He patted me gently on the shoulder then slipped into the booth across from Cor. “And how was your weekend, Terra?”
“She went to church,” Cor said. “My church.” He put heavy emphasis on the “my.”
“It's not a competition, Cor.” Father Sam looked hurt. “Though I'm sorry to hear that the homilies of our resident priest, Father Jorgenson, don't match up to the thunder-and-lightning sermons of Pastor Hofstede.”
“He preaches the Word of the Lord,” Cor said. “That's what we need to hear in this day and age. Pure preaching of the Word.”
“But does he preach comfort?” Father Sam asked.
“Of course he does.” Cor looked at me for verification. “Does Pastor Hofstede preach comfort? What do you think, Terra?”
Did I look like a theologian? “I think it's time I brought Father Sam his tea,” I said, taking the coward's way out.
Conveniently, a new group of people came in just then, and a few minutes later the restaurant was buzzing again. I filled orders and refilled cups and tried out some of my own versions of slang to describe food I couldn't find on any of the Web sites I had checked out. And all the while, Mathilde grew more and more mellow. At least as mellow as someone with a permanent scowl pressed into her forehead could get.
“So we'll see you tonight?” Cor asked when I brought the bill. He leaned sideways to pull the wallet out of his back pocket, his expression hopeful.
“I'll be there. With dessert.” Which I could probably buy with the tip I knew he would leave me.
The look of anticipation on his face almost gave me second thoughts about my plan to bring healthy food.
Then I noticed the half-empty sugar container.
And Father Sam didn't take sugar in his tea.
So, which pineapple to buy?
I held up two likely prospects, examining them closely, hefting them in my hands as the gentle strains of Muzak threatened to zombify me.
You have absolutely no idea what you're doing. Just pick one.
I didn't want to get home, cut open the pineapple, find a brown spot, and wish I'd bought the other one. I wanted to get the sweetest, tastiest pineapple I could so that Cor would eat it and declare himself done with sugary desserts. I wanted him to be converted to healthy eating habits, and to stay healthy after discovering just how good fresh pineapple could taste.
That was a lot of responsibility to put on a single piece of fruit.
A woman rolled her clattery cart up the produce aisle, reached past me, and with a decisive swipe, pulled a pineapple out of the bin. She dropped it into her cart and carried on, the rattle and squeak of her wheels following her.
How did she know?
I made a snap pineapple decision, then turned around in time to see a familiar sight ahead of me. I hurried to catch Amelia as she turned down the cookie aisle.
“Hey there, Amelia.”
She spun around, the look of fear on her face slipping into relief when she saw me. She had Madison in a car seat tucked in the cart, a few groceries stashed around her. The little girl was sleeping, her head angled to one side, a little pink bow slipping out of the tuft of hair it had, at one time, been anchored to. Her mouth was pursed in a glistening pout, her stubby eyelashes a whisper of color on her cheeks.
The frayed blanket that had covered her had slipped down, and I gently pulled it up and very carefully, trying not to disturb her, tucked it back around her. She was so tiny and frail—I was afraid that even this small movement would disturb her.
Her cheeks were flushed and as I leaned closer, I could hear that her breathing was labored. And I caught a whiff of dirty diaper.
I thought of Leslie and Kathy's conversation.
“How is she doing?” I asked, brushing my finger lightly over her warm cheek.
“I dunno. Okay, I guess.”
“She seems warm. Did you take her temperature?”
Amelia sighed and fiddled with her earring. “Well… I don't have a temperature thing.”
“Thermometer. Come with me.”
I led her to the pharmaceutical aisle. “Here,” I said, handing her a blister package. “Thermometer. Directions are written on the back. Make sure you clean it with rubbing alcohol, not hot water.” While I talked to her, I glanced over the contents of her grocery cart. Wieners, skim milk, Kool-Aid packages, some baby cereal, and macaroni-and-cheese packages. I had already interfered; I figured I may as well take it one step further. “That milk. Is it for you?”
“No. For Madison.”
“You don't give a baby skim milk, Amelia.”
Amelia chewed her lip as she fiddled with the thermometer. “My mom always gave me that milk.”
Was this part of the reason Madison wasn't growing properly? “You don't give skim milk to a baby.” I took her to the next aisle, handed her a can of infant formula. “This is what you feed a baby.”
“It costs more, though.”
“But it's better for her. And, Amelia, there's a changing table in the bathroom. You might want to use it to change her.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
I wondered how she could have forgotten something that made its presence known in no uncertain terms. For a moment, I understood Leslie and Kathy's concerns.
“And if you are really worried, take her to the hospital.”
“But if I go again…” She stopped, her hand reaching up to her earring.
I moved a little closer, touching Madison's cheek again. Her very helplessness clutched at my heart. “If you go again, what?” I said quietly, sensing Amelia's fear.
“Your sister—Leslie?” Amelia wrapped one arm across her stomach, her other hand flipping her earring back and forth, back and forth, her nervous movements creating a jangling sound. “She said… she said something about taking Madison away.”
My heart turned to ice in my chest. “Did she say exactly that?”
Amelia's face grew confused. “Not exactly.”
I tried to keep my voice calm and even. I could see I was making Amelia even more nervous. “What exactly did she say, Amelia?”
“Well… she said it looked like Madison needed some help, and then she said something about tests. I don't want them to take her away for tests. What if they don't give her back to me? She's okay, you know. She just needs love, and I love her lots.”
“If you love her lots, you'll take her for those tests, Amelia.” I hesitated, then figured after giving her advice on nutrition and child care, I could go all the way. “There is something wrong with Madison. She's too small for her age. She doesn't look healthy. You need to find out what's the matter with her so you can make her better.”
“I'm scared.” Amelia wrapped both arms around her waist, as if protecting herself. “I saw your sister and Rod talking together the other time I went to the hospital. They were whispering. I know they were talking about Madison and me.”
“They won't take her away, Amelia. I'll help you keep your baby.”
“You promise?” Her desperation leached into her voice.
“I promise.”
She nodded. “Okay. I'll go change her. Except I don't have another diaper.”
I led her one aisle over to the baby needs, picked up a package of diapers, and pulled one out. “I'll pay for this while you're changing her. Meet me at the cashier's when you're done, and I'll give you the rest.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Amelia took the diaper from me.
“And don't forget to wash her up after you take off the old diaper. You want her bottom completely clean.”
“Right. Clean her bottom.” Amelia stuffed the diaper into the pocket of her coat.
I watched her go, wishing I had my cell phone. I wanted to call Leslie. To ask her what she and Rod had spoken about. I wanted to give Leslie the benefit of the doubt, but at the same time, when I thought of the conversation I overheard between her and Kathy I got angry. I gathered my groceries into a bag.
“You have to pay,” the cashier called out just
as I was about to leave.
“Sorry, I wasn't thinking.” Which was a lie, I thought as I swiped my card, jabbing at the numbers with my forefinger. I was thinking too much.
I forced myself to calm down while I waited for Amelia. She didn't need to get any more stressed than she already was.
Ten minutes later, I realized that somehow she had snuck past me. No-show.
Now I was out six bucks and I had a package of disposable diapers. Just what every single woman needs on hand.
As soon as I got home, I called Leslie. But she didn't answer and she wasn't at work, and I wasn't about to start working my way through the Harland phone book to track her down just to satisfy my anger.
I had to calm myself to make up the fruit platter for that night anyway. Anger and knives are a recipe for bloody fingers and a quick trip to the ER.
Twenty minutes later, I had the fruit arranged on a plate and covered with Saran Wrap and I was on my way again. The walk calmed me down, and as I walked, my mind spun through the variables of Amelia's life. Rod, who didn't seem supportive, talking to Leslie, who didn't object when her friend Kathy said Madison should be taken away.
And why do you care? You're not going to be here forever. Don't get involved.
But I couldn't just walk away. Amelia's situation was eerily close to my own.
As my feet pounded out my steady waitress rhythm on the sidewalk, my mind flitted back to something the minister had said on Sunday. Atonement.
Maybe I needed to atone for my bad decisions, I thought. Maybe atonement—helping Amelia—would help erase the stupid mistakes I had made, straighten the wrong turns my life had taken.
Maybe helping Amelia would take away this nagging feeling that my life was heading in the wrong direction. Maybe I could have a moment of purpose before I moved on.
Who are you kidding? You can't help anyone. You've got a court case coming up—or have you forgotten the reason you've stuck around as long as you have?
I tried to brush the errant thought away. I had lots of reasons to stay awhile. Leslie. Nicholas. Anneke. I needed to connect with all of them.
Leslie comes with a whole load of other stuff you aren't ready to take on. Church. Family. Expectations. Everything comes at a price. Staying with Leslie could cost you more than you're willing to pay.
Leslie was my family. She was all I had.
And what is she going to think once you get hauled through the court system?
I stopped, closed my eyes, and willed the thought away. Ever since I'd been fingerprinted, I had tried to ignore the ignominy of the situation. My focus had been paying Leslie back. I hadn't given much thought beyond that.
I'd need a lawyer, probably. And how was I supposed to pay for that? Legal aid?
Stop. Stop. You're going to have supper with Cor. Think about that. Only that.
I straightened my shoulders and stepped around the corner.
Jack's silver pickup was parked on Cor's street.
Chapter Sixteen
I stopped so fast the pineapple I had spent so much time working on almost slid off the plate.
I was not ready to see Jack right now.
I still got a faint shiver when I remembered the intensity of his gaze on Sunday, the warmth of his hand on my shoulder.
An aluminum screen door slapped open, and Cor stood on the concrete step of his little stucco house. “Hey, Terra. There you are.” He waved as if he hadn't seen me in days instead of mere hours. “Come on in.”
I saluted him with the fruit tray, my fate for the next hour sealed.
Maybe Jack had just stopped by to check Cor's hot water tank, maybe put salt in the water conditioner, I consoled myself as I trudged up the cracked sidewalk, edged by overgrown grass. Maybe he was leaving soon.
“Guess who's staying to have dinner with us?” Cor boomed in my ear as he pulled me close in a hug. “Jack!”
Maybe I was delusional.
“My, isn't that nice.” A tad insincere, but I could be excused for not jumping up and down with paroxysms of jubilation. Jack was too quickly becoming… interesting.
After I finished my good deeds, I had every intention of leaving Harland and leaving intact. Jack was a complication, and even though I didn't quite believe Leslie's assertion that he was interested in me, I had no intention of becoming a complication in his life either.
“Come in, come in. Supper is almost ready.” As Cor ushered me into the house, he looked down at the plate I'd brought and his smile faltered. “What did you bring me?”
“Some lovely pineapple, some delicious melon, scrumptious orange pieces, juicy grapes, and fruit dip.”
“Well That sounds—”
“Nutritious,” I supplied, then took an exaggerated sniff. “And it smells wonderful in here.” I caught the distinctive scent of onions, garlic, and something else I couldn't define.
“Come on in. We're just about ready to eat.” He took the plate from me and led the way, wheezing as he walked, which made me doubly glad I had brought the fruit.
He led me through a cramped and cluttered living room—papers lay stacked in a precarious pile against a chair; paperback and hard-covered books blanketed the coffee table. A tattered afghan hung over one arm of a cracked leather chair.
A man's domain.
And then we were in the kitchen. And there was Jack, standing by the stove.
He wore blue jeans again and a loose cotton shirt. The country music wailing out of the radio competed with the sizzle from whatever Jack was frying. He glanced up at me as Cor and I entered the small kitchen. Gave me a neutral smile, which made me relax. A little.
“Hi. Welcome to Chez De Windt. Would you like something to drink?” He gestured toward a table decked with a brown and-gold-plaid tablecloth and three place settings made up of mismatched dinnerware.
Two pitchers, one holding water and the other orange juice, sat on the table, condensation slipping down their exteriors onto the tablecloth.
I shook my head. My little jaunt here had made me more hungry than thirsty. That, and the fact we'd been so busy at the diner all day, I hadn't had a chance to grab more than a random bite from a hamburger Lennie had set aside for me.
“It smells good in here,” I said.
“As soon as the Iron Chef is done, we can eat,” Cor announced, giving me an encouraging smile as he pulled open the refrigerator door and put the fruit platter inside. “Hey, Terra. How do you know you've had an elephant in your fridge?”
“I don't know.”
“You can see his footprints in the butter.” Cor laughed, slapping his knee.
“Can I do anything?” I asked, hoping he wouldn't come up with another joke.
“No. You sit down and let us serve you.” Cor pulled out a chair at the far end of the table and motioned for me to come sit down.
From that vantage point I could see the entire kitchen. The counter was strewn with vegetable peels and seeds and plastic bags. Among the detritus of vegetables were nestled two cutting boards, knives resting across them as if waiting for the next onslaught.
“Jack's a very good cook, you know,” Cor said, plunking a cup of water in front of me.
Very subtle.
“Jack lives on his own place, of course. But sometimes he comes here and cooks for me.” Cor beamed at his son, obviously his pride and joy.
I gave Cor a careful smile as I balanced my interest between… well… interest and… not interest.
The look Jack directed at me started out as What can I do? then changed as our eyes met. His expression started a familiar prickle at the nape of my neck.
Too late I caught Cor's gaze flicking from Jack to me and back again.
“Jack's been fixing his place up himself, you know. He's real handy with a hammer #8230;”
“You can put the rice on the table,” Jack said, tipping his chin toward the pot on the back burner of the stove, stopping Cor mid-admiration.
Cor scurried over to the stove, grabbed the pot, and
dropped it directly on the table with a muffled thunk. Lines of brown streaked the sides of the pot.
“You could put it in a bowl, Dad,” Jack muttered. “Or at least put a hot pad under it.”
“Nah. The table can handle it, and a bowl would just give us one more thing to wash up.” Cor rubbed his hands. “What else?”
“Spoons?”
“Right.” Cor yanked open a drawer and rattled through it, pulling out a misshapen spoon with a triumphant grin. “I got one.”
“We'll need two, Dad.”
“Gotcha.”
“Is the salad ready?”
“Not yet.”
For the next few minutes, I watched Jack order an increasingly flustered Cor around.
Cor ran his fingers through his hair, washed his hands, adjusted his suspenders, picked up a knife, cut up some more salad—all the while his eyes flicking from me to Jack and back again.
I offered to help a couple of times, but each time Cor waved off my suggestion with his knife, which frightened me more than the erratic chopping did. Cor didn't relax until the food was on the table and we were sitting down. He glanced at Jack again, smiled, then looked at me. “We usually pray before our meals,” he said.
“Of course.”
I waited until Jack bowed his head, then followed suit.
“Our heavenly Father,” Cor prayed, his voice taking on a deep, reverential tone, “we come before Your throne of grace to thank You for the blessings You have given us out of Your bountiful hand. We ask You to look upon us, Your children, in Your love and bless us in our work.”
In spite of the formal tone and the religious language, his words created a space that sounded well visited, a path well trod. I could imagine that this God he was talking to could well be the same God that Father Sam spoke of when he talked of consolation. A connection, as thin and insubstantial as a spider's web, anchored them together as Cor's prayer showed me his relationship with God.
Intrigued, I followed along as his voice ebbed and flowed. I was surprised to hear the love and connection to God in his voice, his tone. A love that seemed at once utterly foreign and utterly desirable as he referred to God as Father.
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