More Than You Know

by Nan Rossiter

  “Oh, Mia,” he whispered, “I had no idea—I’m so sorry.” He pulled me up into his arms, and I clung to him as I would a life raft. I don’t know how long we stood there, I only remember the way it felt to be held after so long. I was weary from bearing my burden alone.

  Finally, I pulled away—the reality of the world tugging me back. “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head and trying to muster a smile. “I really should go. I have three little girls at home.”

  “You do?!” His voice sounded incredulous, and he shook his head and laughed. “Mia, I’ve learned more about you in the last eight minutes than I have in the last eight weeks!”

  I laughed, too, and he cupped his chin, thinking. “Well, I don’t want to lose track of you … what if I were to write?”

  “I’m sure you have more important things to do … Besides, what would your wife say?”

  He didn’t answer as he looked around for a pencil and paper, and I jotted down my name and address.

  He looked at the paper and smiled. “I will write to you, Mrs. Mia Graham.”

  I nodded and laughed, but I honestly thought I would never hear from David Gilead again.

  Beryl looked at her sisters. “Can you believe Mum never told us this?”

  They both shook their heads. “It’s crazy!” Rumer said.

  “If it wasn’t her handwriting,” Isak added, “I wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Should I keep going?”

  Just then, Isak’s phone rang. “It’s Meghan,” she said with a smile, getting up and going inside.

  Beryl yawned. “I must be getting old, because lately wine just makes me very drowsy.”

  Rumer nodded. “I know what you mean.” Then her phone rang too. She looked at the screen and sighed. “It’s Will, Ber; I better take it too.”

  Beryl nodded as her sister went out into the yard. She stood and stretched too. “C’mon, Flan,” she said, gently nudging the dog with her toe. “I guess story time is over.”

  Flan opened one droopy eye and then promptly closed it again. But after another encouraging toe nudge, she pulled herself up and tromped groggily down the steps.

  16

  From the bottom of the stairs, Micah could hear Harper’s tail thumping on the hardwood floor, and when he reached the landing, he peeked around the door. The ceramic sleepy moon nightlight from his childhood softly illuminated the small bedroom that had also once been his, and Harper looked up, her tail still drumming on the floor as she wriggled onto her back expectantly. Micah knelt down to scratch her belly and whispered, “You’re silly, you know that?” The soft kindness in his voice made her tail thump harder. Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. After he’d asked his parents if he and Charlotte could move back home until he got his bearings again, his mom had immediately begun transforming his old room into one that was perfect for a little girl; and she’d claimed, after raising two boys, she’d loved every minute! Ocean blue walls had been painted a warm, sunny yellow; the windows had been cleaned to a sparkle, and the faded John Deere curtains had been washed, pressed, and tucked away; in their place were hung crisp new gingham curtains that were held open with playful Winnie-the-Pooh pull-backs; on the bed was a matching quilt and sham; other furnishings included a small white bureau and mirror, a child’s refurbished wooden desk, and, in the corner, a small rocking chair that his dad had given a fresh coat of green paint—and sitting in the chair was Winnie himself.

  Micah listened to Charlotte’s soft breathing and lightly brushed back her wispy blond curls. He gazed at her sweet face—her nose sprinkled with freckles—and, for the millionth time, decided she looked just like her mother. “Good night, Char,” he whispered. “I love you.”

  He leaned down to gently kiss her forehead, and she murmured sleepily, “To the moon and back.”

  Micah smiled and felt oddly at peace. This old house, with his parents downstairs, made him feel safe—just as he had when he was a boy—and it was a welcome respite from a world that left him feeling abandoned and broken.

  “C’mon, Harp, let’s go,” Micah whispered and the happy-go-lucky Lab scrambled up to follow him down the stairs. Micah let her out the front door and then settled in a chair across from his mom.

  Maddie peered at him over her glasses. “Sleeping?”

  Micah nodded. “You really made that room so nice, Mom. I hope you know how much I appreciate it.”

  “It was my pleasure, hon. Charlotte’s such a love and we enjoy having her—and you—here. It brings life back into this old house”—she eyed her husband—“and she definitely puts a sparkle in your dad’s eyes.”

  Asa looked up from his book. “I always have a sparkle,” he protested, sounding wounded.

  “I know,” Maddie teased. “But ever since that little girl marched up your front walk carrying her little pink suitcase and climbed into your lap, you sparkle all the time.”

  His dad grinned, knowing she was right. “What can I say? She’s my little honey.” He closed his book and stretched. “But you’re my big honey,” he teased, kissing the top of her head. His mom shook her head, and Micah laughed and wondered if he’d ever be able to let go of his past and fall in love again—if he’d ever have an easygoing, loving relationship like his parents had.

  Asa opened the front door and Harper bounded over to Micah, wagging her tail. She leaned against him happily and then tried to push her hind end onto his lap.

  “I think she likes you,” his mom said with a laugh; then she looked up at her husband.

  “Why don’t you tell Micah your idea?”

  Micah looked up at his dad, puzzled, and waited, scratching Harper’s haunches.

  Asa hesitated. “Well, I don’t know if it’s a good idea and I don’t know if Beryl and her sisters already have plans—but I was thinking of offering to make a box or an urn out of wood. I have some nice oak.”

  “Dad, I think that’s a great idea,” Micah said with an approving nod.

  17

  Beryl woke with a start, disoriented, and glanced around the dark room. Gazing through the open window at the predawn sky, she suddenly remembered, with a sinking heart, why she was there. “Oh, Mum,” she whispered, tears springing to her eyes. Sleep, she realized, offered only a temporary respite from the world and its troubles; inevitably, one had to wake up—only to be mercilessly slammed back into heart-wrenching reality. She laid still, her heart aching to relive one last treasured moment with her mom.

  Listening to the familiar creaks and moans of the old house, she stared at a small crack in the ceiling and recalled the poignant scene in Thornton Wilder’s beloved play, Our Town, when Emily is given the chance to return to life and witness a day from her childhood; it’s not a birthday or holiday—it’s an uneventful day like any other, and as the lovely voices from Emily’s past come to life, she suddenly and sorrowfully realizes how fleeting and precious life is—and how we humans, tragically, don’t seem to notice the loveliness of everyday moments while we are living them. A breeze whispered through the pines outside the window and Beryl, lying in her childhood bed, could almost hear her mom’s voice calling up the stairs….

  “C’mon, girls, get moving or you’re going to miss the bus!” The squeaky oven drawer clunks open and pots clank noisily against one another as one is yanked from underneath the pile of lids. “You’re not going to have time for breakfast,” warns her mom’s exasperated voice. “Mum, where’s my blue blouse?” Isak hollers impatiently. “It’s still in the laundry, dear. You’ll have to wear something else.” The teakettle begins to sing softly. “Did you iron my skirt, Ma?” “It’s hanging in your closet, Ru. Please hurry, and don’t forget your homework!” The kettle whistles impatiently now and when it’s finally lifted from the burner, it squawks with little bursts of steam. “Blueberry, are you up yet?” “Yes, Mum, I’m up,” she calls back …

  Beryl’s reverie was suddenly interrupted by a cardinal calling—tentatively at first, then with more conviction. Not
to be outdone, Mr. Grosbeak answered, adding a string of notes for good measure. Beryl glanced at the bedside clock: It was 4:30. She smiled; her mom always said the songbirds woke at 4:30—without fail; she’d said you could set your clock by it! And, oh, how many summer mornings had they cuddled in soft blankets on porch chairs and blinked at the gray sky, waiting in the cool misty air, just to hear that first sleepy chirp blossom into a chorus? As she listened now, a cheerful chickadee chimed in, and a bluebird, landing in the pine, cleared his throat and squeaked his bright, cheery greeting. Before long, there was a symphony coming from the trees, serenading the dawn. Beryl smiled and, as she brushed away her tears, an overwhelming sense of peace swept over her…. “I’m right here, Berry, dear … I’m right here with you!”

  Beryl gulped down the last of her lukewarm tea and placed the empty teacup in the sink where Rumer was washing the breakfast dishes.

  “Is the coffeepot empty?” Rumer asked, nodding at it.

  Beryl swirled the ancient percolator and pulled off its top. “Yup.” She unplugged it, gingerly lifted out the hot grounds, and dumped them in the garbage.

  “Aren’t you supposed to put those on the compost?” Rumer asked, eyeing her.

  Beryl looked up in surprise and realized she was teasing. Rumer smiled and turned to look out the window at the mountain of rich, dark earth covered with tall, lush weeds. Mia had always been so conscientious about maintaining the compost pile: vegetable skins, banana peels, apple and cucumber peels, egg shells, coffee grounds—anything remotely biodegradable had gone into a pail, which, once full, had been carried out and deposited on the pile; then Mia had faithfully turned the pile with a pitchfork. Who will benefit from all Mum’s labor? Rumer wondered sadly…. Some family who just won’t give a damn—that’s who!

  Isak came into the kitchen carrying the boxes she’d been reassembling with tape. “Are you two almost done with your room?” Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “Because I think we should start making some trips to the thrift store. There’s going to be a lot and we don’t want to overwhelm them.”

  “Maybe if we take a little every day, they won’t know it’s all coming from the same horde,” Beryl suggested.

  Isak nodded in agreement. “Well, I think we should try and take a load this morning if we can get one together.” She paused, looking troubled. “Another problem, though, is we’re not going to fit very much into either of our cars.”

  Beryl dried the last of the dishes and Rumer leaned against the counter, drying her hands. “I wonder if that old trailer is still in the garage.”

  Beryl groaned. “Now, that’s a scary thought. None of us was ever very good at backing up that trailer—can you imagine trying to maneuver it in town? Besides, the Mini doesn’t have a hitch, and I’m sure that Mustang doesn’t either.” She looked at Isak and teased, “How come you didn’t rent a big SUV this time?”

  “I didn’t think of it,” she said regretfully. “Don’t you know anyone who has a truck?”

  “Well, I know Will and Ru …” she started to say, but Rumer just rolled her eyes. “Hey!” she added brightly. “Micah has a station wagon—and he did say he was going to call today.”

  “He did?!” Rumer and Isak both asked in surprised unison.

  “Yup,” Beryl replied with a grin.

  “All right, well, let’s start filling boxes and hopefully he’ll call soon,” Isak began. “If not, Ber, you’ll have to call him.”

  They carried the empty boxes up the stairs. “This is so depressing,” Rumer groaned.

  “At least you two are working in the same room,” Isak replied. “I’m all by myself.”

  “That’s payback for having your own room when we were growing up,” Beryl teased.

  Isak shook her head and continued down the hall. “We need to start on Mum’s room when we’re finished with these,” she called over her shoulder.

  “That’ll be even more depressing,” Rumer lamented.

  Beryl dropped her boxes on the floor and put her arm around her sister’s shoulder. “We’ll get through it, Ru.”

  “I know, but I just keep wishing we didn’t have to sell the house at all.”

  “I wish that, too, but what else can we do? You’re in Montana, Isak’s in California—and it’s too big for me. It’ll be okay—I think you’ll find that you won’t miss it as much as you think. With time, material things—once we let go—have a way of not having the significance we’ve pinned to them.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Rumer said as she folded faded shorts, jeans, Tshirts, and blouses, and tucked them neatly into boxes.

  “In fact,” Beryl went on, “once we take this stuff to the thrift store, you probably won’t ever think of it again.”

  Rumer raised her eyebrows doubtfully.

  The morning slipped by—punctuated by numerous beeping from Rumer’s phone, signaling texts from Rand. The first one reported that Norman had thrown up on the carpet—GROSS! And, as a result, he’d missed the bus—which made DAD even MADDER! The second one said that he’d gotten a C+ on a math test :-). The third text revealed he’d forgotten his lunch and had no money. STARVING! :-(

  “I thought kids weren’t supposed to use their phones in school,” Beryl said.

  “They’re not,” Rumer replied as she tediously pressed buttons two and three times in an effort to respond to him on her outdated flip phone, which was held together with artist’s tape.

  “C-plus on a math test—what’s up with that?”

  “That’s good!” Rumer replied with a smile, obviously pleased by the report.

  “What’s he going to do about lunch?”

  Rumer was concentrating on her phone and answered slowly as she typed, “I … hope … he … can … borrow … some … money …”

  Beryl left her sister to her archaic texting and carried a heavy box out into the hall. She dropped it with a thud, arched her aching back, and decided to check on Isak. Peering into the room at the end of the hall, she asked, “How’s it going?”

  “Almost done!” Isak said, looking up as she sealed a box with tape. Several piles of boxes were already stacked around the room, and the closet and bureau drawers were open and empty. “I just need to vacuum.”

  “You’re such a go-getter!” Beryl teased.

  “Right,” Isak replied with a hint of sarcasm. “I just want to go-get it over with. This is definitely not fun.”

  “Did you find anything worth keeping?”

  Isak nodded and lifted the lid off a box on the bed. “I found this Steiff toy.” She held up a small, bristly beaver. “But he’s missing his tag—probably because I cut it off when I was little. And I found my Bible and some other books Mum gave me through the years.” She glanced through the titles: “Out of Africa and Shadows on the Grass—of course—”

  “That’s funny,” Beryl interrupted, “I found West with the Night too.”

  Isak smiled and continued, “It’s an eclectic collection … Catcher in the Rye, Siddhartha, The Fountainhead, Jane Eyre, Dandelion Wine, East of Eden, The Great Gatsby … Oh, I also found Where the Wild Things Are—I think it might be a first edition.”

  “It would say on the copyright page.”

  Isak opened the book and scanned the page; her face lit up. “First edition—1963—didn’t it win the Caldecott, though? It doesn’t have a sticker.”

  “It wouldn’t if it’s a first edition—it hadn’t won yet.”

  “It was a birthday present—and it’s signed by Mum and Dad.”

  “You’re lucky—I don’t have any books like that. Unfortunately, their inscription probably brings down its value.”

  “Not for me—besides, I’d never sell it.” Then, suddenly realizing her younger sister couldn’t possibly have any gifts from their dad, she asked, “Do you want it, Ber? I’d give it to you.”

  “Don’t be silly, it’s yours—besides, you’re going to be a grandma someday and you’ll have someone to read it to.”

  Isak
groaned. “Don’t remind me!”

  Beryl slipped her hands in her pockets and leaned against the door. “Aren’t you looking forward to being a grandma?”

  Isak sat on the bed and sighed. “I am—someday. I’m just not looking forward to being old enough to be one.”

  “Mum loved being a grandma.”

  “I know she did—too bad we were so far away.” She shook her head sadly. “I really regret not living closer. I wish I hadn’t been so selfish.”

  Beryl frowned. “You weren’t selfish. You just had a life of your own—Mum understood that.” She sat on the bed next to Isak, slipped the famous children’s book from her hands, and slowly turned the pages.

  Isak looked at the pictures too. “I was a lot like Max,” she said with a chuckle. “Bossy, unruly, imprudent …”

  Beryl laughed. “You still are! But Mum always had supper waiting for you.” Isak’s face was shadowed with pain, and Beryl could see the unguarded grief in her sister’s eyes. It was the same look she’d seen in her sister’s eyes the day their beloved golden retriever, Hemingway, had been hit by a car—and Isak, older and wiser at age ten, had been the one to find him lying by the side of the road.

  “I miss her so much, Ber,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

  Beryl put her arms around her. “I know … I know—I miss her too.”

  Just then, Rumer appeared in the doorway. “Hey! Is this a private party or can anyone … ?”

  “You can …” they said, wiping their eyes and motioning for her to join them.

  Rumer sat down next to Isak and Beryl explained, “We were just missing Mum … and Isak finally admitted she was a lot like Max.” She smoothed her hand over the book’s cover and Rumer realized she was talking about the wayward character in the children’s book.