Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 2

by Chautona Havig

  “I didn’t know we wouldn’t be leaving until ten!”

  Willow stood, paint pen in hand, glanced at the living room clock for a moment, and returned. Taking the paint pen, she swiped it across his nose and went back to creating her masterpiece. “It’s not even eight yet.”

  Chad jumped up to wash the paint from his nose. “What’d you do that for!”

  “So you’d have something to do to get your mind off of presents. There.”

  Chad passed her the tape, but she shook her head. “It’s not dry yet. I’ll work on Grandmother’s now.” After a glance at his face, she added, “I’d go check the mirror if I were you. I think you need some soap.”

  By the time he returned, she had filled a large gift bag with one of the prettiest afghans in the house. She threaded ribbon through the grommets in the bag and tied a lovely bow. “What is that for?”

  “Grandmother. I think Mother would have wanted her to have one of her afghans.”

  “You can’t replace that, Willow.”

  “I don’t need to. I have others, Mother’s journals, and, a lifetime of memories. I realized last night that God gave me more years with Mother than Grandmother.”

  “Speaking of which—” Chad jumped up excitedly. “Be right back. You won’t believe this.”

  The brown paper “bag” rustled as she pulled the spiral-bound stack of paper from it. The cover looked exactly like the cover of Kari’s journal, although the pages were mostly black and white. She ran her hand over it, smoothing the page. “This is amazing! I should have her do all of them like this. I could get one for me and one for Grandmother. That would protect Mother’s journals and…”

  He heard the hint of tears in her voice, and passed her Michelle’s letter. “Well?”

  “I’ll have to think about it but not today. I can’t think about it today.”

  “Be Scarlett O’Hara. Think about it tomorrow.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. “Here, I got that MP3 player I was taking about. I put Alexa’s latest book on it, so when you are done with it, let me know, and I’ll take you down to the library and show you how to download more.”

  Willow stared at the little ear buds, the thin cord, and the bright pink little box as though an alien from another planet. “How do I?”

  “I knew you’d ask, so I even brought the instructions,” he teased as he whipped them out of his other pocket and handed them to her.”

  “I think I’m ready then. I have clothes, gift for Grandmother, one for you—even though I might just give it to Chris if you keep pestering me!” Grinning, she handed him his box.

  “You just want to torture me. Well,” Chad insisted, “it won’t work. We’re off to Ferndale!”

  “Why Ferndale?” she questioned as she wrapped a shawl-like thing around her shoulders, draping it over her head.

  “Wow.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but the combination of stylish attire, carefree attitude, and a hint of a windswept look after she flung her hair back over her shoulders stirred something in him he hadn’t expected—and refused to acknowledge. “Good thing she brushed out her hair,” he groused inwardly.

  “Isn’t it beautiful! Mother wove it last winter.”

  “Wait,” Chad grasped at anything to take his mind off his reaction to her. “You weave too? Is there anything you don’t do?”

  Willow opened the door, grabbed both gifts, and pointed to her duffle bag. “Well, we can’t weave anymore. I broke it last year trying to carry it downstairs. Cut myself terribly too. I have a nasty scar—”

  He waited until they were near the end of the drive before he asked, “So what’d you do with it?”

  “With what?”

  Chad turned out of the driveway and onto the highway. “The loom. The broken one. What’d you do with it?”

  “It’s in the attic in a box in pieces. Mother was going to try to fix it this winter, but—”

  “I’ll take it to Luke. Maybe he can help me fix it.”

  Willow shifted in her seat. “So tell me about Old MacDonald’s. Is it like Marcello’s or the Diner, or the sushi place…”

  “Uh, none of the above. It’s fast food.”

  “They’re fast. That’s good, but we have three hours,” Willow protested.

  “No, they’re a fast food place.”

  “And that means—”

  That was bizarre. How could he explain the concept of fast food to someone who has no clue not only what it is, but also why you’d want it? After several failed attempts at describing it, Chad suggested she wait and see for herself.

  As he pulled into the parking lot, Chad tried to see the restaurant from Willow’s perspective. The first thing he saw was the garish red and yellow sign. Strange how it had never seemed garish before… The huge maze of a jungle gym seemed to swallow the front of the building and the parking lot was almost overflowing with cars.

  Inside, he followed her eyes as she took in the dining area. Plastic plants, plastic tables, hard plastic chairs welded to those tables, and plastic trays. Garbage cans in bins near the front door—a man dumped a tray half-filled with food and a cup on top in the garbage as they passed. What did she think of the waste? He ached to ask but simply couldn’t.

  Chad stood in line behind several others while Willow glanced around the restaurant. It didn’t’ appeal to her—he could see that. What was it? The bored indifference masked by hyper-cheerfulness, typical of most fast food places, should intrigue her even if only because of the novelty. The girl behind the counter gave him his total, jerking Chad from his musings. He took the change, added a few bills, and shoved them in the box for the Ronald McDonald House.

  As he stepped aside to allow the next person to order, Chad beckoned her to follow. “Willow, over here.”

  “Why did you put money in the box? Is it like the tip cup at the deli? What’s the Ronald McDonald House?”

  “It’s a charity McDonald’s sponsors. They have ‘houses’ that are like hotels near major medical centers for families to stay in when their child is sick. Mom and Dad stayed in one when Cheri was hurt as a baby. They only had the one car back then, so it was that or not see her. It’s just what we do. We always put money in the RMH box.”

  “Oh that is wonderful. I’d—”

  The employee behind the counter handed Chad a tray. Willow watched amused as he asked for salt and the girl overtly flirted with him. As they sat in the nearest booth, Willow grinned. “I’ve finally seen it.”

  “Seen what?”

  “Flirting. She was definitely flirting.”

  Chad tossed a glance in the general direction of the cash registers and shrugged. “I guess. Obviously you weren’t paying attention at Thanksgiving.”

  “Why?” Willow unwrapped her “sandwich” and stared at it.

  “Cheri spent fifty-percent of her day flirting with Chuck Majors.”

  “And the other fifty-percent?”

  Cheri had once hinted at her own cache of blackmail photos. He didn’t really believe she had them, but also wasn’t ready to risk being wrong. He shrugged and muttered, “Just being her normal irritating little pipsqueak self.”

  “Flirting with Chuck. Hmm.”

  Something her tone disturbed him. “Does it bother you?”

  “I think it’s delightful.”

  A boy carrying a cup of orange juice tripped over shoelaces and fell against their table. Chad managed to jump from his chair before his clothes were soaked, but his food didn’t fare as well. “You ok, buddy?”

  “Aw, man! Moooom… I need another orange juice!”

  Chad stared at the juice-sodden McMuffin and grabbed the tray. “Be right back.”

  “I’ll get—”

  Willow started to rise, but he waved her back. “No. Eat while it’s hot. I’ll get it.”

  Willow watched as he dumped the tray and went to order a new one. She unwrapped her food—a sandwich of sorts using a biscuit for bread. It sounded like a good idea at the time. As she p
eeled back the top of the biscuit, she stared at the eggs—unsure.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Are these eggs?”

  “Yeeeesss…”

  “They don’t look like eggs. They’re all flat and foldy. How do they get them like that?”

  Flirty girl called Chad’s number. Willow watched as he chatted with the girl. When he returned, he was grinning. “Ha! I got the freshest ones.”

  “What?”

  “Andrea says that the eggs on your biscuit are made from real eggs, folded, and frozen. They just heat them up here. Mine is cooked on the griddle in a round mold.”

  “Who is Andrea?”

  A bit of red tinged Chad’s ears. “The server. I asked about the eggs for you.”

  “And,” she tried not to smirk, “how did you manage to get her name?”

  “It’s on her name tag…”

  Willow choked on the bite of biscuit she took in an attempt to hide her smile. “Aahh—”

  Chad nodded at her food, his mouth full of his own sandwich. “So, what do you think?”

  Never had she chewed anything so slowly. The textures alone—strange. “Well, the biscuit is good—delicious really. Nice and crispy outside and flaky inside. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “Something tastes off. I think it’s the butter. I don’t think I like cow butter.”

  “—talk ‘bout—‘sting funny,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, no.” She reached across and snatched his sandwich from him. “No muffin for you unless you tell me what you said.”

  He took a bite from his odd-looking hash browns. It was like a fried potato cake rather than actual hash browns. “Ok, fine. I just said that you were the one to talk about milk products tasting funny.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Goat milk is much stronger than cow. I haven’t tasted it in the butter, though.” He frowned. “Maybe they use margarine.”

  “Plastic?” Her nose wrinkled and she pushed her sandwich away, staring at it.

  “Margarine.”

  “Mother called fake food ‘plastic food.’”

  Chad sighed as he retrieved his sandwich from her. “That was an Internet legend. The one molecule thing. They say it about everything eventually. The only thing it’s true of are Hollywood actresses.”

  “What? Molecule?”

  “Oh, I thought—never mind.”

  He seemed put out. Willow nudged his foot with hers and said, “But the sausage is pretty good too. The cheese is weird.”

  “Well, it’s—” He snickered, choking on his bite of food. “You’re going to go home and make this, aren’t you? You’ll make English muffins, biscuits, and put real butter, real scrambled eggs, a poached egg, goat cheese—stuff from your farm on these things and call it a breakfast, won’t you?”

  “Well, why not?”

  He dropped his sandwich and leaned forward. “I want to hear you say why.”

  “What?”

  “Come on, say it.”

  “I just want to see what they taste like with real food. I think it’ll be good.”

  He shook his head. “I love it. Real food.” His eyes roamed the room. “So what do you think of the restaurant.”

  She took a bite of her sandwich, giving herself time to formulate a polite answer. “I think it doesn’t connect well with the outside, but it seems… easy to clean.”

  “Easy to clean?”

  “Sure. Hard surfaces everywhere—look how fast she wipes down the tables and sweeps under them.” That statement sparked a new thought. “When you said fast food, I kept thinking of service—taking the order and getting the food out, and it was, but…” She swallowed a big gulp of water, not liking the strange greasy feeling around her lips. “Napkin?”

  He grabbed for them, but they were gone. “Must have used them all. Let me get some.” When he returned, he passed her a stack big enough for a family and said, “But what?”

  “But—huh?”

  “You said you thought it was about the food and then you said ‘but…’ What were you going to say?”

  “Oh!” She took another swig of water after wiping the opening clean of grease. “I just realized that there was more to it than that. It’s fast in everything, isn’t it? Eat fast, clean fast, cook fast, serve fast, leave fast.” She pointed to the play area. “Do kids play fast too?”

  “Yeah... They play by moving fast, but it’s probably the one thing that slows down leaving around here. Kids screaming to stay while mom and dad just want to go.”

  They cleaned up their mess, and as Willow stepped from the restaurant, she said, “I like McDonald’s.”

  Chad’s expression spoke before he did. “What? You didn’t like the food, the interior, and the fact that Andrea flirted with me, but you like the restaurant. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “They gave me a good idea for breakfast when I go fishing and they have the hotels for sick families. Yes, I like them.” She hesitated before adding, “And if you like Andrea flirting with you, then isn’t that all that matters?”

  Willow sat in the waiting area of the tearoom, picking at her skirt with unsteady fingers. Each time the door opened, she glanced up, sighed, and dropped her eyes. She pulled out her phone and frowned as she saw the time. Ten minutes late. How long should she wait?

  Just as she decided to call and ask Marianne her opinion, the door open and a woman stepped inside. She could be—maybe. The woman’s eyes met hers as she skirted the room to reach Willow’s side. “I’m sorry I am late. The stupid traffic is horrendous today. I’ll get our table.”

  Mozart played lightly in the background as Willow and Carol Finley wove through the tearoom behind their server. At a little table near a window, they sat and accepted their menus. Neither spoke as they chose their tea and sandwiches. Once they gave the server their orders, Carol crossed her legs, leaned back in her chair, and appraised Willow openly.

  “You look like my mother-in-law. Actually, you look exactly like her.”

  “Mother mentioned that once.”

  Awkwardness hung over the table like a heavy blanket. Willow felt smothered by it and suspected that her grandmother did too. Desperate to break the ice, Willow passed the gift bag across the floor. “I brought you a couple of things I thought you might like.”

  “I didn’t bring you—”

  She frowned, shaking her head. “I didn’t expect you to. In the bag there’s a copy of two of mother’s journals—of the first two years—and an afghan she made a couple of years ago. It was her favorite, and she mentioned a few times that she thought you would like it.” Her hands fidgeted as she added, feeling very awkward, “So I brought it.”

  Carol Finley pulled the pages from the bag and dabbed tears from her eyes. “I don’t know why,” she sniffled, “I thought it’d be a good idea to meet in public. I’m going to make a fool out of myself.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  After taking a sip of her tea, Carol asked, “Willow, why did you come?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you mind if I open the afghan at home? I don’t think I’ll make it through—”

  “That would probably be best. It’s large.” Willow swallowed hard. “I just wanted you to have something of Mother’s.”

  “I’m surprised you call her mother. She always hated that name. The only time she used it with me was when she was irritated, and then it was, ‘Mother! I can’t believe…’” Carol dabbed at her eyes again. “I was mom.”

  “Sometimes I think our life started as a sort of penance for Mother, and through the years, she learned to embrace it. Perhaps she realized what a beautiful word mother is when she realized she could never say it again.”

  There was no doubt in her mind that her grandmother found the visit as awkward as she did. She recognized the signs of someone uneasy with her frankness. It hurt, despite her self-admonition to be true to who her mother taug
ht her to be. Verification came in Carol’s next statement.

  “You’re a very unusual young woman, Willow. How did Kari educate you?”

  “She just did.”

  Carol rephrased. “I mean, did she use a correspondence course, what?”

  “I just learned as we lived.”

  Again, Carol tried to explain herself, “But, for example, how did you learn multiplication?”

  “Skipping steps as I went upstairs to my room, grouping things by fours or threes—just by living. I think I’ll copy the excerpts of Mother’s journals that talk about it and mail them to you. I’m not very good at explaining it. To me, it was just life.”

  “So different from the Kari we knew. She was such a traditionalist…” Carol’s voice broke. “I’ll never forget that call.”

  “Call?”

  “The police called when they found her car abandoned. It was registered to David. We started looking…” Tears filled the woman’s eyes again. “For so long. We looked for so long, but nothing.”

  A lump rose in Willow’s throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, it’s not your fault, now is it? Sometimes the pain shows up at the oddest times.”

  That concept, Willow understood. “It happens to me too. Someone asks about Mother, and it seems perfectly natural. I see the spot where her cup used to sit, and I fall apart.”

  “It was like that with your letter.”

  “My letter?”

  “I—“ Carol stumbled over a few words before she managed to speak a coherent sentence. “I fell apart when I got that letter—and I thought it was a prank at first. At the funeral, I hardly cried, but then after talking to the officer, I sobbed all the way home.”

  As if she hadn’t just dropped an emotional bomb on Willow, Carol swiftly changed the subject. “Tell me about your officer.”

  “My officer?” The possessive pronoun produced an unwelcome sinking in her heart.

  “David, your grandfather, is convinced that there’s something going on with you and the officer—the one from the funeral.”

  “Chad…” she answered, her mind reeling with the implications of her grandmother’s assumptions. “Sorry. I hadn’t thought of him as mine or as an officer. I mean, I know he is, but to me he’s just Chad.”