Free Magnolia by Kristi Cook Page A

Older. These past few days have taken a toll on her, I realize—on all of us.
    I lay a gentle hand on her arm. “Hey, why don’t you go take a nap too?”
    She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Maybe I will.”
    I kiss her on the cheek and take the pitcher from her. “Go on,” I say, motioning toward the door. “I’ll put this away.”
    â€œThanks, honey.”
    I watch her walk out, marveling at how much she looks like Nan from the back. They have the same coloring, the same long, straight, honey-blond hair, and the same athletic build.
    Whereas I got my dad’s coloring—reddish blond hair, pale skin—and slight build. Only somehow I got Mama’s blue eyes, whereas Nan got Daddy’s green ones. Genetics are funny that way.
    Carefully, I set the pitcher back inside the fridge. I know how much Mama loves it. It’s beautiful, round with a sort of ruffled rim—from Tiffany’s. She got it as a wedding present, and it still looks as good as new.
    I quickly wipe down the counter, then tiptoe out onto the sleeping porch on the west side of the house. The entire rectangular space is screened in, with two ceiling fans stirring the air from above. The wood paneling below the screens is painted white, just beginning to peel in some spots.
    In the corner closest to the door, a full-size wood-frame bed hangs from the ceiling—sort of like an enormous swing. There’s a white wicker bedside table against the wall and two matching wicker chairs on the far side of the porch. All the linens and cushions are white with blue ticking, and several hurricane lamps provide lighting along with white twinkle lights wrapped around the rafters.
    There’s a second sleeping porch on the opposite side of the house—my mom’s. It’s pretty much the same, exceptfor the yellow-and-white color scheme. Still, I like this one much better. It’s ours, Nan’s and mine.
    I find Nan stretched out on the bed, lying on her back with her legs crossed at the ankles. “Jemma, Jemma, Bo-Bemma,” she calls out as I close the French doors behind me and set down my glass of tea.
    â€œNan, Nan, Bo-Ban,” I answer, my voice breaking ever so slightly on the last syllable. I know it’s silly, but it’s something we’ve always done. “How’re you feeling?”
    â€œFine. I’m not dying, you know. I woke up with a migraine, but my meds managed to knock it out.”
    â€œProbably the weather.” I tip my head toward the dark clouds in the distance. “Storm’s a’brewing.”
    She nods. “That always does it. My head, the barometer.”
    â€œYeah, mine too. Sucks.” It’s one of those things we have in common—migraines. Which makes me wonder if a tumor is in my future too. Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I hope so.
    â€œC’mon, lie down,” she says, patting the space beside her.
    â€œOkay, but no more jokes about dying,” I say as I climb up onto the bed. “It’s not funny.”
    She ignores that. “Did you know that Great-Grandma Cafferty had the same thing in her head? At least, she probably did. It’s what killed her.”
    â€œI thought she died from an aneurysm or a hemorrhage or something like that.”
    â€œYeah, as a result of brain surgery. It was a success, but then she bled to death,” she says matter-of-factly.
    My stomach lurches uncomfortably. “That was ages ago. I’m sure brain surgery’s come a long way since then. Don’t they use lasers or something now?”
    â€œMaybe. Guess I’ll find out soon enough,” she says with a shrug. “Anyway, what’s up with you? Mama says you’re going out with Patrick Hughes.”
    â€œI went out with him once,” I say, rolling my eyes. Still, I’m glad for the change of topic. “It’s no big deal. I can’t believe she told