She shifted her focus to Meghan, who gazed at her with a mix of remorse and affection. “If you hadn’t taken out the box by mistake and opened it, Maggie would still reside in the bottom drawer of my closet bureau, buried in the corners of my memories.” She cupped Meghan’s face—her sweetly attentive face that suddenly hid behind the mist of tears. “Thank you, dear one, for letting her out. Oh, how I’ve missed her…”
Twelve
Diane
The antique grandfather clock in the corner sang its song and then chimed twelve times. Twelve tinny, echoing, irritating times. Diane gritted her teeth through the entire performance. She’d hated that thing when she was a kid—it woke her up hour after hour during the night—and the first thing she’d done after her arrival was unhook the chime and quarter-hour weights to silence the walnut clock.
She crossed to it and peered behind the rectangle of glass. Sure enough, the weights were back on their chains. Mother must have attached them when Diane wasn’t looking. She opened the side door and reached inside.
“What’re you fixing to do, Mom?”
Diane aimed a quick frown at Meghan. “Turn this thing off. Again.”
“You did that?” The incredulity in her daughter’s voice gave Diane pause. “I thought it was broken when it didn’t chime during the night the way it used to. So I checked it out this morning and saw the empty chains. I thought the weights fell off somehow, so I hooked them on again.” She smiled and sighed. “I love listening to that clock. It’s so comforting, the way it counts the quarter hours. It reminds me how valuable every minute is.”
Mother chuckled. “That’s exactly how I’ve always felt about the old clock. When I got married, your great-grandmother offered to give me the clock for my new home. Your grandfather wasn’t sure he wanted something so old and outdated taking up space in our tiny living room. But Albert grew to love it, and he especially liked the routine of raising the weights each Sunday morning before we left for church. He said it started the week off right.”
Diane glowered at them. She’d experienced the odd tendency of women to pair off, leaving a third member of the party feeling like the fifth wheel. With her fellow teachers, she was most often part of the pair, but not with her mother and daughter. Never with her mother and daughter. They always made her the fifth wheel.
She flipped her hand toward the clock. “It doesn’t keep you awake? It doesn’t…set your teeth on edge? Great Scott, it’s as old as the hills and sings about as well as a coyote with a toothache.”
Both Meghan and Mother burst out laughing. If they were going to make fun of her, she’d rather be with the dogs. Diane snapped the door of the clock closed and headed for the bedroom.
“Mom, come back. I’m sorry if we hurt your feelings.”
“Yes.” Mother’s voice warbled, proof she was still battling laughter. “We aren’t laughing at you. We’re laughing at your picturesque speech.”
Diane rolled her eyes—not laughing at her…right—and kept going. She unlatched each dog crate and pointed to the doorway. “C’mon. Let’s go outside.” When she passed the living room, she noted Mother and Meghan had returned to examining photographs. They seemed unaware of her presence. She opened the sliding door for the dogs and then began chopping vegetables for a salad. According to the obnoxious clock, it was noon. They should eat.
The dogs scratched at the glass and she let them in. “Stay out of my way—do you hear me? Sit.” They sat in a row, grinning up at her. She shook her finger at them. “Stay put and I’ll give you each a bite of cheese when I’ve finished the salad.”
They swished the floor with their tails, Molly whimpering, but they all remained in their furry row while she chopped vegetables and shredded her favorite cheese substitute made from cashew milk.
Midway through the preparation, Meghan peeked around the corner, her eyes twinkling impishly. “Just checking. Are you making lunch for all of us, or are you too mad to feed Grandma and me?”
“I’m not mad.”
“Then why are you pouting?”
Diane paused grating long enough to glare. “I am not pouting.”
Meghan’s lips twitched. “Are you sure?”
Oh, that girl had an ornery streak. It must have come from her father’s side of the family. Diane slammed the door on thoughts of Meghan’s father and slid the chunk of cheese slowly along the grater. “I’m forty-seven years old, Meghan, not five. I don’t pout.”
“Okay.” The teasing glint disappeared, and she clumped near. The rubber caps on the crutches squeaked on the clean tile, raising a couple of whines from the patiently waiting dachshunds. “We said we were sorry. But if you could have seen your face when you mentioned the coyote with a toothache, you would’ve laughed, too.”
Meghan’s brows pinched together. “You know, I wish you’d stayed in the room. Grandma told me a couple of stories—stories I bet she’s never shared with anyone before today.”
Another unexpected wave of jealousy crashed over Diane. “Oh?”
“Yeah. They were so detailed, so full of emotion, as if she’d lived the experience just yesterday instead of decades ago. It’s almost like these memories have been lying in wait for years to come out and now the floodgates have opened.”
Diane lifted the cutting board and sprinkled the cheese over the salad. “Are you sure she isn’t making things up to match the photographs?”
Meghan huffed, something she did only when very annoyed. “Why are you always so cynical?”
“Maybe because I know her better than you do.” Diane carried the salad bowl to the table and returned to the kitchen for bowls and forks, talking as she went. “You spent a few weeks each summer with her and visited at various holidays—times when she was always on her best behavior. I lived under her roof for years. I’ve seen the worst, let me tell you.”
“But if you’d seen her face, if you’d heard her voice, you wouldn’t be able to deny the memories were real.” Sadness colored Meghan’s tone. She grabbed Diane’s arm. “Mom, I know you had it rough, losing your dad when you were still a girl.”
Diane froze with her hands cupped around the stack of bowls in the cupboard. The ache of loneliness built again at the mention of her father. “Yes. I did.”
“I’m not trying to downplay your loss, but when I think about everything Grandma lost, I could cry. After Maggie died, her whole family fell apart. That’s when her dad started drinking again. She said he blamed himself for the girls being in the woods because they were picking blackberries for his birthday cobbler.”
Diane shot a sharp look at Meghan. “Blackberries?”
August 1972
Little Rock, Arkansas
“Margaret Diane, don’t dawdle. Stay right here beside me.”
Diane scurried to Mommy’s side and curled her fingers over the wire edge of the squeaky shopping cart. She smiled up at Mommy, hoping for a word of praise for her obedience. But Mommy didn’t smile back.
“I’ve told you and told you, you can’t wander away from me. Keep your hand on the cart now.”
Diane sighed. “Yes, ma’am.” She walked next to the cart, skimming the colorful cans and boxes on the grocery store shelves with her gaze. She loved going to the store. When they finished shopping, she always got a little box of crackers with circus animals printed on it. The box had a string handle, like a purse. She liked the box even better than the crackers inside. And she loved reading the labels while they shopped.
Words jumped out at her. Niblet Corn. Sweet Peas. Kitchen Cut Green Beans. She wouldn’t even start first grade for two weeks yet and she already knew how to read. Mommy and Daddy told her how smart she was and how proud they were of her. So why couldn’t Mommy slow down and let her read all the words before turning a corner? If she’d let Diane walk slow instead of having to stay with the cart, she could read and read and read.
Diane shuffled along, the heels of her Mary Janes clumping on the tile floor, while Mommy added things to the cart�
�boxes of cereal, a canister of oatmeal, sugar, chocolate chips, cans of Daddy’s favorite pork ’n’ beans…The cart got fuller and fuller, and Diane’s fingers started to go numb. But she didn’t let go of the cart. Mommy got very upset when she let go.
They passed the low bins where damp, chilly air kept the vegetables cool. Diane read out loud the little signs taped to the front of the bins. “Cay-ruts, brocc-uh-li, po-tay-toes, to-may-toes.”
“Good job, Margaret Diane.”
Diane beamed.
Mommy picked up the vegetables she wanted, and then they turned toward displays of fruit. “All right, let’s get some apples for Daddy’s lunch box and some bananas to put on your breakfast cereal.”
Diane already knew lots of the words for fruit, like apples, bananas, grapes, and oranges. But a new one caught her attention. A long word. As long as strawberries but with a different beginning. Purplish-black clusters that reminded her of itty-bitty grapes filled green plastic baskets. She stared first at the pretty fruit and then squinted at the word on the cardboard sign, thinking hard. She gasped with joy.
She let go of the cart and pointed to the baskets. “Look, Mommy! Blackberries! May I have some for my cereal?”
Mommy’s face turned white. She grabbed Diane’s hand and slapped it onto the edge of the cart. It stung, and Diane started to cry. Mommy shook her finger in Diane’s face. “No, you may not have blackberries, and you won’t get your box of animal crackers, either.”
Diane’s lower lip quavered. “But I learned a new—”
“I told you not to let go of the cart.”
Mommy didn’t care at all that Diane had figured out a brand-new, long word all by herself. Diane wailed louder.
“Stop crying.”
Diane took several shuddering breaths. She didn’t make any more noise, but she couldn’t stop the tears from running down her cheeks while Mommy unloaded the cart at the cash register. Diane leaned against the cold wire cart and stared at the words on the bright-colored boxes on the shelf close by.
Animal Crackers…Animal Crackers…
She read the words over and over so she’d forget the word blackberries.
Present Day
Kendrickson, Nevada
Diane lowered the bowls to the counter. “Interesting.” Mother had bypassed the thumb-sized blackberries in the organic foods section of the store that morning, claiming the seeds bothered her. They’d purchased blueberries instead. Maybe it wasn’t only the seeds she found unpalatable.
Diane carried the bowls to the table. “The salad I tossed is large enough for all three of us, but you and Mother will probably want to add a sliced boiled egg, some bacon bits, or a few chunks of the fajita chicken she picked up from the deli. Do you want to call her to the table, or should I?”
“Go ahead. I’ll get the chicken—it’s in the fridge, right?”
“Right. And give each of the dogs one of those cheese cubes from the bag in the meat drawer, would you?”
“Sure.”
Diane stepped into the wide doorway between the breakfast nook and the living room. “Mother, lunch is ready.”
Mother’s head was bowed over a photograph. Diane waited a few seconds, but she didn’t move. Was she sleeping?
Diane cleared her throat and spoke a little louder. “Mother?”
She lifted her gaze quickly, confusion registering on her face. “What?”
Diane took a single step into the room. “Lunch—it’s on the table.”
“Oh…” But she didn’t rise from the chair. She beckoned Diane with a flick of her finger. “Come here and look at this, please.”
Diane’s stomach growled. “Can we look after we eat?”
Mother held up a photograph as if Diane hadn’t spoken. “See here? It’s the only studio portrait we had done as a family. I remember Daddy driving us to Beaty to a little studio on Main Street. Mama made us all wear our Sunday clothes. My dress was simple muslin with a white-lace overlay Mama stitched from some old curtains, and she put a new ribbon in my hair. Yellow. As yellow as a buttercup.” She touched the jaunty bow in the image and chuckled. “Although it hardly mattered, considering the photo was done in black and white. Even so, Mama wanted us all looking our best.”
She angled the photograph toward the window, frowning, as if she found it difficult to focus. “Maggie was only a baby—a little over four months old—so she didn’t have enough hair for a bow. But Mama tied a ribbon around the collar of her dress, see? And she fought with Maggie the entire session, trying to keep her from putting the ribbon in her mouth.”
Despite her initial impatience, Diane found herself transfixed. It seemed years were fading away and the girl her mother had once been peeked from behind the wrinkled skin.
“Doesn’t Daddy look dapper in his suit? When I was a girl, I begrudged inheriting his dark hair and eyes. Until I saw them on you.”
Diane’s heart gave a little jump.
“And my mama…We never had much money, but she was such an accomplished seamstress she could turn flour-sack material into the most glorious creations. She kept things simple for her everyday work dresses, but her Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses were as nice as anything a department store could offer. I wish I still had one of her dresses—maybe even this one, from the picture.”
Diane leaned in and examined the dress. Trim-fitting, sewn from a tiny floral print, with a short stand-up ruffle around the neckline and cuffs, which appeared to be made from the same fabric. The dress didn’t look homemade. She nodded. “It’s very nice.”
Mother beamed as brightly as if Diane had just offered her the crown jewels. “You can see by the way she holds her shoulders and by the angle of her chin, she was a proud woman. Always stately. Until…” Her bright expression faded. Her shoulders sagged. “Ah, well, sorrow will steal a lot of things from a person.”
She straightened again. “But I can tell you this, my mama was always a lady. Everyone in Cumpton said so—Mae Clymer Blackwell was a lady.” She gazed intently into Diane’s face, almost challenging her to refute her words. After a few seconds Mother gave a start. “You came to tell me lunch was ready. You must be hungry. Let’s go eat.” She set the photograph gently into the box and pushed herself to her feet.
Diane shifted the ottoman aside to create a wider pathway for her mother.
As Mother stepped past the ottoman, she lowered her gaze to the box and paused. “Margaret Diane, do you suppose we could take this photograph somewhere and have it enlarged? Maybe colorized the way they do with old movies these days? I’d like a nice eight-by-ten to display in a frame.”
Diane shrugged. “As long as there isn’t a studio stamp on it. Most places are pretty picky about honoring copyrights.”
Her mother’s eyes widened. “Even on a picture taken so long ago? I’m sure the studio in Beaty is closed and the photographer long dead.”
“Even then.”
Mother huffed, something Diane had never heard her do. Then she shook her head, a rueful smile curving her lips. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain if they’re trying to be honorable. But I would like to investigate it one day next week, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Sure. We’ll hit up a photo-copier kiosk somewhere.”
Mother’s smile returned. “Thank you, Margaret Diane.” She arched one brow. “Now, about that lunch. Is it one of your vegan concoctions, or is it something I will want to eat?”
Diane rolled her eyes. But she bit back a chuckle as she followed Mother to the kitchen.
Thirteen
Hazel
Sunday morning Hazel hurried to the kitchen early to start breakfast. Thanks to Meghan’s exploring on her smartphone, she had a recipe for vegan pancakes, and she intended to use them to entice Margaret Diane out of bed and to church with her.
She paused as she removed bananas from the bowl on the counter. Would her actions be construed as manipulative? After taking a class on sociology in high school, her daughter had often accused her of passive-a
ggressive manipulation. Margaret Diane launched many accusations at her mother during her turbulent teen years, but it was the only one that Hazel feared might hold an element of truth.
Whether her motivations were selfish or selfless, she would make the pancakes and hope both her daughter and granddaughter would attend morning worship with her. She hadn’t attended church with both of them since Meghan was barely out of the nursery, and she could think of no greater treat than to sit between the two most important people in her world while listening to the minister share from God’s holy Word.
After mashing two bananas in the bottom of her large glass mixing bowl, she unearthed her food processor from the lowest shelf in the pantry. She measured in two cups of whole organic oats. Several whirrs of the blade—she cringed at the intrusion—turned the oats into flour. She combined the flour with soy milk, wrinkling her nose at the pungent scent, and then added the mashed bananas, baking soda, and a tablespoon of organic maple syrup. Hazel shook her head, chuckling. Where on earth did they get organic syrup—from organic trees? Soft chuckles continued to roll from her chest as she folded the ingredients together with a rubber spatula until the batter appeared smooth and well combined.
According to the directions, she would need to cook these pancakes on medium rather than medium-high heat and with a lid in place, so instead of her usual griddle she greased the bottom of the frying pan with coconut oil—organic, of course—and settled it over a lit burner. Just as she was spooning the first of the batter into the pan, the four dachshunds and Margaret Diane came around the corner.
Hazel placed the lid over the pan and aimed a smile at her daughter. “Pancakes will be ready soon. All vegan, I promise. Meghan found the recipe.”
Margaret Diane didn’t answer. She unlocked the sliding door and shooed the dogs outside. She turned with a yawn. “The dogs heard you thumping around in here and woke me up early. I’d rather be sleeping.”
Bringing Maggie Home Page 10
