“Hazel,” Meghan supplied.
“Hazel’s”—she distinctly heard a smile in his voice, and she couldn’t resist smiling, too—“relationship. Amen.”
“Amen.” She didn’t know why, but it was natural and felt really good—warm and comforting—to release the word. She slumped into the chair, as weary as if she’d run a marathon, yet also strangely revived. She licked her lips. “Thank you, Sean.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll pray for you every day, okay?”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.” Her voice sounded croaky. Probably because of the knot of emotion still lodged in her throat.
“No problem. And you know something? I don’t think your mom showing up is a bad thing. Even though it might be awkward at first, I think she needs to be there. Give me a call every now and then and let me know how things are going so I can pray specifically, all right?”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good. But now, do you mind if we call it quits? The time difference…it’s way past midnight and—”
She gasped. She should’ve called much earlier. “I forgot! I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I’m glad we had a chance to talk. And pray together.” His tone changed, a bit of his usual confidence melting and something else, maybe shyness, creeping in. “I’m really glad you let me pray for you, Meghan. That means a lot to me.”
She wasn’t sure why it mattered so much, and now wasn’t the time to ask. He needed to sleep. “I’ll give you a holler tomorrow. Or maybe Sunday afternoon, okay? Sleep now. And thanks again, Sean.”
She pushed the disconnect button and dropped the phone into her lap. She stared across the dark room, replaying Sean’s prayer. He’d sounded so sure that Someone was listening, that Someone would answer. A lonely ache built in the center of her chest. Mom had always called religion a bunch of hogwash, a crutch for weaklings and imbeciles, or a club for hypocrites, but Sean’s life didn’t match those descriptions.
“…You are her Father. Let her lean on You and trust You—not her mother or even her beloved grandmother—to be her deepest source of peace.”
She raised her gaze to the ceiling, imagining the black sky studded with stars on the other side. “If You’re there, God, would You do what Sean asked? Would You bring us…me…peace?”
Late August 1943
Cumpton, Arkansas
Hazel Mae
Hazel sneaked out the back door of the house and scuffed across the backyard, kicking up clumps of dirt and tufts of uncut grass as she went. She closed herself inside the chicken coop, but it didn’t help. Mama’s and Daddy’s angry voices reached her even there.
She sat cross-legged on the straw-covered floor. One of the laying hens came close and pecked at her bare toes. She gave the hen a little push, and it scuttled off, clucking. Her head low, she toyed with a piece of straw. At least Mama and Daddy were talking. That was better than sitting at the table and not saying anything to each other. The latest silence had lasted three days. Hazel had hardly been able to eat a bite during those long, stony days. Her neck muscles still ached from gritting her teeth so tight to keep from screaming.
But did they have to yell? She hated it when they yelled at each other. She wished they’d yell at her instead. She didn’t know why it was easier on her heart. She just knew it hurt worse when they fought with each other.
She rested her chin in her hands and blinked back tears. Sweat dribbled down her temples. The dirty windows blocked most of the sun. The musty smell of the coop—it hadn’t been cleaned in a good long while—made her nose twitch. Maybe she should get the rake, scrape out the soiled straw, and replace it with fresh. The chickens would appreciate it. Daddy might even thank her.
She didn’t move. She didn’t care about the chickens pecking around in poop-speckled straw. Didn’t even care she was getting her dress yucky by sitting on it. The striped green muslin was already dirty from three days’ wearing. Mama hadn’t even noticed. And Hazel didn’t care if she never wore another clean dress. She didn’t care about anything. Not anymore.
Why hadn’t she realized Maggie was the one who brought the joy to their house? Maybe she should’ve figured it out. After all, Daddy had agreed to stop drinking when Mama was expecting Maggie. When Maggie was there, Daddy was at the supper table every night, smiling, laughing, talking. Mama hummed when she worked, and sometimes she talked to Hazel like they were friends instead of mother and daughter. Not always, but sometimes.
Now Daddy stayed in the barn until late at night. Sometimes all night. Mama never hummed. When she talked to Hazel, she either snapped or talked so syrupy sweet it didn’t feel natural. Nobody tucked her in at night. Nobody said bedtime prayers with her. Nobody prayed at all. Well, except for Hazel. She still prayed. Every night she prayed the same thing.
She whispered the prayer again, there in the smelly, dim, lonely chicken coop. “Let us find Maggie, God. Please bring her home.”
The preacher’d told their family Maggie was most likely already home with God and Jesus. Her shoe on the creek bank—the creek that was moving fast and hard because of all the rain the month before—meant she’d probably fallen in, got swept far away. He even thought they should have a funeral, but Mama said no. Hazel was glad of that. How could people have a funeral when there wasn’t a body to bury?
Hazel had gotten brave and told the preacher what Mrs. Burton said, hoping he’d send the sheriff after the Gypsy wagon, but he didn’t believe the Gypsies took her. Said stories about Gypsies stealing little children was all superstitious nonsense. He’d told Hazel, “I know it’s hard, honey, but you have to accept that your little sister is gone.”
The preacher was a smart man and he knew lots of things, but Hazel wanted him to be wrong about the Gypsies. Because if the Gypsies had Maggie, that meant she was alive. And maybe she’d come back.
She had to come back.
Hazel slipped to her knees. The straw cut into her skin, but she didn’t care. The preacher said when people prayed, they should do it on their knees as a sign of humility before God. She’d messed up with that last prayer, letting it slip out while she was sitting on her bottom. But surely He’d listen better if she knelt.
She clasped her hands beneath her chin and closed her eyes tight. “Dear God, let Maggie come home again. Please? We—Mama an’ Daddy an’ me—we’ll never have peace until she does.”
Seven
Present Day
Kendrickson, Nevada
Hazel rolled onto her side and pushed the button on her alarm clock. The buzz ended abruptly, but her ears continued to ring for a few seconds. She snapped on the bedside lamp and lay curled like a question mark, blinking, letting her eyes adjust. The morning sky would already be changing from pink to yellow at six thirty, but the thick shades and room-darkening curtains blocked even a blush of sunlight. Without the lamp, her room was as dark as the interior of a cave. And she liked it that way when she slept. But now was time to wake.
She tugged the light covers aside and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. For a moment she sat, hands braced on her knees, and stared at her old, wrinkled, scrawny feet sticking out from her pajama pant legs. Even with the nails painted shell pink, her feet weren’t so pretty. But then, they weren’t meant for beauty. They were meant for holding a body upright, and for that they served their purpose well despite the many decades of use.
With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, she rose and moved in short, choppy steps to her en suite. By the time she finished her morning routine, her old bones had loosened enough to allow a longer stride. She stepped into her walk-in closet and bounced her hand along the neatly spaced outfits, looking first at those in shades of yellow, then blue, then green, and finally red. She chose a bright-red silk tank with a white paisley design embroidered on the front, a pair of navy-blue culottes, and a lightweight white sweater shot through with nubby threads of red, yellow, and blue.
She dressed in the closet, then examined herself in her full
-length mirror to ascertain the sweater hung straight and no stray threads dangled from the culottes. She’d worn the ensemble for the Fourth of July celebration at church less than two weeks ago. Several people had complimented her on its patriotic colors and the paisley design dotted with pearl sequins that emulated a burst of fireworks. Independence Day had passed, but the outfit seemed fitting for today, when she would most likely do battle with her independent, headstrong, always-determined-to-challenge-authority daughter. Not that Hazel was much of an authority over Margaret Diane anymore. Goodness, the girl was closer to fifty than forty. Truth be known, Hazel had lost all authority more than thirty years ago. Which was how Margaret Diane wound up with a daughter and no husband.
Hazel grimaced at her reflection. Ah, what a poor job she’d done in raising Margaret Diane. Would the sting of failure ever completely leave? Not that she didn’t love her granddaughter. The child was a gift. How could she regret Meghan’s presence?
But Hazel’s generation viewed the marriage license as a precursor to intimacy. In her generation, most babies were born to wedded couples, and those who weren’t were adopted by wedded couples. Even the orphans’ home back in Cumpton during the Depression years hadn’t allowed single people to adopt a child. Deliberately single, unwed mothers? Unheard of.
And, oh, how Margaret Diane had struggled financially and emotionally to be both mother and father from the beginning with her little girl. Hazel wouldn’t cast stones—God knew she herself was a sinner saved by grace—yet her heart ached for the hard pathway her child had taken.
She pointed at herself in the full-length mirror. “And when she starts getting snippy and you’re tempted to scold, you remember she’s not had an easy life between losing her daddy and raising Meghan all by herself. Give her grace.” She offered a stern scowl at her reflection and received its scowl in return. Then she shook her head, chuckling. “Here you stand talking to yourself like an old fool. Go make breakfast and see if the aroma of blueberry pancakes will coax a smile from that daughter of yours.”
Blueberry pancakes had been their Sunday morning tradition all through Margaret Diane’s growing-up years. Today was Saturday, not Sunday, but maybe the scent—and its reminder of frilly dresses, walking hand in hand up the sidewalk, and sitting with open Bibles in their laps—would stir pleasant memories, soften her daughter’s belligerence a bit, and give them a good start to the day.
Dear Lord, please?
Half a dozen browned, blueberry-studded pancakes waited on a plate on the corner of the stove and another four were sizzling on the griddle when the soft thump-thump of footsteps sounded in the hallway. Hazel smiled and turned to offer a good-morning.
Instead of Margaret Diane, Meghan entered the kitchen. Still attired in a skinny-strapped snug-fitting top and baggy pants made of T-shirt material, with her dark hair disheveled, she looked at least a decade younger than her twenty-seven years. She sniffed the air like a bloodhound and grinned. “Mmm, smells great in here.” She stuck her nose over the drip coffeepot. “Flavored coffee?”
“Hazelnut.”
Meghan giggled. “Grandma Hazel made hazelnut.”
Hazel couldn’t resist a light laugh. The girl could be so impish. “Yes, well, it’s my favorite. Especially with the addition of cream. None of that skim milk for me.”
Meghan grimaced. “Yuck. For me, either.” She stumped close to the stove. “Whatcha makin’?”
“Blueberry pancakes. This is the last batch.” The bubbles around the edges of the cakes had lost their sheen. Time to turn them. Hazel slipped the spatula under a cake and flipped it. She sighed in satisfaction at the height of the cake, the crisp edges, and its light-brown center. Perfection. “As soon as these are done, I’ll fix you a plate. Are you starving?”
“I’m hungry, mostly because this smells so good, but don’t hurry.” Meghan leaned against the counter and watched her turn the remaining cakes. “We’re gonna be stuffed if we eat all of these in one sitting.”
Hazel gave her granddaughter a teasing bump with her elbow. “Ten pancakes divided by three breakfast eaters isn’t too many.”
“Two.”
“Two what?”
“Two breakfast eaters.”
Hazel frowned. “Where is Margaret Diane?” Had she packed her bag and sneaked off without a word, the way she’d done half a dozen times between the ages of sixteen and eighteen?
“She’s still in bed.”
“The aroma will get her up.” Hazel held to hope.
“Probably. It did for me. But she won’t eat those. She’s vegan.”
A scorched smell reached Hazel’s nose. With a little grunt, she transferred the remaining pancakes to the plate. A dark circle on the bottom of each marred their perfect appearance. Why couldn’t she do anything right? She blinked several times to hold back tears and then turned to Meghan. “What on earth are you talking about? Vegan…what does that mean?” Had her daughter joined some sort of crazy cult? As much as it pained her to admit it, it wouldn’t surprise her.
Meghan shrugged. She broke off a small piece of one of the pancakes and popped it in her mouth. She released a low groan, eyes closed. “Just as I thought—homemade with milk and eggs, right?”
Was there any other way to make pancakes? “Of course.”
“Mom switched to a vegan diet about a year and a half ago. She only eats plant-based foods. Since you put milk and eggs in the batter, she won’t eat the pancakes.”
Hazel’s jaw dropped. “Is that why she only ate the steamed broccoli and cauliflower for supper last night?” She’d presumed the pork chops were too well done and the brown rice too bland for her daughter’s taste, and she’d berated herself for fixing such a dismal supper.
Meghan nodded. “You seasoned the veggies with salt and pepper, which was fine, but you put butter on the rice. And of course pork chops are from an animal, so…”
“And she didn’t say a word.”
Meghan shrugged again, a silent apology creasing her face.
“Of all the harebrained—” Hazel bit down on the tip of her tongue. Hadn’t she just prayed for a good start to the day? God, not to be irreverent, but sometimes I wonder if You listen to me at all.
She pulled in a deep breath and blew it out. She held her hands toward the ingredients on the counter. “Then what will she eat?”
“The blueberries. The flour.” Meghan tapped her chin. “There’s actually a vegan pancake you can make with soy or nut milk.”
Hazel wrinkled her nose.
Meghan laughed. “I’m with ya, but she did a lot of research, and she swears she’s healthier now that she’s off animal products.”
Hazel balled one hand on her hip and gave a mock scowl. “Well, I ate eggs and bacon and ham and fresh-churned butter every day when I was a child, and here I still am eighty years later. So what does that tell you?”
Margaret Diane, surrounded by her doggy entourage, scuffed into the kitchen. The lines of irritation etched on her forehead let Hazel know she’d heard every word of the conversation with Meghan. “It tells us you have a strong constitution, Mother. Congratulations. But my cholesterol has dropped almost a hundred points since I started yoga and went vegan, and my lean muscle mass has improved. So no bacon, eggs, or butter for me, thanks.” She opened the sliding door and shooed the dogs into the small backyard.
Hazel started to remind her to go out and pick up the dogs’ mess when they’d finished their business. Yesterday’s deposits were still out in the corner near her pond. But she caught herself and swallowed the comment instead. Maybe God had listened to her morning prayers after all. “Well, later we’ll visit the grocery store and get some things that will suit your diet.”
“It isn’t a diet. It’s a lifestyle.”
Hazel held back a sharp retort. Thank You. “In the meantime, I need to find you something…” She snapped her fingers. “I picked up a box of granola the last time I went to the store. I like to sprinkle granola over my yogurt—gives i
t a little crunch. When I got home and was putting it away, I realized it was gluten free. Maybe you can have some of that with yogurt and blueberries.” She aimed a hopeful look at Margaret Diane.
“Yogurt is milk based, and milk comes from a cow. I never touch the stuff.” Her daughter lifted one shoulder in a flippant half shrug. “But I’ll check the ingredients on the granola. Sometimes even if it’s gluten free it has animal by-products. You don’t find gluten in fat, you know.”
Hazel hadn’t known, and an unwelcome rush of embarrassment claimed her. She opened the cabinet, withdrew the box, and set it on the counter. “If you can’t eat it, you might as well throw it away. I didn’t care for its texture.” She gestured to the small round table in front of the bay window. “Have a seat, Meghan, and I’ll serve these pancakes before they’re cold and dried out. Butter and maple syrup?”
“Sounds great, Grandma.”
At least Meghan was easily satisfied.
Hazel had already set the table with three place settings, but she still needed to get the juice and butter from the refrigerator. She opened the refrigerator door, and Margaret Diane let in the dogs. The menagerie trotted straight to Hazel, their nails clicking on the tile floor, and surrounded her feet.
Panic set in so quickly it stole her ability to breathe for a few seconds. She waved her hand at them. “Here now, you go on!”
Margaret Diane hustled over, frowning. “You don’t need to holler at them. They’re just used to having a treat every morning.” She reached past Hazel and removed a package of string cheese from the shelf. “Come here, darlings. Mommy will give you your yummy.”
How could she speak so sweetly to the dogs while glaring at Hazel? Margaret Diane plopped into one of the kitchen chairs and began peeling the wrapper from a stick of cheese. The dogs leaped and yipped, their shrill barks like nails pounding into Hazel’s temples.
Bringing Maggie Home Page 6
