End of the Century (19 page)

Tearfully, Naomi explained that her husband hadn't been Alice's grandfather at all, not really. Another man had been the father of Alice's mother, Samantha. And all because of that damned volcano.

Back when she was only a few years older than Alice was now, Naomi, then Naomi Ward, had been a flight attendant. They called them “stewardesses” in those days, but it amounted to the same thing. Young Naomi had worked for American Overseas airlines, flying back and forth from Paris to New York.

Alice had known this since she was little. She'd always known the story about how her grandmother had worked in an airplane, until something bad happened, she lost her job, got married, and gave birth to her only child, Alice's mother.

Only, that wasn't what happened. Not really.

Naomi explained. The plane she worked on, all those years before, had been a Douglas DC-4 airliner. In those days, planes couldn't make it all the way across the Atlantic in one hop but had to stop for refueling along the way. They'd take off from Paris, then land in Shannon, Ireland, then Keflavik, Iceland, then Narsarsuaq, Greenland, then Frobisher Bay, Canada, and then
finally New York, America, where they'd empty out, rest up, and do the whole thing all over again.

In 1947, when Naomi's plane was refueling in Keflavik, a goddamned volcano had erupted, blanketing the skies with smoke and ash, blotting out the sun. They'd been grounded for days, waiting for the air to clear enough for them to navigate at takeoff. The passengers and crew waited in the town, crammed into the few available rooms to let, drinking with the civilian employees of Keflavik Airport, all of whom were Americans, either employed by American Overseas or by Lockhead Aircraft Overseas Service. They hardly saw any Icelanders at all the whole time they were in town. But there were a few other foreigners in the mix, including a trio of Brits. One of them was named Jack.

Naomi never did learn his last name, but she fell in love with him all the same. They spent three days together in a cramped little hotel room, hardly even leaving to eat or drink, wrapped around each other. Jack was older than Naomi, maybe even fifty, but Naomi didn't mind. He was in terrific shape, and had stamina to beat the band, and they even smoked the same brand of cigarettes. When the smoke cleared, and the plane was ready to take off, Jack was already gone, along with his two friends, off on some business or other elsewhere on the island. All he'd left Naomi were a few days' worth of pleasant memories, a soreness that meant she walked funny for days, his engraved silver match case, and the child growing in her belly.

Naomi was reasonably sure he hadn't meant to leave his match case behind and was positive that he hadn't meant to leave a child, but there it was.

Naomi didn't know about the baby until weeks later, of course, and by then there was nothing that could be done about it. Even if she'd been married, her employers would have fired her on the spot, but at least then they might have been a bit more forgiving. But unwed? They booted her out the door in New York with her last paycheck, and that was that.

Naomi ended up marrying the first man she found, a Texan, and when he moved back home to Austin to be nearer his family, she went with him. It wasn't the greatest marriage—how could it have been, since Naomi had just married the first guy she found—but if George Vance knew that his daughter Samantha hadn't been born premature at all, he didn't let on.

There in the hospital room, the television once more silent, the lime JELL-O slowly melting away, Naomi asked Alice to bring over her purse from the side table. From its fusty interior, she pulled out the silver match case. Alice had no idea how many times she'd seen her grandmother light cigarettes with matches from that case. Hundreds of thousands? Millions? Enough to kill her, at any rate, which was plenty.

Naomi started crying again, but with a different expression on her face. She wasn't feeling sorry for herself. She was feeling guilty.

She told Alice that she felt horrible about the exorcisms and everything else she'd put her through, all those years before. She said that maybe, just maybe, it wasn't the devil that Alice was hearing at all. Maybe it was really the voice of God, instead. Maybe by silencing those voices, they'd really prevented Alice from doing something really amazing.

Then Naomi had given the silver match case to Alice. As a gift? As a token of apology? Alice was never sure. But when she went out into the parking lot next to smoke, she tossed her disposable lighter in the trash, took out one of the wooden matches from the case, and sheltering from the unseasonably cold March wind, lit another cigarette. She knew the things would kill her, too, if she let them. But then, Alice doubted she'd live long enough for them to have a chance.

And then, a few months later, Alice's grandmother died. Naomi Vance had been a part of Alice's life every day since she was seven and a half. After James Fell had his heart attack and Alice fell, Naomi had moved in with her daughter and granddaughter to help run the family business on Anderson Mill and to help raise Alice.

Alice had watched her grandmother move through stages of belief like a farmer rotating crops, Buddhism one week, nature worship the next, crystals the week after that. The only constant in Naomi Vance's system of beliefs was the unwavering conviction that there was meaning in the universe and that everyone and everything had a destiny to fulfill. Samantha Fell had given up on the idea of meaning and destiny when her husband had a heart attack and
died, all while she was out working in the garden. Alice knew that her mother didn't blame her for falling, but in some strange way Samantha blamed herself for not being there to catch her.

Now, Naomi Vance was dead, and Alice felt that she'd fallen farther away from her mother than ever.

“So what happens if you don't go back on your meds?”

Alice looked up at Roxanne and thought about how truthfully to answer. Again, what the hell? It wasn't as if they'd ever see each other again.

“If I stay off long enough, and have enough seizures, I've got a fifteen percent chance of psychosis. Not quite schizophrenia, but close enough to count, if you ask me. If I stay on the meds, I don't have visions, but I'll still have all the symptoms of Geschwind's.” She paused, and then cocked her head to one side. “Do you have any kids, Roxanne? Or want any?”

Roxanne thought for a moment. “No, and I'm not sure, in that order. I have trouble enough keeping relationships with adults working, you know? I'm not sure how successful I'd be establishing any kind of connection to a child.”

A good answer. “Well, if I take the meds, I can't get pregnant, unless I want to have a kid with all kinds of birth defects. My TLE means I'd have a hard time getting pregnant, even if I wanted to, since a messed-up temporal lobe means reduced fertility. But since I exhibit what the doctors call ‘hyposexual tendencies,' it's not as if I'm much interested in sex, anyway.”

Roxanne nodded, wearing a sympathetic look.

An awkward silence stretched between them.

“Another round?” Roxanne finally asked. “My shout.”

Alice wasn't sure what she was shouting about, but it seemed a good idea to her.

Roxanne knew what time it was without checking a clock. It was time for her to go.

“I've got to meet my dad for dinner,” she explained, shouldering back into her leather jacket, which had lain across the back of the bench. “You sure you're going to be all right?”

Alice nodded again, and for the twelfth time lied and said she'd be fine.

“And you've got somewhere to stay, with these friends of yours?”

Alice tried to remember the names she'd given her imaginary friends with the apartment not far from here and managed a fairly convincing smile.

Roxanne gave her a close look, suspiciously, but didn't call her on it. “You have something to write on? And with?”

Alice thought a moment, and then fished her partially full notebook from her backpack, along with one of her pens.

Roxanne flipped open to the first blank page and wrote her name and number. Then she cursed herself under her breath, crossed out the number, and wrote another below it. “They just changed all the dialing codes in April, and I can never remember whether I'm before the change or after. This is June, so this is the 0207 number. Call me if you need any help. Okay? You promise?”

Alice made a show of looking at the number. She nodded. “I promise.”

Roxanne stood by the side of the table, chewing her lower lip. “I don't know. Maybe you should just come to dinner with me. I'm sure my dad would love to meet you.”

Alice shook her head, still smiling. “No. Go on. I'll be fine.” She waved a hand at the notebook, merrily. “Look, I've got your number right here. I'll call you if I run into any trouble. I promise.”

Roxanne continued chewing her lower lip, still looking unconvinced, but finally shrugged with defeat. “Okay, then.” She reached out and put a hand on Alice's shoulder “You take care of yourself, you understand?”

Alice smiled, blinked, and nodded.

When Roxanne was gone, Alice scowled at the number on the page, the purple ink looking black in the poorly lit booth, and shoved notebook and pen back into her backpack.

As if she could face someone who knew her secrets. Not all of them, of course, but enough.