Hi, everyone. I'm back. Well, I don't really know what to say except thank you all for reading this fic and hope you like it as much as I liked writing it. Oh, I do want to make a small shout out to my muse, the one and only DreamerLady whose humor and support have kept me writing. Everyone must bow to the Lady.
Now, on with the chapter.
After the Fall: Chapter Five, 'To Grandmother's House We Go'.
Rated (forgot to add this to the last chapter): PG-13, for curse words.
Two days later, Bethany was released from Milwaukee Memorial with nothing but the clothes she had worn before the crash and a prescription for painkillers. She had nowhere else to go, so now she was staying at Gran's two story brick house just outside of town. Gran, who felt it was her responsibility to look after her granddaughter, had turned down a three-week antique shopping trip to New York to stay with Beth. So there she was.
The sun blazed in white hot rays across the long sloped field of Gran's backyard. Beth was hunched over the faded garden near the porch, pulling and twisting at the gray and yellow weeds that spawned there. Cold sweat rolled down her back and soaked into her white tank top. Clumps of dirt clung to her faded jeans, as she pulled with bare hands at a particularly stubborn stalk of sweet clover. Giving up, she fell back, sat on the stiff grass, and stared moodily at the flowers. Poppies swayed slightly in the cool breeze (the only thing Beth had been thankful for), their spindly stems almost snapping in half. Bright white daisies grew close to the ground, their petals starting to brown in the sweltering heat.
Reaching out a grass stained hand, she picked off the head of a poppy. Slowly, mechanically, she began to pluck the round scarlet petals and watched them float to the ground until the only thing left was the clump of pollen. She stared at the small thing, at the gold powder smudging on her fingers. The sun's rays scorched the back of her neck. Her hands hurt, her back was killing her. Wishing she had taken more than one dose of Percodan, she closed her heavy eyes.
The dull throbbing that had plagued her at the hospital blossomed again near her forehead. A slow splash of nausea rolled in her belly. She couldn't stop thinking about the crash. Every time she did the throbbing and sickness would rear up again. 'I have to think about something else, anything else.' she thought opening her eyes.
The first thing she saw was the plucked petals dancing around two feet off the ground. They spun in the air, slow at times then speeding into a wild frenzy, and she knew it wasn't the wind that caused it. Backing away, she looked around to see if anyone could see this. Satisfied that no one was watching, she looked back at the petals.
Fear spread thickly across her gut as she watched the four petals dance. If it had been any other force besides her mind causing the petals to move, she would have liked to watch them twirl around. But knowing it was she that caused it, she that was controlling it, made her hands turn cold.
This wasn't normal, this wasn't right. She didn't want to do this. She wanted to be normal, to have a mother, and to go home where she and forget she ever heard the word 'mutant'. But these stupid petals wouldn't let her, they symbolized everything she was afraid of. You're not normal, you're not fine, you can't go home.
Breathing deeply, she studied the red petals. The more she was afraid the higher and faster the twirled, the calmer she got the more they'd slow down. That was the trick, she had to calm down. Closing her eyes, she breathed slowly, imaging them sinking and floating back down to the ground. When she opened her eyes the second time, the petals were back on the grass, the breeze shifting them slightly.
Looking down at her hand, she saw the crushed pollen head she had clenched in her fist. The golden dust formed clumps on her sweaty hands. Casting it aside, she looked at the small piles of pulled weeds strung out around the flowers. Deciding she didn't have the will or energy to clean up the mess, she got up and headed past the screen door and into Gran's house.
The first room she entered was the kitchen, which was the smallest room in the house. It consisted of a fridge, a four-chair table and one dingy green window above the sink that overlooked the garden. Black and white tiles checkered across the floor. Dark wood cabinets lined the walls and a clean black marble counter sat bellow them.
Scanning the contents of the fridge, she pulled out a hunk of cedar and a jar of mayonnaise. Taking her items to the counter, she quickly made herself a cheese sandwich, (without washing her hands). She had just finished putting the top slice of bread on, (large amounts of mayonnaise squishing out onto the counter top) when Gran walked in.
She was dressed in a white blouse and long black skirt, her gray curls pulled back into a tight bun. She strode to the table and sat gingerly. Beth could have sworn she heard the old woman's joints crack.
"So. . . ." said Gran, staring at her hands. "Did you finish weeding?"
"Yeah." Beth cradled her sandwich in a paper towel and sat opposite Gran.
Gran stood from the table just as Beth sat down and walked over to the window, surveying the garden (Beth was shocked she could see anything out of the green haze).
"Look at that mess!" said Gran, hands gripping the counter. "You didn't even pick up the weeds you pulled!"
Beth sat down the sandwich, which she had almost taken a bite of, and felt anger boil in her chest. How dare she? She pulls the weeds and all Gran can do is nit-pick. Not even say a simple 'thank you'.
"If you want it done so badly, do it yourself." she said, taking a savage bite out of her sandwich.
Gran stood, staring, her white knuckles standing out against the black marble. She didn't say anything, just stared as though she didn't know what to say. Then she folded her arms across her chest and cooly walked over to the table. Beth watched her with a vague sense of fear, she knew it wouldn't be completely unlike Gran to smack her, (though she's never done it before).
Instead she just stood there and stared at her, eyes roaming over the fat roll protruding from under her tank top.
"You know, Bethany." she said, softly. "You really should start watching what you eat. I see you've gained a few pounds since last summer."
It was worse than being smacked. Beth didn't know what to say, didn't know what witty comeback to use. She always became tongue-tied whenever anyone said anything about her weight. Setting down the sandwich (a drop of Miracle Whip falling onto the table), she felt her face become hot and her stomach tighten.
"Okay." was all she could say.
"Well," said Gran, looking around the room, anything but Beth. "I'll be in my room if you need me."
"Okay." she repeated.
Staring down at the table, Beth listened to the kitchen door as it swung shut, and waited until the sound of Gran's heels had faded away. Then she stood up and walked out into the hallway, leaving her sandwich on the table after only taking one bite.
Pausing on the stairway, she scanned the pictures that hung along the wall. Most were old black and white photos of people who looked like they lived a century ago. The picture of her grandfather hung in a square black oak frame. Gabriel Bancroft stared out at Beth with light, eerie eyes that shone in the photo. Judging by the wrinkles in his pale oval face, she guessed he had to be around sixty or so when the photo was taken. Beth had never met Grandpa, he had died when she was a baby, (his liver finally succumbing to years of Bourbon).
Looking past Grandpa, her eyes darted from frame to frame till she found the one she was looking for.
Directly above the twelfth step of the staircase, in a round dark cherry frame, was the picture of her father. Gabriel Bancroft Junior grinned at her, half hiding behind a birch tree. He looked handsome in a very boyish way. She suspected he had been twenty when this picture was taken, the same year he had met Mom. He was bathed in the shadow, brilliant speckles of sunlight peaking through the yellow leaves, giving the picture a golden hue. His dark blond hair laid wildly, if not a little thinly, in his eyes. The shadow blocked Beth from telling what color his eyes were. Some light shade she guessed, a blue or gray maybe.
She tried to remember what color they were, but found she couldn't. Dad had died when she was six, and she had very few (and hazy) memories of him. He had been driving home late one night, in a rainstorm, and had taken a turn to sharply. The truck had rolled five times before finally stopping in a ditch. His death had been ruled an accident but Beth secretly suspected alcohol had been a part of it. Everyone in Kentucky drank.
Beth supposed his young death had been a blessing. It was better that he die when she was little and wouldn't remember, than now when she fully feel it, like Mom. She's not dead. She's not dead.
Tearing her gaze away from the photos, she continued to stomp up the stairs. Pushing open the dark wood door, she entered her room.
Beth's room was really the guest room. The thick grey curtains draped over the only window in the room, blocking out any sunlight and casting shadows on the pale blue walls. The bed lay on the far left of the room, opposite the window. She had left it unmade and some of the white sheets had fallen to the floor. Running a hand over the black iron footboard, she promptly jumped into the bed.
Thoughts, one after the other, began to sink in her head, like something thick and dark absorbing her mind.
'What have I become?' she thought. What is this thing inside of her? What went wrong? Everything had change so much, so fast. Where had everyone gone? She just wanted it all to go back to the way it was. Before the crash, before she became a mutant, before everything had fallen apart. Wasn't it only a week ago that she was fine, watching TV, shopping with Mom back in sizzling Kentucky? Now she was in Wisconsin, with Gran, waiting for the coast guard to fish out her mother's body.
A mucky feeling bloomed in her chest. There was no other way around it. It had been two days since the crash, there's no way anyone could survive being in water for two days. The coast guard had been pulling out bodies since yesterday, all of them dead. It wasn't an 'if they found Mom's body' situation anymore, it was a 'when they found it'. No doubt about it, Mom was dead, but what's worse is that it was all her fault. If she hadn't been a mutant, then none of this would've happened.
Anger rose like a flaming sword, tightening her lungs. She hated it, hated it all. Hated God for letting it happen. Wasn't he supposed to look out for her, protect her and love her? There was no God. No one looked out for anyone.
Her head was heavy and filled with static. She curled into the sheets and let her eyes drift shut. Thoughts began to slow, rolling and twirling like those petals, till she was barely aware of them. Eventually, they faded away.
Clack, clack, clack, clack. . . . Clack, clack, clack, clack.
Beth awoke just as Gran came in, the door making a long screeching sound.
"What?" she asked, voice raspy from sleep. She realized with a wave of embarrassment that she had slept with her mouth open and some saliva had sneaked its way onto to her chin.
"It's time for your bible study." said Gran, as she strode over to the other end of the room where an old wooden dresser and closet stood. Gran reached inside the closest and turned on the bare light bulb.
She knew instantly what the old woman was looking for.
"It's only," she glanced at the Roman Numeral clock above the bed and counted the little lines. "It's only . . . Six." she finished weakly.
"That's right." said Gran, pulling out the knobby pine prayer stool and setting it facing east. "And you know your bible study is at six in the morning, noon in the day, and–"
"And six at night." groaned Beth, wiping the spit off with the back of her hand.
"Good." said Gran, pulling out an old white leather bible from a pocket of her skirt and setting it on the little tray above the stool. "Now, where is your rosary?"
"I don't know." mumbled Beth, rolling over and sitting up in bed.
Gran looked at her again, then dug into another pocket of her skirt.
"Well, never mind. You can use mine." she said, handing Beth the black strand of beads.
"I don't want to study tonight." Beth said, laying back down and pulling the covers over her head.
"Bethany, you've been sleeping for hours." said Gran, walking to the bed. "It's time to get up. I picked out a special prayer for you tonight. St. Michael's Plea for Assistance."
"Not now." she groaned.
"Bethany, this is not an option." she said, brows bent. "As long as you live in my house, you will live–"
The sound of someone pounding on the front door drifted up through the floor.
"Who could that be?" said Gran, heading to the door. She stopped just before she reached for the knob and turned to Beth. "Stay here and start your prayer."
The anger she had felt before she fell asleep bubbled back up in her chest. Rolling out of bed, she followed Gran out of the room, the rosary clutched in her fist.
"I told you I don't want to study!" she shouted as she stomped down the steps, her father's picture rattled as she passed.
Gran turned to her at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide.
"Bethany!" Her blue-veined hand gripped the dark banister. "Don't start this now. Someone's here!"
The person keep pounding, paused, then pounded again.
"Go back to bed." said Gran, turning her back to Beth and walking to the door.
The anger inside her gut boiled over and spilled out her mouth and arms.
"No!" she yelled and threw the rosary at Gran, hitting her square in the back. The strand of beads fell to the floor and shattered, then fell off the string and rolled out in every direction. The beads made a strange sound like rain tapping on a tin roof.
Gran reached around and touched the place where the rosary had hit her. Slowly she turned to Beth, her face twisted in fury.
"You ungrateful little witch!" she yelled, looking as though she would haul up and smack her for real.
"What are you going to do about it, you stupid old bitch!" Beth yelled back.
"Excuse me ladies." a deep voice spoke.
Both her and Gran turned.
A middle-aged policeman stood behind the half-open door.
"I hope you don't mind." he said. "The door was unlocked. May I please speak to Ms. Bernadette Bancroft?"
Gran, with an obvious effort, turned to the cop, her face flushed.
"I'm Bernadette, mister. . . . ?" she asked, swaying slightly as she walked over to them.
"Officer John Felix." he said, his baggy bloodhound eyes darting from Beth to Gran. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."
"Bethany." said Gran softly, deadly, without looking at her. "Please go to your room."
She didn't know what to do. Half of her wanted to stay, but she didn't know what Gran would do if she embarrassed her in front of a cop. So she turned away and walked slowly back up the stairs, but didn't go to her room. She waited until she heard them talking again then she crouched down under her father's picture and crept toward the railing. If she turned her head a little she could see them talking from the hallway.
"What is it officer?" Gran asked, arms crossed over her chest.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, Ms." he said taking off his black hat and cradling it in his hands. "But we found your daughter-in-law's body this afternoon."
She watched as Gran's arms slowly fell to her sides then looked down at the ground below the stairs.
One black bead rolled by.
Another chapter done. In case any of you were wondering, I've changed the summary (with the approval of my muse) and took out the Mary-Sue part of it. Everyone says this isn't a Sue and my muse pointed out that I would probably get more readers if I did. Hope you all like it. Review and tell me what you guys think of this story. Reviews make go 'round.
Review Response:
To Absolute Omega: You are the only one I have to respond to since some ungrateful readers won't take the time to review. Glad to hear you're back! I know it's hard to not continue writing your fic. Like giving birth, one you start you can't stop. Hope you liked this chap and hope to hear from ya. Lo ;)