The lights blinded her as she flipped the switch, then she paused in front of the mirror, eyeing her nudity. Without thinking, she ran her fingers along the thin scars on her chest, and then turned sideways in the mirror, eyeing the thicker, ropey scars on her back and shoulders. She vaguely remembered the voices of paramedics speaking in loud, frantic tones. They’d called for another ambulance to take Delia to the psych ward. Hours later, she’d woken up alone in a hospital, hooked up to machines with a continual beep, bandaged all over her upper body and frantic about her mother's welfare.
Gracie shuddered, then washed her face and grabbed a clean nightgown before going to the kitchen. She got a cold can of Coke, popped the top, and went out onto the back porch.
The rain was blowing beneath the overhang. The air had finally cooled, and so she sat down on the porch swing facing the prairie. With the rain blowing in on her feet, she drank her Coke and watched the storm.
But the dream from before wouldn't let go. She kept remembering going home from the hospital alone, and then spending hours trying to clean up the blood. But too much time had passed, and it had long since soaked into the old wood floors.
As the days passed and she began gaining strength, she gathered up everything sharp in the house, and then searched through the barn and even in the old chicken house, collecting anything that looked like a knife, then took it all up into the attic and put it in her great-granddaddy's old army trunk beneath his uniform. And still, she hadn't felt safe. So, she’d pushed the trunk into a corner and had piled it high with boxes.
After she was finally well enough to cope, she’d begun checking out places where she could put her mother for permanent care.
The shock came in finding out that none of the good places would accept Medicare or Medicaid. They wanted money. And lots of it. The care patients got in the ones that did accept it were on a level of horror she could not abide.
She couldn't sell the ranch to pay for Mama's care. It wasn't hers to sell. It wasn't even Delia's to sell. It was in a trust for James, who would inherit it all upon Delia's death. Only the heir had the right to sell. Delia had the right of occupancy for the length of her life, but ownership passed down through blood to the eldest son. The one who'd abandoned them.
Anger at the injustice of their lives had fueled her decision. She quit trying to figure out what to do with the woman who had tried to kill her and just brought her home, putting her back in her bedroom as if nothing had ever happened.
After that, she'd cooked things that hadn't needed to be peeled or cut up. They’d eaten instant mashed potatoes, or she'd baked potatoes whole. She'd bought meat already cut up from the meat department and used bagged carrots that already peeled. When she'd needed to chop up an onion, she'd used the old grater, and when she'd wanted to dice up peppers or celery, she'd cut them up with the side of a fork, or just broke them up with her hands and cooked it. She'd slept with her door locked at night and had never turned her back on her mama again.
The storm passed long before morning, and by the time the sun was up, humidity was at soul-suck level without a breath of air stirring. It was like trying to breathe beneath a pile of wet blankets. Flies were sticking to the screens like ticks on a fat hound. Just another hot summer day.
Gracie opened all the windows in the house, turned on the box fan in the kitchen, and put it in front of the open window, hoping something would stir up a breeze. Then she made herself a bowl of cold cereal and a cup of coffee.
Daphne sent her a text while she was eating to let her know they would all be in Sweetwater by Thursday and staying at the La Quinta on Georgia Avenue.
Gracie read it but didn't answer. She didn't care where they were and wished to God she didn't have to ever look at their faces again.
She got a text from Darlene telling her that she'd see her at the services, and then she asked, was there anything she needed.
Gracie sent back a response.
All I need is a hug.
A couple of minutes later, Darlene replied.
Count on it. Love you.
Gracie blinked back tears.
Love you, too, she replied, then finished her cereal and put her bowl in the sink.
She had things to do today, but it wouldn't take all that long to pack because she didn't own much in this world. Everything in this house was part of the estate, but there were a couple of things going with her anyway: the quilt that had been on Mama's bed and the cuckoo clock from Gracie's room. Both had belonged to their grandmother, and now they were going to belong to her. She dared any of them to argue about it.
Today was Wednesday.
Sometime this morning, the funeral home would probably call to let her know her mother was ready for viewing. She'd have to go into town and deal with that, but in the meantime, she was thinking about her future.
She needed a new place to be, and she was going to need a job.
After getting suitcases from the attic, she began to pack. She didn't have a lot of clothes that she could wear anymore. The majority of what she'd brought home from college fell off her now. So, she started with her winter clothes, and as she was pulling down sweatshirts from a shelf, a piece of paper fell out from between them.
She picked it up, unfolded it, and then frowned.
I, Gracie, lost my mother today.
"Oh my God. I don't even remember writing this," Gracie muttered. But she damn sure remembered it happening.
Today was hot as hell, but the day she'd lost Mama had been cold as a well-digger's ass and promising snow.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon. The sky was gray, the clouds low and heavy, weighted down, like Gracie, with a burden they needed to let go.
Delia was having a bad day. Gracie didn't know what had set her off, but her mama couldn't settle. She'd paced the house all day, refusing to eat, cranky with Gracie, and having a few childish fits of pique at being redirected from what she wanted to do.
Finally, Gracie got her down for a nap, covered her up with the old patchwork quilt and tucked in with the heating pad on her sock-covered feet, then hoped for the best.
As soon as she saw the even rise and fall of her mother's chest, she tiptoed out of the room and went down the hall to clean the bathroom. It took less than fifteen minutes, and when she finished, she stopped by Delia's room to peek in on her, but she was gone.
Gracie sighed, put up the cleaning supplies, and then went to run her down, wondering where she'd gotten off to now. But her frustration soon turned to panic when Delia was nowhere to be found. Not anywhere in the house. Not in the cellar below the kitchen floor. Not in the attic above. Not hiding in a closet. Not anywhere.
Gracie grabbed her coat and headed to the barn, running now and calling out.
"Mama! Mama! Where are you?"
But the barn was empty.
The chicken house was empty.
Gracie turned, her heart hammering as she stared off across the fields behind the house, thinking surely to God she would not go out there. She must have gotten on the road and started walking. But just to make sure, Gracie started running along the fence line between the yard and the pasture, looking for a sign that her mother might have gone that way, and still calling.
"Mama! Maammmaa! Where are you?"