Past Forward Volume 1 (48 page)

“And a glass of milk? That watered down blue
milk they had in the hospital was awful!”

They talked for hours about the upcoming
work. Chad needed rest, but he knew that she’d sleep easier knowing
there was a plan. They decided that she’d hire some of the teens
from the church to pick the fruit if she couldn’t manage by the
time it was ripe “I looked at your list of things to do—I think we
can manage. Even without you at your top game, I think we can do
it.”

“I have more garden to plant. I got the
broccoli, cabbage, and beans planted for the fall garden. I was
going to add cauliflower for the market, but I didn’t get to it in
time. Are you sure we can do this? We have to plant the rest of the
stuff by the last week of August—”

Chad nodded, trying to be as reassuring as
he could. “We’ll do fine. I’m not sure how, but we’ll make it work
somehow. By the time it gets really cold out there, you’ll be back
to normal.”

Her downcast expression unnerved him. Was
there more to her injury than he’d been told. “What is it?”

“I hope I’ll be back to normal. They made it
sound like if I didn’t do all the physical therapy they wanted, I’d
lose the use of my foot and if I did do it all, I might lose it
anyway. I really messed up that nerve.”

Her bravado slowly slipped away. She looked
lost, confused, and uncertain as she described the exercises and
expectations of the doctors. Chad listened and tried to make sense
of her rambling thought process until he thought he had a
reasonably accurate picture.

“Willow, I’m not a doctor, so I can’t say
anything definitively on the medical front. However, I do know that
you’re strong. You are healthy. And, if there is anyone more
determined than you are, I’ve never met her—or him. You’re going to
be fine because you’re going to make it be fine.”

It took a few minutes before he realized the
pain in her eyes wasn’t just emotional. He pulled a sheaf of papers
from the plastic hospital bag and read them carefully. “It’s past
time for your pain medication. Do you want some more milk with it
or should I get you some water?

At nine forty-five, Chad stood in the
doorway of Willow’s room and watched her sleep. Her phone lay next
to her on the table, a glass of water there too, and his note was
pinned under both. Her photo album, several of Kari’s journals, and
her planning journal were stacked on the bed far enough away that
he hoped she wouldn’t knock them to the floor.

He glanced at his watch. He had to go.
Should he light a candle? Flip on the breaker and turn the hall
light on? The moon kept dipping behind clouds—what if she needed
the bathroom and couldn’t see? Shaking his head, he grabbed his gun
belt from Kari’s bed and crept down the stairs. Willow Finley could
probably find the
barn
in her sleep and the risk of fire was
ridiculous.

The normal sounds of footsteps in the house,
on the stairs, and doors opening and closing barely pierced her
subconscious mind but the moment Chad’s truck door slammed shut,
instantly Willow was wide awake. “Chad?”

Now fully awake, she could sense her
solitude. The sound of his truck starting and crunching the dirt as
he drove away was now a familiar one. She’d learned, in recent
months, to tell the difference between his truck, the cruiser,
Jill’s truck, and Bill’s sedan.

Moonlight streamed across the room for a
brief moment before another cloud plunged the room back in
darkness. Her leg throbbed. She’d seen a note on her table. How
she’d read it without a candle or lamp she wasn’t sure.

Cautiously, Willow felt her bedside table.
Water glass, oil lamp, match-basket, cell phone, paper. Her hand
sought the glass again and lifted it to remove the paper. Her cell
phone went skittering across the slick hardwood floor under the
bed. “Drat.”

Staring at the paper, Willow tried to find a
smidgeon of light but it was hopeless. She set the note on her bed
and reached gingerly for the match-basket. The last thing she
needed to do was spill a glass of water on it. Light flickered from
the match and then glowed from the lamp. Yes. Light was a good
thing. She grabbed the note once more.

Willow,

I hope I did right not to wake you. You
seemed to need the rest. There is a glass of water on the table, a
sandwich on a plate on that shelf under the table, and a sliced
tomato with it. Don’t eat the sandwich after 2 am. I’ll stop by
then on my break and make a fresh one if you didn’t eat it.

I’ll be back around seven. I have to go home
for a change of clothes. Aunt Libby can’t come. Her daughter’s kids
all have the chicken pox. Ugh. I’ll talk to Mrs. Allen and see
about finding people who can come. Maybe they can rotate or
something. Regardless, I’ll stay until you can milk again at
least.

Please don’t try to go downstairs. I think a
fall on that leg could really tear up those stitches. I’m praying
for you.

Chad

Disappointment washed over her. She had
looked forward to Libby coming to stay. Something about Chad’s aunt
reminded her of her mother. The self-assurance, the humor—something
was familiar, but Willow was drawn most to her gentleness. Kari,
with all of her virtues, wasn’t a gentle woman. While far from
harsh, she’d been injured by the world and it showed.

If Chad just left, it must be near ten
o’clock. Should she try to retrieve the phone, call Bill, and
apologize? Chad seemed to think she’d been too hard on him. Willow
remembered how angry her mother could seem when she was frightened
for their safety. The hard tones of her voice echoed in Willow’s
memory and a trace of the familiar followed. She’d sounded just
like her mother.

Nature called but never had it been so
difficult to answer. Pulling her leg out of bed was difficult
enough, but stepping on it, even briefly, sent stabs of pain
through her entire body—not exactly the kind of thing she wanted to
feel when her bladder fought her every step of the way.

Willow wanted a shower. Badly. The thought
of warm, clear water pounding away the knots formed in her
miserable hospital bed tempted her. Knowing she hadn’t had a proper
shower since working in the hay taunted her. Indecision became her
nemesis. That she wanted the shower—desperately—there was no doubt.
However, if it took longer than she expected… The idea of Chad
arriving before she could get dressed almost stopped her. She
stared at the floor, her dresser. Each second seemed like it
brought the probability of mortification one step closer.

She swung her leg over the edge of the bed,
tears springing to her eyes as ripples of pain ripped through her.
From her dresser, she grabbed fresh underwear and dug for the least
revealing t-shirt and cutoffs. She limped, hopped, and finally
crawled to the linen closet and retrieved a towel.

Getting
to
the bath had been
annoying—getting
through
it, comical. She couldn’t hold her
leg outside the tub and didn’t trust herself to stand on only one
leg. As much as she preferred showers, a bath was her only option.
She dragged the bathroom stool to the tub and dragged it inside.
After a bit of a fight, Willow managed to pull the spray nozzle
from the hook above the tub. It hadn’t been removed since the day
Mother installed it for all she knew.

The water felt wonderful. The light swipes
of wet cloths in the hospital did little to provide the refreshing
feeling of a real shower—or bath. She tried to clean her other leg
with a washcloth, but it felt ineffectual at best.

As the water drained, Willow had an idea and
seconds later her left foot soaked comfortably in three inches of
water. She barely gave her lower leg a lick and a promise, but her
foot and upper leg felt fine—wonderfully fine.

Willow needed a second, or even a third
towel. Finagling the procurement of said towel was more difficult
than the realization of her need for it. She felt quite foolish
with a towel wrapped around her head, one around her left leg, and
one around the rest of her as she tried to hobble from bath to
bedroom. Crawling left her sprawled on the floor—twice. She would
have to “walk.”

Every step sent excruciating stabs up and
down her leg. The towel around her injured leg fell at the bathroom
door. Her body towel caught on the door latch and hung there
defiantly.
At least my hair is reasonably modest. Mental note,
Willow Anne Finley: No baths when people are present in the
house.

At two-fifteen, Chad rushed up the stairs,
anxious for a pit stop himself but froze at the sight of a wet
towel across the doorway of the bathroom. Light flickered in
Willow’s room and a towel hung from the door latch. Nervously he
inched his way into the room and hesitated once more at the sight
of a third towel at the foot of the bed.

Feeling somewhat like Noah’s sons, Chad
grabbed the towel from the latch and half backed toward the bed
tossing the towel in the general shape of the lump his peripheral
vision showed. “Wha—” Willow stirred but drifted back to sleep.
With one eye, Chad peeked at the towel and sighed, relieved. She
was dressed.

I have to find someone to come out
here,
he muttered to himself as he gingerly removed the towel,
turned off the lamp, and retreated from the room.

At dawn, Willow awoke feeling fully
refreshed. Her hair was a wild mat of twisted tendrils and her
clothes were rumpled, but aside from the continual throbbing in her
calf, she felt wonderful. She slipped from the bed and hobbled from
the room and to the bathroom. At the door, she paused. Where was
the towel? She glanced back at her doorway. No towel there. A snore
from her mother’s room told Willow where they’d gone.

Oh Lord, thank you for the strength to
finish dressing! Ugh!

By the time she returned to her bed, Willow
was exhausted—her feelings of refreshment gone. Never had she
imagined that answering the call of nature could be so physically
draining. The next time nature called, she planned to have an
answering machine like Bill’s.

Willow’s phone jangled her nerves and
shocked her out of a restful nap. The clock said ten-thirty.
Surely, it wasn’t Bill already. She stared at the phone, frustrated
that she’d told Chad about it falling. If it were still under the
bed, she would have no qualms about ignoring it. On the last ring,
she slid it open and answered.

“Ms. Finley? This is Suki at Boho. We have a
business proposition.”

Bill’s call came at two o’clock sharp, just
minutes after Chad left for work. Willow, still reeling from her
discussion with Suki, answered in somewhat of a fog. “Yes.”

“Willow? It’s Bill.”

Why did such simple words sound so
confusing? “Yes.”

“Are you ok?”

“Oh, Bill—right. I’m sorry. I was thinking
about something—actually, something I wanted to discuss with
you.”