“Who’s Laurie? Your sister?” He talked with his mouth full. It was one more thing at odds with the persona she’d built for Dr. Leland Hawthorne. And the novelty of it kept the usual pain at bay.
“She was my mother,” she said simply.
Lee was silent for a moment.
“Was,” he said, finally, no trace of question in the word. “That sucks.”
Wren loved how he recognized the truth and wasn’t afraid to say it.
The wind blew through the branches overhead. She looked up at the swaying moss and filled her lungs. A lot of things sucked, but at least out here, she could breathe.
“Yeah, it does suck,” she managed.
“I know all about that." Lee’s voice was gentle, and she appreciated the sentiment, but he was wrong. She peeled off a piece of chicken, but she couldn’t make herself eat it.
“How old were you when she died?” he asked.
Wren drew in another breath and sighed. If she told him anything, she’d have to tell him everything.Well, not everything,she reminded herself. She’d never tell himeverything.Wren didn’t like talking about Laurie, even with Mamaw. But she could give the rough details and leave it at that. Besides, if he didn’t like what he heard — if he decided that she’d come from trash — he didn’t have to see her again.
And that’s fine with me,she told herself. The lie wasn’t at home in her heart, so she spoke to push it aside.
“I was seven.” She heard Lee blow out a breath behind her.
“Shit,” he hissed. “I thought I was young. My mom died when I was ten.”
“Youwereyoung.”
“Yeah, but… by ten, you already understand death. You know it’s forever…"
Wren could tell by the motion of the boat that he’d started paddling again. The easy glide along the water soothed her. She closed her eyes.
“…but at seven, you’re still a baby. Your mom is still your whole world. I mean, she’s the one who fixes you breakfast and tucks you in at night and takes care of you when you’re sick—”
The bitter laugh nearly choked her. “Laurie was never that kind of mom.” And because Wren wasn’t looking at him — and she couldn’t see him looking back — it was easier to say the next part. “She was more like the mom who shoots up on your birthday and spends all afternoon staring at the ceiling. Or the mom who would ask you to stand in the doorway of your grandparents’ kitchen as a lookout while she swiped a piece or two from their silver service.”
“Wren… good God.”
She was ready for him to turn the kayak around and paddle them back to shore, but his rowing ceased.
“She OD’ed?” he asked, sparing her from explaining. She knew he was watching her, so she let her chin tilt to her right shoulder, but not far enough to take in the look on his face, and she nodded.
“And your grandparents raised you?”
This was easier to say. This she had no problem owning. Mamaw and Papaw had done the best they could, even when their world had come to an end.
“Yeah… anyway, they did until Papaw Dale died when I was sixteen. Then it was just me and Mamaw Gigi. She’s my rock.”
“Is she your only family?”
His tone was still gentle, but it was far from casual. Lee was listening. Carefully. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time someone other than Mamaw, or Cherise, or Shelby and Rocky hadlistenedso closely. Certainly, none of the guys she’d ever dated had asked her so much about Laurie and her childhood.
“Pretty much. Laurie had an older brother named Lyle, but he was killed in Desert Storm when I was a baby.”
“Oh, Jesus. Your poor grandparents,” Lee said, sounding sick.
Wren closed her eyes and could see the pictures of her Uncle Lyle on Mamaw Gigi’s mantle: Lyle pole-vaulting at a track tournament; Lyle in a letterman jacket senior year; Lyle in his dress blues before he deployed. A familiar ghost. He was twenty-three when he died in Iraq, two years younger than she was now.
“I really don’t know how they kept it together,” Wren admitted. “But they did. I don’t know… maybe people who were born before TV are just stronger. More real. I’ve thought about it a lot, and that’s the best I can come up with.”
