Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 4

by Chautona Havig

  Saturday morning, Chad sat at the table, amazed as he remembered the week he’d enjoyed with his wife. Wife. Had it really been just a year since he’d prayed that the Lord would take Willow out of his life? Had he really resented her as much as he remembered? Seeing her as she pulled muffins from the oven, scooped eggs and “breakfast steak” onto his plate, humming contentedly, he almost couldn’t remember why he’d rejected her for so long—almost.

  He had almost expected something to go wrong—some kind of awkwardness or argument to upset the balance of their relationship—but it didn’t happen. Each day had its new experiences and opportunities for misunderstanding. They’d never spent that much concentrated time alone together. During her injury and his, there had always been times apart. Willow liked her solitude. Still, even amid the newness of marriage, their comfortable camaraderie never wavered.

  Chad smiled across the table. “What are you going to do today?”

  After a bite of her eggs, Willow shrugged. “I’ve been neglecting the chickens. I think it’s time to do some more butchering. I’ve got those new chicks coming in so…”

  “Great day to go back to work.”

  “I waited for it…” she teased. “I considered offering, but I’m too selfish. I want the blood—the guts—”

  He jumped up and carried his mostly-empty plate to the sink. Kissing her cheek, he dashed out the door calling, “See you tonight.”

  She hurried to the front porch and waved as he drove down the drive— another first in their life. As the truck brake lights disappeared, Willow gave one last glance at the empty drive and hurried to clean the kitchen before her afternoon of chicken slaughter. She wanted it all done and every trace gone before Chad came home from work.

  Her eyes widened as she opened the cupboard. Her fingers slid down the stack—stack of plates—as she put the breakfast dishes away. Eight plates. Eight bowls. Eight mugs, glasses, small plates. The silverware drawer had silverware in a tray inside. No more forks, spoons, and knives in a mason jar next to the plates. There were enough utensils and dishes for the entire family.

  Sobs wracked her body—again. When would the little changes stop affecting her so deeply? As she lay curled on the mat in front of the sink, her hands wiping ineffectually at her eyes, Willow tried to pray. Words and thoughts failed. In the deepest part of her heart, hidden under the secrets in her soul, a small part of her was comforted by that pain. It meant she had not forgotten Mother or their life.

  Willow awoke half an hour later, refreshed. It took a moment to realize just what she was doing on the floor, but when the memories flooded her again, she felt comforted. “Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.

  Chickens. Time to butcher chickens. She changed clothes and jogged down the back steps to the barn, setting up her butchering station. Portia raced between her legs, charged the coop fence, and barked at the slightest movement. “Well, girl, your herding skills are excellent, but I do not want my chickens herded! Go!”

  Portia did not go. She chased again, until Willow, frustrated and ready to lock her in the cellar, tied the yapping bundle of fur to the front porch. Although the chickens weren’t any more cooperative, Willow didn’t care. She grabbed the first bird, wrung its neck, and carried the animal to the barn. In nearly record time, she had the birds skinned and ready to process in the kitchen. Once she plucked and gutted the last two birds, she would be done.

  The clock showed five-thirty by the time she finished the butchering, fed the animals, milked Ditto, and put away the rest of the tools. She grabbed her favorite skirt and top, a towel, and raced for the shower. After the day’s work, she looked forward to relaxing in the porch swing until Chad got home.

  Showered, dressed, hair braided—refreshed. Willow strolled out to the summer kitchen to give the chicken a final baste before she walked around to the front of the house and untied the puppy. She grabbed the journal she was currently reading and Portia’s favorite bone and settled into the porch swing, kicking the bone across the porch. While she found her place in the journal, the puppy bounced after the bone, grabbed it, growled, rolled and made a puppy nuisance of herself over it. Willow read.

  June 2001,

  I realize that I need to stop treating Willow as my child. I mean, she is my child but she’s an adult now. The law can say what it wants, but she’s been an adult for many years already. I think I need to ease her into a different way of interrelating. I’m not sure how to do it.

  I have tried to remember what mom and dad did. I don’t know. It seemed as if one day I was just there and had been for ages. One thing that I am certain of—she needs a solid idea of what work comes when, so she can plan her own time and not rely so heavily on me. I just don’t know how to do it.

  She could do it. If I dropped dead right now, she’d be fine, and that’s always been my focus. I need to focus on how to live as two adults together rather than as just mother and daughter. I don’t know, maybe I’m overcomplicating things. There has just always been this implied authority in our relationship, and well, I’m not sure it’s appropriate anymore. At her age, I would have resented it I’m sure.

  I need to condense our work journals. I need to encourage her to choose what she wants to do rather than delegate. I can make this happen. I must make this happen, if I hope to keep her happy here.

  Chad’s truck bounced across the driveway and into the yard. Portia raced for it, sending Willow and Chad both into mock cardiac arrest. Willow swallowed hard, remembering how Othello had stopped Saige from nipping at them. He had been a good dog.

  “Next time I drive up, hold her back until I turn off the truck. Maybe if we don’t let her go until the truck turns off, she’ll learn to wait for it,” Chad called before grabbing an arm full of uniforms from the passenger’s side and slamming the door behind him.

  “What if it’s two in the morning and you don’t see her?”

  “Better lock her in the barn at night until she’s bigger.”

  Willow made a face. “So much for a guard dog.”

  Chad reached her side and pulled her close. “Hey. I missed you.”

  She grinned. “And you were glad to miss me and all the chicken guts too.”

  “Ew. What’s for dinner?” he interrupted, grabbing her hand and pulling her into the house. “I’ve got to get these upstairs and change.”

  “The chicken is probably done…” She waited expectantly.

  “Ew! Really? How can you stand to eat one of those things after wallowing in their innards all day?”

  “Probably how you can stand to drive somewhere after work when you’ve been driving all day.” She retorted, feeling utterly smug.

  Chad gave her hair a tug as he climbed the stairs. Willow waited a moment, heard the drawers opening, the linen closet bang, and then the bathroom door shut. Impatiently, she drummed the newel at the base of the stairs. The bath water turned on and she took a step. She waited. Another step. As the sound of the metal curtain hooks slid across the rod, she hurried into the kitchen and listened contentedly to the familiar sound of bathwater running as she finished her dinner preparations.

  “The Lord gives, takes away, and then gives again. Blessed be the name of the Lord,” she whispered.

  As Chad bathed, he debated. There were two things he knew that they needed to discuss but on his first night back after work? Tomorrow was Sunday, though—the debate raged inwardly. Grabbing his shoes and socks, Chad headed downstairs, praying for guidance as to know when or if to mention anything yet. Perhaps a call to Luke or Pop before he broached any difficult subjects was in order.

  “That smells wonderful. I am starving.”

  “I thought you would be. A frozen burrito from the convenience store for lunch?”

  “How’d you guess?” Chad accepted his plate and held her chair.

  “Oh, you’re a creature of habit.” She sat down and murmured, “Thanks.”

  “Well, what’s on tomorrow’s agenda?” Chad tested the waters.

>   “Don’t you have until two?”

  “Yep.”

  Willow grinned. “Well, then surely we’d have time to go to church and get you home in time to get fed.”

  Chad nodded. It was enough. He’d worry about money issues later. “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Chad, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”

  “Care to share?”

  Chad hesitated. Maybe it was the right time. “I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about coming to church when I had to go to work right afterward.”

  “But you always go to church if you’re off work. Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Well,” he prayed for the right words and then felt silly. This was one of those times where he knew he’d look ridiculous for making mountains out of molehills. “I just know that you don’t always go, and I was borrowing trouble. I thought you might resent me for wanting to go.”

  “Why? I like to go to church too and even if I didn’t, two hours isn’t going to ruin my life.” Her face was a comical study in confusion.

  “Like I said, I was borrowing trouble. I’ve never asked why you don’t always go, so I just made assumptions with nothing as a foundation.”

  “Well, you could ask and then you wouldn’t need assumptions.”

  He could almost see her thoughts. She thought he was being ridiculous—and was probably right. “Ok, why don’t you go sometimes?”

  “Lots of reasons.” Willow held up a hand and ticked off fingers for each one. “I forget. I don’t feel like walking. I have something to keep an eye on here. I need a few hours alone with the Lord, and it’s a convenient time for it. I know you’re not going to be around to bring me home, and I don’t feel like turning down half the church as I try to get away…”

  “Ok, ok.” It was now or never. “I wonder, how often have you read Hebrews?”

  “Several times a year for most of my life.”

  With a deep breath, he plunged forward. “So what do you make of the verse that says not to forsake the assembling of yourselves together?”

  “Well, obviously that Chris—” she paused. “Wait a minute. Are you saying that you think I am wrong not to go to church every week?”

  Chad stammered. The word every pounded in his brain. Had she left out every, he could have easily answered yes. Now if he qualified it, he’d look like he was waffling. “I’m just wondering what value you place on assembling with God’s people.”

  “Well, if I show up on semi-regular basis, how on earth can that be evidence of forsaking?”

  “It isn’t. I was just asking—” He knew he was being a coward. Chad took a deep breath. “What about Acts?”

  “What about it?” Willow’s curiosity kept her from feeling attacked much to Chad’s relief.

  “Well, the Christians met from house to house daily. They had the Lord’s Supper weekly. It might not be commanded, but doesn’t it look implied?”

  Willow shook her head as though to clear it. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Chad. I think you want something from me, but every time I try to ask, you divert the question.”

  “I just think that, scripturally speaking, there is strong evidence for making gathering with other Christians on a regular basis a priority in our lives.”

  “So, you think that whenever you’re off of work we should be there?” She nodded. “I’m good with that.”

  “I’d like,” he added hesitantly, “to know that whatever part of our family can be there, will be there, every week.”

  “You want me to commit to going every week?”

  He nodded. “For the most part, yes. I think it’s important.”

  She didn’t answer for over a minute. Just as he started to ask her to pray about it, she sighed. “Ok. I don’t make promises when it’s raining or freezing out, though.”

  “You could learn to drive—”

  “No thanks.” If there was one thing that Willow held no interest in, it was driving. It made no sense to Chad, but he accepted it— usually.

  Several minutes passed with little more than the clinking of silverware on plates to fill the quiet of the kitchen. “Chad?”

  “Mmm hmm?”

  “Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted me to go? Why all the questions and hemming and the hawing, or whatever you call it. I don’t get it.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to ruin my first night home after going back to work, but tomorrow is Sunday…”

  “But, still, I don’t understand. Why the hoops? Why not just ask or tell me?”

  He took a deep breath. Kicking himself for not realizing she’d notice his discomfort, Chad shrugged. “It’s just that when people suggest that consider doing something different than you’ve always done, or worse, imply that you could be wrong—well, you don’t take it very well. I didn’t want an argument.”

  “Ouch.”

  Chad grabbed his plate and went to refill it with more chicken. “This is really good. More tender than the last ones.”

  “It’s younger. I waited too long to kill the other ones.” She smiled up at him as he sat down again. “Chad, I’d rather have an argument than to know you want to say something but don’t think I’ll like it.”

  “And I’d rather avoid arguments all together. You don’t mind the conflict as long as it’s resolved. I hate it. I hate conflict.” He sighed. “Willow, I just don’t like to bring up subjects that’ll make things awkward between us. I like it when everything is right, and I hate it when we’re out of sorts.”

  “Am I really that bad?” She smiled at him again but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Willow, the last time we had a discussion about something we didn’t like, you were ready to call off the wedding.”

  “I guess I am,” she admitted, her tone a little terse. “I wasn’t trying to be difficult that time. I was trying to—”

  He sighed. “That was a low blow. Sorry. That one was completely my fault, and I had no business using it as an example. How about ‘no kids if I have to educate them like this?’”

  “I guess you’re right. Mother and I must have agreed on more than we thought. We never—” Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, Chad. I did that to Mother too! When I didn’t get what I wanted, I stabbed her in the heart.” Tears filled her eyes and she jumped from her chair. Chad started to follow, but she waved him back. “I need a few minutes.”

  He watched confused as she left the house and strolled across the fields toward the stream. “Lord, what just happened?”

  Late that night, after they’d been sleeping for hours, Willow crept from the covers and padded downstairs. Chad heard the creak of the screen door and sighed. He tossed the blankets from him and followed. Everything had seemed fine, why was she now so unsettled?

  “Willow?”

  She turned and smiled. “Hmm?”

  Chad pushed the door open letting it bang gently behind him. “You ok?” He sank to the step beside her and pulled her to him. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Have you always come out here in the middle of the night?” Chad didn’t remember her wandering last year.

  “Usually. Mother said she found me in the porch swing as often as she didn’t when I was little.”

  “Didn’t she worry about you wandering off somewhere?”

  Willow shrugged. “Not that I can remember.”

  “What do you think about when you come out here in the middle of the night?”

  “It’s when I feel closest to God. It’s when that ‘still small voice’ seems to pierce my thick skull. I love praying in the dark and the stillness.”

  “Want me to go?” Chad’s voice was little more than a whisper in her ear.

  “Never.”

  Chapter 108

  Becca Jacobs tentatively exited her car and glanced around her. It hadn’t seemed too intimidating when the farm was crawling with other guests, but now, here alone, she felt awkward and uncertain. Was she truly w
elcome? She must be, but then…

  “Becca! Back here. I’m just hanging the last of the laundry.” Willow’s voice called to her from behind the house.

  “Hey. I hoped you still meant it—”

  “Of course! I’m glad to have you here. Have you ever made candles?”

  Becca’s eyes widened. “Make candles?”

  “Well, you will now. I gave away most of my candles during the power outage this winter. I’ll need more before long.”

  As Willow led her to the summer kitchen, curiosity filled her. “So why…” Becca hesitated. It was none of her business.

  “What?”

  “Well,” with a sigh, Becca plunged forward. “I just wondered why you don’t use electricity instead? It’s a lot less work but—” she winked. “I admit probably not as much fun.”

  “You’re one of the first people who has even hinted that there might be an advantage to making candles.” She grabbed the candle wicking, tying it to her dipping sticks as she spoke. “We like having the simplicity that comes without having easy access to electricity. I mean, it’s easy access—I just have to flip the breaker—but we aren’t tempted to stay up too late, watch too many movies, or even stay up too late because they aren’t available. Why buy a TV if you don’t want to watch it very often? Why stay up late doing more things that you don’t need?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well,” Willow agreed, “You have a point. There’s nothing wrong with doing any of that. We just never wanted to, so we took away the temptation. Well, Mother did. She did it at first because she knew she needed to make it hard to do what she was used to doing in order to retrain her palate. Then it was just our life.”

  “It sounds beautiful. Like Laura Ingalls without the hardships.”

  Willow handed Becca dipping sticks. “Just dip slowly and raise. Dip in the water to cool, raise. Repeat.” She demonstrated as she explained. “You’re right. We are like Laura Ingalls but without the hardships. I had a wonderful childhood. Honestly, I like to tease Chad he married me for my childhood.”