“That sounds beautiful.” Betsy pulled back the quilt on her bed and climbed in. Ty was still downstairs catching the last few minutes of a Braves game.
“Yeah . . . ,” she began. Then she was quiet for a moment.
“Everything okay?”
“I’ve just been thinking about Mom a little. Do you remember when we used to drag our blankets under your bed and hide?”
Betsy smiled. “Sure. That’s where we kept our stash of chocolate pudding cups.”
“That’s right. Mom never understood why they disappeared so fast. I guess she never noticed the empty containers in your garbage can. You used to tell me stories of what it would be like to be a grown-up, all the jobs we could have. Whatever we wanted to be. You were going to work at Prescott Branding. Do you remember that? All those summer internships practically guaranteed you a job there.”
Betsy stretched her legs under the sheet. “Oh, I remember.” Her onetime goal of being an account exec at Birmingham’s top ad agency seemed like a lifetime ago. “You always wanted to be an actress and a vet and a photographer.”
“And you told me I could do it if that’s what I wanted.”
“Yep. It’s probably the same thing you tell Addie and Walsh. That they can be whatever they want to be.”
“That’s what we tell them, but . . . we can’t just be anything, you know? Sometimes it just doesn’t work out. I mean, look at you. You were supposed to be cranking out genius ad campaigns for big companies, but instead you married a farmer and live with a bunch of cows. No offense, it’s just not what you planned way back when.” Jenna took a breath. “All that time, we thought we really could just go and do and be and things would fall into place, but it doesn’t always happen that way.”
Betsy stilled her legs. She could have said a million things about what had and hadn’t worked out in her own life, but she focused on her sister instead. “What’s going on with you, Jenna?”
“Nothing. Just that . . . we can’t always get what we want.” She paused. “Sorry, that’s stupid. And I’ve always hated that song.”
“What do you want that you’re not getting?” Even as she said the words, she imagined a long, winding list of things Jenna probably wanted. Or maybe Betsy was just thinking of her own list, the one that swirled around her head, out the window, and up into the still night air.
“I just . . . I wonder if maybe coming here was a bad idea. I’ve already given up my photography. Why try to force it to work again?” She paused, then her next words were soft. “What do you think Mom would say about me being here?”
Betsy closed her eyes and spoke carefully. “I think she would be glad you’re pursuing something you feel passionate about.”
“Really? That’s what I was trying to do with Wyoming. And even before that with the program in Seattle. What makes you think she’d feel any different this time?” Jenna laughed, small and tired. “She said I’d either end up on drugs or pregnant. She always did have such high hopes for me.”
“Oh, Jenna, she didn’t mean . . .” But she stopped. That had been one of the things about their mother that sometimes hurt the most—she always said exactly what she meant and she never minced words. And in Jenna’s case, her words cut deep.
“No, it’s okay. It’s fine. I mean, one of her worst fears for me has already happened. I’m not planning on doing any drugs, so what else can go wrong?”
Betsy sat up and leaned forward, as if her sister were sitting right in front of her. “Look, what Mom would think about you going to Halcyon doesn’t matter anymore. You’re older now and . . . I don’t think going there was a bad idea. Last weekend you were so excited about it. It’s got to be hard to get yourself back into that . . . creative place, but it’s in you. I know it is. Just give it time.” What was she saying? Trying to convince her sister to try to be more artistic, more free-spirited? She was glad Ty wasn’t there to overhear her.
“Mom definitely wouldn’t want you to give up, regardless of what she thought about you going there in the first place.”
Silence. “Maybe you’re right.” Jenna sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s late. I’m probably keeping you and Ty from going to bed. Have the girls been waking up early?”
There she went again. When conversation got too personal or raw, Jenna always changed it to something easier. But then again, so did Betsy. It was better than focusing on the things that hurt. She sighed. “Not too early. Walsh usually wakes up first, then she wakes Addie up with her singing. Then they both come downstairs.”
Jenna chuckled. “Are you and Ty surviving?”
“We’re fine. The girls will be happy to see you though when you get back.”
Jenna inhaled, then exhaled into the phone. “I’ll let you go then. I’ll call again soon.”
“You sure you’re okay? If there’s anything else bothering you . . . I’m here if you want to talk again.” It used to be so normal, so natural—confiding in each other. At one time, they were the keepers of each other’s secrets.
“I know. Thanks. I’m good.”
Then she was gone. Betsy tossed her phone down and lay back against the pillows.
She had been ten when she spotted a lofty, regal bed in a magazine and asked her parents to prop her bed up on casters. When they said no, she begged. Finally, one Saturday afternoon before her dad had to be downtown to conduct his orchestra, he brought in a box of casters. Clothed in his tuxedo and gold cufflinks, he slithered under her bed and lifted each corner, one leg at a time, and slid the casters into place. When he finished, he was covered in a thin scrum of dust and her bed was six inches higher. She beamed; he searched for a lint roller.
From that afternoon on, the pocket of space under Betsy’s bed became her and Jenna’s refuge from the world. They colored, listened to the radio, ate their pudding, and told wild, far-fetched stories filled with mermaids, dragons, dark enemies, and handsome princes. Good always won, evil was always defeated, and dreams always came true.
Later, that private sanctuary was where Jenna first revealed her love of photography to Betsy. Betsy already knew Jenna was artistic—she could draw anything, painted with quick and sure brushstrokes, and sometimes stayed after school to help clean paintbrushes in the art room. But until then, Betsy hadn’t known how much Jenna loved to take pictures.
One particular day in seventh grade, Jenna slid under the bed and told Betsy in angry whispers how she’d swiped their mom’s Nikon—the one she used to take photos of cancer patients for her inspiration wall—and taken black-and-white photos of trees and leaves to use in a presentation about her favorite artist.
“That’s awesome, Jenna,” Betsy had said. “Mom will kill you when she finds out you used her camera, but I bet your pictures look great.”
“They did, but it didn’t matter. Mrs. Lipscomb gave me a D because I didn’t use the right kind of poster board for the presentation. But it wasn’t my fault! By the time I got Mom to take me to buy some, all they had left was plain yellow. Mrs. Lipscomb wanted white trifold.”
“That’s it? She gave you a D for yellow poster paper?”
Jenna sighed. “I was supposed to use a certain kind of tape on the photos. I used the Scotch tape from the kitchen drawer.”
Betsy handed Jenna a plastic spoon and a cup of pudding. “I’m sorry.” At fifteen, Betsy already knew chocolate could fix most problems. Or at least dull their sting.
Jenna peeled the lid off and licked the pudding from the back of the shiny foil. “She also said Ansel Adams wasn’t a real artist. Or at least not the kind we were supposed to focus on. She said if I wanted to study photography, I could wait until high school and take a photography class.”
Betsy scraped her spoon around the edge of the cup to get the last bit. “Well, of course you’ll do that. You’ll probably be a better photographer than the teacher. You’re good, Jenna. Just keep practicing. Maybe Mom will let you use her camera more.”
Jenna shook her head. “I dropped it when Mr. Barton’s
dog barked behind me. Cracked the lens.”
Betsy closed her eyes. That was always the way it was for Jenna. She had good intentions, but somehow she always screwed up the follow-through. So much for dreams coming true.
Now, lying in bed in her grown-up house far away from that secret shelter, Betsy wondered about all those stories she used to tell Jenna. Were they really just lies? Real life held plenty of good and evil, battles and rescues. And if you worked hard, you really could be anything you wanted to be. Right?
Maybe it was only partly true.
Some dreams were too far-fetched—the short kid who wanted to slam dunk, the chubby girl who had a crush on the prom king, the painfully shy kid who wanted the lead in the school play. Then there was the young girl who wanted to take pictures, but only heard that she hadn’t chosen the right dream and that her methods of achieving her goal were wrong. Betsy’s first and deepest instinct was to tell that young girl to keep pressing ahead, to fling aside doubts and naysayers, to pursue her desire with a single-minded focus.
But what about Betsy’s dream? She’d pressed and prayed and pursued as much as she was able, but nothing had happened. At what point did pursuing the dream become futile? Was there a point at which the dreamer should just let it go? But what were you supposed to do when the dream felt fundamental to the fabric of your being, of your soul? What then?
fifteen
Betsy
“Can we go see the cows?” Addie asked the next morning as Walsh darted out of her chair to follow Etta into the den. “Do you think they’re awake yet?”
“They’ve been awake for hours.” Betsy had just poured her second cup of coffee. “We can go see them when they have their breakfast, but I have an idea. Let’s get dressed and go see the hens first. We can see how many eggs they have for us, then we’ll check on the cows.”
Addie’s eyes grew wide. “Will there be any baby chicks?”
“Probably not today. But you can help me pull the eggs out of the nests.”
Walsh ran around the backyard while Addie tiptoed into the henhouse. She was hesitant at first, but curiosity and the anticipation of speckled eggs got the best of her. Betsy showed her how to feel underneath the hens for the eggs and place them in the basket. Addie sprinkled a scoop of chicken feed on the ground, then darted out the gate to join Walsh on the swing. Betsy gave the hens one more scoop and locked the gate behind her.
By the time they made it to the barn, most of the cows had been turned out to pasture. A few, those with any hint of ailment or problem, were still in the side pen for a closer inspection. Ty looked up when they entered the barn. “Well, good morning,” he said to the girls. He drew close to Betsy, snaked his arm around her waist. “And good morning to you,” he whispered.
Addie pulled on Betsy’s hand. “Aunt Betsy, did you know Uncle Ty snores?”
“Hey now.” Ty squatted down and looked in her face. “That’s supposed to be our secret.”
Betsy laughed. “It’s not a secret, Addie. I think the neighbors down the street know Uncle Ty snores. The cows know for sure.”
Addie giggled.
“What’s on tap for today?” he asked as Addie stepped away from him and Betsy to explore the barn. Walsh ran headlong into a bench, tumbled over it, then righted herself and knelt down to peer at something on the floor.
“You’re looking at it. The girls wanted to see the cows. Addie keeps saying she wants to ride one.”
Addie whipped her head back around to Ty when she heard that.
“Hmm,” he said, scratching his chin. “I have to go see Roger about a part for the tractor, but Walker owes me, so I think he’s your guy.”
Walker’s head popped up from the other side of a cow lingering in the milking line. “What’s that, Mr. Franklin?”
“I need someone to show these little ladies around the barn. Since you ditched me early last Saturday to visit your girlfriend, you can help out for a little while longer today, right?”
In addition to his weekday work, Walker also helped with the milking and cleaning on Saturday mornings. His daddy wanted him to work as much as possible while he was out of school for the summer.
“Oh, uh, sure,” Walker said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I mean, I’m supposed to meet Erin . . .” He caught the look in Ty’s eye. “But yeah, I can help.”
Ty clapped his hands together. “Great. Why don’t you take Addie and Walsh to see Rosie?”
Betsy smiled. Rosie was her favorite out of all 218 cows. Her face was kinder than the rest, if that was possible. Breeding attempts had so far been unsuccessful with her. Ty suspected she was sterile, but Betsy had high hopes for her.
Addie and Walsh followed Walker to the side pen. She turned to follow them, but Ty caught her arm. “How do the girls seem to you?”
Betsy shrugged. “I think they’re okay. Neither of them has mentioned Jenna today.”
Ty nodded, bit the inside of his cheek. “Two weeks is a long time to leave your kids.”
Betsy inhaled, watching as Walker led the girls into the pen where Rosie stood, munching grass.
“I bet she misses them,” he said. “I hope she misses them. I mean, look at them.”
Addie stood in front of Rosie’s face, rubbing the top of the cow’s nose. Then Walsh held her face against Rosie’s huge fuzzy cheek. She closed her eyes and smiled. Rosie kept munching, unconcerned about the two small people petting her.
Betsy nodded. After all these years, she could still read her sister’s face like fingers on Braille. And what she’d seen on Jenna’s face when she left the previous week spanned the entire spectrum of emotion, from the delight of sudden freedom to the terror of someone letting go. Which of those faces came closest to the actual truth?
“We can’t eat these.”
“You can’t eat grapes?” Betsy had just set a lunch of grilled cheese and grapes in front of the girls on the back porch. “Why not?” Had Jenna forgotten to tell her the girls were allergic to grapes?
“Mommy always cuts our grapes in half. If we eat them like this, they could get stuck in our throats and make us choke.”
Of course. Betsy got a knife from the kitchen counter and returned to the porch. “Note to self: cut grapes in half,” she said as she cut. “Got it.”
Addie pulled Walsh’s hand back when she tried to grab a grape as Betsy sliced them. “Careful,” she said.
After lunch—during which thankfully she hadn’t made any other mistakes—she left Addie on the porch love seat with a stack of Anna Beth’s books while she tucked an already half-asleep Walsh into bed upstairs. When she returned, Addie was asleep too, as Betsy suspected. The girls had played hard all morning with every animal they could find, be it cow, cat, barn mouse, or annoyed hen.
As she straightened the kitchen, gathering cups and shoes, Ty returned from Roger’s place. Betsy thought of the meager amount of food he sometimes kept in the barn office for days when he couldn’t make it up to the house to eat lunch. It was nothing more than a few bags of chips. Maybe an apple. She deposited the cups in the sink and the shoes by the back door. After a quick check on Walsh upstairs, she ducked out the back door, a Tervis cup of iced tea in one hand and a pimento-cheese sandwich in a brown paper bag.
She spotted him out by the back fence shielding his eyes from the bright sun. The tractor moved slowly out in the field, and three men stood close to it in a group, peering at the ground as if it were a crystal ball. As she drew closer, Ty turned and walked back into the barn from the other side, his stride purposeful and quick. She entered the doors and smiled. “Hi,” she called. She crossed the floor and met him near his office.
He looked up and grinned. A sheen of sweat covered his top lip and brow. She reached up and brushed a few specks of grass out of his hair. His hair was still as thick and blond as it had been in college, except now he had patches of gray at his temples. She loved that gray as much as she loved the crease in his forehead.
“Whatcha got in that bag?” he
asked.
She held it out to him. “I brought you a sandwich. And tea.” She passed the glass to him and he drank half of it in two gulps.
“You’re an angel. Thanks.” He took the bag from her hand. “Whatever this is, it’s much better than what I would have been eating.”
“What’s going on with the tractor?”
“Belt’s worn out. It made it through spring planting, but we have to fix it before harvest when we’re dodging storms. Speaking of, Roger’s bringing some extra plywood when he brings the spare part for the tractor. I want to cover some of the upper windows of the barn.”
“Already? There’s not a storm out there, is there?” Betsy usually paid close attention to the weather reports, but in the chaos of the last couple of days, she’d forgotten to check. She’d never admit it to Ty, because big storms meant a possible loss of milk, but she always felt a rush of excitement when tropical storms rolled in. Hurricanes, not so much. But it was possible for a tropical storm to bring nothing but strong breezes, cooling rain, and an excuse for Betsy to hole up with a book in the front window. She was almost embarrassed by how much she liked them.
He shook his head. “Doesn’t hurt to go ahead and have everything in place though. Things could get ugly later in the summer. The Gulf waters are heating up early.”
Betsy peered at him, trying to detect the level of his nerves. The hurricane he went through with his grandfather years ago was always in the back of his mind, pushing him to do all he could to keep the farm safe. “Warm water isn’t a good sign.”
“Nope.” He rubbed the back of his neck, then took another swig of tea. “The girls in the house?”
“They’re both asleep. The morning wore them out.”
He glanced back out the door of the barn.
“I’ll let you get back to work then.” She backed away, but he reached out and tugged her hand.
Hurricane Season Page 12
