Twenty-Three
Brooke hurried the children along Sunday morning and, with ten minutes left to spare, got them out the door for church.
She almost stumbled over a bouquet of flowers on the front porch. They looked like they were freshly picked, the stems wrapped in aluminum foil. She recognized the reddish-purple color and the bright yellow tips. They were firewheel daisies. Her mother used to grow them when she was young, and Brooke had seen them growing as wildflowers, but she didn’t have any in her yard. Where had they come from?
“Are those from Owen?” Spencer didn’t seem angry, but she heard apprehension in his voice.
“I don’t know.” She picked them up, and two of the blossoms fell out of the makeshift arrangement. “But I don’t think so.” Picking up the loose flowers, she turned around. “I need to put these in some water. Be right back.”
Minutes later she was locking the front door and heading to the car with Spencer and Meghan.
“Someone cut the grass.” Spencer pointed as they hurried.
She stopped abruptly. Mowing the yard was Brooke’s exercise, and she usually did it on Wednesdays. “That’s odd. They had to have done it while we were gone late yesterday afternoon. I wonder who . . .” She picked up the pace again. “Oh well. Let’s go. We’re going to be late to church if we don’t hurry.”
As she crossed the yard, she noticed that someone had also done the weed eating and blowing—even the hard-to-reach places that Brooke often let go.
As they drove to church, she refocused her thoughts and reminded herself that she’d done the right thing by letting Owen go. She’d been doing that since last night, but when they pulled into the church parking lot, she remembered Owen’s attitude toward God. Another reason why it was best they went their separate ways. He didn’t share her faith.
Once they were seated in church, Brooke looked around for her mother. Mom hadn’t been to church the past couple of weeks, and Brooke was sure it was because of her father. He had probably given up his faith a long time ago and now was pulling her mother away as well.
When the service was over, a tall man with a long gray ponytail approached Brooke and the children.
“Brooke Holloway?”
“Yes.” Brooke didn’t recognize the new attendee, but she suspected he might be Owen’s uncle. Not too many men in Smithville—if any—wore a ponytail.
“It is an honor to meet you, Brooke.” He extended his hand. “I’m Dennis Saunders. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.” Brooke nodded and shook his hand. Then Dennis squatted down to address the children. “I’ve heard all about this hidden bunker. Spencer, when are you coming over so we can continue the search?”
“Today!” Spencer looked up at Brooke with pleading eyes. “Can we, Mom?”
Brooke was already shaking her head. “I’m sorry. We can’t today.”
Spencer actually stomped his foot.
“Another time.” Dennis gave them a warm, crooked smile. “I’m sure we’ll find it, and how grand that will be.” He stood up and caught Brooke’s eyes as he added, “That’s how it is when you find something special and unexpected.” He winked before he walked away, and Brooke didn’t think they were talking about the bunker anymore.
She missed Owen already, even though she believed she was right to break off the relationship. But his absence, coupled with the distance between her and her mother, was taking a toll on her heart. So she decided to go see her mother. It was time. Mom had been evasive about where they were living, saying only that it was on the edge of town. But the Oaks would surely have a forwarding address.
After taking the kids for a burger, Brooke called the facility’s reception desk and then plugged her mother’s new address into her GPS. The weekend manager had finally given it to her after protesting several times that it was against the rules to give out forwarding addresses. She must have found it strange that Brooke’s own mother hadn’t given her the new address.
Ten minutes later she pulled into a run-down apartment complex. “Wait,” she told Spencer and Meghan as she scanned the parking lot, trying to decide if it was safe to bring her children here. She had seen this complex before but only to drive by, and it wasn’t in the best part of town. After a few minutes she told them to go ahead and get out of the minivan, but to stay close to her.
They wound their way through the complex until Brooke found apartment 145. Good thing it was on the first floor. One of Mom’s knees flared up from time to time.
Brooke knocked on the door, dreading the face-to-face meeting with her father, but needing to know that her mother was all right. She gasped when Mom opened the door. Not only was she not made up the way she had been lately, but she had large bags under her eyes and her hair was a tousled mess. Were they just staying in bed all day? She was torn between disgust and worry.
“Now isn’t a good time, Brooke.” Her mother pushed at strands of hair that were falling in her face, which Brooke now noticed was dripping with sweat.
“Mom, are you sick?” Brooke tried to look over her mother’s shoulder, but the room was dark. It took a moment to realize that she didn’t feel any cold air coming out the door. “And why is it so hot in there?”
“Oh, the air-conditioning isn’t working very well. The apartment people are supposed to be sending someone.”
“We can stand the heat.” Brooke pushed against the door until it opened wide, despite her mother’s effort to block the entrance. “Meghan, Spencer, come on.” She motioned for the kids to follow. Once she was inside, she blinked a few times until the room came into focus. What was that smell? But the odor quickly became the least of her worries when she saw her father lying on the couch, his face pale and glistening with perspiration, his eyes half-closed and unfocused. She ran to his side and put a hand to his forehead.
“Mom, he’s burning up with fever.” Brooke turned to Spencer. “Go find a cold, wet rag.”
His eyes were wide. “What kind of rag?”
“A washcloth or small towel or something. Run cold water on it.”
She turned back to her father, whose eyes were barely open. “Daddy, it’s Brooke. Can you sit up?”
Her mother was quickly at her side, and together they lifted her father to a sitting position. Spencer handed her a wet kitchen towel, and she dabbed it on her father’s forehead.
“Is Grandpa going to die?” Meghan covered her face with her hands. “Like Daddy?”
“No one is going to die, Meghan.” She looked at her mother. “Go pack. You can’t stay here. It’s almost a hundred outside, and it feels almost that hot in here.”
“I’m not leaving your father, Brooke. I was going to get us to a hotel if the air-conditioning people didn’t come soon.” Her mother’s voice started to crack. “I just didn’t know what to do.” She pointed to the worn-out coffee table in front of the couch. “He’s on all these medicines, and I’m confused if I gave them to him the right way, and it’s hot, and I . . .”
She grabbed Brooke’s arm, her face drawn up, her lip trembling. “Is this my fault? Do you think I’m doing things right? I’ve never seen so much medicine, and . . .” She shook her head, blinking her eyes. “I’m not leaving him.”
Brooke tried not to look at her father, but it was almost impossible once he opened his eyes because he couldn’t stop staring at her. “Mom, go pack.” She paused as she took a deep breath. “For you and Daddy. You’re both coming home with us.”
“Go help Grandma, Meghan.” Brooke pointed to the doorway where her mother had disappeared. Then she pointed to all the bottles of medication on the coffee table—at least twenty bottles. “Spencer, go see if you can find something to put all this in.”
As Brooke ran the wet rag along her father’s neck, then back up to his forehead, he reached for her hand. “Just take your mother. I’ve been trying to get her to go to your house for days.”
Brooke couldn’t look him in the eye. “You’re both coming.”
He let go of her arm, then reached for a handkerchief in his pocket. For as long as Brooke could remember, her father had always worn short-sleeved white shirts with a handkerchief in the left pocket. He coughed into the dingy rag, a horrible wet cough that sounded like it came from the very bottom of his lungs. His eyes and skin had a yellowish cast, and his abdomen looked distended over his skinny frame.
Brooke was helping him to his feet when her mother returned. “Spencer, you get the suitcase. Meghan, you get the bag of medicine.” She looked at her mother’s expression, confusion and exhaustion etched across her face. “And, Mom, help me get Daddy to the car.”
Her mother started to weep, and her father pulled away from Brooke and threw his arms around her. “Don’t cry, Patsy. Please don’t cry.”
Brooke couldn’t see her father’s face, but she was pretty sure he was crying too. She gave them a moment before she patted him on the back, wondering why this was happening on the heels of everything else.
Hunter watered the small patch of daisies that grew in the back corner of his yard, as he’d been doing for the past few weeks. It was the only pretty thing at his house, and now he’d found a use for them. Once he was done watering, he went in to check on his grandma. She hadn’t cooked anything the past few days, so Hunter had been buying ready-made food in town. But she wouldn’t eat. She didn’t seem to have any interest in getting off the couch either. And he was thinking she needed a bath about now.
“Grandma, can’t you eat that soup I brung you?” Hunter picked up the vodka bottle by the couch, glad to see it was still half-full. He wasn’t for sure who was bringing her the liquor, although he suspected it was Pete Jasper. That guy would do anything for a buck. Hunter had seen Pete hand her a bag one day on the front porch, and Grandma had slipped him some money, then told Hunter to mind his business when Hunter asked her about it.
However she got it, the vodka kept showing up, and recently Hunter had been adding water to the bottle every day to weaken it. Today, though, it didn’t look like she’d even taken a nip. “Grandma?”
She opened her eyes from where she was lying on the couch. “I ain’t hungry, but you be sure to eat now. I got spaghetti warming on the stove for you.”
She’d been saying that every day for a week. “Okay, Grandma.” He paused. “Maybe you’d feel better if you took a bath.”
“Took me one this morning.”
Hunter picked up a pile of used tissues, two glasses, and a box of crackers. Maybe she’d eaten something after all. He hauled everything to the kitchen, then started washing the dishes in the sink. Little by little, he was getting the place cleaned up. It wasn’t ever going to be fancy like Owen’s place, but he’d been surprised what a little elbow grease could do. Their bathroom practically sparkled now except for that stain in the tub he couldn’t do anything about.
He stomped on a cockroach that ran across the floor, then bagged up the garbage to take out. Since he’d gotten a job, he’d paid to have a garbage service come pick it up every week like everybody else did.
As he crossed through the living room carrying the trash bag, he was pretty sure the smell in the air was his grandma more than the trash, but he wasn’t sure what to do about it. He couldn’t make her bathe. She hadn’t been sleeping in her bed, but just stayed on that couch all day and slept.
When he came back in after stuffing the trash bag in the can, he saw that she hadn’t moved. “Grandma, when is your next doctor’s appointment?”
She shifted her weight but didn’t open her eyes. “Hunter, I’m trying to sleep.”
He couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the doctor, but he was sure a checkup or something must be coming up. The neighbor lady, Mrs. Kemp, had taken Grandma a couple of times, and she sometimes took the van for Medicaid patients. Hunter was pretty sure Owen would give them a ride if they needed it.
Hunter sat down in the recliner across from the couch, the low buzz of the television in the background, and wondered what he should do. He was in charge. He was worn out from cleaning all day, but as he looked at his grandma, he knew he had to do something.
He stood up, walked over to her, and tapped her gently on the arm. “Get up, Grandma. You gotta get a bath.”
She shrugged him off. “I had a bath.”
“Grandma, get up. I’m gonna help you in the tub, then we’re going to get some soup in you. You hear me? I’ll help you.”
“Okay, Hunter.” She sighed. “Okay.”
Hunter put an arm around her, unsure how he was going to do this, but he couldn’t stand to see her living in her own filth. He wished he had normal parents, a brother or sister, a friend.
Anyone.
The House that Love Built
Beth Wiseman's books
- The House at the End of Hope Street
- The House of Rumour A Novel
- The House of Serenades
- The House of the Wicked
- The Laughterhouse A Thriller
- Bleak House
- All the Things You Never Knew
- All That Is
- Into That Forest
- The Beautiful Thing That Awaits Us All
- Who Could That Be at This Hour
- The Blood That Bonds
- Not That Kind of Girl: A Young Woman Tells You What She's "Learned"
- Dead Love
- His Love Endures Forever
- Love at 11
- Love Irresistibly
- Love Saves the Day
- Paris Love Match
- The Beloved Stranger
- The Lovely Chocolate Mob
- To Love and to Perish
- Undertaking Love