by Lisa Wingate
“No,” I said. I didn’t want to be groggy when Mary came in the morning. She always stopped by to give me the morning report on Edward, and the ongoing house renovations. Sometimes she brought tiny plants or pictures that Teddy and the boys had drawn for me. Teddy’s were never anything you could make out, but he always labeled them with the letters and symbols he used to mark his flowerpots, so I knew he was thinking about the garden. When I imagined myself home, that was the place I always envisioned. When I was finally ready for an actual visit, I wanted to go there first, to sit and take in the scent and the feel and the sounds of the garden.
“Do you need to be aided to the bathroom, missus?” Ifeoma asked.
“No,” I answered, though after weeks of protective undergarments and bedpans, going to the bathroom largely on cue was a particular thrill.
Ifeoma wagged a finger at me. “Then you should sleep.”
“I wors … wor …” “Worry” was a word the speech therapist didn’t help you practice. It wasn’t on any of the neatly-printed cards. “Wor-ree.”
Ifeoma’s lips parted, her teeth glowing white as she made a quiet tsk-tsk-tsk. “Ah, to worry is a useless thing, missus. The man who would worry is lacking confidence in his God. Sleep now,” she said, and smoothed a hand over my hair. “Good things come in the morning.”
“I’m nnnot …”
“Ssshhh,” she said. “Quiet now. You will wake the old rooster, and then we will listen to him crow all night.” Pressing her lips together, she cut a glance toward Claude’s room.
I felt a bit better. If anything were really wrong, Ifeoma wouldn’t be poking fun at Claude. Ifeoma was seldom so lighthearted.
“Sleep,” she whispered. “Tomorrow is on God’s hands.”
She turned and left the room, pulling the door shut to keep out the night noises in the hallway. I closed my eyes, but the anxiety was still with me. Down the hall, the screaming woman began to moan as if she felt it, too. Her voice crept around the edges of the door like a faint red light, disturbing the darkness, pushing back the moon glow, leaving no peace.
In the morning, Claude was up early. I heard him moving around his room, getting into the wheelchair, and then his voice came through the vent. “You up in there, Birdie?”
“Yes,” I answered.
A moment later, he was at my door. “You takin’ visitors?” Now that I was capable of answering, he’d started asking permission to come in.
“Yes,” I replied. “Com-minnn.”
Claude wheeled himself into the room, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Don’t know how anyone could be sleepin’.” He glanced toward the screaming woman. “She ain’t quieted a bit for hours.”
“No.” I lifted my hands, moving them clumsily toward my ears, and Claude gave a guilty laugh. We both knew, at some level, that it could be either of us in the bed down the hall, moaning incoherently all hours of the day and night. “Ssstorm.” I motioned to the window. Outside, a towering line of thunderheads had blotted out the sunrise. The moaning woman always became restless when the weather was changing.
“Hope it blows on over before tomorrow. Ouita Mae’s supposed to come back, and we’re all goin’ out to my house to talk about what stuff to have the movers pack up and what to leave. Doc wants the old piano. I didn’t know he played, but he does.” Drawing a breath, Claude looked out the window, as if he could see his house there among the parked cars. “Lots of memories in that old piano. Emelda gave lessons on it for years.” Claude seldom talked about his wife, an Italian woman he’d met and married while he was overseas in the army. She’d passed away from cancer some years ago, but that was about as much as I could gather. “It’ll be good to pay a visit to the old place.”
“Your ubbbook.” For days, I’d been trying to prompt Claude to show Ouita Mae the memory book he kept in his room. If she saw the photo of the young man on the yellow horse, perhaps she would finally recognize him, and they would discover the secret I had been unable to make known.
Claude nodded. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll want my books moved out of there. Doubt Doc’s interested in reading about them old war planes, and tanks, and trains and such. You know, I half thought about askin’ Doc, could I just move my stuff out to the woodshop out back, and maybe, if Doc and Ouita Mae get settled into the house and like it there …” His voice trailed off. “Oh, well, it’s probably a silly idea. I just thought, maybe sometimes I could get my neighbor girl to take me out to home, and I could stay in my shop house for the day, read my books and help the kids play baseball and such. Probably Doc and Ouita Mae wouldn’t want that, though. It’s gonna be their place now.”
I huffed, frustrated with the things I couldn’t communicate to Claude. “Shhh-ow Ouita uuubbbook!”
Claude frowned over his shoulder. “Doubt if Ouita Mae’s interested in them old war machine books, either. Say, did I ever tell you I drove them trains in Europe after the war?”
“Yes,” I answered, but Claude didn’t seem to hear me.
“My daddy was sure upset with me for goin’ over there. Seemed like he got old in a hurry, after Birdie took sick and I ran off. He got down with pneumonia, and by the time I brung Emelda home to meet him, he was an old man. I never did try to make my daddy understand why I left for the army the way I did. I just thought, because he loved me, he should let it go, and if he couldn’t, well then, he didn’t love me like I thought. Young folks get love and understandin’ backward, don’t they? Love don’t come galloping across fresh pastures like a fine white horse with understandin’ riding soft and easy on its back. Understandin’ plods in like an old plow mule, breaking sod. It shades the earth with its body, and waters it with sweat. Love grows up in the furrow that’s left behind. It takes some patience. I was an impatient young man. I took Emelda, and we moved down to the Piney Woods, and I didn’t look back.
“I didn’t talk to my daddy for almost ten years after that. I reckon we were too much alike—stubborn, proud, bullheaded. I hated those things about him. But ain’t it always the way, Birdie, that the easiest faults to find in other people are the ones you got yourself? I didn’t see my daddy again until my mama called to tell me the doctor’d said my daddy’s heart was bad, and I’d better come. I packed a suitcase and I drove all night until early mornin’. When I got to the house, I turned out the headlights and coasted up the lane real quiet, thinking I’d sleep in my truck ’til daybreak, but I’d no sooner rolled ’er to a stop than the door swung open wide, and there was my daddy. He didn’t say a word, just lit the lamp and put on the coffee, and I knew I was welcome home.”
Letting his eyes fall closed, Claude took a deep breath, as if he could smell the coffee and the damp morning air even now. “We had five good years after that. Turns out doctors don’t know everythin’. I was with my daddy at the end of his life. He apologized for dyin’ and leavin’ me with a crop in the field, then he said, ‘You been a dandy, Johnny Claude. I expect I been more trouble to you than you ever been to me.’ After that, he died, and I sure wished I could of had them ten years back. Birdie, wouldn’t it be nice if the eyes in the back of yer head weren’t so much sharper than the ones in the front? Seems like most the important things in life come to me in hindsight.”
Claude fell silent, and the two of us sat for a long time. Outside, the storm rolled in, and I felt a chill slip over me. The clouds blew over in a fury of wind and rain, then passed quickly, giving way to muted rays of morning sun that pressed through the window and lighted the shadowy corners of the room.
In his wheelchair, Claude dozed off, and outside the window, a cardinal began to sing among the last of the yellow blooms.
Despite the warm, dawning sun and the spectacle of color and sound, I couldn’t shake the chill that hung in the air, or the sense that another storm was coming.
CHAPTER 23
Rebecca Macklin
A thunderstorm struck early Friday morning, putting on a lightning show and rumbling over the house. I watched jagged streaks of e
lectrical current crackle across the line of thunderheads as I sat with my laptop and sorted e-mail. Bree would be surprised when she arrived at work and found that I’d already checked the files she’d e-mailed late yesterday evening. Poring over the applications and supporting documents, I temporarily forgot I wasn’t back at the office.
Downstairs, the garage door rattled upward, and I came back to the present. I heard Teddy talking to Sy and the crew as they carried in their tools.
I stood up and hovered by the desk a minute, feeling lightheaded and strange. The sensation clung to me as I carried my clothes across the hall, showered, dressed, and went downstairs. Ifeoma was already on duty. As usual, she’d proceeded directly to my father’s room to get him out of bed and dressed. She found it easier to begin the day with him while he was still groggy from the effects of a deep, medication-assisted sleep.
She met me in the kitchen after bringing him to the living room and turning on the TV. “Shall I prepare an omelet for your breakfast, missus?” Every morning, she treated my father to a five-star meal, and he fell in love with her anew.
Groaning, I laid a hand on my stomach. “No, thanks. I don’t feel so well this morning.”
“Again?” She cocked her head to one side. So far, I hadn’t felt the desire to partake of her breakfast creations, even once. In the mornings, I woke with my stomach churning and a million things on my mind. Food hardly seemed a temptation.
“I think it’s stress,” I admitted, rolling my eyes to indicate that I recognized my type A personality, even if I couldn’t control it. “The good news is I’ve lost five pounds.”
“You do not have five pounds to spare.” Shaking a finger at me, she smiled. Over time, Ifeoma’s cool, detached demeanor was slowly warming up.
It was strange to have someone worrying about me. Typically, that was my job. “Well, thanks, but it’s nice to lose a little.”
Ifeoma tutted under her breath, then pulled out the eggs and started cracking them into a bowl.
My stomach rolled, and I angled my line of vision away from the egg whites oozing over her hands. Drawing a glass of tap water, I plopped in a couple Alka-Seltzers and waited for the tablets to stop fizzing.
“I have used all of the eggs,” Ifeoma said, then took the cap off the milk. “Milk and bread will be needed soon as well.”
“I’ll pick some up.” During yesterday’s excitement over Teddy’s absence, I’d completely forgotten to get groceries. “I want to go to the little white church down on Hayes this morning. Teddy thinks some of my parents’ things may have been taken there for a yard sale after Hanna Beth had her stroke. I’m hoping they might know where my father’s computer is.” A glance at the clock told me it was almost eight forty. “Surely someone will be there by nine.”
Ifeoma nodded, searching the drawers. “The building is opened at eight. Father is often down the road taking breakfast.” Pausing, she pulled out the whisk and began whipping the eggs. “I stop there each morning to pray for my son. So he will be well.”
It struck me again that Ifeoma’s son was half a world away. What would that be like? Ifeoma seldom mentioned him, but she often stared out the window, rubbing a small, beaded cross that hung around her neck. The onyx stones were worn smooth and glossy. “How old is he?” I asked. “Your son.”
“He is eight years old this month,” she answered, staring into the bowl. “A small boy for his years, but a good worker.”
I tried to imagine sending an eight-year-old child, a boy not even Macey’s age, to work. “How long have you been away from Ghana?”
“It was one year and six months ago that I must take my son from his father’s town. For some time I search for a good job elsewhere, but very soon I know I must do something,” she answered, without looking up. “My son is a smart boy. I want him to go to school, but where he is living now, there is no school.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. How many times in my work had I sat across the table from people like Ifeoma, separated from family, caught in political limbo, waiting for consulate interviews, the lifting of annual visa caps, I-140 petitions to be approved and slowly processed so their relatives could follow?
Ifeoma held the whisk above the bowl, waiting while strings of raw egg oozed downward. “I hold dreams for my son. I tell him he must work very hard where he lives, and in return, the fisherman will provide food for him and give him a bed at night. Each day, I pray that God will keep my son until I am able to come for him. The work of the fishermen is dangerous.”
My mind swirled with a mixture of dripping eggs, an electric drill squealing in the downstairs bathroom, and fishing boys, compelled to live alone, forced to take to the water to earn a living. My stomach rebelled as the first sip of Alka-Seltzer settled, and the next thing I knew, I was clutching the sink, writhing in a spasm of dry heaves.
Ifeoma wet her hand and rubbed cool water over the back of my neck, and the spasm ended as quickly as it had begun. Pushing away from the counter, I caught a long breath and shook off the last of the headrush.
“I’m all right.” I wiped my face with a paper towel and caught my breath. Finally, I grabbed my purse. “I probably just need to get some fresh air. I’m going to take Teddy to the church with me. We’ll be back in a half hour or so. If it takes longer, I’ll call.” I started toward the patio, where Teddy was carefully watering his plants. “Sorry for all the drama. I don’t know what’s wrong with me this morning.”
The cutting board rattled as Ifeoma pulled it off the wall, then opened the refrigerator. There was no telling, on any given day, what she would choose to put in the omelets, but my father was always pleased.
“Might you be pregnant, missus?” Ifeoma’s question caught me as I reached the doorway. Without seeing her face, I couldn’t tell whether it was a serious inquiry.
My sardonic laughter was both an instantaneous reaction and an answer. “Not likely, thank goodness. We’ll be back in a little while. Thanks for making breakfast, Ifeoma.”
“It is my pleasure. I am hungry as well.”
As I went out the door, I heard her singing a slow, rhythmic song that reminded me of some long-ago trip to Morocco with my parents. Early in the mornings, the fishermen sang outside our bungalow as they went to sea in their boats. I sat in bed sometimes and watched them prepare to go out, the men barking orders as young boys scampered about, porting crates, readying nets, mending broken ropes.
I never wondered about the children, their dreams interrupted, while I lay peacefully sleeping.
Thoughts of the fishermen followed me as Teddy and I drove to the little white church. In the passenger seat, Teddy was talking about the seeds he’d planted with Brandon and Brady. The boys were excited because tiny marigolds were coming up in the cups.
I couldn’t focus on Teddy’s intricate description of baby plants.
Baby plants …
Might you be pregnant, missus?
Might you be? Pregnant?
Baby plants. Baby …
Was it possible? Four years ago, when Macey started kindergarten, Kyle and I had agreed that one child was enough for us. With my mother suffering more frequently from lupus-related illnesses, me helping with the boutique, and Kyle working twelve-hour days, we were both at the breaking point, and there seemed to be no room for anything else. Kyle went in for a vasectomy, and our busy life moved into the next phase.
Vasectomies have been known to fail. Was it possible? Kyle, himself, was the product of a failed vasectomy, a late-in-life surprise to his parents. Six weeks ago, Kyle and I had been on our anniversary trip to San Diego. We’d stayed in the historic Hotel Del on Coronado Island, tried to recapture the magic of our honeymoon, but old issues crept between us.
We made love to silence the discussions, agreed to leave issues until later, just relax for the weekend. We laughed, flirted, walked on the beach, enjoyed a long, slow dinner together, made love again as a luminous, orange moon rose above the water. After so many years of being consumed by
the obligations of life, I was certain that we were finally finding our way back to each other.
Was it possible that weekend had produced a baby? On the heels of the thought came Susan Sewell sitting in the café, cuddled intimately close to Kyle, going through yet another divorce.
I felt sick again. My breath came in short, quick gasps, and my chest burned until I couldn’t get enough air. I wanted to pull over, throw open the door and run.
What if I was pregnant? What then? What if it wasn’t just Macey and me, but Macey and me and a new baby to consider?
Don’t, a voice whispered inside me. Don’t do this now.
“There Mama church.” Teddy broke into my thoughts. “A-becca, there Mama church.”
My mind came back to the present as we passed the driveway. I took the next opportunity to make a U-turn, and went back.
“There Past-er Al.” Teddy pointed to a man in a green fishing cap, who was pruning rosebushes in the small memorial garden beside the church. After stopping his work as we pulled into a parking space close by, he exited the garden, removed his gloves, and set his pruning sheers on a bench by the antique iron fence.
“ ’Lo there,” he called, pausing to wipe his eyeglasses on his knit shirt, then put them back on as Teddy and I climbed from the car.
“Hieee, Past-er Al!” Teddy called, moving up the path in a lumbering trot.
“Why, Teddy!” Pastor Al opened his arms as I hurried to catch up. “My word, son, did you grow another foot?”
“I been this foot.” Teddy gave Pastor Al an exuberant hug. The pastor disappeared momentarily behind Teddy’s body. His lightweight hat drifted to the ground, and he scooped it up as Teddy released him.
“Who you got with you there, young Ted?” Pastor Al squinted through thick lenses.
Grinning, Teddy brought me forth like a new toy. “This A-becca. This my sister.”
