The Truth Against the World (15 page)

Back in the car, after a silent hike down to the parking lot, my mother finally broke the quiet.

“What was that back there?”

“Forget it,” I said, staring at the road ahead. After a minute or two of just trying to breathe, I said, “I guess I panicked a little. It was dark.”

She glanced over at me, then back at the road. “I'm sorry,” she said, her voice confused.

“It's fine,” I mumbled. I looked down at my lap, feeling guilty. But I couldn't imagine ever being able to explain this to her.

After about a half hour more of driving through hills and valleys, past outlying farms and another ruined castle, the landscape became slightly flatter, and then the town of Carmarthen appeared. It was much bigger than Cwm Tawel, with low industrial buildings and newer houses on the outskirts. I could just barely see the remains of a castle on a slight hill above the river, abutted on three sides by modern buildings.

“The city center is cute,” Mom said. “Maybe we can go shopping there later this week. Or … or we don't have to. Maybe you want to spend time with your friend.”

“It's okay,” I said, fidgeting in my seat. She was really trying hard. “We can go.”

Mom pulled into a nearby parking lot and I scanned the sidewalk outside the long, low train station. It was five minutes to four. No sign of Gareth yet, or his train. I tried to compose myself, brushing my ponytail and putting on lip gloss. My cheeks were pink and chapped from the chilly breeze, and my eyes looked tired and puffy, but I couldn't do anything about either of these things.

A distant rumble grew louder, and a minute or two later, a train slowly pulled in. As soon as people started exiting the station, we got out of the car. Two elderly women smiling and chatting in Welsh passed us, then came several men and women with business suits and briefcases and a handful of college students with huge backpacks. And behind the college students was a tallish, skinny guy with a mop of curly light-brown hair and wire-frame glasses, pulling a wheeled brown suitcase behind him that looked like it had seen better days.

My stomach did a flip of nervousness. Gareth waved at us, lugging his suitcase in our direction. His grin was a little lopsided, and his eyes squinted when he smiled. He looked very … normal. And, like when we'd chatted on Skype before, there was something about his smile that made me automatically smile in response.

“Hello,” he said, “I'm Gareth Lewis.” His voice was quiet, and he sounded anxious. He stuck out a hand and shook hands with my mom.

“I'm Linda Evans. Wyn's been so excited to finally meet you,” Mom said, kind of loudly. I blushed. Gareth met my gaze with a slight smile. His eyes were a clear light blue.

“It is nice to meet you—in person, I mean.” Had that been my voice? It couldn't have been. Somebody with a high-pitched squeak was talking.

Gareth's smile widened. “Nice to meet you, too.” He shook my hand. My hand was sweaty, but so was his. Strangely, that made me feel better.

“Glad I wasn't late,” he continued as we headed for the car. “I almost missed the connection. My first train had to stop for sheep on the tracks.”

Mom and I both laughed.

“What? It's true,” Gareth said.

As Mom drove us along the winding roads back to Cwm Tawel, Gareth and I chatted a little more, but it was weird with my mom there. And maybe because we'd talked online already, it added another level of strangeness, like déjà vu.

Finally the car descended from the hills that bordered the village, emerging on Cwm Road just above the bus station. Following Gareth's directions to his great-granddad's house, Mom drove down one of the side streets and pulled over in front of a small cottage on a street of nearly identical small cottages.

“You don't have to wait,” Gareth said. “I've got a key.” He got out and heaved his battered suitcase from the trunk.

I shot him an intense look. We needed to talk.

“You have my mobile number. Phone me up tomorrow and we can, I don't know, walk around the village or something.” He flashed me that goofy smile for a moment—his teeth were perfectly straight, unlike the stereotypical depiction of British dental hygiene—and then he waved and let himself into the cottage. The door shut behind him.

Mom had just started the car again and was pulling away from the curb when her phone buzzed. I glanced at it; the caller ID said
Gypsy Farm
.

“It must be Dad,” Mom said. “Can you pick it up, please?”

“Hello?”

An unfamiliar female voice spilled out of the phone, breathlessly. “Is this Mrs. Evans?”

“This is Wyn,” I said, a horrible queasiness taking root in my stomach.

“This is Nurse Morgan. Are you with your mother? Please, you must come straightaway.” Her Welsh lilt stood out even more than I remembered. “I'm afraid poor Rhiannon's gone a bit worse.”

15

Gwr dieithr yw yfory.

Tomorrow is a stranger.

Welsh proverb

The car careened up the narrow country lane. Mom's face was pale, her lips pressed tightly together, and I was clutching my sweaty hands together in my lap. Despite our speed, it felt like we were never going to get there. We would arrive when it was too late. Maybe it was already too late.

Mom pulled the Ford into the gravel parking lot, not even bothering to lock the doors as we scrambled out. I stopped for a moment in front of the door to the cottage and wiped the sheen of sweat off my forehead, steeling myself to go in.

Muffled voices came from the back bedroom, Dad's baritone murmur and the nurse's sympathetic, lilting reassurances. I didn't hear Gee Gee. My skin went cold and clammy, and I walked slowly toward the back room.

Gee Gee lay ashen-faced and brittle in the hospital bed, her eyes closed. She was breathing, but shallowly. Dad and the nurse were holding a quiet conversation near the window. I let out a shaky breath, and they both looked over at me.

“Dad,” I said quietly. Words fought to get out of my mouth:
I'm sorry; I should have been here; I should never have left the house
. In the end, nothing came out.

Dad was saying something, but I couldn't seem to parse it out into words. Meanwhile, Gee Gee just kept on sleeping. I wondered if she could hear us. If she could see us in her dreams.

And if it wasn't us she was seeing and hearing, then who was it?

The tiny bedroom began to feel choked with people. I backed into the front room, sat heavily on the couch, and dropped my head between my knees. I stayed there for what felt like a long time, staring at the sea-green carpet fibers, until I saw Dad's white Reeboks out of the corner of my eye and felt him sit down next to me.

Sparse, dark stubble patches made Dad's face seem even more tired and old.

“Hey, Wynnie.” He sounded exhausted.

“How is she?” My voice was barely above a whisper. “How much longer?”

“Well, she's stable for now,” he said. “But she's been in and out of consciousness. Not very alert.” He swallowed audibly. “She didn't recognize me when I came in to bring her lunch. She … looked at me like I was a stranger, and then she called me John. She thought I was Granddad.” Dad stared off into the distance, his eyes shining.

“Listen, Wynnie,” he continued. “It probably won't happen today, or tomorrow, but we're thinking that sometime this week … ” He ducked his head for a moment, then looked at me. “You know, you've always been her favorite. It's good you're here. She may not have long, but just the fact that she knows you're around … Well, anyway.” He gave me a quick hug.

I tried to stay composed, but my thoughts turned to Olwen. If the other Olwen had been Gee Gee's daughter … how different would things have been if she'd survived? Would Gee Gee have been happier, now, at the end?

We sat there in silence for a few minutes, listening to Mom talk to the nurse.

“I just didn't think it would come so quickly, that's all,” Dad said suddenly, his voice rough. “I thought we'd have more time. But she seems ready.”

There was another long pause.

“Tired—she seems so tired,” he said in a small voice.

I hated to see him look so lost, but I didn't know how to make it better. I didn't even know how to make myself feel better.

It felt like we were all dying a little, too.

Later that night, I lay wide awake listening to drizzle tickling the window. It seemed like a horrible irony that I couldn't sleep while Gee Gee did almost nothing but sleep. My stomach ached with unshed tears. How could I talk to her now?

I got up and padded in stocking feet over to the chair by the window, staring out at the dark and rain. The green hills were invisible, blanketed by cloud cover and shrouded in mist, but I could feel them surrounding the village nonetheless. They seemed almost alive, expectant. But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't keep Gee Gee from dying. And I couldn't save Olwen. I wasn't even sure what Olwen wanted.

I hadn't even dreamed of her lately. My last vivid dream had been about Gee Gee.

I wondered if that might be our only real goodbye.

My cheeks were wet and cold, but I stayed in the chair until a pale orange dawn came and clutched weakly at the hillsides.

When I pried myself out of the chair the next morning, I felt strange and hollow. It was seven a.m., and the rest of the house was still asleep—Dad alone in the double bed and Mom in the reclining chair in Gee Gee's bedroom.

It took me three cups of Earl Grey to feel a little more normal. Meanwhile, Dad began to stir in the bedroom, quietly opening and shutting drawers. The three of us had a hushed breakfast of toast and juice, and then I got dressed in jeans, a black sweater, and hiking boots. Today I would call Gareth. I wanted to stay close; maybe we'd visit the museum.

First, though, I was relegated to chore duty—washing and drying dishes and sorting laundry—while Mom and Dad took turns on the phone: calling the nurse, updating relatives on Gee Gee's health. I was finally heading to the bedroom to retrieve my own phone when there was a brisk knock at the front door of the cottage.

I opened the door and Margie bustled in. “I was just taking a little jaunt up the road, dear. I was so worried since hearing the news yesterday.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I wasn't sure what else to say. “Do you want some tea?”

“No, thank you, I've just had some at home. We could bring some to Rhiannon, though, perhaps?”

“Maybe some hot water,” I said, still standing awkwardly near the door. “She hasn't wanted any tea for a while now.”

“Well, well!” Margie said in a tone that implied things must be terribly wrong if one were to reject a cup of tea. Shaking her head, she followed me into the back bedroom, where Gee Gee was lying in a doze, her eyes half-closed.

“Gee Gee?” I pushed a stray, sweaty lock of hair from her forehead. Her eyes opened, but she was silent, and her expression didn't change. I wasn't even sure if she could see me. “It's me, Olwen.”

Her blue eyes opened wide and fixed directly on me, making me freeze in place.

“Olwen?” she asked in a shaky, almost fearful-sounding voice. Her lips trembled.

“It's Wyn,” I said, a little more loudly. “Margie's here—Margie Robinson.”

“How are you keeping then, Rhiannon dear?” Margie didn't seem to notice the strange moment, and it quickly passed as Margie chattered on about local gossip. Every so often Gee Gee would let out a quiet, hoarse “mmm” in response.

I couldn't stop thinking about the sound of her voice, the look on her face when I'd said “It's me, Olwen.” Even if I could ask her about what had happened, I didn't think she'd be able to answer.

If I hadn't been desperate, I wouldn't have asked Margie. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense—after all, she was married to Peter, and Peter had practically grown up with Gee Gee. And if Gee Gee couldn't talk, I'd have to get information anywhere else I could.

When there was a pause in the monologue, I jumped in.

“Margie, do you remember much about wartime?”

She looked up at me. “Well, let's see now. I was just a baby when it all ended, you know!” She pursed her lips thoughtfully, taking the random question in stride. “I can remember Mam and Dad telling me how they celebrated around the wireless after the announcement that the war was over—that was in 1945, the year I was born. They were so happy I'd been born into peacetime, you see.”

“What about Gee Gee? I—I never had a chance to really ask,” I said, my voice breaking. “I have so many questions for her. What went wrong, why she left. I wish we had more time.”

“Oh, my dear.” Margie gave me a sad smile and gathered herself up from the bedside. “To be honest, I don't know why she and John left. I never could. I can't even imagine moving to Swansea, let alone overseas.”

I followed her out of the room and waited by the front door as she said goodbye to my parents. Then I trailed after her, my boots crunching on the gravel path.

Margie finally sighed and turned around, looking about as if someone might be listening. But there was nobody to be seen but a blackbird on a low branch of an oak tree.

She lowered her voice. “To tell the truth, dear, she did seem happy to leave. She and John, I remember now—they always seemed so sad.” She thought for a moment. “You know, come to think of it, my mother never would let me near Rhiannon when we were out in the town. How strange!
Duw
, I was only four or five, the one encounter I remember clearly. I was in the shop with Mam, who was buying groceries. Rhiannon was there alone. I remember she looked a bit peaked; sad, maybe; she couldn't have been more than twenty-two, twenty-three. Though she looked like a grown woman to me at the time.” Margie's face was pensive, her eyes following the blackbird as it hopped along the branch.

“Anyway, I was curious, and I wandered away from Mam to have a look at this beautiful lady with the long dark hair. Like yours,” Margie said, flashing me a quick smile. “And then, next thing I knew, Mam had me by the arm and was rushing me out of the store! ‘That Rhiannon Evans,' she huffed, ‘lucky that John would have her.' She always thought John should have been with someone more mature—he was a widower, you know, before marrying your great-grandmother.”

I hadn't known. I frowned, trying to work out how everything fit. “When did they get married?”

“Oh, I don't know, dear. You'll have to ask your dad about that,” Margie said. “It was long before I was paying attention to things like young lads and boyfriends.” She winked at me. “If you're interested in the history, you ought to pay a visit to the museum. My Peter's got some stories to tell. He lived in Rhiannon's house from the time he was eight until he was twelve and moved to the farm to work.” She looked at her wristwatch. “Dear me, it's time I went back down the bus station before the eleven o'clock gets here.”

Margie ambled off down the lane, apparently not in all that much of a hurry. I stayed there under the trees in front of the cottage for a few minutes, my thoughts in a frenzy. Great-Grandpa John, married and widowed before even meeting Gee Gee. Why hadn't anybody said anything about it? Was it some big family secret?

Was Olwen
his
daughter, from his earlier marriage?

Time-wise, it would make sense. But, I realized, if this was the case, wouldn't I have dreamed about Great-Grandpa John more? If my dreams really meant something.

I shook my head, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I still didn't see how all the pieces fit together.

I got out my phone and dialed Gareth's number.

I tried once; twice. But Gareth didn't pick up. I was desperate to talk to him, so I went inside and scrabbled through my backpack for the number he'd given me for his great-granddad's house. Back outside again, I dialed, waiting as the unfamiliar double-ring on the other end of the line repeated itself several times.

Finally, somebody picked up.

“Hello?” The voice sounded elderly, and grumpy.

“Is this Mr. Lewis? Could I speak to Gareth, please?” I said.

“Who is this? Who is calling?”

“This is Gareth's friend, Wyn. Olwen Evans.” There it was again—it was as if being in Wales somehow made it more natural to use Olwen and not have to explain myself.

There was a long, awkward silence on the other end of the line. Long enough for me to start wondering if he thought I was some friend of Gareth's, making a prank call. Then I heard him sigh heavily.

“Gareth isn't available. He's in the shower. Call back later.”

“But—can I leave a message?”

“He'll be out in a minute. I'm sure he'll ring you. Goodbye now,” he said tersely, and hung up.

What was
his
problem? I thought I'd been downright cordial. Frustrated, I shoved my phone into my back pocket and stalked off down the path toward the farmhouse.

On my way back from checking email, I finally got a text message from Gareth:
Stopping by in a bit.

I read for about an hour until there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, Gareth was standing there holding a bakery box.

The moment I saw him, I broke out in an uncontrollable grin. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Er—I brought this cake. It's lemon. From the bakery,” he added. His cheeks reddened slightly.

“Oh! Thanks. Come on in.” I stepped aside so he could enter.

He wiped his feet carefully on the mat—clearly he was well trained—and set the cake on the table near the kitchenette.

“Are your mum and dad here?” He looked around the cottage curiously.

“They're in the back.”

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Evans,” he called, in the general direction of the back bedroom. After a moment, my mom came out.

“Hi, Gareth, it's nice to see you again,” she said, and introduced my dad.

“I brought a cake.” Gareth shook my dad's hand.

“That's very thoughtful,” Dad said. Then there was a long silence while we all stood around. I couldn't think of how to fill the conversational space, and my parents seemed to be giving Gareth the once-over.

Gareth started to look uncomfortable, and finally said, “Look, I don't go around meeting people online usually. Just Wyn, I guess. I think it's brilliant that your family's so proud of being Welsh.”

“Yes, she takes after her Gee Gee there,” Mom said.

Gareth looked over at me with a small smile, then looked back at my parents. “My great-granddad sends his best wishes for Mrs. Evans.”

“Thank you,” Dad said, his face serious. “I'm sure Wyn will fill you in on how Gran's doing.” He started for Gee Gee's bedroom, Mom following behind. “You kids have fun chatting. We've got soda in the fridge.”