Little Wild Flower Book Two

by Samantha Jillian Bayarr

  “Oh, I was just remembering the many summers that I played Frisbee across these stone walls with my father and siblings. It was a wonderful time in the midst of many troublesome times for me.”

  “What is your name, dear?”

  “Jane, ma’am. Jane Zook. When I lived here it was Jane Reeves.”

  “Are you Jack and Anna’s child?” she asked a bit cautiously, seemingly checking out my mourning attire.

  “Yes, how’d you know that?” I asked curiously, not remembering her.

  “I was your parent’s landlady. I’m the original owner of the house, Gloria Waverly. I inherited this old house from my parents when they passed away. I had my own house with my husband at the time, so I didn’t want to live in this house. That’s when I leased it to your folks. For ten years—wasn’t it?”

  “Yes ma’am, I believe it was just short of ten years that we lived here.”

  “Funny thing—I don’t remember your family being Amish when you lived here. Are you Amish now?”

  “No ma’am—Mrs. Waverly. I married an Amish man a few years after we moved from here. I’m a widow now though,” I said, lowering my head and choking down the lump in my throat.

  “You poor dear. Would you like to like to come in and sit for a spell? It’s awfully warm out here and I bet you could use a sip of lemonade,” she offered.

  “My cab is still waiting, maybe I shouldn’t. I came straight from the train station and haven’t had time to get a hotel room. Maybe I could come back later,” I suggested, unsure as to whether I wanted to enter the house.

  “Nonsense,” she said. “Your parents would never forgive me if I didn’t let you stay with me. All of my children are grown and living in other states—except for my adopted daughter who owns a coffee shop in town. It would be just the two of us. Please be my guest,” she pleaded with me.

  “I’d be much obliged, ma’am. Thank you for the kind offer,” I stated humbly with downcast eyes.

  She lifted my chin to make me look her squarely in the eye.

  “Now there will be none of that,” she said firmly. “You keep your chin up dear. Things will get better, but it will take some time to heal. In the meantime, I’ll do everything I can to make your stay here an enjoyable one.”

  She smiled brightly, exposing the well-worn laugh lines in her face. I managed to return a weak smile before I excused myself to gather my things and pay the cab driver.

  Maybe this trip will turn out to be just what I need to get back on track. If nothing else, it’ll be an adventure.

  I approached the house nervously, unsure if I could enter without bad memories flooding my thoughts. I took a deep breath and said a quick prayer in my head to calm my nerves before entering. Inside the house, I was able to remember the entire layout of each room.

  Against the wall of the kitchen stood the same white, metal-enamel table that I had once used as a child. Now considered an antique, the table added a certain character to the room that I never appreciated as a child. Then, it had served a functional purpose, but seeing it again brought back a sense of homespun love to my heart, knowing that it hadn’t been moved from its original spot in which it seemed to fit perfectly.

  The old woman allowed me the liberty to wander around the well-preserved home. The richness of the hardwood floors made me think of my own home in Indiana. I ran my hand along the banister, remembering the first time I saw the home Elijah built, and the deep love that I had for my husband for creating such beautiful work with his own hands. As a child I couldn’t have appreciated the fine workmanship that it took to make something so perfect from an oak tree. Now all I could envision were the many trips that I had taken, sliding down this old banister when I was growing up in this house.

  As I walked up the steps, I surprisingly remembered each step that I had avoided as a child because of the creaking sound they made. Whenever I had needed to creep through the house without disturbing my mother’s nap, I would walk the memorized obstacle course of the stairwell so I wouldn’t make a sound. Now, I tried each step to test my memory, while I explained my actions to Mrs. Waverly. She chuckled slightly, and I cracked a smile at the silly thoughts I had as a child.

  Once upstairs, I entered the bathroom first, intending to save the viewing of my old bedroom for last. The opaque bathroom window drew me further into the room, causing me to feel mesmerized. Immediately, I sat on the edge of the bathtub and began running my fingers along the same grooves in the flower-etched window that I had played with as a child for long periods at a time. It amazed me that the same window had stayed intact for so many years—especially taking into consideration the many rocks that Mitchell and I had thrown at it. After a few moments of tracing my fingers along the daisies, I heard Mrs. Waverly clear her throat. I turned to look at her, expecting a disappointing look. Instead, she was studying me as though she were trying to figure out what fascinated me so about the window.

  “When I was a young girl,” I said. “I had a lot of trouble using the bathroom. Playing with the daisies on the window allowed me to relax enough to go.”

  I giggled slightly, and Mrs. Waverly smiled an understanding smile. I stood up and walked out of the room, coming face-to-face with my childhood bedroom across the hall. I was surprised to see the same iron beds with the black and white striped mattresses that my sisters and I had used as children. A dark, round, water stain remained on the hardwood floor beneath the window, where we had kept a galvanized bucket to catch the rainwater from the leak in the roof. After asking permission to open the closet, I paused to catch my breath, preparing myself to view it. Then my focus turned to the large knothole in the floor of the closet. Before I realized it, I was on the floor peering into the dark opening in the floor. The familiar sound of the light switching on reached my ears that instilled fear in me, as the closet lit up with a bright light. A single light bulb illuminated the entire closet and I rose to my feet, almost in a state of shock. I reached up and yanked the chain several times, slowly turning the light on and off as though I wasn’t sure what I was doing.

  “There used to be a long string on this chain,” I said, barely out loud.

  Mrs. Waverly remained quiet, allowing me the liberty of remembering.

  “Many times I searched for that string in the dark. For a lotta years, my mamma, would lock me in this closet if she was mad at me for some reason or another.”

  I pointed to the hole in the floor.

  “I can remember that I used to shove notes down that hole asking to be rescued from my mother’s “angry spells” when I was a young girl. I had the notion that she was a witch, and this closet was my own personal dungeon. Now, I’m not so sure if that’s how it really happened,” I said soberly.

  “Would you like to find out?” she asked excitedly.

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Waverly?”

  She put up a finger to indicate that she wanted me to wait for her answer. Then, she hurried down the stairs. While I waited for the old woman’s return, I walked over to the window to see if my perception of the distance to the ground had been grossly misunderstood as a child. Now as an adult, it didn’t seem that far at all. I could understand how my mother may have perceived me to be a baby when she challenged me to jump from the window one time in her abusive rage. I had refused her challenge like a coward, but I felt justified that as a child, I could have been seriously injured. The thought of my Elijah falling from the barn roof suddenly entered my mind, causing me to back away from the window abruptly. My hands began to shake, and I closed my eyes tightly in an attempt to block out the painful memory of watching him helplessly as he fell to his death. I breathed in deep, trying to avoid another break down of crying.

  Mrs. Waverly re-entered the room just then, diverting my attention from my pain, with a hammer and a pry-bar in her hands.

  “Oh no! You're not gonna do what I think you're gonna do?”

  She merely nodded her head and set to work to pull the floorboard loose from the bottom of the cl
oset.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I warned her.

  She ignored me and continued to work on the stubborn board. I wasn’t sure which was more stubborn—her, or the floorboard.

  “I haven’t had this much adventure since my grandkids talked me into riding a roller coaster at the amusement park,” she stated happily.

  With one last ornery squeak, the floorboard gave way to her persistent tugging. I gasped as I gazed upon several small, rolled pieces of paper that had yellowed through the course of time. Mrs. Waverly used the pry-bar to shuffle around the paper a bit to knock off the layer of dirt and dust that had settled on it. I bent down and gently lifted the treasure from its hiding place to reveal crayons and lost toys underneath. I picked up a spyglass and a whistle that appeared to have originally come from a box of Cracker Jack. Other curious finds included several intact Crayola crayons, and an entire set of metal jacks—complete with the ball. There were a number of old pennies and broken crayons, along with plenty of Tinkertoys. Way back in the corner, nearly out of reach, was a long, metal bugle-like horn with worn, multicolored polka dots painted on it. I assumed the only way it could have made its way into the opening was due to the angle of the oversized knothole. After removing the pile of crumpled up papers, I found the music box that I had torn out of Nadine’s Raggedy Ann Doll so many years before.

  “All these things belong to you, dear. I want you to have them. By the time I moved back into this house, my children were grown. None of these items look more than twenty-five years old, so they must belong to you. Take them—and the notes,” she offered kindly.

  “I barely remember having a horn like this when I was real young. The jacks and the music box belonged to my sister Nadine, though. I can remember putting them down there because I was angry with her for something. Funny thing is, I can’t remember why any more. I’d forgotten about the jacks until we discovered them just now. Ain’t it funny how a person can block out things that don’t seem to matter that much?”

  I scooped the items up into my apron as we both chuckled heartily. Then we got to our feet without replacing the floorboard. I clung to my notes and sighed heavily, intending to read them later in private. Mrs. Waverly seemed to pick up on my sudden change of mood and offered me some time alone so I could read them and freshen up a bit from my trip.

  I accepted graciously and went to the bathroom to wash the dirt from my hands and face. The dust from the opening in the closet floor had invaded my hands, neck and face; making me feel itchy. After replacing the towel on the hook, I traced my fingers along the daisies in the window one more time before returning to my room to read my letters. Before I read the contents, I knelt beside the bed and prayed.

  “Dear Lord, I come before you to thank you for the success of my trip so far. Thanks for the kindness and generosity of Mrs. Waverly, and for her new friendship. Father, your word says that perfect love drives out fear. I pray that you would perfect me in your love so that I won’t harbor fear in my heart. Give me the strength and a forgiving heart to handle whatever is in these childhood letters. Please watch over my children and my parents as they take care of them for me. Bless Cameron and Samuel in their efforts at taking care of my farm in my absence. In Jesus name, Amen.”

  I opened the first scroll to reveal poor handwriting and spelling. The paper showed October fourth, 1971. My birthday! The letter read: today is my birthday. I got no prezents and I am 9. I am locked in the closit insted of getting cake. I hate my mom and dad. they are mean to me. Polise will throw you in jail for being so mean to me and they will save me. from jane.

  I sat silent for a moment, remembering that day like a fog that clouded my mind. Sometimes it was hard for me to grasp the reality of my troubled childhood, but the truth that these letters contained was bringing reality closer than was comfortable for me.

  The next one was written in crayon and simply said: I am scard. let me out. Tears ran down my face as I remembered the time that I’d heard sirens and feared that the house may be on fire. I remembered the tormenting fear that I felt at the time, and how afraid I was of dying. As far as I could remember, I was only five at that time.

  The third note was written in pencil, as was the first one. It was dated: july 1969. This put me at almost seven years old: to God - my mom do not love me. she hurt me. I cry my dad did not help me I do not want to live here I hate her. I hate my stoopid name

  I took a moment before reading any more of the notes, for I began to recall how I had felt as a child when my mother would use my name as though it were a dirty word. I had despised my name until Elijah first spoke it, and it felt good to be relieved of that pain.

  The next piece of paper didn’t contain a note, but a scary drawing of devils and monsters. At the bottom were some words that I could scarcely make out until I turned on the lamp beside the bed. It read: God do not let them hurt me. from jane. It was quite disturbing to see the very well-drawn devil and monsters on the page. I wondered what could possibly have been going through my head at the time. I knew that my mother often threatened me that monsters were under my bed, but I didn’t realize the height in which my fear as a child had taken me.

  The fifth and final paper turned out to be a lengthy note written in pen. It was written before my mother had been saved. The paper showed September twenty first, 1974, just thirteen days before my thirteenth birthday.

  It read: Dear God. Please help me to teach my mamma about you. I forgive her for when she hurt me. Thank you Lord for helping me love her (even though she doesn’t diserve it) If I had to love her by myself without your help I couldn’t do it because I want to hate her. Thank you for loving me and getting me out of my danger. I want my parents to stop smoking in the house because it makes me choke and it makes me dizzy. I don’t want to be sick anymore. make Mitchell stop hitting me and Nadine. He is so mean. God, wont you teach them to be nice? I will read them the bible that Bradley gave to me. it is better to read then our big book on the cofee table. I don’t understand the words in mom’s bible. Help me to be a good human being. I don’t want to be stupid anymore like my mom says I am.

  from jane.

  The remaining papers that had been crumpled contained only crayon drawn pictures, with an occasional member of the alphabet, some with my name practiced over and over on the page.

  I knelt down beside the bed again, deeply overwhelmed with emotion, though I felt so grateful to God for changing my entire life through such a simple prayer.

  “If I’m so blessed, why am I running away?” I said out loud.

  The best I could figure was that I couldn’t really appreciate what I had until I came to terms with my grief from my husband’s death. I knew I’d been blessed, but at the present time, I didn’t feel I had much to be thankful for.

  A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

  “Jane, dear, I’ve cooked up some dinner for us if you’re hungry,” Mrs. Waverly said through the door.

  I opened the door and accepted her invitation gratefully because I’d ignored the protest that my stomach had been making for nearly an hour. I followed her down the stairs to a simple dinner of roast chicken and potato salad. She bowed her head to pray, and I instinctively waited for Eli to begin the prayer. My heart quickened when I remembered I wasn’t at home. Our entire marriage, my husband had said our evening prayer and morning devotions, whereas my oldest son had taken over the duty after Elijah’s passing. I felt a sudden emptiness as I thought of my children in another state without either of their parents. It almost gave me a sense of urgency to return home to be with my family. I knew that their hearts were aching for their father, and quite possibly for me as well. I also knew my absence wouldn’t be easy on them, but it didn’t hit me until that moment just how lonely they must be without me.

  After a quiet dinner, Mrs. Waverly offered to take me around the neighborhood and to introduce me to her adopted daughter at her coffee shop the following day. I retired early, feeling exhausted
from my trip and the revelation that I had come face-to-face with regarding my past.

  In the morning, I woke with the sun. Mrs. Waverly was still sleeping, so I took the liberty of preparing a simple breakfast for the both of us. The smell of coffee brought the old woman into her kitchen, looking somewhat surprised at the meal that was before her. After draining the bacon and buttering the toast from the oven, I sat down to pray with my new friend.

  “May I bake some bread?” I asked hesitantly after we had begun eating. “It’s what I usually do in the mornings, and it would make me feel like I was doing something useful.”

  “That would be just lovely, dear,” she said.

  When the dishes had been tended to, I set to work on the bread making. What had become a chore to keep my mind busy suddenly seemed to give me a hint of joy. I inwardly wondered if, by chance, I was beginning to feel better. Or had I just discovered a new diversion in Mrs. Waverly?

  The short, aging woman watched attentively as I prepared the dough, then, asked to assist in the kneading process. I didn’t protest, being used to having my daughters help in the kneading of our bread at home. Soon the house was filled with a familiar smell, bringing home closer to me. We sampled the warm bread when it was done baking. Mrs. Waverly was so impressed with my cooking, that she jokingly asked me to stay and cook for her for the rest of her life. Even though I laughed at her request, I suddenly felt I belonged where I was in life. For the first time since Elijah’s death, I knew without a doubt that God had placed me where I was for His purpose, and God’s plan for the remainder of my life would be revealed in His timing. I still didn’t know what the purpose was for my being such a young widow, but I knew that God was in control, and He had something mighty in store for me.