I tug at my dress. “I’m making too big a deal of it is all.”
“But it is a big deal. Now that I know what that man did to you, it’s all I can do not to take a bullet to his brains.” He grits his teeth. “Makes me sick.”
I’m ashamed, wishing I hadn’t said so much.
“Hold your head up, Lovey. It’s not your fault.” He waits until I look his way. “You need to know I believe you. And I believe in you. Always have.”
All my wounds tie tight together in my throat.
“I can see now . . . maybe by letting Bitsy get away with it all those years . . . maybe I was teaching you it was okay to be treated that way.”
“I don’t—”
“Hear me out, Lovey. I made it your responsibility to keep the peace. At any cost.”
“I try.”
“I know you try. You always have. But I made you think you had to try harder. No wonder you ended up with a man like Reed. I taught you love was one-sided. That’s my fault. I can see it now.”
Chief rubs his hand through his hair. “It’s not okay to be treated that way. Not by Reed. Not by Bitsy. Not by anyone.” Then his own eyes become glassy and his voice begins to crack. “Thank goodness you fought your way out of that mess.”
He fidgets with the driver’s panel, and I don’t know what to say. After another long silence, Chief adds more. “As for Bitsy . . . something’s gotta give.”
“I don’t think anything can help at this point. No matter how hard I try, she always comes back swinging.”
“Well, remember what I said. Judas has a story too.”
I roll my eyes.
“Think about it. Regardless of all Judas had done, Jesus forgave him.”
“I have forgiven Bitsy. Don’t you see? She won’t stop.”
“Listen,” he says with a serious resistance. “It didn’t matter that Jesus forgave Judas. You know why? Because Judas never forgave himself.”
I wince.
“What I’m trying to say is . . . Judas’s own shame took him down. What if he had learned to love again? Can you imagine the good that could have come from his life if he had chosen a different path?”
“But that’s not the way the story goes, Chief. If anything, it teaches us some people never learn.”
“Look, Bitsy has done some horrible things. But she’s my child too, and I won’t give up on either of you. All things can be used for good. Even this.”
I shake my head, still unsure.
“That’s what the story is about. The choice we have when bad things happen.”
I stay quiet, wishing he would stop all the preaching.
“Jesus experienced the worst. Betrayed by someone he trusted, destroyed by the people he loved. Public shame, humiliation. He was falsely accused, said to be someone he wasn’t. He tried to tell people the truth, but few stood up for him, few believed. They stood and watched, even cheered as he endured tremendous torture, a brutal crucifixion. But despite all of it, he chose to love.”
My father keeps his eyes on me, a soft but serious stare as he continues. “It always circles round to the garden, doesn’t it? If we allow the ruin to be used for good . . . well then, life comes back. And I believe love can too.”
TWENTY-NINE
After an exhaustingly emotional night, Chief, Mother, and I gather in the kitchen for breakfast. “Morning,” I say, yawning over coffee as my parents share a kiss.
Chief drops a bagel into the toaster and looks my way. “Get enough sleep?”
“Yeah.” I yawn again. “You?”
“Just enough.” He gives me a long look, then grabs some cream cheese from the fridge. “What d’ya say we all go out for dinner tonight? Just the three of us.”
I nod, not even attempting to hide my smile. A night out with my parents, sans Bitsy. No stress. No hurtful accusations or stares. Too good to be true. “Y’all want to join me for some sunrise yoga?” I grab an apple.
“I’m about to take the ol’ tractor for a spin. Gotta clean the coops too. Might even skip church.”
I look to Mother, hoping she’ll say yes.
“Need to write a few thank-you notes while I have the energy.” She pulls a box of stationery to the kitchen table, along with a roll of stamps. A Mason jar of perennials rests in the center, a reminder that the seasons are changing, that Mother, too, will soon fade.
I take a seat. “I’m happy to help.”
“Oh, that’d be great, Lovey. But why don’t you go ahead with your workout, and I’ll have things organized by the time you make it back.” When I hesitate, she adds, “I’d like a little quiet time this morning anyway.”
I try not to worry, but even her smile is tired. When I press, she insists there’s nothing to be done here, so I finish our breakfast and join Chief outside. With the sun on the rise, a perky poplar tree holds the flame.
My father matches my steps, side by side along the path. He smells like trees. “Thanks for coming to get me last night.”
Chief doesn’t respond.
“I’ll pay for the truck to be fixed. I know how much it means to you.”
“Money’s the least of my worries, Lovey.” He slows his gait, glancing back toward the house. His fear reveals itself in furrows across his brow.
I follow his sad gaze, wishing I could ease his worry. “Why won’t she try? People beat cancer every day.”
Again, he doesn’t answer.
“What if we make an appointment anyway? Insist on it?”
“You know she’d never go for that. Besides, the doctors really don’t have any answers. There’s no good plan.”
“Then what? We’re supposed to just sit here and watch her waste away?” A surge of anger clenches my neck. I kick a small pine sapling, letting it snap back into place with force.
Chief takes note, stopping now to rest his hand across my tense shoulder. “She’s got two bad choices, Lovey. Neither would be easy. The least we can do is respect her decision and help her get through it.”
I press a low, dry hickory branch until it splits from the force of the bend.
“We’re lucky we’ve had her with us as long as we have,” Chief says. “Lot of people never know how it feels to be loved like that.”
This breaks me. How many years have I wasted? I’ve spent half my life chasing love that wasn’t real, when everything I needed has been here all along.
The hourglass hangs from my neck, and I fidget with it now. “I’m not ready, Chief. I want more time with her. With you. I just want more.”
Chief shakes his head. “Your mother has a favorite quote about time. From The Sound and the Fury, I think.”
“Faulkner?”
He nods. “She had it framed. Did you see it? On her dresser?”
My heart sinks with regret. Yet another piece of my mother I have overlooked.
“Says something about how clocks slay time,” he explains, as if by framing the quote she can hold tight to the moment she is in, rebel against the shifting sands and stop the forward movement.
I hide my hands in my pockets, hoping they’ll stop shaking. “Faulkner really had a way of putting things into words, didn’t he?”
Chief holds his green eyes on mine, those same Irish eyes he’s always called lucky. Then my father draws me near. It’s a tight hug, a sincere embrace that says, in all ways, we’re going to be okay. He drops a gentle kiss on the crown of my head. “I love you. You know that?”
Tears fall as I say, “I know.” And suddenly, the feral child inside joins the weary woman within. Together, their voices become one, and just like that . . . I am no longer divided by wounds. I am whole, and I am free. I am me.
Just as I shift my footing, Chief’s weight becomes heavy against my frame. I step back, and he falls, his hand grasping at his chest. His face is flushed, his neck pinched with tension. His throat, too tight for words.
“Chief!” I grab my father above the waist and struggle to pull him toward the shade, to safety. “Chief!” I
yell again. He stumbles, reaching to catch himself against the rusting panel of his tractor. He can no longer hold his own weight.
“Help!” I yell toward the house, toward the road, in every direction. “Help!” But only the animals hear me. The odor of gasoline leaks from the aged fuel tank, triggering that childhood panic.
“Breathe!” I shout, this time hovering over my father’s body. He has sunk all the way to the ground, unconscious. I yell again. Touch my father’s arms, chest. I shake him, easily at first, but then harder and harder, determined to draw a twitch, a gasp. Anything!
Behind me, a sheep bleats near the pond. The sound snaps me back as I fumble for my phone, dial 911. I confirm he has no pulse. Not breathing.
One . . . two . . . three . . . I pound my father’s chest and press my lips to his. But no matter how hard I cling to this life, I have no power. No control. I move dazed but determined, until my voice stops counting, insisting, “No, no, no . . .”
With the 911 operator still on the line, the first responders arrive. Time has no meaning to me now. I don’t know if it’s been two minutes or twenty since Chief clutched his heart and fell to the ground. My mother, seeing their arrival, rushes from the house to join the paramedics. Together, they move as a pack toward the barn.
“Here!” I yell, waving my arms. “Over here!”
Mother falls to her knees beside my father, the whites of her eyes wide with alarm. “Oh, Lovey.”
And we know, we both know. Chief is gone.
THIRTY
Mother sits between Bitsy and me in the memory garden, Chief’s ashes in an urn beside our feet. The children are in the distance, still in church clothes despite the evening hour. They are inspecting his tractor, as if they, too, find the truth hard to swallow. It’s been a full week now since their grandfather fell against the rust, his entire body contracting with pain. Still, it does not seem possible that he is gone.
“My sweet, sweet girls.” Mother gives our hands a gentle pulse.
I stare at the ashes, not ready to let go. “We don’t have to rush this.”
“It’s time,” she counters, reminding me the clock keeps moving no matter how much we wish it would stop. “Your father would have loved the memorial service. All those stories from our friends. Juke had everyone laughing. And Buzz saying the prayer? Wasn’t that something?”
I give her the affirmation she’s after, but my heart is heavy and my smile is too. Nothing in life has prepared me for this. How could it have? “I’m sorry,” I say for the millionth time.
“Lovey, you are going to have to make peace with this.” She rubs my hand softly.
“I keep thinking it through. He was breathing heavy during our walk. Something was off. I should have known—”
“It’s no one’s fault, Lovey,” Mother interrupts. “He just went ahead to hold the door for me is all.” She puts her arm around me, tenderly kisses my cheek. “Life has a way of giving us exactly what we need, even when we don’t understand it.”
Bitsy rolls her eyes, shakes her head. Resists.
“Chief would have told you the same thing,” Mother insists. “He had done what he was sent here to do. I’m at peace with that, and I want y’all to be too.”
Bitsy has been particularly quiet in the days since Chief’s heart attack, even giving me a look of kindness now as Mother continues to quiet our fears.
“Here’s the way I think of it.” Mother puts her arm around Bitsy now too. “When I’m starting a plant from seed, I let it sprout in the greenhouse first, right?”
We both nod on cue.
“Then I let it go through what gardeners call a hardening. I put it out for just a few hours at first. Slowly increase its exposure to the wind and rain, the cold and sun. You understand why I do this?”
We understand, but she continues anyway.
“If I put it straight out into the world, it’d get knocked back, too damaged to reach its full potential, might not even survive. So I have to care for it. Teach it. Give it time to adapt. Only then is it ready to thrive on its own as a healthy, happy plant. You see where I’m going with this?”
A caterpillar crawls across my foot, reminding me there is purpose in the process, even when I can’t always see what’s ahead.
“You’re both in a hardening season right now. That’s all this is. It’s scary, I know, and you may feel unsure, unrooted. But there’s a steady gardener in control, preparing the soil, strengthening your roots, giving you all you’ll need so you can bloom when the time comes. There is mercy in this madness, girls. We’re never as alone as it seems.”
With my elbows over my knees, I watch the caterpillar maintain her march. I try to picture my life without Chief. Without Mother. Without moments like this.
“I’ll be leaving you soon too, you know.”
No! my heart screams. NO!
“Maybe this is a step in that direction, preparing you to stand on your own, no matter what life brings.”
“I’m not ready,” I argue. Bitsy nods, in sync with me again after all these years.
“We can’t fight the seasons, girls.” She eyes Bitsy, then me. “But you both have some work to do. Your time is now.”
“What is it you think we need to do?” Bitsy asks, a tad defensively.
I lean closer into my mother, offering support and taking some as well.
“You’ve both been giving too much of yourselves to the wrong people, the wrong goals,” Mother says. “It hasn’t made either of you happy, has it?”
Silence. Then I give in. “I only wanted what you and Chief had. I thought Reed was ‘The One.’”
“Just remember, you can’t give anybody so much of yourself that if he runs off with it, there’s nothing left of you. Protect your spirit, girls. It’s the only one you’ve got.”
Bitsy looks at me. Then at Mother.
“When it all comes down to it, it’s the only real job we’ve been given,” Mother continues. “Get this one spirit through to the end. And still be willing to love and be loved in spite of all the hurts we endure along the way.”
“Easy for you to say.” Bitsy sighs. “You married Chief.”
It’s the first time she’s opened conversation about her marriage, and Mother and I both respond with concern, compassion. But our kindness turns Bitsy cold, her typical defense.
“You really want my advice, honey?”
“Sure,” Bitsy says with a halfhearted sigh.
“Okay, then. Your grandmother used to say we should never chase a love that leaves us.” Then she stands, eyes us both. She lifts Chief’s ashes now, ready to send them to the wind. “Sometimes the best thing to do is let go. Even if it’s the one thing we love most in the world.”
Just before sunset, Mother and I join Bitsy, Trip, and Mary Evelyn in the pasture. The lambs sing out as we scatter Chief’s ashes. At our feet Manning whimpers among the black-eyed Susans as if he, too, is letting go. Fireflies ignite, a sensitive reminder of Chief.
That night on the dark, wet back roads, when my life came crashing to a halt, Chief showed up. He listened. He cared. And he gave me the healing I had been seeking since childhood. After I’d spent years stuck in the pain, my father took one look down into that Mason jar, recognized the light in me, and gave me the gentle nudge I needed, reminding me I was born to shine and to fly free. That one pivotal moment was all it took to shake me loose.
“Remember those trips to the Smokies?”
Mother smiles, and I sense she has been sharing the very same thought. That we were witnessing nothing short of miracles right there among those cloud-soaked forests. That the miracles are here with us again, tonight. That Chief is too.
“Well, I was just thinking how much more powerful it is when we’re all lighting up together, at the same time. Not scattered out across the darkness.”
“Family First,” Bitsy says, then sighs. “Something I can’t seem to get right, no matter how hard I try.”
I suddenly realize this familia
r mantra has kept Bitsy trapped in a dangerous place far too long, sacrificing her own safety and sanity in order to preserve what remains of her marriage.
Mother wipes one slow tear and counters the old adage. “I think what Chief really meant was Love First. If we love one another in a healthy way, the family will naturally thrive. But it’s up to every member of the team to pull their weight and play their part. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter how hard you try, Bitsy. If Whitman isn’t equally invested, a balanced partner, it simply won’t work. Wisteria, kudzu, English ivy—they’ll swallow you whole if you let them. That’s not family. That’s not love.”
When we return to the house, Fisher and Blaire are waiting for us on the front porch. I fight my urge to turn for the barn, choosing instead to greet them with the best friendship I can offer. “We brought supper,” Blaire says, giving Bitsy a hug and me a smile.
Mother responds with appreciation and leads us all inside where we are treated to a spread of baked chicken, green beans, macaroni and cheese, and crowder peas. “All made from scratch by Supper-to-Go.” Blaire laughs, confessing she’s never cooked more than a frozen dinner in her gourmet kitchen.
“Very kind,” I tell her, unable to say the rest of what I need to say. That I’m happy Fisher found someone. That I’m sorry I caused any kind of rift between them. That I will always love him, but I had my chance. I’ll let him go.
Instead, Blaire is the one who brings up the topic while the two of us set the dining room table. “Lovey, I know this whole thing with Fisher and me has kind of been freaking you out.”
Her tone is much like a teenager’s, and I want to latch onto her youthful energy, the inner pulse of light she hasn’t yet lost in this life. Makes me think again of Glinda the Good Witch, “a beautiful woman, who knows how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived.”
“Fisher told me all about it,” she continues. “How y’all have . . . reconnected, I guess you’d call it.”
My stomach tightens. Is this it? The phone call from Meghan? The confrontation with the sleazy other woman—me? I come up with a frail excuse. “It’s not what you think.”
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