She ran at the painting in a blur, screaming obscenities, faster than I had seen her move in decades. She drove the raised fork into her father’s painted face. The curse became a high animal keening, and she stabbed again and then again, as hard as she could, aiming for his right eye. Spittle ran down her chin, spraying his face as the fork caught. She jerked it out, tearing the eye away entirely. She took aim at the second one, stabbing true, then dragging it down the eye, scouring it.
I didn’t know her. I didn’t know this version of her, and my hands were on my own cheeks, and my cheeks were wet.
Sel was on her side of the table so fast I hadn’t clocked him going. He came up behind her, ignoring her banshee wail and the wild tomahawk chopping of her stabbing hand. He took Birchie in his arms in a single smooth movement, catching her wrist before she could stab the painting again. His long arms locked around her, pinning hers. She screamed and reared, her feet lifting off the floor as she kicked the air in front of her, her fluffy bun unraveling as her head thrashed back and forth.
“Oh, no, oh, no!” I said, helpless, watching my grandmother flailing and screaming in his arms.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Sel Martin said, as calm as Wattie, dragging Birchie back a few steps so she couldn’t kick the wall and hurt her feet. Both her shoes had come off, and I hoped the broken glass was all on my side of the table.
“Don’t hurt her,” I said, but he wasn’t hurting her.
His arms around her were firm and sure, holding her as she thrashed like a caught fish.
Birchie’s screaming thinned, devolving into a word. A name.
“Wattie! Wattie!” Birchie called, her voice shaking. Her body stilled, in pieces. Feet first, and as soon as she stopped kicking, Wattie was there, in front of her, dropping the bloody napkin to the floor so she could peel Birchie’s fingers open and take the fork. “Wattie!”
“Hush, baby, hush,” Wattie said, dropping the fork, too. It clattered onto the hardwood, and she put her hands on Birchie’s cheeks to still her thrashing head. Her arm continued to bleed, but she ignored it. She put her face near Birchie’s face and looked into her eyes. “I’m here. I’m here. Hush. Hush.”
“Call an ambulance,” Sel said to me, calm and sure.
Wattie said, “Don’t you dare,” in that same voice Rachel had used to send off Lavender. Unbrookable Mother, and it worked on all of us. Except the medical professional.
“I think we should,” Sel told us. “At least call her doctor.”
“I’m so sorry. I did not mean to upset her!” Frank said. He was back with Birchie’s first-aid kit from the pantry clutched in his hands. He set it down on the table, then put Birchie’s chair upright, and I was instantly so grateful. It was one less wrong thing in this room full of wrong things.
“It’s all right,” Wattie said. She kept her eyes fixed on Birchie’s eyes. “I’m here. You see me? I’m here. It’s just us here. We’ll have our medicine? Yes?” She held Birchie’s face firm in her hands, with Birchie’s long white hair loose from its bun and hanging down in strings over her face and Wattie’s hands. Birchie started crying.
“I’m so tired,” she said. “I’m so tired.”
My hands were shaking, so it was hard to get the bottle open. I got the cap off and managed to spill a blue cotton-candy-colored pill into my palm. One cup of lemonade was still miraculously upright, sitting half empty in front of Wattie’s usual chair. I set the amber bottle down, wiped my eyes, and got the cup.
I came around the table and said, “Birchie? I have your pill. Okay?”
After a long moment, Birchie said, “Well, all right.”
Sel was still holding her, but he released her wrist. I handed her the pill, and she put it in her mouth, then drank some of Wattie’s lemonade, swallowing it. Sel’s grip had loosened, and her feet were on the floor. She stood swaying slightly in his arms, her blue-button eyes gone blank and her mouth crumpling in on itself. She looked like she was a thousand years old, her white hair streaming all down her shoulders in a tangle of thin ribbons. I set the glass back on the table, and when I looked up, Birchie was blinking at me, confused but smiling.
“Leia! Honey, when did you get here?” Her eyebrows knit in mild concern. “I don’t think I got the turkey. Wattie, did we get the turkey?”
“I got it, not to worry. A nice fat Thomas he is, too,” Wattie said, and then to Sel, “You can let her go now.”
He didn’t let her go so much as hand her to me. I turned, winding one arm around her waist, supporting her. I kept her near the wall as we walked, keeping myself between her bare feet and the broken pitcher. I glanced at the portrait of Ellis Birch as we passed by, and it wasn’t fixable. One eye had been ripped away down to bare canvas. The other looked as if a tiny Wolverine had slashed it.
I asked Sel quietly, over my shoulder, “Can you see to Wattie’s arm? Frank brought the kit.”
“Yeah. Let’s—” Sel began.
“Shhh, Mr. Martin,” Wattie interrupted, not loud but very firm. Wattie could speak Unbrookable Mother even at low volume. It was a nice trick. “Wait just a minute. If she hears you, sees you, it might set her off again.”
I was whispering to Birchie, walking her away, “Do you want your nap? Do you want to come lie down with me? We’ll go upstairs and turn the ceiling fan on, and you can have a nice rest in the cool.”
“That sounds lovely, sugar,” Birchie said.
We made our slow and careful way up the stairs, to Birchie’s room, and I closed the door. I moved the shams and peeled the covers down. My adrenaline had faded, and every single piece of me felt like sea glass, sanded away and worn. Even Digby, making little turns deep inside me, felt smooth-edged and slow.
Birchie sat yawning on the edge of the bed, and I brushed her tumbled hair out gently and then braided it for her. She was as placid as a sleepy child. By the time I had her tucked in, the lamps off, and the ceiling fan going in a lazy whirl, her eyelids were heavy from exhaustion and the Valium.
I kicked my own shoes off and lay down beside her on top of the covers. I was exhausted. I’d been up all night, chasing Lavender, calling Batman, fretting, but there was no way I would fall asleep. I was too anxious. Wattie was hurt—worse, Birchie had hurt her. Frank’s news must be very bad, to set her off like that. Had Tackrey gotten the court order? I needed to get back downstairs and find out. Not to mention I’d abandoned Batman. Wattie would want to take his measure, plus Rachel could come back any second. I couldn’t leave him unsupervised and unprotected with those two women. Even so, I wanted the Valium to take full effect before I left my grandmother. I waited quietly, gently rubbing her back until her breathing eased and became regular.
I thought, I’d better wait another minute, be sure she’s . . . and that was the last thing I remembered thinking.
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