“Ah, hungh,” was all she managed, and then her eyes closed, and she was snoring softly, and he was alone again.
Tears pricked his eyes. What was going on? Memaw never slept this much. She needed a doctor, he knew it, needed someone tofigure out what was happening here. But how could he bring a doctor here, to this place, with all this mess going on? And how could he get her out of the house in this condition, to where she could get help?
He could ask CJ, maybe. But CJ would tell his mom, and then who knew what would happen?
Leaving his backpack in her closet, he opened the door, marched out to the patio. The girl was in the chair now, lighting another smoke.
“She needs a doctor, Uncle T.”
“She don’t need nothin’.” He set his jaw.
“So you’re just—just gonna let her die? A doctor could do something to help, figure out what’s going on. She might’ve had a stroke or something, or an aneur-whatever it’s called, or—or something. Please, Uncle T.”
All the trying in the world couldn’t stop the hot tears from pooling. He squeezed his eyes tight so they wouldn’t fall. If they started, he knew they wouldn’t stop, not for a long time, and T’d never let him hear the end of it. You big baby. Get it together for Memaw’s sake. For Mama’s sake.
T shook his head, thumbed at the girl. “Missy’s got her. She works part-time. An aide, at the old folks’ home. Said she sees this all th’time, a’ight?”
Devon whirled on her. “Did you give my Memaw some pills or something? Something to make her go all wacko?”
Missy half-stood and blew out a whoosh of smoke. “I di’nt give her nothin’.” Her voice was like a hiss. “I don’t know where you come off, kid, but I don’t go ’round feeding grannies pills or nothin’. That’s not how I do people.”
“Missy, shut it.” T sighed. “Look, kid, she’s old. You know what I’m sayin’?”
“She deserves better.” The words were tight in his throat. “Willyou at least drive her to the doctor?”
“No—”
“Or let me call Doc Kittredge? He makes house calls sometimes. I’m sure he’d come.”
“Nobody’s comin’ here. Got that, boy? I mean no one. You cross me on this, it’ll be a big mistake. Hear me?”
His words were soft, but Devon knew a threat when he heard it. He held T’s eyes a long moment.
“Let it go, boy. Nothin’s gonna happen. We’re family. I got this.”
Devon didn’t even bother to answer. He just let the door slam behind him and dashed back to Memaw’s room, where he locked her door and buried his face in her bedcovers. She didn’t budge, just slept on. The tears came for what felt like hours.
Please help, Jesus. Help my Memaw.
CHAPTER 15
Rebecca
Rebecca stood at Granny’s kitchen counter that evening, chopping carrots into thin strips and popping them into the giant stockpot on the stove as Granny herself washed long stalks of celery, cabbage, and peppers in the sink. Low music played from the CD player on the counter—something semi-modern, with a peppy beat—and Granny hummed as she worked, her hair pulled back into a cute mini ponytail. Rebecca smiled over at her, imagined a much younger version of Granny, with a child at her feet and a husband, all clamoring for dinner and attention.
“You do realize you look like a kid with your hair tied back that way?” Rebecca waggled a carrot at Granny’s hairdo.
Granny laughed and shook her ponytail. “You’re only as old as you feel, sweetie.” Her hands expertly rinsed and snapped. “Honestly, most days I’m downright stunned I’m this age. Eighty four! I was eighteen just yesterday, falling in love with your Gramps and setting up house here. Still feel eighteen half the time. At least in my head.”
“That’s better than I can say. I feel every inch of forty.” Rebecca made a face. As for the love part, no thanks. The coffee encounterwith Erik that afternoon had left her feeling awkward and unsettled, like she was a high school kid sneaking out her bedroom window with some bad boy.
Though why she felt that way about someone like Erik Wennerman was actually rather bizarre. He was handsome, smart, nice, funny, and unmarried—if you judged by the lack of ring. Nothing like a bad boy. And handsome was really an understatement. She felt her cheeks flush.
Maybe that was the problem—maybe he was all right, and she felt all wrong.
Granny laughed again. “Well, you don’t look forty. And besides,” she said, turning off the water and drying her hands on the thin blue dishtowel by the sink. “It’s all up here, anyway. Age is only a number.” She tapped her head, winked saucily.
“I believe you.” Devon flashed in her mind. “That kid from the summer camp—Devon Robinson?—he’s like eleven going on forty.”
