Chapter Two Lillian
Chapter Two
Lillian
Even before my life fell apart, I’d always been down for a road trip. And none had been more important than this one to Washington, DC.
The prep work filled me with as much excitement as the actual adventure.
So much so, I could almost ignore the sadness over this being my last trip with Grady.
I had stayed up late into the night after everyone else went to sleep.
Racing around the kitchen like a chicken with her head cut off, I lined the bottom of the cooler with Ziploc bags of ice, pausing only long enough to shake the circulation back into my numb fingers.
Anticipation built as I added in fried chicken legs, deviled eggs, a jar of peaches, and, of course, a jug of sweet tea.
Yes, in South Carolina, it’s called sweet tea. We don’t do sweetened tea. Or iced tea. It’s sweet tea, an etymological quirk of our local language. Just as we might say “fixin’ to” instead of “going to.” “Hey” instead of “hello.” Or “cut off the light” instead of “turn off the light.”
My mama always insisted that words were important. And never have they been more crucial than now, with my thirteen-year-old daughter’s future riding on a single piece of life-changing legislation. Words on paper could change the whole trajectory of my child’s life.
As a paralegal, sure, I’d taken a stand on different issues in the past. But this was the first time I’d packed my cooler and a couple of homemade signs to march in a peaceful protest.
For my sweet Rosalynn? I would geld a mountain lion with a butter knife.
I added two more bags of ice on top before locking the lid down tight. If only I could seal away my emotions as easily. It had been a year for the record books. In the worst of ways.
Our lives had taken a tragic and unexpected detour fifteen months ago with Rosalynn’s accident.
The fall off a stage during a dance recital had nearly killed her.
She’d spent three days in a coma. When she’d regained consciousness, our relief was soon tempered by the hard work ahead as she healed from a spinal fracture.
The details felt overwhelming then as the surgeon tossed out technical terminology like little bombs exploding our everyday world.
My gaze skated toward the hallway and her closed bedroom door, and truth be told, I would have put a baby monitor in there to keep watch over her if I hadn’t been certain she would throw it in the trash.
There’s no explaining the helplessness that swamped me from Rosalynn’s initial diagnosis all the way to her being denied a spot on a school field trip to the zoo because of transportation issues.
How could I accept there was nothing I could do to heal my daughter, who was tackling her recovery with a determination—a grit—that humbled me?
Then I heard about a demonstration happening in Washington, DC, to promote awareness for individuals with disabilities.
Finally, I could make a lasting difference for Rosalynn.
But I wasn’t taking any chances. I’m superstitious. In big and small ways, like painting the porch ceiling blue so bad spirits would mistake it for the sky or water and keep on going.
Some might call my superstitious nature genetic.
My mama never put her purse on the floor for fear of losing what little money she had left.
And she always reminded the newly engaged to bury a bottle of bourbon upside down before the ceremony to keep the rain away.
I had forgotten to honor that notion, and my drowned-rat photos from the day I married Grady Barnwell told the tale.
The day our divorce became final earlier this week, however, the sun shone high and bright in the sky.
His gentle snore drifted from the living room, where he snoozed on the sofa since we no longer shared a bed.
So far, we’d managed to hide the change from our daughter, chalking up his sleeping arrangements to long shifts at the fire station since we didn’t want to reveal our split until after the protest march, a landmark event we were both committed to attending.
Our marriage had always been rocky—with arguments about everything from money to his drinking.
Truth be told, burying a bourbon bottle prior to our vows would have made for dark irony.
I forced myself to keep my eyes off his rugged body, too tall for the couch. I didn’t have to look to know he had his arm thrown over his face to block out any light. How strange that such a quiet man could leave such a deep silence behind.
Best to stay busy and focus on the future.
For this particular road trip, terrified of tempting fate, I stuck to my routine from years past and packed that cooler to the gills.
I reached into the cabinet and filled a brown bag with paper towels, disposable plates, and plastic cups.
No fast-food joints allowed on our odyssey.
We would picnic at rest stops and camp, saving for unexpected medical bills.
And one thing we’d learned above all this year—there were always unexpected medical bills.
Panic stirred in my belly over letting Rosalynn out of my sight, even though my mama assured me they had big plans for their time together while Grady and I were away.
I double-checked my list on the counter with reminders for my mother.
I moved my daughter’s juice closer to the front of the refrigerator and taped a sticky note to the label before returning to road trip prep.
One mile marker at a time, one deviled egg after another, I would find a way to co-parent peacefully with Grady.
But first I needed this trip to DC with him as a show of unity for our daughter so when we told her about the divorce, she would understand we were still a unified front looking out for her.
My marriage might have failed and I might have a mountain of obstacles ahead this week, but I also knew there was no force of nature stronger than a mother’s need to protect her child.
Nothing would stop me from making my voice heard on her behalf.