The War Within (2 page)

“See you soon, Gran.”

“Yeah,” Meredith said absently. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Jordan Gonzalez settled into a booth in the Wildcat Diner in Paducah, Kentucky, and reached for a menu. Her friends in Berkeley would be mortified by most of the dishes listed on the laminated paper, but half the fun of a road trip was gorging on food you’d never eat at home. The fare served at this greasy spoon definitely qualified.

“Good morning, ladies,” the waitress said as she filled Grandma Meredith’s heavy ceramic cup. The woman’s drawl was as thick as the sludge that was supposed to be coffee.

Jordan took a pass on imbibing the viscous liquid, but Grandma Meredith happily acquiesced. Grandma Meredith could probably use the caffeine. She had tossed and turned all night in their cramped room in a hotel just off the interstate. This morning, she hadn’t risen promptly at five to do an hour of yoga like she usually did. Instead, she had lounged around until a respectable but unheard of for her seven thirty. Then she had hit the shower while Jordan tried to find an outfit that wouldn’t prove too upsetting for the denizens of Middle America.

Jordan knew better than to ask Grandma Meredith what was bothering her, though. Grandma Meredith was ex-military. When she felt like she was being interrogated, the only information she divulged was her name, rank, and serial number. Better to wait for her to open up on her own than to try to drag anything out of her. Jordan had three months to solve the mystery. No need to go chasing after red herrings on the second day.

The waitress—the name tag pinned to her ample bosom read Debbie—placed the steaming coffee carafe on a corner of the Formica-topped table and hovered a gnawed-on ballpoint pen over the order pad in her hands. Her bottle blond hair displayed a good three inches of dark brown roots. She had the raspy voice of a chain-smoking fifty-year-old, but Jordan was willing to bet she wasn’t a day over twenty-five. She was cute in a backwoods kind of way. She looked a little like Cameron Diaz doing Method preparation for a movie role. “Do you know what you want, or do you need some more time to look over the menu?”

“Give us a few minutes, please, dear,” Grandma Meredith said.

“Sure thing.”

Jordan watched Debbie walk away in a swish of Day-Glo polyester.

Grandma Meredith chuckled as she peered at the selections on the laminated menu. “Brittany might have something to say about how you’re looking at our waitress.”

Jordan started at the mention of her girlfriend. If that’s what she still was. The way they’d left off, it was hard to tell.

“Just because I’m not looking to buy anything doesn’t mean I can’t do a little window shopping.”

“Brittany might see things differently. What’s she doing this summer?”

“She and a friend were planning to drive up to Seattle to join the latest round of protests.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go with her.”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Oh.” Grandma Meredith looked as surprised as Jordan had felt when Brittany had announced her plans and Jordan realized they didn’t include her. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

“The day I left California. I’ve left her a couple messages since then, but she hasn’t called me back.”

“She will.”

“We’ll see.”

College was so much harder than she’d thought it would be. In high school, she had been the smartest student in all her classes. In Berkeley, she was closer to the middle of the pack than the front. She wasn’t used to being average. In her native Kenosha, her ever-changing appearance was considered borderline shocking. In Berkeley, her chameleonic look was par for the course. She didn’t feel completely at ease in either city. Perhaps she could find a home in a third. If only for a little while. Three months in a new locale and a healthy dose of Grandma Meredith’s tough love. Yeah. That was exactly what she needed to help her find her footing.

“Have you made up your minds?” Debbie asked when she returned to the table.

“I’ll have an egg white omelet, two slices of wheat toast, a side of turkey bacon, and a glass of orange juice, please,” Grandma Meredith said as she poured sugar in her coffee. The good stuff, not a lame blue-packeted substitute.

Jordan envied her metabolism. Grandma Meredith was pushing seventy, but she had the body, the energy, and the vitality of a woman thirty years younger. She should. She was on the go so much it was like she was still in the Army. When Jordan got to be her age, she hoped to have half her get-up-and-go and a fourth of her independence.

“What about you?” Debbie asked. “What’ll you have?”

Jordan took another look at the menu. Lunch was hours away, but she wasn’t in the mood for breakfast food. “Is it too early for a Hot Brown?”

The Hot Brown was an open-faced turkey sandwich covered in cheese sauce, topped with bacon, and broiled or baked to crispy perfection. Regional delicacy or a heart attack on a plate? Hard to tell. Either way, it looked too good to pass up.

“It’s never too early for a Hot Brown.” Debbie cast a hard glance at Jordan’s T-shirt, which featured the iconic Change poster created for Barack Obama’s first presidential campaign. “And it’s not too late to change your politics.”

Jordan’s pulse began to race. Few things got her juices flowing like a good old-fashioned debate even if, as she suspected was the case here, she might be engaging in a battle of wits with an unarmed combatant.

“The last time I looked, my side won. If you seriously examine the alternatives, I think you’ll find them sorely lacking in—”

Grandma Meredith cleared her throat. One eyebrow inched toward her close-cropped silver hair. On someone Jordan’s age, Grandma Meredith’s haircut would be considered gamine. On her, it was just cool. Heeding her warning look, Jordan changed course.

“I’ll have a Hot Brown, a side of home fries, and a bottle of mineral water. And I like my politics just fine the way they are, thanks.”

“Whatever.” Debbie recorded her order, snatched the menu out of her hand, and walked away in a huff.

“Is it something I said?”

“It usually is,” Grandma Meredith said with an indulgent smile.

“You fought for the rights of the oppressed to express themselves without fear of reprisal. Why do you seem so surprised whenever I use mine?”

“You’re forgetting I wasn’t on the front lines. I patched up the unfortunate few who were.” Based on the expression on her face, Grandma Meredith obviously wanted to say something else. She toyed with her napkin as she organized her thoughts. “It seems to me you could be a bit more discerning about choosing your battles. The wars you wage are either lost causes or moot points.”

A rejoinder immediately came to mind, but Jordan didn’t verbalize it. She had nothing to gain from comparing the figurative wars she fought to the literal one Grandma Meredith had contested. Nothing to gain and a whole lot to lose. Beginning with Grandma Meredith’s hard-won respect.

She looked at her phone, hoping one of her friends had sent her a cheeky text or a funny e-mail she could share to ease the unexpected tension. No dice. Just another blog about the government stalemate in Washington and yet another picture of a same-sex military couple who were using the dissolution of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell as an excuse to engage in some very active PDA while in uniform.

With no escape route, she tried to find common ground.

“I made a few phone calls before we left Wisconsin. I have three job interviews lined up for the day after we hit the island. If one of them pans out, I’ll have a chance to earn some cash this summer so I can stop mooching off Mom and Dad every few months.”

Last year, she’d worked as a lifeguard in San Diego. The year before that, she’d been a waitress in Seattle. That was after serving as a cage cleaner in a vet’s office in Austin. Hands down, her least favorite job ever. This year, she’d learn to scoop ice cream, bag groceries, or man a tollbooth. Her final option was working as an unpaid intern for the weekly local newsletter handed out gratis to each visitor to the island. Given a choice, she’d rather ditch the paying gig in favor of on-the-job experience, but she wanted to feel like she was pulling her weight for once. Grandma Meredith always insisted she hold on to the money she made each summer, but why should she force her to pay all the bills if she didn’t have to? Every little bit counted, right?

“What are you going to do this summer, Gran?”

While Jordan toiled at a temporary, usually low-paying gig each year, Grandma Meredith volunteered her services to any charity or non-profit that needed an extra set of hands.

“I haven’t decided yet.” Grandma Meredith sipped her coffee, a pensive look on her face. “This year, I think I’ll play it by ear.”

“That’s new. You normally plan every day of your trip from start to finish. Sometimes every minute.” Before Jordan could ask what had prompted the change, she noticed a man with thinning salt-and-pepper hair staring at their table. She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t look now, but the late-in-life Lothario across the room is looking at you like he’s dying of thirst and you’re the last drink of water for miles.”

Grandma Meredith didn’t bother to give the guy a first look, let alone a second. “I’m sure he’ll find an oasis somewhere.”

When the food arrived, Jordan took a picture of her sandwich with her phone and uploaded the photo to two of her favorite social media sites. “Papa George died when I was nine,” she said, giving the molten cheese sauce time to cool so she wouldn’t burn the roof of her mouth the first time she took a bite. “Twelve years is a long time to be alone. Don’t you want to meet someone else?”

Grandma Meredith smeared honey on her toast. She looked outwardly calm, but something in her eyes hinted at inner turmoil. “I think we’re all entitled to one great love, two if we’re lucky. I’ve already met my quota.”

Jordan’s memories of Papa George were growing fuzzy but remained fond. She remembered how he used to dote on her and how he would spend hours making her laugh. She remembered him reading her bedtime stories and tucking her in at night. She remembered him making up funny songs while she, he, and Grandma Meredith skipped stones on the pond in their backyard. She remembered a man admired by all who knew him.

“Papa George is a pretty tough act to follow, and anyone you brought home to meet the family would have to earn my seal of approval before he’d be allowed to spend time with you.” Jordan winked to let Grandma Meredith know she was only seventy-five percent serious. Okay, maybe eighty. “Take a chance. Put yourself out there. If you meet someone, great. If you don’t, at least you had some fun along the way. That’s always been my motto. Why don’t you borrow it for a while?”

She took a breath as she tried to gauge Grandma Meredith’s reaction to her words. Grandma Meredith’s blank expression didn’t give away what was going on behind her eyes. Jordan took an uncertain step forward.

“Papa George wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” Grandma Meredith said firmly. “I have bridge club, garden club, afternoons at the Y, and my volunteer work.”

To Jordan’s ears, those things sounded more like entries on a to-do list than the ingredients for a happy, well-rounded life. Something—a very big thing—was missing.

“I’m sure your volunteer work is fulfilling, but don’t you want to be fulfilled in a way that’s a lot more fun?”

She waggled her eyebrows to make sure Grandma Meredith got the joke. She could be so dense about sex Jordan often wondered if her mother was a product of Immaculate Conception.

Grandma Meredith demurely reached for her orange juice. “If you were younger, I’d wash your mouth out with soap.”

“Why? You’re the one who taught me to say whatever was on my mind.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I also taught you the value of running your thoughts through a filter before you give voice to them.”

“That takes too long. Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission, I always say.”

“Before or after the cops slap the cuffs on you?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grandma Meredith always gave her grief about her confrontations with those in power, but Jordan could tell she was proud of her for being willing to take a stand on issues others chose to avoid. “Before he died, I’d be willing to bet Papa George gave you permission to move on. Why don’t you take it? I know he was the love of your life, but—”

Grandma Meredith’s expression grew stern.

“Your grandfather was a good man and the best friend I’ve ever had, but he wasn’t the love of my life.”

Jordan couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Her grandparents had the strongest marriage she had ever seen. When they were together, they were like school kids holding hands on the playground. Deliriously in love and with eyes only for each other. Had she misjudged what she had seen? “What do you mean? You two seemed so happy. Are you saying that wasn’t the case?”

“We were happy. We had your mother and then we had you. I wouldn’t trade the life we had for anything.”

“But you didn’t love him.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I loved him more than words can say.”

Jordan picked up her fork and toyed with her food. Suddenly, she didn’t feel like eating. She struggled to wrap her head around the idea that, as much as Grandma Meredith seemed to love Papa George, she might have loved someone else even more. “This is crazy.” She dropped her fork in her plate with a clatter that made the people at the next table turn around to see what was the matter. “Does Mom know?”

Grandma Meredith shook her head decisively. “Your mother has always been eager to accept everything and everyone at face value. You never do. That’s why I always knew you’d be the one who’d ask all the questions no one else has ever dared.”

Grandma Meredith reached across the table and held her hand. Her touch was gentle yet firm. Grounding her, yet giving her wings to fly.

“Who is he?”

Grandma Meredith frowned in apparent confusion. “Who?”

“This guy you were so crazy about who wasn’t Papa George. Do I know him?”

Grandma Meredith pulled away. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’ve already said too much as it is.”