Mothers and Daughters: An Anthology

by Deborah Bedford

  Her father’s voice was choked with emotion. “A good woman, my Edna.” He turned and gave his daughter a sad, wise smile. “Guess it’s time I stopped thinking about her dying. Guess it’s time I started thinking about her living instead.”

  “Yes.”

  “She lived for us, Theia. She lived for us, and she lived for her Lord. Just the way you’re doing now with your husband and your little ones.”

  For a moment, Theia stared at the ribbons, winding them between her fingers the same way she had wound Kate’s hair not so long ago. She reached behind her nape and, with no further ado, looped them around her neck. She tied them into a double bow at the base of her throat. There would be no more ponytails or plaits for a while, not until her hair grew back.

  “I always felt so special wearing these. I went through the whole day reminding myself that Mom had put those ribbons in my hair.”

  The same way she’d learned to get through each day with cancer, reminding herself of God’s presence in her life.

  Her dad took another tin bucket off the shelf and drove a nail in the bottom with one easy thwack. He turned it right side up and started to place rocks inside. “Remember how your mother used to stuff her Thanksgiving turkeys? Remember how she used to stand it upside down in the sink and wiggle its legs and tell us it was doing the tango so it wouldn’t go down the drain?”

  Theia tucked her mother’s letter back inside the Bible, ready to carry it inside. “Oh, Daddy.” She kissed him on the sandpapery cheek. “How could I ever forget?”

  Opening night of the Nutcracker performance, and pandemonium reigned backstage at The Pink Garter Theater.

  “My wing is torn.” One of the littlest angels tugged on Theia’s sweater. “Can you sew it for me?”

  “I can’t find my leotard.” A reindeer jingled her bell harness for attention.

  “The Sugar Plum Fairy can’t find her crown.”

  Theia stood there, a corral mom helping out backstage, trying to figure out how to clean the grape juice out of Jake Mason’s jabot before he had to dance in the party scene, dabbing circles of Shangri-La Ruby lipstick on each reindeer’s nose, and making certain that no one chewed gum when she lined up to take the stage.

  Ten minutes before the show began, Julie Stevens came behind the curtain and crouched close to her dancers. They gathered around her as she gave them last minute encouragement and suggestions. “We’ve got a full house out there tonight, so be sure to dance your best. Angels, when you make the arch with your scepters, remember to make a slow big motion, big enough to carry to the last row of the theater.”

  Eight angels nodded, their halos bobbing.

  “Mice, when you throw the cannonballs, remember that they are heavy. Heavy. You are not throwing plastic balls around. You are battling, iron against iron.”

  One mouse flexed her forearm and proudly showed everyone some muscle.

  “Reindeer. I don’t care what else happens out there, do not get too far ahead of the sleigh.”

  “We won’t,” they all shrieked while jingling the bells on their harnesses one more time.

  “Sh-h-hhh.”

  “This is it. What we’ve been working toward for months. I’m on my way to the sound booth.”

  The dance students cheered.

  Just as Julie Stevens headed downstage, she and Heidi almost collided. “Have a good time out there tonight, Heidi. You’ve worked really hard, and I’m proud of you.” Theia’s gaze locked with Julie’s over Heidi’s head. “I’m glad you’re here tonight, Mrs. McKinnis.”

  Theia inclined her jaw. “I am, too.” That’s all that needed to be said.

  In the theater the overture swelled, and on stage the spotlights faded from twilight to black. They came up again in lavish colors, blue, green, red, yellow, bathing the set, a Christmas tree, an English Victorian parlor decorated for a party, in radiant light. Partygoers, young and old alike, began dancing their way up the aisles toward the stage.

  “Are you going out in the audience to see me dance?” Heidi whispered.

  Theia nodded. “I wouldn’t miss it. They said I could sneak out and sit on the stairs to watch.”

  “Where are Grandpa and Dad and Kate?”

  Theia opened the side of the curtain just an inch. “Over there.” She pointed. “See. On the fourth row.”

  There they sat, all three of them, already enthralled by the performance, their faces captured in the vivid lighting. Theia closed the curtain. Heidi nodded at the double bow that Theia had pinned to the chest of her sweater. “You wear those ribbons Grandma gave you all the time now, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. I brought them along for a special reason tonight though. Just in case you thought you might want to borrow them.”

  Heidi checked her braids, pinned with what felt like six hundred bobby pins and sprayed with hair lacquer so they wouldn’t give way during the cartwheels. “There isn’t anyplace to put them.”

  “If you wanted, we could always come up with something.”

  “What if I mess up the cartwheels after I’ve practiced them so many times?”

  “Remember what I taught you. It’s all in the rhythm. Hand. Hand. Foot. Foot.”

  “Can you tie a ribbon on my arm, Mom? That way I’ll know it’s there, but no one else can see it.”

  “Ah. There you go. Perfect idea.” She unpinned the ribbons from her sweater and made a lovely bow on her daughter’s arm with a flourish. “I’ll be praying that every cartwheel lands right.”

  Heidi pulled her sleeve down over the little bow.

  “Clowns. Three minutes! Line up.”

  “That’s you.” Theia gave her a little swat on the behind. “You’re on.”

  Heidi took a deep breath, smoothed her pantaloons, and lifted her chin. “I’m ready.”

  Theia kissed her goodbye, snuck past the curtain, and found a place on the steps so she could watch. Minutes passed. The stage stayed bright. Suddenly music surged again through the theater. Mother Ginger clumped across the stage on her stilts, hid a giggle behind her gloved hand and lifted her swaying skirts.

  Out cartwheeled five clowns.

  Hand. Hand. Foot. Foot.

  Each cartwheeling clown landed perfectly.

  Heidi tilted her beaming face up toward the lights and began to dance. In her heart, Theia danced alongside her daughter. And perhaps in Heaven, Edna Harkin danced, too, spinning, laughing, landing a cartwheel or two, delighting in the heavenly Father who had brought forth from three generations—daughters, mother, grandmother—His finest legacy of love.

  Dear Reader,

  How exciting it is to see “The Hair Ribbons” return to print! This novella marks the very beginning of my writing for the Lord. Before this story was ever published, I could feel God working on my heart to make a detour in my career. I felt Him calling me to stop writing romance novels and to start writing stories that helped women understand how greatly the Lord loves them, how worthy they are in His sight, that the Father has a passion and a purpose for everyone. But it seemed as if no Christian publisher wanted my work. My agent and I parted ways.

  I hate to tell you about my many months of second-guessing. Am I doing the right thing? Do I really need to move in this direction, or is this a huge mistake? It’s as if the Father asked over and over, every time a door slammed in my face, Do you want to write for Me, Debbi? Do you want to write for Me? Do you REALLY want to write for Me?

  One weekend, while attending a women’s retreat with several good friends and fellow writers, everyone talked about their various books and I found myself yearning to produce work that would glorify God. I was so willing! Why wouldn’t He use me?

  The conference ended on Saturday night, and on Sunday morning a few of us attended Robin Lee Hatcher’s church in Boise, Idaho. I’ll never forget the moment when Robin turned to me and whispered, “Let’s take you to the altar and pray.” These dear women, including Karen Bell, then an editor at Multnomah Publishing, gathered around me at t
he front of this beautiful sanctuary, laid hands on me and prayed for new beginnings in my life. I’ve never felt so encircled with love and care and certainty. That weekend, at the altar, “The Hair Ribbons” was born.

  In the end, Karen Ball was the very editor who bought this first story and gave it an avenue to appear in print. It is based on true happenings here in Jackson Hole. Many of Theia’s thoughts and conflicts and hopes came from prayers that we all shared as we prayed for a friend in our Bible study group who was fighting cancer. And the Nutcracker scenes come straight from Christmases backstage with my daughter, Avery, red reindeer noses and angel wings and all!

  May you be as blessed reading this story as I was by writing it. I wrote “The Hair Ribbons” to help others understand that our victories in life are often made sweeter by the battles God calls us to fight to get to them. May you understand that the Father has a calling and a purpose for your life and that He loves you more than you can ever imagine!

  QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  How does her mother’s experience with breast cancer color Theia’s? What made her experience different?

  How does being a mother influence Theia’s approach to her breast cancer? Does she act differently than a woman who didn’t have children might? Why or why not?

  In your childhood what object played the role of the blue hair ribbons? At what point did you set it aside? Why?

  Theia’s doctors talk to her about creating a survival plan. What role should faith play in such a plan? How would you incorporate your faith?

  Tension pulls Theia’s family in different directions. Why does each character rebel/react in those particular ways? How would you have reacted to a family member’s serious illness?

  What unique support do Theia’s daughters provide to her? What is there about the mother-daughter bond that makes their support so invaluable?

  UNFORGETTABLE

  Linda Goodnight

  Surely they may forget, yet I will not forget you.

  See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands.

  —Isaiah 49:15–16

  During the writing of this book, our family suffered

  the loss of my motherin-law, Lorene Goodnight.

  Lorene was more than a motherin-law. She was

  the Mom I didn’t have. I loved her and she loved

  me—as mother and daughter. A Christian since the

  age of twelve (like Frannie), Lorene’s steadfast faith

  and unconditional love taught me a great deal about

  being a woman of God, lessons I’m still learning.

  During the last year of her life, this precious saint

  suffered with a type of dementia. So this book is

  dedicated to her memory because truly, she may

  have forgotten many things, but God had not

  forgotten her. Her name was written in the palms

  of His hands.

  I would also like to acknowledge the many

  Alzheimer’s bloggers, both patients and caregivers,

  who gave me insight into your devastating journey.

  May God be with you the way He was with Frannie.

  Chapter One

  Funny how everything could be normal one minute and utter chaos the next.

  For the rest of her life, Carrie Martin would remember that bright Saturday as a perfect spring day in a perfectly happy, settled, safe life.

  At ten o’clock in the morning, while on her hands and knees in the front yard transplanting iris bulbs and waiting for her daughter and husband to show up with peat moss from Clifford’s Garden Center, Carrie was jolted by the onk-onk of a car horn. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was, but she did anyway, lifting a dirty gloved hand in greeting as the gold-colored Oldsmobile sailed into the driveway with one final blast of goodwill.

  Her mother, the irrepressible Francis Adler—Frannie to her friends—hopped out of the Olds and crossed the grass, her short, green-clad legs pumping with the energy of a woman half her sixty-one years.

  Frannie’s enormous hat, also green, formed an ever-advancing pool of shade across the sunny lawn. Today was St. Patrick’s Day and this was Mother’s method of announcing to the world that she was Irish. Even if she hadn’t been, she would have worn the hat.

  Frannie never did anything halfway.

  “Good morning, Mother.” Carrie rested back on her heels with a smile.

  From behind a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, Frannie looked her daughter up and down before extracting a stick-on shamrock from the pocket of her loose cotton jacket—green, of course. “You aren’t wearing green.”

  Well, Mother certainly was.

  Frannie slapped the shamrock onto the pocket of Carrie’s white camp shirt.

  Carrie glanced down. “I am now.”

  “I saved you from being pinched,” her mother said cheerfully. “How do you like my hat?” A pudgy, beringed hand patted the wide brim.

  “Very Irish.” Like a plump leprechaun. Any minute now Carrie expected her to leap into the air and click her heels. She would do it, too, if the notion struck. As with holidays, Mother never missed an opportunity to have what she termed as fun. Carrie termed it embarrassing.

  Take for instance, last year’s Gusher Day festivities, their small town’s celebration of its oil boom heritage. Mother and her Red Hat Society compatriots, a group of over-fifty ladies with a zest for life, marched in the parade tossing bright red wax lips into the crowd while belting, “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” in a slightly off-key, wobbly-voiced style.

  Carrie, watching from the church craft booth, had inwardly cringed at Mother’s outrageous display. How could a Christian woman be so…boisterous? A better question, perhaps, was how had Francis Adler given birth and parented a daughter who was her total opposite?

  Candace Ellis, the pastor’s unassuming wife had surprised everyone in the booth by saying, “As soon as I’m old enough, I’m going to join, too. Those ladies have a blast.”

  Carrie had managed a tight-lipped smile. Not me, she thought. I wouldn’t be caught dead prancing in front of everyone in the Red Hat brigade.

  She loved her mother, truly, but sometimes she wished her only parent was a little more low-key.

  “So, where are you headed this morning, Mother?” Using the edge of her glove—the only clean spot—to brush hair out of her eyes, Carrie continued to trowel around another overgrown iris. “Or did you come by to help me separate these bulbs?”

  “Oh, honey, why don’t you let them grow? Your yard would be beautiful filled with all the different-colored irises. Like a rainbow of flowers.”

  “My yard is beautiful,” she answered a little stiffly. “Everyone admires the way my flowers border the walkways and line the drive in tidy rows.”

  She lifted out a tangle of moist, earthy-scented soil and bulbs.

  That was the thing about irises. If she wasn’t right on them in the spring, rooting them out, they took over. The blessing of course came in giving them away. What she viewed as pests, her friends considered coveted additions to their gardens. Carrie loved her gardens, but she loved them neat and orderly, although she had to admit a certain envy of Mother’s carefree attitude about her plants.

  She added the uprooted bulbs to the bucket at her knee. Clods of dirt pattered like rain against the thick plastic.

  “I think I’ll take these over to Sara Perneky.” The younger woman had raved about Carrie’s garden last spring.

  “Wonderful idea.” Mother crouched down beside her to peer into the bucket. A fog of Avon cologne mingled with the scent of fresh, fertile earth. “After that nasty divorce, Sara could use a bright spot in her life. Poor girl. Don’t let any of these go to waste now. I know half a dozen ladies who would love a start, including me.”

  “Mother, for goodness’ sake. Your garden is overrun now.” To Carrie’s way of thinking, Mother’s garden wasn’t a garden. It was a jungle.

  “The more the merrier, I always say. Let ’e
m bloom.”

  “A perfect nesting place for snakes.”

  “That could have happened anywhere,” Mother said. “Besides, that little critter added a spark to the day. Lots of excitement when a snake comes a-calling.”

  Dan, Carrie’s husband, had been called upon last fall to kill a copperhead found slithering from beneath the jungle of lilac and japonica and honeysuckle vines growing over the concrete top of Mother’s cellar. They’d all breathed a sigh of relief afterward when Frannie got out her giant hedge clippers and whacked away the worst of the bushes.

  “I wonder where Dan and Lexi are?” Carrie said, shading her eyes to peer down the street. “I thought they’d be back by now.”

  “Well, fiddle. Lexi’s not here?” Frannie adjusted her sunglasses. “I came by to see if she wanted to ride with me to the airport.”

  Carrie froze. “The airport?”

  Riverbend boasted a small airport for private planes. Mostly oilmen flew in and out of there, but occasionally someone gave flying lessons.

  “You aren’t taking flying lessons, are you?” Frannie had threatened to do just that for years, but money was always an issue. Carrie thanked the good Lord it was. The thought of her mother barnstorming in a single-engine plane gave her hives. She could almost imagine Frannie decked out in Amelia Earhart helmet and goggles taking on a crop dusting job for the express purpose of swooping down to scare her daughter into apoplexy.

  Frannie flapped a hand. “Mercy, no. Too expensive.”

  Fingers gripping the top of the bucket, Carrie didn’t realize she was holding her breath until it seeped out in a whistle. “Then whatever for?”

  “Skydiving.”

  Carrie held up a stiff hand, stop sign style. “You aren’t going skydiving, Mother. You aren’t.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Carrie. The skydiving club is doing a jump today. I’m only going out to watch.” A sneaky little grin teased the corners of her vermilion lips. “This time.”

  Frannie had been threatening to jump out of an airplane as long as Carrie could remember. The idea struck sheer terror in her height-phobic daughter. “Thank the Lord.”

  Mother checked her watch. “Gotta run. I told Alice I’d stop to pick her up on the way.” Alice Sherman was Mother’s best friend.