She infuriates me, but she’s having brain surgery.
In weeks.
I know it’s the right thing to do, but at the core of it all, I’m terrified. This isn’t her having her tonsils removed, this is cracking her skull open and having something cut off her brain. I wish she were sitting right here instead of showing up as glimmers through cuts of colorful glass.
The hallowed air carries hints of incense, history, and a million unspoken prayers. I wonder how many of them were answered. I wonder how many my mom has prayed in the last ten years.
Nash’s fingers interlace with mine and squeeze.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I clear my throat and squeeze back,yes. Even if not really.
“Sorry.” I blow out a shaky breath. “I’m fine. What would Anson have done in here?”
Nash waits to answer, eyes searching mine as if looking for a believable go-ahead. He must see what he’s looking for, because he says, “Well, it’s a church.” He lets out a quick sigh as he glances around. “What you see is kind of what you get. Built in the 1700s, it’s survived wars, fires, earthquakes, and hurricanes. Altar came later than Anson would have—late 1800s, early 1900s. Last major renovation of the interior was in the ’90s.Everything would have been stripped down and looked at with a magnifying glass.”
Of course. Everything’s after Anson and has been examined to death.
“Dad?” I turn to Cap. He’s conditioned me enough over the last eight days that the name rolls easily off my tongue. He notices, because he almost smiles. “What do you think?”
He taps his cane on the planks of the old wooden floor. “Don’t think anything’s in here. I searched this pew because he mentioned Washington specifically.” As he talks, I pull the folded-up copy of the letter from my purse. “Maybe they were religious and that’s why he mentioned it—never found any records either way.”
I hate this answer.
At the letter, I find the section mentioning the church.
and at last, dearest Maggie, we will go into the city. I will show you the park where rivers come together and pirates hanged. I will show you the church where George Washington worshipped and signers of the great constitution of these United States are buried. there is also a house Washington stayed in. can you imagine us living some where good enough for a president?
We came here before the mentioned garden and house because of Nash’s tour and the fact the church has limited hours to visit.
“What about these signers of the Constitution buried here?” I ask, looking at Nash. “Do they mean anything to you?”
“Charles Pinckney and John Rutledge,” Nash explains. “Both Charlestonians and signers. And in the cemetery.”
Nash and I stand to go, but Cap doesn’t budge.
“You go,” he says, tapping his cane. “I’ve seen it.” His gaze goes from the altar to Nash—they exchange a look I can’t readbefore his eyes settle on me. “Might like a few more minutes in here.”
“Okay ...” This man does not seem religious, yet he wants to sit alone in a church. I look from him to the altar. “What’s going on?”
“Some days you want the reminder that there’s more when it’s over is all.”
Like an old pocket watch in the digital world, his words don’t fit.
“Go!” he barks, making people from nearby pews turn. He pulls the flask out of his pocket and takes a slug. “Too damn hot out there.”
When he starts to smile, I do too. This man is an absolute pain in my ass.
Outside, Nash and I wander the paths of cracked pavers around the old cemetery. Some are in a dozen pieces, some are overtaken by foliage, and some are flat-out gone.
“Cap tell you what’s going on?” Nash asks as we pass barely legible gravestones. “With the oxygen and the pills?”
“He takes medicine for his liver with rum and uses a vape pen while on oxygen.” I squint at a stone nearly hidden with vines then glance at him. “Can’t be too serious for him to be so flippant about it.”
His face doesn’t change but there’s an air of worry to it.
My brows pinch. “He say something?”
