Chapter 18 Magnolia
Snow coats the ground in thick patches of slush mixed with the sand and salt mixture that coats the roads.
It barely helps keep the truck on the pavement, even going twenty under the speed limit.
My hands are gripped so tightly around the wheel that my knuckles ache.
This drive should only be an hour from home to Helena, but with the weather and the clouds in the sky finally opening up to the stars, it's taken me an extra three hours to get Mama home.
I look over at her. She fell asleep when we hit the highway, and so far, she hasn’t woken up since.
The doctors had nothing good to say about her diagnosis, though none of it was a surprise.
I knew she was declining. More of our days are filled with tense silence than chatter about wildflowers and fleeting prayers for good weather.
Jo has still tried her hardest to get Mama to talk about anything, but whenever I get home from the ranch, the house is either sickeningly quiet or filled with Jo yapping to herself as she works.
She’s in stage seven, Magnolia. All we can do now is be patient and keep her healthy.
I’ve seen more images of Mama’s brain than I have of my childhood. The hard evidence that her body is betraying her is burned in my mind like a sick joke. A reminder that the woman I used to know won’t ever come back.
The lump I’ve had in my throat since we left the doctor's only grows knowing I can’t stop it. That I can’t save her.
We can get her a physical therapist to help with her stiffness and try to reverse her need for the wheelchair, but…
Every ounce of help they spewed at me today was useless. Frustratingly so. I could barely get her out of the house today, and I have no clue how I’m supposed to get her back inside on my own. But they want me to take her to regular physical therapy appointments?
A long, slow breath leaves me, and I sink further into my seat. I barely have enough money to maintain the house and keep Jo around, let alone adding a physical therapist who does house calls. I feel stuck between two giant boulders that are slowly closing in on me. Suffocated and angry.
Mama stirs in the seat next to me as I turn off the highway towards home.
I glance at her as she shifts and tugs her blanket further up to her chin.
I reach for the dash, turning the heat up for her.
I’m going to have to wake her to get her inside, but for now, I just want to let her sleep as long as I can.
Let her have some semblance of peace for the first time today.
I see the soft glow from the greenhouse and porch light as I pull into the drive.
Thankful that Bode left them on, but it's something else that has me slowly pressing the brakes before turning into the drive.
I suck in a breath that gets stuck in my throat as I stare at a ramp covering the stairs.
Fresh snow covers the pine railings and posts.
I take in the clear, shoveled pathway from the edge of the ramp to the driveway with tiny white melting grains of salt littering it to keep new snow from sticking to the new wood and concrete.
Carefully, I pull into the drive and let out the breath I was holding. My hands shake as I pull them from the steering wheel, and I’m not entirely sure if it’s because of the grip I had or because Bode’s words are replaying in my head.
You don’t have to justify why you needed help.
He did this. I feel it so deep in my belly that Bode Walker built a ramp so life was a little easier for me that I simultaneously feel warm and nauseous.
I climb out of the truck and inch my way to the bed of the truck to get Mama’s wheelchair.
His truck isn’t in the drive, and I don’t see it parked along the road, but it feels like he’s here.
I almost wish he were just so that once Mama is inside and safe, I could hide away in his arms. Forget today, forget about my problems, and drown in him.
Mama wakes easily, clutching the blanket in one hand and the seeds I promised her in the other as I help her into the chair.
She’s still out of it, unaware of the new addition to our home and eerily quiet.
Getting her up and into the house is so effortless that as soon as I lock the door behind me, the urge to cry washes over me.
I hold it together until Mama is in bed, finally asleep again, and I’m sitting on the edge of mine staring at the black screen on my phone. I want to thank him, need to thank him. I just don’t know how without breaking down and looking insane.
The screen lights up, and at first I think it’s Ford finally returning my call, but I see Bode’s name flash across the screen.
Make it home okay?
A soft, wet laugh bubbles from me just from the sheer coincidence, and the lingering sense of loneliness fades away. I chalk up the nerve to press the call button and wait for him to pick up. It rings once before he answers.
“You’re home?” he asks, his voice soft and full of that raspiness that makes goosebumps spread across my skin.
“I am,” I reply, just as soft and carefully kick off my boots. Bode lets out a breath that almost sounds like relief, and in the privacy of my own home, I don’t try to hide the smile that threatens my lips.
He clears his throat. “You should get some sleep.”
“I will.” I glance out of the window in my room that overlooks the front yard. “Bode?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” I whisper, and I swear his breath hitches on the other line. It’s quiet for another moment before his voice comes back.
“Anything you need.”
I nod softly even though he can’t see it. “Goodnight, Bode,” I rasp.
“Goodnight, Magnolia.” His voice wraps around me as I hang up, shrouding every inch of the winter chill seeping through the cracks of this old house. For a little while, hearing his voice soothes the overwhelming need to have him close.