Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(101)

I say nothing.

“I never forgot that tree. When I had trouble falling asleep because I couldn’t shake the memory of him, I’d close my eyes and picture the big oak.”

“And then you started making quilts with it.”

She nods. “I found out that winter that my daddy took a chainsaw to it, cut it down. That was his way of dealing with the memory. But I wanted to keep it alive, to pay my respects to it for giving me solace that day and for so many nights after. I only ever meant to make one, but I found it strangely therapeutic.”

I take in the tidy stacks of boxes lining the far wall, three high and stretching the entire length of the wall, identified with color names scrawled across the front. All filled with material for her quilts. Hundreds more, probably. “Why don’t you ever give it any leaves?”

Her hands stop and she looks up at me with a baffled expression. “Because it is a dead tree, Water. It will always be bare. It’ll never be that oak that grows big and beautiful and changes colors in the fall, ever again. Not in this life, anyway.”

I nod slowly. “Right.” Is Ginny really talking about the tree anymore? Or is she talking about herself? Is she the lone tree that died that day, and now watches the world from a distance? The thing is, Ginny’s not dead, far from it. She’s just been afraid.

“I think the buds are there. You just need to look harder to see them.”

She opens her mouth to say something but hesitates, as if changing her mind. “You should stretch out on that couch and get some rest. You’ll need your energy to deal with them tomorrow.”

“Or I could just hide out in here forever,” I say, half-jokingly, my eyes on the black bars that protect me from the outside.

“You will not.” Ginny’s stubborn jaw sets. “I won’t allow that. You’ll find out what that boy knows and then you’ll decide what you want to do.”

“What if I don’t want to know?”

“It’s too late for that, now. The truth has found its way to the surface, like it always does, eventually,” she answers, matter-of-factly. “You’ll never be able to trust any of them again if you don’t just face this—and, whether you like it or not, they’re your family now. They’re going to be in your life for a long time. You have to trust your family or you have nothing.

“Besides, I’ve seen the way you look at that boy. Since the very first day. Those feelings didn’t sprout the moment you walked onto this ranch, and they’ll survive because you came to this ranch. If you’re lucky, you’ll come out of this never needing a dead tree to save you. Promise me you’ll hear them out.”

“I will,” I promise.

A bit softer, she says, “Go on now. Lie down and sleep.”

I figure that’s her way of telling me that she’s done enough talking so I do as she says, expecting that I won’t ever fall asleep. But when I close my eyes, I feel the weight of the day start tugging at my consciousness. “I’m really glad I met you, Ginny,” I say into the silent night as I drift off.

I think I hear her say, “Not as glad as I am to have met you, girl.”

I can’t be sure, though.

Moisture against my cheek wakes me up, followed by several urgent pokes. Cracking an eye, I find a snout in my line of sight. It takes me a second to find my bearings and remember I’m at Ginny’s. In another second, I remember why, and the hollowness in my chest instantly appears. “You want out, Felix?”

He begins prancing and lets out a whine. The curtains are drawn shut, so I have no idea what time it is, but it feels too early. I give my eyes a rub and then, pushing off the quilt that Ginny must have draped over me at some point, I sit up.

Ginny’s still sitting in her rocking chair, her quilt stretched across her lap, her eyes closed. Asleep.

Felix whines again. “Shhh . . .” I warn, not wanting to wake Ginny up. “Come on.” I get up and head toward the front door, inhaling deeply as I prepare for what may be waiting just outside. Did they give up and go home?

Felix whines a third time and, when I turn around, I realize he’s not following me. He’s beside Ginny, his chin resting on her lap.

I half-expect her to reach down and swat the dog away. But she doesn’t stir. Something’s wrong.

“Ginny?” The old wood floors creak under my weight as I quickly backtrack. Reaching out, I give her shoulder a shake. Her head flops to the side and then forward. “Ginny!” I grab her wrist, searching for a pulse. It’s there, but it’s weak.

I need help. I need a phone and an ambulance and . . . I need Meredith and Amber.

I struggle with the barricade, finally getting it off and the door open. Stepping out into the pre-dawn light, I find Jesse and Sheriff Gabe perched on either side of Ginny’s porch swing, each wearing the startled look of someone dozing off and then suddenly wakening.

“Help!” is all I can manage, my fear for Ginny overpowering everything else.

It’s weird, being a visitor in the hospital I considered my home for almost three months. My first home. I experienced so much confusion, so much panic, so much fear within these beige walls. Now, I sit in an uncomfortable white plastic chair in the waiting room, experiencing them all over again, except this time for someone else.

We’ve been here all day: Amber sitting on one side of me, Jesse on the other, and Gabe pacing the room. All of us silent, with dark circles growing under our eyes. Avoiding what felt unavoidable only twenty-four hours ago. Still, I can’t imagine being here alone, without them, right now.