand. “Want to do another lap with me? We can see what’s keeping your dad, too.”

  We headed out into the quiet corridor, but I didn’t see my father at the triage. The unit was designed with the nursing station in the center, the rooms opening on the corridors along either side of it. Perhaps Dad was doing the same thing we were and was just coming around the far end. We made our way slowly, comfortable enough with each other now to do so in silence.

  As we rounded the loop at the far end of the unit, I heard Dad’s voice—even after all this time, I recognized it immediately and smiled at the realization—coming from inside one of the patient rooms. I glanced up at a clock hanging on the wall. Nearly midnight. What on earth was he doing?

  Grabbing Jordan’s hand to stop him, I lifted a finger to my lips before he could ask what was wrong. I pointed at the open door. He glanced over, and then nodded in understanding. I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but I was so curious.

  “Comfort Jesse tonight, Father. Ease his pain so he can rest.” A wave of nostalgia so intense it made me shudder washed over me as I listened to my father pray over someone in need. How many times had I heard him do just that in all my years? Comforting the grieving, blessing new babies, advocating to the God he believed in on behalf of a hurting soul, even if that person didn’t believe the same way. And now, here he was, in the middle of his own hour of need, reaching out to offer solace to someone else. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized how much I missed the sound of my father’s voice when he was talking to God.

  I clung to Jordan’s hand, hardly daring to breathe, as tears slid down my cheeks. Now that I was here, I longed for home and all that it had once been more than I had in a very long time. I’d grown accustomed to making my home wherever my feet—or our caravan—landed us, to making the best of what I had, of what my life had become. But this, that comforting voice drifting out into the hall around us, the gentle hand holding mine, the sweet image of my son curled into the arms of a woman who might have been his grandmother in another version of my life, it was a bittersweet reminder of all the things I’d never been able to conjure up on the road.

  We waited a few moments longer, listening to Dad
say goodnight to the inhabitant of that room, and then he stepped out into the corridor, his expression still weary, but peaceful. His eyes lit up when he saw us.

  “Hey, kids. Are you looking for me? Any word on Mom?” Dad tugged on a strand of my hair and smiled. He kept touching me, as if he didn’t quite believe I was there. Nothing overly expressive—nothing like that first hug when I’d arrived—but little nudges and pats, fingertips brushing my shoulders, a hand at my elbow, or when he sat beside Jordan and me in the waiting room, his knee bumping against mine every so often.

  “No. We were actually coming to check on you when you didn’t come back right away.” Jordan stepped around to his other side, so my father walked between us now.

  “Oh, I’m sorry I worried you. There was no news to tell, so I didn’t hurry back. That poor fellow just came through a hip replacement, and he’s in pretty bad shape right now. When I was at the nurse’s station, his wife, Wanda, came out and asked if there was a chaplain on duty. There is one on call, but I thought I might save the poor fellow—or woman—a wakeup call at this hour and offered my own services. Nice couple.” He relayed the whole thing as though he’d done nothing out of the ordinary. I suppose, in his case, it wasn’t.

  We headed back toward the waiting room and tried to get comfortable again. Mom had been in surgery for more than four hours now, and time seemed to have slowed to almost a standstill. If I thought too much about it, I’d freak out a little over the whole situation, but Jordan’s mom seemed to sense when I got antsy, because without fail, she’d ask me a seemingly mundane question that would turn my attention away from worrying about my mother, or about Marek and his reaction to my disappearance. She didn’t broach the subject of where I’d been or whom I’d been with, but asked questions about Killian, a subject I could talk about forever. These people who had been such a monumental part of my life growing up had missed more than two years of Killian’s life. Tonight, they were getting a crash course into the little guy. His favorite colors, his favorite toys, his eating and sleeping habits, his clothing and shoe size, what books and movies he liked. My father just listened, a sad, but sweet smile on his face. I knew his thoughts were never far from my mother, but he was soaking up every detail I shared about Killian.