Chapter Nineteen Lillian
Chapter Nineteen
Lillian
While I still hated early mornings, I did appreciate reaching our campground in time to enjoy the sunshine and outdoor cooking.
Our KOA was located on the outskirts of Alexandria, Virginia, close enough to drive into DC in the morning.
I focused on making the most of this last evening in this little slice of forestry heaven.
Grady had always been the outdoors type. We’d camped often over the years—our affordable vacation mode. Given his choice, he would have lived and worked on a boat, playing his guitar and sleeping under the stars. Life hadn’t turned out the way we wanted on a number of fronts.
Now he finished setting up the tent since I had unpacked our food and was catching up on reading in a folding lawn chair. A creek gurgled in the background, a river roaring farther away. There was a chill in the air. Colder than home. But that wasn’t a bad thing.
A fire already crackled in the little pit at our site, and I looked forward to cooking over the coals. My mouth watered from the scents drifting from the other campfires. Wind rustled the branches overhead, dappling the ground in nature’s lace.
Apparently, we weren’t the only ones at the facility planning to attend the march. As we’d followed the markers to our spot, I’d noticed signs propped against campers and bumper stickers on trucks. For the first time in over a year, I didn’t feel alone in the fight for my daughter.
Guilt followed on the heels of the thought. Grady was here with me, for Rosalynn. His Rosie, as he often called her. I wasn’t alone. For now. When we returned home, however, he would be moving out.
I shook off the morose air and resolved to enjoy this evening, to keep things as uncomplicated as possible.
Grady tapped in the last stake before tossing the small hammer back into his toolbox. The family-size green tent was tall and secure. “What are you reading there?”
“A library book.” I saved my place on the page with a finger.
“About what?” He dropped into the other webbed seat. He actually sounded genuinely interested.
I tucked in a bookmark and closed the hardback. “Um, a little constitutional law.”
Taking the tome from my hands, he read the dust jacket. “Is this for work?”
While I enjoyed my job as a paralegal, the practice where I worked focused on real estate law. Researching this had been a whole different lane for me, an exciting one. “The focus is more on human rights issues and less on property law. Call it research in preparation for the march.”
His brown eyes searched me with an intensity and a curiosity that made me uncomfortable.
My thoughts scrambled and I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I saw at check-in that they have a bait shop and fishing poles for rent.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me already?” he said with a half grin. His smile was lopsided from an accident at work, a falling beam. But he told everyone he’d been hit in the face flipping out of a kayak. He insisted he didn’t want Rosalynn worried every time he went to work.
“Get rid of you? That’s not nice.” I hated the awkwardness between us. “I was actually suggesting that we catch some fish for supper. Together.”
“What about the leftovers in the cooler? It still looks pretty full.”
“From a crazy amount of PBJs and peanut butter with honey sandwiches that we’ll never be able to finish. Most of the rest can be side dishes to go with whatever we catch.” I paused, feeling self-conscious. “Never mind. Forget I said anything. It was a silly suggestion.”
“Not silly at all. Just surprising.”
“You used to live for fishing trips.” Many of our teenage dates had taken place on his jon boat, with me reading a book while he threw in a line. I’d loved civics and government even then.
“A lifetime ago.” His intense gaze continued to hold me until the air crackled as tangibly as the fire.
My heart thudded and my chest grew tight. Standing, I busied myself with making us a snack. I set the cast iron skillet on the grate and sliced a couple of tablespoons of butter into it. A plan came together for a creative use for the leftovers.
Waste not, want not.
Rosalynn was due to receive a settlement for the accident, but that was her money. We refused to touch it except for surgeries. I would eat peanut butter and jelly until the end of time if it helped my daughter have what she needed.
And that was exactly what we would be having tonight—grilled PBJs. My cuisine was a long way from his mother’s dainty Southern classics. “Did you reach your mom? Was she able to stop in to check on Rosalynn and Della?”
His mother lived in the next town over from our West Charleston home, but she’d bowed out of watching Rosalynn, insisting she was worried about injuring her.
We all knew it was an excuse. Mimsy was all about the ballet recitals and dress shopping.
She’d been less a part of our lives since the accident.
“I called her. She had bridge club today.” He scratched the back of his neck, a tic of sorts when he was agitated. “We didn’t talk long, since I forgot to bring change and had to call her collect.”
And yes, his mother had more money than Midas. Money that she certainly wasn’t sharing with folks at a laundromat. I wouldn’t miss holiday dinners at her home one bit once Grady moved out.
So many examples of her selfish and rigid ways filled my mind.
But top of the list, I was still fuming over this past Christmas, when she’d convinced us to spend the night so Rosalynn could wake up to Santa gifts at Mimsy’s house.
Rosalynn had an accident in bed and Mimsy lost her temper because I’d used the wrong sheets to remake the mattress.
She’d snatched the soiled linens from my hands because I wouldn’t wash them to her standards.
The anger at me, I could have accepted and withstood.
But the way she made my daughter embarrassed about her loss of control over her body?
I would never forgive her. “I refuse to manipulate my daughter the way our mothers have us.”
Even as I said the words, I felt guilty for lumping Della in with Mimsy. My mom was never selfish, just passive aggressive at times from having lost such complete control of her world after my father died.
“I hope for both your sakes that’s true.” He took his guitar from the case and began plucking out a tune while I finished unwrapping a leftover peanut butter sandwich and placed it in the sizzling butter. I added one with honey too, my favorite.
It had been over a year since our last camping trip, and I resolved to make the most of this final one.
After the accident, Rosalynn had asked for a family vacation and we’d planned our expedition to a hotel at the beach, only to encounter more obstacles than we could have imagined, even with research.
I wondered now why we hadn’t thought about taking her camping.
As we’d checked in, I had noticed a small arcade with a video game Rosalynn used to enjoy playing at the mall.
Now the time for family vacations had passed.
He segued from Eric Clapton’s “Pretending” into Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin’.” Was he trying to relay something with the lyrics of his choices? “You’re getting quite good.”
“For someone who’s self-taught.”
“For anyone, regardless. You have a great ear.” And a voice that made my nerves tingle. I flipped the sandwiches, toasting the other side as a hint of peanut butter oozed from between the slices.
“I’ve more than enough time to practice at the firehouse.” His fingers plucked along the strings with art as well as skill. “The guys have started making requests, bringing in sheet music. Helps chase away boredom on the quieter shifts.”
“You have a gift, for sure. Why didn’t you take lessons as a kid?”
“You’ve met my parents.” He cracked a half smile. “Does my father strike you as the sort who would have paid for music lessons for his boy? Even my fisheries science and management degree seemed frivolous to them. They wanted me to become a doctor.”
He’d had to drop out when we’d married. While he may not have become the physician his parents dreamed of, he’d saved lives as a firefighter and through his paramedic training.
A motorhome rumbled past, revealing a mother and son walking along the side of the road, towels over their shoulders after a swim. The boy held one of those new Game Boy devices, his attention totally fixed.
“Well,” I said, “your dad sure missed out on some awesome concert material.”
“Do you have a request?”
Easy question. “I’m partial to an oldie but a goodie, ‘Peaceful Easy Feeling.’”
I’d once told him he reminded me of Glenn Frey from the Eagles. I wondered if he remembered.
The glint in his brown eyes said he did.
Those subtle acoustic tones did things to my insides, turning me as gooey as the sandwiches I was sliding from the pan onto paper towels.
I placed one in front of him, while I tasted mine and enjoyed the “concert.” We hadn’t coexisted in the same space peacefully for years, instead fighting about everything from bills to a wet towel on the floor.
Not to mention his mother’s interference.
As I took in his innate talent, I realized Rosalynn had inherited her artistic nature and musicality from her father. Why had I never considered it before? Instead of always thinking of my ballerina savant as a changeling child?
The last strains faded, and he set aside his guitar to pick up his dinner. Already I mourned the silence.
“Great idea,” he said, biting off a corner. “I love these.”
“To be fair, this was one of Mom’s recipes from when I was a kid and she took me camping.” The honey flavor melted through me, my body humming to life in the quiet.
“Della? The tent, sleeping bags, and all?” He nodded. “Impressive.”
“I wanted to join the Girl Scouts and Mom didn’t have the money. So she got some gear from the Salvation Army and our adventures began.”
“Good for her.” He popped the last bite into his mouth and placed the pan back on the grate to cook himself another.