6. Gran Iris And The River Stone
six
Gran Iris And The River Stone
Nora
The silence rolls in like thick, gray concrete pouring over my ears and suffocating the ambient noise of the hospital.
I am lying flat on the cold, sterile bed. The fluorescent lights overhead are blinding, burning into my retinas with a harsh, chemical glare. My body is completely numb, but my chest is hollowed out and hurts badly.
"Here," a voice says. "Here is your baby, sweetheart."
The weight is transferred into my arms, and it is terrifyingly light. I look down at the bundle of tight white cotton resting against my chest.
My hands are shaking, and my fingers feel thick and clumsy as I try to pull the fabric back. I need to see her. I need to know the exact shape of her nose, the curve of her closed eyes, and the slope of her tiny, fragile jaw.
I pull the blanket down, but I can’t see the face. It’s blurred out, and the features seem to be washing away right in front of my eyes. I blink, my breath coming in short, jagged gasps. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, smearing the tears, desperate to focus the image.
"No," I whisper. "Let me see you, please."
I hold her tighter. The bundle feels smaller now, and I realize it is slipping through my fingers like dry sand. I try to scream for anyone to help me fix the image, to stop the fading, but my voice is stuck.
"Look at me," I beg the silent bundle. "Please look at me."
There is no heartbeat. There is no rise and fall of the small chest. There is only the deafening, absolute silence of a clock that has already stopped counting.
The blur worsens. The white blanket turns to gray mist, and suddenly I am holding absolutely nothing.
"Clara!" I scream aloud, reaching out wildly and touching nothing but air.
"Nora!”
“Wake up, sweetheart. I have got you."
The harsh fluorescent lights snap into the soft, muted shadows of the Beckett cottage bedroom. The smell of clinical antiseptic vanishes, instantly replaced by the grounding scent of peppermint candies and old, dried lavender.
Two hands are gripping my shoulders and shaking me firmly as I bolt upright.
My lungs heave, sucking in the humid coastal air greedily. The thin cotton sheets are tangled around my legs, soaked in cold sweat. My hands are raised, my fingers curled into tight claws, and I am still trying to hold onto a weight that does not exist.
I stare blindly into the dark room until a face swims into focus. I blink several times before I register soft wrinkles, silver hair pulled back into a loose knot, and blue eyes filled with pain.
"Gran?" I choke out.
Gran Iris is sitting on the edge of my mattress.
For a second I don't know where I am.
I only know my arms are empty.
They have been empty for five years.
Some mornings that is the first thing I remember.
She smiles sadly, and without saying anything else, she opens her arms.
I do not pause to think before I throw myself forward and collapse into her embrace. The shock of seeing her in Moonrise and sitting in my bedroom barely registers.
Her arms wrap around me, pulling my head down against her soft shoulder as the dam breaks. The tears come down in torrents, the sobs ripping out of my throat as my body shakes badly.
"I have got you," Gran Iris murmurs.
Her hand strokes the back of my tangled red hair. "Let it out, darling. Just let it out."
"I tried," I sob into her shoulder, my fingers gripping the fabric of her cardigan. "I tried to see her. I tried so hard, Gran."
"I know," she whispers.
"I cannot remember her face," I gasp. "I am losing her. I cannot even picture my own baby's face."
"Hush now," Gran soothes, her cheek resting against the top of my head. "You are not losing her. The mind does cruel things when it is trying to protect the heart, Nora."
"I am a bad mother," I cry out. "I am a terrible mother. I should have fought harder. I should have remembered every single second."
Gran Iris goes rigid, and her hand stops stroking my hair. She pulls back just enough to grip my face between her warm, soft palms, forcing me to look directly into her eyes.
"Stop that," Gran commands fiercely. "Stop that right this second, Nora Beckett.”
“You are many things. You are stubborn. You are closed off. You work too damn hard. But you are not a bad mother. You carried that little girl with every ounce of love you had. You survived the unsurvivable."
I squeeze my eyes shut, the tears hot against her palms. "It hurts so much."
"I know it does," she says softly, her thumbs wiping the wetness from my cheeks. "Grief is just love that has nowhere to go. It builds up and makes you think you’re going to collapse. But you are stronger than the foundation, sweetheart. You always have been."
I take a shaky, rattling breath. The tight, crushing band around my chest begins to loosen by a fraction of an inch. I open my eyes, looking at the familiar, loving lines of her face.
"I need you to take five deep breaths," Gran instructs, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. "In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Do it with me."
I follow her lead. The first breath shudders. The second is slightly smoother. By the fifth breath, the blind panic of the nightmare has receded back into the dark corners of the room, leaving me exhausted, hollow, and painfully awake.
"Good," Gran says.
She pats my cheek and slowly stands up, her joints popping in the quiet room. "I am going to the kitchen. I am making a pot of chamomile tea. You are going to put on a sweater, wash your face, and come sit with me. We are not sitting in the dark anymore."
I nod, swiping the back of my hand across my nose. "Okay."
Gran walks out of the bedroom, her footsteps soft on the sloping floorboards.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time. The morning light is just beginning to filter through the blinds, casting thin, gray lines across the floor. I look down at my empty hands.
The ghost weight is gone. Clara is gone. But the dirt she is buried in is still sitting fifty yards away, and it belongs to a man who refuses to sell.
I push myself up. I walk to the attached bathroom, turn the brass faucet, and splash freezing cold water onto my face. The shock clears the last of the sleep from my brain. I dry my skin with a rough towel, pull a thick, oversized gray cardigan over my sleep shirt, and walk down the hallway.
The kitchen is warm. Gran Iris has already turned on the small stove burner. A battered aluminum kettle is beginning to whistle a low, steady tune.
I pull out a wooden chair at the small kitchen table. The table sits right in front of the window overlooking the backyard and the river. The water is gray and calm this morning, the mist burning off under the rising sun.
Gran moves around the kitchen with an easy, practiced grace. She pulls two ceramic mugs from the open shelving. She drops a tea bag into each one just as the kettle shrieks.
She turns off the gas, lifts the pot, and pours the boiling water over the bags. The sharp, floral scent of chamomile and honey fills the room, grounding me in the present moment.
She brings the mugs to the table, setting one in front of me before taking the seat opposite mine.
I wrap my hands around the hot ceramic. The heat seeps into my cold, calloused knuckles.
I manage a small, teary smile. "How come you are in Moonrise, Gran? You did not tell me you were driving up from Galveston."
Gran Iris picks up her mug, blowing softly on the surface of the tea. "I heard your voice on the phone yesterday afternoon, Nora, and it’s enough to make me pack a bag. I wanted to see you, and I needed to check on Arthur. A stroke is not a mild inconvenience."
The knot in my throat tightens again. "I am really glad you are here. I miss you."
"I know you are," Gran says. She reaches across the table, placing her hand over mine.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, sipping the hot tea.
We both know the rules of this game. The moment of absolute vulnerability in the bedroom is over.
The vault door is closed. I am not going to discuss the nightmare again, and she is not going to push me to open the wound while it is still bleeding.
Gran sets her mug down. She looks out the window toward the eastern brush.
"So," Gran says, her tone shifting into a crisp, practical register. "Is there any update on the land situation?"
I let out a heavy, frustrated sigh. I lean back in the wooden chair, crossing my arms over my chest. "No. The situation is exactly where I left it yesterday. A complete disaster."
"The Rowe boy is digging his heels in?" she asks.
"He is as stubborn as a goddamn mule," I say. "I went to see him at his salvage after you explained things to me about Margaret. I told him how important the land is to me and can only hope he takes my offer."
"And what did he say?"
"Nothing much." I trace the rim of my mug with my index finger, the memory of Jax's towering, furious frame making my stomach twist. "He does not care about the money. He just doesn’t want to sell."
"It is not about selling, Nora," Gran corrects me gently. "It is about preservation."
"I understand," I said, though I know it is a lie.
"You know better than that," Gran says. She takes a slow sip of her tea. "You just told me you explained how important the land is to you. Did you tell him why? Did you tell him about the grave?"
I look away, staring at the scarred wooden table. "No. I did not."
"Why not?"
"Because it is none of his business," I snap.
The defensive anger flares up instantly, a protective shield over the raw nerve.
"He is a stranger. He is a rough, hostile man running a junk yard.
I am not going to hand him the deepest tragedy of my life on a silver platter so he can use it as leverage.
If he knows Clara is buried there, he holds all the cards. "
"He already owns the deed, sweetheart," Gran points out quietly. "He already holds the cards."