Season of the Dragonflies (35 page)

James moved to the side to allow Mrs. Parks and her Westie to pass by. Mrs. Parks glanced at Willow and stopped. “Good to see you out, Willow dear.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Parks,” Willow said, and as soon as she passed, Willow explained, “She read for story time at the library when I was a girl and her husband ran the hardware store just back that way. My mother loved them.”

“You've stayed here all your life?”

“I've traveled a great deal; my mother made sure of that. I always loved Paris the most, but wherever we'd gone—Morocco, Thailand, Borneo, you name it—I was never happier than when we drove back to Quartz Hollow.”

They continued walking, and James stopped in front of the drugstore and said, “Let me drop in here a moment.”

Willow sat down on the bench outside and waited until James returned with a single red rose wrapped in plastic. He said, “Thank you for waiting.”

“The most beautiful flower I've ever smelled.” Willow laughed.

“You don't remember.” James looked dismayed. “I bought you a gas station rose many years ago after our walk on the beach.”

“I don't remember,” Willow said, and she was tired of feeling guilty each time she said this. “I can't promise I won't forget this one either, but right now, in this moment, I love it. So thank you, and keep them coming.”

“Shall we?” He offered Willow his arm, which she used to stand up from the bench. Her white truck was only a few feet away. “Could I drive? It's been so long.”

“Know how to drive a stick?” Willow dangled the keys before him.

“I think so.” He opened the door for Willow. “Fasten your seat belt, just in case.”

“Oh, goodness,” Willow said, strapping herself in. “The first of our many adventures.”

“Exactly.” He hopped into the driver's seat. “I've never driven a truck before. Always wanted to.”

He put the keys in the ignition and he looked like he was ten years old. This both charmed and bothered Willow. He could run them off the road. “Now it's in neutral, you know that?” she said gently.

“I knew that. Who doesn't know that?” But he continued to wiggle the stick shift in search of first gear, and Willow heard the transmission grate. “I keep hearing that, what is it?”

“Metal?”

“A buzzing. I heard it during dinner and now here. Is it your phone?” He stopped talking and looked around at the seats. Willow strained to hear what he did, but she couldn't.

“There,” he said. He picked up her purse and said, “Hear it?”

Willow blushed. She only heard it after she unzipped her purse. “I never have it on vibrate,” she said, as if this should make up for her bad hearing. Some strange number with a Quartz Hollow area code came up on the screen. And she'd missed the call six times already. “Hang on.” She dialed the number.

An automated voice said, “Virginia Presbyterian Hospital, if you know your party's extension, please dial it now, otherwise wait for an operator.”

Willow put her hand over the phone and said, “It's the hospital,” to James. He killed the engine and stared over at her as she began to talk to the operator who asked how to direct her call: “Yes, this is Willow Lenore, I've missed six calls from here and—yes. I will.” She looked over at James. “I'm on hold.”

Another voice answered from the emergency department: “Willow Lenore?”

“Yes, I'm here.” Her forehead began to sweat.
Lucia, Mya, Mya, Lucia.

“Your daughter's been in a severe accident,” the woman said.

Willow clutched her throat. “Mya?”

“Mya Lenore and Luke Hanson.”

Willow cupped her mouth and then said, “Are they . . . ?”

“They're in the ICU. I advise you to come as soon as you can.”

“I will,” Willow said, and she hung up and dropped her phone in her purse. “It's Mya,” she said. “She's in the ICU. Can you make it around the corner?”

James turned the truck back on and said, “Just show me the way.” He had no trouble finding first gear on his second try.

This was the kind of thing that had kept her awake at night when the girls were teenagers. She hated for them to be driving around with friends doing who knows what, especially on these curvy mountain roads. She'd assumed those nights of agitated half-sleep, night sweats, and leaping from the bed at the phantom sounds of the phone ringing or the front door opening were behind her. Back then all she wanted was a partner in her worry, someone in bed beside her to tell her everything was fine and to listen out for the sounds of her daughters arriving home on a Saturday night. She weathered those days and hardened, like a pioneer woman. It should have been Willow in the driver's seat speeding to the hospital—that's what her racing heart and blood pressure told her—but it was James who drove fast and with a solemn face, just like a father might.

“THEY WERE WHAT?”

“Speeding near the Cascades turnoff, head-on collision,” Donald told Willow, his face pink and his breath shallow. Willow knew his daddy. He'd retired from her factory five years ago but couldn't get his son to follow his career path. Now here he was, the town sheriff and a boy she remembered from birth, telling Willow that her daughter might die.

“I need to see her,” Willow insisted, her arms crossed. No one came to her side. “I want to see her right now!” she shouted.

A nurse ran over. “In just a minute, Ms. Lenore, I promise.”

James came over and wrapped one arm around Willow, and she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and let out a bitter cry. Hadn't she always worried this would happen to Mya? That she would die before Willow? Mya lived as if planning didn't exist. Not a day had gone by since Willow watched Mya fall off the monkey bars at the park, the horse in her riding lessons, or down the front porch stairs for no apparent reason that Willow didn't wonder if she'd lose her daughter first. Mya had stayed out of trouble in her thirties, and Willow thought she'd made it past the point of concern. Then the cloud had emerged.

“Mom,” Lucia called from behind her. Willow turned away from James and there was Lucia running to her. Ben trailed behind her. Lucia gave her mother a hug. James shook hands with Ben and took him to the side to get a cup of coffee.

Lucia began to cry and kept saying, “It's all my fault, I told her to go. I insisted and now she's in the hospital.”

Willow stroked her daughter's hair. She had actually forgotten how it felt like corn silk and smelled like rain. “Can't think like that now. At least she's here and not at the morgue.”

Lucia tried to get control of herself, but it was clear to Willow that Lucia couldn't stop shaking. She whispered into Willow's ear: “I know who did this, I swear I do. Peter Sable threatened Mya this morning when you'd gone out.”

Willow jerked away from Lucia and held her at arm's length: “Why am I just finding out about this?”

Lucia wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Is she going to die, Mom?”

“I don't know.”

“I didn't really believe him but this just seems too, you know, coincidental,” Lucia said, her voice bitter now.

The same quiet nurse came to Willow and said, “You can see her now. But just immediate family.”

Willow and Lucia held hands, and James and Ben sat down together. Willow was following the nurse out of the lobby when Luke's father pushed through the doors of the waiting room.

Willow stopped. “Hang on,” she told Lucia, and walked over to him. “Randy, I'm so, so sorry.”

Luke's mother came from behind Randy, her face red like a hot candy. She placed her arms around her husband and said, “Come now.”

He tightened his mouth and then pointed at Willow. “Your girl's nothing but trouble, Willow Lenore. Nothing but . . . I want her away from my boy. If he makes it through, you see to that, you hear me?”

“Calm down, Randy,” Willow said, forcing herself not to cry as the other people in the waiting room broke off their conversations and stared at Willow.

“He's a good boy.” Randy rubbed his knuckles in his open palm like a mortar in a pestle. “And he might not walk again, have they told you that?” Willow shook her head, her ears on fire. “Why's she got to ruin good boys?”

“Don't you say that, don't you dare say that,” Willow said.

Lucia came over, took Willow by the arm, and said, “Come on, Mom.” She looked over her shoulder and called, “We're so sorry,” to Luke's parents, but they didn't respond.

Mya had broken many hearts since middle school, never once allowing her own heart to break. She'd caused many local boys to move out of town, Willow knew; some even moved out of state. “Was he right?” Willow asked, her voice cracking as Lucia forced her down the hall. But before Lucia could respond, they arrived at the glass window of Mya's room, and there she lay, tubes in both arms and her nose, her hair matted with blood, her face swollen to five times its normal size. Her eyes were open, and Willow stared at her daughter as if she didn't know her. Had she ever hurt any of those boys on purpose? Is that what the town thought? Had Mya known what might happen to Zoe?

Lucia pulled her mother's hand and led the way into the room. Mya's eyes were bloodshot, but as soon as they landed on Willow, they closed like someone had blown hot air into them. “Mom,” Mya said with purple lips.

A young female doctor whom Willow didn't recognize knocked on the door. “I'm Dr. McNeil. Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

Willow sat down in the chair next to Mya's bed.

Dr. McNeil held her clipboard. “She's a lucky girl.”

“Really?” Lucia's voice brightened. She put one hand on Mya's blanketed foot. “That's such good news.”

“The crash should've been fatal for both of them,” Dr. McNeil said.

Willow thought about Randy and Janet in the waiting room, and she hoped this would relieve them.

Dr. McNeil nodded her head. “Mya woke up from surgery a few hours ago and everything went well. She had a moderate fracture in her jaw, but we didn't need to wire it shut. It may take her a few days to feel comfortable enough to talk. She also experienced a serious head injury we're monitoring, but we're certain she's lost her sense of smell and taste, and she'll need physical therapy to fully regain her balance. We reset her shoulder, so she's in a lot of pain. She's had a few hours to digest this news, but it would be good to talk with her about it when she's ready.”

Mya began to whimper and Lucia shushed her as Mya tried to shake her head.

“And Luke?” Lucia asked. This question seemed to calm Mya.

“It's wait and see. He's still in surgery,” Dr. McNeil said. “If you have any other questions, just call the nurse and she'll get me.”

“And the other car?”

“A single driver,” the doctor said. “In surgery too. We'll let you know as soon as we know.”

Dr. McNeil left, and Lucia turned to Mya and hugged her legs. Tears rolled down Mya's face. Lucia held on to the white blanket draped on Mya's legs, and Mya placed one hand on Lucia's head. It was a tenderness Willow hadn't seen between them in so long, not since they were little girls, and Willow felt gratitude to see her two daughters acting like sisters once again.

Mya made a guttural noise and Lucia looked up. “You need to say something?”

Mya nodded and wiggled her fingers for Lucia to come closer, but neither Willow nor Lucia could understand her.

“Write it down.” Willow handed her a pad of paper from the bedside table, but Mya shook her head.

“Her shoulder might hurt too much,” Lucia said.

Mya closed her eyes and turned her face away from them.

H
OW COULD MYA
express that knowing she'd never smell again felt like the apocalypse? She had been given what she asked for, and now, four days later, she wasn't dead. For that Mya was thankful. But the deep smells of garlic and celery and green peppers and onions sautéing in olive oil filled Mya with so much pleasure. She could recall it so vividly, the way the vegetables glossed in oil gave up their will and collapsed in the pan, saying, “Take me now, before I burn, succulent as I am.” Now she couldn't remember the smells from those many nights in the kitchen. One smack to the head and countless nights of pleasure were forever lost, never to be experienced again. Just like that. It was her atonement for changing the formula. The cloud had lifted and disappeared, only to leave Mya behind with this lifelong loss.

And her days, she'd lost those too, since they had been taken up with mixing the finest oils in the world into new and unusual scents. The warm sensation that overcame her when she smelled musk, she could feel it still, but not a single trace lingered in her nose. Vanilla pleased her, she remembered, jasmine and ylang-ylang more. Soon after she'd awoken from surgery on the day of the accident, the doctor had informed her of the consequences. Willow had insisted on an extended stay at the hospital while Mya's jaw healed. She believed it was the safest place for Mya. Mya's body was bloated from painkillers and Jell-O. During this time, she had begun to substitute color for scent—white for chicken broth, purple for coffee, and burgundy for her family's perfume. The colors of her memories spread before her like a collection of paint samples, and the world became a two-dimensional experience all at once.

What would hiking be without the smell of composted leaves on the forest floor? And sex too. It was Luke's scent of fresh cut grass and rich Virginia soil blended with ocean-salt sweat that filled her body with lust. Was it possible that she'd never feel aroused again? Sex was all that had made her feel fully alive. With scent went taste, she knew. Everything that she'd lived for had been removed when the crown of her head busted through Luke's windshield. Ninety-five stitches, plus all that Mya considered important.