“I’ll take two tickets anyway,” she said in a husky voice, fumbling with the clasp on her pocketbook.
“I’d wait on buying ’em”—he looked at her more closely—“in case we cancel.”
She had no other plan. A bus ticket to some other town was her only idea as she’d left the Edmundses. Her wet coat felt like a hundred-pound weight, and she pulled her arms from the sleeves, suddenly so hot she felt suffocated. Using the back of her glove, she drew a trembling hand across her perspiring forehead just as a woman came rushing up.
“I know him!” she called out as she pointed at Jack. “He’s the boy in the paper—the one who predicted the fire!”
Mary shook her head, pulling Jack with her as she backed away. But the woman kept advancing. “It is him—right?”
Mary tried to find her voice but started to cough. She pulled Jack away, but the woman had begun drawing attention to all three of them. “Just stay put a second, will ya?” she persisted. “I only want to talk to the boy prophet . . . Jack! His name is Jack. I saw his picture in the paper—”
“No, no . . .” Mary finally croaked out. The room around her seemed to swim. “You’re mistaken.”
The woman would not be put off and pulled a few bills from her pocketbook. She waved them at Mary. “I need to find out something— something important about my future,” she insisted, practically stepping on Mary’s toes. “I’ve got some money here. You can have it. Please? Just let the boy—”
“We don’t want your money,” Mary said, feeling trapped by her relentless badgering. She turned to find a way out and saw an older woman heading straight for her. Oh no. Not another one . . .
“Well, finally! I was beginning to give up on you, Sally!” the woman said with a broad smile. “And, Bobby! Look how much you’ve grown!” She wagged a finger at Jack. “I was afraid the storm had kept you home.”
Mary swallowed, wincing from the pain in her throat. “I’m sorry . . . ?”
The first woman frowned. “Bobby? This kid’s name is Bobby?” She looked between the boy and the stranger, who stood with a smile on her face. “Are you sure? I could have sworn he’s the kid who could tell the future!”
“I think I’d know my own granddaughter and great-grandson, wouldn’t I?” the second woman insisted. She looked at Mary and raised her brows. “Right, Sally?”
Mary hesitated, then found the presence of mind to nod. “Right. Yes—”
“Fine, then,” the annoying woman grumped, “but just so’s you know—your Bobby’s got a double right here in Chicago.” She gave Jack one more searching look and shook her head as she turned away. “Coulda sworn it was him. . . .”
The older woman looked at Mary apologetically. “I hope I didn’t overstep, my dear, but she looked like she was becoming quite a pest.”
“She was. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, gazing at Mary with concern in her eyes. “You’re not well.”
Mary shook her head and coughed again.
“I’ve got some seats over there.” She pointed to a row against the wall. “Would you like to come and sit by me?”
Mary felt uncertain. She whispered, “You know who he is . . . don’t you?”
The old woman nodded. “I admit I too recognized him from the picture in the newspaper.”
“You . . . you want something from him too?” Mary asked guardedly.
“No, dear. Nothing at all,” she replied. “I’m Agnes Meriwether— and I believe you’re Jack’s mother.”
“Yes . . . yes, I’m Mary.” She still wasn’t sure she could trust . . . Agnes, was it?
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mary. Now—come over here and sit down before you fall down. You look weak as a kitten.” Without waiting for a response, Agnes picked up Mary’s suitcase and started across the floor.
Mary couldn’t help but feel relief that someone had made a decision for her. She was beyond tired as she fumbled for Jack’s hand, holding it tight while they followed Agnes. She tried to focus on the silver in Agnes’s hair, the turquoise of the knit cardigan swaying back and forth in front of her.
“Please, sit.” Agnes gestured to the row of chairs she’d obviously staked out as her own. “I’ve been here awhile, and from the looks of it, I don’t think any of us’ll be leaving anytime soon.”
Mary helped Jack into a chair and then eased into the one next to him, leaning her head back against the wall. The reprieve almost made her cry.
Before Agnes sat down too, she looked closely at Jack. “You’re a very handsome boy,” she said. “Beautiful brown eyes. You know they say the eyes are the windows of the soul.” She paused, then smiled. “Jack must have a beautiful soul.”
Agnes started to chat, and Mary tried to concentrate on the words. But her body was now giving in to chills sweeping over her skin in waves, followed by a candlewick of heat up and down her arms. She vaguely understood she was doing a poor job of holding up her end of the conversation, but Agnes plunged valiantly on, talking of warm weather and sunshine, “out of this awful Chicago rain and sleet and snow. . . .”
Somehow, Mary eventually let the woman know that she was unemployed and planning to board a bus to a new city, “. . . maybe Milwaukee, a city where people haven’t read the Chicago Daily Times and wouldn’t be recognizing . . .” The room grew dark and started to spin.
“Mary? Are you all right?” Agnes’s voice came from some faraway place. “You’re sick, dear. Even if the bus does leave tonight, I don’t think you can be on it.”
When the floor started to rise, Mary thought it would feel so good to let go . . . turn loose . . . slip right out of her chair and lie down. So she did.
Chapter Seventeen
“MOMMY?”
“I’m here, buddy.”
“Where?”
“Right in here. Come and find me.”
“I made this for you. It’s called a mobile.”
“That’s beautiful, Jack. Let’s hang it from the ceiling. . . .”
The ceiling looked unfamiliar, swirls in white plaster that made her dizzy as she tried to focus on it. That . . . that isn’t right.
“Fever’s still high . . . just something cool on your head, dear.” Someone’s putting out the fire. A drop of water ran down the side of her face—like a tear trailing from her eye. Nice and cool.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, Jack?”
“Snow angels today?”
“Not today, little man.” He looked so small walking away that it broke her heart. “Wait, Jack—don’t go without me. Stay here, and we’ ll play in the snow tomorrow. Jack?”
“Are you feeling any better, Mary?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. Mother?”
“Yes?”
“Where’s Jack?”
“Jack who?”
“Jack! My son. Your grandson!”
“There is no Jack, Mary.”
“Don’t say that! I have a child. A boy. Jack!”
“You’re doing it again. Telling lies. That makes me sad, Mary.”
“Go find him. Please—bring him to me.”
“Such an imagination will get you into trouble.”
“I’m not imagining, Mother. I’m not!”
“You’re imagining . . . me.”
The waking was gradual, like coming up from under water to the surface. Hazy and lazy and close enough to touch. Finally Mary slowly opened her eyes, squinting at the sunlight through the window, with no idea where she was. The bed was comfortable, the room felt homey. There was a glass of water on the bedside table, and she reached for it to soothe the dryness of her throat.
Her body felt sore—stiff—foreign. She flexed her fingers, still encased in her gloves, and she saw she was wearing her own cotton nightgown. She struggled to raise herself up on an elbow and took a sip from the glass.
A gauzy memory flitted past—the woman at the bus station. Agnes. That was real—wasn’t it? Arriving at a house someplace, barely managi
ng to walk inside while someone supported her firmly around her waist. Is that what happened? Memory intertwined with the residue of her dreams, and then it solidified into one panic-stricken thought. Jack.
She saw her robe at the bottom of the bed. Moving stiffly but as quickly as she could manage, Mary staggered out of the bedroom.
The living room of the house was empty, the space so quiet Mary heard the ticking of a clock on the fireplace mantel.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded husky, and her heart hammered in her chest. I’m in a stranger’s house and can’t find my son.
“Agnes?” The name felt strange on her tongue—as if it were the first time she’d said it.
Please, please, please . . .
“You’re up, dear!”
Mary turned and saw Agnes—with Jack right by her side. Mary clutched at the wall. “Jack,” she breathed.
Agnes put her hand on his back and gave him a little push. “Go see Mommy.”
As if he’d heard her, Jack crossed to Mary and stopped right in front of her. She leaned down and touched his nose, then drew the familiar heart around his face. And for a long moment he stood, focused and smiling, in front of her.
“What day is this?” Mary finally rasped out as she knelt to put her arms around her son.
“Friday.”
Mary felt her mouth drop open. “But we met on—”
“Tuesday evening,” Agnes supplied. “I’ve seen my share of influenza over the years, and you sure had yourself a good dose of it.”
“Oh, you’ve been exposed—and your house. . . . I’m so sorry.”
Agnes waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, posh. I’ve never caught the flu and don’t plan to now. Guess I’m too old or too ornery.”
“I don’t know how to begin to thank you,” Mary started. “There are no words . . .”
Agnes clucked her tongue. “You just did.”
“I don’t know what we would have done. . . .” Mary tried to reach back in her memory to the bus station.
Agnes smiled. “People who need each other—find each other, Mary. That’s all that happened. Now—can you eat a little something?”
Mary put a hand on her stomach and grimaced. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Then—at the very least some tea?”
“I think I could . . . yes, I could drink some tea.”
Agnes nodded. “Good. And I’ve learned that Jack has a taste for hot cocoa,” she said. “You curl up on the sofa, and we’ll have a nice little chat.”
The afghan tucked around Mary’s legs was beautifully crafted, multicolored with tiny stitches speaking volumes about the maker’s skill with a crochet hook. As she looked around the room, she noted it was neat as a pin, nearly devoid of clutter or personal “dust catchers,” as her foster mother would say about knickknacks and photos on shelves or tabletops. Mary sat in a haze of contentment, sipping tea on the overstuffed floral sofa with Jack tucked in beside her. She watched the amber-orange flames that curled around a log burning in the fireplace.
“I feel terrible that you put off your trip because of me.” Mary looked at the way Agnes’s nimble hands worked a pair of knitting needles.
“Don’t be silly. I can go anytime I want,” Agnes insisted. “I was just looking to get out of the cold for a while, is all.”
“So a vacation someplace warm—?”
“Like I said, I can do that anytime.” Agnes smiled comfortably. “Options for someone my age are wide open.”
“I guess my options are open too.” Mary laid her hand on Jack’s knee.
“Tell me about the gloves, dear,” Agnes said. “I have to confess I started to take them off after the cab driver helped me get you into the house. I just assumed they were for warmth—”
“You saw my hands?” Mary asked with a quick look at Jack. “Was Jack—did he see—?”
“No, I didn’t see them. Nor did Jack. I only meant that when I started to remove your gloves, I saw a little bit of the scarring. But Jack was already fast asleep on the couch while I was trying to get you more comfortable.”
Mary sighed her relief. “I can’t explain my hands to him, and I don’t know what he’d think if he saw them. I just decided to never remove my gloves in front of him.”
“I see. . . .” Agnes nodded.
Mary finally answered the unspoken question. “Both my hands were burned when I was a little girl.”
“That’s awful.” Agnes shook her head. “How did it happen, dear?”
“An accident in the kitchen. Some boiling water . . .” Mary’s voice trailed off.
“What a shame. A tragedy for such a beautiful woman.”
Mary didn’t know how to respond, so she said nothing.
“And what of Jack’s father, may I ask?”
“He’s . . . not in our lives anymore.”
“My Henry’s been gone for ten years. He was a wonderful man, and to this day I still miss him.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“And I’m sorry for yours,” Agnes said quietly.
“Don’t be,” Mary answered shortly. Then, “It sounds like Henry was a good man.”
“He was,” Agnes agreed. “I was blessed to find him.”
“And we were lucky to find you at the bus station.” Mary smiled.
“I don’t think it was luck at all,” Agnes replied. “I think it was . . . Providence.”
“Well, whatever you want to call it, I’m grateful,” Mary said. “And we’ll get on our way as quickly as we can.”
Agnes gazed at Mary with an unreadable expression in her eyes. “Providence isn’t something you rush, Mary. Let’s just wait and see what happens—shall we?”
Chapter Eighteen
MARY FELT POSITIVELY LIGHT as she knelt beside Agnes to help turn over the soil in flower beds bordering the small, sunny yellow house. The early spring day was warm enough that they could work without winter jackets—the first time since she’d left Minnesota that they weren’t burdened with extra layers. Jack sat on his heels, his attention fixed on some fat worms squirming their way in and out of the loose soil.
“I wish I had extra gardening gloves for you,” Agnes commented, looking at Mary’s gloves now the color of the dirt.
“Don’t worry. I have several pairs,” Mary said as she dug up some weeds. She looked up at Agnes, who sat on a small gardening stool, and smiled. “I’m enjoying this.”
“Me too. Feeling the warmth of the sun, fresh air, anticipating God’s beauty to spiff up things around here—”
“I was wondering about that, Agnes. Why are you going to all this trouble when you might not be here to see the lilies come up?”
Agnes contemplated for a moment. “You know, I might have been too hasty about leaving Chicago when I was at the bus station the night we met,” she admitted. “Days like this make me realize winter always ends, and it’s beautiful right here. Besides, now I have you and Jack to consider.”
The comment surprised Mary but also touched her more than she could say. “Oh, Agnes—that’s so sweet, but Jack and I aren’t your responsibility,” she argued. “We’ll be moving on soon, and then you’ll—”
“But you said you have no family, no specific destination.” With a helping hand from Mary, Agnes rose slowly up off her stool, groaning with the effort.
Mary looked at her, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Yes, that’s true, but that has nothing to do with your plans.”
“Let’s take a break,” Agnes suggested as she rubbed a spot on her lower back. “The sunshine hasn’t caught up to my arthritis yet.” She moved to the front porch next to the flower beds and lowered herself onto the top step.
Mary noticed that Jack had changed position to sit cross-legged on the grass. His gaze now was on the horizon—and Mary was content to let him stay there. She sat down on the step next to Agnes.
“When I was a little girl, I used to help my folks in our garden,” Mary said after a companionable moment. “It’s one of
the happiest memories of my childhood.”
“What happened to them? To your parents?”
Mary took a while to answer. “My mother found out that Dad was cheating on her. There was lots of yelling . . . name-calling. Drinking. No more flowers to plant.” She looked at Agnes and forced a smile.
“That must have been so hard for you.”
Mary nodded and wove her fingers together around her knees. “My father eventually left us—left town—left me. I’ve always felt like the whole thing was my fault. That he hated me.”
“I’m sure he let you know it was ridiculous for you to blame yourself,” Agnes hurried to say.
“He stayed in touch for a few months after he left—and then I quit hearing from him. My mother gradually quit functioning. She lived on the couch with a bottle. My grandparents were dead. . . .” She followed Jack’s gaze to the horizon. “My teacher intervened, and when the school found out how I was living, I was sent to a foster family—and before a year was out, my mother died. They said she died from acute alcoholism—but I think it was more like she just gave up on living.”
“And eventually you met Jack’s father?”
A small, sad smile. “I met Jerry when I was sixteen. I was living with my third set of foster parents by then. Jerry was ready to give me the world on a silver platter. When he proposed I was thrilled. He didn’t care about my hands . . . he told me I was beautiful.”
“And he was right,” Agnes said. “About that, anyway.” The two women shared a rueful smile as Jack climbed up the steps to settle between them.
“Somehow, in the beginning, Jerry made me believe all those things he told me. I fell in love with him—with the life he was offering me. Our own house, our own family. Children I could love. I set out to be the best mother in the world.”
“Sounds like a good plan.”
“You know what they say—the best-laid plans . . .” Mary sighed. “Anyway, it wasn’t quite what I’d envisioned. I spent most of my marriage worried I’d say the wrong thing, make a wrong move, wear the wrong clothes. We had a roof over our heads and food on the table, but Jerry was growing more impatient with me—with Jack.” Mary looked away for a moment, then back at Agnes. “I worried that his temper was escalating. . . .” She gave a small shrug. “Then, well . . . let’s just say that an opportunity presented itself, a possibility for us to get away with a chance to survive, so I took it.”
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