Jen's Legacy.

Mrs. Prescott would not tolerate her son underfoot when there was so much to do. After they’d all sat down to a strangely tense breakfast where they all had to be careful what they asked, or said, Claire’s mother and father went about their business rather than cross swords with old Mrs. Prescott who was in one of her remote moods. Their business affairs had been neglected for a few days.

They would not be missed. Clair and her grandmother were left alone in the house together. They preferred it that way. Claire had a strained relationship with her own parents, but that was always the way of it. You fought with your parents for the first part of your life and then fought with your own children for the rest of it. Grandparents were not part of that uncomfortable relationship but were there for support.

They walked around the house together, knowing that the brief peace would soon be shattered. They would then go out into the conservatory and the garden. Both of them had much more to deal with on their minds, and it would take some hours for them to settle down and relax fully. It may even take days. Or until Royce came back to claim her as she would dream of him doing.

The first brief stop was the living area with its art. Over the fireplace was the painting Claire remembered seeing, painted by Jen. Claire had photographed that exact scene herself, much as it showed in that painting, with not a square inch of sky to be seen, but still rich with color.

“I was there, Gran.” She pointed up at the painting. “Right there. I stood on that rock, exactly there, where those initials are, as he told me something about Jen.

“In my ignorance I asked him about that name he’d called me more than once that previous night, not recognizing until then, just how much pain it would cause him to be reminded of her.”

She dreamed for a moment, realizing just how much she owed Jen for bringing them together. That was the only explanation she could think of, for them meeting and coming together as they had. It was not something she could discuss with anyone else. It was too unbelievable. She suddenly had a lot of secrets like that.

“That was where he fastened me onto his rope for us to begin the climb away from the river. I had a strange feeling that I should go back to that beach at that moment, and delete that message he’d scrawled in the sand; that I’d been rescued. I think I knew even then that I wanted to be with him, but in a way I didn’t understand.” Not then, but she understood now.

Her gran said nothing. A good listener always learned more than a talker.

“He was so gentle all of the time, knowing how terrified I was of heights.”

Not so terrified that she had been unable to take photographs, as her confidence in him slowly grew and as they climbed away from the river, despite what he was doing to constantly dislodge her out of her comfort zone, touching her with his arm between her legs, lifting her, powering her up that rope, taking her by surprise at what he had to do to get her up there, and then once at the top, holding her, undoing that rope from around her legs and waist, and gently putting his hands up into the legs of her shorts, under her to check for chafing on the back of her legs. She’d said nothing. It had been necessary.

In the succeeding hours and days, even more bold things had become necessary too, and had propelled them along to where they had been unable to avoid making love.

It was on that climb that she had been able to study him (once her fear subsided and her heart settled down), and to reach her own conclusions about him that were so different from those of the night before.

This was the man she wanted in her life, but he was hurting; bruised internally. Even then she was wondering how one went about getting this one special man to think about her and to see her, except she saw the way he looked at her, recognizing that she already had ensnared him without knowing how she had done it.

She and her grandmother wandered arm-in-arm around the large conservatory, a veritable sun-trap and a riot of color and scents, then moved out into the rose garden.

Their perambulations were interrupted by two brief telephone calls.

It was beginning already. Her grandmother swore, politely.

She dealt politely, but firmly with both calls, letting them know that until she had more information herself, she would not be able to give them anything, but that there would be bulletins updating the accident by noon and then each few hours after that.The lawns behind the hospital would be where they would give out any information that they had, and she told them the times when she would be able to brief them. She would have most of the summaries from all of the responding parties by noon.

“It’s starting. By noon, my time will not be my own. I will soon have to go in and deal with the media before they work themselves into a frenzy demanding to know everything. They are all over the back lawn even now, waiting for their fix of red meat.”

They went back into the house and up to Claire’s room as Claire considered how best to tackle this journal her grandmother had suggested. It was a perfect time to begin this and it would keep her occupied.

Claire began to unpack Royce’s things, laying them out on her dresser as her gran watched her, saying nothing, neither of them wanting to leave the other.

There wasn’t much in that pack to tell the story of an entire life. So little left behind. A decorated can; a kind that Mrs. Prescott recognized, for holding a patient’s ashes, some rope ends, his water bottles, packages of dried food, with other pouches of first aid things, letters and his wallet (he’d gone to the hospital without it). And of course the other hardware; pans, utensils, waterproof matches.

She’d phone the hospital later and make sure they had all of his personal information for insurance and employment-purposes, or she’d take his wallet in with them.

Claire plugged his phone into a charger and put that small stack of personal letters in one of her drawers out of the way of prying eyes. It was saddening to know that he would have taken all of this, little as it was, with him into the Cauldron, had she not entered his life. She shook herself to break free of that terrifying thought.

Claire brought her mind back to her project. “We don’t have enough photo-quality paper here, Gran, for me to print everything off, and we’ll run out of ink.”

“We’ll fix that when I go in to deal with the media. You can transfer those photos to a memory stick, and while I deal with the media people on the back lawn, you can print the images out in my office, and even make a start on your journal.”

As they returned home later that afternoon, Mrs. Prescott learned that Claire had managed to get all of her photographs printed out on the several printers. She’d be able to keep herself occupied that evening and for the next day or two, and would work furiously to stay busy and keep her mind off everything else. She’d even made a start on her journal with all of the details outlined. There would be a chapter for each day, and a wealth of first emotions, thoughts, feelings. Enough to make a book, and after just so few days!

That evening, about midnight, dressed for bed, Claire took two glasses of warm milk, as she and her grandmother sat in her grandmother’s bed and talked, both feeling worn out after that awkward day for them both.

“I want to hear, if you can tell me, an hour by hour account of everything that happened to you after you set out on that rafting trip. That is if you can tell me.”

“I can tell you some of it, Gran. I need to tell someone, that’s for sure, but everything happened so fast after I fell out of that raft, my head is still spinning.” She had been caught up in a whirlwind of emotions.

“Some, of it, will be good enough.” For the moment. “Tell me what you can; what you are comfortable with. I’m a good listener but I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to stay awake.”

Claire began to talk.