He was right. She’d had a wonderful childhood. After observing how other families interact, she knew she’d missed wonderful things that other children had. Memories of walks, talks, games, life with Mother made up for any loss.
The memory of Ian’s little hands, soft snores, and downy hair filled her heart with a longing for a child that she’d never known. “I don’t suppose Aggie would give up Ian,” she whispered, still reeling from the realization that children meant a side of marriage she firmly intended to skip altogether.
“I think she’s a little too attached just to hand him over,” Chad agreed.
“But she has so many!”
It took several seconds for Chad to catch the teasing glint in her eye. “You’d think she could spare one or two, wouldn’t you. Besides, by the time she and Luke have half a dozen of their own, they’ll be overrun.”
Willow’s jaw nearly connected with her bowl. “You think they’ll have more?” The idea of more than one child was overwhelming to Willow, but then she’d always imagined herself with two. Eight nearly sent her into hyperventilation. Deliberately having more just made no sense.
“I think Aggie and Luke will want the chance to experience parenthood from the ground up, so to speak. Luke was joking about having an even dozen—since their last name isn’t Baker.”
She rolled her eyes at the bad pun before remarking, “That is just incredible. I’m overwhelmed at the thought of those two children staying with me. The idea of having more—”
Chad nodded. “I understand. What seems normal to me is foreign to you. I was just curious.”
She’d disappointed him—again. Willow saw it and felt terrible about it immediately. Her fears and insecurities shouldn’t dictate her life, and she was ashamed that she’d let it affect Chad’s as well. “Well, if Aggie won’t share, we’ll have to figure something out eventually. I want a baby to snuggle with someday. Not anytime soon mind you,” she hastened to add, ready to consider yielding but not before she had time to adjust. “In a few years though, we might have to think about it.”
A small smile played around Chad’s mouth as he murmured, “Something to think about, that’s for sure.”
Willow pushed her chair away from the table and grabbed her bowl for a refill. “Would you like more?”
Chad passed her his bowl, gently wrapping his fingers around her wrist as he did. “Breathe. I’m not planning to pressure you about it.”
At the stove, her thoughts boiled over and spilled out in a rush. “Well, I mean, it’s not like the end of the world, is it? Animals mate all the time and it’s no big deal. I’ve never been around it much—just the few roosters we tried and didn’t like—oh, and the time they bred a goat here instead of at Feldman’s. But surely we—well, I—can get through it a couple of times so we can have two or three children.”
It took every ounce of Chad’s self-control not to laugh. In carefully measured tones, he agreed. “I’m sure we can.”
“Stop laughing at me.”
“I didn’t—” he protested throwing up his hands.
“You were thinking it. It’ll just take a little getting used to.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Her mind whirled trying to categorize his sarcasm. “Oh Chad, I don’t mean to imply you’re repulsive or anything—”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I—”A strange expression crossed Chad’s face—one that terrified her, although she wasn’t sure why.
“Of course, there’s usually some kissing involved, and I know how fascinated—”
“Knock it off,” she protested, blushing. He had seen her rewind the movie. Drat.
Half way to the stream, Chad reached for Willow’s hand. “What?” She pulled it back into her pocket. “It’s too cold for that.”
With a conspiratorial grin, Chad grabbed her hand again and laced her gloved fingers in his. “Then let’s share my pocket.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re engaged, and that’s what engaged people do. Come on!”
They crossed the edge and tramped through the leafless, ice-covered trees. “It’s like a winter fairyland in here,” she whispered. “I love it! Every year I walk through these trees and imagine I’m lost in Jadis’ Narnia.”
“Jadis?”
Willow tugged her hand free and spun in a circle, arms spread wide, and head thrown back. “Look at it! Doesn’t it make you think of winter in Narnia with the White Witch ready to send her wolves to drag us off her castle of ice? I always want to go home and make Turkish Delight.”
“Why don’t you?” This childlikeness was charming.
“Because,” she wagged her finger exaggeratedly, “I don’t like it!” Rushing toward a lone tree near the entrance to the wood, Willow pointed. “See that? That is Lucy’s Lamppost! And the wardrobe is between those trees.”
Chad followed her from the “wardrobe” to Mr. Tumnus’ house and upstream to the beaver’s house. “I was so excited the year we had beavers living there. They were so cute. They’d watch me for a few minutes and then work like crazy. I made up adventures for them and everything.”
“You know,” Chad began, linking an arm in hers and pulling her toward the woods. “They made a movie of The Lion, Witch, and the Wardrobe.”
“Oh! I wonder how it would be to watch a movie from a book you loved so much. I mean, I saw Eight Cousins, but that wasn’t a favorite book. Would I love seeing it come to life or would it be horrible to see someone else’s idea of how things looked? What if Edmund wasn’t enough of a smart-aleck or what if Peter wasn’t noble enough?”
“But,” Chad launched into his favorite movie argument. “The job of the producer and director isn’t to produce your mental image of everything but to share his. He’s telling you how he sees it, and the point is for you to share in his imagination, not to compete with or reflect yours.”
Unfortunately, Chad forgot that Willow didn’t have strong opinions on movies and the goal of cinematography. Rather than engage in his favorite debate, she nodded with understanding and excitement. “Oh that makes sense. That would make it so much more enjoyable to see—not to expect it to fit your own perceptions but to step into the imagination of someone else. When can we watch it?”
Before he could answer, she was off down a hill and out into a small clearing. “I don’t think this is our land anymore—I was always afraid to ask mother in case it wasn’t and she told me not to come back—but look! There’s even a stone table!”
Chad wandered around the large rock at the edge of the clearing and smiled. “You painted “ancient words” on it, didn’t you?”
“Well,” she admitted blushing, “it seemed more authentic somehow. I think the highlight of my year when I was eight was seeing a mouse standing on it.”
Leaning against the rock, Chad pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her waist. With his head on her shoulder, he murmured, “I wish I could have spent a few hours with you when I was little. You would have understood me. No one else ever did.”
“Let’s play! I never had anyone to play with; I had to be everyone. It was a little disturbing to be Aslan one minute and Jadis the next. This’ll be fun.” As he started to answer, she rushed on, jabbering almost nonstop, “You’ll make a great Aslan! I’ll tie you to the table, kill you, and then I’ll be Lucy and Susan when you resurrect!” Chad’s low chuckle sent an unusual feeling through her middle and for the first time, she understood the phrase, “butterflies in my stomach.”
“I’m a little concerned with the delight in your voice when you mention killing me.”
“I chose the character that resurrects!” she protested. “Fine. You can be Jadis at the end of the battle if you prefer—”
“You’re the girl! You be Jadis.”
Her grin was positively diabolical. “Great, I’ll give you Turkish Delight and you can betray your siblings to me.”
“Ew. Edmund. I never liked him.”
Her laughter ra
ng through the clearing. “You’re not supposed to like him!”
His dejection showed; it had to. “I always felt that if I was a Pevensie, I would have been Edmund. I was afraid that my selfishness and fear would control me, and I’d be weak just like Edmund.”
“You’re too noble. You are stronger than Edmund because you know your weaknesses and are not arrogant enough to think you can control yourself by yourself.”
He pulled her into a bear hug and whispered, “Thank you. Sometimes I need to hear that.” Hesitantly, he asked, “So, who else should I be?”
Willow pulled slightly away from him looking ready to bolt if necessary. “Well, there’s Reepicheep…”
“Am I a man or a mouse!”
“Well…”
“Why,” he began, “do I have a feeling that no matter what I choose, you’ll come out a victor?”
She grabbed his hand and raced toward a low branching tree. “Last one to the top is whatever it is that you are when you are last.” She stopped, frowning. “A… I can’t remember.”
“Rotten egg.”
“Yeah. That.”
The last thing Chad wanted to do was climb a tree, but he would not admit it. The only thing he had on her was a little height and possibly some upper body strength. She, on the other hand, had agility and familiarity on her side. They each climbed as high as humanly possible and ended up sitting nearly opposite one another.
“A tie?”
“For now. Come on; let’s go.”
Her energy seemed limitless. She led him through the trees to another side of the woods northwest of the farmhouse. “In spring, this is full of violets and there are toadstools everywhere. I used to bring my fairies here and have little weddings. Well, unless a dragonfly kidnapped them and dragged them to his dungeons.”
The animation she displayed as she told her elaborate stories of princess fairies and their rescue by Oberon’s sons was something he’d never seen. “You know, I felt sorry for you when I first met you. I imagined such a lonely and empty childhood. Now I feel sorry for everyone who didn’t have one like yours.”
“But you had a brother and a sister! Can you imagine how much more fun it would be with someone to share the stories?”
Laughing, he draped an arm around her shoulder steering her back toward the house. It was growing colder, and he could feel it seeping into his bones. “And someone to argue with. All by yourself, you got to decide how everything happened, and no one contradicted you.”
“Oh but it’d only be fair to share—”
“Children aren’t always fair.”
All the delight and joy drained from her face in an instant. “Well, then maybe we should plan on either one child or a lot of years between two. I can’t stand the idea of them being ugly with each other.”
“Willow, people don’t get along sometimes. They disagree and irritate one another, but that’s what love is. Putting up with someone when you’d rather make them go away.” At the back door, Chad turned and looked down at Willow as she grabbed an armful of wood. “Will you put up with me when you’d rather I go away?”
“I tried making you go away once. It didn’t work. I think I’ll just put up with you.”
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Willow thumbed through her mother’s journals while Chad dozed on the couch. Every entry that referenced her mother’s pregnancy, birth, recovery—she read them all. Her eyes slid to Chad each time she turned the page, hoping that he wouldn’t notice how often she did.
The journal entry was only faintly familiar. Had she read it when she was tired? She couldn’t say. The entry date was smudged, but the decade and position in the journals put it during those first weeks after her birth. The words confused and unnerved her.
August, 198—
I can’t stop shaking. Fear is a terrifying thing. It controls you with a grip that chokes and destroys. Oh, God what have I done?
I think Willow senses my… what is this thing I’m feeling? I’m freaking out. I’m terrified. I can’t believe how utterly debased I am. I wait, every day, for someone to knock on my door and take her away from me. I expect, at any moment, to be dragged from her.
I stared at her while she slept this afternoon. That little body in that tiny basket, sucking on her fists and sleeping—not peacefully, just sleeping. I almost took her to town and left her on the mayor’s doorstep. She’s a decent woman—a Christian. She would know what to do and would take care of it. Willow would be safe. Even if they found me and took me away, they wouldn’t connect her to me.
I just can’t do it. I’m so selfish. How will I ever make it through another day? And then another. I’ll live with my sins over my head for the rest of my life. So many people suffer because of me and the foolish decisions I’ve made. Fear. I blame fear, but it’s really sin. It’s me. I did this to us. I want to blame Steve. The stupid jerk. He started the spiral that has spun out of control, but I went out with him. I knew he was a creep and I did it anyway. I have to take responsibility for putting myself in a dumb situation.
I can’t let myself blame myself for what I didn’t do, though. I’m so messed up right now that I think I could. This is why I never planned to use that check unless I had to. I’d end up on a stand somewhere and a lawyer would pin it on me—on what I wore or how I supposedly flirted or whatever. I would have been on trial. Me. The victim. I would have been just as on trial as Steve. It revolts me, but when my emotions aren’t strangling my brain, I see some validity in it. Why should I be able to make claims against anyone without my word being questioned? He should be innocent—gag me with a fork—until proven guilty. But then the victim becomes the defendant. I couldn’t stand it.
So here I sit. I am guilty of so much. I am not guilty of his wrongs, though. I can’t let myself take on that weight. My own sin crushes me. God why didn’t you stop me?
The entry ended abruptly. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She sniffled despite her best intentions. Chad’s head whipped up and he frowned. “Wha—”
“I don’t understand this entry. Her pain always hurts, but I don’t remember this one and it’s so bizarre—ambiguous.”
He patted the couch beside him. “C’mere. Lemme see.”
The slight slur to his words stirred something in her. He sounded like Mother when she first awoke from an afternoon nap—the rare times she ever took one. She moved to his side, passing him the journal.
Her hands played with the tails of her shirt while he read. Emotions swirled within her as she tried to reconcile her fear of how their relationship had changed—would change—with the comfort she felt being close. How could she be so panicked one second and tranquil the next?
“I remember this one,” he said at last. “I never understood it.”
“I just don’t understand why she sounds so wracked with guilt. What guilt could she possibly have?”
“You know, she was probably dealing with some PPD.”
She blinked—frowned. “What?”
“Postpartum depression. A woman has a baby, her hormones go crazy, and it affects how she thinks and responds to things until everything levels out again.”
After a moment of thought, she took the journal from him and flipped from page to page. “Almost all the entries around it are kind of out of character…”
“What brought you to these? There isn’t much in here about winter or spring prep.”
She flushed and didn’t answer. Shifting awkwardly, Willow turned the page, hoping he’d assume she didn’t hear. A nudge told her he didn’t buy it. “What?”
“Come on, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Ok then, what’s on your mind?”
He knew her too well. “I was just trying to see how—” She couldn’t answer. “I can’t.”
His other arm wrapped around her. “I don’t understand, but I want to.” He bent closer and whispered in her ear, “You need to try to learn to trust me. We have to be able to talk about things.”
Shaking his head, he chuckled. “Listen to me. The girl is supposed to be telling the guy to talk.”
“Really?”
“Guys have a reputation for allergies to discussions—particularly if feelings are involved.”
“How did you know?”
“Because the only thing you aren’t comfortable with has to do with feelings… and usually in conjunction with me.”
Her breath caught. “You scare me.”
“Can I take a guess?”
“No?”
Chad shifted her so he could meet her gaze. “I’m going to anyway. In fact, I’m not going to guess. I’m just going to give you my thoughts. Trust. Consider everyone you’ve met in the past year. The fear you feel—you learned it from your mother.”
“With reason—”
“Yeah, but Willow…”
“Yes?” She barely choked out the word.
“You aren’t her. You haven’t had the same experience. I am not Steve.”
Groundhog Day arrived overcast and occasionally drizzly. Chad worked from six until two and then again at six again. She had tried to sound sympathetic to the long hours he had to work, but all she could think of was a full Groundhog Day—alone. She could do all the fun things she and Mother used to do and without him hovering.
Oatmeal—and canned cherries. A smile grew as she threw back the covers; the stove was warm. He’d stopped by to fill the wood box—probably what woke her up. Jeans, thermals, flannel shirt, wool socks, and a sweater—the perfect outfit for a cold day.
She hurried downstairs, braiding her hair as she went to check the stoves. The clock said six o’clock sharp. He couldn’t have been gone for longer than ten minutes. A quick jog to the summer kitchen and she had her phone. “Chad?”
“Mornin’.”
“You busy?”
“Nope. Just trying for frostbite along the beat.”
Despite his words, she heard a difference in his tone. He didn’t have the same disdain for the dreaded “beat.” “I just wanted to say thanks.”
Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Episode 11 Page 3
