“I don’t understand. Like yours?”
Shaking his head, Chad tried again. “It works like mine but it’s paid for differently. You buy minutes and—”
“You’re speaking Greek to me. Why would I want one?”
Decisively, Chad waved her off. “I’ll get one and show you how to use it. If you got hurt or something, no one would know until maybe too late. I’ll bring it out after my shift this afternoon and show you how to use it.”
Alone in the house, Willow sighed. She knew she needed food. It was well past noon and she’d been up early. She reached for the jar of oats and stopped. Seconds ticked by as she debated breakfast vs. lunch and then closed the cupboard.
Halfway through her soup, reality pummeled her from every side. With each bite, she remembered something else left undone that morning. Ignoring the childhood memories of her mother’s admonitions not to “bolt your food,” she inhaled the rest of the bowl, poured a bit of water in it, and let it stand in the sink as she hurried upstairs to change into overalls.
The goat came first. As she allowed the back door to slam, the occasional bleating grew insistent and then demanding. On her way to the goat pen, she raced into the barn, grabbed a milk pail, and turned on the stove. The animal’s teats were red, swollen, and dripping with unexpressed milk by the time she reached Wilhelmina’s pen.
“Poor girl. I’m so sorry. Mother died today. I forgot all about you and…” Willow talked soothingly to the animal as she pushed the goat into the feeding/milking cage and began cleaning the teats. The rhythmic motion of milking soothed her with its familiarity. Something normal at last.
She continued her verbal monologue as she fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, filled the water trough for the beef cow, and dumped a bit of milk in the cat’s pan on her way into the barn. Othello nudged his bowl as she pushed into the barn kitchen. “Just a minute, boy. I’ve got some chicken soup for you.”
Water boiled on the stove as she entered. She immediately began the milk routine, straining, boiling the pails, putting the washcloths in with the laundry—all of the things she did every day while her mother cleaned the house and planned their work.
She stumbled through the rest of the afternoon, doing whatever she remembered to do as she remembered it. The experience was unfamiliar and left her feeling unsettled. She made the beds in the afternoon, which seemed almost fruitless. Her mother’s stained sheets, bedspread, and mattress cover, freshly washed, now flapped in the breeze outside, drying on the line.
At five, she repeated the feeding and milking process hoping to get the animals back on a normal routine. Wilhelmina had half the usual evening’s milk, and the cow’s trough was nowhere near empty, but she kept to her work, hoping for some sense of familiarity. In the cellar, the old-fashioned icebox held the night’s dinner. The sight of two steaks was another fresh reminder that she was alone. She climbed the steps to the kitchen and put the steaks on the counter as she hurried upstairs to take her shower.
Kari had always preferred a bath, but when Willow heard of showers at the age of nine, she begged her mother to convert their claw foot tub to accommodate a showerhead as well. Every evening she showered and then her mother bathed while she started dinner. Today there’d be no bath. Similar thoughts punctuated everything she did until Willow thought she’d go crazy with the apparent taunting.
Chad berated himself all the way to the Finley farm. The story of Willow Finley had rippled through Fairbury, and the town loaded his truck with cookies, pies, and two casseroles large enough to feed a family of six that now sat beside him as he crept down the long driveway. Glass pans rattled against each other no matter how slowly he drove.
Othello met him at the car but didn’t bark. “Hello boy, how’s she holding up?”
The dog whimpered. Whether because he understood the question and grieved too, or because he was confused and uncertain about the strange events of the day, Chad refused to speculate. He started for the front door until he heard a sound from the back of the house.
As he rounded the corner, Chad heard Willow talking to someone and stopped in concern. “… and I don’t know whether I should can half the peas we usually do or maybe three quarters in case I have guests sometimes… What would I do with the extra? Should I can them all and then give away what I don’t think I’ll need? Maybe there are people in need around the holidays who would like them? Oh Mother, you thought of all the important stuff like finances, but those are all one-time decisions and then done. What about the day-to-day living?”
Chad realized he had a decision to make. If he knocked on her door, it would set himself up to be a friend, helper, and probable confidant. Fishing and hunting would be replaced with canning and whatever else they—well now she—did around this place. He didn’t want to do it. Sunday’s sermon on bearing one another’s burdens echoed through his mind and heart, but he stuffed it back. He could go home. He could send the church with the phone and be out of her life for good. He wanted to do it. He wanted to drive away while he still could.
A sob drifted out the window and soaked into his heart. He had a sister about her age. Chad tried to imagine Cheri all alone in the world. No friends. No church—that thought stopped him. He couldn’t ignore someone who might need Jesus. He turned again to climb the back steps and the back door opened.
“Hey Willow! I brought you that phone.” He held the casserole and pies up sheepishly. “The town heard about your mom and sent out a ton of food.”
Carrying a platter with two steaks, Willow hurried to the grill, dumped the steaks unceremoniously on it, and turned it on as she did. “Here, let me take that. I appreciate it.”
“I’ll go get the rest. There’s more. You’ll need to freeze it or it’ll all go bad.”
They repackaged the food into smaller quantities and Chad helped her carry it to the barn. To his surprise, a combination mudroom and second kitchen was just inside the door. A sink, stove, refrigerator, and upright freezer stood along one wall while a washer and dryer sat opposite.
“Why is all of this out here? Why not in the house?”
“We don’t turn on the electricity inside most of the year.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Mother had to do without electricity while the man rewired the house when she moved in and she discovered she liked not having it. No electricity meant no radios, no televisions; she went to bed early and got up early, and she did a lot more reading and things around the house.”
“So you have electricity but don’t use it.” Chad didn’t quite understand.
“Well, we use it in the barn. We keep our frozen food out here, and when it is too hot to use the stove in the house—”
Almost afraid to ask but compelled, Chad interrupted. “What’s wrong with the house stove?”
“It is wood fueled. It gets too warm sometimes, so we cook on the grill or in here.”
Well, that explained the heat. He hoped that steaks on the grill meant it was a little cooler inside by now. “Keeping the house cool in weather like this is probably wise…”
She shoved the food in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator and hurried to the grill. “I’m not usually so scatterbrained, but it seems like I can’t do anything right today.”
Chad took the platter from her and replaced the steaks on the grill turning the rare side over. “Let’s cook both sides, shall we?” He led her back into the house and sat her at the table. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. You sit. I think you have a reasonable excuse for being a little upset and out of sorts.”
While he took orders on how to gather salad fixings and mix dressing, Willow opened the cell phone box and read the instructions. “It’s quite complicated for one little machine isn’t it? All the different numbers and things.”
“I can program it for you when I’m done here. Where are those seasonings you mentioned?”
“Oh, top right cabinet in the jar on the left—the one with the flip top. And I wan
t to try it myself. It is a little bit of a challenge.”
They each worked in silence. Willow followed each step of the instructions and waited expectantly to see the phone flash its new number as the instructions indicated. “It worked! Look! I have one hundred minutes.”
Chad brought the bowl of salad and dressing to the table and glanced at the phone. “Excellent. You follow instructions well. People usually get impatient and skip steps and mess it up.”
“We learn everything by following instructions. After a few big mistakes, Mother made it a rule.”
Laughing, Chad retrieved the platter and shooed her back into the chair. “I’ll get them. Why don’t you serve yourself some salad?”
He returned to find her picking at it. “I’m not hungry I guess.”
“Eat it anyway. You need food.”
They ate in silence, Chad wishing he was anywhere but the Finley farm, and if her face was any indication, Willow feeling awkward and miserable without her mother. Each clink of knife and fork sounded more pronounced than expected. The food was excellent but neither tasted it.
After the meal, once they pushed their plates aside, Willow smiled awkwardly and bowed her head. Chad listened both amused and amazed as she spoke familiarly with the Lord about His provision of food, friendship, and a mother. As she ended with, “Lord, You gave me the best of mothers, and You have now taken her away. Blessed be Your name,” he swallowed hard. All of his ideas of showing her the Lord seemed immature and arrogant in the face of her obvious faith.
After dinner, he watched as she washed the dishes with hot water from the tap but lit an oil lamp when the room darkened. The soap she used to wash the dishes was a grey mixture she poured from a jar on the back of the sink, which he learned they’d made themselves.
“Do you make all of your soap?”
“Yes. Mother has recipes for every kind of soap. Dishwashing, laundry, skin, hair…”
“Will you continue to make it or will you buy soap now?”
She eyed him curiously, as she hung the kitchen towel on the rack and untied her apron. The apron surprised him. He hadn’t seen anyone wear an apron for years. Her answer surprised him more. “Why would I buy something so easy to make? What would I do with my soap making time?”
Though he wanted nothing more than to get away, he found himself fascinated by the strange life he saw before him. Propelled by curiosity, he asked, “What did you and your mother usually do after dinner?”
“Well, we wash up of course, but then we either play a game or work on some kind of craft, read a book, take a walk… it just depends.”
“What do you recommend then tonight?” Having heard the loneliness creep back into her voice, Chad decided to give the night up as lost and stay until he knew she’d go straight to bed.
Willow, not as naïve as she appeared, laughed at him. “Don’t feel obligated to amuse me, Officer Tes—”
“Chad. My name is Chad, remember?”
She tried again. “You want to go home, Chad. You’re here only out of kindness to me—” At the look of shock on his face she hastened to add, “—and I appreciate it, I do. It’s just that—” She paused. “Well, no one wants to feel like they’re a burden, so please go home.”
Chad, unaccustomed to forthrightness such as Willow’s, followed her to the door feeling rebuked and ashamed. “You’re right. I didn’t want to come tonight or to stay. I tend—well, I tend to be a little shy when I’m not on duty. I am sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.” Chad forced himself to say the words he wanted to say the least. “I hope you’ll invite me back sometime and give me another chance.”
With a brief nod, Willow opened the door and Chad stepped on to the porch. As he turned to leave, Willow stopped him with an invitation. “Would you like to play a game of Chinese checkers before you go?”
They played on the porch by the light of an oil lamp. Chad had found the game confusing at first. To his astonishment, Willow played three colors and expected him to follow course. Trying to jump only your opponent’s three colors on a board full of marbles required more strategy than he was accustomed to using in the game. Willow beat him in almost no time.
“Excellent game. I’ll have to practice and challenge you again,” Chad declared as he stood to leave.
“You’ll come back?”
“I have Thursday off. I’ll—wait; I need to get your cell number. I’ll give it to the mortuary.”
Willow recited the number quickly. At his evident surprise, she grinned. “I am good with numbers.”
As Chad reached his pick-up truck, he waved once more and called, “I really am very sorry for your loss, Willow. If you need anything, call me.”
“I can’t.”
The look of confusion on his face was quickly replaced with understanding. “My number. You don’t know it. I’ll call you when I get home, and you can program it into your phone.”
Chapter Two
The sun streamed into her east window the next morning. Willow woke, dressed in her customary jeans and blouse, and froze before her mother’s bedroom door. The memory of the previous day covered her like a smothering blanket on a summer day.
“Oh Lord, I don’t think I am prepared for this,” she murmured as she hurried to do her usual morning tasks and her mother’s as well.
By ten-thirty, she’d fed the animals, eaten breakfast, and set the house to rights. She then sat at the kitchen table wearing her favorite dress and pouring over her mother’s “manuals.” Several hand-decorated journals lay in piles around her as she studied them.
Kari Finley ordered her journals first by subject, then year. Titles of things like “Gardening” and “Repairs” were written in beautiful calligraphy and then embellished with intricate patterns of flowers, curls, and, on one, with hand-pressed flowers. Inside each had a table of contents and the date of the original journal entry and volume. The detail would have been remarkable to a casual observer, but to Willow, it was simply her mother’s way.
She made notes as she read. Columns on the paper showed her schedules compared with her mother’s notes and the plans she’d made for the coming weeks. As a child, she’d been annoyed by how carefully her mother planned their work. Impromptu fishing trips were difficult when mother had plans for canning, planting, or chicken butchering.
Willow pushed the notes and journals from her and rubbed her temples. The clock struck noon, reminding her that she needed food and water. She carried her bread to the barn and made a chicken salad sandwich with huge leafy leaves of lettuce peeking from the edges and a sliced tomato on the side. Othello tried to convince her that he needed the food, but she ignored the suggestion and took the plate inside.
Beside the table, she paused. Mother had always insisted that they eat at the kitchen table. Willow always thought it might be nice occasionally to eat at the little table by the window in the living room where they played cards and games, but her mother had laughed as though it was a joke rather than a serious suggestion and meals continued as ever.
Without a second thought, she moved into the living room and put her plate at her accustomed place. A mosaic vase, one she’d made as a young girl, in fact, stood empty on a nearby shelf. Determined to enjoy the afternoon as much as possible, Willow grabbed the vase, retrieved a pair of scissors, and went out to the flower garden where she snipped several flowers and arranged them clumsily in the vase.
As she carried her bouquet back to the small table, she noticed a different view than she’d ever seen as she stood behind her mother’s old chair and placed the vase on the table. Feeling somewhat rebellious, she transferred her plate to “Mother’s” side of the table and sat in the chair. Instantly, the feeling evaporated. In its place, an overwhelming sense of her mother’s presence filled her.
There Willow saw the world from her mother’s vantage point. She imagined herself as a little girl, both long pigtails flopping on the table as she wrote in her own journals, and her hands flipping them aside impatien
tly. She saw that same little girl version of herself chasing the dog, throwing sticks down the long driveway, and hiding from him as he retrieved them. It took her years before she understood how the dog always found her no matter where she tried to hide.
Three bites into her sandwich, a strange sound echoed from the kitchen. She leapt from the table, searching frantically, until she realized that it must be the cell phone. By the time she’d found it, located the instructions, and slid it open as directed, the ringing stopped. She sighed in frustration and stared interestedly at an unfamiliar number. It wasn’t the one for her phone or the one Chad had given her. Experimenting, she dialed the number and pushed the “send” button.
No one was on the other end of the phone. A ringing sound blasted her ears, prompting Willow to turn it off. Just then, she heard a voice. “Hello?”
Eagerly, Willow spoke clearly and precisely into the mouthpiece hoping, she’d be understood. “Yes, this number was on my cell phone. My name is Willow Finley.”
“Oh yes, Miss Finley. This is James over at the Fairbury Mortuary. I was wondering if you could come in this afternoon to discuss arrangements?”
“Oh no, that won’t work. I can’t come in today. I have a lot of work left to do, but I can try to get ahead this afternoon and come tomorrow morning. What time would you like me to be there?”
The man on the other end—James—suggested she arrive at ten o’clock to go over the arrangements. “Please bring a list of anyone you would like for us to contact and the name of your preferred minister.”
After she slid the phone shut and assured herself it was off, Willow realized that she didn’t have a “preferred minister” and that she should find the list of family her mother had left in the packet in the firebox. She hurried to finish her meal and clean up her studying so she could begin correspondence. As she stacked the journals and started upstairs with them, she paused. “Keeping them in her old room doesn’t make sense. I need them down here,” Willow muttered to herself.
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