A Singular Gift

A Singular Gift

By Sue Santore

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011

All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is purely coincidence.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is dedicated to my three young adult readers: Avery Carroll, Madison Fadley, and Sophia Kurzius. Their enthusiasm for A Singular Gift gave me the incentive to publish. Their comments and suggestions helped make it a better book.

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CHAPTER ONE

Talk, talk, talk. All around the room they talked in low whispers that I couldn’t hear, but I didn’t care. I didn’t try to listen. That’s why I had chosen this chair in the corner of Grandma’s living room, away from everyone else, especially my sisters.

My sisters were Sylvia, the pretty one, and Alicia, the smart one. Then there was me. Just plain Jean Ryan, the ordinary one. Brown hair, brown eyes.

The coil of wire in the big chair rubbed against my jeans like it was an ordinary day. I carefully poked the stuffing back through the hole in the worn blue fabric, as if that were the most important thing in the world, as though I had forever in which to do it, as though Grandma Ryan were not dying in the next room.

Nobody said the words. The roomful of relatives just sat around and talked about nothing, or stared at each other, just waiting. Waiting for Grandma to die. Anger seethed inside of me, like a living beast and I clamped my jaw hard. I reached to my neck and touched the friendship necklace Karen had given me. Anger flared stronger. I wouldn’t cry.

Not in front of them. Not even as I thought of Grandma’s proud smile and the regal way she had always carried her head and the look she could give that made even my father hush. Not even as I remembered her gentle touch and the special way she had always taken time for me, her youngest granddaughter.

Now they won’t even let me in to see her. They won’t let me come, Grandma. They won’t let me! I screamed silently at the closed door near me and at that moment I hated them all with their rules and must-dos. Even though I’m fourteen, everyone--cousins, aunts, sisters--everyone still tells me what to do and when to do it.

Daddy had argued for me to take my turn staying with Grandma, but Momma had whispered secretly to him, her face pinched and white with a fear that I could not understand, and now I could not go near Grandma.

Momma said I was too young, that it would upset me too much. Uncle Joe told me that I might upset Grandma. What a bunch of rot. Sylvia had gone in and she was only sixteen, only two years older, and Grandma had never cared as much for Sylvia. No wonder. Selfish toad. She wouldn’t even let me borrow her lavender blouse last week.

It wasn’t fair! Angry tears burned behind my eyes and I took a quick look around the room to see if anyone was watching before I smeared the sleeve of my gray sweatshirt across my face, rubbing away tears mixed with sweat. It was a warm spring day in our little town of Huntsville, Kansas, and I was hot in my sweatshirt.

With a wiggle I moved to the edge of the chair to get away from the uncomfortable spot and stared at Grandma’s bedroom door. Two at a time they took hourly turns going into the small room with the closed door. Always closed, as if they were afraid that death would follow them out of the room and go home with them.

It was almost time for the last couple to come out. They would have that same tired look everyone’s face wore when they walked out of the room, as if Grandma demanded something from them they were unwilling to give.

No one stayed longer than an hour. I looked at my watch. Five seconds. Four. Time. The door opened.

Aunt Ellen rose to her feet, nudging Uncle Bob. So they are next, I thought, resentfully. Before they moved further, Daddy stepped in front of them and said something I couldn’t hear from back in my corner, but I sure could see the way everyone turned to look at me and back at Momma.

Momma had that scared, white look on her face again. No, Samuel James, I will not permit it.

I perked my ears up at that. Momma never called Daddy anything but Sam--unless she was very upset.

Carolyn, she asked for her, again and again. Daddy’s low voice rumbled over to my ears.

You know what will happen if she gets her alone. You know! Momma’s voice rose again, hysterically.

That’s nonsense, Carolyn. That was practical Aunt Ellen. Momma loved to play games, but you’re the only one who ever believed in her foolish tales, and Jean was her favorite.

Me. It's me she wants to see, I realized. Sneaking a look at the cluster of aunts and uncles and older cousins, I saw that none were watching me. They were too absorbed in the debate between Momma and Aunt Ellen.

The door to Grandma’s room had been left open a few inches. I glanced again at the roomful of relatives. No one noticed. Inching forward in my chair, I lifted off the offending spring and stood up. Not even bossy Sylvia was looking at me. Even though they were all talking about me, I might as well have been invisible for all that they noticed me.

I made straight for that door.

Once inside I gently clicked the door shut and bolted it with Grandma’s special lock. Years ago when I had asked her why she needed a lock on her bedroom door, she had answered me with a curious smile.

Sometimes I need to be alone.

A rasp and wheeze came from the center of the room, ending and beginning again, sending a chill shivering up my spine beneath the heavy sweatshirt.

Grandma? I whispered, but the room was silent except for the wheezing rasp and as dark as if a shroud had fallen over it. I could not see, and a sweet musky odor like fermenting grapes, muffled my sense of smell. My eyes blinked while I strained to see. Gradually the familiar room came dimly into focus.

As I looked at the heavy curtains pulled tightly against the intrusion of the sun, my lip curled in disgust. Why had they done that? Surely not by request from Grandma, for she loved the sunshine.

Her huge, four-poster bed still stood against the center of one wall, surrounded by chests, trunks, and boxes that were filled with Grandma’s memories. I tiptoed toward the bed, aiming at the small shrunken figure beneath the white covering, which moved with each rattling breath. As I approached the bed, a coldness seemed to hover around me, as if seeking entrance.

Holding my breath, I bent over Grandma and reached out to touch her hand. When I saw how the skin was drawn thinly over the bones, I had to bite my lip to keep from crying. This was not Grandma’s firm hand that could clasp in love, or smack in haste. This was the hand of a stranger in Grandma’s bed.

The stranger’s hand turned under mine and grabbed my wrist in a hard grasp. A voice spoke as from a great distance. Send...Jean...to...me.

Grandma, it’s me, Jean.

The hand pulled me closer and I leaned on the soft bed while Grandma’s bright eyes peered at me out of the stranger’s shrunken face. A face which held hollows and dark pits and wrinkles which had never been there before.

It is you at last. I’ve waited so long. The voice came out a little louder. Jean, open those blasted curtains. I haven’t much time.

I hastened to obey the real voice of my grandmother, back from some faraway place where I could not follow, not yet. While I pulled on the heavy drapery cords, I looked back at the bed. The drapes slid open in a series of jerks, as though they begrudged the entrance of the warmth and light of the sun, and my grandmother came back and left the stranger behind.

She struggled to sit up against her pillows and I raced back to the bed, afraid for her. Afraid that she might make the stranger come back if she moved too much, but she smiled at me in that old secret way she had. Even the hollows in her face seemed to fill out more as she drank in the sunshine.

Be careful, Grandma. That was all I could think of to say as I stood there twisting my fingers around and around.

She held out her arms and I knelt on the bed and went into them. We stayed there for a time that wasn’t measured, the two of us females at the opposite ends of our family. Grandma’s body almost wasn’t there; she was so frail, but her arms held me tightly and her breathing did not rasp and catch while I held her up against me.

I dared to kiss her dry cheek. Grandma had never been much for touching, but had showed her love in other ways.

She patted my back with her hand then gave me a little shove. We must hurry, child. Put me back on my pillows.

While I propped her up the best I could, I told her how I had locked the door. Grandma chuckled, then pointed to an old chest wedged between her bed and the night stand, which was covered with half empty bottles of medicine.

Take that stuff off that chest and throw it in the trash.

But Grandma--

Do as I say.

I did it, but I couldn’t help worrying about what Grandma would do if she needed any of her medicine. It was as if she heard what I was thinking, because she made a rude gesture at the bottles.

I won’t need that stuff where I’m going. Hurry up.

After I cleared the bottles off the chest into the trash, Grandma pointed at the chest. Open it.

The latch was made of old, cracked leather. I undid it carefully, wondered if it would fall apart in my hands, but decided it didn’t matter if it did. Grandma needed something inside it and I was going to get it for her. A vague thought crossed my mind that surely they would have missed me outside by now.

As if my thoughts conjured them out of nothing, I heard the doorknob rattle and turn. Glancing quickly at the door and back to the trunk, my fingers tore at the stiff leather in haste. I must get it open for Grandma. That bolt should hold, at least for a little longer.

Then I had it open and I heard a sigh of relief from Grandma. The tray before me was filled with old letters, carefully arranged into separate piles and tied with bits of ribbon.

Lift the tray and place it on the floor.

I did. That was when I saw the wooden box, resting on a pile of notebooks. It was not a large box, only about twelve inches square and four inches deep, carved on the sides in intricate patterns with a shiny gleam on the lid. A dim memory surfaced. I had seen that box before, a long time ago. I reached out to touch it and drew back, looking at Grandma for permission. Somehow I knew that this was what she wanted me for.

Grandma was leaning forward on one elbow, her face an intense study, alive and alert. Go on, she commanded me. Touch it. Pick it up.

As though her words released me, I bent over the trunk and grasped the carved sides of the wooden box--and almost dropped it back into the depths of the trunk.

My breath sucked in between my teeth as I stared down at the box, almost forgetting Grandma in the bed next to me, not even hearing the banging on the bedroom door or the frantic voices outside in the other world where time mattered.

Warmth surged and flared between my fingers as though the box were a living creature, but I wasn’t frightened. It had been the shock of feeling the sudden warmth where I had expected the coolness of shut-away wood that had startled me. No, I wasn’t frightened. I felt as though...as though the box wanted to be with me.

When I looked up at Grandma, something flared in her eyes and held me. I could see that she was pleased that I still held the box. Stretching out my hands without moving from my knees, I offered the box to her.

No. She shook her head. It’s yours now. Her head fell back onto her pillow and I sprang up in alarm, but did not let go of the box.

Grandma! Panic filled me at the shadow that crossed her face. She mustn’t die. Not yet. I had too many questions.

Too late. I should have taught you, should have trained you, but your momma knew and she was afraid. Grandma gave me a sad smile and shook her head. Don’t be too hard on her, Jean. She could have used it, but she rejected her gift, as did Samuel.

I had no idea what she was talking about, just that Daddy and Momma and her fear and the box and Grandma were all mixed up together somehow.

You should have been taught... Her eyes shut and her voice faded. It’s on your shoulders now.

Just as a cold fear begin to chill through me, her eyes opened again.

Your gift is strong, flowing through both sides of your blood. You can learn from the box, but you must be careful. Promise me, Jean. Grandma’s voice deepened and grew more serious as she reached out and touched me. It is a powerful gift, but it carries danger. Danger lies within...you. You must use it wisely.

I promise, Grandma. I said, and she seemed satisfied. I hardly knew then what she meant, but I was to learn. Was I ever! The frantic shouts of my name outside the door distracted me for a moment and I glanced at the door and back at Grandma, silently asking her for permission.

Not yet. There’s one more thing before that bunch gets back in here. She lifted her head off the pillow and raised her arm to her neck, but it fell back to the bed as though her strength was fading with the passing of the box, as though that was what she had been waiting for. Bonnie Jean, take this chain from my neck.

In the bright sunlight, the long silver chain around Grandma’s withered neck shimmered, plunging down into her crumpled nightgown. She had always worn that sturdy chain, as far back as I could remember. I took one hand from the box and reached out to take hold of it, but I hesitated to lift it off her head, feeling as though I had no right, as if without the chain, Grandma would no longer be the same person.

Hurry up, girl. I can’t hold out much longer and you must have it for the box.

Then I took it, raising it over her frail head and saw what I’d never seen before. From the end of the chain a silver key dangled. Guided by the love in Grandma’s eyes, I started to slip the chain over my head to join Karen’s friendship necklace, but some invisible force kept it back.

Alarm flared in Grandma’s eyes. My friend, Karen, had given me the friendship necklace shortly after we met last year. I had never had it off since then, but my Grandma was more important to me than Karen. Led by some unknown instinct, I pulled Karen’s necklace off and then the silver chain slid down inside my sweatshirt. At first I felt the same curious warmth from it that came from the box, then it faded against the warmth of my skin. I stuffed Karen’s necklace into my pocket, feeling a strange sense of freedom. My constant anger subsided into sorrow.

Grandma smiled at me, that old smile,