The Storm (Fairhope)

by Laura Lexington

  Exhausted, I washed my chapped face after placing her in her crib as carefully as possible. Never wake a sleeping baby, Mama warned. Amen.

  Too wired to sleep, I spread out on the couch with my iPhone while Andrew watched golf reruns. Full of junk mail, I almost deleted my entire inbox, but seconds before I hit “delete,” a message from Ashton Larson caught my eye.

  Hi, Jana, I hope you and the baby are well, it read. I wanted to pass along the name and number of that lawyer I mentioned. I told him about your case, and he looks forward to hearing from you. He has the experience necessary to fight Covington Company. He practices in Birmingham, and his name isn’t Singletary; it’s Singleton. Jack Singleton…

  I could barely catch my breath.

  Jack Singleton.

  Could this be my sign?

  “ANDREW! Come here!”

  “What’s wrong?” His voice piqued with concern as he bolted into the office.

  “Nothing, read this. This is the same guy I told you about—Sadie’s uncle.”

  Silently, he read and cut his eyes at me decisively. “Everything happens for a reason, Jana.”

  “I AM GOING to rip your clothes off your body.” Andrew was not achieving his goal of turning me on by trailing kisses down my abdomen. I wanted to slap him away and wipe his kisses off, like I was ten years old.

  Really? I was sporting one of his old golf shirts and a pair of underwear that should have become one with the trash three months ago. I guessed he could rip those, and neither one of us would miss either article of clothing. My long forgotten Victoria’s Secret lingerie lay dormant in the bottom of a drawer.

  Briefly, I considered feigning sleep. Oh, sex drive, where did you go? Oh, that’s right—you disappeared again when my breasts became feeding tubes and sleeping for more than sixty minutes became better luxury than a spa day.

  “Humph…” I murmured, creating a light snore. My breasts were engorged with milk and I was retaining water, not to mention nauseated thanks to the hellish progestin-only birth control.

  He thrust his pelvis against mine. “It won’t take long, baby.”

  Crap.

  I gave up, flipped over and scooted my panties off. I propped my pillow up in case he was wrong and his stamina was higher than he thought, figuring I might as well get comfortable.

  I felt a twinge of pain as he entered me, since I wasn’t exactly primed for the act. It had been, what, a few weeks? “You … feel … so good…” Was he panting? Gross.

  “Andrew, I’ve got a cramp!” My right leg seared with pain.

  Reluctantly, he paused, letting out a frustrated sigh. After my cramp subsided, he continued. “… so good … you feel so good…”

  Glad it was good for one of us. I stifled a yawn as he pumped away, lacking the energy to attempt to participate. Such was my life now.

  The blazing heat of the impending Alabama summer, which started in April and ended sometimes in December, beat upon me day and night, exacerbating the depression that attacked my spirit. Dr. Wilson diagnosed me with a minor case of postpartum depression. I saw him the day after Ashton’s email arrived, and I’d only taken my antidepressant for a week. I wrestled through the side effects, trying to remain patient. Dr. Wilson said the fatigue and nausea would dissipate. Unfortunately for Andrew, the Celexa wasn’t doing my sex drive any favors.

  Sleep found me again after he left me alone to shower. Thankful for the extra sleep—Calla kept me up from 4 AM to 6 AM—I was barely dreaming when the doorbell rang.

  Only Grace would show up at my house on a Saturday at 8 AM.

  Grace rocked maternity leave like it was going out of style. She debuted decked out like Martha Stewart in a ruffled apron, a chicken tetrazzini in one hand and a poppy seed chicken casserole in the other for us to freeze. Since her transition to motherhood, she’d become Paula Deen.

  Emma slept peacefully in a carrier attached to Grace’s chest, dressed to kill in one of those ridiculously expensive outfits like my mother-in-law’s fancy friends bought. Grace’s cell phone was loaded with snapshots of her suddenly spotless home. Most of her baby weight melted off with her neighborhood walks, and she was prettier than ever, stunningly beautiful in a yellow sundress that brought out her summer streaks, natural highlights gifted from the sun. Flawless makeup played up her already striking features.

  “How do you do it?” I seethed with envy. Still sporting my pajamas, embarrassment gripped me as I surveyed my living room that was mauled by Tornado Calla. The nesting of yesterday had been replaced by slews of burp rags and stacks of squishy toys caked with splotches of diaper cream.

  “I don’t need much sleep!” Grace adjusted her earrings carefully. “My doctor told me if bipolar people can get their lives under control, they can rule the world. I’m getting there!”

  She was not cognizant that my smile didn’t meet my eyes. I doubted this life-altering transformation could be defined as Grace “under control.”

  Perhaps I simply reeked of jealousy.

  Finally, she noticed my scowl and replied with a roll of her eyes. “C’mon, Jana. For once, it’s my turn to have it together. You’ll be fine.”

  The casseroles grabbed my senses, my stomach growling. “I wonder how poppy seed chicken casserole tastes for breakfast.”

  “If you are excited about poppy seed chicken casserole, wait until you see what’s in my backseat. Follow me.” She sprung on her heels, practically running outside.

  As if she were introducing the next million-dollar idea, she paused for dramatic effect before she unveiled a total back seat bakery. Salivating at the array of desserts before me, I was more than obliged to be her designated taste tester. We unloaded chocolate-covered strawberries, Coca-Cola fudge cake, lemon chess squares, and cream cheese balls.

  “I have died and gone to heaven,” Grace gushed, carefully arranging the lemon squares and Oreo balls on an exquisite Arthur Court tray.

  I fought an envious scowl. “You are handling motherhood like a pro, while I can barely find time to shave my legs.”

  She patted my head as if I were a child.

  I sighed, skipping the fork and picking up a piece of fudge cake with my hands. The homemade delicacy went straight to my brain, unleashing a rush better than the antidepressant, no doubt. “Grace, this is exceptional. You should do this for a living.”

  “I know, right?” She shrieked excitedly, nibbling at a lemon ball. She pulled out a chair and gestured for me to sit next to her. “Listen. I have a plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Okay. So, I have made a lot of money the past two years. That being said, I’ve spent too much and need a few more years to save. But…”

  Her dynamism was contagious, and our expressions were identical as she dug in her purse, finally pulling out a crumpled piece of yellow paper. I shoved a chocolate-covered strawberry in my mouth as I waited, licking the juice that ran out the sides. My eyes closed as I chewed my treat slowly, basking in pure oblivion. It was no less spectacular than the to-die-for cake.

  “I’m going to open a bakery!” she announced proudly, laying out the paper in front of me. “It’s all here. I’m going to find a spot in downtown Fairhope and call it Genuinely Grace’s. I’ve made a file of all the tweaked recipes I have created, and we will serve coffee. I can pay people to work the counters for me, and that way I can be available for Emma. Gavin’s totally on board. We need about two or three years to prepare ourselves financially—your nerdy husband has been helping Gavin figure it out.”

  Eyes glittering, she gazed at me expectantly. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a fantastic plan!” If she kept herself together, her backseat bakery could become more than an idea that wobbled on the edge of wishing. “You know, your mom could help. Her apple pies are better than Granny Smith’s.”

  “Precisely, my love. She’s retiring in two years, so we can share responsibility between the bakery and Emma.” She clapped her hands. “It’s all going to fa
ll in place! Picture perfect.”

  I snapped my fingers and jumped up to grab my camera.

  “Speaking of pictures … freeze. You look ravishing. Let me take your picture.”

  Her groan was unconvincing. She loved the camera and was accustomed to my scavenger hunts for artistic inspiration.

  The first snapshot, Grace posing and flashing her movie star smile, was gorgeous … but the second one, an afterthought, was hallucinogenic. Recovering from her intensity, she gazed out the window, her face relaxed as magical rays of sunshine illuminated her features.

  “So,” I changed the subject. “Everything is wonderful again at the Milton home?”

  Her excitement over her future career plans seemed to fizzle, her expression shifting to somberness. Her eyes, which appeared to be fixed on nothingness, lingered out the window for minutes that felt like forever.

  “Grace? Are you okay?”

  Waiting on her response, my eyes dropped to an unsightly slice on her arm … the same cut I saw at lunch had not yet healed.

  She snapped out of her moody trance. “Yes.”

  Stealing my chance to press her about her arm, she continued. “Thank you for always being here for me. I love you, Jana. You are my best friend, the sister I never had.” She paused, words filling her eyes that I couldn’t read. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  Beep. Beep.

  I almost silenced my hundredth text message of the day, but seeing it was from Gavin, I punched the message curiously. It wasn’t every day I got a text from my best friend’s husband. In fact, that was the first time.

  Jana, I need to talk to you. It’s about Grace, and it’s important. Please call me when you have a chance.

  I found his name in my contacts, and the line was ringing within seconds. No answer. My heartbeat sped up, a million scenarios playing out in my head. Was Grace depressed again? Was Emma okay? Was it about that woman Gavin met in the park that day?

  I just tried. What’s going on? I’m dying here. Call me back.

  I fought the urge to call Grace and ask her myself, but my intuition told me Gavin wanted this to be confidential.

  My weekly date with Grace and Emma at the downtown Fairhope children’s park fell on that smoldering Monday afternoon. Gavin still had not returned my call by the time we were to meet.

  A breeze blessed the day with a slight shelter from the murderous sunlight. I wiped bands of dirty sweat off my forehead, grimacing at the salty beads sliding through my freshly washed hair. Clean locks had finally become the norm rather than a luxury. Calla whined, delicately hidden under her pink and white stroller’s canopy. Obviously uncomfortable, she fidgeted when the stroller’s weight shifted. Her tiny fingers poked through an opening in the side, fluttering through a blast of cool wind.

  “We’ll be there soon, baby,” I cooed. “You will get to see little Emma.”

  Calla and I waited for half an hour, but Grace never showed up. After four phone calls and three texts, I gave up.

  My stomach was in knots. Grace always called when she was running late, and I could count on one hand the instances she did not immediately respond to a text.

  Something is very wrong … The ominous feeling in the pit of my stomach tripled by the minute.

  Andrew was organizing his tools and hunting gear in the garage when Calla and I returned. Panting, I gasped for air, writ with an unexplained fear. Calla giggled contentedly, assuming my sprints were for her entertainment.

  It only took Andrew one quick sideways glance at my pained expression to know something was wrong. “What’s up?” He raised his eyebrows, brushing the dirt from his tool collection off his hand.

  “Grace never showed up for our date at the park,” I replied hurriedly, placing a confused Calla in her daddy’s arms. “I called several times, and she never answered. Gavin sent me this weird text earlier, saying he needed to talk to me, but I couldn’t get him.”

  “She probably just forgot, left her phone on silent, and fell asleep—”

  My cell phone interrupted. It was Gavin.

  I did not bother with small talk. “Have you talked to Grace? She never met us for our date in the park.”

  “No, I can’t get ahold of her.” He sounded barely short of frantic. “Her mom has Emma. She said she was going to rest for a little while. She was supposed to get Emma from her mom’s house hours ago but never showed.” His voice was strained, as if he had been crying. “Jana, please go see if she’s home, so I know she didn’t … she didn’t … get in a wreck or anything. I’m an hour away.”

  Hearing his panic sent me into frenzy since he was normally tough to rattle. Why was he so scared?

  “Call you as soon as I get there. I’m worried sick.”

  I could barely catch my breath on the minutes-long drive to the Miltons’, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles were bloodless. Please, God, let us be paranoid.

  Grace’s black Camry was parked under the basketball hoop, as it always was. The garage door was closed. Emma’s toys were happily scattered throughout the tall grass that desperately needed to be mowed. Everything appeared normal.

  Whew, she must have just fallen asleep, I thought. But the assumption was forced, because the expected sense of relief I should have felt refused to follow.

  Cautiously, I stepped to the freshly painted front door and rapped the knocker loudly. When no one answered, I rang the doorbell twice. Was that loud music playing?

  Grace hated loud music.

  “Grace!” I yelled. “It’s me! Open the door.”

  No answer.

  Instinctively, I fiercely turned the doorknob, my palms sweating. It was locked.

  I flew to the backyard, panting by the time I landed at the back door. It was locked, too.

  Maybe she’s not here. Calm down, I coached myself, but a panic flooded me with a severity I never experienced before.

  My eyes peered through the window, and I spotted her keys in the middle of the living room floor, but no purse. Maybe someone picked her up? She never forgot our play date…

  By then, I saw spots and my terrified heart pounded wildly.

  Could she have been raped? Murdered? Kidnapped? Oh, Jesus, please help me. “No, no…” I covered my face with my hands, trying to stop sobs from erupting.

  In a fleeting moment of irrationality, I thrust a splintered wooden chair through her living room window.

  “Grace!” I screamed to an empty room. “Grace, are you here?”

  Nothing seemed to be out of place, except for the throbbing music that blared loudly from the television, the bass booming.

  Cringing, I immediately turned it off.

  The familiar ring of Grace’s cell phone filled the air. I froze in place, momentarily wondering what I was going to say to her if she stepped out of her bedroom to a living room littered with broken glass.

  My eyes fell on her weathered Coach purse in the corner. Her first anniversary gift from Gavin, she wore it the week before to dinner at my house.

  Her purse was there.

  I rummaged through it and grabbed the pulsating phone. “Gavin,” I gasped. “It’s Jana. I’m in your house. I don’t think Grace is here. The doors were locked, and this loud music was blaring, and her purse and keys are in the middle of the floor—”

  “What? How did you get in?”

  I gulped. “Don’t be mad at me. I broke a window. I will pay to replace it.”

  “Have you checked all of the bedrooms?” I heard the terror in his trembling voice, squeezing my eyes shut tightly. I needed to be strong.

  “No, I haven’t … only the main area. I just got inside, but I will—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, the battery died, shutting out Gavin and leaving me all alone.

  My body pumping with adrenaline, I burst open the guest bedroom door. Nothing.

  Nothing in the guest bathroom.

  Nothing in Emma’s room.

  Nothing in Grace’s bedroom.

  “Oh, t
hank God, “I said aloud, sobbing tears of relief as I sank into Grace and Gavin’s bed. “Grace, where are you?”

  My relief was premature. For reasons unknown, my eyes fell on Grace’s journal laying open on her vanity. Guiltily, I picked it up and opened it to the last page. My eyes scanning the words, I stopped breathing. What I read nearly ripped the light out of my soul.

  She fucking looks just like me, but I bet she’s not crazy like me. He deserves someone normal. Sometimes I still want to die, and I want it to work this time.

  A debilitating dizziness sucked the breath out of me, and I grabbed the corner of a chair to steady myself. This time … she had tried to kill herself? I couldn’t breathe.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the master bathroom was open. The vent was humming loudly.

  No matter how much time passed, no matter how many prayers I prayed, no matter how many pills I swallowed, I would never, ever forget the horror that unveiled before my eyes at that moment.

  When the dizziness ceased, and my vision cleared, I saw the dark red blood dripping from the bath tub.

  I knew she was gone.

  I can’t remember much of what happened next. I remember the terrible sulfur stench, her fair arm hanging lifelessly from the side of the shower curtain, her blond curls tinged with blood, and the rushing sound of the running water … the sound that made me lurch at even the waves of my beloved Orange Beach, because they brought me back here…

  I can still see the blade lying on the cold travertine tile, and hear the awful song playing that would haunt me forever.

  And then I stumbled into her bedroom, gasping for breath, and a part of me died with her as I lost control of my senses.

  No pit of everlasting fire could burn any worse than this living hell.

  GRACE’S FUNERAL FELL on a dismal Friday morning. The clouds threatened and the winds taunted us, hissing with fury. The birds screeched with fright, taking refuge from the ominous weather that approached in the old, thick oak trees shading the cemetery. I tried to think that God was angry at what happened to Grace, and was showing His emotions with a horrifying storm, hopefully holding His thunder until her funeral was over. My survival depended on believing whatever—whoever—caused her to make the final decision to kill herself would have to pay for it.