Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 6

by Chautona Havig

  Without waiting to see if he listened, Willow hurried to the sink and filled it, forcing herself not to listen. Frustration mounted as she had to give consent for the clinic to divulge the information to anyone but herself. She scrubbed with vigor, begging the Lord for good news with every swish of the dish cloth. Her heart constricted as she heard Chad’s tone change. Before she ever heard his strained, “Lass…” she knew the verdict.

  Her hands gripped her middle, heedless of the soaking it gave her skirt. Chad crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I—”

  “Don’t. Chad. Don’t.” He rocked her as she clung to him. “Why didn’t Mother miscarry? It would have saved her so much heartache—saved Granddad and Grandmom. Why not Mother instead of me?” But Chad didn’t answer, and as her mind worked through what it all meant, she realized just how much he did understand in his own way. He hadn’t even chuckled at the illogical train of thought that assumed Willow would have existed after a miscarriage.

  Jon stepped into the kitchen, turned around, and left again without a word. “I don’t like the word miscarry,” she rasped between near-silent sobs.

  “I doubt many people do,” Chad began.

  “No—I mean as a term to define the loss of a baby. A baby died. We give it a nice sounding term like ‘miscarry’ and it makes it seem less of a loss somehow. Well it’s not. I didn’t miscarry. My baby just died.” Her eyes rose to meet his and she stared at Chad horror stricken. “Chad, I killed our baby.”

  As she fled the kitchen, her feet pounding up the stairs to their room, Chad stood in the kitchen, fists jammed into his pockets and tears streaming down his face.

  The glow of electric light mocked her as Willow wrote in her journal. They’d used the last of their candles and the lantern oil, and Chad hadn’t found time to replenish any of it. No matter how she felt about it, the next day required a round of candling, meaning Jon would have to find their brand of oil somewhere. Of course, that all became contingent on her not losing the baby in the middle of it. Dr. Kline had been adamant that she pay close attention to her temperature once she began bleeding. “No more infections. Your uterus has been through enough.”

  So, while her husband kept Fairbury safe from stray cats fighting over back fences and teenagers sneaking out to “keep each other warm,” her boys slept “all snug in their beds,” and Kari lay zonked out sporting a new tooth, Willow wrote the pieces of her heart that she couldn’t vocalize to Chad. And the light burned overhead. The dratted, electric light. To her disgust, Willow discovered how much easier it was for her to see.

  December 15-

  The night seems louder with the bright light overhead. I’m used to winter nights being dark, cozy, comforting. I built a tent over Kari so the light won’t keep her awake. I should put her in her own room, but it comforts me to keep her close.

  We wait. I told Chad that it feels like we’ve been given a death sentence and we’re awaiting execution. This is ridiculous, of course, but I can’t help but feel it. Aggie came by today—just her. Becca had the children out for another drive so I could call Granddad and Mom. Mom will come—day after tomorrow, I think. She offered for me to come there, but I want to be here. I need to be surrounded by things that comfort me, selfish as that may be.

  Willow stared down at her sleeping daughter and slid her hand over her belly again. Her eyes closed and, as had become her habit in past days, she channeled her inner Anne Shirley and “felt a prayer.” The words had refused to come in past days, but her spirit spoke her heart for her, even when her mind refused to cooperate. Never before had she ever felt so keenly the work of the Holy Spirit praying for her.

  Becca has resumed her previous occupation of child care provider—for me. I should feel guilty about leaving my children so much, but the long walks along the stream, time out by Mother’s grave, talking to her, as silly as that may be, it helps. It helps more than I would ever have imagined. It astounds me that I grieve so deeply something that I hadn’t reconciled myself to yet. I still balked at the idea of another baby until the minute Dr. Weisenberg turned that screen toward me.

  Chad doesn’t understand. I guess that makes sense. I really don’t understand. Still, I had the luxury of resisting a baby when all was well. Once that confidence was taken from me, I had to acknowledge that I am—or was—pregnant and that baby was mine. Mine. Or rather, I suppose, the Lord’s. I now want that baby more than anything, and I can’t have it—her. I’ve decided it was a girl. I think we could ask them to test the baby to be sure, but instead I think we’ll name her Shiloh. It would work for a boy in a pinch. I did much research on the name Shiloh. At first, it was suggested that the name meant “His gift” which applies, but “peace” was an alternative meaning. Further research showed that it’s not that simple. Shiloh is more of an exclamation—something like, “Oh, may it be!” That fits her. That’s exactly how I feel about this baby. Oh, may it be that some miracle will keep her with us.

  Kari stirred, her little fists pushing her chest up off the bed. Her eyes met Willow’s and a one-toothed grin appeared. Just as Willow set aside the journal to pick up her up, Kari flopped back down onto the bed and stuffed a thumb into her mouth. Willow stared down at her for a moment, smiling. “I need to cherish these moments, Kari. It’s too easy to let the day pass without noting what a blessing it is to have you guys.”

  Willow could have sworn the baby nodded. She picked up her pen again and wrote—forcing herself to address the difficult things she’d rather ignore.

  I mentioned that Aggie came. I remember how furious I was that they kept Ronnie’s pregnancy from me. I remember how petty I thought they thought I was. That was a convoluted sentence. Oh, well, I know what I mean. And I’m stalling again, writing nonsense as if it’ll remove the need to address the real problem.

  Seeing Aggie hurt. Her big belly, rolling with the movement of their child—it hurt. I couldn’t believe how difficult it was to sit there and accept condolences from a woman who would soon be experiencing the very thing I just had snatched from me. The very thing I didn’t think I wanted until it WAS snatched from me. If that wasn’t bad enough, then the guilt nearly consumed me. What kind of selfish person resents the blessings given to another? It’s madness. I would offer Mom an apology for being upset at their attempts to protect my feelings, but I don’t want to upset her all over again.

  Becca came back from her honeymoon rearing to go on projects. On the day that Josh had to meet with the client, she set up a website and a blog. I need to go to town and see it for myself. She said that the barn burning would give insight into our lives and replacing the soap and candles and things will give us a chance to take pictures while we do it. Apparently pictures are crucial. It seems weird to take pictures of melting fat and soap as it traces, but it’ll give me a chance to play with that new macro lens Chad got me.

  I keep trying to write about anything but this baby. But it colors my thoughts and my words. I think I’ll try to sleep. I’ll keep praying that God will help me through His will. I accepted Mother’s death—initially anyway—so much easier than this. I wonder—why?

  Marianne Tesdall chased Lucas and Liam through the living room, pretending to be a bear. The boys’ squeals and screeches pierced her eardrums, but she’d do anything to keep them occupied and away from the gate that blocked the way to the kitchen where Willow and Becca worked hard to replace the lost soap.

  Liam shoved a twig from the kindling basket into her hands. “Gamma! ‘Ook!”

  “Ook? Stick?”

  “No, ‘ook!” He pushed the stick closer to her. “’Ooooook.”

  From the kitchen, Willow called, “Look. He’s saying look.”

  “Oh!” Marianne wielded it like a sword. “Engarde!” The moment she said it, Marianne groaned. Teaching the boys to poke one another with sticks wasn’t a very good idea. “Just kidding. Don’t do that.”

  Being the mimic he was, Liam echoed, “Do dat?”

  Bef
ore Marianne could redirect him, Lucas grabbed a bigger twig and thrust it toward his brother silently, but with what would have been deadly precision had it been an actual sword. “Okay, um… Willow, what time is it? I can’t find my purse.”

  Seconds passed before Willow called back, “Quarter ‘til noon.”

  “When do you think Kari will wake?”

  “Any minute now. She has a talent for waking just as I’m trying to feed the boys.” Willow’s head popped around the kitchen doorway. “Why?”

  “Got a bottle for her?”

  “Yeeesss…”

  “I’m going to take the kids to Ferndale—McDonalds. They can play on the playland and get worn out while I feed Kari.”

  The moment Kari woke, the boys scrambled up the stairs ahead of her and dismantled the diaper drawer while she changed Kari’s diaper. Fresh and changed, Kari’s protests morphed into coos and grins, showing off the early tooth. “You should not have a tooth at four months. That’s just cruel to your mama.”

  The baby grinned again.

  Marianne led the boys back to the stairs and watched, amused, as they scooted down the steps on their bums. “Your mama is a genius, little lads. Yes she is. I would never have thought of that. I used to pray your daddy and your uncle wouldn’t get killed going down the stairs when they were little tykes.” Lucas looked back at her as if for confirmation of his movements. “That’s right. They only fell a few times, but boy it was scary.”

  Willow met them at the bottom of the stairs. “I had to do something. They’re getting to the point where they can almost climb over the gate. At least if they stay on their backsides, maybe they’ll keep from landing on their heads.”

  “That sounds exactly like something Libby would say. I can hear her now, ‘Require obedience, but prepare for disobedience.’”

  As Willow passed her Kari’s bottle, she winced. Pain stabbed Marianne’s heart. The baby— “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. The cramps bother me from time to time, but so far—” Willow swallowed and glanced out the window. “Nothing.”

  “Well, if you need me while I’m gone, you call or have Becca call. I’ll come straight back.”

  “Willow… I think it’s traced—tracing—whatever. I think it’s there!”

  “Coming!” She kissed her boys and Kari, admonishing all to obey Grandma. Another pained expression filled Willow’s eyes as she turned to answer Becca’s cry for help.

  Once Marianne had the three children buckled into Willow’s van, she shut the door and pulled out her phone. Chad answered on the first ring. “Chaddie-my-laddie?”

  “Is it time?”

  “I think it’s close. She looks like she’s in more pain than she’s letting on. I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Silence hovered between them until she’d opened the driver’s door and climbed into the seat. “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why does it hurt so much? We’ve only known for a couple of weeks—we haven’t even felt the baby move. I mean, it still didn’t feel real to me and—”

  “You’re trying to make sense of the incomprehensible, Chaddie,” Marianne said as she shoved the key in the ignition. “It’s still a loss… and a child at that. It hurts, son. There’s no way around it. It just hurts.”

  Chapter 210

  Two more days passed with no real activity and no sign of fever. Each day, Marianne took the children for a drive, for a play date with some child from the church, or to do something to wear out the boys—an idea that while effective for optimal toddler exhaustion, worked as an excellent grandmother exhaustification process as well.

  And as she kept the little ones out from underfoot during the more dangerous projects, Willow and Becca tried to replenish the family’s candle and soap stores. While not enough to last as long as they’d like, cut bars lay on the floor of the craft room, curing. Her hope for enough for last-minute gifts disappeared with the realization that they didn’t have enough milk. Still, a dozen bars would be a good start. On the other hand, they could make enough candles to last through the winter if they worked quickly.

  While Becca stirred the fat on the stove, Willow worked to assemble her wicks. “I miss Mother’s wick holders.”

  “Those were nice.” Becca glanced over her shoulder. “What about tying each wick to a twig over each jar? It’s not as nice as the long ones on the stands that you had, but it would be easier this time. I’ll make new wick holders for next time, though. I think I can figure that out.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” As an afterthought, she added, “Oh, and mark down the measurements. Mr. Myner might like that information.”

  “I’ll blog it. Take pictures before, after—the works. Maybe next week when we do the rest of the fat.”

  “The rest? We’ll never have time next week. It’ll be too close to Christmas.”

  “Then the week after Christmas we can do it. It’ll work.” Becca pointed to the pan. “It’s almost done. Need help?”

  Willow didn’t answer. Fighting back an unexpected wave of nausea—the first in over a week and a half—she passed a fistful of cut and braided wicks. “I’ve got the nuts in that bowl. Can you reach them?”

  “Yep.” Becca grabbed a few and stuffed them in her pocket. “Got twigs?”

  “I think I’ll use the rest of those bamboo skewers Chad got for the grill. I didn’t like those. I got nasty splinters. I’ll stick with metal ones like Mother had.” Willow pulled out a gallon jar of lavender florets. “I think I want to layer them so we’ll do them in batches. Tallow then the florets, set outside, another round, and so forth—maybe twenty of those. Then we can use the rest of the tallow for plain ones.”

  “Are you going to saturate the wick first, or…”

  Willow smiled to herself. Becca had been reading Mother’s journals—probably for ideas for the blog. “I don’t think so. They’ll soak through in the jar and then we’ll be sure to soak the top of the wick at the end.” As she spoke, Willow tied the braided wicks to the nuts she used to hold them to the bottom of the candles.

  Becca alternated between stirring and wick tying until Willow had the jars ready for pouring. When Willow brought the strainer and the cheesecloth, Becca shook her head. “I don’t get it. We already melted the fat, strained it, let it sit to harden and then melted it again. Why are we straining it a second time?”

  “Because that’s how we make sure they burn clean and have no odor—except for the lavender ones, of course.”

  “What about cinnamon? Couldn’t we sprinkle layers of ground cinnamon between pourings—for Christmas?” Becca hesitated. “I mean—”

  “Cinnamon is good, but we’ll use semi-crushed sticks. That’s how we’ve always done it. It’ll keep the tallow from melting off the layer. You need things that are bulkier.”

  A twinge—stronger than the cramps she’d felt off and on for the past week—struck her as she held the strainer for Becca. Despite every effort to hide it, Willow gasped as it grew stronger. Becca pulled the pot back. “Willow?”

  “I’m fine. Just another cramp. Took me by surprise.” She forced a smile and prayed inwardly, Lord, forgive me for the half-truth.

  “Well…” Becca seemed unwilling to continue, but at Willow’s nod, she poured once more and changed the subject. “I saw something the other day—online. There was a picture of stairs. They’d created drawers beneath each stair step. It was brilliant!”

  “So each step holds a drawer?” Willow tossed the cheesecloth and strainer back into the stockpot used to render the tallow. “That would be fifteen drawers. Wow. That’s amazing. I wonder if Luke and Chad—”

  “I’m sure they could, but what would you keep in them?”

  Willow laughed. “Candles, dear Becca. Candles and soap.”

  “Christmas Adam” arrived with no sign of an impending miscarriage. Dr. Weisenberg strongly urged the Tesdalls to consider a D&C, concerned about infection. Even Dr. Kline grew uncertain and suggested that
if Christmas passed with no sign of the baby, they’d need more blood work and another ultrasound to be certain that Willow remained in no danger.

  Willow objected, of course. Each day that passed without a drop of blood or stronger contractions grew new hope in her that she too might be one of those rare women who managed to get through initial ultrasounds and tests with a miraculous baby intact a week or two later. Each day, Chad begged her to prepare herself for the worst.

  Her last hope passed as she discovered the first evidence of the baby’s coming. Alone downstairs, clutching a pillow to her, Willow’s heart constricted in rhythm with her uterus. Waves of grief washed over her, but resolve entered her heart—resolve not to allow herself to grieve after it was over. She would be like David. Once the baby had passed, she would, so to speak, “eat again.”

  The deep blue sky lightened and blended into purple. A golden glow burned at the horizon before exploding into the morning sky. She watched the snow glistening in the morning light, detached from her surroundings.

  Becca found her there an hour later, the boys calling to her and the baby crying, but Willow seemed to hear nothing. “Willow?”

  “Hmm…”

  “Do you want me to get the boys up for you?” Whatever unintelligible sounds Willow made as a response, Becca took for a “yes” and climbed the stairs. “Where is Marianne?”

  This time, Willow didn’t even mumble. Becca took the stairs two at a time and stepped into the bathroom to call Chad. “Hey, I don’t know what time you get off—”

  “Ten, why?”

  “—but I’d get home as soon as you can. Willow’s acting really weird.”

  “On my way.”

  “Cha—” The line went dead before she could finish.

  Becca started to go to Kari first, but knowing the baby’s expectations, the child would be even more frustrated by her arrival without food than by waiting a minute or two. Liam and Lucas greeted her with surprised faces as she opened the door. With one ear out for Chad’s arrival, she changed the boys and led them into the baby’s room. Chad stepped into the house just as Becca urged the boys downstairs for breakfast. His eyes rose to meet hers and she beckoned him to come closer.