I nodded in agreement, but then my heart sank as I came around the eating bar to clear the plates. The floor below Celia's chair was littered with pieces of waffle and, near as I could tell, it was everything I had served up for her.
Guess Jane wasn't hungry, I thought as I bent over to pick them all up. As I stood I caught Mrs. Tiemstra's concerned look. "I thought she had finished them," I mumbled, dumping the sticky pieces on the plate, then scraping the plate into the garbage. "She didn't want me watching her eat."
I wasn't about to relay the disturbing information about how Celia was communicating through her doll as well.
"Did you want something to drink? Some tea or coffee?" I offered, as I rinsed out a dishcloth.
"I only have a few moments. I wanted to see how Celia was doing.” She wove her fingers together, glancing around. "I hope you don't mind my being rather forthright," Mrs. Tiemstra said, as I hastily wiped the floor. "But I have a delicate matter to deal with."
My radar tingled as I walked around the island to the sink again. In my history, delicate matters usually involved whispered conversations between my foster parent and the social worker, usually having to do with my mother demanding my return to her home. Which invariably ended in yet another truncated and disastrous stay with my mom.
"Go on," I encouraged, swallowing down my paranoia.
"It has to do with the guardianship of Celia." Mrs. Tiemstra stopped there, as if waiting for me to fill in the blanks.
One of the survival techniques I learned early on in both my biological mother’s home and consultations with social workers was to wait before offering an opinion or comment.
"What about it?" I countered, glancing up the stairs to make sure Celia wasn't there.
"I need to express my concerns about the situation," Mrs. Tiemstra continued. "I understand that you have a home in Vancouver. I am sure you'll need to get back to your obligations…" She let the sentence trail off and I knew precisely where she was going.
"But you're wondering why Duncan was named guardian by Jerrod, and me by Francine." May as well toss it out on the table.
"Yes. That's exactly it." She seemed to wilt in relief and as I looked at her drawn features I reminded myself of her own loss.
"All I can say is that currently everything is in flux," was all I could give Mrs. Tiemstra.
"Exactly. In flux." Mrs. Tiemstra latched hungrily onto the word. "I would think until everything is settled you'll be staying here?"
"Like I told Duncan, I don't want to disrupt Celia's life. This is her home." I wanted to tell her about my own decision, but this wasn't the time.
"That's wonderful. And this gives you and Duncan an opportunity to work together. He and Jerrod were close. That's why he named Duncan guardian." She tugged at her lower lip. "I'm thankful he did that. I know my son will want to be intensely involved with any decisions you make."
"That's not what he told me last night," I said, puzzled at her comment.
"What do you mean?"
The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs prevented me from answering and then there was Celia, her hair still a nest of tangles, still in her nightgown, still clinging to Jane.
Which put an end to that conversation.
"Honey, there you are," Mrs. Tiemstra called out, rushing toward Celia and scooping her up in her arms.
"Hi, Nana," Celia said, pulling away from her kiss.
Mrs. Tiemstra set her down, kneeling down in front of her, pushing her hair back, stroking it gently. "How are you feeling, sweetie? Miriam said you didn't eat your waffle this morning. You love waffles."
"Jane said she didn't like the way Aunt Miriam made the waffles." Jane's critique of my cooking didn't bother me. What did bother me was the way Celia avoided eye contact with her grandmother.
I could see the confusion on Mrs. Tiemstra's face at this pronouncement. "Jane can't eat waffles, honey," she said.
"Yes. She can. But she didn't want those waffles." Celia's voice was matter-of-fact.
"Why don't you get me a brush, sweetie, and we can brush your hair," Mrs. Tiemstra said, pushing herself to her feet.
"Jane likes my hair this way."
Mrs. Tiemstra gave me a puzzled look. "Why does she keep talking about her doll?"
"Her name is Jane," Celia said with a touch of anger.
"I know that honey, but she's not real."
"She is. She is real and she doesn't like the way you're talking." Then Celia spun around and scooted back upstairs.
Mrs. Tiemstra watched her leave, then turned to me. "What in the world is going on?" she demanded, as if I had abetted this sudden transformation of her granddaughter to this strange person who talked via a doll.
"I'm not sure, but I'm thinking right now it's easier for her to make it seem like Jane is the one making the requests and talking," I said. "It might be her way of distancing herself from her grief."
"That is the oddest thing." She shook her head, frowning at me. "I am not entirely sure I like the way things are going here."
She wasn't the only one, but for now, this was the way 'things' were.
"We need to get this guardianship thing straightened out with the lawyer. The sooner the better." As if that was all it would take. Clearly, Duncan hadn't told his parents what he told me. And the sooner I got this out of the way, the better.
"We need to talk." I would have liked to consult her in Jerrod’s office but that door was locked and I hadn’t found a key yet. So I brought Mrs. Tiemstra to the mudroom, just off the front entrance.
"What is this about?" Mrs. Tiemstra demanded. "Why are we talking here?"
"I don't want Celia overhearing this," I said, closing the door as Mrs. Tiemstra entered. I turned to face her, wondering how she would take what I had to say. "After the funeral, Duncan told me he didn't want to be involved with Celia."
"Of course he does," Mrs. Tiemstra objected. "He's her uncle just as much as you are her aunt. Maybe even more. Francine was his blood relative, Jerrod was just your foster brother."
Again I struggled to brush off her comment.
"Then you'll have to talk to Duncan about this," I said. "Because that's what he told me."
"I can't believe Duncan would have said what he did." She sucked in a quick breath. "He would never turn his back on his sister's daughter. His niece."
I didn't want to tell her that I was as surprised at the news as she was.
"This came straight from Duncan," I insisted. "With no prompting from me."
She just stared at me as if trying to figure out what to do with me. "You can't appeal to him? Get him to understand? I know that at one time you two were…well, you had some type of connection.”
I was surprised she would mention this. Also surprised that after all these years she thought that 'connection' would give me any pull with her son.
"That was a long time ago," I said.
She frowned then glanced at her watch, her eyes narrowing. "I'm sorry. I really have to go. My husband and I will be speaking with Duncan as soon as we can. We need to get this straightened out. Celia must stay here.”
I wanted to say I was on her side. Wanted to tell her exactly what I thought, but I didn’t want to run the risk of Celia overhearing two adults discussing her future, tossing her back and forth like a ping pong ball.
I'd had enough of that in my own life.
Besides, this way I could allow myself a few more foolishly hopeful moments pretending I was the only one in Celia's life.
Pretending that, in spite of my past, I could be a true mother to her.
#
"I can't do it, Mom. Sorry." Duncan focused on stirring the cream into the coffee his mother had given him, steeling himself for what was coming. "I can't be Celia's guardian."
He knew when his mother called him last night and asked him to stop by their house before going off to work that this 'talk' would be on the table. Not the best start to his working day, but he figured he may as well get it out of th
e way. Thankfully, it was Saturday, which was often a slower day in the bush. His crew would be okay without him breathing down their neck for a couple of hours.
"But honey, why?" Cora sat down beside his father, both of them facing him, an immoveable wall of disappointment and familial duty.
Duncan carefully set his spoon down and took a slow sip of his coffee, dragging out the moment.
"Jerrod named you guardian for a reason," his father said, his hands clenching the arms of his wheelchair. "You should honor that."
Duncan was sure the logging accident that had broken his father's spine nine months ago was why Jerrod made the changes to his will. He just wished his brother-in-law would have consulted him first.
"And what about Francine?" Duncan returned. "Seems kind of strange that my own sister didn't name me guardian."
His father's lips thinned at his cheap shot and he grimaced as if in pain.
Guilt immediately took a seat at the table, but the comment bought Duncan some time as he cobbled together his arguments. He'd practiced them on Miriam and had all last night to fine-tune them.
"Had you fought with Francine?" his mother asked. "I know you two didn't always get along."
Duncan's thoughts slipped back to the argument he'd had with his sister before she and Jerrod took off on this stupid trip. He'd tried to convince her that it was irresponsible. But Francine had told him, an unusual note of pleading in her voice, that she needed to do this. For her and Jerrod's sake.
"We disagreed about their sledding trip," was all he would say.
"Do you think that was the reason she made the change?" his mother asked.
Duncan shook her head. "She wouldn't have had time beforehand to do that." He pulled in a deep breath, marshaling his arguments. "But we need to respect her reasons, whatever they may be."
"It doesn't make any sense," his mother continued. "You should be taking care of Celia. She's no relation to that girl."
Once again his mother's quick dismissal of Miriam was a vivid reminder of that afternoon, a few days after Jerrod and Francine's wedding, when his mother tried to convince him that dating Miriam was a mistake. That he should get back together with Kimberly. When Miriam ignored his texts he ended up doing exactly that.
Once in a while he wondered what would have happened if Miriam had replied.
"Miriam is as much Celia's aunt as much as I'm her uncle," Duncan said shooting his mother a warning glance. "And she's suffered a loss as well."
"Jerrod was just her foster brother," his father put in. "It's not like they were close."
"Regardless of what didn't or should have happened, Celia is in a good place for now. I can't give that girl the time she needs," Duncan continued. "I'm in the middle of the busiest season. I've got major contracts to fulfill and higher productions standards to work around."
The words that sounded so reasonable last night came out trite and heartless when spoken aloud at the dinner table where his family had made many good memories.
"I can't give her what she needs," he said. “I’m not capable."
"Is it because of Kimberly and Tasha?" his mother asked, her voice measured. Quiet. Devastatingly accurate. He was surprised that she brought up his wife and daughter. His mother had barely spoken their names in the three years they'd been gone, but she was already looking away, as if regretting her outburst.
Duncan clutched his mug as his mother's words opened a crack to the dark place he'd been edging toward since Jerrod and Francine's death.
He tossed down the last of his coffee, the hot liquid almost scalding his throat, then pushed the chair back, its feet screeching out a protest as it slid over the tiled floor. "Sorry, I can't sit and talk more about this. I gotta get to work."
He spun around and dropped his coffee cup into the sink. The spoon toppled out, creating an angry clatter.
"I'm sorry, Duncan," his mother said, her voice quiet. Composed. "That was unacceptable. I just don't want to lose another granddaughter."
Another granddaughter. The words cut him with deadly accuracy.
Duncan heard the heartache in her voice, but he had to set everyone else's expectations and unhappiness aside. It was the only way to get through the next few months.
"Sorry, mom. I wish I could help." He drew in a ragged breath and looked over at his mother, knowing full well the pain she was dealing with. "And even if I could, I don't think I have a case against Miriam. Phil had told me that according to the insurance policy, Francine was deemed to have been last to die, so everything gets handled according to her will. And in her will she named Miriam the guardian."
"Are you sure about that?" his father put in.
It had taken several visits to the lawyer's office, and a few conversations with Phil before he got it all straight himself. The lawyer had presented it as a scenario—a possibility—not necessarily something they had to abide by. But Duncan saw it as a way to satisfy the letter of the law and protect his own heart.
Cold as that sounded.
"I'm not sure that's entirely correct," his father said. "We'll need to look into it."
"You go ahead," Duncan murmured, taking his coat off the back of the chair and shrugging it on, tamping down his growing emotions. "I'm not pursuing it."
"Aren't you being a bit selfish?" His father's gruff voice brought guilt back into the conversation. "We have a stake in the situation as well."
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his father to take on guardianship of Celia then, but he caught himself. His father's disability required his mother's full-time care. There was no way she could take care of a small child as well.
"I'm not only thinking of me," he said. "I'm thinking of what's best for Celia. And I don't think I'm best for her."
If a picture was worth a thousand words, his father's glower spoke volumes. But Duncan knew he couldn't give in.
"You should know why I can't do this. Why I can't take care of her. She's the same age—" He stopped there, looking down at the chair, surprised it held under the strength of his grasp.
Then old habits and coping mechanisms kicked in. He focused on his hands, thinking of the work waiting for him in the bush, and slowly released their pressure on the chair.
Then his cell phone buzzed, and he glanced down at the screen. With relief, he noticed it was a text from Les.
"Sorry. I gotta go," he said. "We have a breakdown."
"That new skidder you bought?" his father asked, looking up.
Duncan shot him a puzzled look, then recognized the question for the peace offering it was. The usual Tiemstra deflection.
"Yeah. Looks like the grapple isn't working." Duncan latched onto the change in topic with relief. He had taken over the logging operation from his father over four years ago. But his dad still liked to stay up with the news, and keep up when he could.
"Might be the hydraulic hoses. That brand of skidder is known for that."
"How can you two do this?" his mother cried out, surprising him once again with her emotional outburst. "How can you talk about these ordinary things with your daughter and your sister barely in the ground?"
Then she left the room, her head down, trailing her misery behind her like a raggedy old blanket.
Hank looked back at his son and blew out his breath. "You were right about Celia. You've got enough to deal with. We'll find a way to work through this."
Duncan heard the suffering in his voice and once again couldn't figure out why God had been so capricious with his family. His own wife and child. His father's accident. And now this.
"Sure. Of course," was all he said.
He yanked his truck keys out of his pocket and, giving his father a quick nod, left. As he drove away, he hoped his parents would leave him out of it. There was no way he could let himself be pulled into that little girl's life.
It would be too painful.
Chapter 3
I sat across from Celia on the floor of her bedroom, a hairbrush in one hand, hair ties in the
other, dresses splayed out on the bed. It had been more than two days since the funeral, and fifty-six hours since I started taking care of Celia.
And I still hadn't managed to get the girl to brush her hair. Or change into ordinary clothes. She had trudged around in her pajamas since the day after the funeral. But today was Sunday and I wanted, no, needed to go to church.
Mrs. Tiemstra had stopped by again yesterday afternoon, and again Celia had held herself back. Then, Celia had spent most of the night curled up in a ball on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, whispering complaints about the noise in the house, tears sliding down her cheeks—which was almost harder to take than the loud sobs of the night before.
"I think this will look really pretty on you," I said, holding out a pink-and-grey knit dress. "Your mommy bought it for you."
"My mommy is dead," Celia spat out, avoiding my eyes, still clutching her doll. And from the way she said it and the way she glowered at the dress, I guessed that if Francine was dead to her, so were any of her wishes.
I sent up another half-formed, half-baked prayer for wisdom and strength. Anything to help figure out how to handle Celia and how to sort out my own emotions concerning her. Each hour we spent together created a growing connection and a troubling vulnerability. Small glimpses of a life with my daughter teased the edges of my thoughts like forbidden fruit. I knew I couldn't indulge, and yet…
I went back to the closet, once again sorting through the frighteningly vast array of clothes, each one rejected with a firm shake of Celia's head.
As I pulled out yet another dress, I realized I was falling into the definition of insanity—repeating the same action over and over again, and expecting different results each time.
Then, I saw the answer, lying on the floor underneath a heap of other clothes. A tulle-and-satin confection decorated with sequins and still on a hanger. More a party dress than anything a young girl would wear to church. But it was the smaller, matching dress hooked onto its hanger that caught my attention.
I figured out how I could make this work. I unhooked the smaller dress from the hanger, brought it over to Celia and crouched down in front of her and her doll.
This Place: Holmes Crossing Book 3 Page 4