RUBI: Multiple meltdowns, carpet stains, kitchen covered in flour, missing grandmother…everything is peach-perfect.
WES: Baby, I’m sorry. Do you want me to come home?
RUBI: Yes, but don’t. Take care of Wyatt. When Birdie wanders?
“Birdie?” she yelled as she waited for a response. “Can you hear me?”
WES: The barn or the berry patches along the creek.
“Holy fuck. ” She had to search the barn and the creek in the dark? When she didn’t even know where either of them was?
RUBI: I’ve gotta go.
She stuffed the phone back in her pocket and panned the flashlight across a grassy patch at the front of the house. Aimlessly, she wandered, starting where she’d first encountered Birdie, on the gravel road. This might be a beautiful piece of property during the day, but it was just plain-ass freaky at night, and Rubi had every slasher movie floating through her head. With no sign of Birdie, no response to her repeated calls, Rubi’s thoughts transitioned from the ridiculous nonexistent threat of danger to the very real possibility that Birdie was hurt or truly lost.
Panic for the woman’s well-being coiled in her chest, tightening Rubi’s throat. If Birdie was hurt on Rubi’s watch, she didn’t know what she’d do. She couldn’t deal with that. And, goddammit, she shouldn’t have been left with this kind of responsibility.
She walked around the house, calling Birdie’s name. Then around the detached garage. Then ventured farther down a dirt road that seemed to connect the house and a looming structure that could only be the barn. Her throat grew sore from yelling. She should have thrown on a jacket. Some shoes. She was freezing. But she hadn’t thought she’d be searching as much as simply locating Birdie and coaxing her back into the house.
Fear wound its way into her chest and squeezed, pushing tears to her eyes. “Fuck, Birdie,” she finally yelled in supreme frustration. “Get your ass out here. ”
A door slammed somewhere ahead. The squeal of metal and a hollow crack. “Birdie? Where are you?” A strange thought popped into her mind, and she called, “I found sugar in the pantry. You don’t need any from Mabel. ”
“Well, now you tell me. ” The words were soft but frustrated and coming from a distance.
Relief flooded her chest, creating a painful pressure. Her knees gave, and Rubi bent at the waist, bracing herself on her thighs to keep from going down. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Thank you. ”
Pushing up, she started toward the voice. “Come on, Birdie, it’s freezing out here. ”
“Don’t you think I know that, little girl? I’m caught. ”
This was the most perturbed Rubi had ever heard Birdie. Rubi had heard stories of Alzheimer’s or dementia patients becoming belligerent—though Wes had never named Birdie’s condition—but the way Rubi’s night was going, it wouldn’t surprise her at all if the old woman hauled off and decked her.
But Rubi rounded the barn until she found Birdie struggling. “Cotton-pickin’ rundown old shed,” she muttered, turning her body again and again. “Daryl’s gonna hear about this. I’ll love that man until the day I die, but sometimes…”
The “barn” was all metal and, from what she could see, brand-freaking-new, not a thing out of place. She panned the light across Birdie and found the arm of her sweater caught on a water faucet welded to the side of the barn. And blood stained the fabric.
“Birdie, stop. ” Her stomach clenched, and she lunged forward to grab her arm. “Stop pulling. ”
Rubi dragged up Birdie’s sleeve and shined the light on the cut to see how bad it was. But she couldn’t tell with all the blood.
“Oh dear…” Birdie tilted toward Rubi, and she caught the older woman before she hit the ground.
“Birdie, Christ, don’t you dare faint on me. ” Her voice cracked, exposing her own off-balance state of mind. “I’ll take care of it. And don’t even think about arguing with me. ” She pushed her anger forward to cover the fear, the weakness, the vulnerability. “I’ve had it. Susie put me in charge, and I’m the boss, dammit. Now go. ”
Birdie was too woozy to argue. Rubi held her up with an arm around her waist and lighted their way back to the house.
By the time Rubi had gotten Birdie bandaged and changed for bed, she was exhausted. Luckily, so was Birdie, and the older woman fell asleep as soon as Rubi tucked her in.
One down, two to go.
“This oughta be fun,” she muttered as she closed the downstairs door to Birdie’s room.
Before she approached the girls, Rubi fastened the special locks Wes had shown her before he’d left—locks Birdie couldn’t reach. Rubi should have done that right after Wes walked out. This night wouldn’t have been nearly as trying. But then she returned to the kitchen. To flour covering every surface. To berries scattered over the floor. To dishes piled in the sink. And her shoulders sagged.
“How the hell did I get here?”
Rubi intercepted three more potential disasters involving Abby and Emma while cleaning the kitchen. She’d spent twenty minutes on the phone listening to Tori go through their bedtime routine and gleaned that Emma didn’t like the feel of brushing her teeth, which caused nightly drama. Emma didn’t like the feel of brushing her hair, which caused morning and nightly drama. Basically, the bottom line: Emma didn’t like the feel of anything, because she had a sensory issue which made all those normal things we did every day hurt for Emma. So anything involving changes to the senses typically caused—you guessed it—drama.