Summer Snow (37 page)

I looked out over her shoulder to the field of corn that lined our gravel driveway. The plants were tall and endless, sweeping up the sloping hill and flowing off into the distance, proud and flourishing and full of the promise of harvest. It happened every year. They grew; they died, then waited for spring and marched on to autumn, producing fruit that benefited them nothing, fruit that was meant as an offering, a gift.

So much of my life had been spent taking and taking and taking. Thinking it was all about me, believing that everything came down to
me
and how I felt, what I wanted. Even in my grasping attempts to know God, I did exactly that: I grasped. I sought. Sometimes I waited. But I never opened myself, spread my soul wide as an offering so He could come and capture me. I never let Him run strong fingers through my soil, watering it with His grace so my fruit could grow and grow above the weeds that threatened to choke it out.

For once, with the dust from my mother's car still settling on the road, I realized that I wasn't interested in looking anymore. I had hunted peace like it was prey to be snared. I had tracked it down like Janice was doing now, figuring that if only I could secure everything around me just so, align my wants and needs while balancing my desires, I would finally figure out the formula that would make me happy. But it wasn't Michael or peace with Janice or sharing the truth with Simon or making a decision about my baby. It wasn't even a combination of all those things that I longed for.

“What are you looking for, Julia?” Grandma asked again, softer this time. Maybe she feared the answer. Maybe she believed that I was finally close. Closer than I had ever been.

“I don't know,” I said, but my voice was not hopeless, and in the wake of my spoken words I carved through something deep inside. My soul whispered a prayer.

It was like being undone, cut loose from everything that tied me down and sealed me against everything I could be. It was like finally being opened to the crushing weight of some indescribable significance pressing itself upon my soul, filling in the gaps. Leaving a mark. Leaving an imprint with a hand so heavy, so full and sweet, I almost cried out, but not in pain. In joy.

Because it was enough.

Well

“W
E NEED A PROJECT,”
Grandma said with a certain satisfied sense of finality.

It was August 7, my due date, and though we had gone for a drive down a bumpy gravel road, though I had stomped vigorously up and down the stairs half a dozen times in succession, and though I
almost
dug the ancient bottle of castor oil out of the very back of Grandma's medicine cabinet, I was not in labor. The baby did not seem eager to arrive on time.

“What kind of project?” Simon asked, looking up from his coloring book page with a curious twist in his lips. He had a way of screwing up his face when he was really hoping for something. It was involuntary, the same unconscious tightening of muscles that happened while lifting a heavy object, but somehow it seemed to help. When Simon pulled that face, it was hard not to try to shift the weight of the world to get him what he wanted.

Grandma put her hands on his cheeks and rubbed. Simon giggled and purred while she wiggled him around. His voice came out bumpy and uneven, like a motorboat bouncing over a succession of waves. “Wh-at … ki-nd … of … pro-ject?” he asked again, letting his voice box jumble and morph the words.

“A
fun
project,” Grandma assured us. “The kind of project that requires the help of a big, strong, hardworking boy.…”

Simon raised his hand. “I can help!”

“That's exactly what I was hoping for.” Grandma grinned.

“What do you want to do?” I asked, trying not to sound too skeptical, though the thought of a project when the baby was due any day seemed a little daunting. True, I had finally given in and started my maternity leave the day before, and I no longer had to go to work, but weren't these days supposed to be filled with relaxation? preparation maybe?

Apparently Grandma had other ideas. “Come on,” she said, pulling Simon to his feet. She marched us both outside. The sun was high in the very middle of the sky, and it cut a sharp angle across the roof of the porch, slicing the shadows in half, separating dark and light. Grandma let the screen door slam merrily shut and walked to the edge of the porch, her toes white in the sun and her feet blanketed by shade. A breeze plucked at the untucked hem of her linen shirt.

“I want to do this,” Grandma said when Simon and I had come to stand on either side of her.

We looked around, studying the driveway, the little patch of flower garden beside the cracking sidewalk. Simon craned his neck and surveyed a few of the old outbuildings, obviously searching for some apparent task, some palpable place to set our hands to work. I scrutinized everything too, though I wasn't looking for a project as much as I was looking for something to do to make us forget that Janice hadn't called. I was sure Grandma's line of reasoning corresponded with mine.

“I want to do
this
,” Grandma said once more, breaking into our hesitation. This time she began to tap her feet.

I looked down. Not because I understood, but because her toes were asking me to. As I looked, a fleck of peeling white paint pulled loose from the rutted wood and curled itself up the side of Grandma's foot. “You want to paint the porch,” I said dully.

Grandma clapped. “Bingo!”

It was hard not to sigh as I surveyed the job before us. The porch was ten feet wide at least, and it ran almost the length of the entire house. It featured a wide staircase and an ornate railing on three sides, with the fourth side ending against the outside wall of the living room. The railing alone would take hours to paint, never mind the fact that we would have to power wash and probably sand the wood first, then prime it, put two coats of paint on it.…

“We can't paint the porch, Grandma,” I muttered.

“Yes, we can!” Simon shouted.

“Yes, we can,” Grandma agreed. “Julia, honey, it's the first week of August. We'll take the rest of the summer if we have to. We'll go slow, do it right. It'll be fun.”

“I'm not supposed to paint,” I reminded her, pointing at my belly.

“That's why you're the supervisor.” She smiled. “And then later when the baby is born, we'll pull the cradle in the mudroom and let him sleep while we work. You can peek in through the screen door a dozen times a minute if you want to.”

“And we can have it done by the time Mom comes home!” Simon cheered. He dashed past Grandma and wrapped himself around my tummy, resting his chin on a bump that I imagined to be one of the baby's knees. “She'll be so surprised. It will be great.”

I cupped his face in my hands and peered at Grandma over his head.

“He needs this,” she mouthed. Then she pointed from herself to me and back again. “
We
need this.”

There was nothing more to say. “Okay,” I consented, though it seemed to contradict good sense. “We'll paint the porch.”

There was an almost tangible excitement when we hopped in the car and headed for the hardware store. I quickly realized that Grandma had been thinking about this for quite some time, and she had already borrowed a power washer from Mr. Walker and checked into the kind of paint we would need.

“Did you know they sell barn paint in five-gallon buckets?” she asked as we pulled into the parking lot of Terpstra's Hardware. “I asked the nice boy working the register what we should use, and he figured that would be our best bet.”

“Mm-hmm,” I murmured, raising my eyebrows at her as if I questioned her sanity just the tiniest bit.

Grandma laughed and gave my arm a friendly slap. “You wait and see. This is a good idea. Have a little faith,” she quipped lightly.

“It's a good idea,” Simon parroted, unbuckling his seat belt before we had come to a complete stop and hopping out of his booster seat. He was halfway to the front door of the store before Grandma had switched the engine off.

We bought two huge buckets of white barn paint, a handful of new brushes, a couple of packets of coarse sandpaper, and a rectangular tin can of turpentine so it wouldn't be impossible to get the paint off our skin.

“You know, she shouldn't paint,” the lady behind the counter warned us when we brought our purchases to the front. She poked a ballpoint pen accusingly in the air and surveyed me over the tops of her glasses as if she had caught me in the act of plotting to do something dangerous.

“No, she shouldn't,” a voice behind me agreed.

I turned to see Michael propping an enormous mass of molded steel against his hip. It looked so heavy and awkward that I didn't even really register that Michael was standing before me. “What in the world is that?” I cried.

“Exhaust manifold,” Michael said wryly. “My brother is rebuilding his combine.” Then, looking past me, he addressed the surly woman at the counter. “Hey, this thing didn't come with gaskets.”

“They never do,” she replied, looking bored and somewhat put out. “You have to order those separately.”

Michael's eyes got wide, and he looked for a moment like he was going to let her have it. But then he shrugged, hefted the manifold over her stained countertop, and let it drop with a thud.

“Watch it!” she said.

But Michael was already turning to me. “How are you doing?” he asked, a smile reaching from his lips clear to the upturned corners of his playful eyes.

“Good,” I said automatically. Then, feeling Grandma and Simon beside me, I started to introduce them.

Grandma had already met Michael, and she reached past me with a grin. “Hi, Michael,” she greeted him warmly. “It's nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you, too, Mrs. DeSmit.” Then, remembering, Michael ducked his head sheepishly. “I mean, Nellie.” He shook her hand inside both of his own as she smiled at him. “And who's this?” When he looked at Simon, I could see recognition flash across his face. “We've met before,” he answered himself. “I just can't remember your name.”

“This is Simon,” I cut in quickly. “He's my brother.” I put my hand on Simon's shoulder and smiled encouragingly at him.

Michael shot me an unreadable look, but then he tilted his head as if to say,
No matter
and held out his hand for Simon to slap him a high five. “Nice to meet you, buddy.”

“We're going to paint the porch,” Simon offered, sounding very grown-up, very important. He was watching my handsome coworker with barely concealed reverence; it seemed Michael had an admirer.

“You are?” Michael asked. “I hope Julia's not helping you.”

“She's the supervisor,” Simon assured him.

Michael looked between Grandma and Simon and then gave me an appraising look. “Is this your crew?”

“Yup.” I nodded, affecting a lazy drawl. “They're a mite slow, but a hardworking bunch.”

I watched as Michael's eyebrows formed a stern line across his forehead. “You know,” he said deliberately, “I don't think your crew is quite big enough.”

“We're going to take our time,” Grandma told him. “We don't care if it takes us the rest of the summer; right, Simon?”

“Right,” he agreed.

“Well …,” Michael began, and I could see a scheme forming behind his eyes. “If your foreman will have me, why don't I join the crew for the rest of the day? Are you working on it today?”

“We're starting,” Grandma said.

“And we'll be fine,” I interrupted. I didn't want to impose on Michael's kindheartedness. Nor did I think it was wise to start forming deeper connections with someone who was going to leave in only a few weeks. Our little wayward trio was well versed in the particulars of leaving. We needed to focus a little on the essence of what it meant to
stay
. And just the skimming thought of Janice—of her sudden disappearance and lack of contact for days that seemed to drag on a little longer with each hour that we sadly tacked on— made my stomach clench.
Bad idea
, I thought.
Better to not let things get complicated
.

But Michael cut a convincing profile. He casually waved his hand in dismissal at the tractor manifold waiting for him on the counter. “I had plans for the afternoon, but not anymore. We can't do anything without the gaskets.” Then he mimed a painting motion, making exaggerated flicks at the top and bottom of each stroke. “Besides, I like painting. And I've seen your porch, Julia—this is no small job. Admit it. You need me.” His crooked grin broke into a crescent of self-satisfaction that was charming rather than conceited.

“We could use him,” Grandma said, nodding at me optimistically, like she was the grandchild and she was vying persuasively for my tightfisted approval.

“We need big, strong, hardworking boys to help,” Simon coaxed, and by the adoring way that he was looking at Michael, I thought it probably wouldn't be such a bad thing for Simon to spend some time with a man. In fact, it would be a good thing, a great thing. Absolutely necessary. I made a mental note to seek out more male companionship for Simon. Maybe Mr. Walker or one of his boys. Or maybe Michael, whenever he was home from college—he was already grinning at Simon with a mischievous glint in his eye. They were a matched pair.

“Fine,” I said, though it was hardly my place to accept or reject Michael's generous offer. But I added, “Are you sure you want to do this? You really don't have to.”

“I know I don't have to. I want to. Sounds like fun.”

We paid for our purchases and parted with Michael, making plans to meet him at the porch in an hour. He had to stop at his brother's farm and change clothes, and we had a few more errands to run.

When Michael showed up right on time an hour later, Grandma, Simon, and I had already stripped the porch of all furniture, decorations, and knickknacks. We had made a little pile of stuff beside the garage, and we were scattered across the porch steps, peeling paint with our fingers and wondering how much we should try to get off before painting over the wreckage. Everyone else had changed into grubby clothes, and even though I couldn't really help, I too was wearing an old, paint-splattered T-shirt.