Where Willows Grow (18 page)
And pain.
She was acutely aware of pain. In her head, shoulders, and hips. Yet she found it bearable, unlike her last memory of a deep, stabbing pain that had sent her scuttling for blessed disconnection.
‘‘Now sit up here and eat,’’ came the deep voice that had awakened her. Even though it still came from a distance, she could understand the words. ‘‘Say your prayers first.’’
‘‘Okay, Papa Berkley,’’ was Dorothy’s cheerful concurrence, then, ‘‘God is great, God is good . . .’’
Anna Mae twisted her head against the pillow, struggling to make sense of what she’d heard. Why was Jack’s father here, cooking breakfast? Why was she still in bed? She should be up. She shifted her body, an effort to pull herself into a seated position, but before she could accomplish it, two hands clamped on her shoulders.
‘‘Don’t you do that, Mrs. Phipps,’’ a waspish voice scolded. ‘‘You stay right there in that bed. I’ll fetch Doc.’’
Doc? Doc Warren? He was here, too? Something must be seriously wrong! She needed to open her eyes. But the remembrance of pain made her scrunch them more tightly shut instead.
‘‘Doc! Doc, come in here.’’ The offending voice blared in Anna Mae’s ear. ‘‘She’s wakin’ up, and I don’t know if I can hold her down.’’
Footsteps—more than one set—thundered close, then a warm, soft palm pressed to Anna Mae’s forehead. ‘‘Anna Mae, can you hear me?’’ Doc’s voice—how well Anna Mae knew it.
She opened her mouth, willing her dry tongue to form words. All she emitted was a low moan.
Something slapped her cheek twice. The motion made her headache increase. She grunted and moved her head to avoid the contact.
A low chuckle filled her ears. ‘‘Oh, get feisty now, that’s what we need to see.’’ Pat, pat on her cheek again. She shifted. The hand followed. Pat, pat, pat. With a rush of irritation, she opened her eyes, focused blearily on Doc Warren’s face, which loomed over the bed, and rasped, ‘‘Stop that. It hurts.’’
Doc burst out laughing and looked toward the foot of the bed. ‘‘She’s okay. If she’s complaining, she’s okay.’’
Anna Mae squinted at the figures lined up behind the iron footboard. Jack Berkley, Ern Berkley, Dorothy, and Mrs. Stevenson from church, all grinning at her like fools. ‘‘What—what’s everybody doing here?’’
‘‘Dorothy fetched Jack when you fell. He put you to bed and left his father to stand guard, then he called me. I had him fetch Mrs. Stevenson to take care of the girls.’’ Doc’s calm voice filled in the gaps.
When I fell . . . ?
Confusion clouded her brain. And then she remembered—fetching the maternity clothes, climbing down from the attic, the breaking ladder, and landing hard on the floor.
Dorothy had gone for Jack? What a brave girl . . . Anna Mae tried to send the little girl a smile, but when she focused on her daughter, all she could do was frown. The child had an ugly bruise on her forehead. ‘‘Dorothy, what happened to your head?’’
Jack put his arm around Dorothy and tucked her against his side. ‘‘She told me when you came down, your feet pushed her into the table. It looks worse than it is, right, honey?’’
Dorothy beamed upward. ‘‘It don’t hurt much, Mama. I’m okay. Mr. Berkley says I’m a trooper.’’
Yes, she remembered Dorothy picking up the scattered clothes from beneath the ladder. She should have told her to wait. She should not have fallen on her child. Tears stung her eyes—how foolish she had been to endanger her daughter!
‘‘Tell me where it hurts, Anna Mae,’’ Doc prompted, pulling her attention back to him.
‘‘Head . . .’’ It was so difficult to form words—her tongue felt swollen and dry. ‘‘Hips. Shoulders . . .’’ She grimaced as the pain pounded through her head. She pressed her hands to her hips, and her fingers brushed across her belly. Fear raised her from the bed. ‘‘My baby!’’
‘‘Shhh.’’ Doc’s hands caught her shoulders, gently pushing her back onto her pillow. ‘‘Now, don’t fret about that.’’
‘‘Did I—um, did I—?’’ She couldn’t ask the question. Not until that moment had she realized how very much she wanted this new baby. What if her carelessness took the life of her unborn child?
‘‘You didn’t lose it.’’ Doc’s soft assurance cast a wave of relief through Anna Mae’s aching body. But his next word pierced her with fear once more. ‘‘Yet.’’
A bitter taste filled Anna Mae’s mouth. ‘‘Yet? You mean, I . . . I could still—?’’
Doc took her hand. ‘‘You took a hard fall. You’ve had some bleeding, but it’s under control now. Still, I want you to take it easy for a week at least, limit your activity. It’ll be the best chance for keeping that baby where it belongs.’’
Although she’d struggled so hard to open her eyes, all Anna Mae wanted to do at that moment was close them and pretend none of this had happened. She had a farm to care for—she couldn’t be lazing around in bed. What would she say to Harley if the garden failed? All the things that needed doing had to be done by her. When Harley heard about this, he’d be home in an instant. But then there would be no money coming in. And they would be back where they started, living with the constant threat of losing the farm.
‘‘B-but,’’ she argued weakly, ‘‘Harley’s not here, and I have to—’’
‘‘You have to stay in bed.’’ Doc’s firm tone rose in volume with each word. ‘‘There’s nothing more important than the life of your baby, Anna Mae. Remember that.’’
The farm’s more important
. Did she say the words or only think them? If Harley were here, he’d say them. The farm—keeping the farm—was more important to him than anything else. That’s why he was gone right now. But Doc had said nothing was more important than the baby. Was he right, or was Harley right? The dull ache in her head became a throbbing pain. She turned her face away from Doc and closed her eyes. A hand squeezed her shoulder.
‘‘That’s right, Anna Mae.’’ Doc’s voice soothed the tattered edges of worry from Anna Mae’s mind. ‘‘You sleep. Your body needs the rest. So sleep.’’
Anna Mae allowed herself to drift away.
‘‘Papa Berkley, what’cha doing?’’
Ern Berkley looked up from the writing tablet. Dorothy peered across the table, her chin and fingertips resting on the wooden edge. The bruise on her forehead had perfectly matched her blue eyes the day after Anna Mae’s fall, but over the past week it had changed to an angry yellowish green, the color of a frog’s underbelly. He shifted his gaze from the bruise to the child’s eyes. ‘‘I’m writing a letter to your daddy. Your mama asked me to let him know she got hurt.’’
Dorothy pulled out a chair and climbed up, pressing her palms to the tabletop. ‘‘Is Mama hurt real bad?’’
Ern glanced toward the bedroom doorway. He could hear Mrs. Stevenson’s plodding footsteps as she puttered around the room. For a week now, the woman had been spoon-feeding Anna Mae, giving her sponge baths, and waiting for her to regain her strength. Anna Mae had always been a fighter, but lying on that bed, pale and weak, she didn’t appear to have much fight left in her.
‘‘Papa Berkley, I said is Mama hurt real bad?’’ Dorothy’s voice rose, a hint of panic underscoring the childish tone.
He reached across the table to tap the end of her nose. ‘‘Your mama’s just tuckered, Dorothy. She needs a nice, long nap. But she’ll be fine.’’
‘‘Are you sure?’’
Ern tipped his head and wiggled his mustache. ‘‘Well, now, haven’t we been praying for just that? You think God isn’t listening?’’
Dorothy didn’t smile. ‘‘Daddy says God doesn’t hear prayers.’’
Ern swallowed the disappointment that rose with Dorothy’s innocent comment. Harley should have more sense than to trample a child’s faith. But he managed another smile and said, ‘‘Well, your daddy’s right in most things, honey, but this time I think he’s wrong. I’ve been saying prayers since I was littler than you, and I know God answers. So you just trust your mama is going to be okay, will you do that?’’
Dorothy released a long sigh. She scraped her thumbnail at a bit of loose paint on the table’s edge. ‘‘I’ll try.’’
‘‘Good girl. Now, can you do something for me?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Can you go get your color crayons from your room without waking Marjorie? I think your daddy would like a picture from you in this letter.’’
The child’s eyes lit up. ‘‘I’ll draw him a rainbow! We talked about rainbows in Sunday school yesterday.’’
‘‘That’s a good idea.’’ He tugged a piece of paper loose from the tablet. ‘‘Here’s some paper. Go fetch your crayons and get started. I’ll make sure it gets mailed.’’
‘‘Thanks, Papa Berkley!’’ The little girl scooted off the chair and tiptoed to the bedroom. In minutes she was back, a battered Crayola box in her hand. Kneeling on the chair, she dumped the well-used crayons out on the table and got busy creating shaggy arches of bright color.
Ern watched for a few minutes, smiling as Dorothy’s tongue poked out on the left side of her mouth while she worked. Anna Mae had done the same thing when she was little. She just wasn’t concentrating hard if the tip of her tongue wasn’t showing. She’d poked it out while doing her homework, when lost in thought, or when reasoning something out.
The rumble of a wagon interrupted his thoughts. Dorothy raised her head, looking toward the open kitchen window. ‘‘Somebody’s here,’’ she said. She hopped down from the table, raced to the porch, then careened back in, a panicked look on her face. ‘‘The mailman’s out at the box! An’ my picture’s not done!’’
Ern pointed to the crayons. ‘‘It’s okay, Dorothy. He comes every day. We’ll send your picture tomorrow. I don’t have the letter ready to go anyway, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.’’
Dorothy’s face twisted into a pout. ‘‘I wanted to send it
now
.’’
Ern said in a reasonable tone, ‘‘Well, you don’t want to send half a rainbow, do you?’’
Her lower lip poking out, Dorothy shook her head.
‘‘Well, then, finish that up. I’ll finish your daddy’s letter, and I’ll put everything in the mail tomorrow.’’
With a great heaving of shoulders, Dorothy climbed back into the chair and picked up the red crayon. Ern waited until she was thoroughly engrossed in her coloring before finishing his letter. His wording was concise and carefully avoided any suggestions regarding what Harley should do—it simply stated the facts: Anna Mae had injured herself in a fall, she and the baby were fine, and the chores were being seen to by Jack. Harley would have to decide for himself what to do with the information. ‘‘All done!’’ Dorothy held up the drawing of a crooked rainbow, its colors running together as if the sun had melted it. The pride on her face made Ern smile.
‘‘Very good,’’ he praised, taking it and folding it to fit the envelope. He slipped it in with his letter and sealed the envelope with a dab of glue. He gave the envelope a pat. ‘‘There now! I’ll put a stamp on it when I get home and send it off tomorrow, okay?’’
‘‘Okay!’’
The kitchen door opened and Jack stepped through. He glanced at the table as he headed for the sink. ‘‘What’re you doin’, Pop?’’
Ern spoke over the sound of running water while Jack washed his hands. ‘‘I wrote a letter to Harley. Anna Mae asked me to let him know about her accident.’’
Jack’s shoulders stiffened. ‘‘She tell you to ask him to come back?’’
Ern felt a prickle of trepidation. Jack’s tone was too disinterested to be sincere. ‘‘No. Just lettin’ him know what’s going on here. Why?’’
‘‘No reason.’’ The answer came fast. Too fast. Jack turned around, wiped his hands on his pant legs, and offered a broad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘‘Want me to stamp it and get it sent?’’
Ern rose. He tucked the envelope in his shirt pocket, but he couldn’t tuck away the odd sensation that Jack was hiding something. ‘‘That’s fine, son. I’ve got stamps at home. I’ll put it out in the box for tomorrow’s pickup.’’ He tousled Dorothy’s hair, giving the child a smile. ‘‘Dorothy here included a picture of a rainbow for her daddy, too.’’
‘‘That so?’’ Jack scooped Dorothy from the floor and bounced her in the air a couple of times, making her squeal. ‘‘You drew a rainbow? How come?’’
Between giggles, Dorothy explained. ‘‘My Sunday school teacher says rainbows is s’posed to help us remember promises. I promised to be good, an’ my daddy promised to come home. So I drawed him a promise rainbow.’’
Ern watched Jack’s lips form a grim line. Jack set Dorothy on the floor and turned back to the sink. He seemed to gaze out the window, lost in thought. Watching him, Ern experienced another uneasy feeling.
What’s going on in your heart these days,
son? You’ve been a tower of strength and a source of helpfulness to
Anna Mae. If only I didn’t feel you were up to no good
.
J
ACK PAUSED BY THE BACK DOOR
, hand on the doorknob, ear tuned to his father’s footsteps as the old man climbed the stairs to his bedroom. At the click of the bedroom door, Jack’s breath released in a
whoosh
. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it back.
He rotated his shoulders, tension creating a knot between his shoulder blades. The letter Pop had written to Harley was stamped and waiting for pickup in the mailbox at the end of the drive. The drive could clearly be seen from Pop’s bedroom window. And Pop was in his bedroom. Jack tipped his head, trying to detect any movement from upstairs. If Pop was wandering around, he might look out the window and catch Jack in the act. But if he were in bed . . .
Squeak
.
Jack smiled. The old springs on Pop’s bed gave him away. He was no doubt stretched out for his after-breakfast Bible reading. It was safe. Jack held tight to the door, easing it closed without a sound. He tiptoed across the porch, avoiding the creaky middle board, then broke into a run across the yard and slid to a stop beside the mailbox. A quick glance up and down the road confirmed no one was around. He removed the letter, folded it in half, and jammed it into his back pocket. He’d deal with it later.
Interfering with mail was a federal offense, he knew. And he’d interfered with more mail in the past several weeks than he could keep track of, sneaking off with every letter Anna Mae tried to send to Harley, as well as an envelope that came from Lindsborg addressed to Anna Mae in sloppy handwriting. If Pop found the stash of letters underneath the long johns in Jack’s bureau drawer, he’d be pretty upset. But what else could Jack do? Harley couldn’t know about Anna Mae’s accident. If he knew, he would come home. If he came home, Jack wouldn’t be needed over there anymore. And Jack wasn’t ready to give up his position of being needed.