Chapter Twenty-Four Lillian
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lillian
I’d been wrong about a night together being a fitting goodbye for us. Because nothing had changed, except reminding us both how much heartache awaited.
The sun splashed its first rays across our campsite, glowing like the inside of a Georgia peach as we packed our gear without speaking.
Grady dismantled the tent while I gathered the trash and tied the plastic bag.
I couldn’t decide if silence was better than anger.
In Grady’s case, he was both quiet and grumpy.
Because we’d overslept? Albeit by only a half hour, which was still an hour earlier than I would have preferred. Or because he regretted our impulsive night? The thought hurt.
Swiping up a forgotten napkin, I walked toward the trash bin around the corner.
I needed some distance from his broad shoulders showcased to perfection in a fire department T-shirt.
Passing the other campsites along the way poured salt on my wounded heart.
Families pitched in loading, laughing and working together.
Couples, both young and old, shared easy conversation and breakfast by the fire.
So natural. So simple. Why couldn’t that happen for me or for my family? I let myself sink so deeply into the pity party I almost missed the voice calling out to me.
“Want some coffee?” a woman shouted from two campsites ahead. A family of four sat around the grated firepit. The father flipped pancakes in a cast iron skillet. “We’re Kelly and David. And those two are our daughters.”
Their truck sported a Bluegrass State license plate. Protest signs were propped against the tailgate. Access 4 All. Disability Rights Are Civil Rights. Wheels of Justice.
“Thanks so much. I could use a shot of caffeine. Let me dump the trash first.”
Grady would have cautioned me to be careful about approaching strangers, but my heart churned with memories of camping days long ago, of being a part of the campground community. People who’d never met and would likely never cross paths again become temporary friends, sharing company and even food.
Before I could answer, an older couple joined from the neighboring site, carrying a jug of orange juice and a pan of scrambled eggs. They reminded me of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, the Hollywood personification of happily ever after.
Forever. What an elusive concept.
The Paul Newman look-alike set down the OJ on the picnic table and spoke to me. “We enjoyed the guitar ‘concert’ last night, even listening from a distance. Your guy is quite talented. Does he play gigs?”
“Only if you count all the time he spends practicing at work.” I tossed one trash bag, then the other, into the silver can hanging from a post. “He’s a firefighter. It’s not unusual to have a fair amount of downtime between calls.”
Kelly served pancakes on paper plates to her teenage twin girls, their permed hair wet.
Then she poured coffee into a Styrofoam cup, motioning for me to help myself.
“We’re here for a protest march in DC to see if we can finally get our government to listen and sign the disability act into law. What brought you two up this way?”
Welcoming the distraction, I accepted the java gratefully, helping myself to cream and sugar to jump-start my morning. “I saw the signs in your truck. We’re here for the same reason. Our thirteen-year-old daughter has used a wheelchair since an accident during a ballet performance.”
“Where is she?” Kelly looked over her shoulder toward her girls, then back again. “I would love for our twins to meet her and see other kids their age participating.”
“Rosalynn’s home with my mother. We’re still figuring out how to navigate travel with the gear.
” The excuse, while honest, also felt thin to my own ears.
My mind filled with the memory of our sign-making afternoon, with Rosalynn asking me to hold hers extra high.
But my fears for her were strong. What if the event turned violent?
A thousand other concerns scrolled through my mind beyond just remembering to keep socks on her feet.
Silence settled and I should have just offered my thanks for the coffee and made my way back to our campsite. Still, something made me want to stay in this moment of community awhile longer. Possibly because I wished I could have stayed longer, for more of the speeches and events.
Kelly angled past to grab a stick of margarine from the ice chest. “I bet your daughter’s enjoying some spoiling from Grandma.”
“No doubt about that. What kind of condition does your child . . . uh . . .” I struggled to find the right words. Had I always been cautious enough about my phrases, realizing how a random expression had the power to hurt?
“Actually,” David said, sprinkling chocolate chips into the next batch of pancakes, “I’m the one protesting for my rights. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a couple of years ago. It’s under control now, but I’m looking toward the future.”
The Paul Newman look-alike poured a glass of OJ for his wife. “We’re just here because this moment matters.”
That simple.
Those words reminded me of my purpose and what I’d set out to accomplish. As much as I hoped for peace with Grady, I’d taken a step backward by sharing a sleeping bag with him last night. I needed to tread warily in what time we had left. This trip was about our daughter and so many others.
For months, I’d written letters to my congressmen until my fingers cramped, without luck—other than one form letter that left me feeling more hopeless and unseen than before. I’d even telephoned, but never made it past a receptionist who promised to relay my concerns.
Yeah right. As my mama would say, I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.
I did mean what I’d told Grady about being careful and keeping my end of the protest peaceful. I had respect for the law and playing by the rules. However, politely playing by the rules from a distance wasn’t working.
I’d seen Rosalynn struggle to navigate her new reality, and if there was anything I could do—any mountain to move—I would lean into it for her sake. My daughter was safe in South Carolina, which left me free to grab my megaphone and make some noise.
A couple of hours later, Grady and I had driven into the heart of our nation’s capital—my first trip to DC.
Growing up, there hadn’t been the money.
As an adult, there hadn’t been the time.
Our drive had turned quiet, other than my occasional updates on directions as I followed the map in our worn atlas. No roadside shouting matches this time.
Now, window rolled down, I stuck my head out like an eager puppy and soaked up the landmarks, physical manifestations of the laws I’d studied in my paralegal training. The rumble of bumper-to-bumper traffic was so much louder than even South Carolina’s big cities or beach traffic.
If only we could stay longer and tour all the sites—from the majestic Washington Monument to the stunning Rose Garden.
My wish list for sightseeing grew longer the more I flipped through the brochures I’d picked up at a rest stop.
I would have loved to take my mother to the National Gallery of Art and Rosalynn to the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts.
I could barely contain the urge to ask Grady for an extra loop, but parking was a bear and we’d finally found a spot to wedge our old minivan.
Since there wasn’t room to open the back hatch, I had to crawl through to retrieve our supplies.
Two backpacks, a pair of signs, and one megaphone later, we started running the winding and long trek to the White House.
My steps hammered the pavement as we wove past pedestrians, food trucks, and newspaper stands that were looking to make extra cash off the protestors.
Already I heard voices carrying on the wind. Just the chitter-chatter kind since the protest hadn’t begun in earnest. Megaphone in one hand, posters tucked under my other arm, I jogged alongside Grady, leaning forward to balance out the weight of my backpack.
I’d brought sweet tea and snacks. True to my Carolina roots, I knew how to feed a crowd.
There was an urgency here at odds with the laid-back Southern pace, and it went beyond the day’s event.
But then life had seemed to move faster the farther we drove north, a Southern drawl speeding to a staccato Northern accent.
I wanted to slow down and savor every second, but I also didn’t want to miss out on even a minute of the main event because of my sluggish approach to mornings.
“Grady, wait,” I called, out of breath and trying to keep up. His fitness far outstripped mine, thanks to his firefighter workout regimen. “I don’t want to lose you.”
The instant the words fell out, they chilled my insides. I don’t want to lose you.
Now wasn’t the time to ask if he’d heard a double meaning, then explain that of course I didn’t want to lose what we’d once shared.
The good days in the beginning, when Rosalynn had just started sleeping through the night.
We had been flat broke, but still enjoyed the simple moments.
A day at the lake. A hike in the woods. A late-night video rental.
“Lillian, our destination is in sight.” His aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes from view as he stopped at a clogged crosswalk.
An overwhelmed police officer was trying to herd people toward the White House.
“We’re both heading to the same place. I think that’s a pretty hefty landmark for a meetup. ”
Thank heaven for the teasing tone in his voice or I would have taken offense. My emotions were tender. He slid my backpack off and hitched it over his shoulder to ease my burden even as he carried his own.
The stitch in my side faded and I snuck a glance at him. “About last night . . .”
“We’re still attracted to each other.” He adjusted his ball cap, a sure sign he had more to say but held back. “Let’s leave it at that.”
I should have been relieved. And I was. But disappointment invaded like kudzu, growing roots with every step. “Yes, I agree. Except when we camp tonight, I don’t want either of us to assume anything.”
“No worries. I know exactly where we stand.” His jaw tensed as he charged forward, the foot traffic growing thicker as we approached the White House.
“Hey Grady?” I clasped his arm to stop him mid-step by the iron security fence.
“Yeah?”
The milling people crowded us. We were so close, the air filled with the scent of his spicy aftershave. His forehead was still furrowed with worry. I wanted to smooth my fingers along the familiar lines of his face and say just the right words to bring that peace I’d sought when starting this trip.
I was coming to realize that after all this time, if there had been a magic phrase, we would have already said it. So since I couldn’t fix the larger issue, I opted to offer him reassurance on at least one point.
“I heard what you said yesterday and I’ll be careful.
” But loud. Couldn’t a person be both? Although even before I completed the thought, I began to wonder.
“Is that another reason you came with me? To keep me out of harm’s way?
I thought you were here because you believe in what we’re doing and, yes, because I guilted you into participating. ”
“I want you and Rosalynn to be safe. That’s my most important job in life.”
There was an earnestness in his tone, a husky ache that sounded like my spouse from the early days of our marriage.
When we could be honest with each other—and ourselves—without fear of vulnerability.
I set the megaphone onto a bench and reached to slide his shades up and bask in the warmth of his chocolate-colored eyes.
The sound of traffic, cheers, and chatter faded. How easy it would be to arch up on my toes and kiss him.
“Mom . . . Mom . . .” A shout pierced the bubble and I stepped back, releasing his sunglasses.
That voice sounded familiar. But surely that was just because I missed my daughter. Didn’t all mothers turn upon hearing the magical words mom, mother, mama?
Except the shock on Grady’s face as he looked over my shoulder gave me only an instant’s warning before a pair of shadows stretched past.
Rosalynn stopped her wheelchair and threw her arms wide. “Surprise!”