A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  I hadn’t heard him and Tish leave, so they must have slipped out while I was in the shower. As I drifted off, I wondered if he’d be back in our kitchen in the morning.

  Hoping he would be.

  Praying he wouldn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I came awake, my mind reluctantly releasing the dream that had deposited me in this new day. I’d been lounging on a cloud, conversing with a girl who reminded me of myself when I’d been fourteen or fifteen. Awkward, shy, but so curious about life. Her questions had been filled with a desire to know everything there was to know about falling in love, having children, and growing old. But she kept asking me about trees, about the best kind to plant and how to grow them large enough to reach from the ground up to the cloud where we sat so we could visit each other again in the future. I tried several times to answer her, and we both laughed hysterically when my words came out sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher in the Peanuts cartoons. How peaceful and lovely that cloud had been beneath me, and how relaxed I’d been.

  I hugged my pillow—practically a cloud itself—to me, burying my face in it, relishing in the fragrance of my youth. The Fresh Breeze laundry detergent, the almond butter scent from the lotion I’d used liberally after my shower last night, the faint hint of sandalwood and resin incense in my hair—I’d been too tired to wash it last night and hadn’t wanted to go to sleep with it wet anyway. And Killian. I caught a whiff of that nearly intoxicating tang of toddler skin and sour breath, sunshine hair and good, clean dirt.

  Killian! I sat up suddenly, the quiet of the room a sure indication that he wasn’t there, validated by the open bedroom door. I threw back the covers and clambered to my feet, nearly tripping as my slow-moving morning equilibrium tried to keep up with my rapid-fire moves.

  I found him in the kitchen with my father, Sebastian, and to my secret relief, Jordan. The four of them sat at the table, eying each other over four stacks of pancakes. Jordan’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see his expression. Dad’s face was almost gray with lack of sleep, but he practically glowed as he watched Killian, who was watching Sebastian and copying every move the guy made. He held his large fork exactly the way Sebastian did, cutting, stabbing, swirling, and lifting each bite of pancake the way Sebastian did, even pausing to take a sip of whatever was in the coffee cup in front of him when Sebastian did.

  Sebastian, however, had somehow managed to do all the above without dropping pancake pieces down the front of himself, unlike Killian—much to the delight of Pete, who was once again stationed under the table, but this time at Killian’s feet instead—or without getting syrup in his hair or all over his hands.

  I covered my grin with my hand. I couldn’t think of a sweeter tableau to wake up to. I didn’t want to interrupt the man-cave moment, but Dad noticed me and his eyes lit up. He stood, just the way he always did when a woman walked in the room, although he looked a little shaky. Like a game of Whack-a-Mole, Sebastian popped up, and then Jordan, turning as he did to look at me. His expression was wary, but his smile was warm, and then he pulled out a chair between him and Killian, who was trying to figure out how to unlatch the buckle on the booster seat he was strapped into.

  Jordan must have seen the question in my eyes. “My mom sent it over with me this morning. We have a ton of those things hanging around the house, and she thought you might need it.”

  I thanked him, not quite looking at him, humbled by the way everyone around me seemed so ready to help. Dad came around the table and put an arm around my shoulders. He seemed tentative, so I hugged him back. I couldn’t blame him; he still had no answers to what I assumed were a boatload of questions. In my frantic need to get home last night, I hadn’t thought about what today would look like and how we would all process my return.

  “How’s Mom?” I asked, lowering myself into the seat Jordan still proffered. After I sat, I bent over to kiss Killian’s forehead, the only part of his face not covered in peanut butter or syrup. Sebastian set an empty plate down in front of me and held up a coffee cup in question. I nodded and thanked him, then turned back to Dad, who had returned to his seat. He pushed a platter of pancakes toward me, grinning when I slid four of them onto my plate and slathered them with peanut butter and syrup. I wondered why he wasn’t at the hospital.

  “She had a rough night last night, poor thing. The surgeon said that was to be expected, but he changed her pain meds, which seemed to make a difference. She was sleeping soundly when I left about an hour ago, and her nurse said she’d probably be out of it for the better part of the day. Two of the women from church are with her now so I could come home for a bit. I wanted to shower, shave, and—” His pause was almost imperceptible, but I heard it. He was wondering if he’d find me here or not. “—see how you were doing. Then when Jordan showed up and Killian and Sebastian wandered downstairs, I realized my buttermilk pancakes were in good order.”

  “Your buttermilk pancakes are the bomb diggity, Dad.” The words slipped out so easily, ones I’d said a hundred times in my life. Embarrassed, I glanced over at Killian and grinned at the look of sheer bliss on his sticky face. No pancake out there came in at even a close second to Dad’s, and there was no comfort food better on a weekend morning. I felt a band of grief and regret wrapping itself around my chest at how much I’d missed this.

  We made small talk while we ate, and I was glad to be beside Jordan instead of across from him. I was certain he studied me, even if he didn’t openly do it. What must he be thinking of me after my up-and-down behavior last night? The hot-and-cold reception I’d given him?

  I had on leggings and a tank top, over which I’d thrown a flannel shirt I’d grabbed off the back of my bedroom door in my mad dash out of my bedroom to find Killian. Did he recognize the shirt? I’d borrowed it from him one night while we sat out under the stars; he’d draped it around my shoulders when I told him I was getting cold. Right now, it seemed to radiate with his warmth the way it had back then.

  Killian, diaper sagging low on his bottom, helped Sebastian clear the table while I finished eating, and then I excused us to go clean up and figure out how we would manage for the day. I knew the little guy wouldn’t do well spending every waking hour at the hospital, but I needed to see Mom and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving him with anyone else.

  I also needed the guys to clear out of the kitchen so I could try calling Marek again. The Faire gates would open in about half an hour, so if I called him soon, he wouldn’t be able to stay on the phone for more than a minute or two.

  I’d almost made it to the top of the stairs when Jordan stopped me. “Savannah?” He stood with one foot on the bottom step, his hand on the railing. “He called a few times this morning.” He spoke almost in a whisper, as though not wanting anyone else to hear—probably for my dad’s sake.

  My pulse quickened. It was my body’s automatic response to Marek’s unpredictable nature. “Did he leave a message?”

  Jordan snorted and one side of his mouth quirked up in a mocking smile. “None for you.”

  My heart stopped cold and then jump-started again, racing to catch up with itself. “What did he say?” The question came out in a near croak.

  “Enough to know you might not want to call him this morning unless you’re planning to show up at the Faire in half an hour.” The concern in his voice softened the sarcastic words.

  “I—I promised I’d call.” I didn’t know what else to say. “He needs to hear from me. It’s only right.” I’d wiped Killian’s hands with a damp paper towel before leaving the table, but his fingers in my sweating palms were still sticky. He tugged to free himself, but I held on.

  “I can call him for you.”

  “No!” My grip tightened in reflex.

  “Mama! Ow!” Killian writhed in place and tried to pull away again.

  “Sorry, Killer. Let’s go take a bath, okay? I’ll make you a pirate ship.” He loved paper boats in the tub, because unlike plastic toys, he could actually sink them
, and then I’d make him more. I turned back to Jordan. “I need to get him in the bath.”

  “Savannah.” He still stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at us. I could hear my dad rummaging around in the master bedroom downstairs, and it sounded like Sebastian was still finishing up in the kitchen. This was all a little surreal to me, even after being gone for so long. Sunday morning around the Clark house was usually the busiest day of the week. Dad always headed out the door early, Bible and sermon notes tucked under his arm, and Mom and I rushed around getting ready for church. As sweet and docile as she was, my mother was notoriously late to everything, including Sunday morning services, and this apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. Inevitably, we’d sweep into the foyer several bars into Mrs. Sousa’s piano prelude. And there was no sneaking in, either, because Dad waited at the sanctuary doors to escort us right up the middle aisle to our seats in the second row. I often wondered if people thought we did it on purpose—the whole grand entrance thing—although that seemed a little wrong to me, considering church was supposed to be about noticing God, not the pastor’s wife and daughter.

  I wondered who would be preaching today in Dad’s place and if they would hold a special prayer time for my mom.

  I wondered if they still held special prayer times for me.

  “He might want to talk to Killian,” I said, coming back to the moment. “And I told him I would.”

  “He doesn’t want to talk to Killian.”

  I sighed and bent down to pick up my son, who was growing impatient, and propped him on my hip. “He might.” I didn’t want to argue about Marek. I knew he wouldn’t want to talk to Killian—he didn’t enjoy conversing with him in person, so why would he suffer through a phone call with him now?—but I needed to wrap this up. I had too much to think about right now to stand here discussing Marek with Jordan.

  “Fine. I’ll be here when you’re ready to go. I’m your ride to the hospital.”

  That pulled me up short. “Wait. No, Jordan. You’ve done too much already. I’ll ride with my dad.” Killian was swinging his legs angrily now, his heels thumping against my thigh. “Stop it,” I muttered, grabbing at his ankle. The leg behind me kicked harder.

  Jordan cocked his head to one side and pointedly eyed Killian’s wriggling body. “Your dad is going for the whole day. And probably the night, too. Not sure that will fly with Killer there.”

  And I couldn’t drive so it wasn’t as if I could borrow the car. Jordan didn’t know that for sure, but he’d probably guessed as much, having met Marek. He knew I hadn’t learned to drive before I left home—I’d planned to take Driver’s Education classes my senior year—but it wasn’t a big stretch for anyone who knew Marek to think he wouldn’t want me able to hop in a car and leave whenever I felt like it.

  “Fine,” I said, sounding like he had a moment ago, capitulating begrudgingly. I turned to go, hating that I was being rude to him, but he didn’t understand the pressure I felt from Marek, even at a distance. I had to call him, no matter what, but maybe I could do so from the hospital when Jordan wasn’t lurking over my shoulder.

  “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “Fine,” I said again, setting Killian down and taking a few steps toward the bathroom. Jordan’s voice stopped me one more time.

  “By the way, nice shirt.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  By the time we made our way downstairs again, Dad was just getting ready to head out, too. He gave me another side-hug, making me long for the easy camaraderie we’d once shared, and kissed the top of my freshly washed hair. He laid a hand on Killian’s shoulder, and I stared at it for a moment, surprised to see the signs of age in the protruding veins along the back of his hand, the knuckles much knobbier than I remembered. I didn’t want to think about my part in my father’s accelerated aging. I glanced down at my own hand where it rested over the closure of my floppy bag. Mine looked older than they should, too.

  The ride to the hospital was quiet, strained. At least for me. Jordan seemed ridiculously relaxed, pointing out things to Killian, who rode along enthralled by the scenes we passed. Although the troupe was on the road more often than not, he usually rode in the camper, not strapped into a seat in a car, so this was practically a new adventure for him. “Look!” he exclaimed, repeatedly, pointing at every red car, at every fluttering flag, his sandaled feet thumping his excitement into the back of my seat. I didn’t scold him, but tried to enjoy his delight instead of focusing on my discomfort.

  Sebastian had gone to church with Tish, and from there to work, much to Killian’s dismay. My son had decided, somewhere in his unique reality, that Sebastian and Tish were pirates, like so many of his Faire friends, and he’d decided he really, really liked them. It may have had something to do with the pirate stories they’d shared in the waiting room at the hospital last night. But Sebastian had promised to bring Tish back to the house for dinner that night, and although I hadn’t extended the invitation—I didn’t think it was my place to—I didn’t shush Killian when he told Jordan he could come, too. I did have to translate, so perhaps I’d participated in the invitation after all.

  The hallways were busier in the middle of the day. Killian made his presence known by waving and saying ‘hi’ to everyone we passed, staff and patients alike, including those who were laid up in their beds if the room doors stood open. I often wondered if I was a little too relaxed about how friendly he was, but I loved watching him make people smile. It made me smile, too, and I sometimes thought my baby was the only reason I had to do so.

  “Would you like me to take Killer to the vending machine at the other end of the hall so you can check in with your folks?” Jordan took Killian’s other hand. As though he’d done it a thousand times before, he wasn’t at all surprised when the little guy took a few hopping steps and then lifted his feet off the ground to swing between us. Jordan took it all in stride.

  I’d been trying to figure out how to ask him if he’d do just that from the moment we’d pulled into the parking lot. I didn’t know if Killian was allowed in the room or not, but I didn’t think he should meet his grandmother for the first time with her looking the way she did. It might traumatize them both for life. Besides, maybe I could find a phone and put in a call to Marek. “That would be great. Thank you. Again.”

  “Again?”

  “I feel like I’m having to thank you every time I turn around.” I didn’t look at him. “You’re doing so much, Jordan. Too much.”

  He stopped walking, and because we were both clutching one of Killian’s hands, I pulled up short, too. “What?” I asked, although I thought I already knew what he was going to say.

  “Savannah, will you make me a deal?” I looked at him then, straight on. Suddenly, I saw him not as a college kid home for summer vacation, but as a man. He’d lost that lanky, leggy look so many guys had once they’d reached their full height but had yet to beef up into manhood, and his shoulders were broader than I remembered. There were shallow grooves like parentheses on either side of his mouth, and fine lines at the corners of his eyes. I thought they made him look mature and debonair. I liked it. A lot.

  “Swing me!” Killian demanded, jumping up and down between us. I didn’t come closer and try as he might, our arms were too far stretched for him to lift his feet high enough off the ground. I stared at Jordan, waiting for him to continue.

  “If I promise not to do anything I don’t want to do, will you let me be the one to decide when I’ve done too much for you?”

  My eyes dropped to his mouth as he spoke, his words heavy with meaning, and my twisted mind read things into them that I was certain he hadn’t intended. It was the kind of statement Marek would make. It gave him the freedom to do whatever he wanted and not have to stop until he was good and ready.

  “No.” The word came out brusque and childish.

  “No!” Killian echoed, his husky little voice turning the word comical. “No. No. No!” He jumped up and down in time with h
is chant.

  “Killer, stop it.” I wiggled his hand and tried to tug him toward me, but Jordan didn’t let go.

  “No!” Killian shrieked, throwing his head back and listening as his shrill voice echoed around the corridor. “No, no, no, no, no.”

  “Let go of him, Jordan,” I ground out, embarrassed now.

  “No.” This time, it was Jordan, but his voice was calm, firm.

  “Seriously?” So I released Killian’s hand, angry and ashamed at the same time. I couldn’t believe we were arguing in the middle of the hospital, practically playing tug-of-war with my son. “I want to see my mother,” I said, my voice low. “Can we talk about this later?”

  But he wasn’t finished. “Really? Are you saying you’ll actually talk to me about what’s bothering you? What about what happened last night? Do you still intend to talk with me about that, too? Or are you already making plans to disappear before you have to?”

  I wasn’t sure which one of us was more shocked by his words. I had no doubt he—and all the rest of the folks on the home front—were wondering as much about me, but it was obvious by the look on his face that he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He may have had every right to feel that way, even to rail at me for leaving the way I did, but I couldn’t deal with it right now.

  “You’re a jerk, Jordan Ransome.” I wanted to call him something worse, but being back in Midtown made me feel like the pastor’s kid I was, and I couldn’t bring myself to use some of the more colorful taunts my new life had educated me in. Turning, I strode down the hall before he could see the hot flush I felt creeping up my neck. It wasn’t until I was several feet away that it dawned on me I’d left Killian with him… and that I’d done so because I knew in my heart I had nothing to fear.

  Nothing to fear.

  In this Maple Avenue, Midtown bubble, I had nothing to fear. Yes, my mother lay shredded in one of the rooms along this hallway, fighting to get back the life she’d nearly lost. Yes, my father looked far older than he should after only three years of my absence. Yes, Jordan was angry, hurt, and desperate for answers from me, even to the point of lashing out a little, but I was not afraid of him. Or them. I was not afraid in this place.