Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  “Very cool,” I agreed.

  Grace smiled and put her leg down. We continued walking. Her long, thin ponytail slapped her back with every step she took.

  “I hope you realize how out of shape I am. I’ve kind of boycotted exercise for some time now.”

  “Were you scared to run again?” she asked.

  “Were you scared . . .” As if it were all in the past. As if it were no longer an issue.

  I’d lost too much time. I couldn’t afford any half truths here. If I wanted to do things right, it would begin now, with honesty.

  “I’m still scared.”

  Her pace stilled for no more than a second before she continued. “What are you scared of?”

  Good question. “I’m not sure. Going back, I guess. Reliving that day. Even these past months.” My breathing quickened, whether from the walking or the topic of conversation, I couldn’t tell. “Maybe I’m punishing myself for copping out on you guys.”

  Grace’s mouth thinned to a straight line. “So, like, why did you cop out?”

  Here it goes. I’d known the time would come when we’d have to talk this through.

  “There’s no excuse for my actions.” But I could at least try to explain myself . . . what I understood of myself, anyway. I sniffed, ordered the emotion in the pit of my stomach not to come up, no matter what. We continued walking, and somehow it was easier, having to focus on something besides Grace and my words. “I felt guilty. For asking you guys to be there, for encouraging you to want to run with me. I felt guilty that I hadn’t come in at a faster pace like I’d wanted. Grace, if only I’d known that finishing two minutes faster—one minute, heck, thirty seconds faster—would have saved you from all this, I would have. But I didn’t. I didn’t give it my all.”

  She didn’t say anything, so I continued, breathless from both the walk and the words rushing from my mouth. “When you transferred to Spaulding and I got cleared to go home, the guilt continued. What if I had gone just a little faster? What if I had fought through the discomfort and pain? What if I just waited another three years so you could run with me? What if you two were somewhere else in that crowd—anywhere else? Why couldn’t God give us that?” I swiped at my runny nose, my vow not to get emotional wavering.

  “At Spaulding, it really sank in that this is forever for you. Life would never be normal. Do you remember the last time I saw you?”

  “Sure . . . I was at Spaulding, like you said.”

  I nodded. “You were with a speech therapist. She was asking you to remember words, do some math equations. When I realized they were checking you for brain damage, something inside me snapped. I left. I know it was selfish, and as the months went by, I convinced myself you guys were better off without me. That you didn’t need me around, reminding you of that day, of my part in it. But it was the coward’s way out. Just like in the race, when things got tough, I took the easy way out. And I know I missed a lot of your struggle. But Grace, please believe me when I say I am so sorry.”

  And I was. I realized that now. This wasn’t all about me. I’d hurt this niece I loved. I’d hurt my sister.

  Grace stared at the sidewalk for a long time. The sound of birds and someone running a vacuum to clean their car punctuated the silence.

  “What if you hadn’t found out we might be moving? What then? How long were you going to stay away, anyway?”

  Oh, boy. I wiggled my fidgety fingers, suddenly bursting to expend energy. “In my head I was always going to give your mom a call next week, next month . . . sometime soon. But when the time came, I’d stop short of dialing that last number. When I heard you guys might be moving across the ocean—that if I didn’t act right away, I might never see you all again—well, it pushed me to do what I should have done the whole time.”

  The swish of Grace’s pants cut through the air; then her fingers inched toward mine. She squeezed my hand. “I’m glad you’re here now. Maybe we could think of this as our next journey. You know, kind of the beginning of our healing?”

  She made it sound so simple. I thought of Lydia, wondered if she’d be at the house when we returned. “Our next journey. I like that.”

  “Ready, then?”

  I nodded and propelled myself into a slow jog. We finished up the block as Grace chatted about playing guitar and singing in the church worship band.

  Through puffing breaths, I told her about Brad, the ring, and the genealogical society. I left out the part about our shaky departure in Boston the day before. Though I had thought to call him last night, I hadn’t. Maybe for now, it was wise to give each other space. After all, I couldn’t be as brave as he wanted me to be. And quite possibly, he couldn’t be as understanding as I needed him to be.

  “He gave you a ring the day of the bombing and you, like, just found him?”

  So she didn’t know anything—about my hazy hero, the ring, or the card her mother had had in her possession all this time. But of course she didn’t. She’d been going through an amputation and rehab. Why should she care about some ring a guy had given her aunt?

  “Yeah. Wild, huh?”

  We picked up our pace as we passed my sister’s house, completing a block. I noted the vacant spot for her car in the garage. We settled into a comfortable rhythm, and our chatting quieted. My feet pounded the pavement. My body jiggled. My breaths came out loud, filling the silence in between the sound of Grace’s prosthesis hitting the road. She seemed hardly winded. When we passed the house again and Grace asked if I was up for another lap, I agreed, even though my lungs pinched in my chest. When we finished that, we slowed to a walk and, baby that I was, I fought tears from spilling onto my cheeks.

  I wanted to thank Grace, but I knew if I did, I would cry. Instead, I felt comforted by a warm peace surrounding me in the cold sunshine. As if someone was trying to show me that life was wild. Crazy. That it couldn’t be controlled. Junk happened, but sometimes . . . good could come out of it.

  We walked a final lap, and I gestured to Grace’s leg, finally able to work up the courage to ask. “Does it . . . does it hurt?”

  “Not so much anymore. At first it did, like crazy. Turned out I didn’t have a right socket fit. But now it’s just normal for me. Like anything else, I guess. If I get lazy and don’t exercise, it hurts when I start up again.”

  I rubbed my burning thighs. “Gotcha.” Though did I really? Could I truly pretend to understand all she’d been through?

  We approached her house for the final time. “Mom’s home. I’ll go in and get us some water. Want to stretch out here?”

  “Sure.” I flopped onto the pavement of their driveway and flung one leg out, the other crooked in a triangle.

  The storm door shut behind Grace. The stillness of their quiet road allowed me to hear voices from inside. I recognized a particularly strident one as my sister’s. I switched the position of my stretch, contemplated grabbing the bottle of water from Grace and beelining it to my car for cover.

  Instead, a moment later, Grace came outside, followed by a rather docile-looking Lydia.

  “Hey,” I said to my sister.

  “Hey. Good run?”

  “This girl whipped me, but it feels good. Yeah.” I wondered if she resented the time I spent with Grace. I wondered why, after she told me she had a family to protect, she allowed Grace to initiate and maintain contact with me.

  I placed my palms on the pavement in a downward dog yoga position to stretch my calves.

  “Do you want to stay for supper?” Lydia said.

  My locked elbows threatened to give. I craned my neck to look up at where my sister stood on the grass. “Me?”

  “No, the lamppost, you ding-dong.” She scrunched up her nose. “Of course, you.”

  Lydia . . . joking with me? I pushed myself to a standing position. Bits of gravel stuck to my sweaty palms, and I brushed them off, leaving indents in my skin. “Um, I’d love to, though I’m not certain if you’ll be able to stand the smell of me.”

  “Y
ou can shower if you want, Auntie. I bet Mom has some extra sweats.” Grace practically bounced up and down in her place by her mother.

  Did Lydia look miffed, or was that just my imagination?

  “Yeah, sure. You know where the bathroom is. Towels in the closet. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  I followed them inside, feeling fifteen different kinds of out-of-place. Grace led me upstairs to the bathroom that she and Joel used, fetched me some clothes from Lydia’s room. When I came out, I heard Joel and Roger talking downstairs. I hadn’t seen my nephew or brother-in-law yet. A twinge of something akin to homesickness squeezed my insides.

  I walked down the hardwood stairs, my socks slipping slightly against the polished wood. I saw Joel first. He knelt at the coffee table, a grass-stained knee planted on the burgundy area rug. He looked for a Lego piece in the bucket before him, then to the building instructions at his side, then back to the bucket. His tongue stuck out, signaling his high level of concentration.

  I moved toward him, stood at his peripheral vision so as not to startle him. I looked at the half-built plastic blocks. A plane? Or a tractor? I decided to keep it safe with a simple “That looks great.”

  He startled for a minute and looked at me, then back to his Legos. “Thanks.”

  He continued building. I thought to ask if he remembered me or not. I mean, the kid was only five two years ago. But I’d been around enough when he was young. Surely he remembered me.

  For a fleeting second, I quelled a stirring sensation of anger. Hadn’t Lydia prepared her son? She should be here in this room with us, to help work out the kinks. Surely her bitterness couldn’t be enough that she would leave Joel to be surprised alone by my sudden appearance.

  I sat on the couch across from him. Pans sounded from the kitchen, and the scents of chicken and cooking wine wafted into the living room.

  “Do you remember me, Joel?” The quiet words drifted between us.

  He jiggled a plastic windshield onto the front of the vehicle he built. He nodded, slightly.

  I continued. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around so much, but I’d like that to change, if it’s all right with you. Maybe we could go out for ice cream sometime, or see a movie if your mom says it’s okay?”

  Nice. Bribe the kid, Annie.

  A small smile tipped one corner of his mouth. I performed a mental Rocky victory stance, grinning at the inside joke Brad and I had shared the day before.

  Brad. Nope, I didn’t need to go there right now. I shook my head to clear it of both Brad and Sylvester Stallone.

  “What’s your favorite movie?” I asked.

  “The Lego Movie. I like Emmet. He uses his head as a wheel.”

  “Really?” I had no idea what he was talking about. My confused expression must have shown, because Joel took one of his Lego people—a construction worker from the looks of it—and popped off his head. I feigned horror by clapping my hand over my mouth. “You decapitated him,” I croaked.

  He giggled. “It’s okay, Auntie Annie. It doesn’t hurt him.”

  I blinked back tears at the sound of my name rolling easily off his lips after all these months. Whether or not my sister could forgive me, she’d raised some incredible kids. They could throw off the past so effortlessly. Was it who they were or the fact that they hadn’t yet been marred by the cruelty of the world? And yet I couldn’t say that for Grace. She had been marred. The world had shown her the ugliest it had. She had every right to be bitter. But she chose to live up to her name. She clung to grace and enjoyed life with a gusto I admired. I envied her.

  Joel took a Lego wheel and attached it to the construction worker’s body. “See?” He grasped the man’s legs and rolled his wheel-head along the wood of the coffee table. “That’s how he did it. Well, actually, he didn’t really take off his whole head; he just took off his hat. But this works good too.”

  Grace came into the room. “What do you want to drink, Auntie? We have lemonade or iced tea.”

  “Lemonade would be great.” I stood. “Thanks for showing me that trick, Joel. I think I’ll see if your mom and sister need any help.”

  “Okay.” Joel went back to his Legos and I followed Grace to the kitchen.

  Lydia stood at the counter, cutting cucumbers.

  “He sure got big,” I said.

  Lydia cut a cucumber piece particularly hard. The knife hit the cutting board with a sharp thwack.

  “Can I help?” I clasped my fidgety hands in front of me.

  “You can set the table,” Grace offered. She placed the plates on the counter, pointed to a drawer. “Utensils in there.”

  I remembered. I scooped the plates up and carried them to the table.

  “While we were out, I invited Auntie to come hear me play at Chopps on Friday, Mom. We could pick her up, right?”

  “Grace . . .”

  I stole a glance at my sister. Her bottom lip trembled.

  “I’d rather meet you there.” I winked at Grace. “I work late on Fridays and the bank’s not too far.”

  Grace carried a small selection of salad dressings to the table. “Okay, sure. No pressure, though, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  The door to the garage opened. Roger entered, his tall form filling the doorway. “Oh, hey, Annie.” Roger was always the strong, silent type; I hadn’t thought much of how he would feel about my being here. We may have never been close, but I had hurt his family.

  That’s why I was surprised when he came over to me, giving me a quick hug. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You too.” My words got lost in the cotton shoulder of his shirt.

  Lydia brushed past us, the salad bowl in her hand. “Dinner’s ready, Joel!”

  We sat down, me between Grace and Joel. When they held my hands for a prayer before the meal, Grace squeezed my fingers, feeding me much-needed reassurance.

  I sliced into the chicken marsala, moist as ever. What didn’t my sister do well? Whether it was school, raising fantastic kids, keeping a pristine house, nursing, or cooking, everything seemed to come easy for Lydia.

  Except patience, perhaps. I remembered how frustrated she’d get trying to help me with my homework. English, of course. Never math—I deserved to be better than her at one thing, after all.

  I remembered sitting at my desk in the room we shared, a bright purple My Little Pony looking down at the eraser marks on the first line of my paper. Mom called to me, asked how I was doing. I shrugged. I heard her whisper to Lydia, urging her to come help me. My body tensed. I wanted Mom to come help me for once, but cooking, gardening, paint or dance class, chatting on the phone, church social events, whatever—all took priority over spending time with her daughters. Or so it seemed to me, anyway.

  “Another book report?” Lydia put her hands on her hips.

  I nodded.

  “I told you—think of three things you want to say. What did the book teach you? Why did you like it?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I didn’t like it. It didn’t teach me nothing.”

  “Anything. But it did. Even crappy books have a lesson in them somewhere.”

  “Fine. It taught me to not read any more books.”

  “There you go, then.” Lydia walked away. I knew she didn’t really care what I wrote. And I knew if I did turn in something snarky, Mrs. Wells would give me a bad grade. I sulked at my desk for another thirty minutes. Mom didn’t check on me again. I heard her laughing on the phone, oblivious to her daughter’s struggle. I wished for Daddy to come home, but he wouldn’t be back from St. Louis for another three days. I finally pushed out a mediocre paper that earned a C. Average enough not to be noticed. Average enough to get by.

  “So can she, Mom?” Joel’s voice broke into my reminiscing.

  I blinked, looked at Lydia, who all but glared at me over the spinach leaves on her fork. “Annie, you should have talked to me first.”

  “It’s just ice cream, Lyd. I’m sure—”

&n
bsp; “Roger . . .” My sister put down her fork of spinach, rubbed her temples. When she dropped her hands, she flashed a perfect smile around the table. “Grace, tell me about your day. How did the chem test go?”

  Grace stared at her food, seemed to vacillate between pretending the little blip in the conversation didn’t happen—like her mother did—or addressing it. She stuck a tine at the end of her fork into a marsala-drenched mushroom. “I think I did well.”

  Joel didn’t get it. “So can I? Dad?”

  “We’ll talk about it later, Joel,” Roger said.

  The rest of the dinner was tainted. And the worst part was, Lydia was right. Again. I should have spoken to her first. I kept pretending I would be accepted back into their lives, but I was still an outsider. I’d lost the privilege.

  And it looked like Lydia would never stop reminding me.

  DECEMBER 1770

  Midwife Louisa’s footsteps sounded above my head as she paced with James on the second floor. Before me sat Mr. Gregory, his hat crumpled in his hands between splayed legs, the snow from his boots melting on the throw rug.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. How to begin such a conversation?

  “I don’t wish to pry, Miss Liberty. You needn’t tell me anything you choose not to. I only wish to help. I can bring you to Lexington if you’d like. My sister-in-law is seeking aid in the running of her home and as a midwife. The house is a full one—six children underfoot—but she would be much obliged for any help.”

  “And she and her husband are willing to feed two more mouths?” There, I acknowledged I had a child.

  Mr. Gregory didn’t flinch. “Yes, ma’am. My brother is out in the fields come warmer weather. And he isn’t keen on Cora—his wife—riding to her patients alone in the winter months. The little ones need tending to. Lexington is growing. More families, more babies.”

  I clasped my hands together. “I understand Midwife Louisa told you some about . . . about my past circumstances. I do not wish—”