Oh, to see Mama at the piano again.
Stop it. Sadness wouldn’t help. Not her or Grandad. Whitney went to the cabinet in the corner to pull out the music to Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu.
Mama’s favorite piece.
How Whitney had loved to sit on the floor and watch mother’s fingers fly over the keys as she played this piece. For years, Mama had wanted Whitney to learn it. But the technical piece intimidated her when she was younger . . . and there was something special about watching someone else play such a phenomenal creation.
Whitney set the music on the grand piano and opened the lid. She should have learned it at Mama’s side––
No. Stay positive.
She could work on it for Granddad. It was his favorite too. And maybe, just maybe, they could comfort each other with the music. Be reminded of the beauty his daughter, her mother, gave them.
With a few deep breaths, Whitney examined the opening of the piece. The part that amazed her and daunted her the most. The triplet pattern in the left hand was contrary to the rhythm of the sixteenth notes in the right. Mama always called it three against four. Told her that the way to conquer it was for each hand to learn how to play independent of the other.
“You have to master it hands separately, my dear.” Mama’s voice was so clear in her mind. Almost as if Whitney could conjure her up beside her. “Then let them come together. They will know the rhythm. They will know what to do. But only after you’ve practiced it hundreds of times hands separately.”
The emphasis on the words brought a smile to Whitney’s face. How many times had her mother drilled into them, “Count. One and two and three and four and . . . watch those scales, tuck that thumb . . . hands together, hands separately!”
Whitney sat and practiced the first couple of pages. Hands separately, she played each part and paid careful attention to the fingering and rhythm. She knew what the song sounded like, so it was easy to imagine how it would be all together. But this would take a good deal of practice.
The clock chimed and she glanced up. Maybe she should just bring Granddad in here and tell him she would learn the piece for him. He loved to hear her and her sisters practice, no matter how many mistakes they made.
She got up from the piano bench and headed down the hall to Granddad’s room. The past year had been hard on the whole family, but they’d come through it. Together. Music was one way they accomplished that.
She opened the door to their grandfather’s bedroom. Light spilled in from the eastern window and blinded her for a brief moment. A sharp pain started at her right temple and shot across to the left. Blast these headaches!
She covered her eyes for a second and hoped Granddad hadn’t noticed. He was a worrier now that he was laid up all the time. She moved her hand and then squinted into the room. “Granddad? How about we take a little break from the exercises and I’ll play some musi—”
She gasped.
Granddad lay on the floor. His form awkward and unmoving.
“Granddad!” She rushed to his side. “Did you fall? Let me help you get back into bed.”
But as she tugged at his shoulders, there was no response.
She put a hand to his face, then yanked it back at the cold that greeted her fingertips. She rubbed her hand on her leg to rid herself of the offensive feeling.
No. It couldn’t be.
Forcing her trembling fingers forward, she held them over his nose and mouth, counted to one hundred.
No breath escaped.
The gray pallor in his skin made her want to lose her breakfast.
No.
With a hand to her forehead again, she closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening! Not again. Not now. Her headache must have her imagining things. Granddad was indestructible. He’d survived two bouts of apoplexy!
She opened her eyes and stared at his form on the floor.
No nightmare.
It was real.
As she knelt beside Granddad, time stood still.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t utter a sound.
The ticking of the clock on the dresser suddenly broke through the cloud in her mind.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Each sound grew louder and louder until she put her hands on the side of her head. With a gulp of air, she collapsed on her grandfather’s stiff chest and sobbed.
He’d always been there. Always. Ever since Dad died—well, left—Granddad had been a father figure to her. Besides Mama, he’d been the one to understand her the most. Something she desperately needed—because she wasn’t merciful like Maddy, nor fun loving like Havyn. She was just like him. He’d said so on hundreds of occasions.
He’d always been there.
But . . . he wouldn’t be with them any longer.
Granddad . . . was dead.
Tears clogged her throat and blurred her vision. It was too much. The throbbing in her head grew as she wailed out her anguish into Granddad’s shirt. But what was a little more pain in the face of another horrific loss?
The clock ticked the minutes away until her nose was stuffed and her tears dried up. Straightening and swiping at her eyes, she stared down at her grandfather.
No. No! This wasn’t happening!
She looked up at the ceiling. “Why, God? Why would you do this to us? Do you hate us? Want to rip away everyone we love? Don’t you know how much we need him? Especially with Mama gone. How are we supposed to go on?”
Heat rose within her. Choking her. This was wrong! She jumped to her feet. “Or are you punishing me?” She spat out the words. “What? I haven’t had enough faith? Haven’t been good enough? I’m too strong-willed? I let my temper get the best of me too many times? Why?”
Her fury faded into silence. No answer. No sense of God. There was only . . .
Nothing.
The same silence, the same void that, for too long now, had met her attempts to pray or to sense God. It was almost as if He were dead too.
And if He was, so what? What good had He been to them?
He’d allowed their father to be a drunk. To leave them and pretend he was dead. Sure, it was at Granddad’s urging, since their father had already started another family. An idea her grandfather probably got from her that night when she thought Dad was dead.
But Dad had agreed. Had gone through with it. Left them.
Then God had allowed Mama to die.
And now Granddad.
He’d allowed Garrett Sinclair to attack her.
Where were you, God? Why didn’t you help?
Enough.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand again and straightened her shoulders. No time now for tears. Only the tasks ahead of her . . .
Tell her family. Send for the doctor. Send for their pastor. Plan another funeral.
In the dead of winter.
Her heart sped up. She couldn’t breathe. How was she going to do all this? How?
She pulled the bottle from her pocket and took a sip, closing her eyes as the burn hit the back of her throat. Her pain didn’t fade, but as the warmth eased through her, she seemed to float above the anxiety that had become her daily companion. Ever since that awful day.
The day Sinclair attack––
No. Don’t think about that.
Another small sip, another spreading burn, and her thoughts settled. Focus on one task at a time.
One, tell the family.
She tugged on the collar of her blouse and forced herself to look back to Granddad’s still form.