Текст книги "Storms Over Secrets"
Автор книги: J. A. DeRouen
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
As I run my eyes over the paper, I realize I was right about only one thing. I can’t grasp a single bit of understanding from the scribbling in front of me.
But neither can anyone else.
“My Immortal” by Evanescence
The Present
“SNEAK ATTACK!”
I hear an audible “hmph,” I’m guessing from Celia. I wince as I knock on the front door. She may just kill me, and I can’t really blame her.
Adam called me an hour ago and demanded my services pronto. He said I created this mess, so it’s my job to clean it up. How was I to know Gage would unleash all my teachings on Celia? I meant for the little guy to torment Adam.
I’m banking on our newfound friendship earning me a few mercy points with her. Over the last few months, Adam, Celia, and I have shared more dinners, movie nights, and cookouts than I can count. Add in the wonder twins and Celia’s best friend from home, Audrey, and I’ve fallen into a fucking fabulous extended family of sorts.
Never mind the incestuous thoughts I secretly hold about a certain family member. That’s a discussion for another time.
Adam and I spend a lot of time at New Horizons getting the domestic abuse program up and running. As we rack up hours at the clinic, Celia sightings are more frequent and definitely appreciated. An easy friendship naturally evolved between the three of us. All that being said, I doubt Celia’s feeling very friendly or familial about me today. I’ll be lucky to leave with my nuts intact.
The door flies open, slamming into the wall behind it, and a furious Celia fists her hand in my shirt and jerks me inside. On sheer instinct, my hand drops down and covers my balls. Her short blonde hair is matted to her face in wet clumps. Even her eyelashes are stuck together. Her light pink shirt clings to her skin, and I make an honest effort to train my eyes to her face.
Maybe just a peek. Damn, her nipples are hard…
She turns and points to the heathen in question with fire in her eyes. “Fix him. You broke him, so fix him!”
Okay, so maybe I taught Gage a few … pranks. I only shared a minuscule amount of tricks from my very large arsenal. I merely wanted his inner Dennis the Menace to shine. All little boys should learn the fine art of torment. It’s practically a rite of passage.
I only get a glimpse of the furry tail Gage insists on wearing tucked into the back of his jeans as he races away to hide. Unfortunately for me, I’ve also taught him to play hide and seek like a CIA agent. If he doesn’t want to be found, forget about it. I’m kind of proud of my little protégé, but I wipe the smirk off my face before Celia turns my way.
“Oh, no you don’t, little man. It’s time to pay the piper,” I call out as I round the corner into the hallway.
A tiny giggle behind me makes me turn my attention to Lily, who’s perched on barstool at the counter. She’s sipping out of a teacup and swatting at the pink feathers tickling her nose from the boa wrapped around her neck.
“I’m not telling you, Uncle Cain. If I do, he might prank me,” Lily says with a shrug of her shoulders and more giggles.
“He put a rubber band around my sink sprayer so it shot me in the face when I turned the faucet on. He hid a whoopee cushion under my seat. He’s been screaming ‘Aunt Cece farted’ at the top of his lungs all morning. And that’s not even the worst of it. He sprinkled those little pop firecrackers all over the bathroom floor. You can imagine what happened when I stepped inside. I nearly peed my pants!” Celia glares at me accusingly as she counts off Gage’s offenses on her fingers.
“At least you were in the right place for peeing,” I mumble, but shut my mouth quickly when Celia slaps my arm.
Little man was busy this morning.
“Okay, he definitely owes you an apology. But, come on, it’s a little bit funny, right?” I shoot her a winning lopsided smile, hoping to melt a little of the ice in the air. It’s wiped clean off my face when I see her reaction. “Never mind, just forget I said anything.”
“Seriously, Cain, you’ve turned that sweet boy into a holy terror. I can’t believe Adam let you teach him those things!” She stamps her foot, and damn if it doesn’t make her even cuter.
I chuckle as I peer into each room, looking for the little delinquent. “Believe me, when it comes to watching over the munchkins, Adam’s set the bar really low for me. What do you expect after the ‘cratchel’ incident? But, I mean, come on, I’m the fun uncle. Everyone loves Uncle Cain.”
“Cratchel incident?”
“Never mind about that. It’s not important.”
She’s on my heels as I search the house for Gage. “Well, believe me, not everyone loves Uncle Cain. Some people would love to teach him a big, fat lesson!” she replies, poking me in the back with each word for emphasis.
I turn on a dime, and stoop down to meet her nose to nose. Her eyes widen, and she freezes in place. “Oh, I don’t think you want to tangle with me, Tink. The stuff Gage pulled today? Child’s play … just the tip of the iceberg. I will unleash a prank war you’ll never recover from. You sure you wanna dance with me?”
Her pretty blue eyes go wide, but before she can answer, I hear a sound coming from the bathroom. I peek around the corner and spot Gage peeking his head out from the cabinet under the sink.
“There are more tricks? Why didn’t you tell me, Uncle Cain? I wanna know them all,” Gage says as he scowls at me, angry that I’ve been holding out on him.
I meet Celia’s eyes and tip my head in Gage’s direction. She smiles back, and now the victim becomes the conspirator.
“Get him!” I yell, and Celia and I descend on Gage, her grabbing his arms and me wrangling the feet. “Tickle war!”
Belly laughs fill the room, some from Gage as we tickle him senseless, and more from Lily as she watches the show.
Gage finally breaks free, and I fall to the carpet in exhaustion. I hear Celia’s body flop down beside me, and I turn my head toward her. She searches my eyes, looking for what I’m not sure, and a wide smile slowly emerges, lighting her face all the way to the depths of her blue eyes. And that quickly, I know I’m forgiven.
“Hey Gage?” she calls out, lifting her head to see him.
“Yeah, Aunt Cece?”
“What’s a cratchel?”
Before I can put my hand over the little traitor’s mouth, Gage jumps up and runs away from me.
“It’s right between a dude’s crack and his satchel. You should never kick a man in his jewels, Aunt Cece.”
I chance a look to the side. An incredulous Celia is staring back at me—mouth open, eyes rolled, and head shaking from side to side. I do the only thing I can in this situation—I have the good sense to look sheepish and shrug.
“How was I to know he’d repeat every single word I say to him?” I turn to Gage with my hands in the air. “Seriously, dude, you’ve got to let some sh-stuff slide.”
Celia pops me lightly on the back of the head as she jumps up and walks to the kitchen. She turns her head to me and smiles. “Clueless. Completely and utterly clueless.”
No matter what her mouth says, her eyes twinkle brightly and her look is gentle and affectionate. It’s not all for the kids—some of that look is for me, too, I just know it.
Yeah, I’m still forgiven. Cratchel and all.
I almost don’t make it to the phone in time. It nearly rolls to voicemail as I wrap the towel around me and trail water on the bedroom floor.
Every thing about this night has been rushed. With the opening of duck season, I’ve been on patrol all day today. I step off the boat and find two tenant messages waiting for me. Busted pipe. Broken air conditioner. What a great fucking way to spend a Friday night. Since I fixed both issues in record time, my hope is to salvage the night with a six-pack of Heineken and a little ESPN.
“Yeah?” I say as cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear, trying my best to dry off at the same time. In a hurry to catch the call, I don’t get a glance at the screen before answering.
I’m met with several sniffles and a tiny whimper. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end because I know that voice. Even the smallest sound can give her away.
“Tink, what’s wrong?”
“I … I,” she stammers. “I locked myself out of the house, Cain. I’m sorry, but I didn’t know who to call. Adam’s not home.”
A full-on sob escapes, and it’s a punch to the gut. I grab clothes from my dresser and pull my jeans up my still-damp legs. It fucking kills me to hear her this way.
“Hey, it’s okay, Celia. No big deal, sweetheart. I’m coming right now. Just calm down, all right?”
“I’m really sorry to call you. I didn’t know what else to do. I gave Adam a key so I wouldn’t have to bug you—”
“You’re not bugging me. I’m leaving right now,” I say as I grab my keys off the counter. After getting dressed in record time, I throw a “Sorry I’m leaving again so soon” treat to my dog, Mr. Biscuit, and fly out the door.
“Celia?” I call out into the darkness, walking around the side of her house, but I’m met with silence. She’s not sitting on the porch this time. As I round the corner to the rear of the house, I hear the sniffles coming from the back porch.
Twinkle lights snaked through the wooden arbor cast a small amount of light, and I’m able to see her body curled up on the wooden swing. She’s folded up into a tiny ball, trying to disappear, vanish from this world, by the looks of it. If I thought her voice on the phone was painful to hear, actually seeing her unraveled is unimaginable. I rush to her side and kneel on the brick, my thumb swiping the tear trailing her cheek.
My arrival unleashes the floodgates yet again, and sobs rack her body as she covers her face with her hands. Without a second thought, I lift her up and cradle her into my chest, lightly shushing this new onslaught of grief. I don’t speak—it’s not the time for that. I pull her head to my chest and rhythmically rock back and forth on the swing, hoping to lull her into a sense of calm. Her legs, her torso, every piece of her—I meld her into me, hoping to relieve some of the burden. I wish I could carry her heavy load.
When the sobs downgrade to whimpers, I pull her far enough away so I can meet her sorrowful eyes. I swipe her wispy bangs across her forehead and cradle her face in my hands. Even with tear-stained, splotchy cheeks, and eyes swollen from crying, she’s beautiful … absolutely stunning. She still sparkles in my eyes.
“Now, I know this has nothing to do with being locked out of the house, Celia. What’s this all about? How do we fix it?”
She shakes her head somberly. “There’s nothing to fix, Cain. This is how it is for me. This is how it will always be. I’m beginning to think nothing will ever change.”
I search her eyes for answers, but only see despair. I can’t change what I don’t understand, and I desperately want to make things better for her.
“I can’t let you off that easy. You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that, Tink.”
She releases a heavy sigh, and her head falls to my chest. Her shoulders heave with labored breaths, and her delicate hands fist the edges of my shirt. She lifts up slowly, her head weighing a hundred pounds, and faces me with lowers lashes.
“I’m exhausted,” she whispers, her words labored and raspy. “I’m so tired of loving someone who no longer exists.”
Her mouth turns down on her last words, and she hangs her head, seemingly ashamed of her confession. I feel her shrinking away from me, wishing herself invisible, and grasp her shoulders and shake gently.
“Hey now, stop that. You don’t have to hide from me.” I cradle her delicate neck and drop a quick kiss to her forehead. I bend down to meet her lowered gaze. Her lashes flutter, and she reluctantly complies. There’s no hint of laughter in those blue orbs tonight.
I’m a man who knows who he is—I always have. I stand up for what I know is right, and I fiercely protect what’s mine. Once I make up my mind about something, I don’t waver. I may joke around and keep things light-hearted most of the time, but unflinching loyalty and steely conviction are at the very heart of me.
But there are moments that have marked my life—where an overwhelming sense of clarity washes over me, and a new sense of purpose arises. Like the click of a kaleidoscope bringing everything into focus, or veins of water running down a window to leave a clear pane of glass, these flashes make the pieces of my life fall firmly into place. This … right here and now … is one of those moments.
“Remembering? Feeling loss? It’s a normal part of the human condition. I think grieving can be a way for us to stay connected to the ones we’ve lost. Do you know what else is part of the human condition?” A slight head tilt is the only answer she gives me. “Living, Celia. Even in the face of unimaginable loss, it’s okay to live.”
Her lashes flutter closed, and her body shudders as her forehead taps mine.
“Thank you,” she whispers as she tucks her head under my chin.
Slowly, her breathing evens out, and I fear I have a sleeping fairy on my hands. While looking for the keys I dropped when I found her, I spot the empty glass and turned over bottle of wine next to the swing. Now the pity party makes sense—alcohol-induced grieving at its finest.
I grab the key ring beside me and lift her tiny body to mine as I stand and make my way to the back door. I cradle her into my chest, and she gives no indication of waking. I fumble through the lock and carry her to her bedroom, flinging her flip-flops in the corner as I go. I lay her on top of the covers and grab an orange crocheted blanket off the bottom of the bed. I lay it gently on top of her as she sighs sleepily into her pillow. I kneel on the floor beside her, trailing my thumb down her wet cheek before cradling her chin.
“I’m gonna teach you to live again, Tink. Just you watch,” I whisper, knowing she doesn’t hear a word I’m saying.
And just like that, my life clicks into focus. I’ve found my new purpose.
“Strip Me” by Natasha Bedingfield
The Past
“ONLY FIVE MORE steps, Eleanor, you can do it,” Janey, the physical therapist, cheers as Grams ambles between the two walking poles.
Grams steps forward on her right foot with no trouble, pushing closer to her goal. The left foot slowly trudges forward to follow suit. I see the wheels turning in her brain. Nothing is fluid, every single movement carefully planned. Compensation is the name of the game. Simple movements that used to be automatic and effortless take extreme thought. Grams is giving it her all, and I’m so damn proud of her.
I see a man approach me from the side, and I turn to greet him. He looks to be in his late twenties, early thirties at most, and has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Celia?” he asks expectantly, and I nod at him. “I’m Harold, and I’ll be the nurse taking care of your grandmother when she returns home. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Hey Harold. It’s great to meet you, too.” I release a sigh of relief and smile at him. “I have to be honest with you, I’m so glad to see you. The thought of Grams coming home and me being responsible for her care? It’s all a bit overwhelming. I can’t believe how fast everything is happening.”
He smiles and squeezes my shoulder in reassurance. “That’s the way it happens these days. The doctors want the patients up and moving as soon as possible after a stroke. It’s what’s best for their recovery. Between the nurse’s aides and me, someone will be staying with Grams almost full-time when she returns home, and then we’ll slowly decrease the hours as she improves.”
“Okay,” I whisper, trying to absorb the new information, getting used to my new normal.
His hand reaches for mine. “And Celia,” he says, squeezing gently. “She’s doing great. Your Grams is a fighter, I can tell. She’s my favorite kind of patient.”
I release a quick sigh. “That’s good to hear, because she’s my favorite kind of grandmother.”
He winks at me as he walks farther into the room, clapping and cheering Grams’s progress. I can tell he’s a “take no prisoners” type of nurse, much like all of her caretakers. That’s been the attitude ever since her recovery began, and she’s flourished. There’s no time for crying and feeling sorry for herself—there’s far too much work to be done for that kind of foolishness. Grams wouldn’t have it any other way.
After beating back the burning in my nose and blocking the tears I refuse to let fall, I meet her at the finish line with a beaming smile.
“That’s fantastic, Grams! You’ll be running races in no time.”
She beams right back at me, then lowers her head in concentration. “Proud … me?”
“Am I proud of you?” She nods. “Of course I am. I can’t believe how far you’ve come in just a few short weeks.”
“We’re all very proud of your grandmother, Celia. She has more determination in her pinky than some of my clients have in their whole body. That’s what makes the difference. That’s why she’s going home,” Janey explains while she assists Grams in transferring to her walker. The hot pink tennis balls lodged onto the walker’s feet glide across the floor before we move out of the way. If she had to get a walker, Grams insisted on hot pink tennis balls—no way would she sport those generic yellow ones.
“Hold on, Speedy Gonzales, where do you think you’re going?” Harold asks, laughter laced through his voice.
Grams stops moving, and her eyebrows furrow. “Time. It’s time,” she says, looking from the clock on the wall to the door. “Stefano.”
I let out a whoop of laughter. “Of course, she can’t miss Days of Our Lives. No wonder she raced to the finish line today. Like sands through the hourglass…”
Grams raps her hand on the walker handle, signaling me to follow. I relish in her bossiness. Hell, I’m even grateful for it. I walk closely by her side as she leaves the gym.
“Later, Janey and Harold. Stefano waits for no one,” I call out over my shoulder as I follow Grams to her room.
“I’ll come see you in her room later, Celia. We need to get our ducks in a row for discharge later this week,” Harold calls out.
I give Harold a thumbs-up, and laugh to myself when I see Grams doing the exact same thing.
“Do you want the chocolate or strawberry?” I ask, making Vanna White gestures at each of the saran-covered plates. “They’re both sugar free, so no fooling around.”
“Cake, yes,” Grams replies after several moments. “Choc…”
I wait for her to complete the word, but it doesn’t come. After removing the saran wrap, I place the chocolate cake and spoon on the table in front of her.
“I prefer strawberry, anyway.” I scoop up a bite of cake and chew slowly, focusing on the television.
I see Grams struggling with her spoon out of the corner of my eye, but avert my eyes and resist the urge to help. While she fumbles a bit with utensils and fine motor movements in general, she manages well enough. The nurses and therapists are sticklers for independence around here. If Grams doesn’t ask for help, I don’t dare offer it. Even if she asks, rather than just doing it for her, the workers help her to find a new solution.
Communication is probably the most challenging thing for us to get used to. Grams has never been short on opinions, and she’s always doled them out liberally. It hurts me to watch her struggle to find the words. She understands me when I speak to her, and she desperately wants to respond. It’s just not that easy anymore. I usually get the gist of what she’s trying to tell me, but it requires immeasurable patience on both of our parts.
I know the rules—the speech therapist drills them into my brain every time I speak to her. Keep eye contact with Grams and show her I’m interested in what she’s saying. Speak slowly and give her a chance to process my words. Don’t finish her sentences. Be patient and allow her the time to complete her thought, whether it be by words, pointing, or hand gestures. The most important thing is getting her point across, no matter how she goes about doing it. There’s a saying—“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.” Well, that man is now front and center for everyone to see, and it breaks my heart for Grams.
But every small step is a glimmer of hope, and when you add them all together, the glimmer becomes a beam. She renews my waning faith.
I wish I could say the same about my Lucas. As one light in my life gets stronger and brighter, the other one slowly turns into fading embers.
“I need to ask you something, Grams. I need your advice,” I say, guilt circling my gut as I prepare to do the unthinkable. Am I really going to place this burden on her?
“Baby,” she whispers, placing her spoon on the plate and reaching for my hand.
Her eyes tell me to continue. She’s the only mother I’ve ever known, and I need her help. While the adult in me feels embarrassed, the child in me craves guidance. I don’t know where else to turn.
“If I think Lucas is sick … if I feel it deep down in my heart that something’s not right, should I tell Mrs. Cindy and Mr. Gene? I know he wouldn’t want me to, but sometimes love means doing what’s best for that person, regardless of how they feel about it. Don’t you think?”
I search her eyes for understanding, and she crooks her head to the side before slapping my hand.
“Ow! What was that for?” I jerk back, holding my stinging hand close to my chest.
“Whole story … little girl. Now.” Her words may come out slow, but there’s no mistaking the stern tone.
“All right, all right. I’ll tell you everything,” I relent—eyes lowered and heart heavy.
I know the minute the words leave my lips, there’s no taking them back. What is it about saying things out loud that makes them all the more real?
“You see, Grams, I don’t think Lucas is sick with any type of physical illness.” I wring my hands together, watching my skin turn white and pink with the push and release of pressure. I gather my courage and force my gaze upward, meeting familiar eyes filled with understanding and acceptance. “I … I think something may be wrong with…” Just say it already. “I think something may be wrong with his mind, Grams.”
