"Isn't this a beautiful dress, Jane?" I asked as I held out the dress for the doll's perusal, letting the light from sun pouring in from the window dance over the sequins on the dress. "Do you think you'd like to wear it to church?"
In my peripheral vision I caught Celia's puzzled expression as she looked from me to the doll, but then, to my surprise, Celia took the dress from me.
"She says she likes it," Celia said.
I almost turned to Celia to ask her about the matching gown, but caught myself in time. "And, Jane, there's a big-girl dress, too," I said in a fake, sing-songy voice that I assumed young girls used when speaking to their dolls. "Do you think Celia might like to wear it? Then she can look the same as you."
This was how far I had fallen. I was talking to a doll.
Celia bent over Jane, as if listening to her, then nodded. "She said that would be fun."
Relief sluiced through me and I smiled at the doll, then realized the absurdity of what I was doing. Too many more days of this and I would be able to hear Jane's elusive voice myself.
"That's great. I'll get the dress out of the cupboard." And while I was on a roll, I added one more proviso. "And maybe you could help me do Celia's hair the same as yours? Then you'll really be twins."
To my surprise and relief, Celia nodded.
Jane had spoken.
Actually, she hadn't, but I didn't care anymore. She had served her purpose.
Half an hour later, we were dressed and coiffed and headed out of the house.
I felt like I had made a major breakthrough. That it came from the help of a lifeless doll didn't matter to me one bit. There were ways to get through to a grieving little girl, and Jane had just become one of them.
As we drove to church, for the first time in days I felt like this situation could be borne. Endured.
And in spite of the sorrow that still clawed at me, a tiny part of me wondered if Duncan would be in church.
I pulled into the parking lot of the church, my eyes slipping to the graveyard beside it. My throat closed at the sight of the two fresh mounds of dirt.
For a moment, I hesitated at the wisdom of returning to the place where, only a few days ago, Celia and I had sat through a service for her parents and my only family.
But I needed to attend church this morning. Needed to hear assurance that God was in control. Needed to be part of the community of believers.
Thankfully, Celia didn't even glance toward the graveyard, but as we stepped out of the SUV, into the cold, I wished that Celia had a coat that matched Jane's.
Because while Jane was all kitted out in a toque with matching scarf, puffy pink coat, and faux leather boots, Celia chose to weather the below-freezing temperatures in the same thin party dress her doll wore underneath her warm clothes. She shivered as she walked through the snow to the church, clutching her doll, but didn't voice one word of complaint. It was as if she had no emotions of her own. As long as Jane was warm she was fine.
I held open the door of the church, trying not to feel guilty at my own down-filled jacket. I had pleaded with her to put on even a simple sweater but she wouldn't budge. I put my jacket on however, though my boots were borderline suitable. Just because Celia chose not to wear a coat didn't mean I should suffer.
However, as we walked into the crowded foyer, I felt like a neglectful parent as the people gathered there glanced our way.
I could tell the moment they remembered who we were. That first spark of recognition, then the slow slip into sympathy. Some looked away. Some hesitated, as if unsure of the grief protocol. But a surprising number came up to us, expressing their condolences. Lots of hands on shoulders and prolonged eye contact.
Though Fran and Jer had only moved to Holmes Crossing a couple of months ago, Francine was a returnee and native daughter. I had noticed a number of gravestones in the graveyard with the Tiemstra name carved into the slabs and planted into the earth. Francine had roots here. I heard from Jerrod that her great-great-grandparents had settled here in the early 1900s—Dutchmen farming cheek-to-jowl with Italian, and other immigrants lured from Europe by the promise of cheap farmland.
Her great-grandfather and grandfather both farmed, and her father expanded into the logging business, which, I had found out via my brother, Duncan had taken over, as well as the farm.
And then, as if my thoughts had conjured him up, the doors on the opposite side of the foyer opened up. Cold air swirled across the floor, and there he was, tall, broad-shouldered, taking up an inordinate amount of space. His leather jacket, plaid shirt and blue jeans made him look like a walking cliché—a lumberjack brought to life. His head was bare and, as he looked around, he finger-combed his thick hair away from his face. And when he caught my gaze, foolish girl that I was, I couldn't help the old attraction that flickered through me.
He stopped, his hands dropping to his sides, and time seemed to slow. Then his deep-blue eyes shifted from me to Celia, his expression suddenly grave. Then Celia yanked her hand away from me.
"Dunkle," Celia called out, running toward Duncan, sounding surprisingly chipper. "Look, Dunkle. Jane is wearing your dress."
Dunkle—Celia's way of bringing Uncle and Duncan together in one word—stopped in his tracks, people in the foyer looking sympathetically on as Celia held her doll up for his inspection.
Her enthusiasm was as unexpected as it was surprising. This was the most life she had shown since the funeral.
"'Member you bought this dress for Jane?" Celia pointed to hers. "And one for me. They're samesies."
“Hey there Celia,” Duncan said giving her a vague smile and an awkward pat on her head, looking obligingly down at the doll but I could see that he didn’t recall what she was talking about.
"For Christmas," Celia insisted. "You bought my dress and Jane's dress for Christmas. Last year."
From the confusion on his face I ventured a guess that Dunkle had had little to do with said purchase, and suspected that his mother had taken care of the gift.
Which explained why I had trouble getting the zipper up Celia's slender back. If the dress was a gift from last Christmas, it was a year old, and one size too small.
"Yeah. Of course," he said gruffly. I could tell he was uncomfortable even as he was trying to connect with her.
"Celia was excited to wear her dress," I said to him, touching Celia on the shoulder to let her know I was there.
"Jane told me to wear it," she insisted, annoyed with the fact that he didn’t seem to know what she was talking about.
“You both look really pretty,” he said his smile wavering.
"Miriam. I'm glad to see you here." With a wave of flowery perfume and a flutter of her gloved hands, Mrs. Tiemstra joined us, her eyes as blue as her son's, flicking from me to Celia to Duncan. Her bobbed hair brushed the velvet collar of her black coat, swathing her slimly elegant figure.
In her presence I was suddenly aware of the frayed cuffs of my down-filled jacket that looked okay when I put it on this morning.
"And Celia, you're wearing your dress that Uncle Duncan gave you…last year." Mrs. Tiemstra shot a look from Celia's bare arms to me, one perfectly plucked eyebrow lifting in question.
"It matches the one her doll is wearing," I said, hoping Cora understood the significance. "And Celia doesn't have a matching coat."
"Jane loves this dress," Celia said, her eyes still on 'Dunkle' who now stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his blue jeans. "She told me to wear it."
"It's minus ten out there," Cora said, her confusion showing me that she still didn't understand Celia's current thought processes.
Music started up in the sanctuary, signaling the beginning of the service. This was my out from an increasingly awkward situation.
"I imagine we should get going," I said, reaching to take Celia's hand, but again she ignored me.
Mrs. Tiemstra shot another look at her son, who had turned away from us and was now heading up the stairs. She pressed her lips together
then gave me a pained look. "I'm sorry about Duncan. He's…struggling…"
He wasn't the only one, I wanted to say, but kept my thoughts to myself.
"I know you've much to handle now," Mrs. Tiemstra said, pulling me aside and lowering her voice. "But I was hoping we could get together sometime this week to discuss Duncan and Celia."
"I'm taking Celia to kindergarten on Monday," I told her still fighting my own inclination to lay my claim on her. "I'm hoping to get her back into a normal routine as soon as possible. We could meet after that."
Now, didn’t that sound all practical and stoic.
"That would be perfect,” Mrs. Tiemstra said, her look of relief reinforcing my own feelings about taking care of Celia. “And I was hoping you could join us for lunch today after church, as well. When Jerrod and Francine moved here…" She paused, an infinitesimal break in her voice, then she put on a bright smile and plowed on. "They always came for lunch after church. A kind of tradition in our family."
The thought gave me a mixture of warmth and regret. Traditions. The glue of any family and community. Something Celia would need.
"Sure. We can come."
"Wonderful. It's just a simple meal. Soup and buns."
"I'm sure it will be great," I said.
She gave a nod of approval then walked away.
I followed Mrs. Tiemstra up the stairs, letting the music draw me on, Celia at my side.
And as I stood at the back of the church, the memory of the funeral and the ensuing heaviness threatened to drag me down into sorrow once more. But I had Celia with me, and I couldn't let that happen.
I just hoped I could keep this up, I thought as the usher brought us to an empty spot in the pews. I just hoped I would get the strength I needed.
Chapter 4
Duncan stepped into the porch of his parents' house, stamping the snow off his boots, wishing he'd had the guts to turn down his mother's invitation to come for lunch. But his mother had insisted, saying that at this sad and difficult time, they needed to be together.
And from the sight of Jerrod and Francine's SUV parked outside, Miriam and Celia were part of the 'together' time as well. His heart had sunk when he saw the vehicle, knowing full well what his mother was doing. He would have turned around, but he also knew that the family needed to be together, in spite of his personal discomfort around both Celia and Miriam.
"Duncan, there you are," his mother said with a forced smile, holding open the door leading to the kitchen as he hung his coat up on an empty hook. "Come on in. Celia and Miriam are here already. We're just about ready to eat."
"I can't stay long," he warned her as he followed her through the door and down the wide hallway. "I need to get some bookwork done this afternoon. Got a busy day tomorrow."
"You stay as long as you can," his mother said, tossing the comment over her shoulder as she walked through the kitchen to the dining room beyond. "I'm just thankful you came."
Blessed warmth and the scent of his mother's beef soup greeted him as he followed her toward the murmur of conversation.
Every Sunday, for as long as he could remember, his mother served soup and grilled-cheese buns for lunch after church. The smell brought out other memories of Sundays from his youth, and more recently from the many times he, Kimberly, and Tasha used to come.
He knew that Jerrod, Francine, and Celia had come a few times since they moved here, and though he couldn’t avoid every Sunday, he’d managed to keep it to a minimum.
In the dining room, his father was already wheeled up to the table, Miriam sitting beside him. Her white sweater set off her long hair pulled up in a loose bun, errant strands framing her narrow features. She was biting at her lip, her face pale as she fiddled with a spoon in front of her.
Again, he was struck by the differences in her the years had created. And how hard it was to keep his eyes off her. Did she ever think of him after she left? Had he even crossed her mind?
He pushed the thoughts back.
"So Duncan tells me you live in Vancouver?" his father was asking Miriam. "Rains a lot there doesn't it? Isn't that kind of depressing?"
"Hank. That's rather rude," his mother said with a nervous laugh, as she lifted the lid off the pot of soup parked in the center of the table.
"Well, it does," his father said, his tone a bit defensive.
"I don't mind all that much," was all Miriam said. "But it can get a person down, if you let it."
"Yeah. I bet," his father said, nodding his head quickly, clearly scrambling for something else to say. As Duncan sat down, his father turned to him with a look of relief. "Glad you could come, son. Miriam and I were just…getting to know each other. Or trying to."
Duncan couldn't help but grin. His father had always seen small talk as a sign of small minds. He preferred to jump straight into the meat and potatoes of life, so his casual conversation with Miriam was a struggle for him.
"Now that we are all here, we can eat," his mother said. "Celia, do you want to come and sit with us?"
Duncan finally spotted his niece tucked in one corner of the dining room, hunched over at a child's table and chair set his mother had purchased many years ago. Celia had her back to them and didn't respond.
"Celia, honey. We're ready to eat," his mother repeated, but still no response.
"Celia. Come now." His father’s voice held a note of exasperation.
Duncan could see from the tightness around his father's mouth, and the way his fists were clenched on the table, that today was not a good day physically or mentally. Which was probably why he hadn't been in church this morning.
"Dad, I think—"
"She's been sitting there since she got here," his father said, cutting him off. "Didn't even come to sit with me."
"Things are all messed up for her, too," Duncan said, keeping his voice low, recognizing that his father's distress was tied in with the sadness that was crushing him.
His father glared at him but then sat back, breathing slowly, as if riding out both pain and grief.
"I'll get her," Miriam said pushing away from the table.
Duncan wanted to tell Miriam to simply leave her be. He recognized Celia's desire to retreat from people and sympathy, but after he'd relegated his responsibility concerning her, he didn't feel he had any right to hand out advice.
Miriam crouched down beside Celia, her head bent over the little girl.
"Aren't you hungry?" she was asking Celia, her husky voice lowered, trying to make eye contact with his niece. "Don't you want to come sit with Dunkle?" Her hand came up to touch the girl's hair, but Celia recoiled. Duncan saw Miriam press her lips together, then, without another word, she returned to the table.
"You couldn't convince her?" his mother asked as she set a plate of buns on the table beside the pot of soup.
Miriam shook her head and sat down.
"Has she eaten at all since the funeral?"
"I don't know. There's a box of animal crackers in the pantry that's getting depleted. And yogurt tubes keep disappearing from the refrigerator." Miriam's concerned sigh made Duncan feel momentarily guilty again.
What could you do to help? he reminded himself. Celia misses her Mom and Dad. No amount of hovering or fussing can change that.
"Then we'll eat before the food gets cold." His mother sent a questioning glance over at his father, who gently shook his head.
It appeared his dad didn't want to pray a blessing over the food today. Not that Duncan blamed him. He'd had a hard enough time sitting through church this morning, himself. He'd only gone to make his mother feel good. If he had his way, he'd have stayed home, working with his horses, instead of trying to figure out what God was thinking, dealing such an ungodly amount of death and tragedy to his family.
"Duncan?" his mother asked, her tone hopeful.
He just shook his head as well. He didn't feel like talking to God either.
“Then, I think it's up to me." His mother paused a moment, as if giving the men in
the household a chance to change her mind, then lowered her head and began. "Dear Lord. I know we're all hurting today, and we don't understand why we are being led through this dark valley. But we know that You will provide. And thank You for the food that we have. May it nourish and strengthen our bodies. Amen."
Her simple prayer tugged at his soul. His mother's faith had always been strong. Even after his father's accident. It was something he envied. He wished he trusted God as simply as she did.
"So, Miriam, tell us a bit more about yourself," his mother asked as she handed around bowls of steaming soup. "Jerrod told us a few things but not that much. He said that you draw?"
Miriam nodded as she took the bowl. "I did some illustrating for children's books at one time, but anything I’ve done since then has been for myself."
Duncan shot her a look of surprise. He didn't recall her saying she was an artist the time they spent together —the short time they spent together, he reminded himself.
"That’s right. Francine said that you used to do that. I suppose you quit because you couldn't make a living at it?" his mother asked.
Duncan shot his mother a warning look. "That's a bit personal, wouldn't you think, Mother?"
His mother blinked her surprise as she sat down. "Well, I'd read that somewhere."
"Actually, the truth is I do other work now," Miriam said, her half-smile showing that she didn't mind the digging into her financial situation. "I haven't illustrated a book in years."
"Have I seen any of your books?" his mother asked.
"I gave some to Jerrod and Francine. For Celia. The first one is about a princess who loses her crown."
"I remember now. Francine did show them to me. I’m surprised she didn’t mention that you’d done the artwork on them. Have you seen them, Duncan?" His mother turned to him. "They're adorable. Beautiful illustrations."
Duncan gave Miriam an apologetic smile, feeling bad that he knew nothing about the books or her contribution to them and, apparently, neither did the rest of his family. "Sorry. Not much for princess stories."
This Place: Holmes Crossing Book 3 Page 5