The Witch of Tin Mountain(31)

ELEVEN

GRACELYNN





1931




Granny ain’t dead. But she ain’t alive, neither. She’s somewhere in between. A place beyond sleep and dreaming, where her pulse beats soft as a butterfly’s wings.

So soft even the doctor couldn’t find it.

A coma. That’s what Doc Gallagher’d said, after he tired of my objections to calling the funeral home and placed a mirror before her face. A cloud of frail breath slowly took away its shine—the only thing that kept Granny from a slow ride down the mountain in Floyd Harris’s hearse.

“There’s no guarantee she’ll live or even come back to consciousness. She won’t be able to eat or drink in this state.” Doc Gallagher washed his hands and shook the water from them as Ebba and I fretted. “I’ll come back to check on her tomorrow and give her another injection of fluids, but we should take her to the hospital. She needs intravenous therapy at the very least. Her vital signs monitored, day and night.” He fixed me with a hawkish look. “Deirdre and I have always worked with one another, not against. I trust you to do the same, Gracelynn.”

But I knew Granny wouldn’t want to go to a hospital. She had no trust of city doctors. Hospital’s a good place to go if you’re aimin’ for the grave, she’d cluck to her patients. So even as Ebba fussed at me and pleaded, I still refused.

No. I’d take care of her, here at home. It’s what she would want.

With Ebba’s help, I undress Granny, wring out a cloth and bathe her with warm herbal waters—chamomile and lavender. We dress her in her softest cotton nightdress and prop her head up with pillows on her daybed. The sky through the screens is the purple, orange, and yellow of a half-healed bruise. I need to start dinner before Caro and Val get home. I still ain’t seen no sign of Morris. It’s mighty strange for him not to be home by suppertime. I rise from the floor, my knees sore from kneeling. Ebba stops stroking Granny’s hair and stands with me. She’s mad at me. I can see it in the set of her square jaw.

“I need to make us something to eat,” I say softly. “You’ll stay for supper, won’t you, Ebba?”

“Ja. And I will stay until she wakes.” There’s a challenge in her blue-green eyes as she jabs a finger at my chest. “You don’t know enough to help her.”

I cross my arms. I feel my anger well up, but I ain’t mad at Ebba. She loves Granny as much as I do. I’m angry at myself—for not calling for help faster and for not knowing what to do when Granny fell into her seizure. Despite my pride, I could use Ebba’s help, because Lord knows Aunt Val is too busy becoming Josiah Bellflower’s hussy to be of any use. “You can stay as long as you want, Ebba. I’ll fix up a pallet by her bed.”

Ebba waves me off, grumbling to herself.

I go to the kitchen, take down the stockpot, and soak the poke greens Granny and I gathered yesterday in a pan of salty water. They’ll be good with the ham hock I was lucky enough to get at the mercantile. Once the water is boiling, and I sit down to peel potatoes, the tears come. I sob into my apron, remembering the first day I came to Tin Mountain, when Granny took me by the hand, sat me down at this very table, and pushed a steaming mug of weak coffee cut with milk toward me. You’re home now, Gracelynn. This is your home. It always will be. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t have to be afraid of Daddy’s drunken, wandering hands or worry where my next meal would come from.

I’ve always sworn I’d never let anyone get too close, lest they hurt me more than I’ve already been hurt, but I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I lose Granny. She’s the solid ground beneath my feet. I put the potatoes on to boil, and just as the sky turns dark, I hear Caro’s step on the porch. I dread telling her what’s happened. The poor kid already has enough on her shoulders.

She pushes through the door and slumps into a chair to unlace her boots. Her hair is dark around the edges with sweat. She should still be in school, not working the fields, but Val put an end to that the day Caro turned eight, though I do my best to teach her what I know.

“Dinner’ll be done soon. Have as much food as you want tonight, Carolyn June.”

“I’m starved. Morris and Mama didn’t come out to the fields today, so I had to work all by myself. Things are real dry. Our parcel’s cracked so bad only weeds can push through. Hosea has us bringing water up from the crick. I carried twenty buckets today. My arms are like to fall right off.”

“Lands. This heat is somethin’ else. Morris never showed up to work, neither?”

“Nope, just me.”

If I was worried before, a whole new avalanche of fears falls over me.

I drain the potatoes and mash them, then pile some on a plate for Caro. She digs in, slathering a healthy knob of butter over the top of the taters, until it runs over the edges like a river. She squints at me, her jaw working as she chews. “Where’s Granny? And why’re your eyes all puffy? You been crying?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. She’s sleeping. Real, real deep.”

“One of her headaches?”

I swallow, hard. “No, not a headache. She’ll be okay, though. Ebba’ll stay with us for a while to help take care of her.”

Ebba pushes through the curtained partition like a gray whirlwind and goes to the stove, angrily scooping out potatoes. “She’s not sick like a flu, Caro.” She sits across from me, her eyes narrowing. “It’s worse. Tell her the truth, Gracie. She should know.”