A Year on Ladybug Farm #1 (30 page)

Bridget said, very evenly, “I was going to make soup out of that broccoli.”

“What for?” Ida Mae was already leaving the room. “Nobody likes soup.”

And that was it. “Ida Mae, wait a minute.”

Ida Mae turned.

Bridget’s hands closed at her sides. She drew a breath, but she didn’t think about her words. She simply said them. “I know you’re used to running this house,” she said. “I know you like doing things your own way. But this isn’t your place anymore. It’s mine, and Lindsay’s and Cici’s. And in our house, we change the sheets once a week, not every day. We have cereal and fruit for breakfast, and sometimes I make muffins. We make our own lunch when we get hungry, and we have dinner when it gets dark. And oh, one more thing.
I’m
the cook. I prepare the meals. I bake the cakes and the pies and the breads, and if I want to make soup, we have soup. I’m the cook. That’s what I do. Do you understand?”

Ida Mae regarded her levelly. “How long have you been the cook here?”

Bridget blinked. “Well, since we moved in. When we bought this place, we decided. I was going to be the cook.”

Ida Mae nodded, although there seemed to be less understanding than pity in the gesture. “I’ve been the cook here for forty-five years. Now, I’m taking the quiche out of the oven. You want to set the table?”

Bridget almost let it go. She caught her breath, bit her tongue, started to turn back to the draperies. And suddenly the words that were boiling up inside her would be suppressed no longer; she actually pushed her fingers against her temples to try to stop them but they burst out of her, heedless. “Stop it!” she shouted. “Just—stop it!”

Ida Mae turned to her, startled.

“Listen to me,” Bridget said, breathing hard. “You’re the intruder here, don’t you get that? This is not your house! You’re lucky you’re not in jail for trespassing! I live here! I own this place! I’m in charge!”

And suddenly she caught herself with a gasp, a lurch that actually caused her to grip the back of a chair for support as her words suddenly echoed back at her and hit her like a slap. For a moment she couldn’t believe that was her voice. Her fingers went to her lips as though to recapture the words and send them back. But it was too late.

And, in truth, she was not entirely sure she wanted to.

She found her breath, and somehow she even managed to straighten her shoulders. She looked straight into the other woman’s eyes and she said, albeit somewhat stiffly, “I’m sorry. That was rude. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But . . .” Another breath. “I think what I was trying to say is that I know what it feels like to need to be in charge of something. To be needed. And—that’s probably why you and I keep bumping heads. Because we’re so much alike. But for you, it’s just a job. For me, it’s—well, it’s why I’m here. Cici has her building and her restoration, Lindsay has her art, but all I have is the kitchen. That’s all I know how to do. That’s all I can contribute. Can’t you understand that?”

Ida Mae looked at her for a long time, and Bridget couldn’t be certain whether it was contempt or pity she saw in the other woman’s eyes. Then she said, “It ain’t just a job.”

She moved toward the door, then stopped and dug into her apron pocket. “Here’s your mail.”

Bridget stared at her for a moment, then stepped forward and snatched the envelopes out of her hand. “We change the sheets once a week,” she said again, tightening her fingers on the envelopes as though that could stop the shaking in her voice. “We make our own breakfast and lunch and we eat in the kitchen, not the dining room, and we don’t use tablecloths and linen napkins. And I’m the cook!”

Ida Mae left the room without responding, and when she was gone Bridget flung the mail to the floor in a fit of temper. Almost immediately she felt her face flush hot, and she looked around guiltily. Quickly, she knelt to pick up the envelopes from the floor.

There were three birthday cards, which made her smile and went a long way toward soothing the tension of the previous confrontation. She felt rather foolish, in fact, and thought she probably should try again to apologize to Ida Mae. And then she opened the statement from her health insurance company, which was routine this time of year, and she forgot about Ida Mae entirely. Because there was nothing routine about this statement at all.

She dialed her insurance agent in Maryland.

“You can’t be serious,” she said, after her agent had patiently explained to her—twice, in fact—that there had been no mistake. “You can’t just suddenly double my premium for no reason.”

Computer keys clacked in the background. “I’m showing here you have a birthday coming up.”

“So? Everyone has birthdays. That’s a good thing, right?”

“Well, you’re moving into a new age bracket. The rates are different.”

“I’ve been a customer of yours for almost thirty years!”

“And you did have significant claims last year.”

“That wasn’t me, that was my husband.”

“I understand. But you were on the same policy.”

She took a breath, lowered her voice, and clutched the phone tightly. “Listen, Reggie, you’ve got to do something. I can’t afford this. I’m a widow, I don’t have a job, I haven’t budgeted for this. There’s got to be something . . .”

He said sympathetically, “This is the most economical plan we carry. I wish I could help, but I really don’t know what to say. A woman your age can’t afford to be without health insurance. Would it help if we broke down the payments into monthly installments?”

She told him she would have to think about that and let him know, thanked him for his time, and hung up, feeling shell-shocked. And then she picked up the telephone again.

She didn’t know why her fingers dialed Kevin’s office number. Perhaps she was simply conditioned, after all those years of marriage, to turn to a man when things went wrong. And her son was the only man she had left.

The thought humiliated her, and she almost hung up. But then it was too late. “Kevin, hi!” she exclaimed brightly. “It’s Mom. How are you?”

He was fine, working hard, had just gotten a big case, was glad to hear from her, and how were things going with the house?

“Oh, great,” she assured him, and hoped her voice was convincing. “I love it here. You should see the colors of the mountains. It’s like something out of a painting. Of course, things are a lot more expensive than we thought they would be . . .”

“They always are.” He sounded preoccupied, and she thought she heard him murmur something to someone while his hand covered the phone. “Listen, Mom, is there something in particular you called about? Because I’ve got a meeting in a few minutes, and—”

“I don’t mean to keep you,” she apologized quickly. “Gosh, I guess I’d forgotten how quickly things move in the outside world.” She laughed, a little falsely, and then said, “Thank you for the birthday card, darling, it was so sweet of you. I wish you could be here.”

“Me, too, Mom, I really do. Listen, I’m going to have to—”

“Actually, I just wanted to ask you . . .” Her heart started pounding as she looked at the numbers on the paper. “Well, it’s about this health insurance premium I just got in the mail. It’s twice as much as the last one. And I could barely afford that! Are they allowed to do that? Just double your payments like that without any warning?” She hoped her voice didn’t sound too stressed, but she couldn’t help it. She was stressed.

“I guess they’re allowed to do whatever they want, Mom. Did you talk to your agent?”

“He said he couldn’t do anything. Do you think I could get a cheaper policy?”

“Probably not. Listen, you’re about to turn sixty, right? Premiums go up at that age. But the good news is you only have five years until you’re eligible for Medicare.”

Medicare
. She smiled weakly. “Well, that is good news. All I have to do is hold on for five more years.”

He hesitated. “Mom, I’d love to help you out, but with what I’m already doing for Katie there’s not much left over at the end of the month as it is.”

She blinked. “What? What did you say about Katie?”

The silence was heavy with self-recrimination. “She didn’t want you to know,” he said in a moment. “So don’t let on, okay? I’ve been sending her a little every month, to help with the rent.”

“Which you wouldn’t have to do if I’d moved to Chicago,” Bridget said slowly, “instead of buying this house.”

“Well, it sounds like things are not working out as well as you’d hoped on that end, either,” he said. “So maybe by the first of the year you’ll reconsider.”

She said absently, “Yes. Maybe.”

“In the meantime, if you need help making the insurance payment, I guess I could scrape together a little . . .”

“Don’t be silly,” she said quickly. “Don’t you dare. It’s not even due for a couple of months. I’ll think of something by then. It’s no big deal, really.”

“Well . . . happy birthday, again.”

“It’s not until Tuesday. But thank you anyway. Wish I could see you. Maybe at Thanksgiving?”

“Sounds good. I’ll let you know.”

She smiled into the phone. “You’re a wonderful boy. I’m really proud of you.”

“Good to hear you say that, Mom. Let’s talk soon, okay? We’ll make plans for the holidays.”

“You bet. Take care.”

“Bye, Mom.”

“Bye, Kev.” But even after he had hung up, she stood there holding the phone to her chest, staring at the bill, thinking about Kate, until Lindsay came in from her studio, rubbing her hands together against the cold and inquiring about lunch. Bridget smiled quickly and pretended everything was all right, but it wasn’t. And it was about to get worse.

 

 

Every afternoon around four thirty Lindsay put the fawn, who inevitably had been named Bambi, into his pen for the night, while Bridget fed the dog and checked on the sheep. Cici had fashioned a lean-to against the side of the house with two pieces of plywood and some tarp to provide the deer a refuge from the weather, but Lindsay worried it wasn’t enough.

“Noah said they can freeze,” she said. “What are we going to do when it snows?”

“Noah is a teenager,” replied Cici, tacking down a corner of the tarp with a finishing nail. The wind whipped a strand of hair across her face and she used her shoulder to push it away. “We’ll put him in the barn at night when I get the roof fixed. Meanwhile, he’s a deer, not a house pet. He’ll be fine.”

Lindsay stroked the nubby head while the deer nibbled a carrot from her hand. “Maybe I should get more hay.”

Cici started to reply, but they both turned at the sound of a cry. It was Bridget, running across the yard toward them. Her jeans and her shoes were spattered with mud and her jacket flapped open behind her; her face was taut with distress. “Cici! Lindsay!”

They hurried out of the pen and Bridget reached them, gasping. “We’ve got to call a vet. It’s Bandit, he’s not moving, and his eyes are all rolled back—”

“Bandit?” parroted Lindsay.

“The dog?” said Cici at the same time. Neither of them could remember what the dog’s current name was.

Bridget shook her head, grasping Cici’s arms. “The sheep. His breathing is funny, he won’t move, he’s really sick, Cici, and I don’t know what to do!”

Cici said, trying to calm her, “Okay. Okay, show me. We’ll see what we can do.”

“I’ll try to find a vet,” Lindsay said, running toward the house.

“Call Farley!” Bridget yelled. “He knows about sheep!”

Lindsay waved affirmative, and Bridget grabbed Cici’s hand, tugging her toward the meadow.

Farley arrived less than five minutes later, bouncing across the yard in his pickup truck, and screeching to a stop at the gate. The sheepdog, with ears pricked forward and eyes fixed on the downed sheep, didn’t even bark when he slammed the door. Cici and Bridget, kneeling helplessly over the muddy mound of tangled wool, straightened up with visible relief as Farley strode through the gate.

He stood over the animal for a moment, chewing his tobacco thoughtfully, then spat on the ground. “Sure looks bad, don’t he?” he commented.

Bridget said desperately, “I don’t know what happened. They all looked fine this morning . . .” She gestured to the remainder of the flock, which was contentedly plucking at the sparse blades of winter grass a few dozen feet away. “You don’t think it’s contagious, do you? Like hoof and mouth disease or something?”

Farley grunted, noncommittal, then grasped all four of the sheep’s hooves and flipped it over to its other side. The animal bleated in protest, then was silent. Farley bent for a closer look. “Right here’s your problem.”

He parted the wool to reveal a gory-looking wound in the sheep’s side. Bridget gasped and lost color, and Cici brought her hand to her mouth, looking away.

“Probably ran into a stick or tore itself up on barb wire,” he said. “Sheep’re stupid critters.”

He straightened up. “Want me to shoot it for you? Got my rifle in the truck.”

Both Cici and Bridget cried, “No!”

He gave them a long and unreadable look, then tugged at the bill of his camo cap, spat on the ground again, and said, “Bring my tractor by in the morning, dig you a hole. Cost you ten dollar.”

He started back toward the gate, and Cici saw the despair in Bridget’s eyes. She rushed forward. “Farley, wait. If you could help us get it to the barn, out of the cold, until the vet comes . . .”

Another look. But all he said was, “Your barn’s got a hole in it.”

“I know, but it’s better than being out here on the damp ground, and it’s getting dark. Please?”

He shrugged, and between them they managed to get the wounded animal into the back of his truck. Bridget climbed in back with the sheep as Farley drove to the barn, the sheepdog trotting behind.

Cici quickly cleaned away as much of the debris as she could inside the barn entrance, and dragged a bale of hay from the stack they kept in the shed to use as mulch. The animal showed an encouraging surge of energy when they got him out of the truck, bleating in protest and shaking his head as they led him into the barn. But as soon as they got him inside, he collapsed on the hay, eyes rolled back and sides heaving. Bridget wrung her hands in distress.