A Long Way Home

by Becky Doughty

  And I’d believed him.

  “You all right?” Jordan asked, his voice low. I glanced back at Marilyn to see her concerned eyes darting back and forth between Jordan and me. Ben, thank goodness, had headed into the kitchen to greet his parents.

  I nodded and smiled brightly, but inside, I felt like something was being peeled away from my heart in thin shreds. Cracks of light were starting to reveal things for what they were, not what I’d believed them to be. How could my perspective change so dramatically overnight? I felt a disturbing desire to find some tape or glue and cover things back up again. I didn’t want to know that I’d been so totally duped by a man who’d once made me believe I could one day be his queen.

  We sat down around the table soon after that, and I didn’t even hesitate when the whole gang joined hands and prayed; it just felt natural, even after being away for so long. I watched Killian, worried he might make a scene, but just like this morning, his eyes were once again glued to Sebastian, mimicking his every move. I think he assumed the hand-holding thing was a game of some sorts, and he shouted amen as loudly as Gina and LB when it was over.

  To my surprise, every time the conversation steered into uncomfortable territory, Tish or Sebastian, quiet as he was, adroitly changed the subject. Tish continued to study me, but I sensed empathy in her perusal now, and I wondered if she’d done the same thing for Sebastian when he’d first moved into this neighborhood. I had a feeling he probably hadn’t wanted to talk too much about his past for a while, and even as diminutive as Tish Ransome was, she definitely had that pirate queen vibe—someone accustomed to having her wishes and demands granted. I didn’t really get it—why was she being so… protective of me? But I was grateful for it, nonetheless.

  After lunch, Mrs. Ransome and Marilyn were taking the kids out to the botanical gardens where Mrs. Ransome worked part time. They asked if Killian and I would like to join them, and although I really wanted to go back to the hospital to see my mom, I agreed. Maybe it would wear Killian out so when we went back to the hospital afterward, he’d sleep the whole time. Jordan asked if I wanted him along, but Mrs. Ransome reminded him in no uncertain terms that he and Ben were on kitchen duty. “Then you can help Dad hold down the furniture in the living room. He’s got an afternoon of sports to sleep through, and I know he loves the company.”

  Even Sunday afternoons sounded cliché and normal around the Ransome home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Please, Savannah. Call me Stella.” Jordan’s mom walked on the other side of Killian, and Marilyn was latched onto her two just ahead of us on the cobbled path that meandered through the gorgeous expanse of the Midtown Botanical Gardens. “I know it’s been a while, but you agreed to do so before, remember?”

  I nodded and smiled, enjoying the peaceful afternoon sunshine. It was only the beginning of May, so the hottest part of the year wasn’t yet upon us, and there was a pleasant breeze stirring the flower heads and rustling the leaves overhead. It really was a beautiful place. We were making our way to the Kid Zone, an enclosed part of the gardens designed with kids in mind, complete with non-toxic plants, an edible herb garden, shallow wading ponds, manually operated water fountains, and tree swings. There was even an outdoor hand-puppet theater with tree-stump seats for kid-sized audiences. It was all new since I’d lived in Midtown, and I couldn’t wait to see Killian’s reaction to it all. It seemed right up his alley.

  We sat down to watch the kids take it all in. “Thanks for inviting us,” I said, glancing over at the two women beside me. They were both watching me, each wearing carefully bland expressions. I stiffened and waited for whatever was coming next. I’d seen Marek do that a thousand times—check his emotions to keep me guessing, to keep me on my toes.

  But Stella only reached over and patted my thigh. “I’m glad you could come. I know this whole situation must be terribly stressful for you. I have a notion you’re feeling pretty out of sync with all this, and this place always seems to help me find my quiet place.”

  “And it wears out the kids so they fall asleep on the way home and stay asleep all night!” Marilyn chimed in, her eyes sweeping back to where the three kids were drawing with colored chalk on a huge section of pavement laid down for that exact purpose. “We bathe the kids when we get back to Mom and Dad’s, poke and prod them so they stay awake long enough to eat an early dinner, and then load them in the car where they practically pass out. Then it’s a stay-at-home date night for Ben and me. We love Sundays.” Her eyes sparkled as she talked, and I thought about the difference between Ben and Marilyn’s Sunday nights, and Marek’s and mine.

  Sunday nights usually marked the end of a stretch of performances for us, at least for the week, and all Marek wanted to do was kick up his feet and celebrate along with the rest of the performers who were like-minded. I didn’t participate in that part of the joviality, using my son as my excuse to skip out early. By the end of the night, however, I often bore the brunt of his “celebratory mood,” which translated to sore muscles and tender places that made Monday mornings hard to face. I’d learned early on to make sure Killian was exhausted on Sundays, too, so he wouldn’t wake up. Fortunately, for the past several months now, Marek had been celebrating with anyone else but me, but I still hated Sundays.

  “Listen, Savannah, I know you’re worried about your mother and having Killian at the hospital is probably making it difficult.” Stella patted my thigh again, but then she shifted in her seat, crossed her legs, and laced her fingers together around one knee. “I don’t want to overstep my boundaries or put you on the spot, but I’d like to offer to help out in any way I can. Marilyn here—” she bumped her shoulder against her daughter-in-law’s, “—is back in school three days a week, so I have the kids from about nine in the morning until three or four in the afternoon on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I’d be thrilled to have Killian join us if it would help free you up so you can spend some time with Beatrice.” She lifted a hand to wave at Gina, who was wiggling her hips back and forth like she had ants in her pants.

  “Potty dance,” Marilyn said, jumping up and hurrying away.

  “You don’t have to give me an answer right now, but think about it, okay? I know you being near would really encourage Beatrice right now.”

  I nodded, not sure how to respond. I wanted to jump at the offer, to hug her and thank her for giving me a solution to my biggest dilemma. There was no place I could think of where Killian would be better off if he couldn’t be with me right now. But I found myself analyzing her words, searching for what she wasn’t saying, for the trap she surely must be setting. I wasn’t accustomed to accepting favors from anyone outside our Gypsy troupe.

  The performers and merchants I lived among were incredibly generous and free with their offers of help whenever anyone needed it. When one of our brothers or sisters was in trouble medically, we often banded together to raise money for expenses. We bartered and traded whatever we had on hand—clothing, wares, food, and services—to make sure no one went without. But over the last year, especially, Marek had made it more and more difficult for me to even acknowledge that I had needs. He told me it was a reflection on him, and that if I was without something, I needed to ask him to provide for me, not someone else who would judge him for not taking care of his own. When I tried to remind him that it was always done that way—the Barter Days Barbecue was a traditional event at the end of big shows like the seven-week run we were in the middle of—he slapped me hard. It was the first time he hit me in front of Killian, whose scream shattered the silence that followed the smack of Marek’s palm against my cheek, as though Killian had felt the pain himself. Marek had ordered me to shut him up or he’d do it for me, and then stormed out of the trailer. I curled my body around Killian’s while he cried himself to sleep.

  That was also the last time Marek hit me in front of Killian. I’d done everything in my power to make sure it never happened again, even to the point of asking Pella to be ready to take Kil
lian on a moment’s notice if need be. The need had arisen a few times in the last year, but I didn’t know how much longer she’d do it for me. She was beginning to be hostile toward me, telling me I needed to get out before Marek hurt Killian, too. I couldn’t tell if it was her version of tough love, or if she was just tired of covering for me. I promised her I would, but I didn’t even know where to start. I had nothing without Marek. I’d become nothing without Marek.

  And now, here was Stella Ransome, offering me another olive branch from home. These people whom I’d been so certain would judge and spurn me kept holding out their arms and showing me love, kindness, and generosity, attempting to meet my needs before I even knew I had them. It was all a little overwhelming for me.

  So I just nodded. We sat in companionable silence after that, and I soaked in the sounds of children playing, waters splashing, and birds in song in the trees around us. I tipped my face up to the sunshine, the breeze teasing the hair around my face, and tried not to think of anything at all.

  Killian was, indeed, worn thin by the time I put him in a warm bath back at my folks’ house. Even though he whimpered non-stop while I washed his hair, he didn’t fight me the way he usually did, and his eyelids drooped closed several times. I fed him a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes and meatloaf Stella had sent home with me and set him on the floor by my bed, a book in hand, so I could change. Jordan would be here shortly to take me to the hospital for a visit before dinner.

  I dug out my jeans and slipped into them. I’d lost weight since the last time I wore them, and I frowned. Pulling a belt out of the top drawer of my dresser, I cinched it tight around my waist. I then slipped a blousy dolman-sleeved shirt over my head, pulling it down over my waistline to hide the bunched denim. My shoes were downstairs by the front door.

  I brushed out my hair and left it long down my back before turning to collect Killian. He had pulled Pinky Panda out from under the bed where I’d shoved her last night and had fallen asleep on her belly.

  Jordan was quiet on the ride to the hospital, and I couldn’t help wondering if his time spent apart from me that afternoon had given him an opportunity to think twice about bringing me back here. I wouldn’t blame him. I was the quintessential “girl with baggage” every guy should run from.

  “I have work tomorrow, so I can drop you off on my way in. I don’t have to be there until nine. But maybe your dad can bring you home at noon or something? Tish can help out on Wednesday, but the rest of the week—”

  “No, Jordan,” I cut him off, hurrying to assure him. I felt bad that he was putting so much effort into helping me. “You don’t need to worry about giving me rides all week. My dad and I can sort it out, especially now that Mom is over this first hurdle. And I know people from his church can help, too.” Although the thought of getting a ride home with a nosy old church lady made my jaw tighten. “And your mom has offered to take Killian on the days she has Gina and LB, so that helps a lot. You’ve already done so much, Jordan.”

  “I thought we already dealt with this, Ms. Clark. I’m the one who decides when I’ve done enough, right?” When I didn’t answer, he continued. “I’m glad you’re going to take my mom up on her offer. Killer really seemed to hit it off with LB today, and the fact he could tolerate Angelica says a lot about his character.”

  “Angelica?” I darted a look at him, wondering what I’d missed.

  “Angelica Pickles? Rugrats? Please tell me you were allowed to watch Nickelodeon when you were little.”

  “Oh! Gina!” I laughed out loud and clapped my hands together like a silly little girl. “Yes! Gina is totally Angelica Pickles!”

  Jordan grinned over at me, and then reached up and brushed the back of a knuckle along my jaw in an unexpected and intimate way. “It’s good to see you smile.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Killian’s sleep was short-lived.

  Mom was awake when I slipped into her room, and although I wouldn’t call it a smile, one side of her mouth hitched up a little when she saw me. “Hi, honey,” she croaked, her jaws not moving.

  I lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “Hi, Mom.” I wanted to tell her she looked good, better at least, but she didn’t. She looked awful. The bruising around her eyes had darkened and spread, discoloring her whole face. What I could see of her neck above the vest that anchored the halo framework was puffy and mottled with bruises, too. The swollen fingers poking out of the cast on her left hand didn’t look like they belonged to my petite mother, either. Her hair was a wild disarray of curls, but at least it didn’t look too dirty. Knowing Mom, she’d washed it fresh Friday night or Saturday morning so it would be easy to work with for church. “One day dirty,” she always told me. “That’s when hair is on its best behavior.” Although, in my opinion, there was nothing better than the squeaky clean of a fresh wash. I supposed that could have something to do with the fact that my hair didn’t get washed nearly as often as I would have liked, living in the camper. I did my best to keep it clean, but there was good reason for my up-does and braids.

  “She looks great, doesn’t she, Savvy?” Dad asked from the other side of her bed. I looked up at him and bit back the snort. Had he read my mind?

  “Awful,” Mom interjected, her mouth barely moving so her words slurred together. “You don’t have to lie to me, Ronnie.” Her eyes shifted back and forth between us, her inability to move her head making me tense. I had to stop thinking about it.

  “You don’t look great, Mom. Not gonna lie.” The three of us had once been a tight little bunch, but Mom and I shared this unique dry humor that often had Dad shaking his head in consternation, completely out of the loop. Mom and I could say one off-the-wall thing and a whole nonsensical conversation would ensue, ending with both of us giggling uncontrollably. Poor Dad couldn’t keep up, and he was too guileless to make stuff up on the spot the way we did. But as easy as our relationship had been, I’d never really shared deeper things with either of them. Spiritually, I could talk about anything, maybe because there was a detached, intellectual aspect of it I could wrap my head around, but my thoughts and feelings about myself, about boys, about life in general, especially if they teetered on—or over—the edge of what we believed was right or wrong, I kept those to myself.

  I didn’t really have any close friends, either. People often said it was probably because I was home schooled, but honestly, I just wasn’t good at making friends. Small talk didn’t come easily to me, and I wasn’t good at casual relationships. If a friendship somehow made it past the first round with me—which was rarer than rare—we were friends for life, for better or worse. I had heard the gossip that I was thought to be really intense. I’d had a friend in fifth grade that I would have taken a bullet for even at the tender age of ten, but I think her mother thought I was obsessive about our friendship and started finding reasons to keep us apart. Mom never acknowledged it when I asked her, but I noticed a change in their relationship at church that year, too. And when Rachel and her family didn’t come back to church after a family summer trip, no one in our home mentioned their absence except to say they hadn’t heard from the family, and even that, only when I asked. I didn’t know how to do things halfway.

  So when I chose to love Jordan Ransome, it was forever.

  And that was probably why, when I considered how much my pregnancy would hurt those whom I loved, I ran. I would have done anything to spare them the heartache of what I’d done and what I’d become.

  But looking at the two people whom I’d tried to protect, seeing beyond Mom’s recent injuries to the gray in her hair that wasn’t there before, the bones of her wrist I held in my hands practically pushing through the thin layer of skin that covered them… I looked over at Dad’s old man hand where it rested on Mom’s white cast. He was somehow diminished, it seemed, thinner, smaller than I remembered him, and I didn’t think the weary lines around his eyes were new since Mom’s accident.

  I hadn’t protected them at all.

&nb
sp; “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and I met my father’s eyes across the bed as my own spilled over with hot tears of shame and regret. He was on his feet and around the end of the bed so quickly that I was still letting out my breath when he pulled me out of my chair and into his arms. “I’m sorry I left—I ran away.” My words were muffled against his chest, but I didn’t care. I stayed there, held gently to my father’s heart, until my tears slowed. “I just wish…” I began, but Dad set me away from him and shook his head.

  “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride. If turnips were swords, I’d have one by my side.”

  I sniffed and finished the old Scottish nursery rhyme along with him. He’d said it so many times in my life that I used to think it was straight out of the Bible.

  “If ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ were pots and pans, there would be no need for tinker’s hands.”

  He leaned forward and kissed my forehead, and then gestured to the chair. “Sit.” He pulled his around from the other side of the bed so he could sit beside me. “I wish things were different, too, Savvy, but we can’t change what’s already happened. We can, however, look back and see if there are ways to make sure it doesn’t happen again. And that’s what we’ll do, okay? Together. You, me, and Mom.” I wondered if he left out Killian because my son wasn’t old enough to understand, or because Mom still didn’t know she had a grandson. “For now, you’re here, and that’s the most important thing, next to getting Mom well and home with us. We have time. We’ll work through this. I promise, okay?”