The Scarlet Thread

by Francine Rivers

  Sierra remembered the hours she had spent with her mother outside in the sunshine, playing with her small tin bucket and little spade while her mom plucked weeds, thinned seedlings, and snipped dying blooms. She could remember the day her mother had planted the trumpet vine, gently tying green shoots to the lattice. The vine now covered the back wall.

  Without her mother, everything would go wild.

  Clouds moved across the sun, casting shadows over the yard below. “I hope it doesn’t rain again,” she said softly.

  “It can’t be sunshine all the time, or flowers wouldn’t grow for lack of rain.”

  Even now, hurting, dying, her mother saw the brighter side of things. Sierra’s eyes burned. Her throat ached with tears. She put her hand against her chest, wishing she could lift the weight of grief that grew heavier every day. She was choking on it. Suffocating. If it hurt this much seeing her mother slip hour by hour, what would life be like when she was gone?

  “Sierra,” her mother murmured softly.

  Seeing her hand fumble weakly, Sierra took it. “What, Mom? Are you uncomfortable? Can I get you something?”

  “Sit down, honey,” she said.

  Sierra did as she was asked and forced a smile as she enclosed her mother’s hand in both of hers.

  “I want you to do something for me,” her mother said softly.

  “What, Mom? What can I do?”

  “Let me go.”

  Sierra’s throat closed up. She had to press her lips together so she didn’t cry out. She used every bit of willpower she had and still the hot tears bubbled into her eyes. “I love you,” she said brokenly. Leaning down, she put her head against her mother’s breast and wept.

  Her mother stroked her hair once and then rested her hand weakly on her head. “I love you, too. You’ve always been God’s blessing to me.”

  “I wish I could go back to when I was a child, sitting out on the patio in the sunshine while you worked in the garden.”

  Her hand trembled in weakness. “Each stage in our lives is precious, Sierra. Even now. The door isn’t closing on me, honey. It’s opening wider with each breath I take.”

  “But you’re in so much pain.”

  Her mother stroked her hair again and spoke gently. “Shhhh. Don’t cry anymore. I want you to remember that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love Him, to those who are called according to His purpose.”

  Sierra had learned those words as a child when she was in Sunday school. Her mother had helped her memorize them as they worked in the garden. But the words held no meaning. What good was there in suffering? She breathed in the scent of her mother and was afraid. Wasn’t God supposed to heal those who had faith? Her mother had faith. She’d never doubted. So where was God now? She wanted to cling to her and beg her to fight harder, to hang on to life, but she knew she could not speak those words aloud and add to her mother’s burden of pain. It was selfish to even think of asking her to endure more.

  Anguish filled her. What would she do without her mother? Losing her father had been hard enough, but her mother had always been her counselor, her fountainhead. How many times had she run to her mother for help? How many times had her mother walked through troubles with her, gently guiding the way, showing her the higher road?

  Sierra listened to the beat of her mother’s heart. No one in the world knew her as well or loved her as much as her mother did. Not even Alex, her own husband, who should. Sierra’s lips thinned. Especially not Alex, who hadn’t even bothered to call in the past three days, the hardest of her life.

  “Oh, Mom, I’ll miss you so much,” she murmured, wishing she could lie down beside her and die with her. Life was too painful, the future so bleak.

  Her mother’s hand moved slowly against her hair. “God has a plan for you, Sierra, a plan for your welfare and not for calamity, a plan to give you a future and a hope.” Her voice was so weak, so tired. “Do you remember those words?”

  “Yes,” Sierra said obediently. Her mother had taught them to her as well, and like the others, they’d made no sense to her either. It had been her father and mother who took care of her. Then it was Alex. God had never come into the equation.

  “Hold to them, honey. When you turn, you’ll know I’m no farther away than your heart.”

  Sierra thought her mother had fallen asleep. She could still hear the slow, steady beat of her heart. She remained where she was, her head resting on her mother’s breast, taking comfort in the closeness, the warmth. Exhausted, she stretched out beside her, arm around her, and slept.

  She awakened when Mike came by after work. He stood beside the bed. “Her breathing sounds different.” His expression was grim and controlled. “Her hand’s cold.”

  Sierra noticed other things. The fluid level in the catch bag hadn’t changed in hours. Her mother’s skin color had changed.

  She called the hospice, and a nurse was sent. Sierra recognized her, but she couldn’t remember her name. Her mother would have remembered. Her mother always remembered everyone by name. She remembered things about them, too, asking after family members and job situations. Little things. Personal things.

  “It won’t be long,” the nurse said, and Sierra knew the woman was saying her mother wouldn’t be waking up again. The nurse adjusted the blankets and lightly stroked the hair back tenderly from her mother’s temple. She straightened and looked at Sierra. “Would you like me to stay with you?”

  Sierra couldn’t make a sound. She shook her head. She just kept watching her mother’s chest rise and fall slowly and counted seconds. One. Two. Three.

  “I’m going to call Melissa,” Mike said and left the room.

  Soon after Melissa arrived, Luís and María Madrid came in. Alex’s mother embraced Sierra and wept openly, while his father stood with tearless, grave dignity at the foot of the hospital bed.

  “When is Alex coming?” he asked.

  “I don’t know that he is,” Sierra said dully, standing by the window. “I haven’t talked to him in a while.” She listened to the click of the oxygen machine and counted.

  She didn’t want to think about Alex or anyone else just then. She didn’t want to think about anything.

  Seven. Eight.

  Alex’s father left the bedroom.

  Melissa came in a few minutes later and stood beside Sierra. She didn’t say anything. She just took her hand and held it in silence.

  Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

  Melissa let go of her hand and moved to the bedside. She touched Marianna Clanton tenderly and checked her wrist pulse. Leaning down, she kissed her forehead. “Good-bye, Mama.”

  Straightening, she turned slowly to Sierra. “She’s with the Lord,” she whispered, tears running down her cheeks.

  Sierra stopped counting. Her heart felt like a cold stone inside her chest. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She just turned and looked down into the moonlit garden and felt the stillness closing in around her.

  “She’s not suffering anymore, Sierra.”

  Why did people always feel they had to say something? She knew Melissa meant to comfort her, but no words could. She heard another click as the oxygen machine was shut off.

  Everything fell silent. Everything was still . . . so still she wondered if her own heart had stopped beating. She wished it would.

  She couldn’t think. She felt numb, so numb, she wondered if she was becoming exactly like the little statuette of the Virgin Mary her mother-in-law had brought and set on the windowsill. Bloodless. Hollow.

  Mike came into the room again. He didn’t utter a word. At least her brother understood. He just stood at the foot of the hospital bed, looking down at their mother. She looked peaceful, her body completely relaxed. When he turned away, he touched Sierra’s arm. It was the merest brush of his hand, but enough to let her know she was there, alive.

  Crossing the room, Mike sat down in the chair and leaned forward, hands loosely clasped between his knees. Was he praying? His
head was down. If he wept, he did so silently. And he didn’t leave the room or her, not until the men from the mortuary arrived.

  Sierra followed the men downstairs as they took her mother away. She stood in the front doorway watching until the doors of the hearse closed. She’d still be standing upstairs if Melissa hadn’t made the call.

  Her mother had made all the arrangements two years ago, without anyone knowing. No fuss. No bother. Everything like clockwork. She would be cremated by tomorrow morning. Nothing but ashes left.

  Sierra closed the front door and leaned her forehead against the cold wood. She was so tired, her mind whirring like an engine in neutral, going nowhere.

  The telephone rang. She heard Luís answer. After the first word, he spoke in hot, hushed Spanish. The words might as well have been spoken in Greek for all the sense they made to her, but she knew he was speaking to his son.

  He came into the parlor, where she was sitting. “It’s Alex,” he said and held out the phone. “He’s been trying to reach you.”

  A lie, kindly offered, but unconvincing.

  She took the phone and held it to her ear.

  “Sierra? I’m sorry about your mother.” He was silent, waiting. She shut her eyes tightly. What did he want her to say? Did he think one call and a little sympathy absolved him of days of neglect? She’d needed him. “I tried to call you yesterday, but the phone was busy.” She couldn’t speak, not with the weight of grief bearing down on her. “Sierra?” One word and she’d shatter. Worse, she’d say things she’d regret.

  “I’ll make reservations,” he said at last. There was no inflection in his voice to give away his own feelings. “The children and I will fly up to San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll rent a car. We should be in Healdsburg by evening.” He sounded as though he was making business arrangements. Silence again. It stretched. “Are you all right?” His voice was almost gentle. It filled her with infinite sadness and memories. “Sierra?”

  Pressing the Off button, she put the phone down on the side table.

  James works hard as Papa ever did.

  He goes out at dawn and comes in for the midday meal. Then out again he goes until dusk. I am left alone to care for Papa.

  Papa has changed much in the four years I have been gone. His hair has gone white and he is so thin and weak he can not get out of bed. I thought he was blind when first we came, but when Joshua came to stand in the doorway I knew he was not. His face got all red and awful. He started shouting loud enough for Aunt Martha to hear him all the way back in Galena.

  He said—Keep that devil child away from me or I swear before God I will kill him.

  Joshua ran out of the house. If I had not heard him crying, I would never have found him inside the hollow burned out tree. It was at the edge of the fields Matthew burned.

  When I came back to the house, James asked why Papa would say such a terrible thing. I said he is crazy.

  I know what’s killing Papa. Hatred. It is eating him alive.

  Sometimes I wish Papa would die and there would be an end to all his pain. And mine.

  He is so weak and sick, he can do nothing for himself. And nothing I do for him helps. It makes things worse. He will not look at me or speak to me. He would not even take food from my hand until necessity and hunger made him. James does not ask for explanations. He thinks Joshua is my babee just like everyone else thinks it. I never told him otherwise.

  James moved Papa into the little bedroom off the kitchen. We need the big bed for ourselves. Papa did not say anything, but I saw tears in his eyes.

  I felt strange sleeping in the bed Papa shared with Mama. James wanted to love me the first night and I could not. All I did was cry. He said he understood, but I do not think he did. He thought I was tired and sad. What I feel is so much worse than that.

  Papa and Mama made Lucas and Matthew and me in the bed James and I are sharing. Papa and Sally Mae made Joshua. That was on my mind too. I could see her sneaking in during the night while Papa lay drunk and unawares. She was just like Lots daughters. And look what come of that. My only comfort is remembering that Ruth was a Moabite.

  I am all mixed up inside. Papa hurts me with his silence and meanness. But I am angry, too. And grieving. I wonder what Mama would think of all this. And me. I wonder where Matthew is and what he is doing. I hope he is well and happy wherever he is. But I doubt it. Matthew took everything to heart.

  Seems to me Papa is the one who should answer for the pain he caused. Sally Mae did not do what she did without him helping. Being drunk is no excuse. I have not said so to Papa. It would do no good and he is Determined I done wrong by keeping Joshua alive. Papa does not think he is to blame for anything. It was all Sally Maes fault. And when she died, it was all Joshuas fault. When I took him up, it is all my fault.

  So be it. I am stronger than Joshua and can take the heat of silent hell Papa pours down on me. Like God. I can feel it every time I walk through his door. Hatred is a powerful thing.

  Joshua will not even come into the kitchen because he knows Papa is in that little back room. I am glad of it. I think Papa would kill him if he had the chance. And I do not intend to give him one. But at night I lay wondering what will come of all this.

  When Joshua grows up he is going to want to know who his father is. What do I tell him if he asks?

  I heard tell once that the sins of the father are visited on the sons. Does that mean Joshua must pay for what Papa did?

  Life is not fair.

  I put a marker on Sally Maes grave.

  Papa is worse. His mind is going. Today when I went in to wash him and change the bedding again, he thought I was Mama. He said—Where have you been Katie love. I have missed you so much.

  I took his hand and said I have been with Jesus these long years.

  And Papa said real soft with tears in his eyes—Put in a good word for me.

  I cannot stop crying. He was a good man once for all his drinking and wild ways. And he loved Mama more than life. Hearing him talk today made me remember what he was like when Mama was alive. And remembering made me miss her so much my body hurts with it. Everything inside me is clenched tight, aching and lonely.

  It seems to me when God took Mama from us, Satan waltzed in the door and he has been living in this house ever since.

  Papa is fading away. He does not eat. He sleeps most of the day. When he is awake, he does not speak. He looks at the corner of his room as though someone is there visiting with him. Sometimes he smiles and mumbles something.

  I am afraid. His curse still lays so heavy upon me.

  Papa died this morning.

  He was restless last night. He kept moving and moaning. I did not know what to do to comfort him. He could not breathe easy. He was better when I raised him up and sat behind him and held him in my arms. I stroked his hair and talked to him just like I do my babies when they are fretful.

  And then near dawn a thought came into my head so powerful and clear it was like a real voice talking to me. I knew what was wrong with Papa and what he needed. I struggled against it but it was like a hand squeezing hard around my heart. I laid him back and went down on my knees beside the bed.

  I said—Papa I forgive you. Do you hear me Papa? I forgive you.

  His fingers moved. Just a little. So I took his hand and kissed it. I said—I love you Papa. And I meant it. Just for that minute after all the time before and between up to now. I meant it. I forgot how much he hurt me and saw how much he was hurting. Be at peace, Papa, I said. I couldn’t say no more than that.

  And he seemed so. He did not say anything. Not one word. He just gave one long sigh and was gone.

  We buried Papa in the suit James wore when we were wed. I sewed Papa inside the wedding quilt Mamas friends made for them. With Mister Grayson dead, there was no one to come see Papa laid to rest beside Mama and the babies they lost. It was just me holding Beth and James holding Hank and Joshua who stood beside the grave. I read words from the Bible. Mama would have liked tha
t.

  It has been raining ever since. Fitting weather for my feelings.

  I cannot help wishing Papa had said something to me before he passed on to whatever was waiting for him. Even my name would have been enough. Or if he had looked at me before he died. Maybe then I would not feel this awful ache inside me.

  Papa didn’t say a word to me. Not from the day he cast me out to the day he died. But at the end, when he had no strength left, I think he wanted to. I hope so anyway.

  Oh, what foolish creatures we are. Cursed with our pride! Cursed with our stubbornness!

  No wonder God has forsaken us.

  Chapter 12

  Sierra sat in the front pew of the church with Alex on one side and Carolyn and Clanton on the other. Mike sat on the aisle, Melissa at his side, his three children next to her. The sanctuary was packed with people. As the pastor offered the eulogy, Alex took her hand. He had hardly touched her since arriving three days ago. She’d saved her tears for privacy, unwilling to share them with him or anyone else.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about the small polished wooden box placed on her father’s stone at the cemetery. Was that all there was to a human being? One small box of ashes that weighed less than a newborn baby? The pastor had met them there and led the solemn but brief ceremony. Only family members had been present: she and Alex, their children, Mike and Melissa and their children, and Luís and María Madrid. So few. Too many.

  Her mother’s ashes would be mixed with her father’s, and in a few days a stone carver would come and add the date of her death to the slab that would cover them both.

  Now, half-listening to the pastor’s homily, she wondered if the forget-me-not seeds the children planted around the marble would come up.

  “Marianna Clanton walked in the Spirit,” the pastor said, using the opportunity to proclaim the gospel. Tearful, he rejoiced for his friend and parishioner. “Marianna will be sorely missed, but we can take comfort in knowing she’s in the arms of her beloved Savior. And those of us who share her belief have the comfort of knowing she isn’t lost to us. We will see her again.”