The Scarlet Thread (23 page)

I’m sure she’ll agree to stand in for you while you’re gone.”

“She can’t, Ron. She’s nursing Jason.”

“She can bring her baby with her. I won’t mind. And Arlene

loves getting her hands on the little guy. If things get too hectic, I

think we could track down a couple of responsible teenagers

who’d pitch in.”

“Miranda,” Sierra said immediately, thinking of a fifteen-year-old runaway who’d entered the program about the

same time she’d started working with Ron. “The day-care center

says she’s wonderful with babies.”

Ron smiled and brushed his knuckles lightly against her

cheek. It was an oddly intimate and tender gesture that made her

blush. “We’ll take care of things around here. You go see your

mother.” He straightened from her desk.

When Alex didn’t call back by one-thirty, Sierra left him out of

her arrangements. Marcia gave her the name of a professional

nanny. Sierra called Dolores Huerta and explained the situation.

Dolores agreed to meet her at the house that afternoon at four so

they could go over the children’s schedules and her household

duties and fees.

Sierra was packing her bags when Alex came home. He

stopped just inside the bedroom door and stared at the two open

suitcases on the double bed. “What’s going on?” he said, his face

paling. “What’re you doing? Where’re you going?”

“If you’d bothered to return my call this morning, you’d

know.” She yanked open a drawer. “I’m going home.”

He uttered a soft curse and came into the room. “Look. Let’s

talk about—”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she cut him off. “My mother’s

in the hospital. She has cancer.” She swallowed convulsively as

she put the sweater on top of a pair of dark gray slacks.

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He let out his breath. “I thought . . .” He shook his head. “I’m

sorry,” he said heavily.

She spun to face him, pain etched in her features. “Sorry

about what, Alex? That you’re never around when I need you

anymore? That my mother has cancer? That all this is going to

complicate your precious work schedule?”

He didn’t say anything.

She looked at him, hurt and embittered. “Where were you?

Your secretary said she’d page you. Did she?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I was busy.” He moved farther into their bedroom. “Look. I

figured if it was really important, you’d call back.”

She turned back to her suitcase in frustration. “It’s nice to

know where I stand on your priority list.”

“You want a fight before you go? Is that what you really want?”

She went into the closet. When she came out with two more

pairs of slacks, Alex was standing in the middle of the room,

rubbing the back of his neck. Shaking, she dropped the clothing on the bed. “I needed you, Alex. Where were you?”

Turning, he looked at her. She saw something in his expression that made her sick. Guilt. Shame. And not just because he

hadn’t returned her call. It was something more, something

deeper. His eyes flickered, stark and raw, and then the expression was gone, hidden.

“What can I do to help?” he said flatly.

She wanted to say he could hold her. He could tell her he loved

her. He could promise to call her and talk with her each day. He

could reassure her that everything would be fine with the children while she was gone.

“I don’t know,” she said bleakly. “Pray for a miracle, maybe?”

For whom, Sierra?
an inner voice asked.
For your mother or you . . .

and Alex?

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talk to one another anymore. It was as though a wall stood between them, four feet thick and a hundred feet high. She was

tired of trying to hack her way through it.

He shrugged out of his suit jacket and tossed it over a chair.

“What are you going to do about the kids?”

Anger surged through her, twisting her stomach into a hard

knot. Hadn’t he just asked her what he could do to
help?
What a

laugh. All he cared about was that he not suffer any inconvenience.

“Don’t worry. I’ve already hired a nanny. You won’t have to

look for one. Her name is Dolores Huerta. She’ll be here by

seven each morning. I figured you wouldn’t mind staying home

an extra
thirty
minutes until she gets here. Dolores has agreed to

cook and do the washing and take care of the house. She drives,

so she’ll drop the children off at school and pick them up. She’ll

also see that Clanton gets to baseball practices and Carolyn gets

to her piano lessons. I knew you wouldn’t have the time or inclination to be there for the kids. I gave her a hundred dollars for

gas money. She gets three hundred dollars a week salary. You’ll

need to pay her on Friday.” She looked at him, waiting for a response.

His face was rigid. “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

She bit her lip, fighting back the tears. “As long as it takes,” she

managed bleakly, turning away. She couldn’t remember what

she’d already packed and what more she needed.

“You can’t take all of it on yourself, Sierra.”

She wished she could believe he was concerned for her, but

she couldn’t. What was he really worried about?

“Mike said the doctor told Mom she has a month, maybe less. I

want every minute with her I can have.”

“You don’t think I understand that? I love your mother, too.”

Do you?
she wanted to say. If he did, he never would have

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moved the family to Southern California. She wondered sometimes if he even loved his own father and mother. When was the

last time he’d called them? He seemed to resent the time he took

off to make two short visits home to family in the course of a

whole year.

What he loved—apparently the only thing he really

loved—was his work. Nothing else seemed to matter to him anymore, least of all her or the children. Her mother didn’t even enter the equation.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” he said, defensive.

“Should I? I hope you’ll call and tell her while you have the

chance.” She glared up at him, hurt and anger spilling over into

each other, flooding her with the desire to retaliate. “People
need

love when they’re hurting.”

His eyes cooled. “I’ll leave you alone so you can pack.” He

walked out of the room.

The right reverend came by to talk to me today.

Seems he’s in Galena preeching at the market

place. First thing he did was look at my babies

and my rounding belly and ask how long I had

been married. Long enough I said. He told me

Mister Grayson died last spring. He fell and cut

himself on the plow blade and died two weeks

later, jaws locked and body twisted like a pretzel.

I asked him if that was what he had come to talk

about. He said Papa is ailing and the homestead

is going to seed and he thought I should know

about it so I could do something to help. I said

most likely Papa is not ailing but drunk. He said

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to the gates and stoned. I said as near as I could

tell the only people Jesus ever got mad at were

church folk who were so busy looking for slivers

in other peoples eyes they missed the logs in their

own. He left none too happy.

Now I am left to wonder what to do. Even

drunk, Papa never neglected the land.

I am staying with Aunt Martha while James is

gone to the homestead to see how Papa is.

I had forgotten how nice it was to sleep in a big

bed with a lace canopy and beneath a roof that

does not leak. No wind blows through the windows and the walls are painted white with a

framed picture of a Grecian girl pouring water

from a jug. Beth sleeps with me in the feather bed

while Joshua and little Hank sleep in the small

room next door. I miss James.

People come and go quite often in Aunt Martha’s house. She has her door open to all. She

invited a drummer in yesterday to supper. He

looked tired and worn down to bones. He looked

better when he left. She gave him money to pay

for a room at the hotel. Aunt Martha and three

lady friends quilted all afternoon. She invited me

to join them and I did. Betsy took charge of

Joshua and my babies. They fared well beneath

her wings. She made pound cake for Joshua and

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applesauce for Hank. The ladies were pleased to

watch the children play. Their own are grown

and gone off to who knows where.

I did not think it possible to enjoy womens

company so much though I have always enjoyed

Aunt Martha. But she is not like most I have met.

These women were like her. They laugh about all

manner of things, but not one unkind word did

they utter about anyone.

Life is hard and cruel.

James said Papa is ailing and we have to go

home and tend things for him. I did not dare ask

if Papa’s heart has changed toward me. I will

know soon enough.

Truth is I am glad to be going home though

I will miss Aunt Martha and Betsy and Clovis.

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11

through a clear tube to Sierra’s mother. Sierra checked the tube

frequently, making sure it was in place beneath her mother’s nose

so that the pure oxygen would be infused into her mother’s straining lungs. Edema was causing the difficulty with breathing. Over

the past few days the edema had gone down. Her mother’s breathing had eased and slowed. So, too, had the trickle of urine into the

catch bag attached to the side of the bed. The hospice nurse had

told her it would change color as death approached.

Sierra rose from the wing chair beside the bed and checked the

tube again. She touched her mother’s hair, once soft and dark

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felt dry, like fallen leaves. She was awake.

“Can I bring you some soup, Mom?” She was desperate to do

something, anything, to make her mother comfortable, to keep

her alive.

“You can move me near the windows.”

The rented hospital bed had wheels, but Sierra knew moving it

would jar her mother and cause her more pain. She hesitated.

“Please,” her mother whispered.

Sierra did as her mother asked, gritting her teeth each time the

bed jiggled. Her mother didn’t make a sound. “Is this all right,

Mom?”

“Hmmm,” her mother said, her thin fingers loosening their

grip on the pillow. Her body slowly relaxed again. “Can you

open the window?”

“It’s cool today.”

“Please.”

As Sierra did so, she couldn’t stop worrying. What if her

mother caught cold? Even as she thought it, she knew it was irrational. The hospice nurse said yesterday that it wouldn’t be

long.

“Brady’s mowing his back lawn,” her mother said, and Sierra

noticed her speech was faintly slurred. The morphine patches

were doing their work. She noticed other things, too. Her

mother’s hazel eyes had lost their twinkle. Her skin was no

longer tan from the long hours she’d spent tending her beautiful

garden. “I always wanted skin as white as alabaster,” her

mother had teased a few days before. Sierra hadn’t been able to

laugh with her.

White. The color of purity.

The color of death.

“I’ve always loved the smell of cut grass,” her mother said

quietly. She reached out and took Sierra’s hand. Sierra felt the

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