Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(27)
“Is that Amber?” I watch the rider atop a black-and-white horse gallop toward a striped wooden beam erected in between two stands. The horse sails over it with ease.
“Yes, that’s my Amber.” Meredith’s eyes gleam with joy. “She used to ride competitively. She retired a couple of years ago, but she keeps Ginny’s horses active. Back when Gabe was young, the Fitzgeralds had many horses on this ranch. They’ve died off over the years. There are only two left.” Meredith’s head nods toward the field where a second horse grazes in the distance, its brown-and-white coat shining in the sun.
“You said she’s lived here all her life?” I can believe it. The house looks old and in some need of mending, the shingles lifting, the siding stained by weather and dirt. But those details are less striking than the black iron bars on the first-story windows.
Meredith must see my frown. “Ginny likes to feel secure in her home. That’s all that is.”
We come to a stop in front of an oversized covered porch—judging by its newer and mismatched shingles and wood beams, clearly a later addition to the house—and I immediately spot the gray-haired figure sitting on a bench, her lap covered by a large quilt, needle in hand. A mottled brown dog of no identifiable breed lies on the worn wood floor next to her, its tail flopping up and down at a leisurely pace.
Meredith climbs out of her car with the ease of a woman who hasn’t touched a potato chip in ten years, bikes the old roads twice a week, and swims at the Y every Saturday morning that she’s not working. Once, when we were having a conversation about age—mine, in particular—she told me that she’s forty-eight. That after I guessed forty, tops, and she laughed at me.
“Hello, Ginny. How are you feeling today?” Meredith calls out.
Shrewd hazel eyes regard us. “Like you stole an organ from me a week ago.”
“A terrible organ, at that. Would you like it back?” The bitterness in Ginny’s voice seems to simply roll off Meredith.
Setting her quilt down next to her on the porch swing, Ginny slides off the bench and takes the three steps down to the grass slowly. The dog trails her like a shadow. By the white beard dusting its chin and the cloudy eyes directed my way as its nose twitches, I can see that it’s old. “So they’ve finally let you out of that godforsaken prison? That’s good.”
I swallow, not really sure how to answer that. After all, the hospital doesn’t have bars on the windows. I finally decide on, “Thank you for letting me stay here.”
“Well, of course. Come on now, girl.”
I’ve noticed that she has yet to call me “Jane” like everyone else. I wonder if that’s a conscious choice on her part or if she can’t be bothered with names, fake or otherwise.
Throwing my small duffel bag over my good arm, filled with a collection of donated items from the nurses as well as a goodbye card from the hospital staff, we trail Ginny and the old dog as they lead us away from the house and toward the garage.
“If you ever need anything, we’re just a hop over the fence away.” Meredith points to the other side of the garage, past a dilapidated farm fence and through a thin line of those ponderosa pines, to a much more modern but small gray bungalow with a sloped red roof and big bay windows. For all the wide-open fields around us, I find it odd that the two houses are practically side-by-side.
“Yes. So close that when that damn boy of hers shows up with that damn car, it’ll rattle your teeth!” Ginny grumbles.
The mention of teeth has me running my tongue along the new wall in my mouth, where dentures have filled the gap. Given everything else that was broken and battered on my body, a few missing molars should have been the least of my worries and yet, when a dentist from Bend offered his services as part of a goodwill gesture a few weeks ago, I started to cry.
With a patient smile, Meredith answers, “I know, Ginny. I asked him if there was anything we could do about it. Unfortunately, that’s just the type of car it is. It’s supposed to sound like that.”
“Why? So it can wake the dead?” Ginny rounds the corner and begins climbing a steep, narrow set of wooden stairs. The dog, who hasn’t strayed more than two feet from its owner since we arrived, now hunkers down on the concrete landing, forcing us to step over it to follow the old woman up and through a plain white door.
It leads into a long, narrow room with sloped ceilings meeting in the center and sparse, mismatched furnishings throughout. Running along the left side is a kitchen with a white speckled countertop, old, compact appliances, and a small, worn wooden table. To the right is a seating area with two wicker armchairs flanking a simple woodstove, a tidy small pile of wood next to it. A brown-and-black tube television sits atop a faded blue dresser; the screen can’t be more than eleven inches. In the far corner is a twin bed with a simple white iron headboard. The smell of bleach and fresh paint permeates the chilly air, telling me that, though old, the bright white walls are freshly painted and the place was recently cleaned.
“I lived in this little apartment for nearly thirty-seven years.” Ginny’s eyes roll over the place. “It’s just been sitting here, doing nothin’. I thought it may as well be put to use.”
I struggle to keep the burn in my eyes from developing into full-blown tears. “This is perfect.” I turn to face her. “Thank you.”