Disconnected (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Hurt her, Milly! Hurt her like she did me.

Beth's sound asleep, all curled up in a ball on the floor next to my bed. I stand over her, watching her breathe. Amelia's been so bothered by what happened at the party, she's putting me through hell, keeping me up all night. I can't sleep. I can't think. And I myself seem to not be able to get over that Beth slept with Matt. It's not because Amelia liked him. But Beth thought I did, and she slept with him anyway. How could I trust her after that?

Just do it, Milly! I know you want to,
Amelia keeps egging on.
I told you she was no friend of ours. She's just a skank whore like all the rest of those losers in school. Get rid of her, Milly. Do it now!

I can't take this torture so I leave the room completely and try to find somewhere else to sleep.

I tiptoe downstairs so as not to disturb anyone else. Though it seems someone is up because the library door is open and there's a light on inside.

Slowly I walk toward the library. I think it's Aunt Rachel working late, because she's taken to locking the library when she's not in it, but to my surprise, when I peek through the door, I see it's my grandfather. He's sitting in one of the tall armchairs looking at a book of some kind. When I look closer, I see that it's a photo album. Where did he get that? I've never seen it before. It must be Aunt Rachel's. I wonder if she knows he's looking at it.

He turns a page and takes a tissue to his nose, blowing in his sniffles. Has he been crying? Why is he even up at this hour of the night?

He stares at one page a long time, then takes his fingers and grazes them over the picture, mumbling something. I cup my ear close to hear.

“Oh, honey,” he whispers. “I wish I could take it all back.” Tears roll down his weathered cheeks. He stares so intently into this one photo. It bothers me I can't see what it is or who he's talking about.

“I'm so sorry,” he mumbles, clinging on to the page. He takes another deep breath, trying to slow down his sobbing. “It wasn't your fault…forgive me, Amelia.”

I am taken aback and step away and into the hall again. He must be looking at one of my pictures. I think of a million different reasons why he would say that. Why, though? What did he ever do except give me a home when my parents died? It's true he was crotchety and overprotective, but that was nothing. Or was he apologizing for something that happened to my parents? He told me the truth about how they died, didn't he? It was a car accident, right? That thought disturbs me and I quickly put it away.

I just don't understand why he won't talk to me about anything. It was the same with the fire. Why hadn't he told me about the cigar, if that was true? Maybe he thinks he's too strong for that. Maybe he feels as though he has to hold it all in. Mystified as to what it could be, drowning in thought, I am now really tired.

I creep further down the hall and go into the den to rest.

***

Morning light breaks through the windows shedding warmth across the room. I go back upstairs to check on Beth.

“Hey, it's ten. You should be going soon,” I tell her, shaking her awake.

“Oh!” she says with a big yawn, “Wow, it's ten already?”

“Yeah….”

“Yeah, you're probably right. I should be going. My parents will be looking for me. I really appreciate this, Milly. Again…I'm…” Her voice trails off.

“Don't. It's okay. We'll talk about this another time,” I tell her, trying to reassure her that things will be okay, but I'm really not sure if they will. “I don't mean to rush you, but I have things to do today.” Which is a lie, but I figure the sooner she leaves, the sooner I will hopefully feel better about all of this.

“Yeah, yeah…sorry. Lemme get my things.” She picks up her purse and heads to the bathroom real quick. “Can you walk me to the car at least?”

“Sure.”

She gets her things together as I clean up my room, straightening the bed and picking up all the blankets from the floor. We then head downstairs and out the front way. I stay on the porch while she walks the rest of the way to her car.

“I'll call you later, Mill,” she yells out and waves. “Thanks for this, I really appreciate it.”

“Sure, later then.”

As she pulls away, Blake pops up from the side of the house where he's been trimming the rhododendrons.

He comes around the front and waves a hello.
He's
read your journal, Milly. I just know he has,
Amelia says, invading my thoughts. I start to believe her and wonder if he's getting close to me because of it. I want to talk to him about it, go to him and ask if he's the one that had it and gave it back to either my grandfather or my Aunt Rachel. But my nerves seem to take over and I just can't.

When I turn to head back inside, he yells out, “Yo, Milly! What's up?”

I turn around and smile and for a minute or two I forget about everything, including the journal. The wonderful evening we spent together last night seems to override the worries of him having read my journal.

“Hey, Milly?” he yells out again as he comes to the front of the porch.

“Yeah?”

“Got time to talk?”

The question is so inviting that I don't even say anything, I just head on over to where he's standing. “Yeah sure, what's up? How are you?”

He's dirty from all the garden work and sweaty too, but from the looks of it, he doesn't care. He doesn't need to.

“I'm good. I just wanted to tell you, I had a really nice time with you last night.” He puts down the electric trimmer and walks up to me. “Have a good time too?”

“Well, yeah. I guess. I mean, yeah with you, I did.” I look down to the wooden porch, trying not to show my disappointment—the disappointment that Amelia had to go through with Beth.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, stepping closer onto the porch.

“Yeah….” I hesitate to lie, but I don't want to drag him into all the drama. He certainly doesn't need that crap, so I try to keep things light. “Yeah…Beth got pretty hammered last night, so I hada drive home.”

“So I take it you're not a drinker?” he asks with a smile, seemingly glad to hear that I was being responsible.

“Nah…wouldn't touch the stuff.” I wouldn't want to turn out like my dad.

“Yeah, me neither.”

I'm a bit surprised by that. And I feel even more embarrassed when I say, “Wow, so you don't drink either. I thought for sure…”

“For sure what?” He cuts me off as if knowing what I will say next. “For sure that I was a drinker? Why, 'cause I look that way?”

“Well, I mean, you look like you would…I mean, well…” I hesitate and realize I am putting my foot in my mouth by saying that. I should know not to assume anything, like my mom had always said to me. “Sorry, I guess I shouldn't have…”

“Don't worry. It's okay. I get that a lot. But all my friends know not to bother me about it, not after what happened.”

“And what's that?” I'm always intrigued by what he says. I can't help but find him really interesting.

He moves up to the porch and starts telling me a bit about his oldest sister. “She was hit by a drunk driver about five years back. She was only seventeen.”

Instantly I feel really bad, so I tell him how sorry I am to hear that.

“Don't be. It's okay. She lived a good life. I think I am over the anger now. It was rough in the beginning. But since I took up this job, I seem to have gotten better with the depression.”

I try to perk things up by being positive, “Yeah, well, you do a terrific job. Everything looks so beautiful.”

He talks a little more about his gardening job and how it's been therapeutic for him. He mentions how depression seems to overwhelm him sometimes, but cutting or pruning something, picking weeds up or whatever it is, it's a great escape from that for a while. This intrigues me for some odd reason. Not that he suffers from depression, but that he seems somewhat like me that way. Like I can relate to that.

I listen to him talk for a bit longer as we stand close to each other. He looks happy, and I can tell he's in a good mood. Seeing him smile makes me quiver a little. I don't know if it's the light breeze or just the feeling I have when I'm around him. Another thing I notice is Amelia's silence. Even though she acts as though she can't trust him, I think she is developing a liking for him too. Whatever the case, I feel good around Blake and that's what I need right now.

“Hey, I should get back to work,” he says looking at the untrimmed shrubbery. “Besides, you look like you're a little cold.”

“Yeah, well, mornings are usually cooler. But it warms up quick by noon.” I have my arms folded together tightly, trying to shake off the morning chill.

“Yeah, should be a nice day today. They say it might get into the upper sixties.” I am always amazed about Blake's optimistic attitude; it's addicting to be around.

“So you doing anything later on?” he asks me, putting his gloves back on and getting ready to trim again.

“No, actually, why do you ask?” I don't know why I ask, because it sounds like he's asking me out on a date, but I just want to be sure.

“Well I was hoping maybe we could go out, see a movie or something.”

“Sure, I'd like that.”

“Okay, then it's settled. Pick you up at seven, say?”

“Sounds good.”

I turn around and head back to the front door as he cranks up the trimmer again. He waves with his free hand while I wave back and enter the house. I start to feel good again until Amelia's worries sets in.
What if he's doing all this to get something out of you? What if this is all a joke?

Chapter Seventeen

I close the door to my room right as Jinks slithers in.

“Hi, baby boy,” I say to him as he curls around my legs. “Whatcha been up to?”

His dirty paw prints litter up the hardwood floor as he races to perch himself up on the windowsill. “Oh, man, you were in the garden again, weren't you?” I ask him like he's going to answer back, and in a way he does with a light “meow.”

I go to the bathroom to get a towel to clean up the muddy paw prints, but when I flick the light on, something catches my eye. It's Aunt Rachel's diary. I keep wondering how it seems to be moved around my room, yet surprisingly enough I still have it. I don't remember placing it in the bathroom, so I pick it up and look inside right away. What's odd is that it has a magnolia petal in the middle of it. Like my journal did. And it's a page I haven't read yet.

I take a seat on the edge of the tub and begin to read:

I want to tell her the truth—the truth about you, but I just can't. I'm too afraid to approach her. In a way, things are better this way—if she doesn't know.

She keeps things hidden too—like you always did. You should see how she's grown into a lovely young soul—much like you.

The weed has grown old and weary, but I cannot forgive him. Yet much time has passed, allowing wounds to heal and giving your flower room to grow. She is strong, yet I worry. I worry for all of us.

I still haven't a clue as to who she's talking to or about. I get the impression she's referring to me, or at least in some way or another. Though who is she talking to? My mother? My grandmother?

I turn the page and read on.

My whole world shifted after everything was said and done. Everything I believed to be true, was a lie. All the years I've lived, running from it. But it stayed with me wherever I went. I've carried my guilt for so long, I never properly grieved over you. And still, to this day, there's a part of me that just can't let go.

I am stumped as to why she won't say this person's name. The only name in this book that I came across was A. Livingstone. This had to be a tribute to her mother, my grandmother Adeline.

Many times I've tried to end it all…like the times in the garden. But something always held me back. I suppose I was too coward to do that too.

Ah! The garden—your garden. All the memories of you there… We planted so many things, you and I. You should see your magnolia. It has blossomed into the most amazing tree. I believe your spirit still lives there.

My eyes are glued to every word. The way Aunt Rachel writes is the way I feel, yet I don't quite understand why. I'm not sure if she's talking about a real live person, a character in a book, herself, or someone else. I'm confused at this point and don't know what to think.

I only know I want to find what it was that messed up this family of mine. I wish I could go to the library and find that photo album my grandfather was pining over, but Aunt Rachel is in there working. I keep hoping I can go back, but every time I try it, the library is locked. I am compelled to search the garden again.

I slide on my flip-flops real fast, grab a sweater, and head downstairs.

First I peek out the front window. Good! Blake is still trimming the bushes in the front yard. I can go in the back unnoticed.

I then head around to the kitchen and open the back door. Cool wind hits my face as I step out into the afternoon sunlight.

I hurry across the open field, feeling the cool grass brush against my feet. Jinks, hopping in front of me as if leading the way, slithers underneath the garden gate.

Inside the gate, I am struck again by all the beauty. Bulbous yellow tulips align against stone walls dripping with thick ivy. The willow trees hang low, swaying their green braided leaves. The wild blossoms buried in the bushes are unbelievably pungent. It reminds me of the sweetest fruits I've ever tasted.

I feel someone looking at me and turn. It is the marble woman under the magnolia. But she couldn't really have been looking at me, because her face is still downcast.

I walk toward her. Light shines across her stone body, almost giving her a human skin tone. I notice the gravestone again. The one that's embedded in the ground at her feet. To My Beloved A. Livingstone.

Kneeling down close, I notice something else—a date. I wipe the freshly fallen petals and stare in shock. The date is April 15th, 1996. The day I was born.

***

I'm wiped out from everything. Other than being in the garden earlier, I've spent most of the day in my room, reading a little from Aunt Rachel's diary and writing down my own thoughts on the matter. Amelia seems to shut up most of the time when I read or write. She doesn't seem like such a nag since I cut earlier. It was just a small cut within the palm of my hand when I took a shower. She watched in silence as the blood streamed down my body and into the drain.

Right now, though, as I lie on the bed, I feel drained, like I emptied out all my thoughts in writing. I've written about twenty pages of blur. Just like the blur in Aunt Rachel's diary. Just like my eyes are becoming a blur now, so I close them. And as my thoughts no longer cloud my mind, an image does.

I'm in the toddler's room again, with the rainbows and the rocking horse. I can almost hear it moving in the corner. I am lying on the floor, clinging to something in my one hand and playing with a doll in the other. What am I holding on so tight to?

I must be about six or seven. As my little blue dress ruffles around my waist, I kick my feet in the air, all while lying on my belly. The veiled man comes in the room but I'm not afraid.
Why aren't you afraid, Milly?
It's the first time in a while I hear Amelia. And I wonder why she is asking me that. She's got a point, why am I not scared?

He comes closer. I don't look at him—I haven't at all at this point—but I can just feel that it's him. His breathing is muffled and he smells of distinct cologne.

He kneels down beside me and says, “Come, we must leave now, Amelia.”

When I turn around and look at him, he reaches out his hand.

Suddenly, I let go of whatever I was holding and take his hand. Just when I get up to leave with him, blackness fills my mind. Why am I dreaming and thinking all these things? I have to know.

***

I finish getting ready for my date with Blake. I'm excited and nervous. More nervous than I was when Beth and I went to that dreadful party. After all, it's just going to be me and Blake, as far as I know. And with that thought, I am really looking forward to it.

We spoke earlier over the phone about what we plan to do. Since Amelia still has that feeling of doubt and distrust, I can't remember much of what we agreed upon. All I remember is what Amelia chanted in my head.
He's going to take you somewhere and do something awful to you. He's going to drop you off somewhere you won't know, and you're gonna get lost. This is all a big joke. Do you really think he's interested in you, Milly? God, you're such a dumb broad. Just wait. Just watch.

I hear Grandpa George in the kitchen making something that smells delicious, so I go downstairs to check. I wish I could ask him straight out what he was crying about last night, and if it is my grandmother that is buried in the garden, but somehow I just can't. I wish he would just tell me.

“Hey, whatcha makin', Grandpa?”

“Oh, just some din din. Thought you'd like some fajitas tonight,” he says to me as he's chopping up an onion. It's funny, Grandpa George always seems to be doing something or another with onions. Even in the morning, he'll have onions in an omelet or smother it on his toast. He says it keeps him young.

But as I watch him cook dinner, I realize it has completely escaped me that I need to tell him I'm going out. “Oh, Grandpa, I'm sorry. I'm gonna be going out tonight. Will that be okay with you?”

“Where? With who? When you coming home?”

My face turns hot with the bombardment of questions. I can't tell him I am going out with Blake. He would forbid it, so I tell him I am going out with Beth.

“I don't know what you see in
that Beth girl
,” he snaps out.

“Why do you have to say it like that—
that Beth girl
? She's my friend.” When I say that, Amelia chimes in and says,
Yeah,
was
your friend, not anymore. Why are you defending that broad anyway?
I realize when she says that, she has a point.

“She doesn't seem to have her head on straight, Amelia. You guys makin' all that ruckus like ya did last night, all stumblin' in and everything. I hate to tell ya that. I want ya to have friends, don't get me wrong. Let's just say she's careless. You youngsters these days shouldn't be drinkin'. I swear, if I ever caught you with a bottle, Amelia, you'd never hear the end of it.”

I feel bad that I kept my grandfather up during the night, especially since I saw him crying over me.

“I'm sorry, Grandpa. I'll try to be better about that. And I promise you I won't drink.” A moment of silence hits both of us with only the sizzling of onions to be heard. He turns around to stir them a bit more and says nothing.

“So where's Aunt Rachel, anyway? Is she eating with you?”

He still doesn't say anything. He just stands there with his back turned. I watch him for a minute or two and think it kind of odd. Then he holds his hand up to his chest and drops the spoon. I can't see his face as he has his back turned toward me.

“Grandpa? Everything okay?”

Suddenly without warning his body collapses onto the floor.

“Grandpa!” I scream out as I run to him.

He's barely breathing and his eyes stare into the ceiling. Quickly, I get up, grab the phone on the wall and dial for help.

“9-1-1, what's your emergency?” the operator says in a brisk manner.

“Hurry! It's my grandfather. He collapsed.”

“Stay calm, the police are on their way.”

I stay on the line with the operator—she tells me to remain with him and watch for the ambulance. I pat his head and tell him it's going to be okay. But inside I am panicking. I hear nothing, like I feel I could faint myself. I take a few deep breaths and hold my grandfather's hand. “Please hurry. He's barely breathing.”

As I say that into the phone, blue and red lights start bouncing off the neighbor's houses and shine through the windows.

I gently place my grandfather's head down and race to open the door. The paramedics walk briskly past me and ask where he is. I point to the kitchen. The one policeman who comes in after the paramedics asks me a few questions. I'm zoning out, and can't hear much of anything.

“Is he gonna be okay?” I ask the dark-haired woman standing over my grandfather.

“We need to bring him in,” she says, strapping an oxygen mask onto Grandpa George. “Is your mom or dad around?”

“Umm, well no, I live here with my aunt.”

“Call her now,” she says. She and another paramedic belt my grandfather into a gurney.

“Yes, right away.”

I race back over to the phone as they wheel him out and into the ambulance truck. I get a hold of Aunt Rachel and tell her what's happened. She seems very cool, but says, “Calm down. I'll get there soon.” Like it doesn't bother her what I just said. I am trying not to freak out, and I still feel lightheaded. She's talking to me like everything's fine. What if it won't be?