Chapter Twenty-One

Do Right by the Miracle

I can smell the death rolling off Grandmama, even through the hospital's wired glass. Doctors say if she makes it through the night, she'll have a good chance of living.

I don't bother correcting them.

It's a slow trickling of death that lasts the night and most of the next day. Inch by inch, it claims another piece of her. I can hear her soul-song fading, a feeble, pathetic sound. I'd always imagined it to be a loud pounding of a church piano or a fierce rumbling like thunder. Instead, it's the wheezy, raspy tune of a struggling accordion.

I could have talked the death out of her pretty easily when we arrived at the hospital.

But I'm waiting.

I'm not sure for what. Maybe I want her to suffer in this state of limbo between living and dying for as long as possible. Or maybe I haven't decided if I'm going to save her at all.

Down the ICU hallway, Bone Layer snores away in one of the stiff waiting room chairs. I have no idea how he can sleep upright like that. It was a trucker who found our wrecked vehicle wedged between the ditch and the embankment. Not five minutes behind him was Oscar, bringing Bone Layer home.

I knocked my head when we hit the tree; mild concussion, the doctor said. They gave me some pills to nip the headache. If it wasn't for Grandmama being at the edge like she is, they would have kept me overnight as well.

"How much longer?" Aunt Violet says quietly beside me as we watch the machines monitoring her mother's fading life.

"It's probably about that time," I say.

I make my decision right then and there.

"Don't do it." Aunt Violet grabs my elbow as I move to go into the room with Grandmama. "She doesn't deserve your kindness."

"No." I nod, fully agreeing with my aunt. "She does not deserve my kindness, you're right. But it's not about what she deserves. It's about who I am as a person. And I'm better than her." Without any more delay, I step into my grandmother's room to save her.

We are alone.

Her and I.

And death.

Only the occasional beep of her heart barely holding on and the shushing push-pull of the oxygen machine to keep us company. I close off the thin curtains to the tiny room and make my way to Grandmama's bedside.

The stench of death is different for everyone. Grandmama's has the pungent odor of vomit. Reflexively, I cover my nose and push away the nausea.

I grab her bony hand. It's cold and frail, something easily crushed. The veins running over them bulge like blue worms living underneath her crepe-thin skin.

Leaning in closer, I hear her soul-song. It's a ragged, wonky sound. I move right next to her wrinkled ear and whisper, "This will be the last time I ever use my gift. You will never have power over me again." Maybe it's my imagination, but I could swear Grandmama winced at my words.

Then it's time.

I press my forehead to hers, grazing my hand lightly over her head and down her shoulders. Then over myself in the same way. Back and forth I continue from her to me, readying her soul to connect with mine so I might lure death out of her. Then I begin to whisper the secret scriptures my papaw taught me. The Bible verses that call death forward and allow me to talk it out. Verses I'm sure Grandmama has read herself many times before, unaware of their particular power.

The room grows cold, and death rises out of Grandmama's body.

Our soul-songs—mine an unnamed hymnal, hers a pathetic accordion—wait, poised between my two open palms, ready to clamp down on death and join into one.

Then they clap together—

An electric charge sends a shock through my teeth.

A squelch louder than any microphone distortion rips through my ears, numbing my body. It knocks me back at least three feet.

Our soul-songs clash, a violent scratching that rips and claws the wheezing accordion to shreds. I press my palms against my ears, hoping the pressure will make them stop ringing.

"What the hell?" My heart in an erratic panic behind my ribs. I work my jaw a few times to get the feeling back into it and the numbness out. The buzz in my ears simmers to a low dull hum.

For some reason, my soul and Grandmama's cannot seem to find the same frequency. Some kind of adverse reaction, an interference that won't allow them to work together. It's almost like nature is telling me water and electricity don't mix. Same thing that happened with Ellis. Except I haven't been drinking today. Maybe it means I'm losing my gift? Papaw carried the gift most of his life. I've only had mine fifteen years. Seems too soon to be fizzling out.

"Gifts from God are not self-serving." Bone Layer's deep voice reverberates in the small space.

"What did you say?"

His huge frame eats up the entire space of the doorway. Politely, quietly, he steps into the room and closes the door behind himself.

"God expects us to do right by the miracle. We cannot use our spiritual powers for personal gain. Something your grandfather learned when Agnes lost her first child at birth."

I glance to Grandmama as if I expect her to confirm this. She never told me about losing a child. Not that it's something people freely share.

That chirping beep marking Grandmama as still alive steadily slows. The putrid stench of death thickens in the air.

"It's in the blood," Bone Layer says, stepping closer. He presses a hand to my elbow, and I pause. "The rules that bind you to your gift are sealed within your blood. Her blood and yours, they're the same. There's no stepping around it." His words seem to tilt the world underneath my feet.

A small kick of panic spikes in my chest, the idea that I can't save Grandmama. It's silly. Grandmama has done wrong by me most of my life. But the idea that she's dying and I can't stop it...

Desperately, I turn to Bone. "But I should try again, right?"

"There's no point, child. You can't save her any more than you could save yourself." Bone Layer drapes that large arm around my shoulders. We both stand there, watching over the old woman. Frail and shriveled. Helpless. The idea that I've feared her most of my life seems impossible, laughable, looking at her like this.

I barely hear Aunt Violet come in and join us. We three stand there, shoulder to shoulder. Watching Grandmama fade.

It doesn't take long before the beeping stops and the alarms go off, alerting the staff to the emergency. We step back, let them attempt to revive her. But her soul-song has already slipped away.

There's no bringing Agnes Wilder back.

There's an emptiness that fills the waiting room. When family dies, you should feel sad; you might even grieve. But there's not a tear among us, just this empty space in the world. I'm not sad she's dead. Nor am I happy. It's simply a thing that has happened, and the what to do next hasn't come to me yet.

Life in the hospital dwindles down as visitors and patients come and go at the end of the day. Only the wearied-worn few of us who've dealt with the worst of it remain. There are hospital procedures for when someone dies. Which consists mostly of waiting around for someone else to do their job and then inform you they did it.

Bone Layer sits with a wastebasket between his feet to catch the shavings of wood from whatever he's whittling. Aunt Violet flips through some housekeeping magazine I'm sure she's read at least three times now.

"I couldn't save Grandmama," I say to the floor, unable to look Aunt Violet in the eyes when I tell her. I don't know why I feel ashamed. It's not like Aunt Violet had any particular love for her mother, either. I guess I just want her to know I tried. "Bone says there's this thing about my gift," I say, pulling at a thread on my jean shorts. "It's something to do with blood of my blood rules of God..." Which seems unfair the more I think about it. "You can't talk the death out of kin."

Another thought skips out of me. I couldn't talk the death out of Ellis, either. Surely, that doesn't mean...? Of course not. It had to have been the beer I drank that day.

Bone Layer blows off the excess shavings clinging to the small wood piece, drawing our attention to him. He turns the chunk of wood back and forth, examining exactly how he needs to shape it.

Sitting there, staring at him, however strange our relationship may be, I realize he's one of the few people I've got left now. And there's a good chance he'll be taken away from me, too.

"You had a hand in this," I say to Aunt Violet. She cuts me a quick look, unsure what I'm talking about. "Rutledges wouldn't have known about my Sin Eater Oil or what it could do if you hadn't helped them out. Twice." I hold up two fingers so the weight of her actions hits home a little harder.

She begins to pick at her fingernails as if they're the most interesting thing in the world right now.

"You used me as a kid." I keep going. I don't know why I'm suddenly sour about it. Had my whole life to think on it, and yet right now all that bitterness is rearing its ugly head. Grandmama's gone. Adaire, too. Bone might go to jail. And it feels like people are dying left and right around here. The whole world seems to be sliding off a cliff. The weight of this is crowding on my chest, suffocating me.

"Bone might go to jail for something that had nothing to do with him," I tell her. "Hell, they still might come after me. Did you know what Rebecca Rutledge was going to do with my Sin Eater Oil? How she planned to use it?"

Aunt Violet's crossed legs start to jog. What I'm dumping on her shoulders and forcing her to deal with—to face—sets her on edge. She fumbles in her purse for her pack of smokes, pulling them out like she's about to light up. Then she remembers where she's at—hospital waiting room—and stuffs them back in her purse.

She sighs.

Something long and deep, like the last fight in her is gone, and she's decided to lay it all out there for the good Lord to sort through.

"I didn't know for sure," Aunt Violet mumbles, still not quite ready to look at me. "But I knew she intended to do something bad with it. I wish I could say that if I knew how she was gonna use it, I wouldn't have given it to her. But I'd be lying to ya.

"I was bad off back then. Worse on the bottle than I ever got to be. Your uncle Doug had died, and I was stuck raising two kids on pennies with a shit job. I ain't saying that's an excuse." She gives me a clipped look. "I'm just saying my head was too clogged full of bullshit, and I wasn't thinking about how it would hurt you or him—" She thumbs over to Bone Layer. "Or nobody."

She pauses and steals a look at me, making sure I am hearing her. I am trying to, at least.

"I just needed to get through the hard part life had given me back then. Seems like the hard parts are always coming at you, though. You know? You just about get one thing dealt with, then you're thrown another. I wish I had a clean slate to work with. A clear head so I can right all my wrongs. Get my life straight for once." Aunt Violet looks at me again, really looks at me. Like she sees me and all the hurt I've been run through.

And I see her, too. She has a good heart with all the love to give, despite all the shit she's pulled. She sits up taller, a small moment of clarity washes the shame off her face, like she's suddenly remembering that life ain't over for her yet. It's not too late to fix things.

Aunt Violet's chin gets to quivering. Her eyes glass over. She cups her hands around mine. "I'm going to do right by you from now on. You hear me?" Tears slip down her cheeks. Mine, too. "I already lost one baby girl. I don't want to lose you, too. Okay? I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." She pulls me in for a tight hug. I bury my face into her shoulder and let the sobs come.

The front doors to the hospital split open and Oscar steps through. I pull away from Aunt Violet, wiping my face clear.

"I came as soon as I heard," he says. The way he crosses the room so intently toward me, it almost feels like we're still dating. It's odd now to see him out of his uniform and in regular clothes. The green T-shirt looks good against his tan skin. And those broken-in pair of Levi's jeans are my favorite on him.

Aunt Violet and I stand as he approaches.

"So sorry about your mother, Violet." He brushes an empathetic hand over her arm. "You two doing alright?" Oscar asks both of us, but he's studying my eyes to get the true answer.

"It feels a bit different, now that she's gone." Lighter, my mind decides. It does feel lighter the more reality sets in. Hopeful, even.

"You know if there's anything y'all need, I'm just a phone call away," Oscar says. We both nod. "And, hey," he says to me, "if you feel uncomfortable staying at the house alone..." It's almost like he's about to offer me his place. "Um—" he glances at Aunt Violet "—you can probably stay with Violet. Or Raelean. Just know you have options."

I consider reminding Oscar that Bone Layer will be just out back in the smokehouse, but maybe not after the court makes their decision.

"Yeah. I'll be alright."

One of the doctors interrupts us, and Oscar gives us our space. As the doc starts talking, Davis arrives, still in his ambulance uniform from the night shift. He frantically looks around until he sees me. He gives a quick wave, letting us speak privately with the doctor.

The doctor wants to know which funeral home we'd like to send the body to. An odd horrified look moves across his face as we inform him we take care of our dead ourselves. It's a rare practice, but it's still legal in Georgia. I probably won't do it ever again, but it's our way of things, and I know it's what she would want. Besides, I have a few particulars I want to send Grandmama off into the afterlife with.

It'll take a few days with the paperwork that must be filled out before he can release her body to us. Aunt Violet follows the doctor to make everything official.

As soon as they step away, Davis swoops in with a big hug.

"Girl, you have been through way too much," he says into my hair. I appreciate the fact he holds on a little longer.

"I got your message. I was on call over in Camden. I had no idea the wreck was you. I came as soon as my shift ended," he says as he releases me. "Don't worry about the truck. I used the wrecker and hauled it back to the junkyard. Looks like a busted axle, but we can get that fixed. How's your grandmother?"

There's a blank look on my face, and I don't know how to say the words. So instead I answer, "I couldn't save her."

Davis gives me another long hug, telling me he's sorry. I've never understood why people apologized when someone dies. Sorry only goes so far with grief, and it's never far enough.

"Today was a rough day for you. When you're feeling a little better, let's talk some more." Davis's words are a bit ominous.

"Talk more about what?"

He hems and haws, uncomfortable.

"Spit it out already," I burst at him.

"Okay." He holds his hands up in innocence. "I found something out that helps us. Helps with Adaire's case. Wanda, my friend at the courthouse, called me back."

I straighten at this bit of news.

"She got me the VIN number to Lorelei's car."

As a man wheels his elderly mother through the hospital lobby, Davis tips his head for us to head out front away from prying ears.

It's muggy outside with the heat of the evening mixing with last night's rain.

Davis waits until the hospital's sliding doors close before he continues. "I was able to track the car to a salvage lot in Ohio. I called the owner of the lot, and he confirmed he had it."

"What kind of damage?" My pulse jackhammers inside my ears.

"He found no visible signs of blood or hair from ‘hitting a deer.'" He air-quotes his words.

"Okay. Lorelei probably cleaned off any visible evidence on the grill. Maybe there's something on the underside?"

Davis nods. "That's what I was thinking, too. Then I realized, even if they do find something, it could very well be from an animal."

I uh-hmm in agreement, but my gut is telling me otherwise.

"But then he told me something I didn't expect," Davis says. I freeze. "He said whatever the car hit, it rubbed yellow paint on the bumper."

The realization hits me. "Adaire's banana bike."

Blood or hair evidence would be nice, but they could match the yellow paint to the bike. Which I'm pretty sure Wyatt put in their tool shed out back.

This piece of news lights a hot flame in me. "I knew it," I say through gritted teeth. "I knew that bitch killed her."

"It's enough to reopen Adaire's case and interrogate Lorelei," Davis points out. That and the fact he and I discovered Adaire wasn't even hit in the location where the accident happened. Not to mention Stone's car doesn't have a scratch on it.

Davis and I quiet up when Deputy Rankin strolls past us into the hospital. What is that asshole doing here? I think to myself.

"There's more," I say after the deputy is inside. I tell Davis about walking the veil and witnessing the sins of the dead. Sure, it's not evidence for a court, but it definitely confirms that what I saw in that Sin Eater Oil haze was true. Lorelei mowing Adaire down with her car like she did.

"Why?" Davis shrugs. "Why would she have it out for Adaire? What'd Adaire ever do to her?"

That's a great question. And, before today—with my grandmother dying—I probably couldn't have answered that.

"I can't talk the death out of kin," I say to Davis. "That's why I couldn't save my grandmother." At Davis's scrunched brow, I add, "What if it's why I couldn't save Ellis Rutledge? It's never not worked before, and Bone told me about the rules with kin."

Davis sways back slightly at this. His eyes bold with shock.

"Maybe Adaire figured something out that got her killed. I think she found evidence that could prove Ellis was kin. Did you bring the package?"

Davis nods. From his EMT bag, he pulls out the brown paper package Adaire hid for him before she died. The birthday gift he believes was meant for him to find months ago.

Both of us stare at the unopened package like it's a ghost.

"Open it." It's a gentle request, really. In my heart of hearts, if I believed this was some private gift for Davis, I wouldn't be asking him this. But I think Adaire hid it in his toolbox, knowing she was going to die and preserving the evidence for when she did, because she knew he'd believe me, knew he would help. And she couldn't risk Grandmama finding it somewhere at our house.

Davis's throat bobs with a single swallow, and he pulls the ribbon off the package, unfolding the brown paper and revealing a stack of papers. We each take one off the top and begin to read. They're letters, written in the same handwriting as the one I saw Adaire with in that dream as she stood in Stone Rutledge's office. Beautiful, soulful writings, each signed by or addressed to the same two people.

Love letters between my mother and Stone Rutledge. If I was a betting man, I'd guess Adaire found them at that farmhouse in that old button tin. There's fifteen or so letters. We sit in silence, reading each one.

They had loved each other for a time. Both acknowledged they lived worlds apart; her a simple country girl, him with a family fortune off studying law. He seemed torn about which life to live, but leaving his family would mean cutting ties financially. My mother worried that would make him bitter in time.

"She was nine when they first kissed." I smile at the thought and hand Davis the letter so he can read it. "A graveyard kiss."

Remember our first kiss? I was nine. Your grandfather had died and Bone Layer took me with him to dig the grave. It rained that day, just like it should at a funeral. A slow drizzle that guaranteed you'd feel the sadness all the way down in your bones.

There was something mesmerizing about your green eyes. Cool crisp color that shivered me plum through.

At the close of the service, I watched your father nudge you. It was a tough nudge like he was saying enough was enough with your crying. It felt wrong the way he yanked on your arm before you were done saying your goodbyes. Like he was embarrassed by your grief.

I don't know what made me do it.

I suppose love, though I didn't know I loved you yet.

But something bit me, like a horsefly in the heat of summer, and I popped off Bone Layer's truck bed, and plucked one of those perfect white long stem roses from a flower spread and ran it over to you.

Your mama looked at me like a leper with my muddy bare feet and scraggly jean overalls. Her smile, lemon-puckered and strained at the sight of me. There I was looking like a feral child and all y'all were dressed in your best black clothes. I was flooded with embarrassment, ready to hightail it out of there, tuck and run. Then you kissed me. Quick as lightning. Lips to lips. You stole my heart that day.

I stood there, feet sinking into the graveyard mud and watched as your shiny black Studebaker drove away. You looked back at me through the window. The white rose tight in your fist.

I knew right then I was going to love you for the rest of my life. But I think it's time I let you go.

As the letter goes on, my mother tells him a long-distance relationship probably isn't the best, since Stone was a few years older, already in college. So she breaks it off with him. I wonder if my mama was just trying to beat him to the punch, fearing he'd choose wealth over her in the end.

Months later, Mama found out she was pregnant, around the same time Stone got engaged to Rebecca. Happened quick—like he was trying to heal his broken heart.

"Stone told your mother Rebecca fit his family's lifestyle better than her. Ouch," Davis says. "He told her it was too late to go backward and he had already moved on." He's not wrong, but I can see—there's hurt in his words, too.

Davis finishes reading the last letter. "Do you really think Stone is your father?"

I shrug. "It sure looks like it."

"Okay." Davis nods, digesting this. "You're Stone's ‘illegitimate' child. Who cares? Why kill Adaire for figuring that out? Rich people always have skeletons in their closets. The Rutledges are so established and in deep with this town, would it even scathe their reputation?"

"I don't think it's about preserving their reputation," I say with the shake of my head. "Those letters prove my mother and Stone had an intimate relationship. What if it's more than the letters? What if Stone had wanted to take care of my mother, give her some money or something?"

"Or," Davis began slowly, the thought forming as he spoke, "what if he left some money for you?"

"Me?"

"Look, it seems like your mom and Stone couldn't be together, not in the way they wanted, right? He was engaged already, clearly this was something they kept hidden. And if he knew about you, but couldn't be there for you in any concrete way, maybe he wanted to be there for you in the only way he could—with some money."

"Well then, where is it? I certainly haven't seen any Rutledge money come my way."

He gives this some thought.

"Maybe that's what Adaire found out about? Money for you—I can't imagine Lorelei is the sharing kind of person. That family has never been generous. Doubtful she'd want you to have any of it. Maybe she didn't want you to know who you really were."

Greed will make folks do all kinds of wrong, Papaw used to say. I nod, letting the idea take root.

"You think Lorelei faked her father's suicide?" Davis asks.

Our father—my father—skips through my mind. I try the words on for size, and they just don't fit. It feels like a truth for someone else.

I shake my head. "I don't think so. Stone knew she killed Adaire, and he covered it up for her. And when Ellis found out, I think Lorelei killed him. Or at least she tried to stop him from telling, and he died in the process. I don't even know if she cared. And I believe that's what pushed Stone over the edge, knowing she had killed a second time. A daughter he could not control. One he could not save. Sheriff said there wasn't a suicide note. What if there was, but Lorelei found it first and destroyed it?" Probably something we'll never find out. "It's gotta be her who's trying to make me look guilty with that Sin Eater Oil—though I haven't figured out how she got ahold of it yet. But Ellis knew her secret. So did Stone. Ellis wasn't going to let Lorelei get away with it. And you know what?" I lean into Davis, all my gumption revving itself up. "I'm not going to let her get away with any of it, either. Give me your keys."

I open my palm to Davis.

If I want justice for Adaire, I'm going to have to take it myself.

Davis steps back, wary, as if I've just asked him to rob a bank. "Why? So you can do something stupid?"

"No. So I can finally give Adaire the closure her soul deserves." This softens him. I can see it in the way his posture wilts and how he ponders the idea that maybe Adaire—or at least her spirit—is not at rest.

I jab my open hand at him again. "Can I borrow your truck or not?"

If I have to, I'll get Aunt Violet's car. She'd probably drive me to Sugar Hill herself. I've just about decided that's a better option when Davis hands over the keys to the Boneyard's wrecker.

Determination and fight rise up in me as I make my way across the hospital's parking lot. I'm not leaving that mansion until Lorelei owns up to what she did.

After I jump in the truck, I'm about to crank the ignition when something sitting in the front seat catches my eye.

The little red suitcase.

Davis must have rescued it from our truck when he towed it to the junkyard.

In light of everything that's happened the last twenty-four hours, it honestly slipped my mind.

But there the suitcase is, ready and waiting.