by Penny Reid
Drew fit his hand in mine and tugged on it, leading me out of the room. Once the door closed behind us, he pulled me down the hall, to the stairs, and up to my room. I followed him, still thinking about Momma’s lip and forehead, thumbing through my brain and all the possible causes for her sudden sleepiness and lack of interest in food.
I wondered if I should wake her up to eat the pie. I was pretty sure she’d be interested in pie.
“Hey…where you going?” Jethro called after us, rousing me from my thoughts.
“I’m taking Ashley to bed,” Drew responded without turning to look at my brother or stopping our ascent up the stairs.
“Oh.” I saw Jethro nod, his gaze watching us. Abruptly his eyes narrowed and he planted his hands on his hips, but he said nothing else.
Drew led me into my room and closed the door behind us. I was tired. I was also distracted. So when Drew turned and kissed me—a soft, lingering closed-mouth kiss that made me forget what I’d been thinking about and where I was—my hands twisted around his neck and I kissed him back, pressing my body to his.
We did this for a while. He kissed me. I kissed him back. He seemed to be holding himself on a tight leash, because he was controlling the intensity level by withdrawing every so often and placing feathery kisses on my neck and collarbone. His hands stroked and massaged my back, yet never felt anything but frustratingly comforting.
However, when the back of my knees hit the bed and I fell backward, and he climbed onto it and loomed above me, the room—and everything else—came into focus.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute….” I pressed my hands to his chest as he hovered over me, bending to bite my neck. “What are we doing?”
“Kissing, he whispered in my ear then licked my earlobe.
I shivered, swallowed, and squeezed my eyes shut. “I don’t think we should be doing this.”
“Why?” He continued to kiss, lick, bite—repeat.
“Because I….” I breathed out a ragged sigh. “Because I’m worried about Momma.”
He stopped his sweet ministrations and lifted his head, his eyes moving over my face. He seemed to be considering me as well as what I’d just said.
After several long moments, he lay on his side next to me and threaded his fingers through the long locks.
“I know, Sugar. I was just trying to distract you.”
I turned on my side and faced him. “You were doing a good job.”
His lips twisted to the side and he watched me, his hands moving in my hair, then he surprised me by saying, “I’d like to sleep here with you tonight.”
I opened my mouth, but didn’t know how to respond because I wasn’t sure what he was asking.
Reading my mind, he added, “Just sleep. I just want to sleep.”
“Oh.” I nodded my understanding, thinking about just sleeping next to Drew and finding that I quite liked the idea. The thought of hugging someone all night long was really appealing, especially if that person was Drew. It would be like having a big, strong, Viking man-pillow.
I realized he was still waiting for my answer, so I leaned forward and brushed a kiss against his mouth. “Yes. That would be nice. Thank you.”
His eyes narrowed as I drew away. “You need to stop thanking me.”
“I can’t help it.” I kissed him again then whispered against his mouth, “I was raised with manners.”
I awoke abruptly for no reason in particular and was startled by the surrounding darkness. It took me about ten seconds to figure out that I was in my room—not in the den—and that Drew was next to me, fast asleep.
He was warm and solid, and our limbs were knotted in perfect chaos. His arms were around my torso. My arms were around his neck. His head was on my breast. One of his legs was between mine, and our calves were hooked around each other.
It felt divine.
So I relaxed into the feeling for several minutes before searching for the clock on the nightstand; I found it, and next to it was Drew’s leather notebook. I looked at the brown binding, studied the Norse symbols on the front, and found myself wondering what was inside. I’d witnessed him writing in the book from time to time and somehow doubted it contained field notes.
Shaking myself, because what Drew wrote in the notebook was really none of my business, I glanced at the clock. It was just before 4:30 a.m. and, despite my current epic levels of snuggly comfort, I felt like I had a stone in the pit of my stomach and a bug in my ear.
I was gripped by a desire to get up.
Despite the carefulness with which I tried to extract myself from Drew, I woke him.
“Ashley,” he started awake, saying my name before he’d left his dream state, his arms tightening around me.
“Shh…Drew,” I whispered. “I need to get up.”
He peered up at me as though confused by the sight of my face. “Ashley?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Drew, you’re in my bed. We fell asleep.”
“Oh.” His hand slid down my body—from waist to thigh—as though checking to see if I were real.
His confusion made me wonder what he’d been dreaming about if he’d said my name upon waking but was surprised to see me there.
“Why’d you wake me up?” He asked my chest.
I wrinkled my nose at him. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying to get up without disturbing you; it was an accident.”
“Oh…” Again, he said this to my chest. His hand caressed its way up my body until it rested on my ribs just below my breast. “This is a really nice way to wake up.” This time he spoke mostly to himself, but his eyes didn’t budge from my boobs.
Growing warm around my neck, I tamped down the desire rising within me and tried to sit up. “Drew, I need to pee. Remove your arms before my bladder explodes.”
He reluctantly released me, falling back onto the bed with a heavy flop as I stood. “On second thought, we shouldn’t do this again,” he muttered.
I reached for my robe and shrugged it on. “Why not?”
“Because…reasons,” he growled.
I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling, my eyes moving over his bare chest and stomach, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon and starlight streaming in through my window. He was right, of course. Waking up tangled together wearing very few clothes—it wasn’t a good idea. Not if I was planning to walk away when all this was over and return to my life in Chicago.
Maybe that’s why I’d woken up so suddenly with a hard feeling in my belly. Maybe my brain and my stomach were in cahoots, trying to warn me against my heart.
The thought made me sad and flustered, so I quickly left the room without another word and took two steps toward the bathroom, but then stopped. I stood motionless in the upstairs hallway until the count of ten, because a sense of foreboding was nagging at me.
Impulsively, I changed courses and descended the stairs, walked down the hallway to the den, and pushed open the door.
It was quiet except for the sound of Cletus’s gentle snoring and the beeping of Momma’s machines. Of course, I knew the name of the machines and what their beeps meant from my schooling, training, and years as a floor nurse; but now, attached to and monitoring my mother, they became just beeping machines.
I inspected the room for some sign or source of my disquiet, and I realized that Momma was awake.
I crossed to her, smoothed the hair back from her forehead with one hand, and reached for her fingers with the other.
“Momma,” I whispered. “Are you okay? What can I get for you?”
Her eyes were wide, but she struggled to swallow. I released her for a quick minute and opened the cooler by her bed where I kept her ice chips. I filled a cup and brought it to her lips. She accepted a few gratefully, closing her eyes and sighing.
I felt a stab of guilt that I’d been upstairs snuggling up with Drew, and she had been down here thirsty and awake. I vowed that I would sleep only on the cot fro
m now on.
“I’m so sorry, Momma. I should have been down here.”
She shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. “No, baby. I just woke up. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“I know that look.” She paused and inhaled. I could tell that she did this with effort; she then said, “You’re feeling guilt about things you can’t control. Never feel guilt for things beyond your influence.”
I gave her a brave smile as I smoothed her hair. “All right. I won’t do that anymore if you promise to eat a slice of pie. Drew made your lemon meringue.”
Her eyes closed as though she couldn’t keep them open, but her mouth curved slightly at my words. “That sounds great, baby. It’s a deal. You go get me a piece.”
I set the ice chips down on the table and turned to leave, but then stopped when I heard her say, “Ash, wait.”
I walked back to her. “What’s up? Do you want something else with it?”
“No, baby. I just wanted to tell you I love you.”
“Oh.” I nodded, gave her a little smile, leaned forward, and kissed her forehead. “I love you too, Momma, to the stars and beyond.”
She gave me her little smile again, her eyes still closed. “Just like always.”
I squeezed her hand and whispered, “Okay, I’ll be right back with the pie.” Then I turned to the door and made my way to the kitchen.
When I opened the fridge, I found that only two pieces of pie remained. That irritated me. First of all, I hadn’t had a piece of pie yet, and the pie was my idea. Secondly, those charlatans I called brothers knew that the pie was meant for Momma.
I scooped a slice out and placed it on a plate, then decided to hide the rest of the pie in the back of the fridge so she could have a second piece later.
Pleased with my efforts to conceal the last slice, I grabbed a fork and the pie, walked back to the den, and crossed to her bed.
“Momma, I have your pie,” I whispered. “I haven’t tried it yet, so I don’t know if it’s as good as yours, but it sure is pretty.”
She didn’t move.
I watched her for a minute, wondering if I should wake her, then noticed that the machines weren’t beeping.
I didn’t come to the realization all at once.
Rather, I stared at the flat line on the small monitor for several seconds…maybe even a minute before I recognized what it meant. When I did, the world went silent.
There is a stillness that accompanies the death of a loved one. Everything becomes quieter, but it’s not just sound that is dimmed. Movement, action, perception, emotion—everything is distant and removed.
Maybe the stillness was because I’d been so busy leading up to this moment. After waking up from the shock of her diagnosis and facing reality, I’d thrown all of myself into her care and the care of my family.
But now—reality being the flat line on the monitor—she was gone. The subjects and tasks that had filled my waking hours for more than a month went with her. The pie in my hand was meaningless, and the world felt like a strange and foreign place.
I was at the bottom of a lake. I was drifting. I felt like I could hold my breath for years. And I was beyond the reach of all the things that mattered before, but suddenly seem so trivial in the face of death.
Chapter Twenty
“You know what charm is: a way of getting the answer yes without having asked any clear question.”
― Albert Camus, The Fall
We all did a lot of staring that day.
The point that struck me as most interesting about our collective staring was the objects at which people stared.
Jethro stared out the window. Billy stared at the fireplace. Cletus stared at the front door. Beau stared at the kitchen table. Duane stared at the refrigerator. Roscoe stared at Momma’s sewing desk.
I sat in my recliner and stared at the spot where the hospital bed had been.
I kept looking for and trying to assign symbolism to everything: the den’s emptiness and bigness; a sudden rainstorm that started right after they took her away; the book The Neverending Story that Drew had been reading to her the night before.
Drew kept us all moving.
He made us breakfast and told us to eat. He made us sandwiches and told us to eat. He made pheasant soup with biscuits and told us to eat. He saw to it that everyone showered and dressed. He turned on the TV in the living room and streamed all the Pink Panther movies, one right after the other.
After dinner, we were all in the kitchen helping with the dishes, and I had the thought, Someone should go check on Momma.
And that’s when I started to cry.
Jethro was nearest. He wrapped one of his big arms around my shoulders and pulled me to his chest. I cried on his flannel shirt as he shushed me and held me close. My mind was a jumbled mess, so I didn’t protest—or even think to protest—when I was picked up off my feet and carried out of the kitchen to the family room.
I didn’t notice that it was Drew who carried me out of the kitchen until sometime later when he said, “Sugar, you are not allowed to wash this shirt.”
I peered up at him, surprised to find myself in the living room, on his lap, his arms around me, his hand in my hair.
“Why?” I said, two hot, fat tears rolling down my face.
“Because you haven’t given me back any of the others, and I’m running out of T-shirts.”
I considered his words then laughed and buried my face in his neck. “Quit being stupid. You’ll get them back.”
“When will I get them back? Do you want me to walk around the mountains shirtless?”
This was a comment that might have elicited a completely different reaction twenty-four hours ago; but as it was, Drew was providing me with humor and comfort, and that was what I needed. I didn’t need anything beyond that.
“Have you called your friends yet today?” he asked, surprising me.
I gathered a deep breath, held it in my lungs, and responded on an exhale. “No.”
“You should. It’ll help. They likely miss you.” He set his chin on my head and—as though the thought had just occurred to him—added softly to himself, “You’ll be leaving soon....”
I sat motionless and let those words wash over me. He was right of course. I would be leaving soon, most likely once the funeral was over. It shouldn’t have felt like a shock, but it did.
I was yanked out of these thoughts when the front doorknob rattled followed by a sharp, insistent knock.
Drew craned his head around toward the kitchen; when none of my brothers appeared, he set me down on the couch. “Just a sec,” he said. “Let me see who this is.”
I grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to my chest. I noticed that a box of tissue had magically appeared on the coffee table, so I snagged a few and wiped my eyes, feeling the futility of the action. These were only the first tears.
“Who the hell are you? And where is my wife?”
I froze in terror. Like a lightning bolt splitting a tree, the man’s words and aggressive tone sliced through the fog of my grief like nothing else could.
“Darrell,” Drew said in a laconic drawl. He blocked the door with his body and added, “Bethany died this morning. You’re too late.”
“Get out of my way. This is my house.”
I jumped from the sofa and ran to the kitchen. Knowing my father, strength in numbers was necessary.
“Guys, he’s here,” I loud whispered to the room. My face must’ve showed my panic because they all stiffened for a half second then were spurred into action. My brothers moved like the devil himself had arrived, and the only way to keep him out was to stand him down at the door.
I waited a half minute, inhaling and exhaling until I felt my courage buoy, and then I followed them out. The sound of rising voices and tempers made me flinch, and I saw that Roscoe was standing in the doorway. The rest of them were outside in the front yard.
I walked up to Roscoe and placed my
hand on his back. He glanced down at me, his face strained, his jaw set; but his eyes softened when they met mine, and he wrapped an arm around my shoulders, tucking me close to his side. We watched the scene unfold from the house.
Darrell Winston was some distance from the porch, maybe five feet, and Jethro and Billy were standing in front of him. Jethro had his arms crossed, but Billy had taken an aggressive stance, his fists balled, and his feet braced apart like he was ready to throw a punch.
“Son, this is my house.” Darrell was speaking to Jethro, and his tone was entirely reasonable. “Why you going to keep a man from his house?”
“Darrell….”
“I’m your daddy. You will address me as such.”
Jethro’s Adam’s apple moved as he took a hard swallow, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with aggravation. “I’m trying to explain things to you. Momma died this morning. You’re not welcome at the funeral, and you’re not welcome here. This ain’t your house.”
“Son, this is the house I made my family in with your momma. This house belongs to me and all you kids; we need to come together and support each other.”
Billy rolled his eyes. I got the sense he was purposefully trying to bait him. “You’re delusional,” he said. “We haven’t ever been your kids. You’re a sperm donor, and your services haven’t been needed for a long time.”
Surprisingly, my father didn’t take the bait. “Where’s your sister? Where’s my baby girl?”
“I don’t think it’s right you calling her that,” Cletus said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “She hates you and she’s like, twenty-six. It just feels wrong.”
“Ashley.” My father called my name, obviously not yet noticing that I was watching the whole ugly scene. Again, I froze. His voice was demanding, and so many terrible childhood memories burst to the surface. “Girl, you come down here.”
