Chapter Seventeen
Marchella
My grandfather made himself scarce, allowing me to flee to the sanctuary of my attic bedroom. It wasn’t anything new. My father had his good periods and his bad spells; when the bad times rolled through, I often found myself staying at the farm. It’d been that way since I was in high school.
He usually woke up before the rooster crowed, and by the time I got around to moving he was long gone to the chores. As luck would have it, my phone went off at five minutes after four. Dawn hadn’t even threatened yet, and the phone was dancing around on the bedside table.
I blinked away my confusion and squinted against the glare of the light.
“Fuck,” I whispered, when I finally made out the four letters on the caller ID.
Work.
“Hello?” I sleepily murmured.
“March? Oh man, March, thank God. Listen, honey, it’s Aunt Carly. We’re short staffed, babe. Two girls called in on the day shift, and the state was already across town at that home for the developmentally disabled last week. We’re expecting them any day–” She rambled at breakneck speed.
“Yeah. Okay. Alright. I’ll be there at six.” I blindly tossed words at her until she shut up.
“Oh, you’re an angel.” She sighed and hung up in my ear.
“Ugh,” I groaned, flopping back against the pillow.
I hated being called blindly into work. Especially after a night out.
“Shit.” I carried on cursing as I flung the covers away and flipped the closet light on.
I had two pairs of pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and one set of scrubs hanging in there. The uniform was hunter green, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going on stage or to meet anyone new. My residents recognized my smile and friendly banter, not how fashionable my britches were.
A few moments later, I’d managed to shower and dress. My hair was wet, and I hated brushing it when it was wet, so I left it hanging like a wild lion’s mane while I shuffled to the kitchen in search of coffee.
“Morning, sugar.” Grandpa greeted, causing me to draw in a wild breath.
“Donovan,” Grandma laughed, tapping his arm in a light-hearted scold.
“It’s not his fault. I just– It’s early. People aren’t usually up this early at Dad’s house.”
Grandpa snorted like I’d made the understatement of the year.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and added a little water to cool it down. I hated scalding coffee first thing in the morning. Taking cautious sips until I was certain I wouldn’t lose half my taste buds, I gently sat down and finally committed to taking a drink.
“Grandpa says you had a young man over last night?” Grandma smiled expectantly at me; her eyes wide with excitement.
I slowly blinked, my brain still thawing.
“Huh?” I stammered.
“She was just curious about the O’Brian boy, is all,” Grandpa explained.
“Aviston,” I reminded him, suddenly catching on.
He frowned and nodded, before asking “Yeah. So, his father was the one what died in the crash? With the anhydrous tank and all?”
“I, uh– ” I blinked, not really trying to keep them at a distance, I just wasn’t ever sure how to answer them when they asked after my father’s friends and the things that went on. “Yeah. Maybe? I, uhm… I was little, you know. I think– I remember his mother living with Oak after momma died. Oak had a big yard, and we’d have marshmallow roasts there. I think maybe they were trying to distract us– Trying to make things seem normal for a second for us kids… I don’t know. Oak was good at that.”
My grandfather gave a sage nod, “Oakland O’Brian served his country. He was in the service. He came home for a time when his mother got sick. He stuck around until her death and then went and became a federal agent. He caught the son of a bitch who killed your mother. He’s a damn good man.”
I smiled, pleased to have found a subject that didn’t leave anyone hostile where my mother and the club was concerned.
“His name might be Aviston, but I’d wager it’s the O’Brian influence that raised him. I could tell by how he spoke to me. He addressed me properly. The boy even shook my hand,” Grandfather seemed to have forgotten I was in the room, he was animated in his recounting of it all for my gran.
“I should get to work,” I quietly whispered, hoping to sneak out while they were distracted.
I only took about three steps, before I recalled how I had arrived.
“Shit,” I whispered, causing both of my religious grandparents to instantly hush.
I flashed an apologetic smile, “Sorry. I just– forgot how I– Blaze dropped me off.”
“Where is your car, honey?” my grandmother asked.
“It’s at Aunt Trista’s house, my dad showed up and I left in a hurry. I kind of left it behind.” I stretched the truth a little.
“I see.” Grandma stood up and wiped her hands on her apron before removing it. She shot grandpa a look that was half warning and then moved to the coat rack. “Let me get my purse and keys.
“Thanks. I’ll be in the car.” I ran my hands over the deep pockets of my scrub top, double checking that I had my change purse and cell phone before darting that way.
My grandma’s car was a Cadillac. It was her prized possession. Every time she went to get a new car, it was the same request. The shiniest town car on the lot and leather seats were a must for Gran. The ultimate luxury in her world. I smiled and wrinkled my nose against her fully exposed dangling air freshener. New Car Smell was printed across the center of the candle shaped dangling cardboard piece.
I popped the door open to draw fresh air until she arrived and surveyed the collection of ChapStick, peppermints and coins in her dash cubby.
She was such a stereotypical grandmother, the exact opposite of what my mother would have been. Or would she have been? I sat there, the thin scrubs separating my back from the sun-warmed leather and let my mind slide back to the day of the massacre.
I focused not on the tragedy, but the hour leading up to it. My mother had been carrying me in her arms for a time. We went upstairs to the guest room of the Disciple clubhouse, chasing after my father.
She was always chasing after him. Always pleading with him. For us. For love.
I closed my eyes, and I could hear the haunting pleas. He’d shoved her while she was holding me and charged, leaving her begging for the privilege of fetching him a beer to calm down with. He was my father. The man who was supposed to be my hero, but at that moment his face was red. His pupils were blown, and there was coke around his right nostril.
I sat there watching it all over again in my mind, her tenderly wiping away the evidence of his shame so no one would see. Protecting him, even in her last moments. Protecting his fucking fa?ade.
“March,” Gran whispered, but I didn’t recognize her voice through the fog.
I blinked, startled.
“What’s wrong?” the familiar voice pressed.
“She was fetching his fucking beer.”
“Wha–?” The word came strangled on a gasp.
“My mother.” I focused on her and pushed the words past the lump in my throat, “My mother died fetching a beer for him. If we’d just– stayed upstairs. If–”
“Stop.” Her hand weighed against mine and she squeezed. “Do you know, honey, I learned something a long time ago about if . What I learned is that if you let all the ifs in life haunt you, you’ll never live again. You’ll have all your joy sucked away before it has a chance to take root and flourish. Every smile will be bittersweet, half spent before it forms. Don’t let the ifs in life sour your future.”
I placed my hand on hers and nodded, swallowing back my words, even if it felt like I’d choke on the dam I’d been keeping. I knew she cared, but she couldn’t handle it. That was the difference. My heart ached, and I didn’t want to go to work. I just wanted to go to him, I wanted to go back to the forest, to those stolen moments where none of this shit was waiting for me. Out here, in the world I’d grown up in, every corner held memories, and most of them were toxic.
I didn’t have any of that with him.
“Can you just drop me off at Aunt Trista’s? I’ll grab my car and circle it around the block to the nursing home.”
She nodded and backed the car out of the drive.