Pixie Pushes On

by Tamara Bundy

  “I always wanted to do this,” she told me. “My mama crocheted me a blanket before I was born. I love that blanket.”

  “Why didn’t you ask her to teach you?” I asked.

  Berta stopped working and was quiet for a minute. “Didn’t you know?” she finally said. “My mama . . . she died.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know that. When?”

  Berta looked me straight in the eye when she answered. “The day I was born.”

  “I’m real sorry,” I said, looking right back into her eyes. “My mama died too.”

  “I know.” She nodded. “I’m sorry too.” She started crocheting again, and that was that. No meanness. Just the two of us sitting side by side, knowing there was no need to talk about something sad we had in common that neither one could change.

  * * *

  * * *

  By the time Grandma had finished up paying for her groceries, Berta had added a few more rows.

  “I think you got this crocheting thing figured out,” I said, standing up.

  Berta looked at her work and nodded. “I guess I do. Why, I think my rows are looking even better than yours now.”

  I just shook my head, never minding the fact she was right. Guess there were still parts of Berta that weren’t going to make it easy for me to forget my nickname for her.

  But then, as I walked over to Grandma, Berta hollered, “Don’t forget to get your valentines! The party’s tomorrow. I’m bringing sugar cookies for everyone.”

  I wasn’t planning to ask Grandma to buy any valentines, what with her always telling me about the war rations and times being tough. But I have to admit, after a week of gluing lace, paper hearts, and doilies all over that big box Miss Beany brought in to hold valentines, I’d been thinking about it.

  Guess for once Berta’s big mouth actually helped me, since Grandma answered, “That’s right—you need some penny valentines for your friends. Go pick out the ones you want.”

  “Can I?”

  Grandma smiled. “Yes, you may.”

  I looked through some of the sheets of valentines in the store. Some were too mushy and lovey. And some were just silly, like a puppy saying, “Doggone it, I like you,” or a tank with a soldier asking, “Do I have a fighting chance to have you for a valentine?”

  And then I saw a sheet of valentines that were all about farm animals. The one I liked best had a lamb on the front that said, “Wool you be mine?”

  Bet Ricky would think that was funny.

  After we settled up with the grocer, we headed out to meet Granddaddy. Berta was still sitting on the bench, concentrating so much on her crocheting that she didn’t seem to notice us leaving. But wouldn’t you know, right when we opened the door, mixed with the jingle of the bell, I heard Berta say, “Thanks for helping me.”

  On the way home, I thought about Berta, sitting there all sad one minute and then bragging the next.

  Granddaddy always says we shouldn’t try to figure out who people are until they show us. But what are you supposed to do when somebody shows you so many different things about themselves you just can’t figure ’em out at all?

  CHAPTER 25

  Even though the sun was barely up, I was already down in the cellar feeding Buster. Today was the day I was finally going to see Charlotte live and in person, and it couldn’t happen soon enough.

  Last night, I lay awake staring up at her bunk, remembering all the stories she would tell me on the nights I couldn’t fall asleep. And as much as the sadness of missing her tried its darndest to creep over me, I wouldn’t let it. I only had room for excitement since I knew I was about to see her again!

  See her. Hear her. Hug her.

  Charlotte’s hugs are almost as good as Mama’s. And the thought of hugging at least one of ’em again made me squeal.

  Buster didn’t take too kindly to my squealing and looked up at me from his bottle as if to ask if I had any manners at all. I laughed. “Sorry, Buster, but you gotta understand I’m seeing my sissy today!”

  And as if that wasn’t the most exciting news ever, he went right back to slurping up his bottle.

  Then it was off to the henhouse for me.

  Now that mud season was here, the trek to the henhouse was tricky. With each step, I had to watch where I stomped my feet—or I’d end up on my backside in a sloppy mess of mud and melting snow.

  When I finally got there, I glanced behind me, surprised at how different the farm looked this time of year. I guess much of my life looked different too. But today I was plenty happy. And even that dang chicken wasn’t going to ruin my mood! I might’ve set a new record for gathering the eggs.

  “Look who’s up at the crack of dawn!” Grandma said as I came into the kitchen and handed her the egg basket. “Guess I don’t have to ask what woke you today.”

  It was so early I got to have breakfast with Daddy.

  Grandma must have been so happy for me that she couldn’t even comment on how I gulped down my breakfast.

  But Daddy did. “No need to rush. Visiting hours don’t start till noon. Plus, before I take you this time, I’m gonna see if I can make a call to the hospital on the Browns’ phone, just to make sure.”

  I almost dropped the dish I’d started washing. “Make sure of what, Daddy?”

  “Now, don’t get all worried. It’s just a precaution—to make sure Charlotte is still having visitors. I don’t want ya to get all the way there and be disappointed—again. I won’t do that to ya.”

  “But . . . but . . . you don’t think she’s worse, do you?”

  “’Course not. I got no reason to think Charlotte’s anything but improvin’—but I want to make this call first, okay?”

  It was not okay that I had to wait what seemed like hours for Daddy to get back.

  And it was definitely not okay when Daddy walked in the door and said, “It’s a good thing I called first.”

  “What’s wrong with Charlotte, Daddy?” I was fighting back tears, and the tears were about to win.

  “Charlotte’s fine, Pru. She’s getting better.”

  “Oh, good! Then we can see her today?”

  Daddy shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Remember how you got sick a while back?”

  “Yeah. But I’m all better. I—”

  “It’s not you being sick now—it’s everyone else. There’s some influenza going around, and they’re cutting back on visitors.”

  “So we can’t see her anymore?”

  “Well, they’re not stopping everyone from visiting, but they are stopping children—anyone under fifteen—from coming.”

  “But that’s not fair. I already was sick, and I’m better, and—” My tears tumbled out.

  Daddy pulled me close, my cheek rubbing on the roughness of his coat. “I know, honey. I know you’re disappointed, and I’m real sorry. I promise you I will bring you as soon as I can. And I bet she’ll have a letter for you.”

  I just shook my head.

  ’Course I loved Charlotte’s letters, but it wasn’t the same.

  A letter’s not like being in the same room with a person, breathing the same air, holding on to each other. Knowing they understand the words you’re saying—as well as the words you’re not saying.

  CHAPTER 26

  While Granddaddy and Daddy went to the hospital, Grandma thought it’d be good for me to stay busy. I’m not sure why so many of the things that are good for me are not at all fun for me.

  But since my perfect day was already ruined, it seemed only fitting to have to sort through buckets of potatoes that smelled like dirt, finding the ones ready for planting. My job—and Betsy’s job, too, since she’d been tagging along with Ricky more and more—was to find the potatoes just starting to sprout eyes and throw away the ones that were starting to go bad.

  “Ew,” Betsy squealed as her finger poked
through a rotten one. She pulled it out and flung the mushy potato across the table. If I hadn’t been so mad about everything, I might have laughed at the sour look on her face.

  “Do you do this every year?” she asked, wiping her hand on her overalls.

  “Sure do,” Grandma answered.

  Betsy stretched her neck to look over Grandma’s shoulder. “What do you do with those pieces that aren’t rotten?”

  “These here will dry for twenty-four hours,” Grandma said. “Then, they’ll get planted on Saint Paddy’s Day, and from the eyes, new potato plants will grow.”

  “What’s special about that day?”

  Grandma paused from her chopping for a minute and looked up, like she was enjoying the memory. “Just a family tradition, I guess. Probably has more to do with the timing in the month of March—but my daddy always planted potatoes on that day, so we’ve always done it too.”

  I laid the last of the not-rotten potatoes on the table for Grandma, thinking about traditions. I wished things would stop changing so much around here so that we could have more traditions—and people—to hold on to.

  I mumbled, “I really wanted to see Charlotte today.”

  “I know ya did, Pru.” Grandma’s voice was soft.

  “Seems strange to me—a hospital telling sick people to stay away,” I said, starting to complain again, but just then Ricky came in from the barn, and Betsy jumped up to give him a hug as if she hadn’t just seen him an hour earlier.

  Ricky hugged her back. “You been a good girl in here, Betsy?”

  “I’m helping go through the stinky potatoes to find the ones with eyes to plant on Saint . . . Saint . . . Potatoes’ Day?”

  “Saint Paddy’s Day,” Grandma said.

  Ricky smiled at his sister and then turned to Grandma. “I’m all done today, Mrs. Johnston. Noticed Horse’s been shifting his weight off one of his hind feet—might need a new shoein’ soon. Thought I’d mention it.”

  “Thanks, Ricky. I’ll be sure to pass that along. Wanna come sit for a spell? Maybe talk to this young lady to keep her from traipsin’ to Indianapolis to demand the hospital let her in,” Grandma said, winking at me.

  “Thank you—but me and Betsy better be getting home.”

  Grandma patted his shoulder. “How’s your mama today?”

  “She’s . . . um . . .” He glanced at Betsy, who was back poking around the bucket of bad potatoes. “I think she’ll be right fine real soon. She’s just . . . tired.” He cleared his throat like there was something stuck there.

  Ricky told me last week his mama had been staying in bed a lot recently. A few ladies from church had started taking turns checking on her and bringing food.

  But Ricky didn’t like to talk about it much.

  “I bet you’re right,” Grandma said. “Your mama’ll be back to feeling like her old self soon. Meanwhile, I got some leftover ham I’d like you to take home with you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. That’s real nice.” Ricky tried to smile at Grandma. “Ma said when she’s feeling better, she’s gonna have to bake from here to the end of days to pay back all the kind folks who’ve helped us out.”

  “That’s what neighbors are for.” Grandma wrapped up the ham as she talked. “Tell your mama her only worry needs to be to rest up and feel better.”

  “I sure will,” Ricky said.

  After hugs for each of us from Betsy, they both headed home while we cleaned up the potato mess.

  “How much time you think his mama will need?” I asked.

  “Can’t rightly say. Sometimes the pain we can’t see is the deepest pain of all. We’ll help her till she’s ready to help herself—and her youngins.”

  “I’m surprised Betsy seems happy all the time.”

  Grandma’s face pinched up a bit before she answered. “I imagine she feels more than she lets on. Things have gotten hard over there—an aunt from Cincinnati wanted to get Betsy and Ricky to come stay with her, but Ethel didn’t want to leave in case one of the men returns. She says they can manage just fine, with Ricky being such a help.”

  I thought of Bill’s letter to Ricky, and my heart hurt for Ricky and his family.

  “He’s a nice boy,” Grandma said, but she didn’t have to tell me that.

  Then, gathering up all the potato pieces, she said, “Tell you what—since we’re done with these here potatoes, let’s take ’em down to the cellar, where you’ll see I’m fixing to finish making the butter. The milk’s been sittin’ in the milk cooler for three days now, so there’ll be some cream on top that somebody could have if they wanted.”

  With each step down the cellar stairs, I thought about Ricky and Betsy and how they must be missing their old traditions and family members too. And still, they just kept getting up each morning, hoping each new day would be better than the one before.

  Maybe that’s what Granddaddy would call “pushing on.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Mama used to say Charlotte and I grew by leaps and bounds. I don’t think I ever understood that more than I did watching Buster grow so fast. As a matter of fact, I worried if he didn’t slow down his growing, he’d soon be leaping and bounding out of the old casket box.

  I knew it wouldn’t be too much longer that he could stay in the cellar.

  I loved having him in the house—but I did not love keeping his box clean. Seemed like every time I raked it out and carried the yucky bucket outside, it was time to do it all over again. But I knew the only thing worse than smelling Buster’s mess would be for Grandma to smell it first.

  I was washing out the bucket by the water pump when I heard Granddaddy and Daddy coming down the lane.

  “What did Charlotte look like when you saw her?” I said, pouncing on them the minute they got out of the car.

  “Charlotte?” Granddaddy cleared his throat. “Let me see . . . Well, she’s ten foot tall now and has blue hair growing all over her head.” He swished my hair while we walked into the house.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Tell me exactly what Charlotte looked like when you saw her. Please.”

  Granddaddy gave me a hug, and Daddy answered. “Well, Pru, she looked like Charlotte, but a thinner, more tired Charlotte.”

  “When can she come home?”

  Daddy shook his head. “I’m not gonna lie to ya. She’s working really hard to get better—and she is getting better. But she has a ways to go yet.”

  Grandma joined in the conversation, and they started talking about her doctor and “therapy” and “support braces” and a whole bunch of other medical stuff.

  I took the new letter Charlotte had given them for me and headed upstairs, thinking I didn’t like Daddy’s prediction that she still had a ways to go before coming home.

  Dear Pixie,

  I miss you!

  How’s everything at the farm? I can’t believe I’m missing the whole winter there. Remember last year when we first moved there and thought it was the coldest, snowiest place on earth? I remember standing in the orchard early one morning, seeing everything covered with a thick blanket of white snow. I remember it being fresh and perfect.

  I want to see that again.

  There’s a lot of white here too. White sheets, white nurse uniforms, white doctor coats, white walls. Like the snow, white covers everything. It’s so very cold, but not very pretty.

  It was Nancy’s birthday last week, and we threw her a party. I gave her one of my paper dolls and some of the paper outfits I got from Daddy for Christmas, and Nurse Margie brought her a piece of cake from the cafeteria with three candles in it. Nancy had so much fun but was kind of confused by it all. I don’t blame her. How can she be one year older when she’s stuck in here?

  It’s like the rest of the world stopped. No more Christmas, no more New Year, no more birthdays. I wrote a poem about it:

 
Time no longer ticks by

  When you’ve only time to kill

  ’Cause stuck in a hospital,

  Time stands deadly still.

  Sorry I’m so depressing. I’ll think of something good to tell you.

  Oh—I know. I screamed yesterday. Well, that wasn’t the good part. Here’s what happened:

  I’ve been reading to this one girl, Gloria, who is in the iron lung machine I told you about, the one that’s the size of the old coffin boxes. She needs the push of the machine to breathe. She spends her whole day and night lying down, stuck in that thing. Once a day, the nurses take the lid off and give her medicines and massage her legs and wash her, but it can only be for a short time, or she’ll die, since her lungs can’t breathe in the oxygen on their own.

  Well, I rolled in to read to Gloria when I saw the lid off of her iron lung and the nurse talking on the phone at her desk, not paying Gloria any mind at all. Gloria was struggling to breathe, but she couldn’t talk . . . She couldn’t get enough air to say anything. “Hey!” I yelled to the nurse on the phone, but she ignored me, and I knew there wasn’t much time.

  I tried to reach the cover, but I didn’t know how to hook everything back up, so I did the only thing I could think of. I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Somebody help! Somebody help!” And I didn’t stop until two nurses, a doctor, and the janitor got to the room. They saw Gloria struggling and fixed the iron lung back on her. That nurse got a talking-to, but not before giving me a dirty look.

  Poor Gloria! She was so scared! And I was so happy my lungs were working fine!

  I took three steps today. It was with a walker and nurses holding me—but it’s worth talking about. I’d forgot what it felt like to stand. Standing feels good.

  I plan on standing at home before you know it, the good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.