“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.
