by Grace Greene
No, I wouldn’t confront Gran.
Our dirt road dipped and then rose again, and I stopped in that curve. It was the last stretch before the house became visible. I sat in my car, the trees tall and dense on either side of me, and picked up the folder again.
I’d dug an empty grave and put a cross on it for the same reasons. Would I, could I, have done differently?
If not, then I’d better embrace the truth and not allow it to trouble my reality. Apparently, we Cooper women had a way of writing our own history, either to suit ourselves or to save ourselves and our loved ones from pain.
In the end, did knowing the truth make me feel better about things? No.
Gran was sitting with Ellen on the bed and reading her a story when I walked in. She looked up and stared at me hard. I stared right back, until I realized she was focused on the folder in my hand.
I walked over to the woodstove. I used my shirttail to shield my hand as I opened the little door and shoved the folder in. I shut the door and turned back to Gran, who was still staring at me. So was Ellen.
“What’s that, Mommy?” she asked. “What did you put in the fire?”
I kissed her forehead. “Nothing, honey. Mommy’s getting rid of some old papers we don’t need. Trash.” I turned to Gran. “You two did OK while I was gone?”
Gran nodded, and I saw a tear swell at the outside corner of her eye and wet her cheek.
“I was gone longer than expected. You two are probably hungry.” I tickled Ellen’s tummy, and she giggled. “I’ll get supper started.”
I went into the kitchen, still confused but home again, and that counted for a lot.
What was truth anyway?
My truth was there in the living room where my Gran was again reading to Ellen in our snug, warm home where an old woman’s chuckle could mix with a child’s laughter and make my heart beat warm and steady again.
I chose that truth and whatever came with it.
A few weeks after my meeting with Duncan Browne, Ellen nearly scared the life out of me. I heard her scream. Gran, who’d fallen asleep, awoke with a start and yelled my name. I ran to the living room.
Ellen was waving her hand and crying out.
“She touched the stove,” Gran said. “Ellen, honey, why’d you do that? Hannah, fetch the butter.”
Ellen ran to Gran and buried her tearful face in Gran’s blouse. Gran began soothing her.
It had all happened very fast. What I took in, first and foremost, as soon as I saw Ellen wasn’t seriously injured, was the open woodstove door and a piece of paper she’d drawn on. The drawing was on the floor nearby.
I closed the stove’s small door, picked up Ellen, and carried her to the kitchen sink. I ran the water cold and held her fingers in the stream until her cries softened and then eased. The finger pads were reddened but not blistered. I sat her on the kitchen table and smeared butter on the burns, but more for show than for need.
As I tended her fingers, I asked, “Why did you touch the stove? You know better. So why?”
She used her free hand to swipe at her messy nose. She gave a little gulp and said, “Ellen had something she didn’t need no more.”
“Ellen?”
“Me, Mommy. Ellen. I didn’t need it, and I burned it.” Her sentence ended on a very high note, and a new sob began as she said, “But it burned me! It hurt, Mommy. It hurt my fingers.”
This was my fault. I was Mommy. She was mimicking my actions and the way I’d defiantly shoved those clippings into the fire. A fine example I’d set for an impressionable child.
I held her hand gently and spoke firmly. “You must never touch the woodstove under any circumstances. Ever. You must remember that. If I can’t trust you, then I can’t allow you to be in the living room without me. I need you to be a big girl and promise me you’ll stay away from the woodstove.”
“I promise, Mommy.”
She went to Gran for additional consolation, and I retrieved the drawing from the floor. In circles and slightly crazy spikes and geometric shapes, Ellen had drawn what appeared to be Gran and me. Next to us was a male figure, judging by the height and the short hair.
My darling girl had tried to draw a father. Did she have some memory of the time before she’d come to us? Had she not wanted me to see it? Or had she been disappointed by her ability to draw him? Ellen tended to be a perfectionist. My heart broke for her but instead of asking, I folded the paper and slid it into the side of the kitchen trashcan, pressing it down until it was well hidden.
It had been a painful lesson for my sweet daughter, but I felt sure she’d remember and keep that promise. I learned a lesson, too. One I thought I already knew. No action is without consequence, especially unintended consequences. What I’d done to reassure Gran had backfired and served as a poor example to my daughter.
I resolved to do better, and I took extra care from that day on to be vigilant. I would do my best to ensure that no action of mine or anyone else would result in harm to Ellen.
It was a mild day in October. The poplars had turned golden, and the sweet gums were blazing red. The leaves were beginning to fall, painting the ground in vibrant color. Ellen and I were in the pottery cabin. I was teaching her to make a pot by hand. She was four. Her hands were small and so was the pot. It was such a tiny pot it wouldn’t hardly hold a dollop of cream. I’d tell Gran that Ellen had made her a thimble pot. It would give Gran a chuckle.
A golden leaf floated in through the open door. Ellen and I watched it flutter toward us on this nearly breezeless day and land on the table.
“Like a butterfly, Mommy,” she said, and she laughed.
It was getting late and about time for me to start supper.
“Ellen, please wash your hands, then let Gran know I’m coming in to cook.”
She jumped down from the stool and ran inside. I used my larger, more practiced fingers to smooth out the spots she’d missed, then wrapped the project loosely in damp paper and plastic to let it start drying. I made sure everything was switched off. I took special care with that since the incident with the burned fingers, and I routinely disconnected the power cord from the house line. Ellen was getting bolder about trying things without asking, and I wouldn’t put it past her to come out here and try the wheel on her own if she took the notion.
As I left the cabin and walked to the house, I saw Ellen standing on the back stoop, her hands hanging by her side. The clay still covered her arms, all the way up to her elbows. It was a lot of mess for one tiny pot. I smiled, and then realized she wasn’t. Her chin was quivering.
“Mommy?”
As I came closer, frowning, I saw the quiver in her chin working right down the rest of her body. She was shaking.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” I put my arms around her. “Ellen?”
I looked at the open door.
“Stay here, Ellen. Right here.”
I went inside, my instincts alert and wide open. The lighting was dim, and Gran was sleeping. The front door was shut and locked from the inside. I turned back to face the bed.
My heart was breaking and my eyes were stinging before I knew why. My conscious brain was slower to accept reality, and I stared.
Gran’s arm was half off the bed, and her hand was dangling.
Gently, I touched her wrist, intending to move her hand back onto the bed. Her flesh was cool. Her eyes were semiopen, like she was peeking out at the world. The lines in her face had eased, almost vanished.
She was gone. Gran was gone.
Every bit of starch in me evaporated. I sat on the bed. I couldn’t do anything.
“Mommy?”
Ellen stood in the kitchen, her eyes big and round and dark. I held out my arms. She hesitated.
“It’s OK, sweet Ellen. Gran loved us both very much. Let’s love and hug each other and remember how important we were to her.”
Ellen took a few steps forward, still reluctant. She looked at the floor but turned her face partway toward Gran.
>
“Trust me, baby.”
She came into the circle of my arms. I lifted her onto my lap. I hugged her and kissed her forehead. She touched my face. Her fingers came away wet, the clay dissolving in my tears, smearing as she dried her fingers on her shirt.
“Gran?” she whispered, lost and confused.
I held her close. “She was very old. You know that, right?”
Ellen nodded. She pressed into the crook of my arm and my chest. I held her a little tighter.
“And you know she was sick sometimes.”
“She hurt.”
“That’s right. Now she’s gone to heaven, and she won’t hurt anymore.”
“I miss her, Mommy.” Her voice ended on a high note, suggesting she’d be full-out crying any moment.
“She stayed with us as long as she could because she knew she’d miss us so much, and she knew we’d miss her. But God must’ve told her she’d done as much as she could, and she had earned a good rest.”
“Can she come back? I want Gran back.”
“No, sweetheart, but we can talk about her and remember her.” I touched her chest and then my own. “She will always be with us in our hearts. You and I will take good care of each other like Gran taught us.”
Ellen cried. I held her as I stood and carried her over to Gran’s old rocker. We sat and rocked and cried together for a while. When we were done, I went back to the bed and pulled the coverlet up over Gran’s face.
“No, Mommy.” Ellen stopped me with a hand on my arm.
I looked at her, then decided to go with it. I pulled the coverlet back and straightened it around Gran’s shoulders and arms, then tidied it down by her feet. I touched the blanket where it covered her poor swollen legs.
“Mommy?”
“Don’t be afraid, Ellen. Gran can run and dance again. We’ll miss her, but let’s be happy for her, too, to be in heaven?”
“K.”
I called Duncan Browne.
Gran had suffered so much loss. If she could hold up to that, then I could manage my own grief. It hurt, but at least this loss was natural in its timing. As I’d tried to convey to Ellen, I also told myself the same—this was a merciful kindness for a woman whose body hadn’t been able to keep up with her spirit for a long, long time.
The sheriff’s office sent a deputy, and the local funeral home sent a hearse. Gran had made her own funeral arrangements when she set them up for Grand. The funeral home provided the men and equipment to prepare the grave. I stood at the kitchen door and watched them working with shovels up at the cemetery. There was no way to get equipment across the creek and over the stone wall. It struck me that while progress brought many changes in the world around us, in Cooper’s Hollow the graves were still dug the way they’d been for centuries.
The ground cried as it was torn open to receive one more of my loved ones. Another Cooper gone. There seemed to be strangers constantly around. However helpful they might be, neither Ellen nor I was used to company.
The sheriff’s deputy helped me move the bed out of the living room. He was curious, I could see, as we moved the mattress and bedframe into the small back room, and I didn’t blame him. I’d never really thought about it, but we were isolated—not only by geography but also by choice. Maybe we were objects of curiosity—those crazy people, those hillbillies. But we combed our hair, brushed our teeth, and wore clean clothing. Gran never tolerated a speck of dirt or dust in her house, either. After she was incapable of chasing down the dirt herself, she used me in her stead. Our furniture was old, but it shone with a century or two of regular polishing.
In preparation for the wake, I tidied the house again. I used the sweeper on the area carpet in the living room, going over it time and again. I gave myself permission not to clean under it. I didn’t want to see those boards . . . the ones that didn’t match. So I left the rug in place and moved Gran’s rocker over to that space where her bed had been.
I wished I had more chairs. I remembered how it had been after Grand died. I’d been surprised by how many people showed up at the funeral. It had warmed my heart. Gran had invited those folks out to the house though the stress took a toll on her.
The pastor was happy to include my invitation in his eulogy. I spent a whole day cooking. Ellen was my helper. It was good to be performing these last duties in Gran’s honor.
The next day, we held Gran’s service at the Baptist church she’d attended for many years, until my mother died and Gran stopped leaving the Hollow.
The people who came to the service, and to the house after, were surprisingly familiar to me. I didn’t really know them, not as friends, but in a friendly way—faces I’d seen through the years in high school and in the community. Even Mamie Cheatham attended, the Bridger relative by marriage who’d come to stay at George Bridger’s place.
Ms. Cheatham was drawn to Ellen, and it unnerved me. Blood calling to blood perhaps? Of course not, I told myself. Half the people in the house were making over Ellen. In fact, excluding those who’d arrived in Louisa County in recent years, if we traced the family lines back a few generations, likely most of us around here would be kin to one another to some degree.
Ellen was subdued and patient at first, but the attention became a nuisance, and she was bothered, but I didn’t know how to stop it. I’d just bid the pastor and his wife good-bye and turned back to the room and realized Ellen wasn’t in sight. I dashed to look in the bedroom and the bathroom, then the kitchen.
Someone touched my shoulder. It was the sheriff. My heart yanked itself right out of my chest.
“Miss Cooper. I’m sorry about your grandmother. Miss Clara was a fine lady. It was our loss when she was no longer able to come into town.”
“Thank you.” I twisted my fingers together, anxious. “Have you seen my daughter? I can’t find her.”
He gestured toward the kitchen. “I saw her go into the log house out back.”
“Thank you. Please excuse me. I need to check on her.”
He nodded. “I think it got a little crowded in here for her.” He shook my hand. “I’ll let you see to her. I need to be leaving but wanted to express my condolences. If you and your daughter need us, call or reach out to my wife. She knew your grandmother well once upon a time.”
“Thank you,” I said again, and then slipped out the storm door.
Ellen was sitting at the potter’s wheel. She hadn’t reconnected the power and turned on the wheel, for which I was grateful. She was a small dark-haired girl sitting alone in a dim, dusty cabin surrounded by the smell of damp clay. It seemed a poor haven.
I knelt beside her, heedless of the dirty floor and the one and only dress I’d worn in years. I touched her cheek and turned her face to mine.
“My sweet Ellen.”
Her lower lip pushed out. She shook her head.
“These people will be gone soon.” I waited to see her reaction.
She wrapped her arms around me, over my shoulders, and clasped her hands behind my neck. She whispered near my ear.
“I’m sad, Mommy.”
I whispered back. “Why are you sad?”
“’Cause I’m mad. So mad. Gran said not to be mad. Angry. She said I should smile.”
“You have the prettiest, best smile in the whole world. I’m not surprised she wanted to see it often.”
“Make them go home, Mommy.”
“They will be gone soon.”
“Gran’s bed is gone.”
I nodded. “It is. She needed it when she was sick. She hurt a lot. You know that. Now she’s in heaven, my sweetest girl. She’s happy, and she understands we are missing her, but she will think we’re very silly if we are mad or if we stay sad a long time.”
“But today is OK, right?”
“Today is a good day to be sad. Tomorrow we’ll sing songs all day. Gran’s favorites. We’ll sing them loud so she can hear us.”
Ellen nodded.
“I have to go back inside because we have guests. I’d
like you to come with me, but if you don’t want to be around those people, I understand. You can go into the bedroom, shut the door, and read. How would that be?”
She took my hand, and together we returned to the house my grandfather’s grandparents built. This house had sheltered many, many generations, and it was where Ellen and I would continue to live—missing Gran, yes, but together for another year and a half—until fire drove us out of our home and away from our safe world in Cooper’s Hollow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Present Day
Roger told me they would widen the dirt drive and improve the grading in order to bring in heavy equipment. It would take a day or two to make the road adequate for their needs, and they were starting that work this morning. I didn’t have to be there for the roadwork, but when the big yellow front-end loader rolled on-site to begin breaking up and hauling away the old house debris, I wanted to be there for that, no question.
“Should I come with you, Mom?” Ellen paused in the kitchen doorway where I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes.
“And ruin your perfect attendance?”
She shrugged and grinned. “After all these years, maybe I’ve earned a day off.”
Ellen wouldn’t want to mess up her record, though, so she must be worrying over me. I sought to reassure her.
“I’m meeting Roger out there. They’re working on the driveway and a parking area today. That said, if you’d like to see the old place one last time before they clear away the remains of the house, I can take you out there after school.”
Ellen set her backpack on the floor and walked over to me. She was as tall as me now, and when she hugged me, she was able to rest her face in the crook of my neck. I patted her back.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“I’m worried about you. I know you’re doing this because I’m leaving for college soon. But Mom, moving back to the Hollow . . . I kind of understand it, but you’re already going to be lonely without me. Won’t you be even more lonely out there?”
