Magnolia (7 page)

We'd gone to Fort Walton Beach for two weeks this summer, and I can picture her there, lying on the sugar-white sand beside me, all tanned and toned, her hair twisted into a messy knot on top of her head while seagulls circled lazily overhead. I remember her propping up on one elbow to watch Ryder mess
around in the clear, emerald-green water on his skimboard.

“Okay, wow,” she'd said, lowering her sunglasses to look me in the eye. “I realize he's three years younger than me and our parents pretty much betrothed the two of you at birth, but if you decide you don't want him, I'm happy to take one for the team. Just saying.”

I'd playfully punched her in the arm and somehow ended up chasing her down the beach, the foamy surf lapping at our ankles. I couldn't catch her, of course. She's too fast. Daddy's right—she's strong, like the petals on a magnolia bloom.

But we're talking
brain
surgery here. I shudder involuntarily at the thought, trying to push the horrifying images out of my head.

“Thanks for telling me, Daddy,” I say, trying to hold it together—to be as strong as my sister.

But deep in my heart, I know that I'm not. That I never will be. Nan is the magnolia, not me.

A
s soon as we finish supper, I slip outside and head down to the creek. I pull out a kayak from the shed by the dock and drag it down to the water's edge.

In minutes I'm paddling on the still, dark water, my kayak gliding silently through the purplish-hued twilight. Along the banks, colorful wildflowers ruffle in the breeze—wild hyacinth, swamp hibiscus, and cardinal flowers. I can hear the shuffling of muskrat and opossum in the tall grasses on either side of me. A snake slips into the water with a splash. In the distance, a lone owl hoots. These are all familiar sounds—sounds of home. As I cut my paddle through the water I feel my worries slip away, replaced by a peaceful calm.

It doesn't take me long to reach my destination, a little cove at the bend of the creek with a stretch of sandy beach. Hopping
out, I lug the kayak up onto the sand, grab the towel I'd stowed inside, and head up the steep, grassy embankment.

I let out a sigh as I crest the rise, taking in the sight before me. It's ruins of some kind—a relic from the days when Magnolia Landing was a working plantation. Not much is left but a stone foundation and crumbling whitewashed bricks. Two walls still stand—at least, partially so—and a crumbling staircase rises toward the sky.

It probably used to be a storehouse of some kind, as it's not far from the original ferry-landing site that gave the plantation its name. Whatever the case, it's been taken over by nature now, tangled vines creeping across the bricks and crawling over the foundation.

But there's something about it—some sort of gothic appeal—that sparked Nan's imagination. We'd spent hours here as children, pretending that we were planters' daughters waiting for our beaux to return from the war, or abolitionists hiding out as we plotted to free slaves. Sometimes I played the part of Nan's lady's maid, braiding her long hair and decorating it with dandelions. Other times, Ryder would join us, playacting whatever male role Nan assigned him.

I find a spot on a little rise and lay down my towel before sitting on the ground and pulling out my cell from my pocket. Quickly, I type out a text:
Are you okay?

Nan answers almost immediately.
I'm fine. See you Saturday.

That's it—no explanation, no elaboration. I'm not sure what I expected, or why I had to come all the way out here to try to contact her. Suddenly, I feel alone. Too alone. I miss my sister; I want her here with me. Saturday is five days away—what am I supposed to do until then? I can't stop thinking about it—Nan, with a brain tumor. I can't stop worrying. Even now, my stomach is in knots.

At the sound of footsteps, I turn to find Ryder headed toward me. Somehow, I'm not surprised. He lifts one hand in greeting as he approaches wearing faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His hair is wet, like he's just gotten out of the shower.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm happy to see him—glad for the company, even his.

“I figured I'd find you here,” he says, his eyes filled with concern. Everything about him, from his posture to the tight set of his jaw, broadcasts a worry that matches mine.

Feud forgotten, I scoot over, making room for him on my towel. “I guess you heard?”

“Yeah. Your mom called mine.” He sits down beside me, smelling of soap and aftershave. “She'll be fine, Jemma. Nan's strong,” he says, almost repeating word for word what my dad had said earlier.

I reach for a blade of grass and snap it off, twirling it absently between my fingers. “This all seems so surreal. I keep hoping
I'll wake up and find out it was just a dream. Nan's always been as healthy as a horse—it just doesn't make sense.”

“I know,” he says with a nod. “But these kinds of things never seem to make sense. My mom said that they don't think it's cancerous, though. That this kind of tumor almost never is. So that's good, right?”

“Yeah. So I guess that means she won't have to have chemo or radiation or anything like that, but that doesn't make the surgery any less scary.” I'd listened to my parents talk about it during dinner—they'd used the word “craniotomy,” which sounded terrifying.

“I know, but modern medicine is pretty amazing. And just think, for the surgeons who do it every day, it's routine stuff.”

“There's nothing
routine
about cutting open my sister's head.” My stomach lurches at the thought, and I push it away, burying it deeply. I won't think about that right now—I can't.

“She's like a sister to me, too,” Ryder says quietly. “I always envied you that, you know? A sibling. Do you have any idea how quiet it is at Magnolia Landing when you Caffertys aren't there? Dad's always in his office working, and Mom . . .” He trails off, his cheeks coloring slightly. “Well, Mom's busy planning the rest of my life. Anyway, Nan'll come through this.”

“I hope you're right.”

He bumps my shoulder with his side. “Hey, I'm always right. Right?”

I can't help it—a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “You always
think
you are, that's for sure.”

He looks up at the sky, appearing thoughtful for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “Why don't you walk back to the house with me and let me drive you home.”

“Nah, I've got a kayak. I left it down at the creek.”

“That's okay. I'll bring it over tomorrow or something. It's getting dark. You shouldn't be out on the water alone.”

“Seriously? I grew up on that creek.”

“All the same, I'd feel better if you let me drive you home.”

I have no idea why—he knows I'm perfectly capable of getting myself home. Still, I relent. “Fine,” I say. Because, honestly, I'm not relishing the idea of paddling home in the dark, not in the mental state I'm in. “But I'm not ready to go, not just yet.”

“No rush.”

“Thanks.” I lean back, resting on my elbows as I gaze up at the sky. A few stars are just beginning to dot the sky, faint twinkles of light on the violet-hued canvas above. I let out a long sigh. “Do you ever think about next year—about living somewhere else? I mean, even if it's just Oxford, it's going to be so different.”

He just shrugs. Then, “I don't think about it too much, I guess. Senior year just started.”

“I know, but still. And what about our parents? Just imagine
your mom and dad all alone in that big house. I don't know. . . . It just makes me sad, I guess.”

“So . . . live at home,” he suggests.

“Yeah, I don't think so. Anyway, that's not what I meant. Just that . . . everything is about to change. And now this, with Nan . . .”

He swallows hard. “She's going to be fine.”

“So everyone keeps saying.” Despite the heat, a chill runs down my spine. I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees.

“Look,” he says, pointing toward the sky. “Right there—that's Venus. Just above and to the right of the moon. See it?”

I release my knees and brace my hands against the ground as I gaze up at the spot he's indicating—at what looks like a bright, twinkling star. “That's Venus? You sure?”

He nods. “And see that, up higher and off to the left? That's Saturn.”

“Cool,” I say. “You were always good with that stuff—stars and planets.” He'd spent our entire childhood pointing out constellations in the night sky that I could never quite make out—things that were supposed to look like bears or dragons or what have you. To me they were just . . . stars.

For a moment we just sit there silently, our heads tipped back as we stare at the sky. A minute passes, maybe two. And then Ryder's hand grazes mine before settling on the ground, our pinkies touching.

I suck in a breath, my entire body going rigid. I'm wondering if he realizes it, if he even knows he's touching me, when just like that, he draws away.

Ryder clears his throat. “So . . . I hear you're going out with Patrick on Friday.”

“And?” I ask. That brief connection that we'd shared is suddenly gone—
poof
, just like that.

“And what?” he answers with a shrug.

“Oh, I'm sure you've got an opinion on this—one you're just dying to share.” Because Ryder has an opinion on
everything
.

“Well, it's just that Patrick . . .” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Forget I brought it up.”

“No, go on. It's just that Patrick what?”

“Seriously, Jemma. It's none of my business.”

“C'mon, Ryder, get it out of your system. What? Patrick is looking to get a piece? Is using me? Is planning on standing me up?” I can't help myself; the words just tumble out.

“I was going to say that I think he really likes you,” he says, his voice flat.

I bite back my retort, forcing myself to take a deep, calming breath instead. That was
not
what I had expected him to say—not at all—and it takes me completely by surprise. Patrick really likes me? I'm not sure how I feel about that—not sure I want it to be true.

“What do you mean, he really likes me?” I ask stupidly.

“Just what I said. It's pretty simple stuff, Jemma. He
likes
you. I think he always has.”

“And you know this how?”

He levels a stare at me. “Trust me on this, okay? He's got problems, sure, but he's a decent guy. Don't break his heart.”

I scramble to my feet. “I agreed to go out with him—once. And I'm probably going to cancel, anyway, because after today's news, I'm really not in the mood. But the last thing I need is dating advice from you.”

“How come every conversation we have ends like this—with you going off on me? You didn't use to be like this. What happened?”

He's right, and I hate myself for it—hate the way he makes me feel inside, as if I'm not good enough. I mean, let's face it—I know I'm nothing special. I'm not beauty-pageant perfect like Morgan, or fashion-model gorgeous like Lucy. Unlike Ryder and Nan, I don't have state-championship trophies lining my walls. My singing voice is only so-so, I can't draw or play a musical instrument, and if the school plays are any indicator, I can't act for shit, either.

Sure, I can shoot straight, but what good is that? And yeah, I'm an excellent student and a perfectly good cheerleader, but so what? Girls like me are a dime a dozen in the great state of Mississippi.

And all that noise our parents make—all this “you two
have to grow up and get married and unite the Marsdens and Caffertys once and for all” talk—must absolutely horrify Ryder. Because the truth is, he's all but guaranteed a charmed life—his pick of schools, of scholarships, of girls. He's probably going to end up playing in the NFL, traveling the globe and making millions of dollars, while I'll be stuck here in Magnolia Branch for the rest of my life, doing who knows what.

Tears borne of self-pity, of worry, well in my eyes, blurring my vision. A sob tears from my throat, and the tears begin to spill over.
Crap.
I bury my face in my hands, wishing more than anything that a hole would open in the ground and swallow me up. But it doesn't—and I can't stop crying, my throat constricting painfully as I try to muffle it.

“Oh, man. Are you crying? You are, aren't you? Shit.” He puts an arm awkwardly around my shoulders. “C'mon, Jemma, please don't.”

Somehow, I find myself leaning in to him, soaking the front of his T-shirt. He doesn't say a word. He just sits there quietly, stroking my hair as I cry it out. Five, maybe ten minutes pass before the tears dry up and my sobs are reduced to sniffles.