Page 12

Chapter5Present

Two Weeks Afterour ferry ride past Shoal Island, I retire my therapy era. That side of things is done. Finished. Kaput. For the first five years after Piper was gone, I needed therapy, but after that I wanted it. It made me feel better to talk about Piper every week. The therapists were dedicated to teaching me how to carry on after my entire world fell apart. Had I learned to carry on? Yes. But it took a vast amount of work to want to, and I had to change who I was as a person to desire life. Most of them told me that I was the lucky one—a bizarre, bold thing to say to the sister of a kidnapped girl. There were definitely no winners in my situation. Nevertheless, I am stuffed with perspective, fattened with self-awareness—shrink-wrapped. Pun absolutely intended. I am ready.

The restaurant where I’ve been working for the last two years throws me a goodbye party. I eat a large slice of sheet cake and take a final shot of tequila before stepping outside—a jobless woman. For now. Soon I’ll start my work-study at Shoal. I’d be paid—mostly in experience,but there is a small wage, as well. A miniscule bonus to my ulterior motive.

I pull into Gran’s driveway at eight o’clock and reach to the passenger side floorboard to grab the leftover cake they sent home with me. The paper plate is buckling with the weight of it, and as I’m trying to figure out how to unlock the front door without dropping it, the door flies open.

Cal stands in the doorway, arms at his sides, his face ashen. It takes me two breaths to notice the cell phone dangling from his hand—Gran’s.

The balls of his cheeks are flushed and damp like he’s been crying.

Sniff, sniff“—Gran—”sniff, sniff“—fell—”

The sirens sound a second or two later. My son’s face confirms that he was the one who summoned them.No, no—no!I think. His blue eyes are vacant as he stares at me, cherub cheeks wet from tears.

“Where is she?” I manage.

He points to the door that leads to the garage, his finger shaking.

“Go wait in your room!” For once he doesn’t argue, scampering around the corner. He shuts the door with a bang.

I drop the sagging plate of cake and run for the garage, flinging the door open with so much force it bounces back and almost hits me in the face. My vision swings like a pendulum as I step into the two-car garage. The lights are on, but I can’t see her. I run around her car to the far side of the garage where she keeps her gardening tools and the Christmas decorations. The first thing I see is the ladder on its side. Behind it is Gran’s body.

My knees land hard on the concrete next to her. She’s not conscious, but she’s breathing—barely. “Gran! Gran!” I put my fingers on her pulse, feel the dying tap of her heart, and leap to my feet.

The high-low of the sirens gets shorter—they’re close! It takes me ten seconds to reach the garage door opener,hurtling myself over the hood of Gran’s car. I slam my fist against the switch, and the motor kicks on as I race back to her side.

The ambulance bounces into the driveway seconds later, and there is a spotlight shining on my face. Shielding my eyes, I call, “Over here!”

Doors open and close. There’s the scuff of feet and voices. I let go of her hand and move out of their way, keeping my eyes on the chaos as I take three steps back until I’m out of the garage and in the driveway.

I don’t realize that I’m rocking until someone grabs hold of my shoulders and squeezes gently—Gran’s casual boyfriend, Billy Ross. He owns the craftsman-style house three houses down. As head of neighborhood watch, he was probably out the door when he heard the sirens.

Billy is an old guy who works out. Lost his hair and found his muscles; a finely aged meathead—Gran’s words, not mine. He stands behind me until the stretcher passes, and we get a look at her face. It isn’t good. We turn to follow as Billy looks toward the street where anxious faces are gathering—Gran’s neighbors. They have good intentions, but I cannot deal with this right now.

“Billy.” My voice is hoarse. “Can you ask Mary-Ann if she can come over and watch Cal? I need to follow the ambulance.” I wonder if he was asleep before he ran out.

“Go with the ambulance,” he says. “We’ll take care of it…” A first responder is holding the door of the ambulance open. Behind him I can see the vulnerable lump that is Gran lying on the stretcher. I’m tempted to jump inside.

“I can’t. I have to talk to Cal before I leave. He’s inside, afraid.” I look at the man holding the door. “Go,” I tell him. “I’ll drive.”

He closes it without a word, and they’re gone.

I run inside while Billy talks to Mary-Ann—another neighbor friend whose face I spot in the growing cluster.Cal is in the living room sitting on the couch. He looks so small and afraid, I burst into tears. It’s the wrong thing to do, of course, because he cries when I cry. I hold him on my lap and tell him it’s going to be okay. A mother’s lie—nothing is ever okay, but they need to believe it can be. I hold his face in my hands, look into his big wet eyes.

“I have to go to the hospital. Mary-Ann is coming over to stay with you.”

“No! She’s my gran too! I want to go with you!” He throws himself against me as Mary-Ann opens the front door and steps inside, wiping her feet. Cal, who doesn’t like people to see him cry, wipes his face on his sleeve and stares at the blank TV screen stoically.

“I’ll be back. Everything is going to be okay,” I lie again. He ignores me. It’s hard to get up and walk to the door; I’m leaving one person for another—it’s a terrible feeling. I try to catch his eye before I leave, but he’s stubborn.

Mary-Ann turns on the TV and nods at me to go. “Let’s bake cookies.” I hear her say before I close the door.

The doctor, a woman in her fifties who resembles Dana Delany, tells me that Gran had an ischemic stroke, which is caused when an artery to the brain is suddenly blocked by a blood clot.

“We administered tissue plasminogen, which dissolved the clot, allowing blood to reach the brain. Due to her age, we can’t know the full extent of the negative effects the stroke will have on her. I’m going to keep her here for a few weeks to observe her, but she’s going to need weeks—maybe months—of physical, occupational, and speech therapy. It’s a long road from here, unfortunately.”

Time becomes a strange, painful warp of worry and guilt. The next doctor I speak to is an animated man in a bow tie and colorful socks who gives me further warnings in a singsong voice,like we’re in a musical instead of the ICU.