The Truth About Love and Lightning

by Susan McBride

  He pocketed the cash but seemed hesitant to leave. Pushing back his plaid cap, he scratched his thinning scalp and said, “You sure I can’t hang around a few minutes? If no one’s there or the place is damaged, I can take you into town. It’s just another five miles up the road.”

  “Someone’s home,” Abby said, because she knew her family was there. She felt it in her gut. Where would they be besides? “You can go, truly,” she told him and smiled, wondering if she was giving off pregnancy vibes. She was too tired to glow, but perhaps he could sense the tiny life inside her. It would explain why he was acting like an overprotective dad.

  “Take care, miss.” He tipped his hat to her and left.

  She grabbed her suitcase by the handle and dragged it aside while the man got back into the cab, red brake lights sparking as he backed up until he could turn around.

  Tires skittered on gravel before he rolled away, quickly swallowed up by the night.

  Abby drew in a deep breath, full of cool air and worry, then she began to make her way around the fallen oak, her suitcase bumping over soggy earth and damp grass.

  From the fence to the farmhouse wasn’t much more than half a mile, but it seemed to take forever to traverse. There were so many twigs and broken branches to weave around. Abby’s suitcase fell over twice before she pushed the handle down and carried it, panting as she walked and wishing she hadn’t brought so much with her. But she couldn’t leave behind her sketchbooks or her beloved college art history text—heavy though it was—and the weather was so changeable in April that she’d stuffed in plenty of sweaters and jeans and even her boots, just in case. If she could have fit her latest canvas into her luggage—an Impressionistic oil of a tiny raindrop rippling a puddle—she would have packed it as well. Then she reminded herself that she wasn’t going to be gone forever, perhaps a week at most. If she’d wrapped up her paintings to bring with her, it would have felt like she had given up. And she hadn’t, not yet. She’d even left a note for Nate in the kitchen in case he should turn up while she was away. Went home for a few days, she’d written. Need to sort things out. She didn’t know if Nate would see it; wasn’t sure that, even if he did, he’d care where she’d gone. Between her broken heart and the baby hormones, Abby had cried as she’d filled her suitcase and finally closed the zipper.

  You made the right decision, coming back, she told herself as she shifted the suitcase into her opposite hand, pausing to catch her breath. As she glanced ahead, she realized she’d gone far enough down the drive to see the house through the trees. But instead of discerning the dark shadow of the roofline against the night sky, she saw something else entirely. She asked herself, How can that be?

  Light spilled through the falling night, emanating from the windows along the porch, the whitewashed railing gleaming like teeth, grinning at her arrival.

  Maybe her mom had invested in a generator, although she heard no telltale hum.

  Nothing else would explain the house having power when the lines were down.

  But then, strange things had seemed to happen at the farm ever since she was a kid. Odd things that no one could explain, not with any kind of commonsense answers. Like the day Abby had found her mother crying in the kitchen. She’d broken a bowl, one with alphabet soup letters running around the rim. “It belonged to Sam,” Gretchen had told her and sobbed as though the world had come to an end. “Another piece of him I’ve shattered,” she’d said, sighing as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders, or perhaps on the condition of the alphabet soup bowl.

  Only seven, Abby hadn’t understood what she meant, but she’d felt Gretchen’s sadness, like a part of her was broken, too. “We can fix it,” she’d told her mom. “We can glue it back together like my piggy bank.” But Gretchen had shaken her head, tears skidding down her cheeks. “No one can fix it, Abs, not even you.” Which, of course, had made Abby start bawling as well, feeling a bit like the unfixable bowl was her fault, even though it was her mother who’d dropped it.

  As if their combined sobs weren’t noise enough, a crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder had shaken the walls before the sky had turned entirely black. The rain had begun to fall in earnest as Abby had raced out of the house and up the gravel drive, eager to chase the sadness right out of her soul. The drizzle fell upon her like tears, wetting her face and shirt. But when she got to the fence line and took a step beyond it onto the rural road flush with wildflowers and weeds, she realized the rain had stopped. Well, it hadn’t stopped exactly. It just wasn’t raining anywhere beyond the property line. Not a drop. When Abby had turned around, she saw the sky above the house was gray as gunmetal—but everywhere else, the sky was blue.

  Could breaking Sam’s bowl have caused his spirit to cry upon the farmhouse? Her mother insisted that he was and always would be there, looking out for them. “Sometimes, when you’re sad and it rains, it means he’s right beside you, and he’s feeling just as sad, too,” Gretchen had told her.

  Abby had rushed back through the rain and inside to tell her mother what she’d seen and what she believed it meant. Gretchen was, by then, mopping up her tears and picking up broken bits of porcelain, clearly in no mood to entertain a child’s vivid imagination. “We live in tornado alley, Abs,” her mom had said, shrugging off any theory of rain-making spirits. “Weird weather is the only kind we get.”

  But Abby had known there was more to it than that. She had always believed that some kind of spirit—a ghost or restless soul—lurked around the walnut grove, something that had to do with her father and the past, something that no one else could understand.

  Even now as a grown-up, Abby sensed a presence, and it filled her with peace.

  “It’s good to be back,” she said aloud and released a slow breath, gazing at the farmhouse, the knot in her shoulders loosening, warmth flowing through her despite a chill in the air. This was her home—it had belonged to Sam’s family, to the grandparents who had loved and cuddled her as an infant, though she’d been too young to remember anything but the idea of them. With every step forward she took, Abby couldn’t help but feel embraced by invisible arms. Her heart thumped with each footstep, as if to say I belong, I belong, I belong.

  From within the cloudless sky, the rising moon illuminated a path bright enough that she could avoid storm-tossed limbs and divots in the grass. Somewhere above, a whippoorwill sang its melancholy song, pausing between each verse as if hoping others would join in. Abby was tempted to coo, “Whippoorwill, whippoorwill,” so the poor bird wouldn’t feel so alone. But she was too anxious to reach the porch and hurried her gait, picking up her suitcase and marching toward the steps.

  When she finally made it to the front door and settled her suitcase on the welcome mat, her entire body sagged, thoroughly exhausted. If this wasn’t the longest day of her life, it certainly ranked right up there. She’d been dying to talk to her mother, to tell her about Nate and, more important, about the baby. Not being able to reach Gretchen had made her feel starved in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. To know that her mom was on the other side of the door caused her fingers to tremble as she reached for the knocker and banged it solidly against the wood.

  Abby didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she heard the turn of the knob and the creak of hinges. She exhaled a noisy “oh” as the door was drawn inward. She read the concern on her mother’s face as soon as it peered out: all worry lines and narrowed eyes, messy bits of pale hair on her cheeks, loosened from her ever-present ponytail.

  “Abigail!” Gretchen said, eyes wide with shock. “How did you get here? You didn’t walk all the way from the station?”

  “Not all the way, no,” Abby said as her mom stared at her. “I had a car drive me to the property line.” A nervous smile twitched upon her lips. “The driver was reluctant to leave me here.” She turned her head to see the jumble of wicker furniture at the end of the porch. “You sure got whacked by the storm, huh? Did you know the old oak fell and blocked the dri
ve?” Despite her best efforts, she felt the tears coming. “I never thought I’d live to see the day that monster came down.”

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” Gretchen pulled the door wide and reached out, cupping her chin.

  “Who’s there?” a soft voice asked, and Abby saw her aunts scurry into the foyer, clutching each other’s arms. “Abigail, is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” she said, brushing at her tears.

  Certainly, Aunt Bennie had recognized her voice the instant she’d first spoken, and Trudy had doubtless breathed in the scent of her once the door had opened. Abby wondered what strange things she smelled like now that she was pregnant. Talcum powder and pickles?

  “I’ve been trying and trying to call, but your phone’s dead,” she explained, glancing above her at the porch light. A moth flitted about its weak glow. “I figured your power was out, too, but I was wrong.”

  “Oh, yes, that,” her mother said, waving a hand in the air, not offering any sort of explanation. Instead, Gretchen peered around Abby’s head. “Where’s Nate?” she asked.

  “Isn’t he with you?” Trudy inquired, hands toying with whatever she’d buried in the pockets of her smock. “Surely he didn’t let you come alone?”

  “Sweetheart, what’s got you choked up? You don’t sound right,” Bennie said, picking up on the tremor in Abby’s voice.

  The three women huddled in the doorway had such concern on their faces that the dam broke wide in Abby’s chest. “Nate moved out two weeks ago,” she confessed, and her shoulders began to shake. She took in a great gulp of air before blurting out, “And I just found out that I’m pregnant.”

  “What?” her mother and aunts said at once.

  “It’s true. I’m going to be a mother.” Abby gripped the handle of her suitcase, somehow getting the words out. “I took three at-home tests and saw the doctor, and I’ve been a basket case ever since. So can I come in? Because I’m afraid if I stand here much longer, my knees are going to give.”

  Five

  Good Lord, Abby’s having a baby?

  How could that be?

  Not that Gretchen didn’t know how babies were made. Of course she did. But Abby and Nate had always been so careful about such things, and she remembered Abigail remarking that she wasn’t even sure she ever wanted to have children, which had broken Gretchen’s heart to hear.

  “I don’t know if I’m equipped to be a mother, and I’m too old besides,” Abby had declared this past Christmas, though Gretchen had told her that was utter hogwash. The girl wasn’t yet forty, and plenty of women had babies at that age and beyond. As for feeling equipped to be a parent—ha!—no one ever was. It wasn’t as though you were magically handed all the tools to get it right once the baby emerged. When it happened, you figured it out, day by day, just like everything else. Children were a lesson to which “live and learn” perfectly applied. The most important thing was to love them wholeheartedly. If you did that, the rest would fall into place.

  “She’s having a baby,” Trudy breathed, and a slender hand clasped at her gingham-smocked breast. “Did you hear that, sister?”

  “You bet I did,” Bennie said, reaching for her twin’s arm as the two of them turned downright giddy. “You’ll have to start knitting the child a hat and booties.”

  “We can bring Abby’s bassinet down from the attic,” Trudy suggested.

  “And dig the baby quilt out of mothballs!”

  Gretchen ignored the buzz of her sisters’ voices, her own head suddenly filled with a noisy hum all its own. “Are you positive?” she asked. “There’s no question?”

  “None.” Abby bit her lip, looking for all the world like the sky had fallen.

  “Oh, my,” Gretchen said, barely able to breathe. She had one hand at her throat and the other settled on her own abdomen.

  A tiny thrill wiggled through her at the knowledge that her flesh and blood would beget a new life, that fragments of herself—and even honest-to-a-fault Annika—would trickle down to another generation. Abby seemed far less certain, wearing a shell-shocked expression, as though the concept of carrying a child at this stage of her life was too enormous to grasp. Gretchen had no doubts her sensible daughter was already pondering how exactly she’d nurture a tiny being inside herself, watching her skin stretch and her belly expand, all the while understanding that giving birth meant someone else would depend on you wholly for years and years and years to come. Everything changed the moment you brought a baby into the world. Everything.

  My God. Abs was pregnant!

  As tickled as Gretchen was, she figured it would take a few days before it had sunk in with her as well. It seemed only yesterday that she’d found herself in the same pickle, although she’d been barely seventeen, with a furious mother and the baby’s father out of the picture.

  “What about Nate?” she asked abruptly, wondering how he could have walked out on Abby under these circumstances. Unless he didn’t want children and that was what had caused their split. “How does he feel about this? Is he unhappy? Doesn’t he want to be a dad?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Abby told her quietly, “considering he doesn’t know.”

  “He doesn’t know?” Gretchen’s voice rose, though she fought to keep the disappointment from her tone. She had so little right to judge anyone else.

  “Nate’s in the dark?” Trudy and Bennie echoed, and their happy chatter ceased. They, too, stood stock-still, awaiting Abby’s response.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.” Abby sucked in her cheeks. “The timing’s rotten.”

  “Oh, Abs, there’s no such thing as good timing when it comes to babies,” Gretchen said, not intending to chastise. But she’d chatted with Nathan March on the phone and been around him enough holidays these past six years to be certain he loved Abigail as much as he possibly could. He certainly wasn’t perfect—he worked too much, didn’t share in chores, had all the same bad habits inherent in nearly every straight man on the planet—but she couldn’t imagine he’d walk out on Abby when she needed him most. If she had one criticism of Nate, it would be that he wasn’t serious enough; but she would never have said that he wasn’t devoted.

  “Mom?”

  “What?”

  Abby shuffled her shoes, which looked rather wet. “Are you going to make me stand out here all night?”

  “For Pete’s sake, let her in,” Bennie directed.

  “We’ll make her a cup of tea,” Trudy chirped.

  “Oh, sweetie, forgive me”—Gretchen sighed and took Abby’s hand, drawing her daughter inside the house—“but we’ve been shaken up quite a bit today already. My brain’s still catching up.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” Abby murmured.

  As soon as the girl was inside, Bennie and Trudy swarmed her, enveloping Abby’s slender body in a group hug. “So have you left Chicago for good? Will you stay here till the wee one’s born?” they asked, fussing as they touched her hair and her face so they could “see” her better.

  “Leave the poor child alone. She’s only just arrived.” Gretchen hauled the heavy suitcase toward the stairwell, then went back to soundly close the door. “Come, come,” she said and shepherded them all into the kitchen, where a copper-tiled ceiling reflected the lamplight and lent the room a burnished glow. “We’ve just eaten supper,” she explained to Abby. “Peanut butter sandwiches and soup.”

  Even though the power had miraculously come back on hours ago when she’d brought the man who fell from the sky indoors, Gretchen had been half afraid to open the fridge, thinking the lights might go out again and all the food would spoil. But she would gladly take the chance for Abby’s sake.

  “Do you want something?” she asked and went over to pull on the big chrome handle. “I could whip up another sandwich or make some toast?”

  “Not just yet,” Abby replied, dumping her oversize bag onto the oak table with a thud. The humidity had set her dark hair into rumpled waves around her face, and her p
ale skin was makeup free, her lips without gloss. She looked less like a self-confident Chicago art gallery director and more like a teenager, awkward and unsure of herself.

  “How about a glass of milk?” Gretchen offered.

  Abby shrugged. “I mean, I guess I should get something in my stomach soon since I’m feeding two now, but not yet. I need to decompress first.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way”—Gretchen couldn’t resist brushing an unruly strand of brown from her daughter’s cheek—“but you seem scared to death.”

  Abby choked up. “I guess I am.”

  “Sweetheart, it’s okay.” She sighed and pulled Abby against her, enfolding the girl in her arms and holding on tightly. “It’s going to be all right.”

  The muffled voice croaked against her breasts, “Is it? Is it really?”

  So Gretchen replied the only way she could, with words she wished her own mother had uttered to her all those years ago when she’d been just as petrified. “Yes,” she said, stroking Abby’s hair. “Yes, everything will work out. It always does in the end. We’re here for you, whatever you need. Please, believe that.”

  Making promises like those wasn’t lying, not really. Of course, she couldn’t see the future, but Gretchen wasn’t about to tell Abby anything else. She figured it was far better than the accusatory What in God’s name have you done? that Annika had shrieked at her when Gretchen had been forced to confess about that summer night when she’d been so unbelievably reckless. As long as she lived, she would never forget the mortified look on her mother’s face, the disappointment in her voice. “And I thought you were such a smart girl. I thought you’d be going to college, that you’d make something of yourself outside of Walnut Ridge. How disappointing this is.” Annika had all but spat the words. “If you had asked for a condom, I would have marched you down to the drugstore to purchase some. But since it’s too late for that, we must deal with the consequences of your actions. So tell me, who is the father?” she had demanded, hands on her hips, using the tone that Daddy used to call “Mommy’s mean voice.”