Timing, page 3
"Let me do the talking." She smiled. "It'll keep you distracted."
Hannah kept the one-way conversation light and cheery. She talked about how much she loved driving the old Ford Bronco that had been his, revealing how she'd once even gotten it up to 75 mph.
Shame on you, he mouthed admonishingly. Secretly though, he loved that she was a daredevil. She reminded him of himself when he was younger.
She told him about a blind kitten at the veterinary clinic she worked at, and how she had matched it up with a young deaf girl who had immediately fallen in love with it.
She reminisced about their last trip to Yellowstone National Park and how much fun it had been to see Old Faithful and all of the different wild animals.
She chatted about anything that struck her as interesting just to pass the time.
But time moved slow. Too slow. The world around her became distant and fuzzy, and it seemed to her after a while like she was in the middle of a dream. Hannah caught herself wondering more than once whether this was really happening or if it was just a figment of her imagination. She prayed this was just a dream—something she'd wake up from feeling frightened, but then walk downstairs to find her father sipping his Chococoffee, like on any other morning. It was his special drink, a blend of coffee and powdered hot chocolate mix.
About ten minutes had passed since she'd alerted the authorities when her father's feint voice called out to her.
"Hannah, I—I hope you know how much I love you." He gripped her hand tightly. "I just want to tell you some things—"
Scared by what he was implying, she broke him off. Her voice carried a frantic edge. "Dad, don't you do this. Don't you start saying good-byes. I can't live without you. You—you can't leave me." She started pleading. A terrified heaviness sank into her heart as she began to shiver. This could not be happening. Not after finding him still alive. Please God, she prayed, don't take him from me. "Dad, try, please try. They'll be here in just a few minutes. You've got to fight. Fight hard."
His commanding presence had shriveled and faded—almost like he'd grown old right in front of her. She noticed, perhaps for the first time, crevices at the corners of his eyes and mouth and a certain amount of frailty that had never been there before.
Emotion gushed out of Vance's steel-blue eyes. Time had run out for him. Even after all of these years, he still hadn't told Hannah everything he'd always meant to. Not in a hundred lifetimes, would he ever have imagined his life ending this way. And knowing, as he did, that Hannah would have to see it all just about made him hyperventilate.
His breaths became choppy, stunted by the overwhelming knowledge that his life hung in the balance. "—I, I don't know, Hannah. I just, I just love you so much. There are… reasons why you and your mom don't always see eye to eye. It's complicated. And I know we've had our differences too, but I do love her. There's just so much I've wanted to tell you, so many things you should know—things that I should have told you about, but I was waiting for just the right—"
Hannah was growing impatient, even angry. Lately, she'd sensed something going on between her mom and dad. Things had been even worse than usual. But it wasn't like the contention was anything new. She couldn't ever really remember them getting along. Now though, he needed to focus on staying alive… he'd didn't need to be worrying about her mom. Why wouldn't he try harder? Be strong for just a little bit longer. "Dad, just hold on."
Sounds of a helicopter echoed in the distance. She started to sob, and she squeezed her words in between the heaves of anguish. "I hear them! Dad, they're coming. Please, Dad, please, hang on… for just a couple more minutes. Will yourself to stay awake."
Both of her hands clutched around his outstretched one. She scooted beneath him so his head could rest in her lap, holding him just as he'd held her so many times as a child. She couldn't get close enough.
"That's nice," he muttered. "Please, stay with me. Stay close. Put your hands on my face."
She loosened one of her hands from his grip and put it on one side of his face. He leaned into the touch. "I'm here, Dad. I'm not going anywhere. I'll always be here, I promise."
He looked up. The sadness he saw in her eyes was overwhelming. "Hannah, you've always been the center of my world. Ever since you came to us, there's no one I've loved more. Always know how much I love you. Never forget that."
The tears came like rain in a thunderstorm. Hard. Fast. Uncontrollable. She nodded from behind their curtain, unable to talk.
He continued in the voice of a child. "The locket, Hannah, it's yours."
She thought he was hallucinating. "Lock? What lock?"
He repeated it, louder this time, and more clearly. "Locket."
"What are you talking about?" She gave him a disgusted look. Here he was ranting about some stupid locket when he should have been focused on staying alive. She had no clue what he was even talking about.
"The locket… it's for me to stay with you. I am w-with you. Love you. I didn't want it to happen this way…"
"Then don't let it! Dad, I know you can hold on, I know you can do it. Be strong… get mad if you have to."
His tone became mystical. "All of these years, Hannah, I've been protecting you. Now, you'll be all alone. Follow your gut. Your instinct." His eyes became swirling kaleidoscopes of wild fury, "Hannah, don't trust anyone."
Her face contorted in a mixture of confusion and disgust. What the hell was he talking about? She opened her mouth to respond, but then all of a sudden, she could tell he was fading. And then his eyes seemed to roll into the back of his head.
Her voice carried an edge that teetered between screaming and crying. "Dad… Daddy, stay with me! Don't leave me! Please hold on. Please don't go." She was desperate.
His hand went limp in hers, and his words were suddenly raspy, almost incoherent, until he lifted his head with his final ounce of energy and looked deep into her eyes.
"Hannah… you… you don't understand," he gasped for breath, "you're… in danger—"
His gaze then dropped from hers, and his head became deadweight in her hands. Color drained from his face.
A guttural sound of agony roared from her body's center. She felt like an animal fighting for survival. "No! Dad, no! Don't leave me! I love you… I need you! Please, Dad, no!"
She cradled him in her arms. Anything to get him to come back to her.
But he was gone.
And gone with him was the silver pocket watch. It disappeared with his final breath.
CHAPTER 2—BATTLE
Hannah stood naked at her bedroom window, her long, black hair dripping water on the floor below her. Her shoulders hunched over with the weight of despair and heaves of sobs took over her body like an exorcism of sadness, until finally her knees crumbled, and she yielded to the floor in bitter agony.
At last, after what felt like hours later, she got up. It was moments like these, in the wake of grief's hold, when she cursed herself for still living. Now, all too often, she felt like she didn't have the strength to go on. Or maybe it wasn't the will to live. Probably both were true. Before, she'd never given a thought as to what life would be like without her father. He'd always been there, and now she realized she'd taken for granted the fact that he always would be. They had always been extremely close. Especially with her mom so often away, Hannah had sometimes felt like he'd been her only real parent.
On this day—like every other since his passing—the reality of life without him overwhelmed her.
A dull, hazy mist blanketed her eyes, followed by a bone-aching cold that spread throughout her body. Then, the cold gave way to trembling. She knew it was the reality of the day setting in. A single teardrop balanced at the top of her cheekbone. Instead of wiping it away, she let it stay there as a reminder of him. Deep down, she knew that was why she stared out the window. She was looking for her dad, waiting for some trace of him to reappear… but none ever would again.
She'd live the rest of her life without him because he was dead.
Even thinking the word compressed her lungs and made it difficult to breathe.
Less than a week ago, her life had been normal.
Now, she had no idea what the word even meant.
It was like Earth without the sun.
Daybreak without sunrise.
Dusk without stars…
Hannah felt like screaming, but what good would it do? She cried all of the time, and it continually zapped her energy and depleted her desire to live. She had to force herself to do even the smallest tasks. Eating exhausted her, and sleeping only made her want to slip away into another world and never return.
What she wanted more than anything—what she longed for, actually ached for—was her old life back. And she would do anything to have her father with her again.
A big part of her wanted to escape from everything. But how could she? How could she leave the only home she'd ever known? And if she were to go away, where would she go? What would she do?
She couldn't even begin to forget the final moments with her father… they haunted her, both day and night. Even now, she could feel the texture of her father's hand in hers, and see the life draining away from his rugged face.
Like a vicious circle, she relived the scene over and over, in her daily thoughts and nightly dreams. If only she'd acted quicker and radioed for help sooner…
*
Behind her, the bedroom door creaked open, temporarily stalling her whirlwind of thoughts.
Hannah didn't move.
Her mother paused inside the doorway. She frowned and bit the insides of her cheeks.
Well, this was certainly a new one… she hadn't seen her daughter without clothes on for probably a good decade. She cleared her throat.
Hannah didn't flinch.
Jackie Bailey huffed out a breath similar to the abbreviated whine of a seventh-grader, before crossing the room in short order, her three-inch heels click-clicking, like a metronome set to presto.
Clearly more games were on the menu for the day.
Now that her husband was no longer here to referee, the games were all too frequent. And not to mention incredibly bothersome. She understood the necessity of grieving, and she knew the healing process would require time, but this was taking it to a whole other level. Hannah's incessant wallowing in self-pity was like sandpaper rubbing against her skin. Vance had always known exactly how to comfort Hannah when she was hurt, how to make her happy when she was sad. But now that he was gone, she found herself continually chafed at what she classified as overly dramatic behavior.
Jackie stopped at her daughter's side with flawless posture, elbows at her sides, and the tips of her fingers formed perfectly into a steeple in front of her.
"Hannah," she said in a low, measured tone, "we have to leave in less than two hours. Why are you standing there butt-naked at the window?"
Silence.
Jackie took the towel from Hannah's bed and shoved it in front of her daughter. "Put this around you. One of the ranch hands is going to see—" Suddenly, her eyes drifted downward and, as they did, her arms extended outward like an evangelical preacher's come-to-Jesus moment, "—Oh my heavens, for goodness sake, Hannah, look at this watery mess you're making on my hardwood floors!" She grabbed Hannah's waist and thrust her to the side of the puddle. "Get a towel, quick… you know this isn't good for my floors."
The last thing Hannah needed was to be ordered around by her mother, particularly about trivial things, and especially on the day of her father's funeral. So, she simply solved the problem the best way she knew how. She let the towel around her drop to the floor and used her foot to slide it over the liquid. And she did it with not so much as a glance in her mother's direction.
Hannah smiled inside. It pleased her knowing it would further exasperate her mother.
Jackie scowled. The time for patience and kindness was over. She was tired of these games, tired of Hannah's constant rebellion. If only her father were here—he always knew how to control her.
"For Pete's sake, girl," she shouted, "get some clothes on. You aren't twelve anymore, you're seventeen—practically a grown woman. So act like it. And," she said, coming to within inches of Hannah's face, "there will be a press conference right after the funeral, and I hope you know better than to do anything rash or foolish that would tarnish our family name."
"You mean hurt your political career," Hannah retorted, looking right at her mother.
Jackie resisted the temptation to slap her. Instead, she closed her eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly like she'd practiced in Yoga, and reminded herself of the trauma her daughter had been through. Still, she reasoned as her eyes snapped open, it didn't give Hannah free license to say whatever she wanted. She'd begun to sense she was losing her. Not that they'd ever been particularly close anyway, but things were getting worse by the day, by the hour.
Her husband's absence had left her peddling along a continuous cycle of confrontation. She felt like one of those hamsters on an exercise wheel—only this one had no exit door.
"Don't use that tone with me, young lady. I have worked very hard to get to the position I'm in, and I am not going to let a spoiled, selfish child ruin it for me."
Jackie began pacing the room. After several laps, she'd gathered her composure and retooled her demeanor for another approach. As a politician, she knew the value of appealing to the emotional side of an issue.
This time though, she moved to her daughter with outstretched arms and placed them on her shoulders, guiding her firmly toward the bed where they sat down facing one another.
Hannah's gaze stayed low.
Jackie tilted her chin up to face her.
"Look at me, Hannah."
Her eyes didn't budge.
"Hannah, please."
She slowly lifted them.
"You know your father wouldn't want you to be miserable like this, Hannah. Please, do this for him today. Do him proud. And please be ready on time."
Jackie stood and touched her daughter's face.
For a blink of a moment, Hannah thought her mother might hold her.
But Jackie didn't. She picked up the towel that lay rumpled on the floor, set it next to Hannah, and started to leave.
"And don't," her mom spun around, "even think about wearing that gunnysack dress you wore to the viewing the other night. That thing needs to be cut up into rags."
*
The clock read a quarter to eleven. The funeral was at noon, but there were arrangements needing finalized and details requiring attention to prior to the service.
Jackie waited in the front hallway and checked her emails on her phone. She had several messages marked urgent, each of them probably related to the current economic catastrophe. The recent stock market crash had been devastating… for so many Americans. Some were already labeling it the worst in US history. And the fact that it had happened in this year of all years—2029—exactly one hundred years after the great crash of 1929—was more than ironic. It was disturbing… almost as if forecasting a coming storm. Dealing with the crisis had certainly been storm enough for her, to say the least, especially when combined with everything else she was involved in.
She changed screens to see the time and then shouted up the banister, "Hannah, let's go. We can't be late."
At the foyer mirror, Senator Bailey checked her appearance. She was always careful before stepping out in public. One wrong outfit and she might land on the list of America's Worst Dressed.
She was busy combating a fly-away hair when a reflection in the corner of the mirror caused her blood pressure to skyrocket.
Black, snakeskin cowboy boots were making their way down the stairs. Jackie instantly felt color rush into her cheeks. She glared. Hannah always knew which buttons to push. It was like she got some thrill out of it. Well, this time she wasn't going to get away with it. This time, Jackie was furious.
She spun around fast, losing the battle with the fly-away hair. It was all Hannah could do not to giggle. For some reason, making her mother mad amused her. It always had. When her father was alive, he would often have to go into another room so Jackie wouldn't see him chuckling at some antic Hannah had pulled.
"What in heaven's name do you think you're doing? This isn't some rodeo… this is your father's funeral. And might I remind you that he was a very respected man, not to mention the fact that I hold a high position in the US Senate, so I suggest you march yourself right back up those stairs, young lady, and take off those hideous boots and change into some proper shoes."
A mad clown, Hannah thought with a devilish grin. That's what she looks like. And the glaring made it even worse. So did the smudge of lipstick that had, in the outburst, suctioned squarely onto her mother's front tooth. It looked absolutely hilarious. This was from someone who rarely had a hair out of place, let alone a renegade dab of makeup or lipstick. And besides, there was a permasmile on her mother's face nowadays, regardless of her emotion.
Numerous rounds of "work," as Jackie had discreetly called the plastic surgery and Botox, had taken its toll. Hannah often wondered why her mother hadn't realized the work wasn't "working." It made her look… well, like a mad clown. Wait, thought Hannah, her mother didn't look like a mad clown—she looked like a psycho clown.
The sudden vision of a clown at a circus, with bulging eyes and a knife in each hand, made Hannah all at once burst out laughing. It was the first time she'd laughed since her father had died, and the hysterical feeling intensified to the point where she was practically crying. She couldn't even stop it. It was like a dam of uncontrollable emotions had let loose all at once.
Naturally, the laughing only made her mother more angry and irritated. And when Hannah didn't stop, Jackie's anger grew to pure disgust.
"And why are you laughing?" she asked as she shook her head. "My goodness, I am not sure what goes through your head sometimes. I'm glad your father understood you because I sure don't."
