Chapter TWENTY-NINE
An hour after they arrived at the hospital, Kenneth’s breathing became sporadic and only Skye heard the singing and witnessed his spirit lift from his body like a fire jumping from its own ashes. Jamison and his mother stood at each side of the bed, holding his clay hands, hopelessly waiting for one last word, one last smile.
“It was horrible, Skye,” Kenneth said, his spirit coming to stand next to her, “what they do to a body to keep it alive.” He shuddered, as if physically trying to shake off the memories.
Skye nodded discreetly.
“But I’d nae change it for all the world.”
Skye looked at him then. “You wouldn’t?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“Joy’s an addicting thing, aye? I would have suffered anything, ye ken, to have these two back, to have me daughter’s love once more, to see the lad as the man he will be.” He looked at Skye, a frown marring his brilliant brow. “One good swig of joy is worth a hundred sorrows.”
She smiled. He loved pitting one against a hundred, whether in a story of battle, or a kiss of his sweet wife’s lips.
“You’ll tell me two things or I’ll nae go.”
“All right, old man. What two things?” She lowered her head and spoke out of the side of her mouth.
“I want to know they fare well without me.”
“I can’t see the future, but you know they will.”
“Aye, I suppose I do. They were raised by a Scotsman, after all.”
“Aye, that they were.” Skye peeked sideways and smiled when her brogue seemed to please him. “And the other thing?”
“Tell me true. They speak Gaelic in Heaven?”
“Go on and see, auld mon. You’ll nae be disappointed.”
“You answered all me prayers, Skye Somerled. I’ll nae forget it.” His bright image began to recede. “I’ll pray the same for ye, lassie, that ye’ll also get all you pray for.”
He looked lovingly at his family while being drawn up. When the image was gone, and the sound of singing hosts stopped echoing in her mind. Back on the bed, the old man’s body lay still, his arms at his sides. Mrs. Shaw felt her way into the bathroom and closed the door on a sob.
Jamison was crying, silently shaking while water poured down a face twisted in desolation. If Skye were capable of it, she would have sobbed, it was so heartbreaking. Tears ran down his cheeks and dripped onto his sweatshirt as if his jowls were melting. His nose ran, but his hands never left his armpits, as if he were afraid of falling to pieces if he let go of himself.
She freed a handkerchief from her pocket and with her left hand wiped his cheeks, then wrapped an arm behind his back and held on while his frame shook.
There was nothing on earth so rending as a man crying. It made the foundations of the world wobble a bit when its warriors landed on their knees. And that same world sighed with relief when they struggled back to their feet.
Jamison was one such warrior. Skye knew it from the bottom of her soul, and if it was one thing she was fairly certain of, it was the condition of her soul. Her future was scary, but her soul was fine. It was all promised in The Agreement.
Jamison calmed and looked around the room. “He’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“You saw him.”
“Yes.”
“You talked to him. I heard you.”
“Yes.”
“What won’t he be disappointed in?”
She told the truth. “You, your mom. Heaven.” She grinned. “He wouldn’t leave unless I told him Gaelic is spoken there. I told him he wouldn’t be disappointed.” She could see the war going on inside him. “Jamison, he knew you loved him, and he knew how much.”
“If you would have told me he was here, listening, I would have liked to have told him again.”
“He’s heard you all morning. Besides, what would your mom have thought? It will be hard enough for her without wondering about her neighbors.”
Jamison looked at the bathroom door. His mother’s crying paused while she blew her nose, then started again.
“I should go.” She took a step away.
“Don’t leave. You can’t leave.” He reached out, but dropped his arm when she backed another step.
“This is a time for families to have privacy.”
“You are family.”
“I’m not.”
“You will be.” His eyes dared her to argue.
“Jamison. Please. Now is not the time to discuss anything. Let me go.”
Pain scrunched his face.
“I didn’t mean ‘let me go’ go. I mean let me leave for now. Let me go home so you and your mom can have time together. If I promise I’ll still be here in three days, can you give me that? Can you give me two days alone, to think? If I promise not to go anywhere? I do promise. And I can’t break promises.”
“Oh yes you can. You can do all kinds of terrible things.”
“Like what?”
“Like break my heart.” He smiled, but his smile slipped away. “I am breakable, you know.”
“I know. I’m beginning to think I am too.”
That got his attention.
“You also told that woman to piss off.” He raised his Kenneth Jamison eyebrow and grinned.
“You’re right. You see? I have a lot to sort out. Let me...go home...for now. I’ll come to the funeral. Let me know if you need help.”
She walked out the door and thankfully, he let her. Leaving him for the final time wouldn’t be nearly as easy.
***
If the grocery stores in Flat Springs were struggling to keep their shelves stocked, it was because of all the food taken to the Jamison farm for the three days before the funeral.
Jamison figured, in spite of the circumstances, his mom was a little happy that “fed” was taken care of for a good while. The fridge was packed, as were the countertops and freezer. They’d even put a cake or two in the deep freeze.
The “warm” was getting there. He’d gotten used to wearing plenty of layers. Chopping wood for the wood-burning stove was something he liked for two reasons; the pure and pungent smell of freshly split logs reminded him of Granddad, and the fire and exercise both kept him toasty warm.
Fed and warm. Check.
These days, a fissure of cold ran up his spine only when he paused to appreciate the beauty of the snow-covered Rockies in the distance. Granddad had chosen his home for the resemblance to his beloved Highlands, since his sweetheart wouldn’t move so far from her family.
There was nobody left now—just him and his mom.
And Skye.
While his mom met with Granddad’s lawyer, Jamison tracked down Mr. Evans. For some reason, he wanted to talk with the man without Skye around.
He found him dumping the burned contents of a pan in the trash can beside his large log home on the opposite end of town. It looked like it had once served as a Ranger Station with the logs covered in thick red paint that would last a hundred years more.
The smell of the burned food reached Jamison and his nose must have turned up.
“She’s learning to cook.”
“I hear she’s eighteen.”
“Nineteen.”
“Yeah, no famous nineteen-year-old chefs, are there?”
Evans laughed. “No, and I don’t think twenty will be much better.” He pointed to a seat on the wide front porch, then took the pan in the house. When he came back out, he propped the door open. “Not a day for entertaining indoors.” Evans took a seat. “I’d offer you a cold drink, but I’m afraid of what it would taste like by the time I got it outside.”
“That’s all right.” Jamison pushed a rock with his shoe, tried to get it down a plank of wood without knocking it in the crack. “I wanted to thank you, for not passing on that essay.”
“No problem. We all have stuff we’re not proud of. But if it’s any consolation, I think you did the wise thing.”
“I did the Conrad thing. I’m tired of being a Conrad.”
“Yeah, well, as you can see, I got tired of it too.” Evans cocked a thumb at the open door. Somewhere in the smoky interior a girl was banging pans around, and singing to Queen.
Maybe his wife was an old soul.
Which reminded him.
“Do you think you’ll regret it later? When the two of you are—well, when you’re old and wrinkled and she’s not, do you think she’ll regret it?”
“I’m sure she will. Absolutely sure of it. But it doesn’t make a difference. I’m happy now. We’re happy now.” Evans sat up straight and frowned. “You’re not recording this, or planning to sell this to the newspapers, are you?
Jamison laughed to set the guy at ease. “No. I’m not desperate for money.”
Evans relaxed. After a minute, he spoke again, but his voice was different, distant.
“It’s not even about being happy. It’s about love.” He looked Jamison in the eye. “I love her on a level she can’t even imagine. I love her soul and she doesn’t yet understand that she has one.” He looked away as if in pain, up at the mountains. “That’s the hard part. If she were a little older, she’d understand just how much I love her. Right now, she probably thinks I’m in it for the sex.”
Jamison tried to think of something quick to keep unwanted images from the screen in his brain. He thought of Skye, about how much he loved her and yet he didn’t think he could make her understand. And she probably felt the same about him, that he was unable to truly understand where she was coming from.
He didn’t know how long Evans had been waiting for him to say something, but the guy was looking at him funny.
“I think you know what I’m talking about, Mr. Shaw. Having a hard time convincing the Somerleds to let you see Skye?”
“More like I’m having a hard time convincing her.”
“Well, you’ve a little more than age to overcome, don’t you? All that religion and style of life crap.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, if you love her, you’ll do what’s best for her, even if it means sitting behind a desk and eating your heart out during your lunch hour every day.”
“And why didn’t you keep doing that?”
“Because I want what was best for her, Mr. Shaw, and that’s me. But what is best for our Skye, huh? If she were Mallinson—if you could get her to fear and fight, would she fight to have you?”
Jamison left Evans more confused than ever. When he got home, his mother thought he’d been smoking something.
“Just eggs, I think. Burned eggs.”
But it wasn’t the smell of abused protein that made him want to vomit. Grandpa was really gone. The funeral would be tomorrow. And the time Skye had asked for was like an hourglass in his head, only every grain of sand that fell sounded like a boulder crashing down a hillside. He wondered if the cracking noise was coming from the hour glass or his heart.