I don’t remember how I got to my room or whether my Mama ever answered my question. I don’t remember taking a shower and putting on clean clothes or whether I spoke to the church folks. I don’t remember who told me that Daddy’s brakes malfunctioned and he hit a tree off a backroad.
But I do remember the covers so far over my head I thought I might suffocate and then kind of wishing I was man enough to suffocate. I do remember when the first wave of grief hit. I remember lying alone on the floor of my bedroom, vomiting. Eyes so swollen I could see my wet eyelashes.
I do remember the soft footsteps coming into my room and the way she flung her body over my back. How her own sobs mixed in with the chaos of my own. The cool wash rag she used to push back hot, sticky strands of my hair. The feel of her arm around my waist as I twisted in pain. The pads of her fingers as they tickled the length of my arm. The blanket around us as my trembling finally slowed.
Her lips on my forehead when she whispered, “You know I’ll be back in the morning.”
She tucked the blanket around me and turned out the light.
Many parts of that day I will never remember, nor do I want to. But, I won’t forget the relief that washed over me as I realized I wasn’t alone. I’d always have Gracie.
* * *
Wakefulness pulled on my conscience. Flecks of light warmed my cheek. I twisted away, and threw my arm over my eyes. The only safe place was sleep.
A voice nearby was humming, or maybe singing something. It was a tune I recognized. With each passing moment, the melody put distance between me and my safe place. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing away the light and song. They continued, oblivious to their intrusion.
“…should buffet, though trials should come. Let this blessed assurance control…”
It was Shaye. Her voice ushered in the horrors of the previous night. The truth crept into my being like a rising river after a storm. The damage to my heart had only just begun. Going on with life would be impossible. Would be better for me to never wake up.
“…has regarded my helpless estate and has shed his own blood for my soul…”
My shoulder ached so I rolled onto my back. The faint squeak of the rocking chair abruptly ceased, and the words of the song trailed off. Shaye’s bedroom shoes lightly tapped the carpet. A shadow came between my eyes and the light. She hovered a few feet away for a moment then retreated back to her rocker. She muttered prayers for me. “God, please strengthen this young man.”
I hadn’t the faintest idea of how long I’d been laying in her living room. The strength to move left me hours ago.
Shaye’s phone rang once. She whispered. “Thanks for checking in…I’m worried sick about him…Is that what you would do…?” The rocker groaned, and the conversation disappeared into one of the back rooms. Solitude was a relief. If I kept my eyes closed long enough, maybe I could go back to sleep. But sleep didn’t come. Instead my brain used the provided black canvas for a theatrical production of memories.
The day I met Gracie was one for the books.
When I was a kid, all the kids in the neighborhood would play pick-up games at the end of the cul-de-sac. We’d play basketball, street hockey, and World Cup. Sometimes we’d drag ramps onto the road and ride bikes and skateboards. Broke my arm doing that one summer.
A little girl two doors down from my house would always come out to play. I don’t remember what her name was because the only thing we ever called her was “Priss.” She whined and complained about the heat, refused to play, and tattled on us boys. Wasn’t sure why she ever bothered coming out, to be honest.
As much as the other boys and I hated her, Priss did one thing right. In the summer I turned nine, Priss brought a new girl, Gracie Scott, out to play.
When I laid eyes on her, my life changed.
Gracie was nothing like Priss. First thing she did was grab a basketball and start shooting it. Sunk her second shot. Her voice was sweet and slow. Like honey. I hadn’t heard a voice quite like hers before. Her family had just moved from Louisiana, and apparently they talked like that down there.
She was covered head to toe in freckles, and her green tank top contrasted the bouncing red curls popping out of her ponytail. She was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen.
She turned to me, smiled, and I was a goner.
That was the moment I fell in love, although I didn’t admit it until much later.
You can imagine my delight when I found out Gracie’s family lived right around the corner. Her house was located directly across the field that separated our subdivisions.
We became fast friends. Absolutely inseparable. My parents joked they suddenly had a second child. She’d invite herself over for dinner and do homework at our kitchen table. When I told Mama Gracie sometimes forgot to bring lunch to school, Mama put extra in my lunchbox to share with her. She packed extra for Gracie all the way through my senior year.
Adults have better intuition than school-age boys. My parents knew something wasn’t right over at the Scott household, so they never turned her away. Not once. Mama and Daddy welcomed her with open arms. I didn’t realize until I was older how that impacted her. She always said the Moores were her real family.
An elderly lady, Ms. Lacey, owned the field between our houses. She went to the First Baptist Church, which was where my family attended. The field had knee high grass she harvested for hay. One summer when we were thirteen, she asked me to round up a few kids to help bale—said she’d pay us real good.
Naturally, I thought it’d be hilarious to watch Gracie out there fussing over the hay poking through her jeans, so I invited her along. We broke our backs. Threw hundreds of small bales into the back of a pick-up. The scowl Gracie wore on her face was worth every minute. Nate and I picked on her until the last bale was tossed.
After all that work, Ms. Lacey gave us each two whole dollars. Just two. The fit Gracie threw was hysterical. She had cuts up and down her arms and was mad as a hornet. Eventually, I offered to pay her fifteen bucks from my savings to make her shut up.
