Whispers of Us

By I J N

"Whispers of Us" invites you to embark on a literary journey that explores the intricacies of love, family, and the enduring echoes of the past. This poignant tale unfolds across generations, weaving together a tapestry of emotions that will linger in your heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: I J N
• Release date: Dec 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869054609

Book preview

Whispers of Us

This text was originally published in India on the year of 2023.

The edits and layout of this version are Copyright © 2023

by I J N

This publication has no affiliation with the original Author or publication company.

Whispers of Us

I J N

India

2023

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1- AVERY STAFFORD, AIKEN, SOUTH CAROLINA PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER 2- MAY CRANDALL - AIKEN COUNTY SOUTH CAROLINA, PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER 3- AVERY STAFFORD, SOUTH CAROLINA PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER 4 - RILL FOSS - AT MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE, 1939

CHAPTER 5 - AVERY

CHAPTER 6 - RILL

CHAPTER 7 – AVERY

CHAPTER 8 - RILLALITAT

CHAPTER 9 - MAY CRANDALL

CHAPTER 10 - RILL

CHAPTER 11- AVERY

CHAPTER 12- RILL

CHAPTER 13 - AVERY

CHAPTER 14- RILL

CHAPTER 15- AVERY

CHAPTER 16 -RILL

CHAPTER 17- AVERY

CHAPTER 18- RILL

CHAPTER 19 – AVERY

CHAPTER 20- RILL

CHAPTER 21- AVERY

CHAPTER 22- RILL

CHAPTER 23- AVERY

CHAPTER 24- RILL

CHAPTER 25- AVERY

CHAPTER 26- MAY CRANDALL

CHAPTER 1- AVERY STAFFORD, AIKEN, SOUTH CAROLINA PRESENT DAY

As I sit scooted to the edge of my seat and straightened my jacket as the limo pulls to a stop on the scorching asphalt, news vans line up outside to emphasize its importance as I gather myself for what seems to be an innocuous meeting this morning.

However, this day will not unfold by accident. These past two months in South Carolina have been all about fine-tuning the details to ensure they come together beautifully - inflections that hint yet do not reveal too much information.

No definitive statements should be made.

Not yet; at least not in my lifetime.

Wishing to forget why I came home, my father wasn't reading his notes or receiving briefing from Leslie - his amazingly efficient press secretary - is an undeniable reminder. But there was no escaping our enemy who rode with us silently in the backseat; hidden beneath his gray tailored suit that hangs too loose over his broad shoulders was lurking nearby.

Daddy looks out the window, leaning toward one side with his head tilted to one side. He has left Leslie and his other aides in another vehicle.

How are you feeling? I ask him, then reach across to brush a long blond hair-- mine--off of his seat so it won't cling to his trousers when he gets out. My mother would bring out a mini lint brush but she has gone home early to prepare for our second event: taking family Christmas pictures months early...in case Daddy's condition worsens.

He sits up straighter, lifting his head. Static has caused his thick gray hair to stick straight out. I would like to smooth it back in for him but that would violate protocol.

My mother is involved in all aspects of our lives, from picking out lint to planning the family Christmas photo in July, while my father stands apart as an island of maleness in our household of women. While he cares deeply for my mother and two sisters--he rarely expresses this love out loud--I know I am his favorite yet most perplexed; being from an era when women went to college only for MRS degrees is hard for him to comprehend when faced with thirty year-old daughter who graduated top of her class from Columbia Law and actually enjoying working life at U.S. attorney offices!

As perfectionist daughter and sweet daughter roles were already filled in my family, I've always been the brainiac daughter. School was something I looked forward to immensely and there was always the underlying assumption that I would become the torchbearer, the one to carry the family torchbearer torch after my father. Somehow I always imagined I'd be older by then so as not to surprise anyone or surprise myself!

My dad always taught us to value public service, which Daddy continues to embrace after graduating from West Point. Now when I look at him I think, How could you not want it, Avery? After all this is what he has worked his whole life towards and generations of Staffords before him have sacrificed so much for. Since graduating West Point our family has held true to public service - this includes daddy.

At Fort Point and as an Army Aviator before my birth, he has upheld our family name with dignity and determination.

Of course you want this, I remind myself. You have always desired it.

Just don't expect it to happen yet and in this manner. That's all it is!

Secretly, I am still holding out hope that things will turn out okay in Aiken and that my enemies can be overcome on both political and medical fronts. With any luck, my father will be healed after surgery early from summer Congress session combined with regular doses from the chemo pump strapped around his leg; thus making my move back home temporary.

Cancer will no longer be part of our lives.

Other people have succeeded, and Senator Wells Stafford may also.

My dad is one of the greatest men ever lived. No other individual comes close.

Ready? He asks as he straightens his suit, providing me with relief when he removes the rooster tail in his hair - I hadn't expected to become his caretaker so soon.

Right behind you. I would do anything for him, but I hope we won't need to reverse roles as soon. Watching my father struggle to make decisions on behalf of my mother is proof enough of how hard that can be.

My once lively and humorous Grandma Judy has since faded, becoming almost unrecognizable to Daddy and all our family. Unfortunately, no one knows about the situation other than themselves and therefore cannot discuss it further. If the media learn that we have moved her to an upscale facility on an estate not far away, this will only exacerbate her situation politically. Given the recent series of eldercare facility-related wrongful deaths and abuse cases in our state, my father's political opponents would likely point out that only those with money can afford premium care services; they might also accuse my dad of housing his mother because he cares nothing for elderly individuals or even say he will turn a blind eye toward any concerns related to elder care in his care facility.

Helpless victims' needs should not be sacrificed if it benefits his friends and campaign contributors.

As it stands, his decisions for Grandma Judy are in no way political; we're just like any other family in terms of guilt, pain and shame associated with dementia. Every available avenue leads us towards embarrassment for Grandma Judy; every step leads towards fearing where this path of decline might end; it leaves us all heartbroken about where this journey might lead. Just before moving my grandmother into a nursing home she managed to elude caretakers and household staff by calling a taxi and disappearing all day - only to eventually surface later that night at what used to be her favorite shopping mall - why she managed this feat when she couldn't remembering us is beyond comprehension.

Today I'm wearing one of her favorite pieces of jewelry; I barely noticed it as I exited the limo door. Although it may appear that I chose this dragonfly bracelet in honor of Stafford women, really it serves as a silent reminder that sometimes doing what must be done even when we don't want to can make us uncomfortable - nursing homes never were one of my favorite places. The location for today's event makes me cringe; nursing homes never seemed quite right to me.

As I tell myself, this meeting-and-greet will only last an hour. We are here as journalists covering an event, not for questions; so, instead, we will shake hands, tour the building, join residents for their birthday celebration and witness an impressive feat: one woman turning one hundred while her husband turns ninety-nine! Quite an accomplishment indeed.

My sister's triplets had just let loose a torrent of spray sanitizer in my sister's hallway, leaving an artificial jasmine scent floating through the air. Leslie sniffs before nodding her approval as we stand surrounded by photographers and interns/aides preparing for an afternoon town hall forum without bodyguards; in years past my father has received death threats from fringe groups, minutemen militias, as well as individuals claiming to be snipers, bioterrorists, or kidnappers; although my dad rarely takes these threats seriously whereas his security people do take them seriously.

After turning the corner, we are met by the nursing home director and two news crews with cameras. As we tour, they film while my father adds to his charm by shaking hands, posing for photos, and taking time to chat.

Talk with people, bend close to wheelchairs and express our thanks to nurses for all they put into each and every day's job.

As I follow along and do what they suggest, a debonair elderly gentleman in a tweed bowler hat flirts with me in his charming British accent and tells me I have beautiful blue eyes. Had it been fifty years ago, he jokes, I could charm you into agreeing to a date!

I believe you already have, I quip, as we laugh together.

One of the nurses informs me that Mr. McMorris is an overbearing silver-haired Don Juan; to demonstrate this point he winks at her to show it's true.

As I walk down the hall to celebrate the hundredth birthday party, I realize that I'm actually having fun. Everyone here appears happy; while this nursing home may not compare with Grandma Judy's home for seniors, its management far surpasses many facilities mentioned by plaintiffs in recent lawsuits. Odds are, those plaintiffs will never see any monies from court awards of damages; moneymen behind nursing home chains utilize numerous holding companies and shell corporations that they can easily dissolve to avoid paying claims. So it has been especially disappointing to learn of links between one of these chains and my father's oldest friend and biggest donor, potentially damaging chains that were long held close by the police force, and his high profile position that can serve as an easy target for public anger and political finger pointing.

Anger and blame can be powerful tools in the hands of the opposition. They know this.

In the common room, a small podium has been installed. I take my spot next to glass doors that lead out into an oasis-like garden filled with vibrant blooms despite the oppressive summer heat.

One of the sheltered garden paths was home to an isolated woman. Facing away, she seemed unaware of her surroundings while staring into the distance with hands resting on a cane and wearing an easy cream cotton dress with white sweater despite its warmth, with thick gray locks braided into braids around her head and braids around it's center strands twisted tightly around it all.

Her long, colorless dress and unadorned head make her seem almost ghostlike; perhaps some long-forgotten remnant from an ancient past. A breeze rustles the wisteria trellis without ever touching her directly, further reinforcing this effect that she is no longer present.

As soon as I entered, my attention turned towards the nursing home director. She warmly welcomed everyone and noted the purpose for today's gathering - living a full century is no easy feat, let alone married for most of it with your beloved still by your side; indeed this occasion should warrant a senatorial visit!

My father has had this couple as supporters since his days in South Carolina's state government; technically they know him longer than me! When his name is mentioned at any event or ceremony, our honoree and her husband hold up thin hands high in the air and clap furiously to show their devotion.

The director tells the tale of Luci and Frank, two charming lovers seated across from each other at the center table. Luci was born in France when horse-drawn carriages still roamed its streets--it's hard to comprehend! She served with French Resistance during World War Two; Frank, her fighter pilot husband, was shot down during combat; their story is something out of a film: Luci helped disguise him and smuggle him out injured through escape chains before going back afterward; finding Luci still living on their farm where she had hidden herself - only to discover she still lived underground - in her cellar with her family in France!

These two have proven me wrong time after time; their story inspires awe in me. Their love is real and strong; people devote themselves completely to one another despite any sacrifice necessary; this is something I hope for myself as well as for our modern generation, but sometimes wonder if such commitment is achievable given our lack of attention spans and lack of time available.

Looking down at my engagement ring, I realized Elliot and I are the right pair; we know each other so well; we've always been together...

A birthday girl slowly pushes herself from her chair, taking her partner's arm. Together they slowly walk along, leaning against each other as they progress together stooped and crookedly towards retirement - it's heartwarming and I wish that my parents can live to this stage in life - I hope someday when my father finally decides to slow down or retire, hopefully my parents deserve a peaceful retirement with plenty of quiet days spent together and seasons passing quietly by before having my father finally go when he eventually decides to stop working and relax into retirement... years down the road when my father decides to slow down with my disease or finally retire he deserves an extended retirement with peaceful seasons passing annually with time spent spent spent enjoying each other and spending quality time alone together!

As I push away these thoughts, a tender feeling arises in my chest and I remind myself not to display overwhelming displays of emotion in public--something Leslie often reminded us not to do as women cannot afford it in this arena; showing too much emotion could be taken as evidence of incompetence or weakness.

As I already knew, a courtroom can be intimidating. Female lawyers in particular face extra challenges when trying to navigate this minefield of rules and expectations.

My father salutes Frank as they meet near the podium. Frank stops, straightens, and returns the salute with military precision, meeting my father's gaze head-on as they meet. Their gazes meet, creating a pure moment which may look perfect on camera but may actually not have been intended for this camera; my father's lips tightened into a tight line as he tried not to shed a tear during this interaction.

He never normally lets his feelings show.

As another surge of emotion swept through, I took another deep breath and focused my gaze away from her to look out the window towards the garden woman who still stands there, staring off into space - wondering who she could possibly be, what they might want or need, etc.

Happy Birthday booms through the window and gradually draws her toward it, drawing me into its grip as I watch. Knowing cameras may come my way and cause me to appear distracted, I'm drawn back into staring out onto the path outside; hoping at least to catch glimpses of her face; whether blank like summer sky? Or is she simply disoriented and lost, skipping festivities outright?

Leslie pulls my jacket from behind, prompting me to stand upright like an elementary school pupil caught talking out of turn.

Happy birth-- Focus, my aunt sings close to my ear as she walks off to find an optimal position to take cellphone photographs for my father's Instagram page. Luckily, the senator is aware of all the latest social media platforms; his social media manager knows all the tricks.

As the ceremony continued, camera flashes lit up the room as my father gave a framed congratulatory letter as family members cheered him on and took photos and videos.

As it's being rolled up the cake is illuminated by hundreds of candles.

Leslie is overjoyed! Happiness achand emotion fill her room like an overinflated helium balloon; any more joy could send us all off into space!

My hand and wrist were suddenly touched, the fingers of a stranger suddenly entangling my fingers so unexpectedly that my instinctive reaction was to pull away, then stop myself so as not to create an unnecessary scene. Their grip was cold and bony yet strong despite its weak appearance; I turned around and saw the woman from the garden standing up straight with eyes the color of Drayden Hill hydrangeas with lighter misting around their edges - her pleated lips quivering slightly in response.

Before I could gather myself, a nurse came quickly to gather her. May, she pleaded apologetic. "Come along; you shouldn't bother our guests.

She seems desperate, yet I can't discern why she clings so tightly. I don't understand what's holding her up - what might be keeping her there?

She searched my face, stretching upward.

Fern? she whispers softly. Forever and always!

CHAPTER 2- MAY CRANDALL - AIKEN COUNTY SOUTH CAROLINA, PRESENT DAY

On occasion, it feels as if my mind has lost its latches, allowing doors to swing open at will with no warning - offering glimpses inside here, an empty space there or even just dark corners that I am afraid to enter.

Never knowing what will come my way.

No one knows when or why a barrier will open wide.

Psychologists on television shows refer to triggers as triggers, likening it to striking a match and sending bullets flying down an armory barrel. It is an apt analogy.

Her face provokes something.

An unexpected door opened into my past, drawing me through unwittingly at first, wondering what could possibly be hidden inside. Once I call out Fern's name I know it wasn't her I was thinking about but Queenie instead!

Queenie, our strong mama, distinguished all of us with her lovely golden curls; all except poor Camellia who fell victim to them.

My thoughts skitter nimbly across treetops and valley floors, taking me all the way back to when I last saw Queenie - on a low-lying Mississippi riverbank - where that warm Memphis night air still swirled gently around us both - only for it all to have been an illusionary illusion!

It does not show mercy. It does not forgive.

From this night onward, there will be no turning back.

At twelve, still thin and knobby as a front porch post, I dangled my legs beneath the rail of our shantyboat while watching out for any signs of alligator eyes catching the amber glow from lantern lights. Although alligators should never venture so far upstream on the Mississippi, reports of sightings have surfaced recently; making looking for them an entertaining game among shantyboat children who seek entertainment wherever it may exist.

Right now, we need something to distract us more than ever before.

Fern climbs the rail and searches the woods for fireflies, learning to count them at nearly four years old. She points a stubby finger out at them without thinking twice of any nearby alligators: I seen one, Rill! I seen 'im! she exclaims excitedly.

Don't fall off, this time. Don't come chasing after me.

Truth be told, she probably wouldn't suffer much if she fell. In fact, it might even serve as a good lesson. Our boat was tied off in a pleasant backwater across from Mud Island; its depth is only hip deep for me off Arcadia's stern; Fern might reach down onto tiptoes to touch bottom but all five of us swim like pollywogs regardless; Gabion still can't even speak full sentences yet! Being born onto rivers becomes second nature to them all of its sounds, ways, creatures - truly our homeplace and safe haven!

But something is off...something I sense as wrong. A spat of gooseflesh runs up my arms and needles my cheeks; an uncomfortable knowing lurks within me that I keep quiet, yet is always present. A chill settles through me in this airless summer night atop thick clouds as big as melons that seem ready to burst; there's certainly a storm coming...yet what I sense is something more.

Queenie's soft groans increased with each push from Miz Foss. Her unplanned child had come out wrong-sided and would likely not survive; neither would you - that was it; now calm down and be easy.

Queenie emits a low, wrenching noise that sounds like someone pulling their boot out of thick bayou mud. While she once gave birth quickly and effortlessly to us five, this time around it seems much longer. I rub sweat from my arms and sense something sinister lurking nearby - something looking at us from somewhere outside; perhaps even looking directly for Queenie herself?

I want to run down the gangplank and down to shore and shout: Get away now, don't take my mama!

I don't fear being eaten alive by alligators, so instead I sit still as a killdeer on its nest listening to the midwife speak - she is loud enough that I may as well be there!

Oh no! She has more than one inside!

My daddy murmures something I can't hear; his boot steps cross the floor then hesitate before crossing again.

Mista Foss, there is nothing I can do. If this woman doesn't see a doctor quickly enough, her babies won't make it here and today could also be their mama's last day."

Briny doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he pounds both fists hard against the wall until Queenie's picture frames rattle. Something slips loose and there's a loud clink of metal against wood that lets me know exactly where and what it is; something tells me it must be Queenie's tin cross with its sad-faced man on top that I want to run inside and grab, kneeling next to Queenie on stormy nights when Briny has left her alone on board their shantyboat and rainwater pours off roof roof and waves crash against its hull.

But I do not speak the strange and foreign tongue Queenie picked up from her family before running off with Briny to the river. Any Polish words I know would only cause confusion.

String them all together, but if I could grab Queenie's cross right now I would say them to him when the storms arrive.

I would do anything possible to facilitate Queenie's birthing process and see her smile once more.

On the other side of the door, Briny's boot scrapes along the planks as I hear his cross clank loudly on the floor. Briny stares out through a cloudy window from the farmhouse he tore down to build his boat before I was ever born - when his mother lay dying and crops droughted out for another year, bankers would likely come for his home regardless. Briny had decided that life on the river would be ideal at that time - and when Depression hit, him and Queenie were living just fine on water; even Depression couldn't starve them of living - something Briny says every time he tells the tale - it has its own magic that takes care of its people... always will.

Tonight, however, that magic seems to have disintegrated.

Mista, can you hear me calling? the midwife demanded. I won't stand here while their blood stains my hands any longer; get her to hospital now or face consequences!

Briny tightens his face behind the glass, his eyes closing tight. He brings a fist close to his forehead before letting it hit against the wall with forceful force - the storm... he whispers huskily.

Mista Foss, I don't give a damn who dances by. There's nothing I can do for this gal; nothing.

She never causes trouble for anyone...it never gets any worse...

Queenie lets out a high and loud cry that resonates like the calling of a wildcat through the darkness.

"Unless I missed something, she has never had two babies at the same time before now.

Let me just get this done now, I tell Fern, and take her around to join Gabion (two) and Lark (six). Camellia stares out the front window at me before closing the gate across the gangplank to lock them all onto the porch with me telling them all what I expect of them all.

Camellia frowns in response. At ten years old, she's got Briny's muley streak as well as his dark hair and eyes; she doesn't take kindly to being told what to do and can often be stubborn as an oak stump; should the little kids start fussing, we will find ourselves even deeper into trouble than before.

Everything will be fine, I assured them as I patted their soft golden heads like puppies. Queenie's just having a hard time; nobody needs to bother her; just stay put now because Old Roguerou is out rootin' round tonight; heard him breathing just now - not safe to be out! Now that I am twelve, I don't believe in Old Rougeou, the buggerman and Mad Captain Jack of the River Pirates as much; Camellia may never have believed Briny's wild tales about them either!

She grasps for the door latch.

Don't, I replied indignantly. I'll go.

Briny told us to keep out, which he rarely says without meaning it, yet right now he seems helpless and I am worried for Queenie and my new baby brother or sister whose name wasn't supposed to come yet - even earlier than Gabion who came into this world before Briny could find someone to assist with the birthing process.

This new baby doesn't seem eager to make life any simpler for anyone; perhaps when she arrives she will look similar to Camellia and be just as rebellious.

Babies, I thought. And it dawned on me that there are multiple newborn babies like puppies - this ain't normal. Queenie made a bed curtain out of Golden Heart flour sacks; three lives lay half-hidden under its shadow; three bodies tried desperately to pull apart but couldn't.

Before I can decide whether or not to enter, the midwife is on top of me and her hand locks onto my arm with such force that it feels as if her fingers go around twice around me. Looking down, I see dark skin against pale, knowing she could snap me apart with just one movement; why can't she save my baby brother or sister and bring it out into this world instead?

Queenie grabs onto the curtain, screaming and tugging as she arching herself off of the bed, until a half dozen wire hooks rip loose. I see my mother's face: long corn-silk blonde hair matted to her skin, beautiful soft blue eyes that have marked all of us save Camellia protruding, tight cheek skin stretched tight enough that lacy veins like dragonfly wings could cross through it all at once - her skin stretched so tight, stretching into lacy veins like dragonfly wings.

Daddy? My whisper comes on the heels of Queenie's shriek, yet still seems to disrupt the atmosphere in the room. I don't typically refer to Briny or Queenie as my parents until something serious goes amiss; their age meant they never taught me these terms as such; we always seemed more like friends than parents at our age; yet sometimes when something goes terribly wrong like when we saw someone hanging dead from a tree nearby... Sometimes though I need them both to step in as my daddy or mama -- like when we saw someone hanging dead from an uprooted tree... but just recently when we saw someone hanging dead from tree branches...

Will Queenie look this way if she dies? Or will the babies go first before her?

My stomach tightens so tightly I no longer sense that big hand around my arm; maybe even glad it is there holding me steady and keeping me anchored to my spot - afraid to approach Queenie any closer.

Tell him! The midwife shakes me violently and it hurts.

Her white teeth gleam in the lantern light.

Thunder rumbled nearby and a gust of wind hit the starboard wall, sending Queenie and me running forward together. Queenie looked up at me like an innocent child would and begged for my assistance, seeming convinced I can assist in some way.

D-Daddy? I stammer out again as he continues staring straight ahead, his face turned away as though sensing danger nearby.

From outside, I saw Camellia pressed against the glass. Little kids had climbed up onto a bench nearby to peer inside. Lark had tears running down her fat cheeks - her great dislike for any living thing being hurt is evident as she throws back all baitfish back into the river whenever possible; whenever Briny shoots any animals (possums, ducks, etc), Lark always throws back all baitfish back into it before throwing tantrums of protest against him.

As she passes squirrels or deer, she pretends they have killed one of her best friends right there before her.

Queenie needs saving, just like they all do. I feel responsible.

There's a spit of lightning somewhere off in the distance that pushes back yellow coal-oil glow before going dark. I try counting backwards so that I'll know how far away the storm is, but am too startled by it to keep track.

Briny needs to get Queenie into the hands of a doctor as soon as possible - time is running out as we are camped along the wild shore and Memphis lies across the wide Mississippi.

As I cough out the lump from my throat and stiffen up my neck to avoid further complications, Briny reminds me to bring her across-water immediately. Briny, take her across-water immediately.

Slowly, he turns towards me with eyes still glassy from sleeping, yet looking as though they have been waiting for somebody other than the midwife to direct them what to do.

"Briny, you must transport her immediately in the skiff before that storm arrives. Moving the shantyboat would take too long - Briny would see this immediately if his mind were clear enough.

Tell him! the midwife encouraged, leading me toward Briny with a push. If the pregnant woman were left on board the boat until morning came around she may die within hours - with consequences being detrimental to both mother and child.

CHAPTER 3- AVERY STAFFORD, SOUTH CAROLINA PRESENT DAY

Avery! Please come down here!

Nothing transports you faster from thirty to thirteen than hearing your mother say Coming! I'll be right there at the top of the stairs.

Elliot laughs comfortably into his phone. This familiar yet comforting sound transports me back to childhood, when his mother and mine provided strict oversight over our behavior - and never allowed any form of mischief from occurring; we were more or less doomed to remain good together. Sounds like we're on, sweetie! Sounds good, sweetheart. Let's do this!

The family Christmas picture. Leaning toward the mirror, I brush blond corkscrews from my face only for them to fall back down again after walking from nursing home event back down to stable. A quick walk down there after returning brought out Grandma Judy curls; something I knew would happen; however, after being so overwhelmed by excitement from broodmare foaling last night (a new baby!), and no straightener available I just can't resist! Now paying the price.

No breeze can compare to that coming off of Edisto River.

Christmas pictures in July? Elliot coughed and I was reminded how much I miss him. We're two months into living so far apart and this challenge can be daunting.

She's anxious about the chemo treatment; although they assured her it wouldn't cause him to lose his hair, she fears he might. No doctor on Earth can make Mama feel better about Daddy's colon cancer diagnosis; Mama has always taken charge, and won't step aside now; if Mama predicts his hair will thin then it probably will.

Your mother reminds me a lot of mine! Elliot laughs again as his and my mothers, Bitsy and Bitsie are cousins cut from two corners of the same cloth.

She's just terrified of losing Daddy. I choke on the last word as these past months have stripped us raw from within and left each one of us quietly bleeding beneath our skins.

Elliot looks at me for what seems like an eternity before speaking again, computer keys clicking gently behind his back and I remember that his brokerage firm means everything to him; calling in his fiancee at work would only serve to distract from the task at hand. It's good that you're there, Aves, Elliot concluded after another silence from Aves, it's good that she's there too. Thanks Aves; good to have you around.

I hope my writing is helping. Sometimes it feels as if my efforts may actually add more stress than alleviate it.

You need to stay, Elliot tells me repeatedly when we have this conversation - particularly whenever I find myself wanting to catch a flight back to Maryland and resume working at the United States Attorney's Office where there was no need to deal with cancer treatments, early Christmas pictures, constituents or desperate-looking women like the one at the nursing home who grabbed my arm in desperation.

Hey Aves. Please wait a second. It has been an eventful morning; Elliot put me on hold while taking another call, which delayed our meeting until now. Hold on for just a second; things are crazy here this morning!"

My thoughts drift back to this morning as I recall May standing in the garden wearing her white sweater and standing near me wearing bone-thin hands that clasp my wrist tightly with their boney grip, walking cane in hand. Her look of recognition in her eyes was haunting - as though she knew who I was already!

Fern? Fernie, it's me. Tears prick her eyes. Oh dear, I have missed you so.

They told me you were no longer here; yet I knew you wouldn't break our promise and leave me.

For just an instant, I felt compelled to become Fern, just so she'd stop being so alone and lonely staring into the wisteria. She looked lost.

At that point, my attendant intervenes red-faced and clearly rattled. Mrs. Crandall had just moved here from another state; I apologize, she whispers directly to me; Mrs. Crandall is new here - Mrs. Crandall seems strong, so the attendant wraps her arm firmly around Mrs. Crandall's shoulder while pulling at Mrs. Crandall's hand from mine to lead Mrs. Crandall back towards her room step by step until the nurse speaks quietly saying Come on, May, I'll take you back there

I watch her walk away feeling helpless to assist. But what can I do?

Stiff upper lip; I know you can handle it. After witnessing you take on big-city defense attorneys before, Aiken shouldn't be too much of an issue for you.

I know, I mutter to her, as we exchange glances. I apologize for bothering you; I guess I just needed to hear your voice again, I guess. My cheeks flush red as my blush surges upward. Usually I am not this dependent; perhaps this stems from the health crisis for Daddy and Grandma Judy combined. A palpable sense of mortality hangs heavy over my life like river fog that I can only navigate blindly through.

Don't be too hard on yourself, Elliot said gently. Give this problem time; worrying won't solve anything.

"Yes, of course you are.

Can I have that in writing?

Elliot's joke draws out laughter in me. Never. I grab my