Being the daughter of a piano teacher meant that Marie had grown up accustomed to hearing music throughout the day, and could identify several songs and their composers by a young age. However, Marie couldn't ever remember Mama playing so damn early in the morning, as if she was some kind of household alarm clock.
Marie was willing to give her mother the benefit of the doubt, and assume that since most of her day would be spent at the hospital, Mama had needed to re-arrange her schedule and get her piano playing in real early. Perhaps she'd even forgotten that Marie was there. It was certainly more flattering than the alternative of thinking that she was playing loudly, right under Marie's room, on purpose.
The notes were lively and fast—Mozart's Rondo alla Turca. Where Mama had found the energy that early in the morning, Marie didn't know. She grabbed the spare pillow next to her and flattened it over her ears. It barely muffled the sound.
But then the Mozart faded, and Mama transitioned right into a slower, melancholic piece. Marie couldn't remember what it was called. It wasn't one of the ones that she recalled Mama playing very often.
Eventually, the music stopped, and Marie figured that was her cue to get up. When she made her way downstairs a few minutes later, her mother was sorting through some sheet music.
"Mornin', Mama."
She startled, as if she really had forgotten that Marie was there. She didn't turn around, but did acknowledge Marie's greeting. "I'm fixin' to leave soon," she said. "Visiting hours start in a half hour."
Marie needed to take a shower first. Besides, riding in the car with her mother, and then not being able to leave the hospital when she wanted to, did not sound appealing. Whatever the uneasy truce that existed between them was, it was fragile. Marie was sure it would end soon enough, but was determined not to be the one to break it.
Last night she had offered to drive separately, and it sounded like just as good of an idea that morning.
"What room is Daddy in? I'll meet you over there."
Mama rattled off a room number and some vague instructions about parking and elevators, but then she turned around, and Marie could see that there was something else on her mind.
"What is it?" Marie asked.
"Oh, nothing," she replied, when clearly it was something. "Just trying to decide what I'm going to tell your grandparents is all."
"Tell them the truth—I came back to visit."
Mama gave her a look. "We didn't tell them why you left. And they're bound to have questions."
Well, of course they would. If they didn't know that she was a mutant, then they probably assumed that she was a coward for running away when times got tough. Maybe they were even mad at her for disappearing and not staying in touch. The prospect that she had disappointed her sweet, old grandparents was much worse than the knowledge that she hadn't lived up to her mother's expectations.
"I mean just look at..." Mama gestured.
Marie looked down at herself, confused. Her pajamas were modest, and it wasn't as if she'd be wearing them to the hospital. "What?"
"Your hair, Anna-Marie," Mama said in an exasperated tone. "I doubt they're going to appreciate what you've done to it. Fashionable, though I'm sure it is, up north."
Of all the things that her grandparents could bring up, Marie was certain that her hair would be at the bottom of the list. They had been pretty content to let her get away with most everything when she'd stayed with them and had generally spoiled her rotten. She didn't think that having a couple of white streaks in her hair would faze them at all.
Now, if Mama's parents were still alive, then that would be a different story. That whole side of the family would probably take one look at her hair and assume that Marie had joined a cult or a biker gang or something.
"I didn't 'do' anything to it," Marie said. "It just grows like this now."
"Mm-hmm," Mama replied, and then left the room.
Marie didn't know why she had even bothered wasting her breath trying to defend herself. She retreated back upstairs and took a quick shower. After getting dressed, she checked her phone—there was no new voicemail—and then looked up the directions to the hospital. While Marie was well-acquainted with its location, she had never driven there from that part of town.
On the way to the hospital, she realized that she was starving, and stopped to grab coffee and a breakfast sandwich. Had she given it more than a few seconds worth of consideration, she would've ordered the oatmeal instead. Eating a greasy sandwich was a severe miscalculation because once she arrived at the hospital, she could feel her stomach churning.
It wasn't just nerves or anxiety over seeing her father again. Several long-buried memories re-surfaced as soon as she approached the main entrance. Marie did her best to ignore them, and she walked at a brisk pace through the hospital lobby, which had seemingly not changed at all since she had last seen it. It was hard not to feel like she was seventeen years old again.
In response to the memories, or perhaps just to her stress in general, Marie's powers flipped on. It was usually jarring when it happened, and then it took either time or a great deal of concentration to be able to turn them off again. And there was always the worry that this would be the time that she wouldn't be able to turn her skin off. One day, it would happen. It was inevitable.
Marie pushed the elevator call button several times. Logically, she knew that it wouldn't make it arrive any faster, but it made her feel like she was doing something to influence it. It dinged a few moments later, and Marie stood back in case any passengers needed to get out. When the doors opened, however, the elevator car was empty. She thanked whatever deity was responsible, got in, and leaned against the back wall.
Her head tipped up to the ceiling. She only had herself to blame. No one had asked her to come back to Meridian, or forced her to visit the hospital. No one would even miss her if she got back out of the elevator and left town. She didn't have to do this.
Except that she did.
If not for anyone else, then for herself. Last time, she had let her parents drive her away. She had run from reality because she couldn't bear to face it. That wasn't who she was anymore. She was stronger now. She wouldn't run again.
Marie leaned forward and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Then, she focused on breathing, and tried to convince her stupid mutation that she was fine, and didn't need it for defense. It wasn't easy, but she was nearly there when the elevator doors opened. Once she took a step out into the hall, however, gaining control was the last thing on her mind.
Though the hallways in that wing looked very different, the distinctive smell of medical supplies and disinfectant was exactly the same as it had been during her last visit, and it brought her right back to that day. She had been going to sit vigil by another man's bedside then—praying to God that he would wake up, but being terrified of what he would say to her when he finally did.
Her stomach roiled, pulling her back to the present. Marie shook her head to clear the demons, and forced herself to focus on the circumstances which had brought her to the hospital this time. Her father.
When Marie entered his room, his physical appearance surprised her. She had expected him to be gaunt, and to have no hair. But he barely looked sick. He just looked older and a little more pale than he should have. If it wasn't for all the tubes and monitors that he was hooked up to, it would have looked like he had merely fallen asleep.
Marie took a seat on the other side of the bed from Mama, who had said nothing when she walked in, and did little more than glance up from her bible.
The silence, unfortunately, didn't last long. All morning, a steady trickle of visitors came in and went out. Marie remembered some of the folks from church or from the neighborhood, but the rest introduced themselves politely. When Mama made no attempt at a reciprocal introduction, Marie just said, "I'm Marie," and left it at that. No one was rude enough to ask for further details, but she could feel their pondering eyes on her just the same.
It was good that her mother had a support system. Marie had forgotten how their community rallied together in times of need. It made her feel a little better about leaving Mama alone at the end of it all.
What Marie didn't like, however, was having to endure all the variations of "Why, we all thought you'd run off for good" and "How lovely for your mama that you're here", or her personal favorite phrase, "Bless your heart". It was all said with smiles and honey-coated tones, but underneath all that sugar, the words had a hidden message—you're not one of us anymore.
How little they knew about how true that was. And because she was determined to not make waves, Marie bore it all with a smile. Her accent might not have been as thick as it once was, but she still remembered how the game was played, and she could out-polite the ladies of Meridian society if need be.
A friend convinced Mama to accompany her down to the café for lunch, which meant that Marie was finally alone. She got up and went over to her father's side. She had always been closer to him than to Mama, but even he had been frightened of her after she manifested her powers.
"Hi Daddy. It's Anna-Marie." She rested a hand on his shoulder because, although her skin had finally turned back off again, she didn't trust herself to hold his bare hand. "I'm sorry that I didn't come home sooner, but I didn't think that you wanted to see me."
He woke, briefly, a few minutes later, and mumbled a few words, but none of it made any sense.
The nurse, who had come in to adjust one of the medications, said that that was normal. "He's not in any pain," he assured her. "We're making sure of that."
Marie moved out of the nurse's way and sat back down. "How bad—how—" She wanted to ask how long he had left, but couldn't bring herself to say the words.
The nurse seemed to know what Marie was asking. "He'll probably be moved down to the ICU soon," he said, in a gentle tone. "His body's failing."
She just nodded in response because she had lost the ability to form words. Suddenly everything felt real.
After the nurse left, and Marie was done wiping the tears away, she called Bobby to give him an update on the situation. He made all the right noises of concern and told her how sorry he was.
"Thanks." But her voice sounded hollow. "How was the party?" she asked, in need of a distraction.
"It was good," he replied. "We had a lot of fun dancing and everything. I didn't hear your call last night, I'm sorry."
"It's fine, I was on my way to bed anyway. It was kind of a long day."
"Yeah."
"So, how upset was everyone?" she asked.
"You know." Marie swore that she had just heard him shrug. "My parents were disappointed since they'd made the drive, and Jubes was pretty crushed. I think she had been planning this for a while."
Marie knew she had. How many times had Jubilee told her that she'd throw them a party if she accepted Bobby's proposal? The woman clearly was angling for Maid of Honor.
"But everyone was super understanding," he added quickly. "I mean, it's not like you wanted to leave at the worst possible time."
You think? "I do feel bad about it, though."
"They'll get over it, and you have more important things to focus on."
"I know." She heard Mama's voice in the hallway. "I've gotta go. I'll call you later, okay?"
"Sure. Take care."
"Bye."
She frowned down at the phone. He hadn't said "I love you". He always used to tell her that when they parted, or said goodbye. But then, she hadn't said it either. When was the last time that she had?
Mama was not alone when she entered the room. Granny-Mae and Papaw were in tow. There was a pause when they all looked at each other. Granny-Mae was short and stocky. She wore her gray hair coiled neatly on her head, and had on a light-yellow sweater over a floral print dress. Papaw was a little taller than Marie, and wore an old, faded John Deere hat, white short-sleeved button up shirt, and jeans held up by suspenders.
Marie waited to accept whatever they had to say to her. If it made things easier, she would offer to leave.
Granny-Mae was the first to react. She held her arms out, purse dangling from the right one, smiling wide. Marie moved in for a hug, but then jumped a step back when her mother shouted, "No!"
Everyone turned to look at Mama, stunned expressions on their faces.
Mama seemed flustered, but offered no explanation, and then went to take her usual seat by the bed. Her grandparents, bless them, shrugged it off and ignored her.
Granny-Mae pulled Marie the rest of the way in for the hug and practically squeezed the air out of her. Then, she whispered, "I don't care what she says, we're glad you're here, and I'm sure your Daddy is too."
"Alright, my turn," Papaw said, and Marie was passed from one grandparent to the other. He squeezed her just as tightly.
Marie's heart skipped a beat when he planted a big kiss on her cheek, but it was all right. Her skin hadn't reacted—this time. If she made it through the trip without accidentally knocking someone out, it would be a miracle.
Papaw let her out of the hug, but held her at arm's length and examined her from head to toe. "My, but don't you look all grown up now." Then he let her go and patted his rounded stomach. "Of course, I've gotten older too, and I suspect the ol' spare tire's gotten a little bigger since you left."
"Too much of Granny-Mae's cooking?" she guessed.
"Exactly!"
Some of the tension that Marie had been feeling eased.
Granny-Mae went over to the bedside and kissed Daddy's forehead and then smoothed his hair. "How is he today?" she asked.
"He's doing just fine," Mama replied.
"The nurse said he'll probably be moved to the ICU soon," Marie added, quietly.
"Not even back one whole day, and already you're an expert on his condition?" Mama asked.
Marie started counting to ten in her head, and Papaw, sensing a storm was brewing, swooped in to intervene. He steered Marie over to the opposite side of the room.
"Ruth told us that you'd come home, but we just couldn't believe it until we saw you with our own eyes," Papaw said. "Could we, Mae?"
Granny-Mae, who was holding Daddy's hand, shook her head. "'Course we can't understand why you stayed away so long in the first place."
"I'm sure she had her reasons," Papaw said, "And when she's ready to tell us, she will. Won't you?"
"Yes sir." But Marie didn't look forward to that conversation. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. Her grandparents had always seemed like fairly open-minded people. Maybe she could ferret out how they felt about mutants before revealing her status.
"We were all upset when you left," Granny-Mae added, "But poor Remy... You should have seen him..."
The room took on a sudden tilt, and Marie had to sit down before her legs gave out beneath her. It was the first time she had heard anyone say his name out loud since the day she'd left Mississippi.
"But we're not supposed to talk about that." Granny-Mae gave Mama a sour look, but it went unnoticed.
Her grandparents shared a property boundary with Jean-Luc LeBeau, and for some reason it never occurred to Marie that they might have stayed in touch with his son. "You still see him around?" she asked, voice sounding a little higher-pitched than normal.
"Oh yes, of course we do," Granny-Mae replied. "He helped Papaw put up that new fence around our garden last fall."
"I mostly supervised," Papaw explained. "He did all the heavy lifting."
It was very odd that her grandparents were more intimately acquainted with her husband than Marie currently was. She didn't even know what he looked like now. She had so many questions that she wanted to ask. Everything from does he still have long hair, to does he ever mention me? But common sense prevailed. "That was nice of him," she said politely.
"He's a sweet boy." Granny-Mae settled in the chair next to Marie and took out her knitting from her purse. "But I want to hear all about you. And why you felt that you couldn't send your poor ol' grandfolks a letter and let them know what you've been gettin' up to."
How was she going to explain her life without using words like 'mutant' or 'I'm kind of a superhero'?
"Well," Marie started, "I traveled for a while. Across the country and up into Canada. Then, I met some real nice people from a private boarding school in New York, who invited me to stay with them. I teach there now. And we also do a lot of charity work."
"There, you see, Ruth? That's not so bad as you made it sound," Papaw said. "It's not as if she went off and joined the circus."
Mama ignored him, but Granny-Mae nodded in agreement as she worked on her knitting. "And you go to church regular?"
"Yes, ma'am." Marie was going to go to hell. Not because she was a mutant, but because she had just told her grandmother the biggest lie of her life. "There's a small one near the school and we take the kids on Sundays." At least that part was true, but it was almost never Marie who took them.
"Is it one of those progressive churches that we keep hearing about?"
"Now, Mae, she said she's going to church, what's it matter?"
"I'm just curious." She looked up and told Mama, "Sadie said she'd be up later if she can. Ginny came down with an ear infection, so she had to take her to the doctor to get looked at." Then she turned back to Marie. "Ginny just turned nine, and plays the prettiest violin you've ever heard. Sadie's oldest, you remember Aaron, is in the Marines. We didn't see him for a couple of years either. And then of course, there's Jacob..."
Granny-Mae didn't stop until she had filled Marie in on all of the important family news and half of the neighborhood gossip. Did Marie need to know about the school play involving so-and-so's grandson that was so bad the entire town was talking about it three years later? Not particularly, but it seemed to make her grandmother happy, so Marie patiently listened.
Of course being polite was also how she had ended up agreeing to go out to supper with her grandparents, and then go back to Aunt Sadie's to say hello to everyone. Maybe it would be for the best, as it would keep her from having to go back to the house and sit by herself in silence for the rest of the evening, or worse, try to make conversation with Mama.
Anything but that.