She moved to the little washtub she’d set up on the edge of the old-fashioned gas stove and plopped the rag in it. She paused for a moment, gazing into the plastic tub. “If my chocolate cake makes Grandmother smile, maybe Shelley will be pleased, too.”
Cool hands descended on her shoulders and turned her around. Mom pulled her into a brief hug. “Honey, you don’t need to try to please Shelley.”
Yes, she did. She needed to win favor with her family. With all of her family. Soon they would be glad to know her instead of being embarrassed by her. Alexa began gathering mixing bowls, spoons, and measuring cups from the boxes lining the wall. As she arranged the items on the table, she gave a cavalier shrug and grinned impishly. “It’s more for me than anyone else. You know how much I love chocolate.”
Mom leaned against the corner of the table and folded her arms. “Yes, I know you love chocolate, and I also know you wouldn’t have even attempted to bake in this disaster area of a kitchen if you didn’t think it would score points with your grandmother and aunt. I don’t want to see you setting yourself up for disappointment. They aren’t worth it.”
Alexa’s hands froze midtask. Mom’s voice had become hard. Bitter. So unlike her. She turned slowly toward her mother, almost afraid to look in case she saw a stranger standing in Mom’s place. “How can you say such a thing about your own mother and sister? Of course they’re worth the effort. Haven’t you always taught me to serve others the way I would serve Jesus? Isn’t He worth the effort, Mom?”
Mom sighed and hung her head. “That came out wrong.”
“I guess so.” Alexa nibbled her lower lip, uncertainty binding her in place. For a few brief seconds, Mom had seemed to turn into Grandmother. Alexa didn’t like the change.
Lifting her head, Mom met Alexa’s gaze and spoke kindly—more like the mother she’d always known. “I only meant we don’t really know them. And we won’t be here long enough to get to know them. So even though we want to do our best to get along while we’re here, you don’t need to expend endless energy on building relationships that will likely be short term.”
Alexa frowned. Something didn’t make sense. “Two months is enough time for us to build relationships. I already feel as though Sandra and I are friends. The same with Tanya. Grandmother even seems to like me. And why can’t we continue our relationships with your family when we go back to Indiana? I know you’ve stayed away because you didn’t want them to know you’d kept me, but the cat’s out of the bag. There’s no reason for us not to stay in touch now, right?”
Mom set her lips in a pained grimace and didn’t answer.
Alexa took a step toward Mom, her pulse tripping into double-beats. “Mom? Is there something else that’s kept you away from Arborville all these years?”
Abigail
In the little hallway between the dining room and kitchen, Abigail sat in her wheelchair and listened for Suzy’s reply. When she’d left her room and overheard Suzy and Alexa talking, she only intended to let her daughter know she was ready to change for bed. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. But then she heard Alexa’s question, and Abigail wanted answers as much as Alexa did.
Her Suzy had secrets—lots of secrets—and she suspected her daughter would clam up tighter than the joints of the cabinetry Paul Aldrich was building if she knew Abigail was listening. So she stayed put and strained her ear toward the opening, hoping to satisfy her curiosity.
After several long, silent seconds, Suzy’s breath whisked out on a sad sigh, and she spoke in a defeated tone. “Honey, can we let the past remain in the past? I can’t change any of the choices I made twenty years ago, and rehashing it serves no useful purpose. We’ve done well on our own, haven’t we?” Abigail envisioned Suzy embracing Alexa the way Abigail had once pulled her children to her breast to offer comfort. Suzy’s tender voice continued. “Be satisfied that you’ve had the chance to meet my family. Let it be enough to have … put names to faces, so to speak.”
“So what you’re telling me,” came Alexa’s voice, low and controlled yet with an edge of belligerence, “is there are other reasons, but you want to keep them to yourself.”
Abigail held her breath.
Suzy’s blunt answer came. “Yes.”
Blowing out her air, Abigail pushed the wheels on her chair forward and rolled into the kitchen. Alexa and Suzy jumped apart as if they’d been caught with their hands in a cookie jar. Abigail shook her head and forced a soft chuckle. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you two were up to no good. Did I really startle you that much?”
Alexa busied herself with the supplies scattered over the table and didn’t answer. Suzy hurried behind Abigail and caught hold of the wheelchair handles. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, Mother. I imagine you’re ready to turn in.”
Abigail chuckled again as Suzy pushed her chair through the hallway and dining room toward her bedroom. “And now you change the subject. Mm-hm, I interrupted something for sure.”
“Don’t be silly.” Suzy pushed the chair to the edge of the bed and set the brakes. “What nightgown do you want? Your pink one or the blue one with the yellow daisies on it?”
“It makes no difference, Suzanne. Just get one.” While Suzy headed for the closet, Abigail lifted her transfer board from its spot between the bed and night-stand and positioned it as a bridge from her chair’s seat to the mattress. She then shifted herself to the edge of the bed, grunting with the effort it took to drag her useless limbs. Her left hand slipped, and she flopped across the bed. With another grunt of aggravation, she righted herself, then sat with both palms pressed to the mattress, panting. How she hated the clumsy person she’d become. Why couldn’t that bale have stolen her life instead of only taking the use of her legs? God had chosen a special punishment for her. And after what she’d done, she supposed she deserved it.
Suzy returned with the pink gown draped over her arm. “Here you are, Mother. I like this one best. Let’s get you undressed and then—”
“Why are you here?” Abigail blurted the question, surprising herself as much as Suzy.
Suzy blinked twice. “I’m here to help you.” She laid the nightgown aside and reached for Abigail’s cap.
Abigail slapped her hands away. “I can do it myself. And you didn’t answer my question. You know what I meant. Why did you come back to Arborville? And don’t tell me because Clete asked you to.” She yanked the pins holding her cap in place with such force she pulled hairs from her head. Each yank stung, but she didn’t care. At least she felt something besides fury for a few moments. “You stayed away for twenty years. Twenty years!” She clutched the pins in her fist and glowered at her daughter. “An absence like that isn’t accidental. You never meant to come back.” She lifted her cap from her hair and wadded it in her hand. “Why didn’t you just tell Clete no?”
Anger glinted in Suzy’s eyes, and Abigail gloried in it. Finally a real spark of emotion instead of the nicey-nice sweetness she’d showered over everyone since her arrival. When Suzy replied, sarcasm colored her tone. “How could I say no to the only invitation I received in twenty years?”
Abigail narrowed her gaze. “Don’t turn it back on me, Suzanne. When I put you on the bus, I told you to come home after the baby was born. You chose to stay away.”
“You chose to—” Suzy snapped her mouth shut and closed her eyes. For several tense seconds she stood in silence, repeatedly clenching and unclenching her fists. At last she relaxed her hands, opened her eyes, and pinned a calm look on Abigail. “Mother, I refuse to fight with you. Maybe one day we can sit and discuss my leave-taking, but I will not do it in anger. So I think it’s best if we set the topic aside for now.”
Abigail blew out a derisive breath and began unbuttoning her dress. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably, complicating the simple task. Before Suzy could offer to help, she snapped, “If you won’t talk to me, then get out. I can put on my gown, take myself to the bathroom, and put myself to bed. I’m not a little child who needs
your help.”
Suzy hesitated.
Abigail screeched, “I said get out!” Hurt flickered in Suzy’s eyes, but Abigail ignored it. As her daughter moved stiffly toward the door, Abigail called after her, “Don’t think you have to stay here for me. I can take care of myself. I don’t want to be your Christian duty, Suzanne.” The door slammed on Suzy’s exit. Abigail’s manufactured fury seeped out of her in a rush. She sagged forward and whispered, “I just want to be your mama again … and I can’t be. So go home, Suzy. Please—go home.”
Suzanne
Suzanne stepped into the kitchen Saturday morning and found a young boy sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of him and a spoon in his hand. The boy shifted to look in her direction, and as she looked into his face she was whisked backward in time. She gave an involuntary jolt. A single-word query escaped on a breathy note: “Paul?”
The boy’s forehead crinkled. “Paul’s my dad. I’m Danny.”
The boy was a carbon copy of his father from the cowlick in his thick dark hair to the shape of his ears and the dimple in his chin. She hadn’t realized she’d carried such a strong memory of Paul as a boy. The discovery disconcerted her. It took a full minute to bring her thoughts to the present. In the meantime, Danny sat gazing at her with his spoon gripped in his hand, his cereal turning soggy.
She located her senses and said, “I’m sorry I disturbed your breakfast. Go ahead and eat.”
Danny dipped his spoon, but he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she moved to the stove to start the percolator. He swallowed a bite and scooped up a second. “Are you Mrs. Zimmerman’s daughter? The one who left a long time ago and is a nurse?” He stuck the spoonful of shredded wheat in his mouth and chewed while gazing at her.
Of course community gossip would be overheard by children, too. Suzanne forced a smile. “That’s right.”
“Seems like Mrs. Zimmerman sure could use a nurse. She can’t walk, you know. Dad says she never will. You gonna live here now?”
Suzanne feigned great interest in measuring coffee into the aluminum basket. Since the evening Mother had ordered her out of her room three days ago, the two of them had barely exchanged two civil words. Mother refused to let Suzanne help her ready herself for bed, and she’d chosen to go unbathed rather than have her daughter assist her in and out of the tub. Danny was right. Mother most definitely needed a nurse. But Suzanne would not be filling the role.
The queries she’d sent online via Alexa’s smartphone—thank goodness she’d agreed to let her daughter purchase a phone with more bells and whistles than her own simple little flip phone—should produce a candidate soon. At least, she hoped so. She didn’t know how much longer she could bear Mother’s snarls and contempt.
She settled the lid on the percolator, adjusted the flame beneath the pot, then glanced at the wall clock. Eight fifteen. She frowned. Mother should have come out of her room by now. She turned to Danny. “I’m going to go check on Mrs. Zimmerman. Do you need anything before I go?”
The boy gazed at her for a few seconds, unblinking, then he shrugged. “I’m okay. Thank you.”
Danny possessed the guilelessness of a youngster but was also polite. His parents had done well with him. For one fleeting moment she pondered if she’d had a boy instead of a girl, would he have looked like Danny? She pushed the reflection aside, offered him a smile, and then quickly aimed herself through the hallway to the other side of the house.
Once outside her mother’s bedroom she paused to send up a petition for patience. She’d exhausted her own supply days ago. Your strength is sufficient, Lord … The prayer complete, she tapped on the door. “Mother? Are you awake?”
“It’s after eight, Suzanne. Of course I’m awake. I’ve been awake for over an hour already.”
“May I come in?”
“Yes, and be quick about it.”
Suzanne bit the end of her tongue, drew in a deep breath, and opened the door. Her mother had donned a dress and sat in her wheelchair, but her thick gray-streaked hair lay in flattened strings across her shoulders. She held a hairbrush in one hand and a pair of flesh-toned support hose in the other. As Suzanne entered the room, Abigail thrust the hose at her.
“I’m dizzy this morning, so I can’t put these on myself. When I lean forward far enough to reach my toes, I’m afraid I’ll fall out of the chair. Hurry and get them on me. My feet look like sausages.” She pushed the command through clenched teeth, clearly irritated at having to admit needing help.
Suzanne battled irritation, too. She bit back a sharp comment, knelt before her mother, and rolled the hose to slip over her feet. She stifled a gasp when she looked at her mother’s swollen ankles. Her feet shouldn’t look this way so early in the morning. Any number of calamities could befall someone who’d lost the use of a limb. Blood clots were one of the worst and often caused the kind of swelling Suzanne now witnessed. Aggravation fled before the tide of worry. When she’d finished helping Mother dress, she’d call Clete and suggest a trip to the doctor for an MRI or sonogram of Mother’s legs.
As she tugged one hose leg over her mother’s foot, she suddenly realized Mother was wearing the same blue print dress she’d worn yesterday. She glanced at the end of the bed—the neatly made bed—and spotted the folded nightgown she’d set out for Mother last night. Sitting on her heels and loosely clasping her mother’s thick ankles, she looked up in astonishment. “Did you spend the night in your chair?”
Mother’s lips pursed into a sullen line. She looked away.
“Mother! You did, didn’t you?”
Mother whacked the arm of the wheelchair with her hairbrush. The crack reverberated from the plaster walls. “What difference does it make if I want to sit up all night or not?”
“It makes a difference because of this.” Suzanne lifted one of her mother’s feet. Mother turned her face away and set her jaw in a stubborn angle. Suzanne sighed. “Mother, listen to me. The chair doesn’t allow enough circulation. You need to be out of your wheelchair at least eight hours of the day so the blood can flow.” She pulled the hose free and examined her mother’s toes by turn. They were cold to the touch, but to her relief she found no evidence of gangrene.
She tugged the hose into place and then rested her hands on her mother’s knees. “You’re going to need to keep your feet elevated today. Do you want to lie in your bed with a pillow under your feet, or would you rather go out on the porch and sit in the lounger?”
Mother huffed a mighty breath. “I want to stay in my chair.”
“That isn’t an option.”
“Do not treat me like a child, Suzanne.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
Her mother glared at her for several seconds as if trying to wish her away, but Suzanne remained on her knees, quietly waiting for her to choose where she would spend the day. Mother was stubborn, but Suzanne was, too, and she would win. Her mother’s health depended on it.
Finally Mother threw her hands in the air, the hairbrush nearly clipping Suzanne on the chin. “Fine! I won’t stay cooped up in here.”
Suzanne rose, hiding a smile. “The lounger it is.”
“I want breakfast first. At the table, not outside where bugs will bother me. And when I go to the porch I want Alexa to sit out there with me. If you want to be helpful, you can do laundry.”
Pain stabbed at the blatant rejection, followed by a fierce prick of apprehension. But Suzanne decided to choose her battles carefully. She gave a brusque nod.
Mother jammed the hairbrush at Suzanne. “Since you’re determined to treat me like an invalid, you can do my hair. But hurry up. I want my morning coffee.”
Suzanne gritted her teeth as she wove Mother’s hair into a bun. Another battle would surely ensue when she gave her mother a cup of herbal tea instead of coffee. Caffeine wouldn’t help flush the excess fluid from her body. As soon as she had Mother settled on the porch, she’d take Alexa’s telephone and check for messages. Another nurse coul
dn’t arrive soon enough.
Suzanne
Suzanne entered the back porch and layered her mother’s sheets in the barrel-shaped belly of the wringer washer. She’d been surprised by the presence of the electric washer, which was considered a “modern convenience.” All through her childhood, a hand-operated tin tub had lurked in a corner of the basement, and from the time she was six or seven years old, she had helped Mother turn the crank that operated the beater paddles. Having a plug-in machine with no hand crank was a huge step up but still a far cry from the automatic machines she operated at the Laundromat in Franklin. She hoped she wouldn’t do something wrong and render the washer inoperable.
As she turned the faucets to fill the tub with water, Paul came around the corner pushing a wheelbarrow. His son followed on his heels, whistling. The boy caught Suzanne’s eye through the screen and ceased his tune to smile and wave at her. Self-consciousness attacked with Paul so near, but she couldn’t ignore the gregarious boy. She offered a quick wave and then turned her attention back to filling the washer.
“Um … Suzy?”
Paul spoke, sounding as self-conscious as she felt. Slowly she turned to look at him through the gauzy wire.
“Do you have to do laundry today?”
Considering Mother’s adamancy, she did have to see to the wash. Rather than share her mother’s blunt orders, Suzanne formed a question of her own. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
He grimaced. “Danny and I are pouring the wheelchair ramp. Now that the ground’s dried up and the Farmers’ Almanac predicts sun for the next several days, it seemed a good time to get it done. I closed up Pepper in the barn so she won’t get her paws in the wet cement, and you won’t be able to use the back door until the cement dries. Probably tomorrow evening at the earliest.”
When Mercy Rains Page 11