Текст книги "Sweet Jiminy: A Novel"

Автор книги: Kristin Gore

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 12 страниц)

He sighed and turned the TV off. When Carlos was on the road, he didn’t let himself think too much about home, but at the moment, he was missing it. He closed his eyes briefly and let himself imagine he was back there. Not where he lived now, but where he had grown up, in a house in the woods by a creek.

This was the place he mentally went to relax. He’d never taken a meditation class, but he was familiar with the essential “go to your happy place” concept. Carlos didn’t consider himself a well-adjusted person generally. He was haunted and driven, with little time for comfort-seeking. But he understood the value of a calm, clear mind, and over the years, he’d developed his own mode of achieving it.

The creek had been his constant companion as a youth. His bedroom window had opened up to it, so he’d read and dressed and slept to the sound of rushing water all his growing-up years. He’d ridden a raft down it, caught crawdads in it, and studied all the various plants and trees beside it. Along its banks, he’d become fascinated with sweet gum, tupelo, bald cypress, Spanish moss, prickly pear cactus, and all different species of pine. When the rain came, the creek would swell and spill, threatening to swamp the little house his family owned. Carlos had always been aware of the potential damage, and he was sensitive to his parents’ stress, but he couldn’t help but side with the creek. If it wanted to go for more, he was with it all the way.

In his mental visitations to this childhood sanctuary, Carlos would stretch himself out in the moss on the sunny side of the creek, with one leg dipped in the water and the rest of him comfortably sprawled. His eyes would be closed, his ears open, his mouth and nose filled with freshness. He could practically feel the cold water ebbing around his shin, and he imagined it seeping into him, traveling up through his body and into his head to cool his overheated brain.

He held this sensation as he consciously turned his cooled mind toward his current case. There was something that was bothering him about it; some sense that Lyn knew more than she’d revealed. He wondered if he’d be able to coax it from her, or hit upon it some other way. This is what he turned his mind to. Experience had taught Carlos a few things, and he knew that at the intersection of relaxation and concentration lay some of his most important breakthroughs. He headed there now, with his eyes still closed, purposely wading deeper into the waters.

 

Down the road at Tortillas, Rosa had been nervous about the man staying at the Comfort Inn. She’d spotted him the day before and hadn’t had time to investigate who he might be, so she was left agitated by paranoid assumptions.

Ever since the incident with the chairs and the trucks full of brutal young men, Rosa had been fearful of further trouble. She worried that someone had put in a call to Immigration and that deportation was imminent.

She’d heard that the government had begun employing professional Latino men for immigration assignments, and she was now convinced that this explained the stranger’s presence. He might look like her and speak her language, but he could be her worst enemy, sneaking up.

Juan was in the United States legally, but Rosa was not. Even being the mother of an American citizen couldn’t change her status. Opening their restaurant had been a risk, but they’d put Juan’s name on everything and hoped that positively contributing to the life of this small Mississippi town would grant them some amount of karmic amnesty. It felt more constructive and proactive than lying low and barely scraping by.

Still, Rosa was periodically terrorized by the idea that she might be forcibly separated from her husband and daughter. If she was found out and deported, she wasn’t sure what they would do. They’d left Mexico for a fresh start and a better life, and she hated thinking she could be the reason they’d have to give it all up. But she also couldn’t stand the notion of being separated from Juan and Penelope. Would she insist that they stay on without her? And if she did, would Juan agree to this arrangement? The possibility that he would made her prematurely angry with him. She recognized that this was a regrettable consequence of her paranoia, and a self-sabotaging one. Because the more short-tempered and unreasonably bitter she acted now, the more likely her husband would opt for the enforced separation rather than returning with her to a place they’d decided they didn’t want to be. Unfortunately, the more she contemplated this likelihood, the more angry and bitter she became. And her bad mood was only worsened by her realization that if these were their last days together without her knowing it, she was wasting them on acrimony. Rosa had worked herself into an emotional sand trap.

To make matters worse, the baby had become increasingly colicky, keeping them up all night, almost every night. Rosa had tried everything she could think of, but nothing seemed to work. If something was really wrong, she wasn’t sure what they were going to do. Rosa was wracked with worry, dangerously sleep-deprived, and generally all-around miserable.

When she had first come to Fayeville three years previous, people had been so much friendlier. They hadn’t bent over backwards to make her feel welcome, but neither had they gone out of their way to try to make her leave. But attitudes had changed in the last few years. More and more of her fellow countryfolk had arrived, so perhaps the town had just reached some invisible tolerance threshold. Whatever the explanation, something basic had gone sour.

She tried to focus on her empanadas to give herself a break from her wretchedness. Empanadas were something she could handle. They took time and effort—particularly the secret-recipe, melt-in-your-mouth empanadas for which she was legendary—but she knew she could turn them out perfectly. As long as she had the ingredients and a working oven, she could coax the desired results. In Mexico, in Mississippi, at various roadside kitchens in between, Rosa had whipped up her empanadas in a variety of circumstances. And the results were always the same. People called her gifted, indispensable, a wizard. They considered themselves lucky to have been able to taste her masterpiece just once. This made her happy, it was true. But Rosa would give it all up in a moment if she could instead find as reliable a recipe for how to keep her family safe and whole.

When the bell on the front door jangled, Rosa peeked out between the slats of the screen that separated the kitchen from the main room, then gasped quietly and backed away.

It was the government immigration officer. He was coming for her after all.

“Anyone here?” he called.

Rosa weighed her options. She could scoot out the back door, but then the man would have the run of the place, and her empanadas would burn. Plus, she’d be giving him reason to suspect her. Better to act normal, charming, American.

“Be right with you!” she called back.

She held up a scrubbed pan to check her reflection, then smoothed her hair back and pinched her cheeks. She patted down her shirt and skirt, took a deep breath, and walked into the main room.

The man and his companion were still standing by the door, not fully committing to the inside space.

“You open for business?” the man asked.

Rosa smiled accommodatingly.

“Sure, what can I get for you?”

“Que nos recomienda?” he asked.

She hesitated for only a moment, then smiled.

“What do I recommend?” she replied in English.

She looked at the man until he nodded, determined to show that she needed to check the accuracy of her Spanish comprehension.

“It’s all delicious,” she said. “I have empanadas fresh from the oven.”

“Perfect. And how about a Corona?”

Rosa had beer back in the fridge for her and Juan, but she wasn’t legally allowed to sell it until Tortillas was granted its liquor license, which might never happen given the county’s reluctance to “encourage debauchery,” as it had been put in a recent Fayeville City Council meeting.

“If I gave you one, it would have to be our secret,” she replied.

He looked confused, but the young woman with him smiled.

“Fayeville was a dry county till recently,” she explained to him. “Lots of places still can’t serve alcohol.”

Rosa nodded. She’d made it clear that she was willing to provide though, partially because she wanted to gauge the man’s openness to bending rules. She knew that she was risking the possibility that this was another test and that she should adhere as closely to the law as possible to deny him any reason to find fault, but she was beginning to hope that he wasn’t there to bust her after all. She was gambling on his developing an affinity for her.

“I’ll keep it between us, I promise,” the man said to Rosa.

She smiled.

“I’ll take one, too,” the young woman added.

Juan found Rosa at the refrigerator, retrieving the Coronas from the crisper drawer where they kept them cold.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She looked up at his still-swollen lip and resisted the urge to press the chilled bottle in her hand against it. This was for their guests, who needed to like them. Whether or not the man was with Immigration, it had now become important to Rosa to win him over. It gave her a mission besides being scared and resentful. It was a way back, after the thugs in the pickup trucks had thrown her off track.

“Late night customers. I’m giving them empanadas and beer. Is Pen sleeping?”

Juan shook his head, noting for the umpteenth time the irony of the fact that the Hispanic pronunciation of their colicky baby’s nickname made it a homonym of “pain.”

“Not yet, but she’s quiet. She’s staring at the mobile, and my cousin’s listening for her.”

Juan’s cousin worked in the hospital, and she’d provided Rosa with the leftover magazines that she’d used to make the mobile. Rosa had cut out the perfume ads and attached them to a resculpted wire hanger. She liked the ones with people she recognized, that had scented strips included, so she’d searched especially for those. Now her baby could stare up at various floating celebrities, all smelling like flowers.

Rosa filled a basket with tortilla chips and poured some salsa into a bowl.

“Here, let me help,” Juan offered.

He gathered some water glasses and a bottle of his hot sauce and followed his wife into the main room. He’d noticed that she seemed alive again, and he didn’t want to miss a moment of it.

 

Jiminy had knocked on Carlos’s motel room door two hours before, waking him from the nap he’d accidentally slipped into during his meditative efforts. Carlos had been surprised to see her.

“Hi,” he said, as he tried to remember whether they’d been scheduled to meet.

They hadn’t. Not till the next day, when they were going to interview the former sheriff together. Jiminy was clutching something in her arms. From the way she looked at him, Carlos was aware that he represented something important to her. Some brand of salvation, it seemed. He knew this was dangerous. He moved to allow her to come inside.

“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.

“You’re not. What time is it?” he asked, gripping the wrist where he normally wore his watch.

He could see it lying on the bedside table. When had he taken it off? Had he been planning to sleep after all? It was dark out now, and it had been midday when he’d lain down.

Jiminy checked the watch strapped to one of her thin little wrists. To Carlos, everything about her seemed problematically delicate.

“Nine thirty,” she answered.

“Wow,” Carlos replied, running his hands through his hair.

“At night,” she added.

Carlos grinned.

“You can tell I’m a bit turned around. What brings you here?”

“I wanted to show you this,” she replied, indicating the album she still had clutched to her chest. “My grandmother gave it to me.”

Actually, it had been waiting for Jiminy on her bed with a note from Willa, who had apparently gone out. Willa preferred to communicate in absentia whenever possible.

The note read, “Your grandfather’s photos. Use them if they can help. The litter box needs changing.”

The last line had been added in a different colored pen, most likely after Willa had entered Jiminy’s room and discovered the kitten she’d been secretly keeping. Cholera had still been there when Jiminy came in, so at least Willa hadn’t opted for an immediate removal. Jiminy waited for her grandmother to return, since they obviously had much to discuss, but as it grew later, she grew increasingly restless. Especially after looking at the pictures, Jiminy didn’t want to be alone. She tried calling Bo, but he wasn’t home, and she then spent too long torturing herself with thoughts of what he might be doing. Finally, she started walking. Along the way, she forced herself to turn toward the motel where Carlos was staying, away from the road that led to Bo’s trailer.

And so she’d woken Carlos, who was now gazing down at her chest. In his defense, that’s where the album still rested.

“I’m really hungry,” Jiminy said, suddenly realizing she was.

Behind her, lights flickered in the restaurant down the road. Carlos glanced toward it, then back down at the young woman beside him. He liked the way she smelled.

“Well, let’s get you taken care of then,” he replied. “You up for some Mexican?”

He hadn’t meant it at all the way someone else might take it. But he’d said it; it was out there. Jiminy smiled, and he searched her smile for slyness.

“You bet,” she answered, before he could be sure of anything.

A short time later they were sitting across from each other at a bright blue table, having just finished their second beer each, along with a delicious meal. Carlos looked at Jiminy expectantly.

“Here,” she said, pushing the album across the table toward him.

Carlos looked carefully at each photo. The one of Willa made her seem accessible enough, though fuzzy and slightly out of focus. Lyn was unmistakable. A younger olive tree, smokier and smoother.

When Carlos reached the group of photos in the envelope at the back, he breathed in sharply.

“I know,” Jiminy said.

“Who took these?” Carlos asked.

“My grandfather,” Jiminy answered. “He was a carpenter who couldn’t work with wood and a photographer who never told anyone.”

“He was a journalist,” Carlos replied. “These aren’t candids. These are for a record.”

Jiminy scooted her chair around the table so she could be next to Carlos and see the pictures with him.

“They were all so young,” she said pointlessly.

Carlos looked down at the back of her bent head, watching how her dark hair fell like a river down her neck. He breathed in her tropical scent.

“Do you think Henry knew who killed Edward and Jiminy?” Jiminy raised her head to ask. “Do you think anyone does?”

Carlos nodded.

“Yes, I imagine some people do.”

“How do we find them? How do we get them to talk?” she asked.

Carlos gazed at her.

“We work,” he replied. “And we think, and we plan. We hope for some lucky breaks. And if we get them, I call the FBI and they open a federal case alleging civil rights violations. We compel people to testify under oath. But to get to that point, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Can you handle it?”

Jiminy nodded.

“Now that I’m a law school dropout, I’ve got all the time in the world,” she replied.

Carlos took another sip of his beer.

“Why’d you quit?” he asked.

“Too much work,” Jiminy said wryly. “Or at least too much pointless work that didn’t seem to really help anyone. So I bailed, and came here, and stumbled across this awful thing that happened, and now all I want is to find out who did it and get justice, which is why I need someone who knows the law,” she finished sardonically.

“So maybe you’ll reconsider?” Carlos asked. “Take it up again?”

Jiminy shook her head.

“I’m not cut out to be a lawyer. I don’t know what I’m cut out for. I wish I wasn’t such a coward.”

“A coward?” Carlos repeated.

Jiminy nodded. “Through and through.”

Carlos shook his head.

“I’ve met plenty of cowards,” he said. “Trust me, you’re not one.”

“Oh, give me a little time,” Jiminy answered. “Anyway, I don’t think I ever really wanted to be a lawyer.”

“What did you want to be?”

She took a moment to consider.

“Brave,” she finally answered. “Someone who makes an impact. But considering I can’t even make it through law school . . .”

“Why’d you come here?”

“Random impulse. First place that popped into my head. Possibly because I saw a T-shirt that said ‘Tupelo Honey.’ ”

“And then you just happened to uncover this long-buried crime and decided to try to solve it.”

“Yeah.”

Carlos looked at her steadily.

“Sounds pretty brave and impactful to me.”

Jiminy thought about this. She smiled.

“We’ll see.”

She took another sip of her beer and noticed that the bottle was almost empty.

“It must be past midnight,” she remarked.

Rosa emerged from the kitchen, where she’d been watching through the screen slats.

“More Corona?” she asked.

“I think just the bill,” Carlos replied.

Rosa placed it on the table.

“To the chef of the greatest empanadas I’ve ever tasted,” Carlos said, lifting his bottle to Rosa.

“Here, here,” Jiminy agreed.

Rosa smiled, reassured from her spying that she had nothing to fear. Though she wasn’t positive what these two meant to each other, she was grateful that they meant her no harm. The rest really wasn’t any of her business.

Outside, the night sky was clear. Jiminy threw her arms straight up in a “V” as she dropped her head back to take in the stars. Carlos could tell she was a little tipsy. She twirled once and grabbed his arm to steady herself.

“Whoops, sorry,” she laughed.

Her hand was warm against his skin.

“I better head home,” she declared, so sweet and straightforward.

He caught her arm before she could move away.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Why don’t you stay?”

Through her beer haze, Jiminy was surprised. She hadn’t thought of Carlos as a romantic prospect. She hadn’t thought of anyone besides Bo, with whom she was still completely preoccupied. She was certainly in awe of Carlos, and she longed to be respected and appreciated by him, but she hadn’t explored how being appreciated by him would manifest itself. She hadn’t envisioned anything physical beyond a pat on the head or a chaste kiss on the cheek that would be more high-five than high passion. She’d half-pictured Carlos lifting her up by her waist and swinging her around. None of these images warranted more than a G rating from the Imagination Picture Association.

But now here they were, and he was moving closer in order to . . . what? Kiss like actual adults? She wasn’t sure she wanted that, though she couldn’t help but feel excited.

Before she had sorted out exactly how to handle the situation, they were startled by the screech of sirens.

 

Bo had been to Fayeville Hospital a handful of times for broken bones and visits to ailing relatives, but this was his first time on the premises since he’d begun his medical training. When he envisioned himself as a doctor, he pictured working someplace far from Fayeville, but he did harbor a secret fantasy of being begged to return to perform a complicated operation for which someone needed the very best pediatric surgeon around. He imagined getting the call and magnanimously deciding to return to a town that had never made him feel welcome or valued. He’d show up, perform a medical miracle, and then leave again, leaving them in awe of his mind-boggling talent. Bo turned this fantasy over in his brain again as he crossed the parking lot and opened the door into the small waiting room that was filled with people he knew.

He saw Jiminy first, which didn’t surprise him. His eyes were trained to seek her out, it seemed. And after all, she was the one who’d called and asked him to come.

She looked like she’d been there all night, which now that he thought about it, she probably had. She was wearing a man’s button-down shirt over a sundress and flip-flops, and her long dark hair was gathered in a messy bun speared by a pencil.

Nearby sat Jean Butrell and Walton Trawler, bent over a book of crosswords. Jean’s eyes were red and puffy, and Walton looked exhausted with the strain of distracting and comforting her. Bo had heard that they were a couple, but this was the first evidence he’d seen of it.

Sitting across from them, alone, was his great-aunt Lyn, who’d come with the list of Willa’s medicines. She seemed elsewhere when Bo looked into her eyes. Mentally vacant. Bo wondered where she’d gone.

“How is she?” Bo asked the room.

Jiminy looked up.

“Not stable yet,” she said. “She’s crashed three times and they said we still might lose her.”

Jean let out a tiny wail.

“I’m so sorry,” Bo said. “Heart attack?”

“And a stroke,” Jiminy nodded. “Thank God she had time to call Jean before it got too bad.”

“Not the kind of call you expect at midnight,” Jean sobbed. “I could barely hear her, her voice was so weak.”

“You weren’t home with her?” Bo asked.

Jiminy shook her head, looking down at the floor, thinking of all the germs and pain that had been spilled there.

The doors opened behind Bo, and Carlos walked in with a tray of coffees and a bag of donuts from the new café at HushMart.

“I’ve got an extra coffee if you want it,” Carlos said to Bo as he passed the cups around and took the seat next to Jiminy.

“No, thanks, I’m all set,” Bo said slowly, looking from Carlos’s white undershirt to the oversized button-down Jiminy was wearing.

Jiminy wouldn’t meet his gaze. She was still staring at the floor, and her cheeks were burning. Nothing had actually happened with Carlos, but Jiminy still felt guilty, and this confused her.

“Come sit here,” Lyn said suddenly.

Everyone else turned because it was the first thing she’d said in hours. Lyn was looking at Bo, stretching her arm out toward him.

“Come sit next to me.”

“I’ll be right there,” Bo replied, before turning back to Jiminy.

“Was there something you needed?” he asked her.

He’d assumed when she called him that she needed something from him specifically, but perhaps she’d found it elsewhere. He hadn’t expected her to move on so quickly.

“I was worried about Lyn,” Jiminy said softly. “We’re all upset, but she seemed to just switch herself off and go blank.”

Bo nodded. Jiminy finally looked at him and he could see anguish in her eyes. He turned away and walked to the other side of the room, where he sunk into a chair next to his great-aunt, feeling more related to her than ever before; neither of them could be comforted.

Jiminy resumed staring at the ground. She longed to be next to Bo. If it were up to her, she’d still be with him, but it wasn’t. He’d ended their relationship, and she’d been forced to accept that. As unhappy as she was about it.

“Did you hear back from your mom?” Carlos asked.

She shook her head.

“I left word with the cruise ship company. And gave them the emergency room number to pass along to her.”

“I haven’t done anything about the interviews we had set up for today,” Carlos said quietly. “But I can postpone them till tomorrow. Or even later.”

“No, you go,” Jiminy answered. “Too much time has been wasted already, and we don’t know how much we’ve got left.”

Her grandmother had reminded them of that. As the clock ticked on, who knew who else they might lose?

Carlos nodded.

“I’ll come back when they’re through,” he said, placing a steady hand on Jiminy’s shoulder.

“You want your shirt back?” she asked.

Carlos shook his head.

“You’ll be cold in this AC, you keep it.”

Carlos squeezed her shoulder, offering a snatch of added warmth, then pulled away. Out of the corner of his eye, Bo watched him leave.

A Latina in orderly scrubs pushed through the doors that separated the waiting room from the rest of Fayeville Hospital, and Jiminy sat up straighter, expecting an update. But the woman avoided eye contact as she set about rearranging the magazines and picking up trash from the floor. Jiminy slumped back into her chair, despondent once more.

Across from her, Jean had gotten a new round of quiet sobs under control. She stood up, gripped her loose tunic at its hem, and tugged downward to smooth it over her slacks. The motion seemed to give her confidence, which she used for forward momentum.

“I just need to use the ladies’ room,” Jean said to Walton, and whoever else might be listening.

Near Jiminy’s chair, she stumbled and nearly fell. Jiminy leapt up and caught her shoulder. Jean was embarrassed.

“I don’t do well without sleep,” she explained. “I’m feeling so drained.”

“Let me help you,” Jiminy replied.

Jean leaned against her, and the two of them made their way to the restroom door.

Inside, Jiminy heard Jean sobbing in her stall and worked to hold back her own tears. She felt raw and fragile, worried ragged.

The toilet flushed and Jean emerged, red-eyed and sniffling.

“This is just too much for her, you know,” she said.

There was accusation in her voice. Jiminy braced herself.

“She told me on the phone,” Jean continued. “She could barely speak, but she said to me, ‘I’m not strong enough for this. I’m just too tired now. I don’t want to disappoint her, but I’m just too tired.’ ”

Jiminy stayed quiet, watching Jean’s trembling lips.

“She couldn’t take the stress of what you’re bringing down on us. Maybe if it was five or ten years ago, maybe then. But she’s exhausted now, and you’re forcing her to relive the worst experience of her life. You’re forcing all of us to do that. Why? Is it really worth it?”

Jean flung these questions through the air like so many quivering daggers. Before Jiminy could address them, or raise her shield, there was a knock on the door.

“The nurse wants to see you,” Walton called.

 

It felt strange to Walton to be back in the hospital he’d presided over for fifty-plus years. He was surprised at how many young people were now in positions of authority. He’d begun when he was in his twenties, but now that he was aware of how little he’d really known during those years, he was alarmed that the world was still letting youngsters take it over. It made everything feel very unstable. It made him feel unsafe.

Sitting in the waiting room comforting Jean was not where Walton wanted to be. He’d have prefered to be in the operating room, with his medical coat and surgical tools, making life-or-death decisions. His strongest memories of the waiting room were all about telling people bad news. He’d also given people good news here, but good news in an emergency room was relative. It was good news that your loved one was going to live, but more than likely, just a short while before, it hadn’t crossed your mind that there was any alternative. This room was about sudden accidents and bad luck. Walton didn’t care to linger here.

Remembering his doctoring days did afford him a uniquely clinical frame of mind, which came in handy amid all the emotions running wild. He felt he could analyze the situation better than his companions, and he put this talent to use as he checked in on how they were all faring.

He found it a little peculiar that Lyn was still waiting. He wondered if it was out of a sense of obligation, or paralyzing concern, or simply inertia. She’d spent most of her life waiting on Willa in some form or another. Perhaps she couldn’t see her way out of the pattern.

He didn’t question that she was genuinely worried. He understood there was real affection between Willa and Lyn, and he knew Lyn’s life would be seriously impacted should Willa pass on. But Walton wondered whether it wouldn’t also be a release of some sort. He wondered whether or not Lyn was quietly struggling to keep from acknowledging a dark wish for the worst, as she sat silent and frozen in her corner of the room, where she was still gripping her great-nephew’s arm.

The young man really did look uncannily like Edward. He was lighter skinned, but otherwise a spitting image. Supposedly, he was studying to be a doctor.

Walton hadn’t recognized the nurse who strode through the doorway, but he’d recognized the look of purpose on her face. She’d come to tell them something. Walton had crossed to the bathroom door and knocked.

 

As Jiminy was led to see her grandmother, she glanced sidelong at the doctor whom Walton had mistaken for a nurse. She was only a few years older than Jiminy, but she appeared considerably more weathered and drawn. And more accomplished, clearly. Her name tag read “Dr. Connors,” which made Jiminy wonder if she was any relation to Suze. Everyone in Fayeville tended to be related one way or another. The doctor opened the door to Willa’s room.

“We need to monitor your grandmother very closely for the next forty-eight hours. She’s sedated, so she probably won’t wake up, but you can talk to her. She can hear you.”

Visitors liked being told that patients could hear them, even when this wasn’t necessarily true. The doctor had no problem comforting people with harmless fiction. So often, she had to hurt them with unavoidable, cruel facts.

Jiminy nodded and crossed the cramped room to the bed, breathing carefully to control the panic she felt at seeing tubes snaking in and out of her grandmother’s body. The doctor lingered for a moment to check Willa’s heartbeat before leaving grandmother and granddaughter alone.

“Hi,” Jiminy said softly, taking Willa’s hand in her own.

They both had small hands. Willa’s felt thin and papery, like a breeze might blow it away. It reminded Jiminy of the onionskin transcript Carlos had found. She traced the lines of her grandmother’s palm with her finger, trying to remember what they represented. One was her lifeline, she knew. The other was for love. And the number of children could be divined, or so people claimed. All of Willa’s lines were short, deep creases. Jiminy covered them with her palm.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, keeping her voice soft and hopefully soothing. “I know we haven’t been particularly close, but I love you. And I’m sorry if I did this to you. I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t.”

Jiminy bowed her head and let her tears have their way.

 

Half an hour later, Willa fluttered her fingers. Jiminy looked up, startled.