Past Forward Volume 1 (6 page)

“My mom does scrap booking but this looks
different. It’s like your mom did everything herself. The papers
and stuff—”

Smoothing the page where a corner had tried
to come up, Willow nodded. “We do. When there are pictures to do,
we take turns deciding how to decorate the pages and what to draw.
Sometimes it took hours to design the papers and
embellishments.”

“Why not just buy them and save time?”

With a shrug that showed she’d never thought
of it, Willow asked, “What would we do with the time we saved?”

Chad’s mouth opened to answer and then shut.
She’d asked the same question about making soap. It seemed that
everyone was looking for ways to save time, but no one he’d known
had ever questioned the validity of doing so. “Well, isn’t there
anything you always wish you had more time to do?”

“Fish. I love to fish. But I’d grow fat and
lazy if I got to fish all I wanted.”

This announcement surprised him more than
anything she’d said yet. “You fish?”

“Love it. I go every chance I get. Othello
hates it though because I chain him on fish days. He scares away
the fish.”

A thought occurred to him. “Do you tie your
own flies?”

Eagerly, she jumped up and rushed upstairs.
Minutes later, she lumbered back down them carrying a tackle box
and a board with a tie vise mounted to it. “I love tying flies. I
do it in winter when I can’t fish. It keeps me from going
crazy.”

One look at her flies and Chad wanted to
hurry home for a rod. “We’ll fish,” he said as though the question
was settled. The word “we” seemed like another tether, binding him
to the farm. Why couldn’t she have been a man?

They examined the ties and debated the
merits and demerits of each before Willow picked up the things to
carry them back upstairs. Chad took it from her. “I’ll carry it.
Show me the way.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she climbed the
stairs and opened the first door on the left. “This is our craft
room. The board goes there.” Willow indicated and empty space on a
beautifully crafted bookshelf.

“That is one gorgeous bookshelf. Where did
you find that!”

“Mother made it a couple of years ago. The
one we had was the first thing she ever made.” A sad smile crept
into the corners of her mouth. “It was falling apart. Mother became
a great carpenter, but she didn’t start out as one.”

He ran his fingers over the wood admiringly.
“Can you make things like this?”

“Not on your life. I am lousy with a saw. I
can’t cut a one-inch yardstick much less a board.” She paused with
a wicked gleam in her eye. “But Mother can’t fish well, and I can,
so I think we’re even.”

Hardly noticing her words, Chad read the
titles of dozens of books. “You have a book on how to do almost
everything in here. Candle making, soap making, knitting, sewing,
spinning? You have a book on how to spin?”

Her sigh was almost comical. “I’ve always
wanted to spin, but Mother would never agree to sheep. She said
they were dumb animals, and she wasn’t going to be bothered with
them.”

“You’ll have to get a couple and try it.” He
paused at the expression on her face. As though he could read her
mind, he continued, “I didn’t mean to imply that there was anything
wrong with your mother. You’d just said that she told you that you
should live your life how you like it, and I thought—”

Her smile, though weak, relieved him.
“You’re right. She did say that, and I know she meant it.
She
didn’t want to have to deal with sheep and the mess that
comes with them, but she didn’t mind if I did. I think at some
point I would have received a pair of lambs for a birthday or
Christmas…” She looked far away for a moment and then added, “… or
maybe Easter.”

A wide array of art supplies, fabric, and
similar materials were stacked on shelves, in baskets, and
something about the style of the baskets made Chad wonder if the
Finley women hadn’t made them too. “Is there anything you two don’t
do?”

“Pottery. It was too expensive to ship clay.
We considered going to black and white film so we could do our own
photo developing, but we love color too much.”

While upstairs, Willow showed Chad her room,
her mother’s room, and a large room organized as a storage pantry.
“We keep our overflow canning and things in here. Those bins with
the locks are where we store Christmas and birthday presents. That
closet holds out of season clothes and…”

She explained their organization system as
they returned downstairs. Chad hardly listened. Instead, he
mentally calculated everything she’d described. The women had hand
painted their bathroom wall to look like wallpaper and every piece
of artwork on the walls was one they’d drawn, stitched, painted, or
photographed. The quilts on the beds, the sheets, everything was
stitched by one or the other of them if not both. Even the large
area rug in the oddly shaped living room was hand hooked. The
thought of all of their work was a little overwhelming.

“You’re a little like the Amish aren’t
you?”

Smiling, Willow led him to a room to the
right of the stairwell. An unbelievable number of books occupied
wall-to-wall shelves and shelves in the center of the room as well.
Just inside the door, she pointed to a shelf with at least a dozen
books on the Amish lifestyle.

“Mother actually considered joining the
Amish. The first thing she did after she deposited ‘the bribe,’ as
she called it, was to go to the library and research Amish
theology.”

“I take it she wasn’t impressed?”

“Actually, she was for the most part. The
problem was, with each district being independent of the others,
and because people often use the same theological terms for
different things, Mother was afraid she’d make a poor choice and
not know she’d done it until it was too late. The last thing she
wanted to do was start over her starting over.”

“What brought her here?” Chad asked the
question as he looked over the hundreds of books.

“The day she gave up on the idea of the
Amish, she went for a drive. There was a for sale sign out at the
road so she drove in and looked around. She loved it.”

While Chad commented about the excellent
condition of the house, Willow glowed. “She did most of the work
herself. The house had to be completely renovated, so it had new
plumbing and wiring and all that stuff. So Mother came in and made
everything pretty. Lately, she’s been talking about new windows,
but she didn’t want to have to undo all the trim work she did.”

Every window and doorway in the house had
beautiful trim around it. He’d noticed ivy vines, fleur de lis, and
around the kitchen, grapes on the vine. “Where did she find them?
It must have cost her a fortune.”

“Oak from Fairbury Hardware. It was more
expensive than the pine stuff, but it holds up better.”

Shaking his head, Chad traced the ivy vines
along the doorway into what he assumed was meant to be a dining
room. “No, these. Where did she find these? Hand carved molding and
trim work isn’t cheap.”

She laughed. “Fairbury Hardware. She bought
the plain oak pieces and hand carved them. Her first ones are up in
the attic.”

Closer examination showed flaws that might
have otherwise been overlooked. Chad traced the outline of the
design and gave a low whistle. “This took a lot of time. I can’t
believe she did this!”

“Winter evenings. She started when I was
around eight or nine. She whittled a few things for my stocking
that year and then wanted to do something more intricate, so she
came up with this idea.”

“I don’t know how you both had time to do so
much with all the other work.”

Willow collapsed onto the chaise near the
door, and sighed. “I think that’s the secret. We worked hard enough
to keep us busy—the Amish influence I guess—but we used modern
conveniences and things to leave us enough time to relax and enjoy
hobbies.”

Weariness seemed to engulf her. Chad noticed
a change in her demeanor and decided it was time to leave. “Hey, I
was planning to challenge you to a rematch on those checkers, but I
have to be at work early tomorrow and after chasing you down, I’m
beat. Mind if I come out Saturday or something and beat you before
work?”

“What time is work?”

“Shift starts at two,” he answered
lazily.

Just as Chad shut the door of his truck and
inserted the key in the ignition, he saw Willow fly out of the
house, across the yard, and to his window. He rolled it down,
surprised to see her upset so quickly. She must have been holding
back as long as she could.

“Chad, do you think I’ve been secretly
disrespecting my mother all these years?”

His brain tried to follow the question, but
he felt at a loss to understand what Willow meant. “Huh?” His
eloquent response earned him a mental kick from himself.

“I keep doing things that Mother didn’t like
or wouldn’t have done. Inviting you and the Varneys to visit,
writing Grandmother and Grandfather—even the rest of the family…”
Her voice trailed as she thought of the repercussions of her
actions but then continued. “And of course, I moved her
commentaries, I ate in her spot at the living room table when she
never would do that, and now I’m thinking about getting sheep. Have
I been in some kind of secret rebellion all these years?”

Chad patted her forearm and shook his head.
“I think you’re trying to exert control wherever you can so you
don’t have to face everything at once. If you tried to keep
everything exactly the same, you’d find yourself constantly
reminded of your loss. Making changes that you said yourself your
mom said might happen, is just a way of keeping yourself sane.”

A strange look clouded her eyes and she
sighed. “Is insanity such a bad thing? Sometimes it sounds like a
blissful escape.”

Without another word, Willow returned to the
house. Chad watched, concerned, hanging one arm over the steering
wheel, and resting his chin on his wrist. A light flickered in the
living room and then went out again. Undecided, he paused with his
hand on the door handle. Something about her demeanor bothered
him.

The light now flickered in an upstairs
room—just for a second. Chad mentally climbed her stairs, turned in
the hallway, and yes, that’s where the light disappeared,
suggesting that she’d gone into her mother’s room or the bathroom.
For a moment, he turned cold and pulled on the door handle. As he
pushed open the door, the light flickered in Willow’s bedroom and
seconds later, light from an oil lamp glowed in the window. The
silhouette of Willow unzipping her dress was enough for him. Chad
slammed the door shut, started the engine, and backed all the way
down the driveway.

Willow heard the door slam and glanced out
her window. Chad’s vehicle zipping down the driveway in reverse
confused her. “It looks like his truck is broken. It won’t even go
forward!” she mused as she donned her favorite pajamas and slid
under the covers. For just a moment, the temptation to turn on the
electricity and use a fan while she slept tickled her senses, but
weariness slowly overtook her, assuring her that she wouldn’t miss
it once she fell asleep.

Early Saturday morning, Willow was weeding
the garden when the phone in her pocket rang, sending Othello into
a barking fit. A minister, Tom Allen, asked for clarification on
Monday’s service, and by the time she turned the phone off, Willow
was unnerved. She’d forgotten that she needed to dig a hole for the
coffin, not to mention that she needed to decide where she’d bury
her mother in the first place.

She replaced the trowel and hoe, and
retrieved the pickaxe and shovel. Suddenly, she knew where she’d
bury her mother. Her mother’s favorite oak stood tall, proud, but
alone—not far from the highway and the entrance to the drive.
Willow would bury her mother there.

She wore her gardening hat, work gloves, and
a loose billowy long sleeved white shirt over jeans, keeping her
hair stuffed under her hat. It was almost nine as she began
digging. Her jug of water sat untouched for the first hour, but her
thirst eventually demanded that she drink.

The queasy feeling was familiar. Mother had
taught her not to guzzle her water after working hard and getting
overheated, and now she worked feeling hot, tired, and sick to her
stomach. Oddly, it was a welcome relief.

By eleven, she sobbed as she dug. Her work
slowed, her muscles grew tired, and her back ached almost as much
as her heart. Hot tears poured down her cheeks, making strange
paths on her dusty face. Every minute—every second—tortured her.
Even so, it was also cathartic. With each shovelful of dirt that
she tossed from the growing hole, she felt that somehow she could
finally measure her loss in tangible terms. Every cubic inch of
dirt represented dozens of memories that she now, like Mary in
Bethlehem, treasured in her heart.

Willow drank as she watched Chad’s truck
bouncing over her lane and recapped her jug. She’d forgotten he was
coming, and realized he might expect lunch. He could forget it. She
didn’t know how long it took to dig such a large hole, but she
wasn’t about to be digging on Monday morning.