“Maybe he couldn’t,” Ethan posed. “Maybe he was afraid.”
Lucy realized her brother had to be right. “I’m sure he had a reason. Do you think the people he was afraid of took Mom? Oh Ethan…I can’t imagine…”
“Let’s not go there yet, Lucy. Okay?”
“But this is real, Ethan. Right? This is where Dad is telling us to go. Brixton, Nebraska.” As soon as the words slipped from her mouth, she realized they sounded like agreement, consent to go there.
“Nebras-ka,” Teddy repeated.
Looking over at Grant, who was still holding the atlas, Lucy noticed his eyes were closed. He swayed and threatened to tip-over.
“Grant? Grant!” she cried and flung the atlas away, scrambling and shaking him.
He smiled a lazy smile and opened one eye and then the other. “I’m fine, Lucy. Just sleepy. Sal—” he stopped himself. “We didn’t sleep last night. We waited for you,” he pointed to Darla, “to come back for her.”
No one spoke. But Lucy’s face burned; she was grateful for the dark.
Then Grant rose and stretched, his lanky body reaching tall, casting shadows on the walls. “I—” he started. “I think maybe I should go lie down somewhere. I wish—” he stopped again and then sighed. “I feel like I should say something profound. But I’m not one for big speeches.” He smiled. “So. Maybe I’ll just say…I’ll be upstairs.” He ended the sentence softly, sadly.
“Grant—” Lucy whispered. “Stay.”
“Here,” said Ethan. “Lucy?”
She lifted her head to him and waited.
“Dad’s Victrola?” Lucy smiled. She slipped up and walked to the corner, where their father had kept an old Victor Talking Machine phonograph from 1921. It had belonged to his great-grandmother and had been given to her as a wedding gift only a few years before his grandma was born. It was a wooden cabinet, equipped with a crank handle and tucked inside the doors were shelves, where their dad kept all his records.
When Ethan and Lucy were little it was a treat to sit in the den and listen to the music. But they outgrew the pleasure. Only now did Lucy realize that this must have broken their father’s heart. She couldn’t even remember the last time her dad had played a record for her, letting her dance on his feet, swaying and swinging her this way and that.
She wiped away a layer of dust off the top of the phonograph and lifted the top. Leaning over to wind the machine, she placed the fiber needle on the record that was already in there. And when the music filled the den, Lucy’s heart swelled with melancholy nostalgia. The melody was familiar. It was her father’s favorite.
The song was Ethel Water’s rendition of “Moonglow.” It was a beautiful melodious love song, so pure and happy.
Unable to move from her spot by the Victrola, Lucy watched the record spin and spin, the scratchiness of the needle amplified through the internal speakers. She listened to the plucky trombones and the lazy drawl of the trumpet. When she turned back to the group, she had tears in her eyes.
Darla picked up Teddy and placed him in her lap, where the child’s eyes began to close in increments as the song progressed. She stroked his hair and rocked him softly; her subtle swaying may have been instinct as she comforted her child or a response to the music, but it was clear that the song had transported her away from an Oregon living room, sitting with near-strangers.
The record stopped.
But the needle kept spinning.
Teddy’s eyes remained closed and Darla shifted him to her shoulder and stood up. “The munchkin and I are heading to bed. Ethan,” she said in a motherly tone, “pain killers in two hours.” Then she disappeared upstairs.
“Where should I sleep?” Grant asked and at first no one answered him. “If you’re concerned about—”
“Stop!” Lucy said quickly and firmly. “No. You’ll sleep in my parent’s room…if that’s okay.”
“It’s perfect,” he replied and he walked over to the doorway and turned around one last time. “Night. And…” he looked at Lucy, “I’ll see you.”
Lucy couldn’t bear it and she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him. “I’ll stay up with you, if you want. A game of Monopoly? You haven’t even had dinner…some of those meals downstairs didn’t sound so bad.” She knew how she sounded, but Lucy couldn’t help it; the thought of losing him and Salem in the same day was too much. “I’ll stay with you.”
Grant kissed the top of Lucy’s head in a brotherly way and smiled. “Let me be alone.” He took a breath. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had that much.” And he turned and ascended the stairs, taking each one with slow deliberate steps, looking down at his feet. Then Lucy watched as he disappeared down the hallway.
Ethan requested a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and Lucy couldn’t help but gag as she spread the peanut butter on their mother’s wheat and honey oat bread.
For the rest of the evening they danced around sensitive subjects and discussed their mutual horror stories. And Lucy even cried upon Ethan’s retelling of Anna’s death—although it happened as she hoped. He dropped Anna off at her house before heading back to their mom because he was too afraid to show up with Anna instead of Lucy and suffer the consequences. Anna’s mother outlived her daughter and that was the heartbreaking moment: Ethan returning to take Anna with him as company to the airport and discovering her mother screaming in the street.
No one knew what was happening. It had only just started then.
Talking with Ethan felt natural, but every once in awhile he would wince, and Lucy was reminded of his pain.
“Is it bad?” Lucy asked.
He nodded. “The painkillers don’t help. If we were dealing with a normal, everyday situation, I think I would lose my legs, but Lucy, I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If Spencer can do what we asked of him, I’ll have a doctor take a look at them soon.”
Lucy was reminded of what those four vials bought them—a chance to save Ethan’s life.
“You think he can do it? Find someone?” Lucy asked and then as she watched Ethan’s face fall, she immediately regretted it.
But he didn’t respond. After a long moment, Ethan reached over and grabbed her hand.
“I love you,” Ethan said. “Have I ever said that before?”
Lucy smiled. “Not recently.”
“Well, I do.”
“I love you too.”
“Yes, I think he can do it. I have to believe that he can. And we’re going to survive this. We’re going to figure this whole thing out.”
“Sure,” Lucy said with a smile. “As soon as we figure out what this is.”
Lucy wanted to sleep in her own bed. Ethan, sleepy and loopy from a cocktail of Vicodin and some of their father’s scotch, passed out on the couch. For several minutes, she stood outside her parent’s bedroom and pondered going inside to check on Grant, but the darkness and the distressing prospect of finding him already gone, kept her from fearlessly waltzing over with a flashlight. She opened the door and whispered, “Grant? Grant?” but he didn’t answer. And with a heavy heart, Lucy retreated, prepared for the worst.
Lucy, who had navigated her bedroom and the upstairs hallways during power outages and darkened lightless nights before, was not afraid of retreating to the shadows of her own room to sleep under her own sheets, under her own blanket. However, something about her house felt different than the other times she had been seeped in darkness.
She thought perhaps she could sleep and convince her brain that this night was just like any other night: Her parents downstairs, discussing the day in the absence of children with hushed voices. Harper asleep in her princess bed. Malcolm and Monroe tucked into their bunk-beds, trading fart jokes and brotherly quips. Galen reading contraband books by flashlight under the covers until someone caught him and forced him to bed. These were the rituals. This is what the house was supposed to feel like. Instead it felt like a tomb.