Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Episode 16

by Chautona Havig

  A Serial Novel: Episode Sixteen

  Chautona Havig

  Copyright 2012 Chautona Havig

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Connect with Me Online:

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/ - !/Chautona

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Chautona-Havig-Just-the-Write-Escape/320828588943

  My blog: http://chautona.com/chautona/blog/

  All Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation

  Contents

  Copyright 2012 Chautona Havig 2

  Chapter 112 4

  Chapter 113 12

  Chapter 114 16

  Chapter 115 22

  Chapter 116 26

  Chapter 117 30

  Chapter 118 38

  Chapter 112

  Willow held her phone away from her, one hand covering her mouth, and her eyes closed tight. She was tempted to refuse. After all, if she did, maybe the D.A. wouldn’t subpoena her. It might happen, right? She remembered Chad’s words and hesitated. Was it disrespectful to balk at something that she knew Chad wanted her to do willingly? He asked so little of her, and while technically he hadn’t asked her to give her deposition willingly, she knew he hoped she would. With a deep breath, she opened her eyes, held the phone back to her ear, and sighed.

  “I’m here. I’ll come whenever you need me, but I want to make it plain, I won’t be volunteering any information. I’ll answer your questions, but I’ll not elaborate.”

  “You don’t want to testify against the woman responsible for all your trouble last winter?”

  “She’s not. Her husband is and he’s dead.”

  “And your grandmother,” the D.A.’s assistant said firmly, “killed him.”

  “I’m aware of that, but since I have hardly spoken to the woman, I don’t see how that is relevant to me. I’m only cooperating out of respect for my husband and his job. If I were single, I’d rot in jail before I testified.”

  “I see.” The tone of the D.A.’s assistant told Willow that the woman didn’t “see” at all.

  “When do I need to be there, and how long should I expect it to take?”

  “Monday morning, eleven-thirty. We’ll break for lunch at one o’clock. Depending on how well it’s going, we could be done by then or have several more hours. It really depends on if the defense attorney perceives you as an asset or a liability.”

  “And,” Willow said wearily, “if I do this, then I don’t have to go to court?”

  “Probably not, but you never know. Sometimes people get called, sometimes not. But if we don’t get a deposition, you will be called to testify in court.”

  “Then I’ll be there. I’ll see you Monday morning. Bye.”

  Willow slid the cover over her phone with more force than necessary. Leaving her baskets of freshly picked produce sitting at the edge of the garden, she slowly wandered toward her mother’s grave, talking to Portia as she went. Portia, somehow, had become the replacement for Othello that Saige had never had the chance to become.

  “Portia, girl, I don’t know about this. I don’t want to do it, but I want to disappoint Chad even less. What would Mother do?”

  The dog looked at her innocently as if to say, How on earth should I know?

  “Othello?” Willow sank to the grassy mound next to her mother and scratched Portia’s ears as she rambled her thoughts aloud. “What do you think? What would Mother do?” She giggled. “Of course, if I ask you, why can’t I ask Mother. I feel like that bookkeeper in the movie about the bookstore owner—asking the mother what they should do.”

  Chad saw her there several hours later as he turned into the driveway. She lay curled on the ground, sleeping under the shade of the tree with Portia chasing butterflies nearby. At the sound of his wheel on the driveway, Portia raced for the fence excitedly.

  As he leapt over the fence and strode to Willow’s side, Chad’s face slowly furrowed in concern. Why was she out here? Willow rarely visited the grave unless bothered by something. What was she planning?

  He sat beside her, brushing escaped tendrils from her braid away from her face and watched her sleep. Though it made him feel strange and sometimes foolish, Chad loved to watch her sleep. He’d always heard how parents enjoyed gazing at their sleeping children and thought it sounded almost creepy but not anymore.

  A glance at his watch told him he’d better waken her. Jill would arrive any minute to pick up the produce, and Willow wouldn’t want to be caught asleep. “Willow?” He shook her shoulder gently. “Come on, lass, it’s time to wake up.”

  Willow stirred murmuring sleepily, “Hmm?”

  “Jill will be here soon. You fell asleep.” His hand trailed along her cheek and then tugged on her ear playfully. “Come on, you can do it.”

  “I don’t want to get up. It’s nice and warm here.” The words were mumbled and clearly not fully consciously spoken.

  He had to wake her up, but how was another story. In the house, he’d have dumped water on her head, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do that out here. Finally, he picked her up, set her on her feet, and held her there in a bear hug until she slowly opened her eyes. “Hey.”

  “Hi,” she murmured sleepily. “What a way to wake up, eh?”

  “It’s almost time for Jill to—”

  Full consciousness arrived instantly. “Oh, no!” She started to run toward the barn but Chad caught her hand.

  “The truck, Willow. It’s faster and it’ll give you a minute to wake up.”

  “Right.”

  He glanced at her sideways as they rolled toward the yard. “What were you doing out there?”

  She sighed. “Coming to grips with my deposition on Monday.”

  “You decided to do it?”

  “Well I thought I didn’t have a choice.” The dismay in her voice hadn’t left.

  “Well, you can refuse a request—just not a subpoena.”

  Willow nodded, resigned. “That’s what I thought. I don’t want to make it hard on you so—”

  “You did it for me?”

  “Of course!” Her indignation would have been comical if he hadn’t found her actions so endearing. “If it was just about me, I’d let them throw me in jail indefinitely.”

  “Sweet sentiment, lass, but you’d go insane in a prison and beg to be allowed to testify.” He opened her door and smiled down into her eyes. “But I love that you think you would and that you did something so sacrificial for me. I know how much this is costing you personally. Thanks.”

  Willow expected the deposition to be a lot like her court hearing regarding her birth, but it wasn’t anything like that. They sat at a table in a conference room at the courthouse. A young man with a stenograph machine sat at one end of the table, and Willow sat at the other with the defense attorney and the D.A. on either side of her.

  All feelings of informality disappeared when the D.A. began reciting the purpose of the deposition and the case. The words, “The state vs. Solari” effectively killed the last remnants of her self-possession. Panic rose in her throat leaving bile in its wake. She reached for her tote bag and withdrew a bottle of water.

  “May I?”

  The D.A. unscrewed the top for her, satisfied that it was untampered with, for reasons that Willow couldn’t comprehen
d. “Certainly.”

  “Ok, please state your full name and address for the record.”

  “Why my address?”

  Willow’s question set the tone for the rest of the deposition. Some questions were indicative of her perception of breached privacy while others were merely curious. The D.A. and defense attorneys acted split between irritation and amusement during the entire proceeding.

  “You went to his office on what day?”

  Willow’s answer was swift. “December 7th.”

  “And how are you certain of that date?” The D.A.’s voice sounded bored.

  “Because we celebrated my husband’s birthday that evening.”

  “Did you make an appointment?”

  The questions came in a slow steady pace. Most seemed inconsequential to Willow. Who cared what Steven Solari had done to her? How was that relevant to the case against her grandmother?”

  “When did you first speak to Lynne Solari?”

  “She came to my house pretending to have a disabled car.”

  “Pretending—please define that,” the D.A. requested quickly.

  “Actually, she did have a disabled car. She disabled it so she’d have an excuse to come to the house. She admitted it once I confronted her with it.”

  “She actually said, ‘Yes, I made this up to come out here?’“

  “Not those exact words but very nearly, yes. She apologized and said that she just wanted to see me now that she knew I existed.”

  The D.A. nodded as though picturing the scene in her mind. “And when was this?”

  “Approximately one week after I went to Mr. Solari’s office.” Weariness grew in Willow’s voice. Her mind was growing muddled.

  From questions regarding the attempts to terrorize her to detailed accounts of her every meeting with both of the Solaris, Willow’s memory was tapped with every kind of question. Occasionally, the D. A. would respond with a rebuttal query such as, “Are you aware that Ms. Solari asserts that she did not attempt to deceive you about the reason for her visit?” Willow’s replies were swift and confident. “I think you should question Officer Chad Tesdall as to the accuracy of my statement. I said she confessed her scheme, and she did. He heard the conversation.”

  Once the ordeal was over, Willow stood, shook everyone’s hand, and then turned back to the District Attorney. “Ma’am, I have to tell you—I do not want to testify. I can’t imagine how I would be helpful. Please don’t put me in that position.”

  As they watched her exit the room, the reporter, the lawyer, and the D.A. all said in unison, “Wow.”

  Willow overheard them and rolled her eyes.

  Wednesday, Willow woke up vomiting. She barely reached the bathroom floor before she retched uncontrollably. Unable to remember exactly when the last time she’d vomited was, and feeling exceptionally weak, her heart sank. By the time she’d decided to call Marianne for ideas of what to do, another wave of nausea sent her racing for the toilet again.

  Ditto cried for relief before Willow crawled downstairs. She made it to the barn just in time for her to heave into the milk pail. A glance at the phone charger told her Chad had left the phone beside her bed before he went to work. She didn’t know how she’d get back up those stairs, but she had to try.

  Another wave of nausea hit in the middle of the yard. She curled into fetal position on the ground, her arms wrapped around the milk pail for dear life and prayed that the Lord would either kill her now or send someone to help. To her utter disgust, she not only lived but no one came. Still, she kept up the running prayer until she managed to crawl back upstairs and into bed.

  Keeping the milk pail close, and berating herself for not grabbing a clothespin to block out the smell while in the barn, Willow collapsed on the bed and hit the button to dial Chad. His voicemail irritated her enough that had she had the strength, she’d have thrown the phone through the window. “How did mother handle illness all alone?” she wailed miserably.

  The phone rang and Chad’s name flashed across the screen. Just as she clicked it open to answer it, another attack hit her. “You ok?”

  “Do I—” she retched once more, “sound ok to you?”

  “Oh, lass, I’ll get someone to come in for me and be right there.”

  “Can you do that?” Willow’s voice sounded doubtful.

  “I can do that. Hang in there until I get home.”

  Only the sounds of Willow’s illness crossed the airwaves until she finally whimpered, “Hurry—please?”

  Chad immediately dialed the Chief. “Sir, I’ve got a problem.”

  “Waverly call in sick?” The new officer had called in twice in the past month.

  “No. It’s Willow. She’s vomiting and she called for help. I’m sorry sir, but she wouldn’t call unless she couldn’t function.”

  “Forget that, son,” the Chief contradicted, “that woman wouldn’t call unless she was at death’s door. I’ll come in early. You get home.”

  Chad was already walking as briskly as possible toward the station. Aiden Cox stared slack-jawed as Chad passed him, sans helmet, on the scooter—again. It registered somewhere in the back of his mind that he should do something about that boy, but he couldn’t remember what. He tossed the keys at Judith and raced back out the door, ignoring her indignant retort.

  Chad heard her before he saw her. How one body could continue to retch the way hers did both amazed and terrified him. “How many times do you think you’ve gotten sick?”

  Between dry heaves, Willow gasped, “About five or six when I first got up—it’s all over the bathroom floor. I couldn’t clean—”

  “I’ll get it,” he reassured her sounding much more confident than he felt. “Just rest.” Then he saw the milk pail. “If you only got sick five or six times—”

  “No, that was just when I got up. Then a half a dozen times in the kitchen, a few times in the barn, and a dozen times or so since I got back upstairs, but there’s nothing left. It just keeps trying—” Another wave hit her.

  Chad held her head, smoothed her hair, and tried not to lose his own breakfast as he watched her body fight to rid itself of nothing. There was just nothing left. Another whimper escaped. “I begged to die, but God rejected my application.”

  A low chuckle rumbled over her. “I’m glad He did. I’m very glad He did.”

  They talked between waves of nausea. Time passed with aching slowness. Chad didn’t know how he managed to hold back his own gag reflex as she grew sicker and sicker. “What did you eat last?”

  “The grilled chicken we had last night, salad, milk, etc.”

  “In other words,” he sighed frustrated. “Everything I ate.”

  “You don’t feel sick?” She prayed he wouldn’t get it.

  “Nope… only when you toss your cookies.”

  “But I didn’t eat any cookies.” Confusion in her face was so comical, Chad burst out laughing.

  “It isn’t funny—” she began before another wave of dry heaves attacked. As she fought to gain control, an idea hit Chad.

  “When was your last period?”

  “What?” she gasped between heaves.

  “Your ‘monthly.’ When was your last—”

  “I—” she took deep breaths trying to control the deep urge to hurl once more. “I can’t remember for sure. I think I was due last week though.”

  A grin split his face. Torn between guilt and excitement, he said, “I think you’re pregnant. Morning sickness. I’ll get you some water and then drive into town for some crackers. I think that’s what women eat. I’ll call Mom.”

  Willow turned the most disgusting shade of green. “Pregnant?”

  “It makes sense. You’re late, you’re puking—”

  “You puke?”

  Chad shook his head at her. “Surely you’ve heard or read of morning sickness.”

  “Yeah,” she whimpered. “I just thought it was fatigue and swelling or something. Animals don’t vomit.” There was the merest trace of i
ndignation in her weakened voice. “I’m thirsty, but I’m terrified to try to drink.”

  He brought her a glass of water and suggested she rinse her mouth with it. “Spit it back out. Don’t swallow. At least you’ve moistened things. We’ll work on taking tiny sips of water or something when I get home. I’ll be right back.”

  With the gentlest kiss to the top of her head, Chad raced down the stairs, out the door and then stopped. He thought he heard her voice. Uncertain, he retreated back into the house, up the stairs, and paused in the doorway. “Did you call me?”

  “Ditto,” she wailed. “That poor goat—the chickens—”

  “I’ll get them when I get back.”

  “I feel a tiny bit better. Get them now.” Willow’s eyes pleaded as she spoke.

  “I’ll get ‘em, and then I’ll check on you before I go.”

  “Thanks.”

  In the barn, Chad grabbed a pail and raced to Ditto’s stall. Without pausing to wash the teats, he milked the goat in record time earning him a few butts and a kick, but Chad hardly noticed. In the summer kitchen, he realized that the milk was contaminated. They couldn’t drink it. He started to pour it down the drain and then thought of the soap. Maybe it could be saved for soap.

  The stove was empty. No boiling water waited for him to scald the pail. With a sigh of frustration, he grabbed a kitchen towel, tossed it over the pail, and forced it into the fridge. He’d deal with it all later.

  Willow slept with one arm curled around her pail by the time he climbed the stairs once more. He paused. Should he rinse it and clean up the bathroom before he went to town or after? The stench in the room grew worse by the second. He slipped the pail from her arm and took it to the bathtub trying not to breathe as he stepped over the mess on the floor. Once clean and free of odor, he stepped out of the bathroom, closed the door, and replaced the pail back in the crook of her arm. With her door shut, and the bathroom door shut, the air in the room smelled reasonably fresh again.

  Chad raced back downstairs to his truck. Guilt tried to worm its way into his heart, but he was too excited. Pregnant! A baby! Chad couldn’t believe how blessed he was. A wife and a child all within a month! Well, he had a few more months of course, but still! They were going to have a baby.