The porch light streams out across the newly cut grass and pale purple asters and goldenrod, just inside the picket fence, circle the clearing.
“I hadn’t even noticed the lawn. Jed must have mowed again.”
“That’s how it is after a death, even when the death is expected like Nita’s. You don’t see what’s in front of you. You’re walking around in shock and you have to reorient yourself.”
“Is that social-work talk or from personal experience? You sound like you know a lot about it.”
“Remember I told you I was married?”
“Yeah, but I thought your wife left you after the shooting. Did you get back together?”
“It was ovarian cancer. Six months after the divorce, she went for her yearly pap test and something was wrong. Surgery two weeks later confirmed the gynecologist’s suspicion. It was a big tumor, already stage four. Cancer all through the pelvis. A bad way to go . . . She was the one that wanted out, but I moved back in before she had chemo, and I remarried her in a simple ceremony down in Santa Fe. We went through the death together.” He says all this looking out at the lake. I reach over and take his hand because it seems like the right thing to do.
“Is that when you got your ring?” I ask, touching the silver piece of Navaho jewelry he always wears.
“No, I’d been to New Mexico years before, back in college. I just always loved the desert.”
Staring down, I notice a thin white scar that runs from his ring finger down to his wrist. Knife fight, it comes to me, but I don’t ask.
CHAPTER 39
Window
In the days following Nita’s death I miss her more than I could have imagined. I only knew her for a few months, but going through a death with someone, like going through a birth with someone, brings you close.
Since Nita has no immediate family, I go back to her house to do a good cleaning.
Everything looks as it did before, only my friend isn’t there and she’s never coming back. It’s here in the bedroom that Nita died and all her artwork is hanging. When I walk into her bedroom, tears come to my eyes, but I don’t start bawling.
Grief is like that. It washes in and washes out, at first a tsunami, but as time goes on the waves get smaller, then, just when you aren’t looking, a big wave of sadness will catch you again and knock you off your feet.
As I wander the kitchen-studio, one of Nita’s unfinished projects catches my eye, a rainbow window. Curved rows of different colored beach stones are fixed to the glass of an old wooden window. Purple. Blue. Green, yellow, orange and red. This must be the project she wished she could work on. A bowl of blue and green stones sits on the table nearby.
Pulling the cord on the light above her creation, I sit on Nita’s stool and stare down. Then, using a tube of Gorilla Glue that I find on the table, I begin to arrange the colored beach stones on the glass. One by one, like a string of prayers, I press them down. Yellow for Nita. Blue for Jessie. Red for Robyn. Orange for Karen. Purple for the woman who needs it most . . . me.
Expecting
When I get home, because I’m so low, I decide to call Terry. She’s usually upbeat. “Hi,” I begin. “What are you up to?”
“Weaving. What did ya think? That’s what I do most of the time.”
“Weaving, yeah, but what are you weaving?”
“A shawl. You should come over. I’d love to show it to you.”
“I’ve been meaning to and I will the next time Sergeant Dolman is making his rounds.”
“Why wait for him? You know where I live.”
An hour later, I’m biking up the east side of the island and, as I pass the marina and the Seagull Island Sailboat Club, I notice Molly Lou’s Subaru next to a row of tables with a sign that says CHRISTIAN CHAPEL FLEA MARKET, so I stop to look around. It’s a beautiful fall day with a blue sky and a blue lake with whitecaps. Only three sailboats are still tied at the docks.
“How are you doing?” I ask Molly when the other customers leave.
“Okay,” Molly Lou says. “The church decided to have their fall fundraiser down here near the Roadhouse so we can pick up the last of the tourists. Do you think I could come over and talk someday?”
For the last few weeks, all my thoughts have been on Nita. Now I’m back to Molly, but will I know what to say? Maybe it isn’t my place to say anything, just to listen. “Anytime. Call first to be sure I’m not out on the beach.”
“I feel so much better since I got the test results back and got the medication for the infection,” she whispers. “I’m even nicer to Chris.” Then another vehicle pulls up so we cut the conversation short. It’s Rainbow in the New Day truck.
“Howdy, girls,” she says, sliding out from behind the steering wheel.
“Rainbow!” Molly calls and goes over and hugs her. (Molly Lou hugging a hippie? What’s that about?)
I move around the table to greet her, my arms open too, and as we collide I feel an unmistakable hard round bump under her flowing Indian-print jumper. “Rainbow. You’re pregnant!” Molly Lou doesn’t even look surprised.
“I know!” she giggles. “And not just a little bit. I came to look for some baby clothes.”
I follow her around the tables while Molly Lou looks through some boxes.
“So how far along are you?” I ask. She turns to the side, smiling, and smoothes her skirt across her abdomen that’s about the size of a basketball.
“Eight months,” Rainbow says.
Laying my hand on her, I feel what I’d hoped for, a strong baby kick, and this brings tears to my eyes. It’s been so long.
“I conceived sometime in late January,” she confides. “And probably was already pregnant when I met you, but I didn’t know. My periods have always been irregular. I went five months without one and didn’t think much of it this time, thought I was just eating too much homemade bread and honey and then one night I felt the baby move.” She stops to look at a hand-knit white baby sweater and hands it to Molly to put aside.
“For as long as we could, Wade and I kept it a secret, even from our friends at New Day . . . We’d been trying to have a baby for years and I’ve had three miscarriages. So we were afraid if we told anyone, we’d jinx ourselves.” Here her face gets pensive and she puts her hand on her abdomen as if protecting the life inside her.
“So, how did you and Molly Lou get to be friends?” I can’t help myself; I have to ask.
“We started going to services at her church last summer, John and Jed too. We enjoy the music and have formed a little choir with Molly and Chris and Helen and Eugene.
“I’m going to be Seagull Island’s primary teacher this year, did you hear? Is that great or what? That’s why I’ve been away so much this summer, taking required courses in Windsor. The province is even paying for them.”
“That’s wonderful. Who set that up?”
“Molly Lou! She approached me at church.” Molly smiles and puts the sweater in a paper bag along with a pair of tiny beaded moccasins. “The four kids from New Day will come with me.”
“So do you get your prenatal care in Windsor? Will you go to a midwife there for the delivery?”
“No, I wanted a midwife and a home birth too, but because of my age and having lost three other pregnancies, they want me to deliver at the hospital. I have a doula who’s going to be with us, though.”
“I’m so happy for you!” This is true. Rainbow is a beautiful, kind woman and I hope the best for her, but there’s part of me that’s jealous. Why didn’t she tell me? She told Molly Lou. I’m a midwife, for God’s sake . . . but she doesn’t know that.
Walking Wounded
I leave the two women, but not before I purchase a few things for winter—a heavy green hooded sweatshirt, a red V-neck sweater and some silk thermal underwear (top and bottom).
As I bike along, I try to shift my mood. It hurt me that Rainbow didn’t tell me she was expecting, but why not be happy for her, instead of sad? It’s a beautiful day and Molly Lou
and Rainbow are both my friends. I also have Jed and Terry. Once I knew no one on the island. I was totally alone with the ice and the snow. I didn’t even have Tiger.
At the Fibre Guild and Art Shoppe, I find Terry at her handloom, throwing the shuttle back and forth. The shawl is made of fine yarn in browns, blues and greens and is about half-done. “Beautiful,” I say. “I love the colors.”
“Want a turkey sandwich? I need a break.” Terry swivels away from the loom and rolls into the kitchen.
While she prepares lunch, I stroll around the shop, admiring the fiber art, tables full of woven tapestries and racks of knit goods, even some silver jewelry and some carved wooden boxes. Maybe I’ll come back and shop here for Christmas, now that I have a few people on my list.
“This pumpernickel bread is from the Baa Baa Bakery,” Terry explains when she returns with a tray balanced on the arms of her wheelchair. I pull up a stool and sit down beside her. “You ever go there? Some of the women from the Weavers’ Guild own it.”
“I’d like to, but the north end is out of the way for me.” I take a deep breath, letting out my sadness. “Nita Adams died with the taste of their blueberry pie on her tongue. Not a bad way to go.”
“Not a bad way at all! I’ll tell the women at the bakery. They’ll love it,” Terry says. “Maybe they could use the idea for marketing. Pies you could die for!” This cracks us up and I laugh so hard I almost pee.
“You have a boyfriend, Terry?” I ask when I get control. (I’m thinking maybe she and Peter Dolman have something going. They seem to enjoy each other.)
“You mean man friend?” She grins her wide grin.
“I mean, do you date?”
“I have lots of male friends, but no one special. I was married for seven years, but he left me after the boating accident. Said he couldn’t adjust to my new body image.” She waits for my reaction, but I just sit there thinking, What a jerk!
“Have you ever been married?” Terry breaks the silence.
Oh no! Here it comes again. I try the old line. “Yeah. He died in Iraq. I don’t like to talk about it.” It rolls off my tongue with ease now and I try to look the part of a grieving widow.
“That’s fine. I don’t like to talk about my accident either.” She pulls her brown hair back from her beautiful face. “We do okay, a couple of gals like us. The walking wounded.”
Fire
Facing into the setting sun, I bicycle home, wearing my new green sweatshirt, feeling happy that I took the time to visit Terry. Despite her injury, she’s one of the most positive people I know and she always gives me a lift.
Fall is coming. You can tell. Pale purple asters line the road along with yellow wild sunflowers. The tips of the sumac are turning red. One last mosquito whines around my head and I brush him away.
Halfway home, I smell smoke and at first think maybe Big Chris is burning brush, then I think of my cottage. Holy shit! I left Tiger locked in the bathroom.
I push down hard on the pedals, then I push even harder. Despite the chill, sweat is dripping into my eyes. Twice I almost fall but keep going.
“Fire!” I yell as I pass the Ericksons’. I don’t even stop. “Fire! I’ve got to save Tiger!” The closer I get, the thicker the smoke is, until I’m half-blind.
It isn’t until I make the turn that I see the van, dirty, dark gray with tinted windows, speeding toward me and I have to jump off the trail to avoid being sideswiped. Riding on, I see flames, but it is not my house that’s burning. Not yet. It’s the woods all along the point. What the hell? Though I’m relieved it’s not the cottage and I’m able to retrieve Tiger, we aren’t out of danger yet.
Before I have time to call 911, I hear a long wail rising and falling from the direction of the village. Though no one has said anything about it, I recognize the sound as a community distress signal. Molly Lou or Chris must have smelled the smoke or heard my cries as I passed and reported it to Jed or Dolman.
With help on the way, I look around for anything else I should try to save. The first thing I think of is my money. The briefcase is stuffed way up on top of the closet and I’m just able to reach for the handle. Then I grab my purse with my fake ID and my bank card. I stuff it all in my backpack and, at the last minute, toss in some of the Nelsons’ best seagull carvings and the green beach stone I gave Nita when she died.
By the time I’m out of the house and down on the road with Tiger in the bike basket, the volunteer fire squad is already arriving. First to show up are Chris and Molly Lou. Then Dolman arrives with his siren wailing. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod yes, but hold tight to my bike to keep my hands from shaking. Next comes the cook from the Black Sheep Pub, driving the volunteer fire truck, again siren wailing, followed by Jed in the island ambulance with its siren wailing. More folks arrive and finally the pickup from New Day. Four hippies leap out of the back and Wade and John jump out of the cab.
“Let’s get out of here, while Jed and Dolman organize the crew,” Molly Lou says. “We’re only in the way. They’ll stop the fire; don’t worry. The truck has a pump with long hoses that can reach to the lake. We should go up to my house and make coffee and sandwiches.”
Looking over my shoulder at the fire as it leaps from tree to bush, I struggle to lift my bike and backpack into the bed of Chris’s truck and place Tiger with me up front. I’m still trembling, but Molly takes charge and I think she’s right. With the number of men and women heading toward the fire, the cottage will be saved. It isn’t until we’re safely in the Ericksons’ house that I start to cry. Molly washes my face like I am a child and gives me a glass of cold milk.
Finally, I’m down to sniffles. “Molly, what was that? What could have started the fire? Or who? A dark van came out of the smoke when I was pedaling like hell to get to Tiger. It almost ran over me.”
“I don’t know. You better stay with us tonight. I can lend you a nightgown and a toothbrush and tomorrow we can go over and see how bad it is. Hard to tell which way the wind was blowing.” She leads me upstairs to a spare room where I can lie down and we put out milk for my cat.
Refugee
Three hours later, the fire crew arrives at Molly Lou’s house. They’ve saved the cottage and are in high spirits. Chris gets out a six-pack of beer and a couple of bottles of Gull Apple Wine and Jed starts singing an old summer camp song. “Late one night, when we were all in bed, Old Mother Leary left a lantern in the shed. There’ll be a hot time in the old town, tonight!” I can’t help smiling . . . all the firefighters are so jolly, hippies and islanders together.
While we eat and sing, I watch Molly Lou and Chris, wondering if they’ve patched things up and if they’re sharing a bed together. It’s hard to tell. Twice I see Molly Lou touch Chris on the shoulder, but he’s not touching her back.
It isn’t until almost everyone leaves that Dolman motions me out on the porch. I’m surprised that I can no longer smell smoke. The west wind has blown it out to sea and, from the looks of the clouds, rain will soon dampen the blackened woods.
“Molly Lou told me about the van. Did you see who was driving?” Dolman asks.
“No. The smoke was so thick. If I couldn’t see them, it’s possible they couldn’t see me. They had their foot on the pedal though. I had to jump off my bike to keep from getting hit.”
“I’ll come over tomorrow first thing and look around. If it’s arson and the van is still on the island, I’ll find them.”
“And if the van’s not here?”
“Well, the ferry left for the mainland about an hour ago. They could be gone.”
I frown, thinking of the Nelsons, but not wanting to accuse anyone. Could they be that desperate?
“You going to stay here tonight?” Dolman asks.
“I guess. To be honest, I would rather go home with Tiger, but Molly insists.”
“I agree with her. Until we find the dark van, it may not be safe.”
For two nights I sleep at Molly’s but it’s getting hard
. For one thing, Tiger’s a pain in the butt. He’s restless, scratches at the door and meows to get out. For another, the tension between Molly and Chris is as tight as a banjo string.
There’s another heavy frost again the first night I’m there, but the next few days are warm and each afternoon I take Tiger back to the cottage to let him play and run where he won’t bother anyone. I walk along the beach to see how close the fire got.
Around the house it’s still green, but further south the tall grass and bushes are gone. I think of the least bittern that hid in the reeds, the bird with the Mohawk hairstyle. The reeds are now gone. The woods are blackened and only the larger old-growth trees are left standing.
Secrets
On Thursday, Molly comes with me to the cottage where we can have some privacy to talk. She cuts the brownies she brought in a pan while I make some tea and build a fire.
“So,” Molly says, “I’m now STD-free. You don’t know how ridiculous that sounds. I’ve only made love with two men in my life. Big Chris and Antonio.
“It’s just so weird with Chris. The other day, for a change, I was kind of friendly and he wanted me to come back to our bed and sleep with him.”
“So what happened?”
“I said I wasn’t ready, that the hot flashes had stopped, but my period had come back.
“He freaked out and said I always had some excuse. ‘What is it, Molly Lou?’ he yelled at me. ‘You getting something on the side?’ He actually said that and my face got so red, I ran upstairs before he could see the guilt written over it. Do you think I’ll ever be able to look him in the eye and love him like before?”
I mull this over and decide to think positive.
“Yes,” I say. “True love can repair what is broken. I think you always loved Chris, you just got carried away with the excitement of someone new liking you.” Molly looks at me gratefully and nods her head. “The thing is,” I continue, “you have to forgive yourself.”
The Runaway Midwife Page 23