“You’re not ready for school.” Stating the obvious bought her time to think.
“I’m not going.” Samantha’s voice was muffled and distant.
“Are you sick?”
Long pause. “Yes.”
Lorna sighed. Closed the door. She checked on Alasdair and found him asleep. She went to the kitchen again. The twins were happy, so she let them be, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down to think.
She remembered sitting in this very spot weeks ago, praying for poor Alasdair, and as she might have expected, her prayers had seemed to make an already bad situation worse. Alasdair still had his ministry troubles, amplified. Samantha had jumped a notch on the rebellion scale. Now even their friends were being drawn into their web of despair—just look at poor Bridie.
Lorna stood up and went to the sink. A casserole dish from two nights ago was still soaking, the scalloped potatoes clinging in a determined, crusted ring. She plunged her hand in and retrieved the scrubber, her cheeks flushing at her presumption. She’d thought she heard God speak to her. Make promises. She shook her head. In this morning’s gray light even she, queen of denial, could see the truth. Alasdair was flat on his back in the dim room upstairs, his ministries left dangerously unattended. Samantha was huddled in a depressed ball in her bed. The twins would drift through another aimless day. No, she realized. None of this could be mistaken for an answer to prayer.
Hard times come, she told herself. Nowhere does God promise to take them away. She reached into the drawer for a spoon and began slashing away at the baked-on potatoes rimming the casserole dish. She felt as if her heart had been split by a huge wedge and someone was pounding on it, determined to cleave it. Of course her prayer would be the one to bring down the house, to knock out the last beam that was holding the whole thing up. Her prayer, her attempts to help.
She scraped and scrubbed and there, in the gray dishwater, without wanting to, she saw the vision again—Alasdair, his face open and smiling, Samantha laughing, the twins loved and cared for. She turned the hot water on full blast as if to wash it away. This is what I’m going to do, she thought she’d heard. And you may help.
She tossed down the scrubber and braced her hands on the edge of the sink. She was hotly angry. She resisted the impulse to pick something up and break it, to fling that awful casserole dish at the wall and watch the suds and bits of potato slide down to the dingy floor.
Instead, she put away the clean dishes, made up the twins’ bottles, and switched on the radio beside the sink as she wiped down the countertops. It was time for Alasdair’s program. It would give her something to focus on besides these dark thoughts. The theme played, the announcer pitched the study Bible and latest book and said, “This week’s programs will feature the best of MacPherson.” A series of sermons he’d given at the Reformed Theological Convention ten years prior. My, they were scraping the bottom. Scraping reminded her of the dirty dish. She went back to it with the spoon. Good grief, there was enough potato to feed another person still sticking to the sides and bottom. She made a face as she dumped the soggy heap into the garbage can. The musical theme, a bagpipe number, faded away, then came the catch-phrase, something culled from each day’s sermon and used as a teaser. Her brother’s voice boomed forth from the tiny AM/FM radio.
“Every time God gives you a promise, or gives me a promise, or whenever He shows us in our mind’s eye what He intends to do, we can count on one thing. It will be tested. Almost invariably after God shows us His plan, events will conspire to make us believe it is impossible.”
Lorna stood stock-still, her hands still plunged into the lukewarm dish of potatoes and soap. She felt as if a divine hand had just dangled a message in front of her face. “Yoo-hoo. Are you listening, Lorna?” Suddenly she felt ashamed and joyful at the same time. She took her hands out of the dish and dried them on a paper towel, then sat back down at the table. After a moment she bowed her head. Her brother’s voice continued on, background to her conversation with God.
“It wasn’t my imagination,” she whispered. “I know it wasn’t. You’re working. It’s just that Alasdair was right. For every promise of God there comes a test.” She closed her eyes and waited patiently for something. For a voice to speak, a hand to move. Some reward for her insight.
Nothing happened. She opened her eyes. Everything was just as it had been. No miracles this time. No visions. She smiled and after a moment went back to the sink. Alasdair continued on with his sermon, and Lorna was transported to the past, to happier days when the passion of Alasdair’s faith could still light a fire in a cold heart. She finished washing the dish and put it in the drainer, then cleaned out the sink.
When she’d finished, she sat back down at the table and took another sip of coffee, replaying again the events of the day before in spite of her renewed hope. Poor Bridie. Now she would be looking for a job.
Two facts migrated from their separate niches in her brain and introduced themselves. She went over the idea carefully. It was good. Not the answer to all her prayers, by any means, but it would solve at least two problems. She thought about calling Winifred or Fiona and asking their opinion but realized she couldn’t wait to speak to them. And Alasdair was in no shape to be consulted. It was a true emergency. Decisive action was needed. It was up to her. She felt a fluttery little thrill.
She took down the telephone book and leafed through it until she found the right page. The name she sought wasn’t there. She thought again, then looked up the number for the Bag and Save. She asked for the manager and introduced herself, then with fingers crossed asked for what she wanted.
“I’m only doing this because you’re calling for the minister and all,” the manager protested. “I can see why you’d want to have a piece of her hide. Corrupting your niece and whatnot.” Lorna didn’t bother to contradict him, just made appreciative noises and jotted down the information he gave her. She dialed the telephone number but got only the voice mail, time and time again. It wouldn’t do to leave a message. Not for a thing like this. Her request would be too easy to refuse. She looked down at the other item she’d written on the scrap of paper—Bridie’s address. She made up her mind, and after checking on Alasdair and Samantha one more time, she loaded the twins in the car and set out.
****
Bridie scanned the classifieds, marking some listings, but more out of a sense of duty than any real hope she would get the jobs. There were no ads for grocery checkers, and that seemed to be all she was qualified for. A knock came at the door, and involuntarily she stiffened. She went to the peephole, looked out, then stepped back, debating for a minute. The second knock made up her mind. She would rather face the person on the step than have her roommate wake up and have to deal with her questions. She slowly swung open the door.
“Hello, Lorna,” she said.
****
Bridie listened while Lorna explained her offer. She watched the babies making a mess of Carmen’s Tupperware drawer, swirled her cold coffee around in the cup, and thought awhile. “Would it involve living in?” she finally asked.
“It might on occasion.”
Lorna looked worried, as if that might be the point that broke the deal. But actually, any reason to avoid Carmen and Newlee right now was welcome.
“Alasdair travels quite a bit, and in fact, I’m in a bit of a bind right now. I have a second job I can’t afford to quit, and with Alasdair ill, there really should be someone there with the children at night. But as a rule, you could leave at suppertime. You’d be welcome to take all your meals with the family and use their car. You could do whatever you wanted. Act as though it was your home, your family,” Lorna added. “I know the salary isn’t much, but the church could add you to their medical insurance policy.”
Bridie thought. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it would give her some time to think and a place to go away from Newlee and Carmen. She had said if she found a job today, she would stay. And this was a job, she realized with a flo
od of relief that surprised her.
“I can’t make a long-term commitment,” she cautioned.
“Any amount of time you can give us would be a blessing,” Lorna said simply.
Bridie thought some more. The silence sat between them. “All right,” she finally said. “I’ll do it for a while. When do I start?”
Lorna’s face relaxed into a beautiful smile. “Yesterday,” she said.
Twelve
Twelve hours later Bridie stood in the reverend’s kitchen and nodded dutifully at everything Lorna said. Her eyes were pointed straight at Lorna’s face, but her mind was busy whirring through all the reasons she should have said no. No, no, no. N—O.
Lorna flitted around her, pointing things out. “Here are the dishes. Canned goods are here. The baby food is in the pantry there. Samantha’s lunch money is here. I’ll see about giving you money for groceries and household expenses. Here’s a little schedule I wrote out—Samantha’s school hours, naptimes, things like that.” Lorna paused.
Bridie nodded again.
“I’m not overwhelming you, am I?”
“No. Not at all.” She wasn’t overwhelmed, because she wasn’t listening. She was going over what she should have said instead of the yes that had come out of her mouth. But Lorna’s eyes had looked so hopeful.
“Now, you’re sure you don’t mind sleeping in for a few days?” Lorna asked.
“No, I don’t mind.” That was the first true thing she’d said. Still, there would have been easier ways to avoid Carmen. Checking into a motel, for one. This place was a mess.
Well, not exactly a mess. It was picked up on top but felt dirty underneath. Like having things look just so was real important to somebody, but that it had been years since anybody had turned over the cushions, taken up the carpets, opened the windows, and given things a good going-over. Everything was arranged for how things looked to visitors rather than how they felt to the family.
Take, for example, the living room. It was the biggest room of the house, but did it serve any purpose? It was stuffed full of that awful furniture and pretty to look at, but uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe it. She doubted a person could sit on one of those chairs for more than a minute or two without something going numb. And every inch of it was taken up with delicate antiques, every surface covered with things the children shouldn’t touch. Things that appeared lovely at first glance, but on second look seemed neglected and sad. The clocks were fine old pieces, but none kept time. The silver pieces were in various stages of tarnish. The framed pictures and samplers, porcelain figurines, vases, and candlesticks were nice, but hadn’t been dusted in a month of Sundays. And there was a whole lot of useless stuff, an entire collection of thimbles, for heaven’s sake, another of little glass animals just begging to be broken. The dining room and even the hallways were the same way. In fact, she realized, there wasn’t a place in the whole house where it was safe to let go of a child’s hand.
The only room that actually looked lived in was here in the kitchen, but again, the priorities were evident. There was a tiny space, not much bigger than a good-sized closet, where they’d jammed a small couch and the children’s playpen. The china cupboard in the dining room had been packed full of beautiful dishes, but here in the kitchen, where they actually ate, was just a castoff collection of plates, bowls, and glasses that looked like a shelf at the Goodwill. And not enough of anything to set the table for all four of their little family.
“Well, I guess that’s all,” Lorna was finishing up. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
Bridie nodded once more. Inside she smarted back. What could go wrong? Reverend MacPherson is at death’s door upstairs. Samantha’s taken to her bed, overcome by disgracing the family. And let’s see, she thought, checking her watch, if what you told me is true, the twins should be waking up for the first of their nightly pizzy fits in about an hour. “I’ll be fine,” she said, keeping her tone warm and fighting back her choke of feelings as she escorted Lorna to the door.
“Here’s my work number,” Lorna told her, handing her a piece of paper.
Bridie took it and put it in her pocket. Those pieces of paper. That’s how the trouble had started.
“I’ll check back on you tomorrow,” Lorna promised.
Bridie nodded. Lorna gave her a quick hug. The door closed.
She stood for a moment feeling the weight of the huge old house. It pressed down on her, its chill seeping into her bones. She put on her sweater, went into the kitchen, and distracted herself by emptying the dishwasher and straightening up the counters. It didn’t help.
The house was full of people, she reassured herself, and then realized that was the problem. She had a feeling she wasn’t alone. As if there was a presence, but cloaked to her eyes. It was an odd sensation. She stared at the empty corners, illumined by the dim lights, and saw nothing, no one. But she had the feeling that if she could adjust the fine tuning on her eyes, something would come into focus. She made a note to buy some brighter light bulbs. She checked her watch. It was nearly ten o’clock.
She finished her work in the kitchen, then locked the back door, the one that opened off the little family room adjoining the kitchen. She could see the backyard, at least the part in the arc of the porch light. The grass was stiff and white with frost. The church loomed, a dark shadow in the lot next door. She looked toward the cemetery and wondered if her odd feelings were due to the presence of some restless soul.
“It is appointed unto a man once to die and thence cometh the judgment. Ain’t no such a thing as ghosts,” her grandma had said when she’d asked her about it once. She smiled slightly. Just thinking about her grandmother calmed her skittish nerves.
She clicked off the porch light, then continued her rounds of the house. She visited each room, ostensibly turning off lights, but really, she knew, she was checking. Just checking. Seeing for herself that all the corners were empty. She turned off the Tiffany lamps in the living room, flicked the hall light off the faces of the MacPherson forebears, an angry-looking bunch lined up on the walls, hit the dimmer switch that canceled the dining room chandelier. The front porch light she decided to leave on. She flipped the deadbolt and went upstairs.
The steps creaked under her feet. Of course they would. She peered into the room at the head of the stairs. Its door was ajar. Reverend MacPherson’s study, she supposed. She didn’t turn the light on or pass through the doorway, but the hall light was enough to see that all four walls were lined with books. There was a huge mahogany desk to one side which was covered with stacks of papers. There were two chairs and a small table opposite the desk and a threadbare Persian rug on the floor.
She went on to Samantha’s room. The door was open a crack. She could see her hair on the pillow, the angle of her cheek.
She peeked into the babies’ room. They were sleeping but huddled into tight little balls as if they were cold. The room was barely furnished. A changing table, the two cribs, and one dresser. Few toys. No decorations. As if no one had taken the time to welcome their arrival. She crept in as quietly as she could. The little boy was breathing through his mouth and she could see where he’d wiped his nose across his cheek and it had dried. Poor little thing. Poor little things. Her eyes and heart stung. She covered them up with heavy blankets and slipped back out again. Reverend MacPherson’s bedroom door was tightly shut. She didn’t open it.
The guest room was at the other end of the hall. It was small, but that suited her fine. The furnishings were few: a hard four-poster double bed, a mahogany dresser, a small bookshelf half filled with leaning volumes. A wardrobe whose doors didn’t stay latched. The floor was scarred oak. There was no rug. Bridie unzipped her backpack and took out her pajamas, glad she’d brought flannel. She put them on and went to hang her clothes in the wardrobe. She paused, sniffing gingerly for mildew, then smiled and took a deep breath. It smelled nice—a mixture of cedar and old paper—and she was transported back to Grandma’s. It was the first n
ice thing that had happened to her here. She hung up her clothes and took an extra blanket from the shelf. She was glad the doors didn’t shut. The scent would take her home. She put the blanket on the foot of her bed, then brushed her teeth, washed her face, and searched the bookshelves for something to read, finally settling for an old copy of Girl of the Limberlost. She read until she felt sleepy, then turned off the light and drifted off, reassuring herself that the old house’s creaks and groans were settling wood and bricks, not the cries of restless, wounded spirits. Finally she coasted into an uneasy sleep.
****
Something was after her, crying out and chasing her. She sat up in the bed, her heart thudding furiously, her mouth dry, her body shaking. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. She stared at the open door of the wardrobe and within seconds she’d oriented herself. She was in Alexandria at the parsonage. She’d had a nightmare; that was all. She stayed still for a minute, slowed her breathing, and swallowed down her fear by telling herself it was just a dream.
She got up, still shaky, and turned on the bedroom light. The room looked odd and offbeat. Scary and creepy. She went back to the bed and sat down, forcing herself to look carefully at the things around her. There was her backpack, her clothes hanging in the wardrobe. Her shoes by the bed. The book she’d been reading. The dream began to fade, but she still felt afraid.
She looked around at the bed, the room, but the ordinary still looked shifted, and she realized it had seemed that way from the moment she’d stepped through the door of this house. As if things were tilted off their foundations just a fraction of an inch. Crooked. Half a bubble off plumb. After you’d lived here awhile, it would seem normal. Your eye would get used to it, or you would tilt your head without thinking. People wanted things to line up.
Not a Sparrow Falls Page 14
