Coldwater Revival: A Novel (11 page)

Fifteen

“My mother gave this to me the day I got married. It’s yours now, sweetheart. I pray it will be a reminder of how much we love you and want you back home with us.”

When Mama slipped the heart-shaped locket around my neck, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in her tears. I cherished the embrace she tugged me into, knowing it would be many days before I felt her arms around me again. Mama’s hands trembled a bit, but oddly, mine were as calm as Passion Pond after the turtles have had their fill of dragonflies. At some point during the last week, I accepted my departure as inevitable, and the ensuing numbness that settled over me as my just reward.

I studied the teary group bidding me farewell. Elo, alone, stood as though indifferent to our parting, his eyes as clear as Mama’s windows after a fine vinegar washing.

“I’ll write you every week,” Molly said, brushing my cheek with a kiss.

“So will I,” Polly said as she hugged me to her side.

I nodded my thanks, but wondered if I would ever dare read anything again. The last time I opened a book, my world split apart at the seams, and I had gone tumbling into a fathomless abyss I couldn’t climb out of.

Papa opened the door and motioned us onto the front porch. Autumn mist hovered over the yard, oozing its way into fissures along the treetops. And darkling fog obscured my view of borrowed car, gravel drive, and the road that would take me away from my family. A jolt of panic darted across my heart, for the mist evidenced itself to me as a last gasp of air, exhaled from some invisible force above. I turned my face from gray-shrouded vapors, frozen in time and space. I’d not let them seep into my heart. Nor would I allow them to be my last thoughts of home.

Nathan approached, his customary quietness blending with early morning stillness. As we latched together in awkward embrace, his height and my crutch set our bodies at odd angles to each other. No matter the fit, warmth and acceptance seeped through his faded overalls, brushing my cheek with love. He shoved us apart without speaking.
At least one of my brothers will miss me.

I’d come to think of six-year-old Caleb as my sleepy brother. Worn out and tired—not grievously ill and unconscious. I’d whispered my good-bye to him earlier this morning, muffling sobs into his pillowcase during the darkness of predawn. I had begged his forgiveness for the hundredth time. What would life be like for Caleb when he awakened and discovered he had lost his playmate and best friend? Perhaps my prolonged absence was a good thing. I knew not if my heart could withstand Caleb’s sorrow when he found out his birth partner was gone forever.

None too gently, my cardboard suitcase and crutch were shoved into the trunk of the car by Elo’s broad hands. Papa, Elo, and I settled onto the front seat of the smoke-tinted Buick Mr. Peavy had lent us for the twenty-mile trip to Brenham. In Brenham, Papa and I would catch a bus to Galveston, and Elo would drive the car home.

Galveston was where Granny Falin lived. Papa’s mother. I’d be spending time with her, my parents had explained. They had urged me to forget about the accident. Just get well, they counseled … over and over. Perhaps they thought advice, alone, would heal me. Had it been an option all along, and I was just too stubborn to obey them?

I sat unmoving between two giant pillars—Elo wedging me on the right, Papa sitting behind the wheel on my left. They spoke little, though an aura of excitement radiated from Elo. He’d driven a tractor many times, but never a car. During the past week, Mr. Peavy gave Elo driving instructions, and now he considered himself an expert. At least, that’s what Molly had whispered to Polly from behind her slender fingers.

Despite the luxury status of Mr. Peavy’s Buick, our ride to Brenham was rough and hazardous. As we traveled a route that consisted of more chug holes than level road, I gripped onto Papa’s pants leg and bounced all over the seat. A glance at Elo revealed he had lost his sneer somewhere along the way and acquired a smile. Height had him hunching his shoulders, lest his noggin meet the rooftop and give it a dent. No need to fear for Elo if such a thing were to happen. The hardiest blow couldn’t dimple Elo’s thick skull. Hadn’t Mama always claimed his head was the hardest of her hardheaded lot?

Papa parked the car in a cordoned-off area at the station. After retrieving my crutch and suitcase, he left to purchase our tickets. Elo sprang from the Buick as though he’d been accused of car theft. After several moments, I scooted across the seat, opened the door, and reclaimed my crutch from the front fender. I shuffled to Elo, who stood with hands braced against a wooden fence, face averted. He had donned his corduroy trousers for our unprecedented jaunt out of Coldwater, and hobbled himself into a pair of fancy boots with tooled stitching. But he was still the same stoic Elo: silent as a goldfish in a pond. As I lifted my gaze to his face, I tried to conjure up words of parting that wouldn’t cause rancor between us.

Nearing sixteen, Elo had reached Papa’s lofty height, and had the lean, stringy look of a green bean climbing a pole. Tall and lanky, that was Elo. And probably the most handsome young man in Coldwater. He appeared oblivious to the young women who brazenly pursued him. Deceptively unaware. But I believed he had received and posted for future reference every flirtatious signal that had come his way.

I stood beside him now as I had a thousand times in the deep woods near our home: quiet as a sunset and immobile as a tree trunk. I had learned those traits from Elo, along with the skills of shooting, gutting, bleeding-out, and skinning a kill. Being silent had always been the toughest part of hunting with my brother, but as quietness engulfed me now, a core of contentment reconciled my emotions with a measure of peace, and I was grateful. I lifted my gaze to a flat-winged hawk, soaring effortlessly over Brenham’s rolling plains. Wing tips curled, it plunged toward earth in a fluid dive, most likely in search of prey. My gaze was so intent, I jerked near out of my skin when Elo muttered in my ear.

“I want you to get yourself well, Emma Grace, and get back home. Do you hear what I’m saying?” The way his teeth gnashed together, I couldn’t fathom how he managed to shoot spittle and snarl at the same time.

What’s this?
Elo desired my speediest return? Had I misjudged the molten lava I’d spied in his eyes earlier? My befuddlement grew in sync with his narrowing gaze. Additional words spewed from his mouth, booting to kingdom come all the naïve nonsense I’d been coddling. After a glance at the ticket office, he leaned in close, voice dulled to a roaring whisper. “Mama ain’t gonna have a bit of rest till you’re back home in Coldwater, all cheered up and healthy. After what she’s been through … don’t you think she deserves that much from you?”

I squared my shoulders as any respectable Falin would and spewed out a hot-tempered retort. “Don’t you lecture me on how to respect our mama. I’m not going to Galveston because I want to. I’m going because it’s the only way I know to help Mama.”

From the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Papa’s approach. Blinking away the wetness, I faced Papa square on, managing what I pictured to be a smile.

“Our bus doesn’t leave for another forty minutes, but I want you to head on home, Elo. Get Mr. Peavy’s car back to him straight way. Don’t go driving it around town. You hear?”

A flicker of what looked like surprise darted from Elo’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be the man of the place till I get back.” Papa cast his gaze heavenward and shifted his stance. It seemed he would fain stay planted there until a new batch of words drifted his way. He lowered his eyes after a moment, pinched the bridge of his nose, and routed a look straight into Elo. “Take extra care with your mama and sisters. They’ll be looking to you for support … and a bit of comfort.”

Elo gave his head a slow nod.

Papa cleared his throat and swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on Elo’s impassive face. “A man couldn’t ask for a better son.”

Though the description most appropriately fit the brother I had lost, I knew Papa spoke of Elo—not Micah.

But a man sure could ask for a better daughter.
I turned my face from Papa and Elo’s embrace, my heart laden with guilt. I understood that Mama’s welfare had been at the heart of Elo’s lambasting moments earlier, but that didn’t explain the feverish glint in his eyes. Couldn’t his thick skull absorb the truth? I wasn’t withholding my wellness from the family. I would latch onto every bit of healing that came my way, were it not as elusive to grasp as the wind.

An attendant hefted my suitcase to the roof as Papa and I boarded the bus, securing my travel mates’ luggage to my own with a long rope. The green boxlike bus had a painted border midway up, on which greyhound pups chased each other. A second border, near the rooftop, contained the names of hamlets and towns along the route to Galveston. The interior of the bus looked fancy to my eyes, each set of windows having its own pair of brocade curtains, either tied back or drawn against the sun. Black-and-brown checkered seat covers proved cushion-soft, more so than Mr. Peavy’s leather ones. Pillowed headrests added a touch of extravagance.

When the uniformed driver revved the engine and yanked the door handle, it seemed the gateway to hope slammed shut in my face. Trapped and locked in a world of sadness I couldn’t deal with, I pictured Mama—standing just beyond the louvered glass. Tears streamed her cheeks as she waved her hand and released a kiss of farewell to the wind. As her image faded from view, I whispered good-bye to her around the lump in my throat. ’Twas but an illusion, after all.

Our journey began. Hopefully, we’d be on Galveston Island in four hours. Papa removed his scratchy wool jacket and placed it next to my crutch on the floor. He stuffed the pillowcase containing our food and his clothes under his seat. I wadded my coat and wedged it into the niche between cushion and wall. Papa reached for me then, stroking the thick braids Mama had plaited at daybreak.

“You won’t be gone long, sweetheart. I’ll have you home before ice coats the roads.”

I lay my head on Papa’s leg and curled myself into a kitten ball. My eyes leaked onto his dungarees, and I couldn’t hold back my whimpers. Tears squeezed through my lids like bubbles of soap. Papa’s hand slid past my braids, onto shoulders that refused to be still.

“Shush, Emma Grace … don’t cry so. You’re gonna make it. I promise you, sweet girl … you’re gonna make it.”

Papa didn’t lie. The thought should have massaged a little peace into my heart. But what if—this one time—Papa was just plain wrong?