Page 92 of Go, Rogue

He hasn’t even asked the question yet.

“Did someone come here for it?” he tries again.

“They did. Sent by your brother, no less. And before you ask, I gave it to them.”

He hears the defensiveness in her voice and doesn’t know how to read it.

“I wish you hadn’t,” is all he can think to say.

“What you wish I’d done or not done isn’t my concern. Those men came here and they threatened me—and what’s more, they threatened you. Of course I gave it to them. There’s nothing in it more important than your life, child.”

She sounds more resolute now, less defensive. And her tone brooks no argument from him.

“Now, how does that leg feel?” she asks, changing the subject. “I wasn’t sure that fever was going to break.”

The ache in his leg is a constant, low-lying hum to their conversation, but it’s nothing like the sharp, swollen excruciation he felt before.

“It’s better,” he says. “Thank you.”

“Bitter melon and saltwater rinses. Plus all my rum.”

“You mentioned that already, Gran.”

“I was making sure you heard me. Now, listen to me, child, I understand whatever you were keeping in that box was important to you.”

McGann starts to speak but she holds up a hand for him to stop, and he obeys.

“Best let me say this,” she continues. “I can tell it’s bothering you.” He stays quiet, while she goes on. “That box held your mother’s things, along with that photograph. I know you thought it important enough to hide it away out here on the island. But you believe me when I tell you there is nothing more important than keeping yourself alive. Nothing. When you get to my age, that’s the only thing you know for certain. That you can’t take life for granted. Do you understand me?”

“I do.”

And he does.

What’s done is done, and there’s a part of him that soaks up this conversation like a parched field soaks up rainwater. His grandmother, he realizes, has tried to protect him—not betray him. The fact that he hadn’t even considered that as a possibility makes him feel dumber than the worst kind of dolt.

“Now then,” she says. “Tell me about that girl who brought you here. I could tell she wanted to stay, but best to wait until you’ve healed.”

He turns his head. “Did she now?” he asks, and even he can hear the hope in his voice.

“She did. Stubborn like you, I sense. Must be Scottish too. She sunburned like a Scot, in any case. Her face was red as a sorrel leaf.”

McGann grins. “She’s English, not Scottish. And I’m only half-Scottish anyway. Half-Scot, half-Jamaican. Half-Black, half-white.”

Half-subjugator, half-subjugated, the familiar thought rises, unbidden. Half-breed.

His grandmother narrows her eyes. “Have you had a knock on the head, child? You’re not half of anything.”

McGann looks at her, confused. “Of course I am. Only half, never whole. Betwixt and between, as they say.”

She rolls her eyes before she demands of him, “Who says that? You’re not a pie, Andrew. You’ve not been cut up into slices to pass around a dinner table. You’re a whole person. A Jamaican, if you want to be, and a Scot. Both, not half. Double, not less. Did that father of yours teach you nothing?”

“No,” McGann says flatly. “He didn’t.”

She sighs. “He always was weak-willed. I told your mother so, but she wouldn’t hear a word against him. She loved the fool. And then when she passed and he took you away…” She shakes her head. “He told me he would love you. Not that it mattered what I thought. I couldn’t have stopped him from taking you any more than I could stop the tide from rising. He was a duke, and even here, that carries more weight than I’ve got. But he did say you’d have a better life there than here. It wasn’t true?”

“No. It wasn’t.”

“So I gather.” She sighs again. “Well, Andrew, all the more reason to live now, isn’t it? So you can have that life that should have been yours. One where you’re happy.” She looks pointedly at his leg. “And one that doesn’t take all my rum and moonshine to fix you up.”

She rises slowly and makes her way across the room to him. She’s bent from her age and a lifetime of forced labor. Her hair is a white shock, and her hands are gnarled like the roots of an oak tree. But he can see his own face in hers—the slope of his brow and the shape of his eyes.

He hasn’t known before this moment how much that would mean to him—to see his face in hers. To imagine his mother’s there too. That he might resemble her, even a little bit.

“Did she look like me?” he asks, and he doesn’t care that it makes him sound like a little boy. He feels like a little boy.

He knows he should’ve asked these questions the first time he met his gran, but he’d been short on time. And bravery. He’d been afraid of what he might hear: that his mother hadn’t loved him. That his grandmother had given him away.

Those fears seem absurd now, under her gaze.

“Your mother?” His grandmother lowers herself to the edge of the bed beside him and reaches for his hand. “Ama looked exactly like you.” She pauses. “You’ve got her face, child, and I could sit here and stare at you all day if you’d let me. Ama would have loved you fiercely for your whole life, had she the chance. Don’t you ever doubt that. Do you hear me? Never.”

“I won’t,” he says, tilting his head away from her to hide the sheen of tears gathering in his eyes.

She grasps his large hand with her fragile one, and he holds on as tightly as he dares.