by Cd Brennan
“No, she checked out just after lunch, if I’m thinking of the same girl.”
Woman. Grace was a woman. Rory hoped to God the nurse didn’t mean “checked out” in the idiomatic sense. “Checked out as in left the hospital?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
That couldn’t be. “She was in a coma. How could she leave?”
The first woman who Rory had originally spoken to interrupted. “Are you a relative?”
No. “Aye, I’m her partner.”
Both raised an eyebrow at that but the Phone Lady replied, “She woke up just after lunch, another woman showed up, and they left together. I remember it because there was a bit of drama about her checking out.”
This wasn’t making any sense. And the more he heard, the more the panic set in. His gut twisted in revolt. “She must have been moved elsewhere in the hospital. She was on a ventilator early this morning. Can you check please?”
Just then Grace’s doctor walked up. Thanks to all that was holy. He didn’t remember the man’s name, but he had to ask, “Do you know what happened to Grace, the woman in room seven?”
He looked up from his papers, and it seemed it took him only a moment to recognize Rory. Something to be said for his strong brogue here in the States.
“She was released a few hours ago.”
Released? What was going on? “She was still in a coma this morning when I left.”
“Yes, she woke up just after that.”
“But don’t they, like, stay until you make sure they’re okay…or something?”
“We did recommend she stay, but we can’t force them. Her mother flew in from Texas, and as a nurse, said she was capable of caring for her outside of the hospital. We ran extensive tests on her before she left. If she keeps up her insulin, she’ll be fine.”
He had to get to her. Rory was a tornado of emotion and confusion. Relieved that Grace was okay. Worried that she really wasn’t okay, but at least she was no longer in a diabetic coma. “Thanks!” He jogged to the elevator and punched the button a couple of times. When it didn’t come fast enough, he peered around for the stairs. All three were still at the station watching him, and the doctor pointed down the adjacent hall where, at the end, there was a glowing Stairs sign.
Rory ran and didn’t stop until he got to Bluegill. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. After he got into the truck and buckled, he checked his phone. No calls from the hospital. Why hadn’t she called when she woke up?
The drive home was a blur. He jogged to the porch where he composed himself a minute before opening the door. He ran his hand over his hair and drew a few deep breaths. He couldn’t do anything about his stench or the dirty clothes he wore, but none of that mattered.
He opened the door and immediately saw Del on the couch watching the telly with a beer in his hand.
Del looked at him over his shoulder. “Hey, mate. Did you know about Grace?”
No. And at his silence, Del replied, “She’s gone back to Texas. She left a note on the table for you.”
The writing was sprawled in cursive, a bit messy as if she was in a hurry.
Dear Rory,
I’m going back to Texas with my momma. She was right. I couldn’t make it here. They told me at the hospital you stayed with me. Thank you. Could you do me one last favor? Anything I left in my room, can you drop off to Goodwill? That’s where it came from anyway.
I made so many mistakes while I was here, but you weren’t one of them.
I want you to have Bluegill.
Love,
Grace
Chapter 21
He smelled like bad morning breath. His whole body reeked of it. And he’d even brushed his teeth in the plane toilet, rocking this way and that as the United 767 bounced through turbulence. Even after bracing his arm on the tiny metallic sink, Rory had jabbed himself in the gums a couple of times, and somewhere in there it was still bleeding. He could taste the blood. It made him sick to the stomach.
Well that, and a dozen other factors. Perhaps a million, but he had never been prone to exaggeration. He kept the garment bag slung over one shoulder, his backpack on the other. Even when a stewardess offered to help store the bag before the flight, Rory wouldn’t let anyone else handle it. It was his armor, and he was going to battle.
He’d waited long enough to see if Grace would return to Traverse City. But she didn’t. So now he was going to get her to come back.
The departing passengers dispersed out of the tunnel into the gate in front of him. Pecos, Texas. Already lots of cowboy boots and hats, women with big hair as if they’d never left the 1980s era that Gillian, and now Grace it seemed, were determined to bring back to life.
This had to be the craziest thing he’d ever done. With absolute certainty. He had no idea where she lived, no familiarity with this Texas city, and for the first time in his life, very little money in his pocket. But he had an address.
The crowd heading toward the baggage claim herded Rory along with them. A big digital clock with the sign above the arrivals and departures glared in red 2:07. He’d slept very little last night for nerves. He had used his return ticket to Scotland to purchase this one, so he had to make this work with Grace.
A voice with a southern twang like Grace came over the loud speaker to announce a departing flight. Rory stopped right in the middle of all the chaos and looked around him. What the fuck did he do now?
No money for a car rental. A taxi was out of the question, not enough bob for that either.
Toilet, that’s what he needed.
First things first.
As he pushed the door into the gent’s, it swung inward at the same time, and Rory stumbled. He was dizzy, and his body was buzzing, like a low constant thrum. Jet lag, lack of sleep, want of Grace. All of it, most likely.
He mumbled an apology and made his way into an empty stall. He hung the garment bag on the hook on the back of the door, dropped his pack to the floor, sat on the edge of the toilet. He rubbed his face vigorously and then settled his elbows onto his knees for a wee break.
He could do this. Aye. He could.
But not really.
Fuck.
He scrubbed his face again before kneading his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was exhausted. One more minute. That was all he would give himself.
When he rose, his stomach revolted, and he vomited all the nasty crap airplane food. He kept retching long after he’d finished. Someone on the other side called out to him. Was he okay?
Not really.
“Aye, good thanks,” he yelled out, then coughed to clear his throat.
He took some toilet paper and wiped his mouth. Now he had to brush his teeth again. With the purge of his lunch came a renewed sense of urgency, but fuck if he could get his body to move.
After a few moments rest, he finally stripped down to nothing and stood there, his dirty clothes a pile on the floor. There were times in one’s life when the moment begot a special sense of time and memory. There were a few snapshots Rory remembered well, but was unsure why his mind retained those over others, and he was certain this would be one of them. Naked in a cubicle in the loo, the sounds of men coming in, going out, announcements over the speaker, even in the bathroom. And with those thoughts, the panic passed. His body still buzzed, but he could deal with that.
He dressed meticulously after deodorizing—perhaps too much, but he always had—his polished shoes from the pack on last. It was tight in the cubicle and he banged his thigh then his elbow before he was finished.
He left the hanger, but he folded the garment bag and stuffed it into his backpack with the rest of his clothes. When he exited the cubicle, he got a few looks, but he always did in this getup. But fuck them. He was Scottish. And proud.
At the sink, Rory took a minute to brush his teeth again. When he finished, he took a good look in the mirror. He never bothered since he’d never liked what he saw. But not today. The suit still smelled of Scotland, the rain, thistle,
the heather of the burns, from the last time he wore it at his uncle’s funeral. This was the only way he knew how to get back the most important person in his life. She meant everything to him. This is who he was, and everything that he had was for Grace.
A couple businessmen came in and acknowledged Rory through the mirror. It was time to go.
Transportation. Directions. The noise of the terminal overwhelmed him once he stepped out of the gents. People were moving fast with huge bags of luggage in tow so he stepped back to the wall to get some perspective. Tourist Information booth. Aye.
There was a small queue in front of him. An older man and woman were booking their hotel, and it was taking forever. The Asian couple directly in front of him chatted in excited, quick words, only stopping to take photos of each other and selfies from one of those sticks.
When it was finally Rory’s turn, he pulled out his phone to retrieve her address. He placed it on the counter. “This is where I need to go.”
The woman at the booth was all smiles with a nametag that read Tammy. Southern charm, Grace would have called it. Her hair was lacquered in one place, from hairspray perhaps, and didn’t move freely when she did. “Spring Branch. Well, hon, it’s not the easiest place to get to.”
“A bus or train?”
“You’re not American, are you?”
He was a tall man in a kilt suit with an accent. Totally deducible, but he wouldn’t be impolite. “No, I’m just visiting.”
“We don’t have much as trains go, and the bus from here will only get you as far as the Walmart on Two-eighty-one.”
“How far from there?”
“Too far to walk if that’s what you are thinkin’. You could get a taxi from there, but it would still cost you about seventy dollars, and you’d be lucky to find one to take you.”
Rory was about ready to blow. A bigger meltdown than on the pitch that one practice a couple of weeks ago. To come so far but not get to her. “Any other options?”
Tammy tapped her lips with her pen. “Well, what you could try is take the bus into the downtown bus terminal, and from there take another bus out to Spring Branch. It will take you a few hours.”
Rory had very little money, just over three hundred American dollars in the bank, and he wouldn’t put another cent on his da’s credit card.
“If you can just direct me to the buses…”
“Of course, hon. You go right on out these doors and take a right. You’ll see the signs for the VIA to downtown.”
“Thank you.”
She handed him the map and wished him luck.
When Rory stepped out of the airport sliding doors, a wall of intense heat hit him, the likes he’d never felt before. Even the couple times his family had gone to Mallorca in Spain for holiday the heat wasn’t this intense. Of course, he hadn’t been wearing his wool kilt either.
There were multiple sign posts along the curb with bus time tables. He slowed at each one to check, but nothing to city center. Finally, at the last sign post, where a small queue had formed, the destination stated San Antonio central station. Rory glanced at his watch. Even though he’d gained an hour, it was already 1:45 local time. And once he found Grace, he had no idea what he was going to do tonight for a place to stay, let alone how he was going to get back to the airport for his flight to Traverse City.
Rory had to constantly check his kilt for the wind blew along the terminal front and swirled over the pavement. The sporran helped somewhat for his dick, but it was the back of the kilt and his bare bum he worried about. There was an Hispanic family with young children behind him in the queue. Nothing like giving them a full-arse view.
So he faced the street, and also to watch the buses come in. Every one that rounded the corner into sight, he prayed would come as far as this stop. But when each one came to a halt at a bus stop prior, Rory’s gut twisted.
C’mon, c’mon.
The sun beat down, relentless. He’d never felt anything like this. Rory pulled at his collar and dabbed at his face and neck with his handkerchief. If not, the sweat would stain his white shirt. Folks in the queue were getting antsy, the kids behind him fighting with each other, a young couple at the front in an argument.
Normally he didn’t mind waiting for the people watching it afforded, but in this suit, it was torture, his urgency to find Grace creating one of the most uncomfortable delays of his life.
Just as Rory was going to let out an anguished cry, another bus came into view. He tracked it with his eyes as it crawled along behind the traffic. The lumbering silver vehicle passed one stop, then another, until Rory’s hope rose as high as the tallest monroe in Scotland.
And finally, it pulled to a stop in front of them. A collective sigh emanated from the long queue of people, beyond tired and anxious at this point.
The wait was painful as the bus came to a rest, a delay, and then the double doors on the side opened. Out piled traveler after traveler, heavily laden with luggage that bumped and clunked along beside them. The time stretched out to unbearable but still Rory stood clumped with the rest who, like him, had their luggage ready and in hand, shifting from one foot to another in impatience.
When the last man exited, they swarmed the entrance, but Rory stayed back as much as it killed him. He didn’t do crowds well, and his manners kept him still. He had no luggage other than his rucksack so he prayed he could squeeze on.
When a large group came rumbling up the pavement on its way to the bus, Rory swore under his breath and stepped onto the bus, squeezing in just as the doors closed. Folk jostled and bumped as they settled, and with one big lurch that threw them all backward, the bus was on its way.
Rory got more than one stare at his kilt, and at one point he felt a small hand lift the back, only to drop suddenly when the parent admonished the child.
At least the bus was air conditioned, and his body heat had started to return to normal. Rory kept a hand tight on the overhead strap to keep from shifting into others. As much as possible, that was. The bus finally rolled onto a highway.
I’m coming, Grace.
Chapter 22
“Momma, cut it out.”
“Just hold still. I need to take it in at the bust yet.” Not that Grace needed to be reminded of her bust size, or lack of. She didn’t care a hoot what the dress looked like on her. It could be a pink sack for all she cared. It was hideous.
“Tell me again, momma, why Carolyn chose to dress her bridesmaids in peach bubble dresses like the eighties?”
“It doesn’t look that bad,” she mumbled around the pins in her mouth.
Grace barked out a laugh, raising her arms in a Sunday-church halleluiah. “You’re kidding, right?”
Her momma clapped Grace’s arms back down to her sides. “Stay still, I said.”
“Seriously, momma, we can’t look any more ridiculous.”
“Well, you know your sister. She gets what she wants. And she wanted these dresses. Said somethin’ about the eighties style coming’ back in, and she wanted to be ahead of the trend in her wedding. Or something like that. It didn’t make sense to me.”
“But momma, they’re short skirts, and with the over-the-knee stockings she wants us to wear, we will look a cross between Taylor Swift and that chick that sang that virgin song.”
“Madonna?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Her momma stepped back now that she’d finished jabbing her pins into Grace’s scooped neckline. “Well, I think you look mighty pretty, Grace. You should dress up more often.”
She had once. And she had looked good. But that only reminded her of Rory, of her old life back in Michigan. It had only been a couple of weeks, but it felt like an eternity, a lifetime ago. She twisted her mouth to control the emotion, but tears still pricked at her eyes.
“Have a look yourself.” Her momma took her by the arms and led her in front of the full-length mirror.
Gah, it was as horrible as she’d imagined. And she didn’t even have the h
osiery on yet, a pale peach to match the dress, and then to top the look off, silver shoes with bows.
Oh, Jesus no, she looked more than ridiculous. And Grace never took her man’s name in vain. Even in her thoughts! Well, not often. But today was one of those days. The blue and white striped socks didn’t help the look. Or maybe they did? Grace laughed, throwing her head back.
“Stop that. Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Her mom thumped down into the chair next to Grace and kicked off her shoes.
“Yes, ma’am, a hundred times. At least.”
“Well, you’ve been so blue lately, I wanted to make sure you knew.”
Grace sighed. Her momma had always had the best intentions. Grace knew that, but after she’d flown practically the length of the States to retrieve Grace in Traverse City, it would always be a reminder that Grace had failed. Her momma hadn’t rubbed it in…yet. Grace was sure the day would come when her mother would use it as leverage in an argument. And she dreaded it.
Both their mutt hunting dogs, Sadie and Jesse, started barking ferociously. That only meant one thing. Someone at the door. They were going mad. Well hell, both her brothers were out there. They could get their lazy asses off the couch and take care of it. She could still hear the Dallas Cowboys game playing, but at twenty-five and twenty-seven it was about time her stupid brothers did something.
“Gracieeeee.” God, she hated when her brother Scott called her that.
“Whaa-aaaat,” she yelled. Her mum gave her the evil eye that told her it wasn’t very ladylike to yell from another room.
“Someone here to see yoooouuu.” There was deceit and laughter in his voice, just like when he and Ted played tricks on her when she was a young girl following them around. They were ruthless. So ruthless, she started fighting back one day and never stopped, to the disgrace of her mother.
Grace patted at her back, trying to find the zipper. “Momma, help me get this off.”
