The Sound of Glass (34 page)

I looked down at my hands, where I expected to find my purse and instead found only crumpled brochures and information sheets
about hospice care and ovarian cancer that had been given to me by the social worker.

A motorboat skipped across the water, a man at the wheel and a woman with a long, flowing yellow scarf shooting out behind her. I wanted to shout at them, to make them stop. I wanted everything to stop. Loralee was dying, yet the world insisted on turning.

I stumbled away from the water toward a large grassy spot in front of an open-air stage. A band was setting up, and there were about ten people milling about, running cords and moving equipment, each with his or her own job. They had an air of competence about them, the confidence of knowing what had to be done, and I felt an odd envy as I watched them.

In other spots near the stage, food vendors were setting up for a busy night. The Water Festival was in full swing, but it seemed like a world removed.

I sat down on one of the long rows of cement steps that led down to the grassy area and stared up at the blue sky, wondering why there weren’t any clouds.

“Merritt?”

I shielded my eyes with my hand as I looked up at Gibbes.

“What are you doing here?” I asked ungraciously. I wanted to be alone, to lick my wounds in private. To pretend that if I hid long enough the world would stop and I could get off.

He sat down next to me without waiting for an invitation. “Deborah Fuller called me from her car and mentioned she’d seen you walking down Bay Street toward the marina. I left my car at your house and followed the boardwalk until I ran into you. You wouldn’t answer your phone.”

“Sorry you went to all that trouble. I’m not good company right now.”

I studied the stage again, seeing it transformed bit by bit, like watching a flower bloom. I felt Gibbes looking at me but didn’t turn my head.

“How’d you get home?”

“I hitched a ride with a nurse who lives on Charles Street. I didn’t want to wait for you. Like I said, I’m not good company right now.”

I wanted him to leave, wanted him to understand that every time I looked at him I saw my own failure to recognize someone’s needs besides my own, my inability to hold on to anything precious in my life, to admit that everything Cal had ever said about me was true.

Unable to take a hint, Gibbes stayed where he was, his elbows on his knees as he watched the stage setup. “Do you dance?”

I whirled to face him. “What? No. I don’t dance.”

“They’re having a bunch of bands coming to play beach music during the festival, and everybody will be here to shag.”

“Excuse me?”

He sat up, bracing his arms on his hands. “Shagging as in the South Carolina state dance, not the
Austin Powers
shagging.”

I stood. “Loralee is dying. I really can’t think of anything besides that right now—especially not dancing.”

He stood, too. “I know. That’s why I mentioned it. Before I left the hospital I went to see Loralee. She told me that you want her to come home with you, where she can be near Owen. Even with the hospice nurses, it will be hard on you. She asked me to take you out. To take your mind off of things.”

If anything, that made me feel worse. “She’s a saint, isn’t she? Even while she’s dying, she’s worried about other people.”

“True. But you’re the one who’s bringing her into your home.”

“Like I could leave her to die alone? Surrounded by strangers?” I shook my head. “Not even a consideration.”

He was looking at me steadily. “You don’t have to do this by yourself, you know. I’m here—call me anytime. Even if it’s just to shout at me because you need someone to shout at.”

I shook my head. “I’ll be fine.” Looking at my watch, I said,
“I’ve got to pick up Owen and figure out what I’m going to say to him. I just have no idea what that’s going to be.” I began walking back the way I’d come, along the walkway that bordered the river, which no longer seemed so threatening in comparison to the other monsters out there.

His long strides caught up to me just as his cell phone rang. He answered it and spoke briefly before hanging up. He was silent for a moment, and I felt his brooding presence beside me.

“What?” I asked.

“Deborah found out something, but I told her it could wait.”

I stopped, breathing heavily as I realized I’d been practically running, feeling nearly sick to my stomach from the heat and the worry. The grief. “Is it something that might distract me from thinking about Loralee? Because maybe I need to hear it right now, if only so I don’t stand here in the middle of the walkway and throw up.”

Gibbes briefly looked behind me toward the water before turning back to me. “She found your grandfather’s death certificate. Cause of death was listed as a plane crash, July twenty-fifth, 1955.” He paused. “His was one of the two unclaimed bodies.”

“Unclaimed? But he was married. Why wouldn’t my grandmother claim his body?”

“That’s a very good question. And he’s buried in Saint Helena’s churchyard.”

“Here,” I whispered.

“Yes.”

I stared at Gibbes without really seeing him, thinking about the South Carolina AAA book I’d found in my grandmother’s things after she’d died, and the way Cal had spotted me on the street and followed me to the museum to meet me. How whenever he looked at me it seemed he was expecting to see somebody else.

“Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?” Gibbes asked.

“Please, I need to be alone.”

I turned around, then quickly walked away from him, not
slowing down or stopping until I’d reached the front porch, oblivious to the sweat mixing with the tears running down my face. The wind chimes swayed and sang, their marred and stained surfaces, earned from tumbling about the ocean’s waves for years, strangely beautiful. They reminded me of something Loralee had said about our scars, and how we should be proud of them because they showed where we’d been.

Reaching up, I touched the bottom stone on one of the chimes, wrapping my fingers around it, feeling how hard and ungiving it was against my skin.
You’re strong at the broken places
. I let go of the stone and walked up the steps and sat in one of the rockers. Pulling out my phone, I dialed Maris’s mother to let her know I was coming to get Owen. After I hung up, I listened to the wind chimes while I tried to figure out how to tell a ten-year-old boy that his mother was dying.

LORALEE

L
oralee lay back against the pillows propped up on the headboard of the antique bed. She still felt bloated and nauseated, but the pain had lessened so that she felt well enough to smile at the hospice nurse as she took her vitals and checked her medications. Her doses of pain meds had been significantly increased—way past time, according to Dr. Ward—but not to the point where she couldn’t think or talk or still be a part of life. She intended to do all three until her very last breath.

Owen said that he wouldn’t have known any different except that she spent a lot of time in bed. He spent most of his waking hours watching her with his father’s blue eyes, as if by being vigilant he might be able to prevent whatever came next.

She thought that way of thinking most likely came from his father’s side, seeing as how Merritt had been behaving the same way
ever since Loralee had come back from the hospital, hovering like a fly over fried chicken at a Sunday picnic. Even now, she sat in the chair in the corner of Loralee’s room as if she didn’t trust the nurse to know her job.

But Loralee wasn’t going to find fault with Merritt, because she’d been the one who’d had to tell Owen how sick his mama really was. Loralee was grateful, because her little boy had been prepared and strong when Merritt had brought him to the hospital to see her, and that had given her heart comfort, had told her—as if she hadn’t already known it—that Merritt would make a terrific mama for Owen. It was at that moment that she’d allowed herself to not give up exactly, but to stop fighting so much. She wanted to leave this world the way she’d come into it—not in a Walmart parking lot, of course, but without a lot of fuss. Her own mama had been a good example of dying with grace. They’d been watching their favorite soap on TV, and when Loralee had returned from the kitchen with a glass of sweet tea, it had looked like her mother was sleeping. But she wasn’t. Loralee had seen enough of death to know when only the shell of a person was left behind. Sort of like a lightbulb that had just been switched off but was still hot to the touch.

“You’ve got a good bedside manner,” Loralee said to the nurse. “And such a beautiful voice. I like listening to you hum my favorite hymns while you work.”

The nurse took off her glasses and let them dangle from a long strand of colorful beads over her ample bosom. “Thank you. I do think it’s my calling, but it’s patients like you who really make it worthwhile. I must say, though, that I’ve never had such an accepting patient.”

The nurse, whose name was Lutie Stelle, and who Loralee had already discovered was recently divorced with two small children, and who lived with her mother, was about Loralee’s age, short and plump with warm brown eyes.

“Maybe because I’m not afraid of dying.”

“Loralee,” Merritt said with reproach as she stood and walked to the bed.

Loralee turned to the nurse. “My stepdaughter doesn’t like me saying that word, but I’m all right with it. We’re all dying. Some of us are just lucky enough to know when.”

The nurse considered her for a long moment. “You’ve got a strong faith. I also think you are wise beyond your years. I hope you’ve figured out a way to share all your thoughts with your son.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Loralee patted the pink
Journal of Truths
that was never out of reach those days, and which had only a few empty pages left. She’d already written in it that morning as she’d watched Merritt sleeping in the chair she rarely seemed to leave.
You will never be truly happy if you keep holding on to the things that make you sad.
And then she’d added,
Hemorrhoid cream is the best cure for enlarged pores on the face and nose.
Because beauty advice was always practical. Yes, the journal was intended mostly for Owen, to teach him things she wouldn’t have time to. But it wouldn’t hurt for him to know about beauty and fashion, too. The future women in his life would appreciate it.

Gibbes had come to visit Loralee every day since she’d come home, but Merritt always made sure not to be around. It seemed to Loralee that all the good things she’d seen happening between Merritt and Gibbes had been erased the day they’d rushed Loralee to the hospital. Merritt refused to talk about it, but Loralee could almost believe that Merritt was punishing herself for feeling happy, that she felt guilty for moving on with her life. As if she were personally responsible for her husband’s death and Loralee’s cancer. Or for the hurricanes and earthquakes that rocked the Earth on a regular basis.

The nurse packed up her things, said her good-byes, then left, seeing herself to the door, leaving Merritt and Loralee staring at each other.

Merritt gave her a tight smile. “Owen’s with Maris and her family today. They took a trip out to Hunting Island so Owen could
climb the lighthouse. I gave him my iPhone to take pictures to show you.” She paused. “He didn’t want to go at first, but I told him it was okay, that . . .”

She stopped, her face horrified at the words she was about to say.

“That I wasn’t going to die today?” Loralee gave her a warm smile. “I’m glad he went. He needs to have as normal a life as possible. I’m glad he has a friend, and I think Maris and her family will be a good comfort for him.”

Merritt’s lower lip trembled as her face compressed in an effort to keep her emotions under control. There was so much of Maine still in the girl.

“You are going to give yourself a heart attack if you don’t let yourself cry, Merritt. And then where will we be? Beaufort Memorial won’t know what to think if we both end up there again with you the patient this time.”

An unplanned laugh escaped from Merritt’s mouth. “Let me refill your water pitcher.”

“Actually,” Loralee said, taking a moment to gauge how she felt, “I’d like to go downstairs and sit on the front porch while I still can. It’s not so hot today, and there’s a nice breeze. I know that because the wind chime Owen had Gibbes hang outside my window is chattering like two old ladies at a church social.”

Loralee carefully sat up and slid her legs over the side, practically falling off the bed in her rush to put on her slippers—the ones that technically belonged to Merritt—before Merritt could not only get to them first, but slip them on Loralee’s feet.

“Do you need a sweater?”

Loralee looked at her stepdaughter, trying hard to have gracious thoughts, knowing Merritt’s concern came from the right place. “If I find that I need it outside in ninety-degree weather, I’ll be sure to let you know. What I do need is some lipstick.”

“I’m sorry. . . .”

“It’s all right, Merritt. We’re all learning right now.”

At least she’d convinced Merritt that she didn’t need to wear her stepdaughter’s hideous robe and instead was in a comfortable pair of yoga pants and a cute royal blue T-shirt. Merritt grabbed a lipstick from the dresser and handed it to Loralee. “How about this?” she asked, holding up Loralee’s favorite shade, Hello Dolly
.

“You’re a quick study.”

Merritt pulled off the cap and rolled the lipstick up—too high, but she was trying—then handed it to Loralee, who put it on without a mirror because she’d done it so often she could probably do it in her sleep.

Handing the lipstick back to Merritt, Loralee stood and put her hand on the corner of the dresser to steady herself, feeling slightly dizzy. “You can give me your arm. I think it’s the bird food that I’ve been eating, and the meds have made me a little weak. I’ll even let you help me down the steps.”

Out on the porch, Merritt settled her in a rocking chair and stood watching her for a moment, as if to see whether Loralee remembered how to rock. “Maybe you shouldn’t have quit your job,” Loralee suggested.

“It was only part-time, and it wasn’t really what I wanted to do anyway. This way I can be with you all day.”

“What about that job Deborah Fuller told you about?”

“The acquisitions manager at the art gallery? That’s not official yet—probably not until after the first of the year. It’s not a guarantee, but Deborah said she’d put in a good word for me.” With her gaze focused on the river, she said, “Although I don’t want to go to work full-time at first.”

Loralee knew she was thinking about Owen, and how hard it would be for him without his mother. She wanted to reach over and pat Merritt’s hand, but held back. Merritt liked to pretend that she was a lot harder and pricklier than she really was, and for the time being Loralee would go along with it.

“If you’re up to coming downstairs again later, we can see the Water Festival’s opening-day fireworks tonight. Gibbes said they’re really spectacular.”

She wasn’t sure whether she could find the strength, but she nodded anyway, determined to be there. Gibbes would carry her if she asked. “Owen loves fireworks. I swear that’s the only reason we took him to Disney World—because he’d heard those were the best in the world and he wanted to see for himself.”

A large delivery truck slowed as it approached the front of the house, then carefully pulled into the driveway. Merritt stood, and it appeared for a moment that she might start clapping. “It’s my new refrigerator. Finally! I’ve run out of room to store all those casseroles people keep bringing over.”

She walked down the steps to greet the driver and his passenger, her face as animated as most women’s would be at a shoe sale. Loralee sat back in her chair and watched as the men loaded up the refrigerator on a dolly and wheeled it toward the house before hauling it carefully up the front steps and into the kitchen.

It was the first time she’d been completely alone since her trip to the hospital, and while the men and Merritt were busy unloading the new refrigerator and packing up the old one, Loralee kicked off her slippers and pressed her bare feet onto the floorboards of the porch. It had been too long since she’d gone barefoot. Back in Gulf Shores she’d mostly run around barefoot, not because she didn’t have shoes, but just because it felt so good.

She remembered nighttime games of Kick the Can and Monkey in the Middle, the hot nights and sticky mornings just happy memories now. She wanted to make sure that Owen knew how to play those childhood games and could teach them to the new friends he would make there. Loralee would have to tell Merritt the rules, since she was running out of space in her journal, but, knowing Merritt, she’d take notes.

She breathed deeply, smelling the wet air that was a part of any
coastal town just as much as the sand and water were, and she was reminded again of her girlhood. She stopped rocking, and after deciding that she felt strong enough to stand and walk, she moved slowly down the steps, holding on tightly to the railing, and into the front yard until she was beneath the ancient oak tree. Bracing one hand on the solid trunk, she tilted her head to see the silver-white leaf bottoms that always seemed to be winking when the wind blew. The tree had probably been there long before any of those houses, and maybe even before the river had decided to burrow into that corner of the world. And it would definitely still be there long after Loralee had passed from this earth. It was comforting, somehow, the permanence of it that was so much like the love between a mother and child.

The cool grass in the shade of the tree felt good on her bare feet, so good that it didn’t bother her that passersby in cars thought she must be crazy, hanging out like that in front of the big house, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and yoga pants, her hair dull and lifeless but still long. She didn’t consider herself a vain person, but her hair had always been her crowning glory, and she was bound and determined that she would meet her Maker with long hair.

She really wanted to cross the street to the marsh, to put her feet in the water one last time. Except she knew she’d already used up any extra reserves of strength and would most likely collapse in the middle of the road, giving Merritt a heart attack wondering where she was.

I’m ready
. The thought was so loud in her head that she imagined for a moment she’d spoken. Since Robert’s death and her diagnosis, she’d had one singular goal, one singular prayer. She’d even sworn that it would be her last and only prayer, asking that she could hold it together until she’d put Owen in a place where he would be loved and happy and well cared for. She’d taken a huge risk coming there, her only hope being that the little girl in the pictures and stories
Robert kept close to his heart still existed in the broken woman she’d met on the porch of that house.

“I’m ready,” she said softly to the tree and the air and to the place prayers went. She quickly said one more prayer, which technically didn’t break any promises, because it was for somebody else, then pushed off the tree and waited for a moment until she felt steady enough to walk back to the porch.

She’d barely made it to her chair when the men reappeared with the old refrigerator strapped to the dolly, Merritt following closely behind and muttering something about her wood floors. Loralee tried to catch her breath, to fill her lungs with air so she could ask one of those men to carry her back up the stairs.

The round-edged refrigerator looked even more antique in the bright light of day, much as she imagined the old countertops and cabinets looked against the brand-new stainless-steel model now in the kitchen.

One of the men tilted the dolly back as far as it could go, preparing to lower it onto the first step.

“Wait—stop a minute.”

The men looked annoyed, but Merritt ignored them and bent to get a better view beneath the refrigerator. Screwing up her face, she stuck her hand into what looked like fifty years of dust and cooking grease that had managed to congeal beneath the appliance, trapping something on the bottom, and peeled off what appeared to be a folded piece of paper, yellowed and brittle with age. Strings and clumps of dust fell from the paper as Merritt shook it, then sneezed.

The men continued on their way back to the truck, but Merritt didn’t raise her head.

Worried by her silence, Loralee wheezed, “Whatever that is, I’m thinking it’s been stuck under the refrigerator for a long time.”

Merritt looked at her with the eyes of a child who’d just realized she was lost in an unfamiliar place. “There’s only one word written
on the front. ‘Beloved.’” Her hands shook, rattling the page. “I think I recognize the handwriting.”