Authors: Patti Hill
Seeing Things (33 page)
“Pa, she didn't stop cutting when she knew she'd messed up.”
“I'm real sorry, Birdie,” Evelyn whispered.
“See there, Evelyn admits her mistake,” Pa said. “What do you have to say before God and your family?”
I reached for his Bible. “Let me see that verse again.”
The words read just as Pa had said them. I handed the Bible back to Pa. He said, “You know what's required of you. Nowhere does Jesus say forgiving those who've wronged you will be easy, but only to follow the Good Lord's example.”
I couldn't argue with the words, but I'd already hidden a bucket of tadpoles in the shed, and I had plans for them. Pa took my hesitation as the sign of a rebellious spirit.
“Eloisa May, I'm disappointed, but I can't make you forgive your sister. The apostle Paul says that we must be transformed by the renewing of our minds. Only the Word of God can do that for you.” He pulled a brand-new Big Chief tablet from the shelf. “In your neatest hand, you will write Matthew 6:14 and 15 over and over until you fill this tablet. In the meantime, no more pranks on your sister, or you will be confined to quarters for a month.”
“I've got that job working in the stables, Pa!”
“Only if I live in a peaceable house.” He looked over his heavy glasses at me. “Understood?”
“You know, Pa, I'm feeling generous of spirit toward Evelyn already.”
“That's good to know, Eloisa May, but we won't be talking anymore about this topic until that tablet is full of God's Word.”
My hand cramped before I reached the bottom of the first page. I rubbed away the soreness, which gave me time to admit forgiveness was important to the Father. That didn't mean I was all that good at forgiving Evelyn or anyone else, but I came close enough that she never mistook tadpoles for raisins in her oatmeal, as I'd planned.
And once we no longer shared a room, we became the best of friends until the day she died. I owed my son and his wife no less.
Soon after I filled that Big Chief pad, Pa informed us we were moving to Yosemite. Evelyn cried all the way from Tennessee to California.
I PULLED AT THE Velcro straps of the boot since I planned to be on my knees quite awhile. Some prayers came easy: If someone was sick, I prayed for healing. If a friend grieved, I prayed for comfort. If the elders agonized over a scant budget, I prayed for wisdom. I prayed for the things I wanted. But unless I was willing to pray for Andy and Suzanne the blessings that I wanted for myself, I knew I hadn't really forgiven them.
“God, please bless them with health.”
And?
“Bless them with prosperity too.”
They have everything they need, except . . .
“Bless them with faith that will move mountains. Shepherd them beside still waters. Anoint their heads with healing oil. Be their Alpha and Omega. Satisfy them with Living Water. Be their Rock and shelter them under your everlasting arms.”
What do you really want?
“Lord, may Suzanne never have flaps under her arms or gray whiskers on her chin. Prevent liver spots from marring her perfect cheeks. May she never have food poisoning or acid reflux. Give her friends to laugh with and to stand by her when things get rough. May she never find rotten broccoli in her crisper drawer. May she see dandelions as silent kisses and childhood wishes. Keep wads of gum from her path. May Suzanne's stockings never run before an important event.”
Does she wear nylons? Does anyone?
“Keep Andy's arteries strong and pliable. Surround him with people who respect him. Provide Suzanne with patients who are wrinkled and flat chested and have the money to remedy the situation. May the two of them always find shoes that make their feet feel great. Bless their marriage with love and respect. Give them strength to endure the disappointments and the good sense to count their blessings.”
I stalled. Then I remembered the genetic component of macular degeneration. I prayed earnestly, “Lord, by the authority of Jesus' name and the power of the Resurrection, I pray against any disease in their macula. Keep the blood vessels clear and open. Bless them with vision to see the expressions on their grand-children's faces.” I stopped for a good cry after that one.
“Father, give Andy the time and desire to be a father to Fletcher. Heal the wounds father and son bear from their skirmishes.”
“And Lord, create life in the hidden places of Suzanne's womb.”
I felt pretty good about my prayer, good enough that I put my boot back on and packed for my stay at the cottage.
Chapter 35
Andy unlocked the bed cover of his brand-new luxury truck, red this time. The cover rose with a hiss, and Andy loaded my overnight bag into the trunk. I told him I could hold it in my lap, but there's no talking sense to a man playing with all the bells and whistles on his new vehicle.
“Is this all you're taking?”
“I thought about taking my beaded chiffon evening gown, but they canceled the prom for tonight.”
“Ma . . .”
“That was supposed to be funny. I'm looking forward to a night of luxury, honest. I have a schedule of activities all planned out. There's a pastel class this morning.”
“Are you still doing art?”
“Never stopped.”
“I should have known that.”
“If I thought Suzanne would like my work . . .”
“Send me something for my office.”
As we passed strip malls and walled communities, I mentally inventoried my work. There was a fall scene from the Silver Jack reservoir areaâresplendent aspens against the backdrop of knife-edged cliffsâor maybe Andy would prefer something from the spring, something hopeful and buoyant, like the Fourth of July meadow on the Grand Mesa. I dismissed every canvas in my stack. This called for something new, perhaps a harlequin sunset over Ragged Mountain.
That settled, I pulled Fletcher's poem from my pocket. “Do you remember building the tree house with your pa?”
“At Grandma's?”
“Ma Wainwright and I canned most of the day, and I think we stitched a quilt, but you and your pa ached for something to do out there on the Dakota prairie. We were stretching the quilt in the frame when Pa burst into the kitchen. âWe're on our way to the lumberyard!' he said. Before I had a chance to ask him why, the two of you were nothing but a plume of dust on the horizon. The closest lumberyard was in Rugbyâ”
“The geographical center of North America,” Andy said, tapping the steering wheel.
“That's right! You remember. Ma Wainwright and I speculated until dinner what could be so ding-danged important down at the lumberyard that Pa didn't take the time to explain himself. She was sure you'd starve to death. I don't think she ate at a restaurant her whole life.”
“We only built a tree house because Pa said a spaceship would take too long.”
“As high as you placed that tree house, you might as well have built a spaceship. Liked to scared me to death watching you up there. I held my breath until you got the siding on.”
“We saw a herd of antelope from up there.”
“You slept up there too.”
“About midnight, Pa regretted not making the tree house bigger.”
“I wondered about that. I figured he slept with his legs straight up the wall.”
“Just about.”
“I hate to admit it now, but I was terribly jealous that he had that time with you while I was stuck in a hot kitchen scrubbing cucumbers and changing Diane's diapers.”
“Yeah, but those pickles won a blue ribbon at the fair.”
“They were spicy.”
“
Very
spicy.”
Very
spicy.”
“That night I sat leaning against the tree with one of Ma Wainwright's quilts around me, listening to you and Pa talk.”
“What? Listening to man talk? I think there's some kind of universal law against that. I suppose you fell asleep once we got to talking about baseball.”
I never thought I'd be thankful for a long wait at an intersection, but I treasured these gifted minutes to reminisce. “I don't remember a lick of what you talked about. What I do remember is how you talkedâbreathless, like you were on the edge of an adventure, and if you talked fast enough, you would fall right into something spectacular, just like falling into a hole. I was real glad you hadn't decided to build a boat.”
I stopped short, worried he'd connected what I'd just said with Fletcher's raft, but he laughed, loose and loud. And so did I, until I snorted, which made us both laugh harder. “I do remember you thanking your pa about a million times for building that tree house as we drove back to Wyoming, saying it was the most fun you'd ever had.”
“He taught me how to drive a nail straight.”
“A man needs to know how to do that.”
Andy turned into a gated community and stopped at the security kiosk to hand the watchman a letter. My stomach puckered. The watchman read the letter from beginning to end before raising the gate for us to enter. “Follow the signs to the trial cottage. You can't miss it. There's a sign out front.”
“What time is your class?” Andy asked.
“Not for another hour.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
I handed him Fletcher's poem, moist from my sweaty palms. “I want you to go buy yourself a cup of coffee and read this.”
He unfolded the paper. “What is this?”
“This is what Fletcher wrote for his English class. It's the second most wonderful poem I've ever read. You wrote the other one, for Valentine's Day, just for me. I set it out in a red frame every Valentine'sâthat and a pink cupid. So don't get too haughty about being a poet, now.”
LUPE STODD AT THE door of the cottage in a cloud of gardenia. “I cleaned the tub real good and left the bubble bath on the ledge. Maybe you should take a bath and call Emory.”
“Lupe!”
“Don't Lupe me,” she said, flipping her wrist. “I see how you smile like a lovesick Chihuahua after you talk to him.”
I turned her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle push. “You better get home to Ernesto.”
“Sweet dreams of Emory!” she sang.
I closed the door and the silence clenched me like a new girdle. “Only twelve hours to go,” I said to fill the emptiness. I made popcorn in the microwave. The old folks could eat their gourmet dinner without me. The television remote had buttons the size of saucers. When I pushed the on/off button, all of the buttons glowed. Without my goggles, what I watched was pointless. I needed noise, and nothing made noise better than a television. I flipped through the channels, hoping to find TCM. Instead, I heard laugh tracks, a gloomy economic forecast, news of a shooting somewhere near the Capitol, and a perky salesperson pushing the perfect broom.
Click!
I showered, brushed my teeth with exquisite care, flossed all the popcorn hulls out, scrubbed my partial, dried and packed the shampoo and crème rinse into the overnight bag, and rammed my shoulder into the doorjamb when leaving the bathroom. I lay across the bed, massaging my shoulder. As if under water, I listened to traffic groan by. The developers of the cottages had spent a fortune on insulation, but a motorcycle with attitude still rattled the window. Maybe fresh air would lift my spirits, but the locks on the window confounded me. I plopped back on the bed, closed my eyes, and willed sleep to come.
The doorbell rang. If it was Ms. Carlyle, I wouldn't answer. My absence from dinner was nobody's business but mine. I tiptoed to the door. Fog filled the peephole. So much for stealth. “Who is it?” I yelled through the door.
“Get dressed! We're bustin' you out of this joint!”
“Betty?”
The Bats streamed in and scattered. “Turn some lights on,” Margie said. “Let me get a look at this place.”
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