The Stories We Tell (2 page)

We thought ourselves holy. Every night, I would go home and show Willa our new commandment. With a flashlight under our bunk beds, she'd take out her calligraphy pen and write the commandment Caden and I had added to our list. It was only a piece of lined paper torn from a school composition book, but to us, it was parchment, ancient and glorious.

We were caught, Caden and I, before we finished the Ten Ideas. The list was tacked to the back wall of my closet, warped with South Carolina river moisture. We'd made it to number nine before Mom found it and turned it over to my dad, and to the church elders. Heresy, we were told. There was a Bible verse, one in Revelations, about this very thing we'd done, about adding or subtracting from the Bible: “And if anyone takes away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God will take away his part from the tree of life.” We were made to memorize this verse, and for months, maybe years, Willa and I believed we'd been cut off from the tree of life, even if we didn't fully understand what that tree was and where it had been planted.

Then there was the weeklong discussion about sending me to live with a another family, one who could make me understand the gravity of what I'd done. Dad believed they'd failed in Christian parenting, and I'd failed as the dutiful daughter. My defiance, they believed, put our eternity together at risk. They needed someone else, anyone else, to help me see that rebellion was not the way to happiness or a pass through the pearly gates. In the end, I stayed home, and with a stomachache I tolerated the grave silence of my dad's disappointment and my mom's worry.

Eventually, Willa and I exhausted the stories of that summer and turned to the list—our commandments. What had we thought then, as children, were the right ways to live? Could those matter today?

Whenever I think of the list now, I taste the brackish air. I feel like I'm twelve years old again and invincible. Childhood slams into my chest and unfolds its promise of a bigger life.

It was Max who saw the potential for the list to become a card line. “Ten Good Ideas. Come on, it's the best compilation idea we've ever had.” And he was right. So one by one, we've been releasing the cards with original artwork. The problem is that Willa and I can't remember number nine, and we still haven't come up with number ten.

This creation, this card line, has been Willa's work with us. In the beginning, I'd thought I was merely giving her something to do, something besides work on her songwriting and find singing gigs in town. But we all soon realized that Ten Good Ideas was the most successful line in our six years of business. Orders tripled by the third idea, and we'd added six new vendors in the South alone.

I feel a wave of intense love for all of it, for all of the ideas and the designs so far finished and for the ones yet to be created.

Number One: Be Kind.
An oak tree extends its arms to the heavens, to the earth, and falling off the side of the pages.

Number Two: Tell Good Stories.
Books are drawn to appear like leather-bound volumes piled one on top of the other, inviting storytelling, and story reading.

Number Three: Always Say Good-bye.
Here Francie sketched human profiles, one facing the other, begging the question of who might be leaving.

Number Four: Search for the True.
This design is my favorite so far: The world, blue and floating amid the dark night, stars set as sparkled dents in the Universe.

Number Five: Help Others.
Here is the luminescent design, one Max drew, of two hands entwined, fingers knit together.

Number Six: Create.
Paint cans of every color are splattered across the page, spilling and dripping into the number six at the bottom of the card.

Number Seven: Be Patient

Number Eight: Find Adventure

I'm scribbling a note about needing more ink for the Vandercook press when I hear the sirens. They sound far off, until they don't. The sirens swell: loud, louder, loudest. Then silence. I stand, staring at the huge barn doors, waiting for them to slide across the track and open, because I know they will. I imagine the three people I love the most in the world. I imagine the news to come.

No, no, no.

A policeman, short, with dark hair, stands in the doorway. The overhead light casts shadows across his face. Rain drips from the eaves onto the plastic-covered bib of his hat.

“Are you Eve Morrison?” he asks.

“Yes.” My voice is tight with fear.

“I'm Officer Barker with the Savannah Police Department. Your husband and sister have been involved in a car accident. They're at Savannah Memorial. I'm sorry to be here telling you this. Your husband sent me, as you haven't been answering the phone.” He breaks off each sentence with a quick sound: a verbal Morse code.

“Cooper? My sister? My God, are they okay?”

“I've been sent to get you. They're at the hospital and your husband is conscious. That's the only information I have at the moment.” He sounds robotic, flatlined.

“Wait.” I shake my head, relieved that this policeman has the wrong information. “My husband's in Charleston. My sister's at work. She's a singer. I think you've made a mistake.”

Officer Barker coughs. “I'm afraid not, ma'am. They were driving in downtown Savannah. That's all the information I have. I've been sent to take you to the hospital.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He steps into the barn and I see his face clearly. He's young, so young that acne stands in pockmarked relief against his face.

“Take me to them.” I back away and bump into a press, the Heidelberg. My hip grazes the sharp edge; it will leave a bruise. I switch off the single light over the table. “First my daughter,” I say, panic a rising tide in the back of my throat. “I need to get my daughter.”

“Where is she?” he asks.

“Asleep.” I point toward the general direction of our house.

“I tried there first. No one answered.”

“She's asleep.” I stop and stare at him. “How did you know where to find me?”

“Your husband.”

I reach into my back pocket and yank out my cell phone. Eight missed calls. I hit the callback button while motioning to Officer Barker: Keep walking and I'll follow. Cooper doesn't answer, and I follow the policeman. Fear begins as a firestorm in my belly, moving along my arms and legs as electricity. No. Not my sister. Not my husband. I climb into Officer Barker's backseat and he drives up the muddy path to the house. His car will bear the splash stains as the mark of our rain-drenched driveway.

Officer Barker has barely pulled to a stop, and I'm running up the steps onto the wide front porch. In the moonlight, the white floorboards glow almost blue, reflecting the painted ceiling. I open the door and holler, “Gwen, Gwen.”

No answer.

I run through the front hall and upstairs to her bedroom. Damp air washes over me as pink linen curtains flutter around her open window.

“Shit,” I say to the empty room. “Not now.”

I plod down the back stairs and into the kitchen, just to be sure she isn't there. The tea bag dangles over the empty cup. I sipped that tea, thinking Gwen was asleep in bed and Cooper was in Charleston. Such naïve peace. My head feels too full, overblown and crowded with fear. In what feels like a slow-motion bad dream, one where I can't run or scream, I dial Gwen's number and hear her voice say, “Leave a message.” I tell her to meet me at the hospital. I then dial Dylan—the boyfriend, the lacrosse player, the boy I can't stand—and get his ridiculous voice mail. “Yo, I can't answer, obviously. So leave a message, or don't.”

“Dylan, this is Gwen's mother. Her father and aunt have been in an accident and I need you to take Gwen to Savannah Memorial immediately. Thank you very much.”

God, I sound like my mom—so polite, so cold, when what I really want to do is scream. I grab car keys from the counter, then burst into the rain again.

Officer Barker stands outside his car with his hands behind his back.

The rain batters against my T-shirt and I'm soaked to the skin. “I forgot she spent the night at a friend's house.”

He knows I'm lying, but he nods.

“I'll drive,” I say.

“I'd prefer you let me take you.”

“I'm fine. I can follow you.” I jog toward the garage and punch the keypad code to open it.

Thunder joins the grinding rise of the garage door, as if to say, Told you so.

 

two

It makes no sense. Willa and Cooper barely get along. The tension between them is mostly unbearable, unless Cooper's on his second bourbon. I'm not sure they've ever been in a car without me.

Willa—my beautiful, wounded sister, the tiny girl with the round green eyes. She moved to Colorado after high school and returned to Savannah just last year after a terrible breakup. She showed up, asking for a place to crash until she could “get her shit together.” “Of course,” we said, “we'd love to have you here.”

Cooper and I stopped talking about it, but I know he doesn't like having Willa only a few hundred yards away. My work and my sister are the two things he believes take my attention away from him, and in his worst moments, he reminds me of this.

I follow the police car through the Savannah streets, gripping the steering wheel with tight hands. Streetlamps flicker dimly, as if sorry they don't have enough power to penetrate the fog. The river is swollen as it pulses against the banks and shoves cargo ships against the docks. My heart rolls around inside my chest, a fast-paced somersaulting instead of a steady beat. Skidding on the wet pavement, I follow the police car under the awning over the entrance to the emergency room. The double glass doors open automatically and I run to the front desk, ask for Cooper, for Willa. The nurse stares at a computer screen for a moment before holding up a finger and turning to me. “Head down the hall. You'll find them in the second and third cubicles on the right.” She points like a flight attendant.

The ER cubicle is all silver and glaring, bright enough to make me squint. I can't feel my lips; my hands shake as I push aside the curtain. I look in the bed for Cooper, but what I see is a mash of blond curls against the pillow—Willa. Beeping machines surround her where she lies on the narrow bed with rails high on either side. An IV tube hangs from a metal pole and is taped to the top of her right hand. A small white bandage is next to her right eye, which is swollen shut. A drop of blood seeps through the gauze, leaving what looks like a drop of red ink.

Near the bed is a nurse with dark cropped hair and a name tag that says
BILL STANFORD, RN.
A doctor, short and brunette, wearing a white lab coat with one large iodine stain on her right lapel, stands beside him. Crumpled bandage packaging and discarded needles sit on top of a stainless-steel tray.

I walk to Willa's bedside and look down into her face. Her eyes are closed. “I'm her sister, Eve,” I say without looking at the doctor or nurse. “Tell me everything.” I take Willa's free hand and wind my fingers through hers. “Where's my husband? Is he here, too?” I turn to look at the doctor. Finally, the chaos inside me stills for a moment, my mind expectant.

“I'm Dr. Lewis,” the woman says. “Your husband is in the next cubicle, behind this curtain. And your sister here…” She pauses before saying, “She's stable. Her vital signs are good. She wasn't wearing her seat belt and she flew sideways, crashing into the passenger-side window. She seems to have sustained a mild traumatic brain injury. We're waiting on the last MRI, and we're monitoring the pressure on her brain. There's a slight bleed in the temporal area, which we will drain if need be, but right now it seems to be okay. We're keeping her sedated while we monitor her situation.”

“This?” I touch the edge of the bandage.

“She has a small cut next to her right eye. It has a single stitch in it. Her brain injury is the most pressing matter.”

“Temporal area. Brain swelling. Traumatic injury,” I say. “None of that means anything real to me. Can you explain, please?” My voice holds steady, but my body shakes.

Dr. Lewis points to the side of her own head, above her ear. “This is the temporal lobe, and it's where Willa slammed into the window. There's swelling, what we can also call a concussion, but more severe. More like what we call a mild TBI—mild traumatic brain injury.”

“What's the difference between a TBI and a concussion?” I ask.

Dr. Lewis places her hand on my forearm and then withdraws it. “We can have the neuro practitioner talk to you soon, but for now I can tell you that the difference has to do with how long she was unconscious, which we estimate to be about ten minutes. We should know more soon.”

I point to Willa. “But she's still unconscious.”

“No. She's asleep and sedated.”

“Will she be … the same?” I whisper.

“That is the thing with TBIs—we don't know. I understand it's difficult to hear me be so vague, but only time will tell with these kinds of injuries. She'll probably be confused at first, but slowly we'll understand more about how severely her thought processes and memory are affected. It's not like a broken bone that we can see on an X-ray. I wish it were.”

I touch Willa's forehead lightly, so lightly. “She'll be fine. She has to be fine.”

Willa's curls are mashed against her head and black mascara rims her eyes in a melted mess. “What happened?” I lean closer, my voice in her ear, my hand squeezing hers.

“She grabbed the wheel.” My husband's voice.

I turn so quickly that I knock into Willa's IV pole and need to grab it to keep it from falling. The curtain is open. “Cooper.” I rush to his bedside in two quick steps.

“You didn't want to come check on me?” he asks in a garbled voice.