The Unforgettable Guinevere St. Clair Read online

  Startled, I skedaddled out to the front porch, away from the comparison, and almost keeled over from an overpowering foul smell.

  Bitty buried her face in my shirt.

  “I thought they didn’t have pollution in Iowa,” I gasped.

  My father stepped onto the porch, inhaling deeply. “Pollution,” he scoffed. “That, my dears, is the smell of home. Fresh morning manure. As natural as anything else on the earth.” He straightened the rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt and tucked his hands in his khakis, a man content.

  I gave a dying breath for Bitty’s benefit.

  “Drama, Guinevere,” he said. “Too much drama.”

  • • •

  Instead of turning right and walking down Lanark Lane toward Gaysie’s house, we thankfully went straight ahead to Main Street. We walked half a mile on a dirt road, green fields on either side. Corn was yet again the sightseeing highlight until I spotted a cow.

  “Look, Dad,” I said pointing. “Hint, hint.”

  “That’s a Holstein. I think you’re more of a prize-winning Jersey.”

  My father reached down and took our hands. He was happy this morning. Maybe because he loved Crow, Iowa, and maybe because this was the beginning of another great experiment with Vienna’s mind. I was more resigned to our fate, but if my father was happy, I was happy. That’s all I needed from Crow, really, even if nothing changed with Vienna.

  We reached Main Street, which looked like something out of an old TV show, and passed Arnie’s Supermarket, where a man in a white apron was sweeping the sidewalk.

  “It’s so quiet,” I whispered. “Where is everyone?”

  “You’re not in New York anymore,” my father laughed. “Hello, Arnie!” he called out. The man raised his hand in a wave. The little town was new to me, but we were greeted as old friends, and it surprised me how friendly my father was. We walked past a church, all white and sparkling in the early-morning sunshine, complete with a ringing bell.

  “Crow,” my father said, “has everything we need and most things we want—pizza, a post office, Petey’s Diner, the deli, a bank!”

  “Movie theater?” I challenged.

  “Better,” he said. “A library, which is next door to your mother—and I happen to know Ms. Priscilla already has a stack of books waiting for you.”

  I jumped up and down and pulled my father down the street toward the library, until he stopped abruptly in front of a tiny gray house. It was vacant, with wide steps and a blank sign hanging over the stoop.

  “This is where I’m going to work. It was your grandfather’s dream that I come back to practice dentistry with him here. Shame that he never got to see this day.”

  Crow was small, but it had room for my father. Old Dr. Frank happily retired as young Dr. Jed, who had almost become an oral surgeon, became Crow’s new dentist. A regular old dentist. It was a difficult fact to reconcile. My father was not a quitter. But he had—right in the middle of his oral surgery residency, after all that studying and test taking. Because of Vienna, he’d never become the great surgeon he could have been.

  “You could practice next door,” he said, winking at me.

  I imagined myself in a law office like Georgia Piehl. Sometimes Bitty and I had helped out in the back at my father’s practice in New York, emptied trash, watered plants, and cleaned dental instruments. Whenever she came in she told me all her best law stories. Once, she said, a man had cut off his own hand while trying to escape through a courtroom window.

  When we left New York, she told me to write anytime, scribbling her address down for me. I kept her note tucked in my jewelry box with my best treasures.

  “Well, I’m going to open a Yum-Yum Shop,” Bitty said. “And make candy and doughnuts all day.”

  “Doughnuts next to my dental practice?” My father laughed. “At least it will keep me in business. But the best part of this location is your mother is just down the street in a terrific facility. We can have lunch together every day, visit familiar settings, get some exercise, associate with old friends. Neurons will form, rewire even. . . .”

  He turned and began to whistle, hands in his pockets as he walked down the street. I watched him a moment before moving.

  Maybe he was right. Many of the things we tried didn’t work, but I knew my father. He was not a quitter; he was a man who fixed things.

  “Officer Lytle!” My father called out.

  Bitty and I gaped as Officer Lytle, a real-life police officer, actually punched our father good-naturedly in the shoulder and enveloped him in a great bear hug. “So great to have you back, Jed. Let me get a look at your girls.” He squatted down. “None of this ‘Officer Lytle’ stuff. You can call me Uncle Jake.” He held out his hand to Bitty, who smiled. “Ah, aren’t you just like your mama?”

  “I’d like to call you Officer Jake,” I said, holding out my hand and admiring his neat uniform and golden badge. “I’m very pleased to meet an officer of the law.”

  After a solemn salute, he clapped my father on the back again. “Girls, I could tell you some stories about my buddy here.”

  “And I would like to hear them!” I said, leaning forward eagerly.

  Officer Jake laughed. “Now, listen, you all need to come and see Suzy, my wife. Number four is in the oven, about to pop any minute, and did I tell ya? It’s another boy! Suzy’s been cryin’ for months she wants a girl so bad. You’ve got to come by. She’d sure love to spoil some cute girls.”

  “Congratulations!” my father said. “I’m happy for you.”

  “How’s Vienna?” Officer Jake asked. “I hear she’s . . . settling in?” An almost imperceptible look of discomfort passed across his face. This was how it always went. Everyone was curious about Vienna, but few were comfortable talking about her.

  “She’s doing well. That’s where we’re headed. Why don’t you come along?”

  “Can’t right now. Duty calls. But I’ll be by. . . . Tell her hello?”

  We waved enthusiastically.

  My Iowa days were looking up. A police officer was someone every future lawyer needed to have on her side.

  We walked past the library, to Vienna’s new home. The care center was a modern building with pretty green gardens and a rock-lined walkway. It was lovely until that woman ruined it.

  Bitty saw her first and let out a tiny scream. Following the direction she pointed, I saw a familiar bunch of flowers being carried by a ginormous body with large man feet.

  Trailing behind were those two boys, Micah on foot and Jimmy riding his skateboard.

  I pulled my father back inside before he could notice, hoping with all my might that those flowers weren’t coming into Vienna’s room.

  Vienna now lived in cheerful Room 12, painted a banana yellow. A nurse was making the bed, pulling up a handmade, patterned quilt my mother was rumored to have rocked me in when I was a baby. I knew this because my father frequently repeated this piece of information to Vienna, who had yet to remember rocking any babies. The nurse turned.

  “Whoa,” I said.

  She was the prettiest and youngest nurse we’d ever had, with long, dark hair and shiny pink lips, matching her hot pink scrubs.

  “Hi there!” she said. “I bet I know who you are!” When my father appeared behind us, she brightened further. I felt his hands on my shoulders.

  “Annabelle, these are my daughters, Gwyn and Bitty.” He motioned toward her. “Girls, Annabelle is one of your mother’s nurses. She’s also new in town.”

  “No offense,” I said, “but what are your credentials?”

  Annabelle laughed like I was joking, showing very straight and very white teeth. My father liked healthy teeth, a sure sign of good character.

  “Annabelle’s worked with patients who have suffered a brain injury like your mother,” my father said before turning to Annabelle. “For better or worse, the girls are practically experts on the subject of brain trauma.”

  “Is that right?” Annabelle said.


  I gave her a solid wink.

  “She was born with a slightly abnormal heart rhythm,” I said with authority. “But no one knew until it just stopped in the produce aisle.” I sighed dramatically. “Her brain went without oxygen for a perilously long time. Bitty and I are practically orphans.”

  “Guinevere.”

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “Oh my,” Annabelle said, producing the clucking sounds I was going for. “This was long QT syndrome, correct?”

  “Correct,” my father said.

  “Usually there are early episodes that indicate a potential problem.”

  I waved her textbook explanation away. “A few fainting spells,” I said airily. “But no one knew they were warning signs. Of course Nana blames herself for that fateful day.”

  Annabelle put her hand on her chest and leaned toward me. I met her gaze with woefully tragic eyes. “Actually, in most cases,” I whispered, “there are no signs—only death.”

  “There will be plenty more time to talk,” my father interjected, breaking my spell.

  Annabelle quickly resumed a professional demeanor.

  “She’s been asking for you all morning,” Annabelle said, turning to my father.

  “She’s always very excited to see Daddy,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s like her Justin Bieber.” We’d seen the Biebs walk through Central Park once. Girls were screaming, tears coming down their faces while they jumped up and down. Vienna was kind of like that with Jed St. Clair.

  “She wanted to call you this morning,” Annabelle said.

  On cue, I put my backpack on the floor and pulled out the bright red card stock with my father’s cell phone number, printed in big, bold numbers. Vienna knew how to dial a phone number, but she couldn’t remember the digits unless they were taped on the phone. Calling my father multiple times a day was one of her favorite activities. She fixated on the same four things:

  1) I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?

  2) I’m tired.

  3) I’ve got to go to the bathroom.

  4) Where’s Jed?

  Where’s Jed? was the most important item on the list, probably because he could take care of the rest of the list.

  “Your mommy is down the hall in physical therapy.”

  “Vienna,” I interjected. “We call her Vienna.”

  “Oh! I’ll get . . . Vienna before her breakfast gets too cold.” Annabelle tapped a tray of French toast sticks and slipped out of the room. My mouth watered as I realized I was suffering from severe processed-food withdrawal. My father had done his best, but before Nana’s extreme health initiative, we’d eaten our share of Goldfish crackers and frozen dinners.

  At that moment the bouquet of flowers burst into the room. Bitty and I grabbed each other. But instead of the giant, out came Nana’s blue seersucker button-up. Bitty and I exhaled, releasing our grip on each other.

  Nana faced me with her hands on her hips.

  “You’ll never guess who I just ran into—Gaysie Cutter!”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “She brought these beautiful flowers for your mother.” Nana raised her eyebrows. “And she apologized for scaring you! Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about. Apologizing isn’t something Gaysie Cutter does often.”

  I chewed on my lip. Gaysie was admitting guilt. This could definitely work in my favor.

  “Gwyn?” Nana asked. “What happened?”

  “I’m glad she’s sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” My father turned the pages of Brain Today magazine.

  “Attempted murder.” There was a pause between page turns.

  “She buried my sister,” Bitty offered. I stifled my scowl, realizing that sympathy was my best defense.

  “Excuse me?” Nana said, puffing up her chest. “Gwyn, what in the world?”

  “Well,” I said, “I guess I should have told you before, but I believe I have been manipulated.”

  My father put the magazine all the way down and squinted at me. “Manipulated?”

  “Exactly. She made me do it!”

  “Explain.”

  “Dig a grave for José the servant.”

  Nana gave out a small cry.

  “José,” my father repeated.

  “I’m not even sure what he died of—maybe a baby diaper, I don’t know. She said for sure he was dead, so I helped her because cremation is so expensive and because she kind of made me do it.

  “But then,” I pushed on, “she made me get in the grave so she could bury me with José and wouldn’t help me get out! Luckily, I escaped and saved Bitty.”

  “Wait. José?” Nana paused her hand-wringing. “Is that the . . . ?”

  “Servant,” I said.

  “José,” my father said, “is the dog.”

  I let this sink in for a minute before jumping out of my chair.

  “The dog!” I yelled. “José is not the dog!”

  “He is, indeed, the dog.”

  “Well, why didn’t she just say so?” I kicked my chair, and my father caught it before it fell over.

  “A prosecutor,” he said carefully, “asks the right questions and gets the facts before presenting them to the jury.” At this personal insult, I burst into tears.

  “Gaysie Cutter told me to climb into the grave that was really, really deep!” I blubbered. “And I swear she was going to put that ‘dead dog’ on top of me and bury me with it! I couldn’t get out and she wouldn’t help me. She wanted me to die and I hate her!”

  “Gwyn!” Nana said. “Language!”

  “ ‘Hate’ is a very strong word,” my father said.

  “That’s why I used it!”

  “Guinevere.”

  “Sorry,” I said, wiping my nose. “Vienna says it.”

  “That is an utterly ridiculous argument and you know it.”

  “Gwyn is obviously traumatized,” Nana said, her face all pinched up. “It’s like history is repeating itself—trouble involving Gaysie Cutter! You all haven’t even been here a week, and look what I’ve let happen.” She didn’t actually say that last part, but by the look on her face I could see her brain thinking it. And I suddenly loathed her, too, the way she thought everything was her fault. Not for the first time, I wished practical Nana would just cry or smash a plate.

  “Come here,” my father said, pulling me down to his lap. I leaned against his chest and inhaled the smell of his aftershave and starched shirt.

  “She was scary, Daddy,” Bitty said.

  He nodded. “I admit Gaysie Cutter is an odd woman, one of the most unusual characters you will ever meet in your life. She’s not, shall we say, easy to color with one crayon.”

  Across from us was Vienna’s bed, where her pink Love-a-Lot Care Bear sat. The two intertwined hearts on Love-a-Lot’s chest stood for the closeness and loyalty of true love. Vienna often pretended Love-a-Lot was Jed. Like cupid’s arrow, Love-a-Lot could “create a crush in no time!” and “Love will find a way, and if it doesn’t, I will!”

  Love-a-Lot was totally embarrassing.

  I frowned and folded my arms.

  “You know what the brain is capable of, Gwyn,” my father continued. “It sees what it wants to see. Perhaps your imagination got the better of you.”

  I shook my head.

  “Believe me,” he said, following my gaze to Vienna’s bed, “there will come a day when you will be glad to know her.” I tucked my head under his chin, wondering if we were really still talking about Gaysie.

  “Jed!” a voice screamed from down the hall.

  “I keep waiting for my arrival to be old news,” my father chuckled. I resentfully slid off his lap as he stood, stretched out his long limbs, and stepped out into the hall to wait for Vienna.

  Formerly known as my mother.

  CHAPTER 4

  JED!”

  He waited in the doorway, coaching her down the hall until she shuffled into the room.

  “Jed, Jed, Jed,” she said.

&nb
sp; Vienna. Still beautiful, blond, and dark-eyed, yet the lively, warm fire everyone talked about had dulled like once-hot embers. Supposedly, we were lucky. Vienna spoke. She didn’t drool. She walked. She wasn’t a vegetable fed through a tube. Just looking at her, you might not know anything was wrong at all.

  Only in the eyes. There was trouble behind the eyes. And then, of course, if she opened her mouth. Vienna looked at Nana and gasped like she was seeing her for the first time. “When did you get so fat?”

  You had to admire Nana’s impenetrable shell now. Her expression hardly changed.

  Vienna pointed at me and whispered to my father, “Why is that girl looking at me like that?”

  “You know who that is. Gwyn doesn’t like you to be rude, remember?”

  Vienna stuck out her lower lip in a pout. She sat slowly, glancing at me as I continued to glower. Lolly would have told me to stop, but sometimes I just liked messing with her. But since she was so highly distractible, Vienna abruptly lost her focus on me. She giggled, still holding on to my father’s arm. “We are going out.”

  “You’ve had a busy morning,” my father said. “How was physical therapy?”

  Vienna looked blank.

  “Did you eat breakfast?”

  “Yep!”

  “What did you eat?”

  “Sausage, pancakes, and orange juice,” she said automatically. My father glanced at the French toast sticks, dismayed.

  “Vienna,” he said, motioning to Annabelle. “Who is this?”

  “The nurse.”

  You see, although Vienna had a major brain injury, she was smart. Sometimes she was able to answer the way she thought she was supposed to, even though she couldn’t remember.

  Since The Episode in the grocery store when I was four, Vienna could not remember a single thing after the age of thirteen. But she often didn’t act even that old. Her behavior was young and unpredictable, like a bratty baby. Even Bitty was more mature.

  “What are the names of your children?” my father pressed.

  “Guinevere, Elizabeth, and Gus,” she recited, not actually remembering.

  “Gus was your cat,” I said.

  Annabelle stepped forward.

  “Woo-wee, you have big bosoms,” Vienna said, clapping her hand over her own mouth.