Love Mercy (11 page)

Standing in the checkout line, she gazed down at her purchases. They would be the first gifts she’d given to her granddaughter in fourteen years: a box of tampons, a hot water bottle and a sweatshirt. What did they signify? She was always looking at how things connected, what they looked like on the surface as compared to what they really meant. A photo and column about gifts and what they symbolized started forming in her head. She loved the idea of using the offbeat sign describing the tampons as a great stocking stuffer. But she could never use these particular details. Imagine the embarrassment of a teenage girl’s grandmother writing about tampons. Love would write a column about presents, but it could not include the things that actually inspired the essay.

It struck her with a pang how meager these gifts were. Would Rett stay long enough to celebrate Christmas? Maybe Love could do better if she stayed through the holidays. Christmas was only a few weeks away, but surely she would discover some hint as to what her granddaughter would like. Something to do with her banjo? The thought of shopping for someone she was related to by blood, her
granddaughter
, filled her with an inexplicable joy and an equal feeling of panic.

On the drive back, she turned on the radio. The local oldies station was playing “Moon River,” one of Cy’s favorite songs, one of the songs that Magnolia performed at his funeral. Love hummed the melody, and when the song came to the words “my huckleberry friend,” her eyes didn’t tear up like they would have yesterday. Instead, she sang them softly out loud, her heart more hopeful than it had been in a long time.

SEVEN

I
have to talk fast,” Rett said to Lissa, her best friend and the only person in Knoxville who knew where she was. “I only have seventeen minutes left on my cell phone.”

Lissa had given Rett the cell phone as a good-bye gift. It was one of those kind you can buy at Wal-Mart where you can add minutes, if you had the money. Rett had started out with sixty minutes.

“What’s the deal with California?” Lissa asked.

“It’s foggy. The Pacific Ocean is really cool.”

“What about your grandmother?”

Rett paused, choosing her words carefully. “She’s okay. Kinda nervous. She totally knows everyone in town. It’s like some kind of back-in-the-day TV show. She seems okay, but you never can tell.”

“For sure.” Her friend’s voice was knowing. “Sometimes the ones who act the nicest are the ones you have to watch out for.” Lissa’s mother and father had been married seven times between them. She was experienced getting to know new people. Right now, she lived with her dad. “So, do you think you’ll stay?”

“I don’t know, but at least I have a place to stay for tonight. I may go to L.A. in a few days.”

“Sweet,” Lissa said. “Maybe I’ll hit my dad up for some bucks and fly out to see you.”

Rett glanced nervously at the clock next to the bed. “My time is running out. Has my mom called again?”

“Like only fifty times. It’s so funny. She’s even called my dad to tell him to tell me to tell her where you are. Like I’d even listen to what
he
says.”

“Thanks. I just don’t want to talk to her right now.
Don’t
give her this phone number. Or Dale either. Promise.”

“Okay, okay, I hear you.”

Rett sat down on the bed, leaned over and ran her hand down Ace’s silky head. “She has an awesome dog. His name is Ace. He’s a corgi.”

“If you get stuck and need money, just call me. I can squeeze some out of my dad if I have to. He’s dating a girl only five years older than me and feels all guilty. Ha, I’m like, who cares? Buy me a Wii and I’ll feel better.”

“What’s her name?”

“Ashley Clarabelle. Can you believe it? I call her Ghastly Clarasmell. She was a runner-up for Miss Apple Fritter or Miss Catfish Queen or something stupid. She weighs, like, thirty pounds. My dad’s a freak.”

“I’ll try and call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, kiss a surfer dude for me.”

“You wish. I’m out.” Rett punched the End button.

She wandered into the glassed-in sunroom, taking the time alone in her grandma’s house to try to figure her out. It reminded Rett of one of those reality shows she kind of liked, something like
Trading Spouses
. At the beginning of the show, both mothers go through each other’s houses before the new family comes home. The snarky things the women said about each other always cracked Rett up. But more often than not, the first impressions the women had of each other were so right.

The tiny sunroom that faced the bay held a desk with a computer and an office chair on one end, an overstuffed chair in a leafy pattern, a small end table and a lamp on the other. A pile of books was neatly stacked on the end table. She picked up the top book. It showed a bunch of photographs by somebody named Dorothea Lange. They were pretty awesome, even though they were black-and-white and were mostly of tired-looking poor people in overalls and old-timey flowered dresses. Next to the books was a framed photo that someone had taken of Ace and a sailboat. He was in the backyard staring out to sea, and the photographer had framed the sailboat using the corgi’s triangular ears. It was a cool effect, like the camera was sitting on the dog’s back.

She peered through the window, past the bay to the Pacific Ocean. It was overwhelming, not like any lake she’d ever seen. It reminded her of the Grand Canyon, which she’d seen once when she was nine on a pathetic attempt at a family vacation with her mom and first stepdad, Pete, who she always secretly called the Hulk, because he totally loved the color green. Her little sister, Faith, had spent most of the trip being carsick. Patsy, a smooth talker even at ten, had convinced their mom to let her stay at a friend’s house, so she didn’t have to go. No one ever said no to Patsy when she really wanted something. Even Dale. Well, Rett couldn’t help thinking, things finally came back to bite her in the butt. She wanted to gloat about Patsy’s pregnancy, but instead, it made her feel sick to her stomach.

Forget her, she told herself, glancing over the surface of her grandma’s desk. She sat down in the high-backed office chair and spun around, trying to imagine what her grandma would use a computer for. What did old people look at on the Internet? It was a fairly new Sony with a large flat screen. Though Rett was tempted, she didn’t turn it on. She studied the neat desktop. There was a crystal clock shaped like a boat, a couple of smooth speckled rocks about the size of eggs being used as paperweights, a lumpy brown and blue, definitely handmade ceramic mug that held pens and pencils, a mouse pad that showed a picture of Ace wearing a red and green velvet Christmas collar and a navy blue mug half filled with—she took a sniff—cold tea.

Had her grandma been working on the computer when she got the call about Rett from Rocky’s wife at the café? It appeared that she rushed out without even rinsing out her mug of tea. That kind of made Rett feel flattered. Maybe her grandma
was
glad to see her. Then again, her grandma had
never
come out to see them in Florida or Knoxville. What was the deal with that?

She twirled around in the chair again, then stopped it with her foot. The movement didn’t make her feel so good. She’d had a vague sort of throbbing in her head for the last day or so, one of those headaches that seemed to hide behind your eyes, waiting to squeeze your brain when you least expected it. She suspected she was getting sick but kept mentally pushing the symptoms back, using every bit of her stubborn will to stop whatever bug was crawling through her body. She couldn’t get sick. There was no time for that.

She carefully stood up and walked back into the living room, which was so quiet that she could hear seagulls calling to each other outside. Ace clicked softly next to her. She bent down and stroked his head. She liked her grandma’s house. The rooms were plain and simple, not a lot of clutter, like Mom’s fussy decorating, which was heavy on crocheted doilies, silk ivy and handmade wreaths. Distressed French country, her mom called it. Shabby chic. Rett called it gaggy vanilla froufrou.

Her grandma’s furniture looked like something Rett might buy. The living room sofa and chair were a dark blue denim with pillows that were red and white checks. One of the pillows was a needlepoint of a boat. She peered closer at the name on the boat:
Love Mercy
. That was kind of hokey, but her grandma was old, so that was understandable. There was a quilt draped over the sofa in some kind of triangle pattern in dozens of shades of blue. An old green trunk served as a coffee table. Rett wondered what was inside it. A shallow wooden bowl that looked a zillion years old sat on the trunk and held a half dozen magazines:
Oxford American
,
Gun and Garden
,
U.S. News & World Report
,
Aperture
,
National Geographic
,
San Celina County Life
. The lumpy wood end tables looked old and sort of handmade. The lamps were a plain kind of beaten copper. The oak entertainment center held a television, a CD player and a bunch of CDs. Obviously she’d never heard of iTunes.

Despite the pounding behind her eyes, Rett stooped down to flip through some of the CD titles. A person’s taste in music told more about them than just about anything. At first glance, her grandma’s tastes seemed pretty predictable: George Strait, Alan Jackson, Tony Bennett, Harry Connick Jr., Norah Jones. But there were a few surprises: Gillian Welch, Elizabeth Cook, Kelly Willis, Ralph Stanley and the group Uncle Earl, who Rett thought was awesome. Her grandma obviously thought more outside the norm when it came to music, which gave Rett a ray of hope that she might like what Rett wrote. She pulled out Gillian Welch’s CD
Revival
. Her song “Orphan Girl” just blew Rett away. It felt like Rett’s life story. Whenever she heard it, the beautiful words and melody filled her with both joy and despair. Would she ever write anything so totally perfect?

She stood up, gripping the edge of the entertainment center. Her stomach roiled, and she felt like throwing up the lasagna she’d eaten earlier. The room began to spin and turn crazy. Beads of sweat popped on her upper lip, and her forehead felt like somebody had sprayed it with a water pistol full of boiling water. Then suddenly she was cold. She bent over, shivering, holding herself. Her head felt like it was going to explode.

Was this what it felt like to be pregnant? Is this what Patsy was feeling when she hugged the toilet a week ago, the sounds of her retching reaching through the wall of their house and taunting Rett, confirming what an idiot she was?

Rett wasn’t pregnant; she knew that for sure. No, she’d not given in to Dale when he wanted
that
. She’d been stupid enough in other ways, but not
that
. Obviously, Patsy hadn’t been quite so careful.

Or, a little voice in Rett’s head mocked, maybe you just were not as irresistible as your sister. It was a fact that when Rett said no, Dale immediately backed off, laughing that crazy, sexy laugh of his, holding up his hands and calling her jailbait. Though technically she wasn’t the last few months they were . . . what would you call it? Not hooked up, but kind of being with each other. Except he was really with Patsy, as Patsy’s early morning sickness proved. Their mom figured it out about two seconds after Patsy’s first retch, and the screaming matches between the two went primal as Mom tried to find out who ruined—as she put it—
the star of the family
, the
one
daughter she thought would make it in the music world.

Thanks a lot, Rett thought, sitting in her bedroom, her back against her closed door. She left two days later, and as far as she knew, Patsy still hadn’t revealed who the father was.

A wave of nausea hit Rett again, causing her to sit down hard on the carpeted floor. She used every bit of willpower she had to keep from barfing. Ace came up to her, whining softly, nosing her shoulder.

“It’s okay, boy,” she whispered, even though it wasn’t. She curled up in a ball, her head pounding like twenty snare drums. The dog’s warm tongue licked her ear.

She curled tighter, trying to make herself as small as possible, waiting for the blackness to overtake her. At this moment, if she’d been connected to a lie dectector and asked if she cared about living, she could have honestly said no. If she could have spat the words out, she would have said, Bring on that dark curtain, Mister God, and let me die in peace.

EIGHT

I
t was past seven p.m. when Mel finished eating supper with August and Polly. Afterward, she helped August fit the Christmas tree she’d brought back into the battered green and red metal stand.

“We’ll wait and decorate it with Love,” Polly said, going through the boxes of ornaments that August brought down from the attic.

“Good idea,” Mel said. Maybe that great-granddaughter of theirs would be around to help. Mel hoped the girl didn’t hurt these two gentle, good-hearted people. Likely, her hopes would be dashed. She’d learned early that more often than not, the kids with great families, loving families, were too spoiled and self-centered to appreciate their good fortune. Still, she hoped that wouldn’t be the case with Love’s granddaughter.

“Thank you for your hard work, sweetie,” Polly said, pressing some folded bills into Mel’s hand. “You’re such a big help to me and August.”

“Thanks,” Mel said, pocketing the money quickly. “Will I see you at the lighted boat parade this Saturday?”

“Haven’t missed it in forty-seven years,” August said, turning the tree so the fuller side faced the living room.

“We’re watching it from inside this year,” Polly said. “We reserved a table at the Happy Shrimp for the Old-Timers’ Club. It’s right next to the window. Best seats in the house, they said.”

“Which you deserve,” Mel said. “I’ll be braving the elements outside.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” August said. “Always room for one more.”