Mama had picked up food with her fingers. Told Mamie she looked fat and hadn't remember James's name. It had devastated him. And then she’d scared the grandchildren, and that had been the last time they'd set foot in that house.
She'd called home after that, but she'd always talked to Mama. Never to Gracie. And when Mama had finally forgotten who Daphne was, she'd quit calling altogether and had consoled herself with the thought that Delia couldn't miss talking to someone she didn't know.
Never once, had she let herself go there and wonder how Mama treated Gracie now that she didn't know her, either. She couldn't imagine Mama being mean, but she'd suspected she would be a handful. Still, Gracie is the one who’d offered to stay, and that's how Daphne had shelved her guilt, until now—when it was too late to matter.
She'd made a list of things to do tomorrow.
Book a room at the La Quinta.
Send flowers to the funeral home.
Buy a new dress for the service and get her hair done.
It would be hot as hell out at the cemetery, but she wore her blonde curly hair up, so a little heat and wind wouldn't ruin the style. And there was always hairspray to keep everything in place.
She finally went to bed because she couldn't focus on TV and was dreading the moment she closed her eyes, fearing she would see the people she had betrayed, wearing stern, solemn expressions.
And she did.
But in her dream, they turned their backs on her and walked away, leaving her the one abandoned, as she had done to them.
James had been home all afternoon and was a six-pack of beer into the wind, trying to get up the courage to call his ex-wife, Darlene. She needed to know what had happened.
He cleared his throat, pulled up her number, and then waited. It rang and rang, and he sighed. They didn't talk anymore. He just sent alimony and child support, and he'd messed up so many times on visitation days that his kids no longer wanted anything to do with him. She might not even answer.
When she finally picked up, and the sound of her voice brought tears to his eyes.
"What do you want?" she snapped.
"Uh...I called to tell you that Mama passed this morning, and to give you the day and time for the services."
"I already know. This has been a long, damned time coming. The children will not be attending the service. Caleb has to work, and Joanie will stay with Mother."
Then she hung up in his ear.
He laid the phone down on the bed beside him and stared at the floor. So, Darlene knew more about Gracie than he did. And his nineteen-year-old son had a job he didn't know about. And Joanie, his daughter, had hated his guts ever since the summer she'd turned thirteen, when he'd forgotten to pick her up after a soccer game. She'd had to call her mother to come get her, and by the time Darlene had arrived, Joanie had been the only kid left at the field. Neither one had talked to him for a year afterward.
He'd cheated on his wife with her best friend and lost his family. Then he hadn't called home since the Christmas his mother hadn't known who he was. He'd been so stricken and so shocked that he no longer existed in her cognizant world, that he'd balled himself up in grief, bemoaning how sad it was for him not to be remembered, when all along, he was the one who'd forgotten both of them.
He hated himself.
He hated what he had become.
He got up and went to get another beer from the refrigerator, only to realize there weren't any more.
As the eldest child and only son, he kept thinking there were things he needed to do and preparations to be made. But then he would remember he'd abdicated his throne and his rights for his personal freedom. So, he staggered back to the bedroom and passed out on the bed, fully clothed.
Chapter Three
A storm was blowing up from the south, jacking up the wind coming through the open window by Gracie's bed and rattling the old blinds above it.
In her sleep, the rattle triggered a memory. She moaned and rolled over onto her back in a subconscious move to protect herself, but it was too late. The memory had downloaded the event into nightmare form, and once again, she was caught up in the matrix of the past.
* * *
Gracie stood at the kitchen sink, washing up their breakfast dishes. The radio was on Delia's favorite country station, and she could hear her mama humming along and mumbling a word of a song now and then.
It was a day just like all the others she'd had in the four years she'd been here, and she was thinking about making a grocery list. As soon as she gave Mama her medicine and put her down for a nap, she could make a flying run to Sweetwater for groceries, because it was no longer possible to take Delia with her.
Delia scared people with her loud voice and belligerent behavior. However, one of the medicines the doctor had her on now made her sleepy, and when she finally laid down to rest, she always slept for at least two hours, which gave Gracie plenty of time to get to town and back.
Gracie heard the chair scoot back from the table, and then the sound of feet shuffling around on the old wood floor. Mama was dancing. She often danced when music was playing.
Gracie turned around and smiled. Mama was dancing with her eyes closed, probably dreaming of Daddy. Gracie picked up a handful of flatware and carried it to the table for mama to put away. Delia liked to feel useful, and she still remembered how to sort the flatware into the sideboard.
Delia stopped dancing and snatched them up.
"Here you go, Mama," Gracie said, and pulled open the drawer where they stored the flatware then turned around to go back to the sink.
She didn't see the light go out in Delia's eyes, nor the panic that ensued.
Gracie was halfway to the sink when she heard footsteps behind her. Before she could turn around, Delia was screaming, "Get out of my house! Get out of my house!" and stabbing her in the back, over and over.
At first, Gracie was in shock and barely registering the pain. But blood was flying, and she was begging, "No, Mama, no!" and trying to take the knife away. Then as Gracie turned, Delia began stabbing at her chest, too.
It was Gracie's instinct for survival that saved her. With her last bit of strength, she knocked the knife out of her mother's hand, and then doubled up her fist and hit her square on the jaw.
Delia reeled backward, dropped down onto the floor in her daughter's blood, and started crying and rocking where she sat.
Gracie staggered to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“9-1-1. What is your emergency?"
Gracie was fading in and out of consciousness. She had to get this said, or she would die.
"Help. Help...Gracie Dunham... Mama stabbed me...crazy...dementia... blood everywhere...10473 Highway West...Help me... I..."
* * *
Gracie woke with a gasp, bathed in sweat, her face wet with tears, and then realized it wasn't sweat. Rain was blowing in the window. It hardly ever rained in July, but it was raining tonight.
She flew out of bed and shut the window, then ran into the bathroom and grabbed a towel to mop up the floor. She was halfway down the hall to her mother's room to close her windows when she remembered Mama was dead, and she'd already closed them before she went to bed.
Her heart still pounded, but her shoulders slumped as she went back to her room. She stripped off her wet clothes and the bed sheets, then made it up again with dry ones. Weary, she took everything to the laundry and started it to wash before heading to the bathroom.