Wept unlike anything I’d heard since my mother had wept when the sea stole Julian.
A mother’s pain.
A torment I’d prayed I’d never hear again.
And I just held her. Held her and held her and made a million silent promises that I’d never let her go.
“I sang that to Kallie every single night. I don’t ever want to stop,” she finally managed to whisper before she slipped back into silence.
Long moments passed with just the sound of our breaths, before I pressed a soothing kiss to the top of her head. “Tell me a story, Shea from Savannah.”
She stumbled over a soggy laugh, and pulled my arms tighter around her. “What kind of story do you want to hear, Sebastian from California?”
“I want to know who taught you to sing.”
HEAT PERMEATED THE SMALL church. It was stuffed full of people and Shea was all dressed up, wearing a frilly white dress and white patent-leather shoes. A matching ribbon was tied in her curly hair. Little pebbles of sweat beaded at the base of her neck.
But Shea didn’t mind.
Her grandma squeezed her hand where she stood beside her in the pew, and Shea began to sing with the choir.
Amazing Grace,
How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
Her grandma had taught her how to play it on the piano, had taught her all the words, and it felt like their song. Somehow, standing there in church singing it beside her grandma, Shea got the feeling she was doing something really, really important.
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind,
But now I see.
Pride filled her as she let the words free.
Let them float, high and lifted up.
Just like her grandma had taught her to do.
Her grandma was always telling her she had the prettiest voice she’d ever heard. Just like a morning bird, she’d say. She told Shea that God had given it to her as a gift, and nothing pleased Him more than hearing it used to praise His name.
So Shea sang her praise, thanking God she got to be right there, because Shea’s favorite places were the ones where she got to be with her grandma.
After they finished singing, the pastor said a prayer before ending the service.
Shea was sure her grandma had to know just about every person who lived in Savannah, because countless people stopped them to say their goodbyes as they made their way out of the busy church.
“Look at you, precious girl,” her grandma’s friend said. “I could hear you singing all the way across the sanctuary. Just like an angel.”
Shea felt the blush rush to her cheeks. She swayed softly as she held onto her grandma’s weathered hand. She whispered, “Thank you, ma’am,” because her grandma taught her to do that, too.
“We’d better get you home,” her grandma said, excusing them from the little group congregating around them. She helped Shea slide into the worn leather backseat of her car, pressed a kiss to her forehead as she helped her buckle in, then smiled down at Shea.
The wrinkles crisscrossing on her face got deeper and deeper the bigger she smiled, and Shea smiled right back.
A map.
All those lines on Kalliana Whitmore’s face made up the map of the life her grandma had lived.
At least, that’s what she told Shea.
Shea wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but sometimes when she traced the lines on her face right before she fell asleep at night—when she got to spend the night at her house—her grandma would tell her the best stories about how she got those lines. Those stories made her laugh and smile. Sometimes they made her sad, too, but no matter what, they were her favorite.
She promised Shea one day she’d have all her own stories that would line her own face. That was the best part.
Shea couldn’t wait.
Her grandma climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car.
“Take me to your house, Gramma,” she begged through a toothy grin. Her grandma’s house was her favorite place in the whole wide world.