Meet Me in Barcelona (2 page)

“Grace, I told you she didn't,” Jim said. “Don't egg your mother on.”

“I'm not egging her on, Dad, but if Carrie Ann was here, I want to know about it.”

Her father whacked his newspaper on the side of his chair. “I told you she wasn't! And I should know. I've been sitting right here!”

“She's still such a pretty girl,” Jody said. “She asked about you, Grace. She asked me all sorts of questions about you.”

Jim got up and threw up his arms. “She's out of her mind!” He began to pace.

“Dad,” Grace said. “Hush.” Her mother suddenly became very still, which meant she was listening. Grace took her father by his arm and led him back to his chair.

“I'm sorry. She won't remember me saying it.”

“That's not the point.”

“I can't help it. Carrie Ann this; Carrie Ann that. I thought we'd put that nuisance behind us for once and for all. Is this what it comes to? Reliving your worst nightmare?”

“I've never heard you speak so harshly about Carrie Ann,” Grace said. Her mom was the one who used to say the worst things about Carrie Ann. She said Carrie Ann was evil. She said Carrie Ann was a curse that would follow all of them to their graves. Once she had even said there wasn't enough Lysol in the world to get rid of that stain. And each insult had cut into Grace like her mother was saying it about her. Her sister. Of sorts. Her own Dickens-like drama. Carrie Ann was the best thing that had ever happened to Grace, and she was the worst. She'd been out of their lives for nearly fifteen years. And Grace had spent every one of them trying, and failing, to put the past behind her. She turned to her father.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That Mom's been talking about her.”

“Because I don't want to dredge up all that nonsense. It's her damn medication. I keep telling the doctor it's making her worse, and he won't listen to me.” Her father slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. “These people think just because we're old that we're stupid. She wouldn't be so forgetful if she cut down on some of those pills. How do I know that? Because she's my
wife
. Because I've been married to this woman for forty-four years. You know what he said to me?”

“Who?”

“That snot-nosed doctor, that's who!”

“What did he say?”

“Put me in my place. In front of my wife. ‘You're a psychotherapist, correct? Not a psychiatrist? You don't prescribe medication?' That's what the snot-nosed so-called doctor actually said to me. Can you believe that? Some twenty-year-old who just started wiping his own ass. I'm telling you she's on too many pills! Makes her soupy. He won't listen to me!”

“It's okay, Dad. Calm down. It's okay.”

“I can't bear hearing her talk about Carrie Ann. Your mother's the one who told us never to mention Carrie Ann's name again.”

Forbid us. Forbid us to ever mention her name again.
“I know, Dad. I'll talk to the doctor. Calm down.”

“I always wanted to go to Spain,” Jody said. She turned off the television and patted the side of the bed. So she'd heard and understood the conversation. God, the brain was a mysterious thing.

Grace went over and sat down. “You never told me that.”

“I would hardly share that with a stranger.”

I'm your daughter!
she wanted to shout. But her mother couldn't help it.

“Just keep talking,” her father said. “At least she's not dredging up ghosts, or drooling over naked stud muffins.”

And now Grace couldn't believe her father had just said “naked stud muffins.” Maybe getting away for a bit wasn't such a bad idea. Grace turned back to her mother. “Why did you always want to go to Spain?”

“My mother went to Spain. All by herself. When she was in her seventies.”

“I know,” Grace said. It had been just after Grace's grandfather had died. Her grandparents were supposed to take the trip together. Everyone thought Annette Jennings would cancel the trip. Instead, she buried her husband and packed her bags. Little Annette, who had never been outside of her home state. Grace had had many conversations with her grandmother about that trip. She was proud of her too.

“It was really something,” Jim said. “Because in those days seventy wasn't the new fifty or whatever the kids say today. Seventy was
seventy
.”

“Tell me about it,” Grace said.

Jody Sawyer straightened up, and her eyes seemed to take in more light. “Well, it's not like it is now. Women didn't travel alone back then. Wasn't that brave? My mother sent me a postcard from Madrid of a beautiful tango dancer in a red dress. The dress was made of actual material—beautiful red silk right on the postcard. I'll never forget it. She'd only written one sentence on the back. ‘Robert would've loved the landing.' My father was very picky with landings and always impressed when the pilot pulled off a smooth one. Anyway. As soon as I got that postcard I knew my mother was going to be all right. ‘Robert would have loved the landing.' After she died I spent hours just touching that silky red dress with the tips of my fingers and imagining my mother dancing in the streets of Spain.”

Jody Sawyer looked up and swayed her upper body slightly as if watching her faraway self dance. Then she looked down at her hands, twisting the bedsheet. “Look how ugly and wrinkled I am now.”

“You're not ugly and wrinkled, Mom. You're beautiful.”

“I wish I had that postcard now.” Her mother looked up into space. “I lost it.”

Grace hesitated. Did she, or didn't she? Grace opened the bedside drawer and took out the postcard. Her mother was right. The dress was silky. Grace handed it to her mother and watched her eyes light up. Next her mother gently outlined the edge of the dancer's dress with the trembling tip of her right index finger. Her fingernail was misshapen, the peach paint flaking. Grace would have to see if they could bring in a manicurist.

Jody looked at Grace, her eyes clear and bright. “Gracie Ann, you have to go. Film everything. I'm dying to see Barcelona through you.” Grace must have looked stricken, for her mother laughed and then put her hand over her heart. “Sorry, no pun intended.” Like antennas being manipulated for a clearer signal, sometimes her mother tuned in perfectly. Jody Sawyer laughed again, and Grace couldn't help but laugh with her.

“Mom.”

“Make me feel like I'm there,” Jody said, closing her eyes. “Help me shut out this hospice. Let me see beautiful Barcelona.” She took Grace's hand and held it. “Do it for me. I'll feel like I'm with you. Bring a camera. And your guitar,” she added. “You never know.” When Grace still didn't answer, her mother opened her eyes, and lifted Grace's chin up with her hand like she used to do when Grace was a child. “Be brave, Gracie Ann. Just like my mother.”

“Like my mother too,” Grace whispered back.

Barcelona. Just saying the name gave Grace a thrill, like a surfer riding the crest of a wave. Spain was a beautiful dream. The European city had a relaxed beach feel with a carnival-like atmosphere. Buzzing with activity, yet mellow at the same time.

Grace and Jake stepped underneath an archway and into the large town square that was just down the alley from their flat. Fifteenth century tan-stone buildings consisting of apartments on top and businesses on the bottom formed the outer edge of the square, while a round fountain with a statue of an angel took center stage. Her wings were spread, and in the palm of her stone hand she cradled a delicate bird. Wooden benches with faded green paint lined the perimeter, and potted plants positioned underneath awnings spilled their bright red and purple petals at meticulous intervals. With the ancient pavement and huge arches on all corners, it felt positively medieval. People adorned the square like well-placed decorations. A young girl with a backpack was sprawled on a bench with a sketchbook. A mother chased a toddler who was chasing a pigeon. A shopkeeper leaned on his broom and stared out at the hills. A group of schoolchildren scrambled around teachers who were trying to get them in line. Jake positioned his new state-of-the-art video camera in front of his face and eyed Grace through the lens.

“Film time,” he said. “It's perfect here.” It was true; strips of early afternoon sun streaked in through the gaps in the buildings and bathed everything around them in a comforting glow. There was a fresh smell in the air that Grace wished they could capture on film. Grace felt infused with hope, as if anything and everything was possible. Jake fiddled with his camera like a surgeon preparing his tools. She didn't ask how much he had spent on it, but she knew it had been in the thousands. So far he'd looked stricken any time Grace hinted that she wanted to give it a try. It took him a while to situate her just so, right in front of the center fountain, then a few steps to the right, then one step forward. Perfect. Wait—could she angle toward him just a smidge more?

“Recording,” he said. He tried to say it with a Spanish accent, and it made her laugh. He grinned in return.

Grace stretched her arms open, looked directly at the camera, and did her best imitation of a genuine smile. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad. It's your daughter, Grace. I'm here with my boyfriend, Jake. As you can see, we arrived safely in Barcelona, Spain, and this town square is just a short stroll from our lovely apartment. Note all of the gorgeous stone buildings on the outer edge, and the arched entrances leading into cobblestone alleys. We don't see architecture like this in Nashville, do we?”

Jake lowered the camera and gave her a pained look.

“What?”

“You're stiff.”

“You would be too if you had to constantly introduce yourself to your own mother.”

“Aside from that,” Jake said. He walked up to her, took her heavy handbag off her shoulder, and slung it around his own. He fluffed her hair. Then stepped back into filming position. Grace yawned. “No yawning.”

“I'm jet-lagged.”

“No complaining.” She laughed. “That's better. Now relax. Just be yourself.”

“I'm camera shy.”

“You sing in front of hundreds of people.”

Not anymore, Grace thought. Never again. But this wasn't the time or place to break it to Jake that her singing career was over. She was never going to sing in public again. Ever. “That's different.” It was true. Instead of giving her stage fright, playing in front of large crowds had always comforted Grace. Country fans were always so supportive. She could disappear into the music, her voice, and blend into the collective audience.
But it wasn't long before I started to drift off. . . .

“Stop thinking about that review.”

Jake was reading her mind again. Spooky. “You started it.”

“Are you carrying it on you?”

Jake was holding on to her purse. So, technically, at this moment she did not have it on her. Sometimes, in life, you had to rely on technicalities just to get by. “No.” Just thinking about that awful review, just thinking about Marsh Everett made her want to smash and burn things. Childish. All artists had to deal with bad reviews.
Shallow doesn't quite cut it.... A dog bowl has more depth....
How could he say such awful things about her? Even if he thought there was room for improvement, didn't he know she put her entire being into what she did? Didn't he know she was a flesh and blood person with feelings? Why didn't anyone warn her how much someone else's words could literally cut a person to the core? Grace had always thought she was strong, that she had confidence. But she wasn't. She was just a twig that could be snapped in two. Give her the sticks and stones any day. Words hurt. They burned.

Marsh Everett just didn't know her. Surely if he knew her, if he could see into her soul, he would like her. He would like her music. There had to be a way to get him to like her. This was everything she'd always wanted. And she had admired Marsh Everett. He was passionate about country music, and he had been the make or break of so many stars. She'd always imagined meeting him, maybe even becoming friends. She would have died of happiness a few years ago if she had known one day she was going to get his attention. Of course it would have been a good thing, because she would have wanted to be dead if she had known the horrible things he was going to say about her.
Stop it.
She had to let it go! She had to. This certainly wasn't the time or the place. But it hurt her to the quick, burned like a—

“Grace.”

“Here,” she said like a child who had just been called on in school. She should have ripped the review in half. She should have eviscerated every copy of
Country Weekly
. Jake looked as if he were trying to heal her with his mind. He looked so worried about her. “Take two,” Grace said, as chipper as possible. “The show must go on!”

“Repeat after me,” Jake said. “Marsh Everett is a turd.” Grace laughed. Oh, if only the multimillionaire producer could hear them now. “Say it.”

“Marsh Everett is a turd.”
A turd who has been able to make and break many aspiring country singers. A turd who hates me
.

“Perfect,” Jake said. “And scene.” Jake gestured for Grace to start again.

“Hi, Mom and Dad. It's your daughter, Grace. Here we are in beautiful Barcelona. Robert would have loved the landing.”

“What?” Jake said.

“Inside joke. I'll fill you in later.” She gestured for him to keep filming. “Just look at this lovely town square.” Boy, she felt foolish; she wasn't really cut out to be a tour guide. She swept her arm over the area. “Most of the buildings have businesses in the bottom—cafés mostly, even an Irish pub at the far end—and apartments up top.” Jake panned up one of the buildings, taking in all the little windows where people lived. She pointed to the café straight ahead. “Jake and I had
jamón
and cheese sandwiches and a few glasses of sangria here yesterday.” It had actually been a pitcher of sangria, but this wasn't a salacious, tell-all documentary.

“That's better. Chatty and personal.”

“They'll be able to hear you too, you know.”

“Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer.”

“He thinks he's Woody Allen,” Grace said.

“There are no younger filmmakers you could reference?” Jake said.

“Not on the spot.”

“Continue.”

Grace pointed to the building behind her and gave Jake a moment to pan over. “I would love to live up there.” She gestured to a window high up in a nearby building. “You could people watch all day long. In the afternoon groups of people come here to dance in a circle. Jake refrained yesterday, but he promises to do it before we leave.”

Jake laughed. “I didn't promise anything of the sort, Mrs. Sawyer,” he said.

“She wants you to call her Jody,” Grace said. Although she might never remember making that request.

“Sorry, Jody,” Jake said.

Grace wiggled her eyebrows and smiled at the camera, then continued. “At night the square fills with people, musicians, artists. And in the morning, there's hardly anyone but the pigeons and me. Well, yesterday morning anyway.” Grace walked around the fountain. “We have a beautiful statue guarding this fountain.” It was an angel; it had wings, of course it was an angel, but Grace didn't want to say the word
angel,
so she simply allowed the camera to take it in. Grace held up a Spanish penny. She'd actually brought it from home, from her childhood coin collection. She thought if she tossed it in a fountain in Spain it might bring extra luck. “I have the necessary accoutrements.” She held the penny up and froze.

Oh, God. We all know what I would wish for, and we all know it isn't going to come true.
What was the point? They couldn't film that. That was just cruel. She wanted to go home. She wanted to close her eyes and be home right now. She let the penny slip out of her fingers. It fell onto the ground, landed on its side, and rolled in a semicircle before plunking down on its face.

She smiled at the camera again, but this time she could feel her lips quivering. “Off,” she said under her breath as she tried to hold the smile. Jake didn't hear her. “Look.” She pointed at an apartment above them, to a pair of pink shorts hanging out the window to dry. “Adios for now,” she said. Finally, Jake caught on. He shut down the recording session and turned to Grace. She was taking large, gulping breaths. Tears stayed at the brim of her eyes. She was determined not to cry. Jake reached for her. Grace put her hands up like a shield.

“Don't,” she said. She felt horrible because Jake was being so nice to her, but she hated anyone touching her when she was upset. Try as she might, once her shields went up, it was hard to let anyone in. And kindness usually made it worse. She had too much hurt swirling around inside her. If she let it out, she might flood the entire city with her tears. And she did not want to break down. Not in front of all these Europeans. She turned her back on Jake and hummed to herself. She didn't care what anyone else thought. She liked her happy songs. They comforted her. It only took a few bars before she was calmer. “I shouldn't have done the fountain thing,” she said.

“I liked it.” He was still behind her, but made no further attempts to touch her. She wished she could just let herself open up, just let him hold her. The Sawyers—stoic to the end. Grace waited until the tide inside her eased. Then she turned back to Jake.

“Do you think she'll know I was going to cry?”

“I'll look at it later, okay? I won't upload anything sad. I promise.”

“Good.” Grace took another deep breath and wandered a few steps into the square.

“You'll do better with the next video,” Jake said. “It's going to be all right.”

“No. I won't. I think I should go home, Jake.”

“Your mom wanted you to come.”

“What if she sent me away just so she could let go?”

“First, I don't think that's the case. Second, if that's the way she wants it—and I'm not saying it is—wouldn't you want to respect her decision?”

“No. I'd want to be at her side. Holding her hand.”

Jake held out his hand. This time, Grace took it. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “How about a compromise?”

“I'm listening.”

“We stay at least a few days. If in a few days you still want to go home, we'll be on the next plane.”

God, he was the best boyfriend ever. Grace was afraid of breaking down again, so she simply nodded and squeezed his hand back. They walked. Grace tried to appreciate it, enjoy the moment. She was here in Barcelona the Beautiful, with Jake, on cobblestone streets with the smell of the ocean in the air, and tango dancers on street corners, and gorgeous architecture, and delicious food, and wine everywhere they looked, but all she wanted was to be in Tennessee in a hospice where the floors were linoleum and the place smelled like SpaghettiOs and Lysol.

“Xavier Gens,” Jake said.

“What?”

“No offense to Woody. Gens is French. He directed
Hitman
and is also one of the directors involved with the much anticipated
Paris I'll Kill You
.”

Grace smiled. If Jake hadn't loved animals so much he probably would have gone on to become a famous director. “Shouldn't you pick a Spanish one?” Grace said.

“Can't think of one.”

“Rodrigo Cortés.
Buried
.”

“Excellent!”

“Hitman, kill, buried,” Grace mused. “Maybe we aren't really the vacationing type.”

Jake laughed. “Don't worry. Ours will be the stuff dreams are made out of.” He squeezed her. “I promise,” he said softly.

Hopefully not the stuff her dreams were made of lately. Somebody was always dying. Not her mother, never once. But other people, ones she hadn't seen in a long time. A friend from school. A guy from her first after-school job. Even Robbie—the first foster kid her family took in—the one who had shoved her face in a pile of worms and tried to make her kiss them. In her dreams she didn't see any of them die—thank God—but she'd hear about their deaths from someone else. In every dream she said the same thing.
But I just saw them!
As if that alone was enough to keep death away.

But never Carrie Ann. It was curious; Grace expected her subconscious to want to kill her off most of all.

Jake stopped, took Grace's hands. “I have a wild idea.”

“What?”

“For the rest of today, and most of tomorrow.” He stopped for dramatic effect.

“We should do as much filming and sightseeing as possible,” Grace said.

“No. Really?”

“Absolutely. Let's get cracking. Miró, Picasso, Gaudí, or the beach?” She didn't want to do any of them. She wanted to go back to the apartment, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head. Spending every minute after work with her mother, and obsessing over Marsh Everett and his nasty review, had really taken a toll on her the past few weeks. But this was not the time to relax. Not if they were going to end this trip early.