Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 4

by Chautona Havig

  Grandmother Finley and I have forged a tentative relationship. As time goes by, we become more comfortable with each other and remember to seek out time together. My life is busy—too busy to make new friends, so it wasn’t a priority to call, write, or visit. I’m not proud of that, but Chad reminded me that mail, phones, and roads work both ways. The full responsibility of keeping touch wasn’t mine—we shared it. Now, we seem to take turns. At first, once a month to six weeks one of us would call, send a letter, or if nearby, stop to visit for a few minutes. Then it became every four weeks almost to the day alternating between us. After Christmas, it seemed as though every other week we’d find ourselves chatting, writing, or visiting, and now a week doesn’t go by without me seeing or hearing from her and receiving a letter or two.

  Mother’s journaling bug has hit Grandmother. She’s not up to keeping them pretty, so I cover them, add embellishments inside from place to place, and give them to her whenever she says she’s getting low. She’s become quite prolific, and she says she keeps all of my letters protected in clear plastic sleeves in a binder. I need to cover one of those for her too. I think she’d like it.

  I will now confess that I am becoming nervous about motherhood. Mom brings books and articles to help “prepare” me for the baby. They tell me how to deal with cracked nipples, afterbirth pains, colic, reflux, how to avoid SIDS, and how to keep my marriage intact after the little adorable invaders that apparently want to do nothing but ruin our time together and ensure they have no siblings. Considering I have zero experience with children and babies, I don’t know just how much to take to heart and how much to file away for “just in case.”

  Chad stared at the words before he made a decision. This needed to stop. Now. His mother would be horrified to know she was creating anxiety in Willow. He turned out the lamp, rolled over, and tried to decide whether he should tell Willow to put the stuff away until she needed it for reference or tell his mother to be ready to help whenever something came up.

  The stairs creaked. She was coming back to bed. He waited. The closet door opened. He heard her take something from the shelf and wondered what she was doing. The water came on in the bathroom and then silence. Creak. Surely she wasn’t. Creak. It was softer this time. A minute or two later, he saw her shadow enter the bathroom, exit, and the closet door came open again.

  “Steps creaking again?”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you oil it or what?”

  “Oil? The step? Of course not! Powder. Sweep it into the cracks and voila. Stops the creaks.”

  He shook his head. “You’re absolutely amazing, lass. Amazing.”

  “What are you doing awake?” Willow rolled into the bed laid her head on her husband’s chest.

  “I was reading.”

  “What did I say this time?” Drat—she recognized his tone.

  “Well, apparently my mom is causing a bit of stress—”

  “Oh no, Chad. It’s not like that at all! She’s being really helpful!”

  He laced his fingers through hers and smiled as a light kick bumped against his side. “Mom would be so upset if she knew you were taking these things to heart. She’s trying to build you a reference library, not give you a coronary. Just take what she brings, put it on a shelf, and don’t worry about it until you need it.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Don’t patronize me, woman!”

  “Why not, you matronize me all the time.”

  He pretended to growl. “Do you want me to tell that child to start kicking again?”

  “I’ll be good, oh wise and wonderful husband of mine. I’ll be good.”

  “Thought so.”

  Chapter 13 7

  The storm raged outside. Half the woodpile sat in the middle of her kitchen and stacked next to Kari’s old bed. The chickens were snug in the barn, and Willow had orders not to even consider stepping outside for any reason other than labor or fire. The new barn roof was finished just in time for the storm of the century.

  Willow, on the other hand, was going a little stir crazy. She’d finished every project on her list, cleaned the house from top to bottom, purged every room of anything extraneous, and then sat in her mother’s rocker until she felt like there was simply nothing to do. She’d read every book in the house so many times she knew her favorite passages by page number. Her journal was littered with inane comments left every few hours over the past twenty-four hours.

  Finally, she opted for Christmas presents. Considering that she might just be a bit busy over the next few months, Willow took out a fresh composition notebook, covered it with paper, decorated it with paper holly, ribbons, and buttons for berries and opened it. On the first page, she wrote the names of everyone in Chad’s family from Mom and Dad Tesdall down to Aggie and Luke’s new baby. Page after page of friends, loved ones, and even acquaintances that she wanted to remember appeared beneath her pen.

  Chad found her, notebook in hand, and sobbing an hour or two later. Concerned, he shrugged out of his coat leaving it on the floor by the door, dumped his belt, and hurried to the couch where she sat cross-legged, her belly covering her ankles. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Look at that!”

  Page after page of names and gift ideas, mostly jellies and baked goods, turned beneath his fingers. “You don’t have to do all this. Alexa Hartfield doesn’t expect two hundred origami birds for a Christmas gift!” He glanced at the next page. “No wonder you’re so emotional. I’d be overwhelmed too. That’s a lot of work—”

  “That’s not why I’m overwhelmed! Since when does a little work stop me? Look at this list of friends, relatives, countrymen!” She winked at him as she spoke the last word. “Two years ago, I could name on one hand the number of people I’d been introduced to in my life. Now, I’m afraid I won’t remember them all.” A ragged sob caught in her throat for a second before a fresh bout of weeping began.

  “Oh, lass…” He didn’t know what to say. The aloneness that had kept him coming to the farm in the first place was something he didn’t miss. He remembered the first time he read of Kari’s birth all alone, in a storm, no way to call for help; it still wrenched his heart thinking about it. The sight of Willow standing alone on her porch, Othello at her side as he drove away that first afternoon had never left his mind. He never wanted to see any human so alone and disconnected from mankind again.

  “God has been so good. I can’t stop thinking of that scripture in the Psalms that says ‘He sets the solitary in families…’ He did that for me. He gave me a family and then from that family, He created a whole new branch in our family. I am so blessed.”

  Chad didn’t understand why the weeping. As fresh tears flowed soaking his shirt and great sobs shook her shoulders, Chad patted her back ineffectively and murmured hushing noises in between his futile attempts to staunch the flow of tears. Seconds passed. Minutes. Each one seemed longer than the last until finally, he lost all patience.

  “Willow please. It’s going to be ok. You won’t be alone again, I promise. Even if something horrible happened to me—”

  Her shoulders shook even harder. Ready to slap her in hopes of stopping what seemed to be hysteria, Chad’s eyes widened as he realized the sound coming from behind his wife’s hands wasn’t weeping anymore. She was laughing.

  “What—”

  “You just sound so sweet and funny as if tears always mean something bad. I’m happy.”

  “You’re crying because you’re happy that you know a lot of people that you feel obligated to give gifts to and overwork yourself into early labor.” He paused. “Wait. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re trying to have these kids too soon so you don’t have to wait anymore. That’s why you’ve been sewing and cleaning and going through every possession as though you were putting your affairs in order.”

  Willow tried to speak, but he continued for a minute or two recounting every activity she’d attempted recently until finally he jumped to his feet, whirled to face her, an
d pointing her finger in her face accused, “You’re nesting!”

  His eyes saw his finger thrust almost between her eyes and a slow flush crept up his neck and burned his ears. Sheepishly, Chad pulled his hands back into his pocket and stared down at his wife. Her face was nearly purple with repressed laughter. Eyes bulging, watering freely from the strain, she looked ready to explode. “Just let it out. I deserve it.”

  She flopped over on her side and howled. For several minutes Chad and Willow laughed until even Chad found himself wiping tears of hilarity from his eyes. “I needed that,” he confessed when they finally regained composure.

  “Me too. I was feeling a little sorry for myself with nothing to do, and then I started making a list—I mean, most of that is already made—”

  “How?”

  “I’ll give extra jars of preserves, jams, and jellies to most of them. I just want a little something that says, ‘I appreciate having you in my life.’”

  “And then you saw just how many people were in your life and got all weepy on me?”

  “No, I got weepy before you ever came home. You interrupted my tears of thanksgiving. It was my party, and you weren’t invited.”

  “So do you want to tell me why you were planning Christmas presents in February?”

  “I was bored.”

  He stared at her slack-jawed. “Will wonders never cease?”

  March—

  That’s it. I am ready to be done with this business of gestating. Is it terrible that I can’t imagine ever wanting to do this again? Chad already speaks of “next time” as though it was a given, but knowing what I now know of the medication I used to help me ovulate, I’m not sure I’m willing to risk having half a dozen children all at once. Our lives here would be over. I know people have done it and have probably handled it beautifully, but for me, I see it as a very frightening prospect. How would I keep my sanity, be a wife, run a farm, and still manage to give my children adequate care? I don’t know that I could. Two at once is overwhelming enough to imagine. Four or five at once… Now that I know it is possible (well, not just possible but that it has actually happened), I don’t think I care to risk it.

  However, Dr. Kline assures me that sometimes, all the body needs is a pregnancy to properly regulate hormones and “prime the pump,” as he put it. He says that it is entirely possible that I will have no trouble ovulating in the future. He warns us not to get our hopes up, but that we also should not automatically assume that because I was infertile (how strange it seems to say that as I sit here leaning so far over to reach the table comfortably) I will continue to be so.

  Each day I grow a little weaker. It’s hard to keep up my workload when I’m carrying thirty-five extra pounds across my midsection. It’s hard to get enough food in me, so I’ve taken to focusing on the highest quality food I can find. I cook a steak for breakfast and keep it on the warming shelf of the stove until I finally nibble through it. Then I go for a glass of milk, followed by whatever fresh vegetables I’ve managed to pick the day before. The greenhouse is invaluable. I keep a new quart of fruit on the counter every day and eat from it every time I walk by. It helps to keep my blood sugar levels stable. I wasn’t careful for a week there, and I found myself feeling faint quite often. Hard-boiled eggs are in the icebox for whenever I need them, and Chad brings home some kind of new fruit every day or two. I’ve been eating oranges especially. Oh, they are so good.

  Each night I go to bed after a tiny snack of oatmeal and milk and I sleep like a baby—well, like I hope these babies will sleep. It seems as though the minute I go to bed, they’re ready to get up and play. Chad says it is because I rock them to sleep all day, but when I lie down, I quit rocking them. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that they move most of the day too.

  Dr. Kline wants me to make it to March fifteenth. After that, he says I can work myself into labor if I choose, but until then, my job is to keep eating, keep my feet up as often as possible, and keep these babies growing inside me. I can’t decide if I want them to come as quickly after the fifteenth as possible or if I want more time. We’re almost to the end of just Chad and me time, and while I never thought much of it when people were pushing for us to wait for children, I now see their point. Our marriage will never be the same. That’s not a bad thing—I’m not saying that, but it will be different and I like how things are. I want to enjoy it while I have it. Mother’s biggest goal in the life she created for us here was that we enjoy each and every day to its fullest. We don’t look back on our days wishing we’d appreciated them more because we took the time to do it while we lived it. I want that for this area too.

  Chad, however, is ready to be a papa. He sings to the children, reads them the Word (I never imagined him volunteering to read anything aloud, but he does it frequently now), and spends hours “brainwashing” them as I call it. He reminds them to obey Mama, treat each other kindly, remember to do their jobs diligently, and so many other little admonitions of good and proper behavior. It’s quite endearing, and I wonder if it’ll make any difference, but even if it doesn’t, I have wonderful memories of it to comfort me as I try to train all that into them.

  Names have become a bone of contention between us. I have this slight feeling of panic not knowing our children’s names. I can’t imagine the pressure of choosing while in the hospital, but Chad says if he can’t name an animal without seeing its eyes, how is he supposed to name his child without holding him, looking into his little face, and sensing his personality. I think it’s an excuse to avoid the fact that I don’t want to name them Adoniram and Brainard or Isobel. Those were his last options. He’s on a missionary kick or something. The good news is that he has agreed to consider Christopher and Chadwick for middle names if we have boys. Truthfully, I think a girl will be Karianne Olivia. He mentioned it once, and while he has been talking about Elisabeth, Amy, and Isobel lately (I have prayed he wouldn’t mention Gladys), he doesn’t seem as enamored with them as he is the men.

  Mom bought us a baby name book, and I went through it and highlighted every name I liked with a pink or blue colored pencil. There were many lovely names in the book that I’d never heard of, and they were tempting. I could tell Chad liked some, but others didn’t appeal to him. He said he can’t understand how I can love a name like Margaret and then suggest Windsor in the next breath. Of course, he likes Margaret and despises Windsor. I thought it sounded interesting. He says why not Westminster? I said Westminster sounded like a boy’s name, but it’d be fun to have twins Windsor and Westminster. His utter silence I took for a “no.”

  Grandfather Finley came by to see me this week. He was on his way back from Brunswick and took the Fairbury route in order to come here. It was a nice visit, but I can tell it is still difficult for him to see where Mother lived, see her pictures on the wall and the end tables and know that she was so close and yet out of his reach. He hasn’t read most of the journals. He says they are too difficult to handle. I think he got to the part about the nightmares or maybe my birth and couldn’t see that it got better. I assure him that we were happy, that she missed and loved them, and that I never doubted how much she admired them and hated what she’d done to them. I don’t know how much he enjoyed his stay; he seemed a little uncomfortable. But he says he has to come back in a week and a half, so perhaps it wasn’t too awkward for him.

  Every time I see him or Grandmother, they have some kind of gift for me. This time, he brought me a very expensive camera. I don’t quite know how to accept it, but Chad says they have lived for so many years unable to give to their daughter or granddaughter, so I should let them have their fun. Chad has spent hours on his Internet at work researching lenses for this camera and finally ordered three. From what I understand, he spent many times more just on those lenses than Grandfather must have on the camera. Those are some amazingly expensive lenses! However, I’ve been practicing, and it does take some amazing pictures. I’ve even gotten a couple that feel a little like Wes Hartfield’s styl
e. I wasn’t sure I’d like this computerized camera, but I do. Chad was right. I can take two hundred pictures and “throw away” all but five, and it didn’t cost me any more than if I just took those five. How amazing! So much of modern technology seems wasteful to me, but I have to say, that one thing alone must save a fortune in bad pictures and wasted paper.

  The babies are restless. I think I’ll walk again. My ankles seem less swollen now. It’s a delicate balance between being on my feet too much and not enough. If I am not careful, either one will give me elephant ankles—in other words, none.

  Chapter 13 8

  “I have three and a half more weeks.”

  David Finley looked at his granddaughter and wondered how she could possibly hold out another minute, much less another twenty-four days. “Are you comfortable?”

  Even as he spoke, Willow shifted in her seat, trying to give her lungs any kind of relief from the constant pressure. “When I’m standing I can breathe, but I get tired quickly. When I’m sitting I don’t feel like I’m about to tip over and my back doesn’t ache, but then I feel as though I’m drowning out of water.”

  “Have you considered asking them to induce your labor?”

  She shook her head. “The doctor mentioned it when Chad was concerned about my feet swelling, but we all agreed that as long as I’m healthy and the babies aren’t in any kind of distress, the longer they’re in there, the better in the long run.”

  Eager to show him her progress in learning the camera, Willow pulled Chad’s laptop from the bookshelf in the library and brought it to the coffee table, swaying a bit as she stood upright again. “Oh I hate it when I get off balance. It feels so weird,” she muttered as she punched the button for the screen to come on.