Two images stared back at her. Sam, standing beside a young woman with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Herself, at twenty-nine.
Edith gazed into the mirror, pretending to blot up the remaining tears with Sam’s handkerchief. She lifted her right hand to her right cheek. The reflection’s left hand rose to swipe the handkerchief across the left side of the face.
She was no longer an outsider, standing back and observing the past from a vantage point of invisibility. She was in her own body. A younger, tighter, healthier body, to be sure, but definitely hers.
But how had she gotten here? What miracle could possibly have transformed her from an unseen observer to a—
She pushed the question aside. It was a futile debate. Anything was possible in a dream . . . or in death.
As Edith entered Grandma Gracie’s bedroom, ushered by Sam’s firm grip on her elbow, a wave of remembrance rolled through her, an eerie sense of déjà vu. She had done this once already. She had endured the agony of her grandmother’s passing and wished with all her heart that she didn’t have to do it again.
But there was Grandma Gracie, nearly lost in the high four-poster, her skin sallow, her eyes closed and sunken. Abigail, looking exhausted and spent, slumped in the upholstered chair in the corner next to the bed. Edith moved forward to the bedside and gently took the withered hand in her own.
How easy it was to forget the ravages cancer had wrought in that body! Nearly fifty years had passed since Edith had first lived through this terrible moment, years that had softened the edges of the memory and dulled the ache. And the events of this dream—or whatever it was—had brought other images of Gracie to the fore, new visions of her youth and revitalized memories of her in middle age, times when she was alive and full of energy. Now Edith had to stand once more at her dying grandmother’s bedside, relive her passing, and be left with a mental picture of Gracie weak and sick and all too ready to throw off this earthly cloak and meet her Maker.
Gracie opened her eyes and looked at Edith. “I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you, too,” Edith responded. Her eyes drifted to the writing desk next to the window, and her mind flashed to that moment of wonder when she had laid her hand on the shoulder of a young, devastated mother in mourning and whispered I love you over and over, until her soul heard the words and reached out toward life again.
From the look in Gracie’s eyes, Edith wondered if she might be remembering the very same moment. The old woman held her gaze, as if trying to communicate some truth beyond the realm of words. Then she motioned for Edith to come closer.
Carefully, so as not to cause her grandmother pain, Edith sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward. “I’m here, Gracie.” She bit her lip, regretting the slip of the tongue. Grandma. She should have said Grandma.
A light of recognition flashed in Gracie’s eyes. “Yes, you’re here,” she murmured. “Perhaps you’ve always been here . . . The jar,” Gracie whispered. “Bring me the Wishing Jar.”
Edith motioned to Sam, who left the room and returned a few minutes later with the little wooden box in his hands. He handed it over, and she opened the box, revealing the red-and-gold phoenix spreading its wings against a background of green velvet. She held up the open box so that Grandma Gracie could see the jar.
The old woman reached out and ran a palsied finger over the goldwork. She gave a faint smile. “It’s all arranged,” she said. “Your mother wants to keep the home she and your father shared while he was alive. So Quinn House will be yours—yours and Sam’s and little Abby’s.”
“You’re sure?” Edith shot a glance at her mother, who nodded wearily.
“Positive,” Abigail said.
“Everything I have will pass to you,” Gracie went on. “Including the Wishing Jar.” She paused and fought for breath. The effort of speaking was taking its toll. “On one condition.”
“Condition?” Edith frowned. “What condition?”
“That you remember the lessons of the jar. Purity of heart. Faithfulness of soul.”
“Of course, but—”
“Don’t interrupt,” Gracie said, and for a moment Edith could almost see the old fire in her.
She smiled. “Sorry, Grandma.”
“As I said, purity of heart and faithfulness of soul. Live so that when your time comes, you can go down singing. But as long as you live, live.”
“She’s rambling,” Sam said under his breath.
But Edith knew better. Something shifted, somewhere deep in her soul. Her heart resonated with the words, and her whole being vibrated with the force. As long as you live, live.
“I understand, Grandma,” she whispered.
“Yes,” the old woman said. “Somehow I thought you would.”
Then, with a smile lighting her face, she exhaled her last breath and slipped through the curtain to the other side.
17
Awakening
Dazed, and with her heart beating a heavy dirge, Edith kissed her grandmother’s cheek, took the box containing the Wishing Jar, and stumbled downstairs to the front parlor. She replaced the jar in its accustomed spot on the second shelf to the right, the box open and standing on end. Just the way Grandma Gracie had always kept it.
Looking down, she saw that she still had Sam’s handkerchief crumpled in her hand. She shook it out, folded it in half, and began to dust—first the jar and its box, then the shelf, then the surrounding shelves. She picked up newspapers scattered across the rug and stacked them neatly on top of the kindling box. Dusted the mantel. She had just moved to the bookcase on the other side when she heard Sam’s voice behind her.
“Edith, stop.”
“I can’t,” she managed to say around the lump in her throat. “Everything’s so dirty. Grandma likes the house neat and orderly, you know. I have to—”
Sam’s strong arms clamped around her from behind. “It’ll wait, sweetheart.”
“No, it won’t wait!” In a rage she turned in his arms and began to pummel her fists against his chest. “I need her. Don’t you understand? I need—”
She broke down then, sobbing against him, limp in his arms. He helped her across the room and eased her to a sitting position on the floor, with her back to the sofa. Then he sank down beside her and gathered her into his arms again.
“Let go,” he whispered. “It’s all right; I’ve got you.”
For a long time she cried—hours, maybe. Days. Years. At first she wept for the loss of Grandma Gracie, and then gradually she began to mourn the other losses of her life. Her brothers, killed by the senseless violence of war. Her father, who simply gave up living less than a year after his second son had been buried. Her mother. Her husband who, even though he held her this very moment, was still lost to her. John Mac, her son-in-law, the son of her heart if not of her body.
And then, at last, she began to weep for herself. For the woman she had become after the stroke, for the lack of connection with her daughter. For the lost bond between herself and Neal Grace—a bereavement that was, perhaps, the worst of all.
She cried, and Sam held her. Held her and waited. Stroked her hair and murmured how much he loved her, and how he’d always be with her.
At last, her tears exhausted and all her energy drained, she blew her nose on the dusty handkerchief, sagged against him, and slept.
The images of the dream were jumbled and disconnected, but Edith knew instinctively what she was seeing. Her life, passing before her, just as people said it would at the moment of death.
The dollhouse. Her mother’s Victorian dollhouse, with the back panel removed to expose all the rooms to view. As in a surrealistic film, her view zoomed in on one of the upstairs bedrooms. There was a poster bed, and an area rug on the old oak floorboards, and in the corner a miniature of the dollhouse itself. In front of this smaller dollhouse, a tiny girl doll had been placed, as if playing with the house, arranging the furniture. And in the corner of that miniature room, another miniature, and on and o
n, reduced to infinity.
Closer and closer she moved. With a start, Edith realized that this wasn’t the dollhouse at all—it was Quinn House. Abigail’s room. Her own childhood sanctuary. Neal Grace’s room.
And the doll in the corner was moving.
It was Abby. She turned and smiled and waved, then returned her attention to arranging the furniture.
The scene shifted and moved to the lower level of the house, focusing in on the door that led to the front porch. The door swung open to reveal Sam—a tiny Sam on a little ladder, struggling to hang the swing he had made for her. He looked up and grinned. The hook above his head gave way and the swing clattered to the porch floor. He laughed and shrugged, then went back to work.
Edith’s dream took her from the porch and around the side of the house to the back garden. It was spring. Miniature pink dogwoods and little white pear trees were in full bloom. At the far end of the garden, under a white trellis laced with climbing roses, stood a doll-sized Abby and John Mac, posing for wedding pictures.
Above them, the entire house was open on both levels. She moved closer, focusing in on the downstairs bedroom—her own room now, since the stroke. Feeling like Gulliver among the Lilliputians, Edith bent down to look.
Abby, pale as death, with dark circles under her eyes, lay in the bed with a wicker bassinet at her side. Edith recognized the scene instantly. Abby had been released from the hospital after Neal Grace’s birth, and the two of them had come to Quinn House to stay for a while so Edith could help with the baby’s care during Abby’s recovery.
She willed herself closer, focusing on the bassinet. The tiny infant smiled as her grandmother drew near, waving her arms and legs and clearly wanting to be picked up. She was so small, barely large enough to fill up Edith’s palm. Edith reached toward the bassinet to touch her . . .
But it was no use. The dream swung her away, moving rapidly through the house. She paused for a moment at the fireplace in the parlor and focused on the tiny Wishing Jar in its accustomed place on the second shelf to the right. Then she veered out the door again, past the porch and into the front yard.
A toddler was there, playing in the sprinkler—Neal Grace, soaking wet, covered with mud, and squealing with glee. When she saw her grandmother, she ran toward her, holding up her chubby arms. Edith’s heart leaped at the sight. Nothing mattered—not the water or the mud or the mess. Nothing except getting to the beloved child and holding her once more.
Before she could reach the little girl’s side, however, the scene shifted again. In the dream Edith felt tears sting her eyes, but there was nothing she could do to stop the fast-forward movement of time. She shuddered with a chill and saw snowflakes beginning to sift from a pewter sky. Above her head she heard someone laughing, and looked up to see Sam, dressed as Santa Claus, wobbling unsteadily on the roof.
Then she was inside the house, where a lighted Christmas tree filled the open foyer and rose almost to the top of the stairway. In the dining room, everyone was gathered around a table. Sam was carving the turkey. John Mac sat at his side, serving up a mountainous helping of mashed potatoes to a protesting Abby, while Neal Grace had gone red in the face from giggling. Carols drifted through the house from an unseen stereo.
The music faded, the lights dimmed, and Edith found herself peering into the tiny parlor. Fifty or sixty people milled about, most of them dressed in black. They spoke in hushed tones of Sam, what a wonderful man he had been, and how he would be missed. A twelve-year-old Neal Grace, lost and awkward, hovered in a corner next to the fireplace, clutching the Wishing Jar in her hands.
Back in the dining room, Abby stood absently arranging and rearranging cookies on a plate. She wore a black knit dress and no jewelry, and her eyes appeared empty and haunted. Someone—Edith didn’t know who—came up to her and hugged her, expressing sympathy for her loss. When the scene shifted to the parlor again, Neal was still in her corner, but now she was three years older, a teenager, and her face bore an expression of anger and despair.
“Wait!” Edith called out in her sleep, but there was no halting the acceleration of time. The heavy bass of rock music pounded down into the parlor from upstairs. The house darkened and expanded around her, growing from a dollhouse into a full-size two-story brick home. She heard a faint voice calling for help. Then she smelled something burning and turned toward the kitchen. But her foot caught on the rug, and she felt herself falling, falling . . .
Edith jerked awake, her heart hammering and her palms sweating. She was still on the floor in the parlor of Quinn House, still with her back up against the sofa, still with Sam’s arms wrapped snugly around her. Her left leg had gone numb, and she couldn’t seem to get it to move. She felt old and exhausted and incredibly heavy.
Sam lifted his head, opened his eyes, and smiled. “You snore.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. But I had the most incredible dream. I dreamed—”
“I know,” he said. He bent down to kiss her.
Edith twisted to meet him, lifted her face to his, and raised her left hand to caress his face.
The hand wouldn’t work.
Wrinkled and spotted with age, it hung there on the end of her wrist, pulled into a claw.
She looked down at her legs, at the varicose veins purple against the pale skin, at the shriveled appearance of her left calf.
She disentangled herself from Sam’s embrace and with her right hand felt the left side of her face. The jaw sagged. The eye drooped. She couldn’t feel the touch of her hand on her own skin.
On the rucked-up rug, just out of reach, lay the Wishing Jar, broken in half.
She turned to Sam and stared at him.
“Do you understand now?” he asked gently.
Edith’s mind flashed through a series of images. Gracie mourning the death of the twins, her mother on the mountain talking of dreams and wishes and faith, her own birth and growing up, Grandma Gracie’s death, and those final words: Live so that when your time comes, you can go down singing. But as long as you live, live.
She sighed. “My time hasn’t come yet, has it?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“But what about—?”
“What about me?” When she nodded, he smiled. “I’m here because you asked.”
Edith turned this cryptic answer over in her mind. What had she asked?
“You asked why,” he responded. “Unfortunately, that is not a question that often gets an answer.”
She gave him a grimacing half-smile, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“When people ask why,” he went on, “they aren’t looking for an explanation, but for an affirmation. The promise that the world still holds meaning, that their lives are significant. That the presence is still with them, no matter how fierce the storm or how dark the night.”
Pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Gracie, devastated by the death of her boys, had demanded to know why. But what she really wanted was an assurance that God had not abandoned her in her hour of grief and anger. She wanted a glimpse of grace. A breath of spring. A small reminder that hope still prevailed.
When that hope came to her, she went on to live a life marked by faith, by trust in the One who would never abandon her. Her “Why?” had been replaced by a far more significant question: “Who?”
And to that, Gracie knew the answer.
Edith lifted her clawlike left hand and stared at it. This same hand, her hand, had rested on Gracie’s shoulder, had clasped that unsubstantial flesh and held on. Her voice had whispered “I love you” in Gracie’s ear. Her presence had drawn Gracie back from the brink of annihilation.
But suddenly, with a lucidity that left her breathless, Edith knew the truth.
It wasn’t her presence that had been there with Gracie that day, any more than it was Sam’s presence that comforted her now.
“You’re here,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “Perhaps you’ve always been here.”
“Wishes are like prayers,” he mused. “Some of them are answered in simple, uncomplicated ways. But others are far more complex than we can ever dream.”
He extended the two halves of the Wishing Jar, one in each hand. The porcelain surfaces of the interior of the jar began to glow with that same white light Edith had seen before. It grew brighter and brighter until it seemed as if Sam’s whole body radiated with the illumination. She squinted against the brilliance, but could barely see his face.
“Certain miracles,” he whispered, “are clear as crystal, so obvious we cannot possibly miss them. But some are hidden and hard to find.” He began to bring the two halves of the jar together, slowly, deliberately. The light increased, its intensity almost blinding.
“Your wait is almost over,” he said, smiling at her through the splendor. “But until the time comes, live. Look for the love. It is all around you.”
The jagged pieces of the Wishing Jar met at the seams, two fragmented halves joining to make a whole. The light vanished. Sam was gone. The jar dropped unbroken to the rug and rolled in a wobbly line toward Edith’s outstretched hand.
She blinked and exhaled the breath she had been holding. And then she heard footsteps on the porch and the sound of a key turning in the lock.
PART 3
What Is, and Is To Come
The ridge is high,
the vista long.
The Wishing Jar Page 12