by Zondervan
I bit the inside of my cheek. How typical of Beatrice — to be utterly concerned with my life and my friends, wanting to help me piece my heart back together, when it was clear there was nothing she could do.
My stomach churned. “Never mind,” I muttered.
I ran to my bedroom and sank to the floor against the door, burying my head in my knees. I felt sick, like when I was little and Mama used to hold back my hair while I threw up.
I sniffled. Oh, Mama, why couldn’t you be here now?
Chapter 14
Sometimes with the Heart
Seldom with the Soul
Scarcer once with the Might
Few — love at all.
— Emily Dickinson
It was a beautiful wedding,” Irene remarked, sipping her pink lemonade beside me on the porch. She watched me out of the corner of her eye.
I nodded, fingering the wood grains on the old rocking chair. The white paint was chipped and peeling, and I tore several flakes away.
“Charlie was a lovely bride.” I smiled. “She was just glowing.”
“Russell certainly seemed happy enough.” Irene laughed. “I thought his shaky knees would give way and he would collapse at the altar.”
“Would have been interesting.” I took a long sip of my tea and sighed. “Wouldn’t say I’d want it to happen, but —” I stopped abruptly and ran my finger along the rim of the glass. If only …
“Do you miss him?” Irene asked, reading my thoughts.
I shrugged. “He writes.” I bit my lip and fought the burning sensation behind my eyelids. “The last letter contained a dried rose. He knows I wanted a June wedding.” I squinted up at the sky and sighed. “Maybe next year.”
“Do you write back?” Irene probed, watching me.
I avoided her glance. “Every now and then.”
Irene sighed and put down her glass. “What are you afraid of, Allie?” She paused, raising a red eyebrow. “Of getting too attached?”
I sucked in a gasp of air. I don’t want to lose him. Several more paint flakes tore under my fingers. “I just want to be certain that, if the worst should happen, I’ll be ready.”
“Allie, you block out everyone. Even yourself.” She shook her head. “I noticed it when you came here and I figured I’d just ignore it. I thought that over time you would open up and allow us to love you, and love us back. But you haven’t. You’ve just held on to this bitterness inside of you and let it grow into this huge …” She held up a hand. “I don’t even know what to call it. Can’t you see this … shell you’ve built around yourself? You block out everyone. Even yourself.”
“I do not have a shell!” I bristled.
“See there!” Irene pointed, her eyes widening. “You’re defensive to a fault. Every time someone tries to show they care about you, you take it as an insult. Why don’t you ever let your guard down and relax?”
I put down my tea and began to stand. “I have things to do, Irene. I need to …”
She rolled her eyes and reached out to stop me. “Just sit for a second, Allie.”
I sat back down, rigid. Here we go …
“I want to talk to you about Mom,” Irene said. “Have you noticed anything strange about her lately?”
“About Beatrice?” I shrugged. “I don’t pay attention to her much.”
Irene shrugged. “It’s probably nothing. She’s just been complaining of headaches. Maybe I should take her to the doctor.”
“Ha. Doctors can’t do a thing.” Look where they got Mama. I stood and headed inside.
“Allie?”
I looked over my shoulder to see Irene smiling timidly at me. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” she said softly. “I just care about you, that’s all.” She looked up at me with her big green eyes, looking sad. “I want you to be happy.”
I paused in the doorway, my heart caught somewhere between the inside and the outside. My happiness died four years ago.
I nodded at Irene and went inside, the screen door slamming behind me.
I folded the last of the clothes and began stacking them in the basket. My hand smoothed over a plaid dress as my mind wandered.
When was the last time I wrote to Sam? I frowned, trying to remember. Probably a few weeks ago.
Maybe Irene was right. Maybe I should write him.
I headed up the stairs, laundry basket in hand. What would I say? My life was so boring. And he always wrote the most interesting things — talking about Europe, and tanks, and his daily life.
I paused on the step. No, actually, he never wrote about his doings. Only what he wished he was doing.
Which was usually being close to me.
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, trying to imagine life on the warfront. I pictured Sam, ragged and worn, with mud smeared across his face and uniform. He carried a large gun in his rough hands and had a heavy sack thrown over his back. I could just see him lifting the gun to his eye and aiming at a German boy, shells exploding behind him.
A shudder ran through my body. What would I ever do if …
I pushed the thought out of my mind and walked down the hallway to Beatrice’s room. I slowed in the doorway and raised my hand to knock.
“And please be with my Irene, and bless her and give her the strength she needs to go on without Daniel here beside her.”
I paused and peeked into the room. Beatrice was kneeling by the bed, her gray hair hanging down her back. Her head was bent in prayer.
“Lord, I know how it feels to have to face each day without a husband beside you. But I pray that Daniel will continue to stay safe and will come back to us soon. And may Irene continue to trust in you, knowing that you will comfort her and stay close by her forever. Lord, I love her and only want what’s best for her. You know that.”
My heart squeezed. Of course she loved Irene. Irene was her daughter—her flesh and blood.
I knelt to place Beatrice’s clothes on the floor and turned to leave.
“And, Lord, please be with Allie.”
I froze, afraid to turn for fear she’d hear me. Pressing my cheek to the wall, I bent my ear toward the open door.
“Lord,” Beatrice’s voice drew strained. She coughed several times before continuing. “Lord, I just don’t know how to comfort her. I can’t imagine what that child’s been through to harden her heart like that. I’ve prayed for years, and she still shuts out anything I offer. Lord, continue to give me the daily strength I need to show Allie that I love her and care about her. Help me to reach through all the barriers she has set up around herself and let her know I don’t want to replace her mother; I just want to love her. And Lord —”Beatrice’s voice began to break. “Lord, please soften her heart toward you. Please let her experience your love and come to drink of your salvation. Please melt her heart of stone and please give her a heart of flesh. Let her learn to truly love, and to accept being loved. I know you can reach her even when I cannot. I ask these things in your precious name … Amen.”
I moved from the doorway and rushed into my room, quietly shutting the door behind me.
What was that all about? Beatrice prays for me?
My heart felt a strange flutter. I tried to remember what Mama had said about religion. She had called it superstitious nonsense.
Was Beatrice a superstitious fool? She certainly hadn’t seemed so.
Christians will make you feel loved — make you feel wanted. Mama’s words rang in my ears. But they don’t mean any of it.
I began unbuttoning my dress, pausing when I caught a glance of myself in the mirror. My mother’s face looked back at me. I was like her in so many ways.
But Mama had loved. She loved me, at least.
I went back to undressing. Had Beatrice really meant those things she said? She couldn’t have been trying to trick me. She didn’t even know I was there.
Her words played over and over again in my mind. Was there a God who wanted me to �
� Well, what did he want me to do?
I crossed over to my bed and opened up my journal. Smoothing out the paper, I raised my pen to the paper.
May 27, 1944
I stared at the empty page. For once, I had nothing to say.
What am I thinking? I don’t need a God. I can depend on myself for anything I need.
My hand was still on the blank page. I stared at it. In my mind’s eye, I could see Charlie shrugging, looking doubtful. What if it’s not enough?
I closed the journal and turned out the light. Beatrice’s words played over in my head. “Melt her heart of stone …”
The room had never seemed so dark and quiet before. I rolled on my side and curled my fist. What if my heart couldn’t melt?
Chapter 15
Far from love the Heavenly Father
Leads the chosen child;
Oftener through realm of briar
Than the meadow mild.
— Emily Dickinson
I lay in bed and listened to Beatrice walking about downstairs. She was probably going to leave for church any time.
I wonder what she does there.
I hadn’t been in years —not since my mother’s funeral. I stared at the cracks on the ceiling. Maybe I’ll go … just this once.
I would never have to go again. But it wouldn’t hurt to go just once — to see what it was like.
I climbed out of bed, brushed my teeth, and pulled my best blue dress out of the closet. I slipped it over my head and sat down at the mirror to examine myself.
My dark brown hair fell down my back in soft waves. I brushed them out and pinned them up on my neck. If I brushed just a tiny bit of powder on my nose, you couldn’t see those faded little freckles.
I pinned a hat on my head and sat back to check myself. Don’t I look silly — all dressed up on a Sunday morning. I scrunched my nose out of habit.
My shoulders slumped as I stared at myself. I do look ridiculous. Everyone will stare at me when I get there. I bit my lip. They’ll know I don’t belong.
“Allie!” Beatrice shouted from downstairs. “I’m leaving! I’ll be back around noon!”
“Wait!” I jumped up and ran to grab my shoes. “I’m coming with you!”
I bounded down the hall and skidded to a halt in the stairwell. Beatrice was waiting at the bottom of the steps, disbelief etched on her face. She clutched the railing and looked me over. I straightened my back and brushed past her, heading for the car.
Beatrice slid into the driver’s seat quietly. She turned on the ignition and gripped the steering wheel, and we rolled down the street in silence.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning. May was in full bloom— roses and wild blueberries were budding everywhere.
I squirmed at the eerie quiet. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m coming?” I asked.
“No.”
“Oh.” I itched my neck. Dratted hairpins. “I just thought I might try it … just for today.”
“Very well.” Beatrice kept her gaze on the road. I couldn’t tell if she was pleased. She had to be pleased. I had heard her praying for me the night before, hadn’t I?
We pulled up in front of the little church and climbed out of the car. Families were beginning to gather into the building. I smiled at all the mothers herding their children like chicks.
Beatrice led me into the church and settled down in the back pew. “Are you comfortable sitting here?” she asked.
The question took me by surprise. “Of course.” I slid in next to her and looked around.
Beatrice smiled. “It’s been said that in heaven the last shall be first.”
“And who said that?”
Beatrice ducked her head, her face reddening. “For once, not me.”
I smiled and looked around. It must have been a very private church, for everyone was looking at me with interest. I shifted in my seat.
The pastor was a short, balding man. He smiled easily, his face widening and his eyes crinkling. He was shaking the hand of an older woman and laughing with the man beside her. He certainly didn’t look like the angry preachers I’d seen in my childhood.
Several women came to speak with Beatrice, Mrs. Wilkinson among them. She wouldn’t stop gushing about Russell’s wedding.
Charlie was sitting by her husband, glowing and talking to the women gathered around her. I watched her from a distance. She never told me she’d been going to church. I wondered if Charlie was afraid of what I’d say. Scared that I’d shut her out, like I did to everyone else. The thought that I was the kind of person my best friend might be scared of made my insides churn.
“I believe Pastor Davis is starting,” Beatrice remarked sweetly, motioning for Mrs. Wilkinson to move back to her seat. Beatrice turned to beam at me.
I avoided her gaze and focused on an ant crawling across the wooden floor.
“Good morning, beloved!” Pastor Davis boomed with a surprisingly large and forceful voice.
I lowered my eyes and fiddled with my hat. What am I doing here? I don’t belong in church.
Beatrice reached over and almost tentatively gave my hand a little squeeze. I resisted the urge to yank it away, letting it stay in her hand. I did give her a slight glare, though, to let her know I still wasn’t completely happy.
“Let us turn to the book of Matthew this morning,” Pastor Davis began.
I crossed my legs and watched him, my curiosity piqued. Everyone was opening their Bibles and reading the pages with care. They looked at each other with respect, and bowed their heads reverently. So this was religion.
I bowed my head too, although I peeked around the room. If this is what Beatrice claimed changed her life, there wasn’t much to it.
I squirmed in my seat. But there was something—a sort of light in the room. I bit my lip. I wonder what it would be like to have that light.
May 28, 1944
Dear Sam,
Charlie and Russell’s wedding went well. The reception was very nice. Russell said to send you his greetings.
There is much to do here. It seems like there’s something to fix around the house or to package for the soldiers that are away. I am kept quite busy.
I send my love.
Sincerely,
Allie
I paused and stared at the sheet of paper. For someone who called herself a writer, I made a pretty lousy letter.
How would Sam feel about getting a letter from me? He wrote me every week, but I hadn’t written in over a month.
My letters were short —to the point. I never embellished, never talked about my feelings.
Sam’s were wonderful. His writing wasn’t the best, but he always expressed so much emotion in a few words. He always asked about what I was thinking and feeling.
I crumpled up the piece of paper and started over.
Dear Sam,
I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year since you left. I miss you so much. June is just around the corner, and there are gorgeous roses budding everywhere. Do you remember the roses in my mother’s garden? They were the most beautiful ones I’ve ever seen — she put so much time into them.
Charlie’s wedding was so lovely I wanted to cry. It felt so strange to see sassy little Charlie all grown up and dressed in white. She had lilies for her bouquet and beautiful flowers everywhere, but Russell’s allergies didn’t bother him at all! (For which we were all very grateful.)
I went to church with Beatrice yesterday. I don’t know what ever possessed me to go, but it wasn’t awful. I wish I had a Bible so I could see if the things Pastor Davis said were true. I wish you were here so I could ask questions without being embarrassed. I haven’t got a Bible, so maybe I wouldn’t be able to understand it anyway.
I miss Mama.
I stopped suddenly. Why had I written that? Sam wouldn’t want to hear about Mama.
But he knew her too. I bit my lip. Maybe he wouldn’t mind a few sentences. I continued writing.
I miss Mama. She always knew the right t
hing to say. I’ve often heard people talking about how wise men give good advice, but I don’t think anyone knows what to say exactly like a mother. I try to listen to Beatrice, but every time I start to think maybe she’s right, a little voice pops into my head reminding me that she’ll never be my mother and she’ll never know the right thing to say. And so I push her away.
I hope you don’t think I mean to push people away. I don’t know when it started. Maybe when Mama died. But it comes so naturally now — like breathing. I want to let people in … I want to open up to you …
Perhaps this is just nonsense. Maybe I won’t even send you this letter. Strength is important to me. I want you to think I’m strong, because I’m not.
I love you. I truly do miss you, and think of you every day.
Love,
Allie
I looked at the new letter. I sounded so weak and vulnerable — like a love-starved fool.
I sighed and folded up the letter, placing it in an envelope. Sam would understand. He knew me like no one else.
I placed the envelope on my nightstand and crawled into bed.
Where can I find a Bible? I wondered if Beatrice would notice if I took one of hers from the bookshelf.
I curled up my knees and sighed. What’s the matter with me lately?
I pulled into the parking lot and looked up at Goodey’s. The diner was closed, but there were still a few lights on. Maybe Irene is still inside.
I grabbed my keys and climbed out of the car. My heels clacked on the dark cement. I unlocked the front door and looked around. “Irene?”
A light was on in the back room. Why would she be doing inventory at this hour? I knocked lightly on the door before pushing it open. “Irene, I thought you said you were coming for …” I trailed off and stood, unmoving, in the doorway.
Irene was sitting behind her desk, collapsed in a pile of tears. Her head was buried in the desk, her shoulders shaking.
“Irene?”
She looked up and sniffled. Mascara ran down her cheeks. “Allie?” She blinked at me. A letter lay discarded on the desk, crumpled and soaked.