She had handed it to Elijah this morning, the long thin white envelope that she was sure would end this happy reprieve, this fantasy that she had been indulging that they would all live happily ever after. He had taken it and thanked her, put it in his pocket, and then she had seen him get into his car and drive away. She knew. Her heart had thudded hard and crashed down when she had seen the return address: International Mission Board, Southern Baptist Convention. That had been the letter he said he was waiting for, and she knew what would happen now. He would leave her. Again.
Mary wiped her eyes and tried to be joyful for him, for she knew how much this meant to him, but somehow when she had seen him and Sam leave each day, calling on patients, roaming the hills, as she had cooked for him and walked with him and talked with him and remembered, she had dared to hope. But she knew the truth. This, like everything else, was coming to a close.
Annie was leaving tomorrow. And Mary expected Sam would, as well, for he had received calls from Barney and the hospital administrator, Tom Bradley, yesterday morning and had disappeared for the rest of the day. She was making supper for everyone tonight, here at the house. It would be a sad affair, she was afraid, and she thought about calling it off. She could use the well as an excuse, but the real reason was that she did not want the pain of seeing their sad faces one more time, did not want another memory of grief to add to all the others.
She sighed and took the dishpan back in the house. Then she took out the pork chops she would cook and started setting out the ingredients for her desserts. She would have courage. She would do this last thing.
Forty
Annie awoke later than usual, feeling hot and groggy. She listened for a moment and realized what had awakened her. It was Diane’s singing, an ethereal toneless sound, since Diane was not musical. She got up, threw off the hot covers, and walked toward the bathroom. She stopped and peeked inside the cracked door of the study. Diane was sitting on the couch, headphones on, eyes closed, hands lifted. She opened her eyes and saw Annie at the door.
“I’m worshiping,” she said simply. No further explanation or apology, and Annie envied Diane, her face lifted in rapture, hearing music she did not.
“These are the days of Elijah,” Diane continued on as Annie closed the door, “declaring the Word of the Lord.”
Diane had always declared the Word of the Lord, Annie realized with a wry smile. Soundly, firmly, as though there was as little doubt to His Word as there was to whether or not the sun would come up each morning. Annie washed her face, combed her hair, then padded back to her bedroom as Diane was bursting into the next verse, triumphant, if a little flat.
The next line was something about dry bones becoming flesh, and Annie suddenly felt a sense of kinship with those words, with the prophet who had looked down over the valley of dry bones and heard the question of the Lord echo in his ears. Can these bones live? And she knew the desperate hope mixed with despair of his answer. Only you know, Lord.
She dressed, gathered up her freshly washed clothes, and put them into her suitcase, packing automatically and efficiently.
She went downstairs and ate a quick breakfast, then went out to Diane’s studio. She threaded the shuttle. She was almost finished. The pattern she had envisioned had gradually taken shape. The rug was long and narrow. The center was green and mottled gold, and along each side she worked a simple pattern of pink and green and smoky blue, a design that called to her mind the dogwood blossoms, the green coves and the misty mountains of this place. She worked, sliding and pulling, tightening and sliding again. She didn’t hear when Diane came in, wasn’t aware of her presence until she spoke.
“That’s beautiful.”
Annie startled. “Thank you.”
Diane leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve always had more talent in your little finger than I did in my entire body. It grieved me when you left without your loom.”
Annie stopped working and looked at her in surprise. She didn’t ever recall Diane saying anything like that to her.
She shook her head in denial of the praise. “Your work is beautiful, Diane.”
Her stepmother shrugged and gave a slight shake of her own head. “I made peace with the facts long ago,” she said, smiling. “Will you take it with you this time?” she asked, indicating the loom with a glance.
“No. You keep it. It belongs here,” Annie said, and her throat felt tight at the prospect of what she would do tomorrow. She would leave here, and even though it is what she had intended all along, somehow she did not feel ready. What she had come here to do felt unfinished in spite of the cleaned-out house, the belongings packed, dispatched, and put away. There was only the one thing left. Margaret’s room, and she would do that tonight, she promised herself. After the supper at Mary’s.
She had left most of the furniture. Jim had said the house would sell better furnished. He would hire someone to haul it off after. She sniffed and went back to her work.
“You remember that old poem?” Diane asked. “About the weaver?”
Annie shrugged, but she remembered. Grandma Mamie had loved it.
“Kind of hokey, but I always think of it whenever I thread the loom,” Diane said, and she began reciting it.
“My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors He works so steadily.
Oft times He weaves in sorrow, and I, in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
The dark threads are as needed in the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.
Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.”
Annie stopped working, and she turned and faced her stepmother. She let her hands fall down at her sides and looked at Diane with puzzlement and hurt.
“Oh, Annie, don’t you see?” Diane said vehemently, her face shining with the passion she brought to everything. “It’s time to let it go. Forgive, if you’re ever going to. You may not have another chance.”
Annie stared, a hundred rebuttals fighting for escape. “That’s easy for someone else to say,” she finally replied.
Diane nodded and smiled. “You think I’ve never had sorrow. Do you know what happened to my first husband?”
Annie shook her head. She had always assumed he had died of natural causes. It sounded cavalier now, even as she thought it. As if that would have made his death any easier to bear.
“He was crushed in a construction accident,” Diane said. “I was pregnant, and I lost our baby.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“Did you know your father and I lost two babies of our own?”
Annie frowned and shook her head, almost disbelieving her, but though Diane might be many things, honesty was her crowning quality.
“Miscarriages. Both around the fourth month. Oh, how I wanted to be a mother,” she said.
Annie saw the pain on her face and remembered how awful she had been to Diane. Was still being. She felt a searing shame. She had never really given Diane a chance, and she saw now how hurtful that must have been. Yet her stepmother had always accepted her and had not held a grudge against her. She had forgiven, Annie realized now.
“I’m sorry, Diane,” she said. “I didn’t know.”
Diane smiled. “I forgive you. See how easy it is? Just let it go. Open your hand and—” she blew at her palm—”away it goes.”
Annie felt angry at that. It seemed to trivialize her struggle. “So what if I forgive him?” she bit back. “He’s leaving. So am I. There’s no reason to stay any longer.” Her chest ached as she said the words.
“But you want to find one, don’t you?” Diane asked, then went on without waiting for her to answer. “You know, Annie,” she said, “the older I get, the more it seems that the veil becomes thinner and thinner. I can almost see through to heaven now.”
Annie felt a shock run through her. She had never heard anyone else talk about the veil. “I’ve thought that before,” she said, almost breathless. “About the veil. But I’ve never heard anyone else say it.”
“Oh, it’s there,” Diane said. “But most people don’t ever see past it. You’re one of the fortunate ones.”
Annie looked at her, shocked. Her words were repugnant. “I’ve never wanted to see past it,” she said hotly. “In fact, all I’ve ever wanted to do was piece it back together, but I didn’t know how. All I’ve ever wanted to do was mend it.”
Diane looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You can’t mend it!” she said, shaking her head.
Annie felt a loss at her words, felt that last piece of hope tear away from the tenuous seam. “What do you do, then?” she asked after a moment.
Diane gave her a compassionate look, but there was something underneath it that made Annie cringe.
“You just pull it down,” she said. “All the way. Then you can see the whole play being acted out, not just the one little piece of evil in your corner of the world. Then you can see the king ride in on his white horse and slay his enemies.”
For a moment Annie forgot Diane Dalton was her stepmother, for she looked like some prophetess, face shining, blue eyes gazing through to some unseen reality.
“Besides,” Diane said after a moment. “It’s not just evil that tears the curtain.”
“What?” Annie asked dumbly.
“Sometimes God pulls it aside.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She said it bluntly, aware she was being rude, but she was confused and her head hurt. It was a stupid analogy, and she wished she’d never participated in this conversation.
“Do you remember how you felt when Margaret was born?”
The question felt like a brutal blow. She felt as if this time it was someone else who had slid a knife under her skin and peeled it back. The air hit raw nerves. “Of course I do.”
“Wasn’t that a glimpse behind the curtain?” she asked quietly.
Annie remembered. No. More than remembered. She was there in the tiny hospital, and there was Ricky Truelove, grinning like the Cheshire cat, holding up her daughter, his niece, all lathered with the lotion of birth. He took a towel and wiped her off, kissed her soundly on the top of the head, then handed her, red and squalling, to Sam, who brought her to Annie.
Mary had been there, her tears hot after her laughter. Laurie and Diane had been at her shoulder. Daddy out in the hall. Theresa rubbing her back, giving her sips of water. Dov in the waiting room, drinking tea and reading. And Sam. Poor Sam. She remembered now and was shocked to find herself smiling. But really, it had been so ridiculous. Sam the surgeon, who routinely opened up chests and tinkered with tiny hearts, had been anguished, in agony, worse than herself by far. He had coached her with an intensity that wore her out, made her worry for him.
“Maybe you should try to sleep,” she had told him between contractions.
Sam had steadfastly refused to leave his post at her side. Every time a contraction began, his face would fill with pain. When they were over, his relief was palpable.
“Bro, you need to chill out,” Ricky had said, grinning. “This is a natural process. Women have been doing it since God made Adam and Eve. Go outside for a minute. Take a break.”
“Remember how you felt when you saw that baby girl?” Diane asked it gently, seeming aware of the painful area she was probing yet determined to see it through.
Oh yes. She remembered. She had looked at the tiny body, the red curly hair downy on the molded head, looked into the clear eyes that would be blue like her father’s, and she had known God had done it.
“You had the privilege of bringing an eternal soul into being,” Diane said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing can take that away. Not even death.”
Neither one of them spoke much after that. The breeze rustled the leaves of the oak outside the door.
“Your father’s race, as well as mine, is nearly run,” Diane finally said. “But yours is still before you. You may wish otherwise, but you’re still here.” She said it with her practical finality. “You can cross your arms and close your heart. You can stamp your feet and pitch a fit, or you can open up and love again.”
Annie wiped her face. Sniffed.
“You mad at me?” Diane asked.
“No.” Annie paused briefly, then plunged, like diving into the deep end of a pool. “I love you.”
Diane smiled gently. “I love you, too, Annie girl. I always have.” Diane came toward her and gave her a fierce hug, then held her back at arm’s length and spoke once more, an intense whisper, a feverish exhortation. “Go your way, Annie. Go your way. Don’t fret yourself any longer over things that are beyond you. Have your babies. Love your husband. Live your life. All too soon it will be over.”
Then she turned and left.
Forty-one
Sam, Carl, and Elijah had breakfast at the Cracker Barrel instead of Waffle House, on Diane’s orders, since at Cracker Barrel Carl could eat healthfully. In theory, at least. She had gone down there in person when he had said he was going back to working half days and had strictly ordered the kitchen personnel to serve him nothing but egg-white omelets, dry wheat toast, and decaf coffee.
“I told her she should just shoot me and be done with it because what’s the use of living if life’s so dry and tasteless?” Carl sighed deeply and took a stab at Sam’s hash browns, which Sam pretended not to notice. Elijah smiled at his melodrama.
Carl took a sip of decaf and made a face, then turned back to the two of them, his face serious. “I just want to thank you again for all y’all have done for me,” he said.
Sam and Elijah assured him it had been no trouble at all. And actually, Sam meant it. Even though he would be returning to his own practice tomorrow, he would miss this. All of this, and he felt a hollow feeling when he thought of all that encompassed. He had strange feelings every which way. Hunted, haunted feelings that he couldn’t shake. He told himself that going back to work would be the cure for what ailed him, but he didn’t really believe it, and somehow the thought of the work that awaited him made him feel tense and tight again, just as it had when he had left. But he would go. He would do it. What other choice did he have?
As they finished their breakfasts, Sam caught Carl up on each patient’s progress and condition. They went to the hospital, finished the morning rounds, then checked on all the patients Sam had seen in Carl’s absence. The mule-kicked farmer’s eye had healed well. Lewis Wilson had not died yet, but this time Carl prayed, and Sam saw the family’s eyes light with peace. They even had tea and scones with Eliza Goddard, who was giddy with relief to have her friend back and didn’t even pretend to be ill.
These were Carl’s people, Sam realized. His friends, and he thought perhaps if that was all Carl had to show for his life, it would be enough. He felt the heaviness again at the thought of returning to Knoxville. To his apartment. To his life. He brushed away the thought that nothing had really changed.
****
Annie dreaded going to Mary’s for supper. She finished her packing, then taking a look at the picture of the gentle shepherd, she prepared for another errand she had. She took the rug she had made, rolled it, and tied it with a piece of ribbon, then drove to Silver Falls to say good-bye to Mrs. Rogers.
The Open sign was in the window, the front door open wide. In fact, as she drove in she could see Mrs. Rogers on her knees in her vegetable garden. She was wearing pink polyester pants, a wildly patterned blouse, and a huge straw hat. Annie smiled and felt a rushing sense of relief. She had worried that the old lady had disappeared, had gone away in her absence, and somehow that had pained her. Even though she planned to leave herself, she wanted to know that this place would still be here, that this person would remain. She parked her car and got out, tucking the rug under her arm. Mrs. Rogers rose up slowly to greet her, grinning as usual.
“Did you know I was coming today?” Annie asked.
“I don’t think my radar was turned on today,” the old woman admitted. “I got flustered and fretted over Imagene this morning, and when that happens, it just drowns out the voice of the Lord.” She shook her head. “I sure am pleased to see you, though.”
“What happened with Imagene?” Annie asked as she followed Mrs. Rogers inside.
“Oh, just the usual,” Mrs. Roger said, hanging her hat on a nail inside the door and wiping her feet. She put her hand on her hip and scrunched up her face and imitated her daughter in a fast, high-pitched drawl. “Mama, you need to come down here to Charleston so I can keep an eye on you.”
At the Scent of Water Page 34
