At the Scent of Water (35 page)

Forty

Annie awoke later than usual, feeling hot and groggy. She listened for a moment and realized what had awakened her. It was Diane’s singing, an ethereal toneless sound, since Diane was not musical. She got up, threw off the hot covers, and walked toward the bathroom. She stopped and peeked inside the cracked door of the study. Diane was sitting on the couch, headphones on, eyes closed, hands lifted. She opened her eyes and saw Annie at the door.

“I’m worshiping,” she said simply. No further explanation or apology, and Annie envied Diane, her face lifted in rapture, hearing music she did not.

“These are the days of Elijah,”
Diane continued on as Annie closed the door,
“declaring the Word of the Lord.”

Diane had always declared the Word of the Lord, Annie realized with a wry smile. Soundly, firmly, as though there was as little doubt to His Word as there was to whether or not the sun would come up each morning. Annie washed her face, combed her hair, then padded back to her bedroom as Diane was bursting into the next verse, triumphant, if a little flat.

The next line was something about dry bones becoming flesh, and Annie suddenly felt a sense of kinship with those words, with the prophet who had looked down over the valley of dry bones and heard the question of the Lord echo in his ears.
Can these bones live?
And she knew the desperate hope mixed with despair of his answer.
Only you know, Lord
.

She dressed, gathered up her freshly washed clothes, and put them into her suitcase, packing automatically and efficiently.

She went downstairs and ate a quick breakfast, then went out to Diane’s studio. She threaded the shuttle. She was almost finished. The pattern she had envisioned had gradually taken shape. The rug was long and narrow. The center was green and mottled gold, and along each side she worked a simple pattern of pink and green and smoky blue, a design that called to her mind the dogwood blossoms, the green coves and the misty mountains of this place. She worked, sliding and pulling, tightening and sliding again. She didn’t hear when Diane came in, wasn’t aware of her presence until she spoke.

“That’s beautiful.”

Annie startled. “Thank you.”

Diane leaned against the doorframe. “You’ve always had more talent in your little finger than I did in my entire body. It grieved me when you left without your loom.”

Annie stopped working and looked at her in surprise. She didn’t ever recall Diane saying anything like that to her.

She shook her head in denial of the praise. “Your work is beautiful, Diane.”

Her stepmother shrugged and gave a slight shake of her own head. “I made peace with the facts long ago,” she said, smiling. “Will you take it with you this time?” she asked, indicating the loom with a glance.

“No. You keep it. It belongs here,” Annie said, and her throat felt tight at the prospect of what she would do tomorrow. She would leave here, and even though it is what she had intended all along, somehow she did not feel ready. What she had come here to do felt unfinished in spite of the cleaned-out house, the belongings packed, dispatched, and put away. There was only the one thing left. Margaret’s room, and she would do that tonight, she promised herself. After the supper at Mary’s.

She had left most of the furniture. Jim had said the house would sell better furnished. He would hire someone to haul it off after. She sniffed and went back to her work.

“You remember that old poem?” Diane asked. “About the weaver?”

Annie shrugged, but she remembered. Grandma Mamie had loved it.

“Kind of hokey, but I always think of it whenever I thread the loom,” Diane said, and she began reciting it.

“My life is but a weaving between my Lord and me.

I cannot choose the colors He works so steadily.

Oft times He weaves in sorrow, and I, in foolish pride

Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.

The dark threads are as needed in the Weaver’s skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.

Not till the loom is silent and the shuttles cease to fly

Will God unroll the canvas and explain the reason why.”

Annie stopped working, and she turned and faced her stepmother. She let her hands fall down at her sides and looked at Diane with puzzlement and hurt.

“Oh, Annie, don’t you see?” Diane said vehemently, her face shining with the passion she brought to everything. “It’s time to let it go. Forgive, if you’re ever going to. You may not have another chance.”

Annie stared, a hundred rebuttals fighting for escape. “That’s easy for someone else to say,” she finally replied.

Diane nodded and smiled. “You think I’ve never had sorrow. Do you know what happened to my first husband?”

Annie shook her head. She had always assumed he had died of natural causes. It sounded cavalier now, even as she thought it. As if that would have made his death any easier to bear.

“He was crushed in a construction accident,” Diane said. “I was pregnant, and I lost our baby.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“Did you know your father and I lost two babies of our own?”

Annie frowned and shook her head, almost disbelieving her, but though Diane might be many things, honesty was her crowning quality.

“Miscarriages. Both around the fourth month. Oh, how I wanted to be a mother,” she said.

Annie saw the pain on her face and remembered how awful she had been to Diane. Was still being. She felt a searing shame. She had never really given Diane a chance, and she saw now how hurtful that must have been. Yet her stepmother had always accepted her and had not held a grudge against her. She had forgiven, Annie realized now.

“I’m sorry, Diane,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

Diane smiled. “I forgive you. See how easy it is? Just let it go. Open your hand and—” she blew at her palm—”away it goes.”

Annie felt angry at that. It seemed to trivialize her struggle. “So what if I forgive him?” she bit back. “He’s leaving. So am I. There’s no reason to stay any longer.” Her chest ached as she said the words.

“But you want to find one, don’t you?” Diane asked, then went on without waiting for her to answer. “You know, Annie,” she said, “the older I get, the more it seems that the veil becomes thinner and thinner. I can almost see through to heaven now.”

Annie felt a shock run through her. She had never heard anyone else talk about the veil. “I’ve thought that before,” she said, almost breathless. “About the veil. But I’ve never heard anyone else say it.”

“Oh, it’s there,” Diane said. “But most people don’t ever see past it. You’re one of the fortunate ones.”

Annie looked at her, shocked. Her words were repugnant. “I’ve never wanted to see past it,” she said hotly. “In fact, all I’ve ever wanted to do was piece it back together, but I didn’t know how. All I’ve ever wanted to do was mend it.”

Diane looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You can’t mend it!” she said, shaking her head.

Annie felt a loss at her words, felt that last piece of hope tear away from the tenuous seam. “What do you do, then?” she asked after a moment.

Diane gave her a compassionate look, but there was something underneath it that made Annie cringe.

“You just pull it down,” she said. “All the way. Then you can see the whole play being acted out, not just the one little piece of evil in your corner of the world. Then you can see the king ride in on his white horse and slay his enemies.”

For a moment Annie forgot Diane Dalton was her stepmother, for she looked like some prophetess, face shining, blue eyes gazing through to some unseen reality.

“Besides,” Diane said after a moment. “It’s not just evil that tears the curtain.”

“What?” Annie asked dumbly.

“Sometimes God pulls it aside.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She said it bluntly, aware she was being rude, but she was confused and her head hurt. It was a stupid analogy, and she wished she’d never participated in this conversation.

“Do you remember how you felt when Margaret was born?”

The question felt like a brutal blow. She felt as if this time it was someone else who had slid a knife under her skin and peeled it back. The air hit raw nerves. “Of course I do.”

“Wasn’t that a glimpse behind the curtain?” she asked quietly.

Annie remembered. No. More than remembered. She was there in the tiny hospital, and there was Ricky Truelove, grinning like the Cheshire cat, holding up her daughter, his niece, all lathered with the lotion of birth. He took a towel and wiped her off, kissed her soundly on the top of the head, then handed her, red and squalling, to Sam, who brought her to Annie.

Mary had been there, her tears hot after her laughter. Laurie and Diane had been at her shoulder. Daddy out in the hall. Theresa rubbing her back, giving her sips of water. Dov in the waiting room, drinking tea and reading. And Sam. Poor Sam. She remembered now and was shocked to find herself smiling. But really, it had been so ridiculous. Sam the surgeon, who routinely opened up chests and tinkered with tiny hearts, had been anguished, in agony, worse than herself by far. He had coached her with an intensity that wore her out, made her worry for him.

“Maybe you should try to sleep,” she had told him between contractions.

Sam had steadfastly refused to leave his post at her side. Every time a contraction began, his face would fill with pain. When they were over, his relief was palpable.

“Bro, you need to chill out,” Ricky had said, grinning. “This is a natural process. Women have been doing it since God made Adam and Eve. Go outside for a minute. Take a break.”

“Remember how you felt when you saw that baby girl?” Diane asked it gently, seeming aware of the painful area she was probing yet determined to see it through.

Oh yes. She remembered. She had looked at the tiny body, the red curly hair downy on the molded head, looked into the clear eyes that would be blue like her father’s, and she had known God had done it.

“You had the privilege of bringing an eternal soul into being,” Diane said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Nothing can take that away. Not even death.”

Neither one of them spoke much after that. The breeze rustled the leaves of the oak outside the door.

“Your father’s race, as well as mine, is nearly run,” Diane finally said. “But yours is still before you. You may wish otherwise, but you’re still here.” She said it with her practical finality. “You can cross your arms and close your heart. You can stamp your feet and pitch a fit, or you can open up and love again.”

Annie wiped her face. Sniffed.

“You mad at me?” Diane asked.

“No.” Annie paused briefly, then plunged, like diving into the deep end of a pool. “I love you.”

Diane smiled gently. “I love you, too, Annie girl. I always have.” Diane came toward her and gave her a fierce hug, then held her back at arm’s length and spoke once more, an intense whisper, a feverish exhortation. “Go your way, Annie. Go your way. Don’t fret yourself any longer over things that are beyond you. Have your babies. Love your husband. Live your life. All too soon it will be over.”

Then she turned and left.

Forty-one

Sam, Carl, and Elijah had breakfast at the Cracker Barrel instead of Waffle House, on Diane’s orders, since at Cracker Barrel Carl could eat healthfully. In theory, at least. She had gone down there in person when he had said he was going back to working half days and had strictly ordered the kitchen personnel to serve him nothing but egg-white omelets, dry wheat toast, and decaf coffee.

“I told her she should just shoot me and be done with it because what’s the use of living if life’s so dry and tasteless?” Carl sighed deeply and took a stab at Sam’s hash browns, which Sam pretended not to notice. Elijah smiled at his melodrama.

Carl took a sip of decaf and made a face, then turned back to the two of them, his face serious. “I just want to thank you again for all y’all have done for me,” he said.

Sam and Elijah assured him it had been no trouble at all. And actually, Sam meant it. Even though he would be returning to his own practice tomorrow, he would miss this. All of this, and he felt a hollow feeling when he thought of all that encompassed. He had strange feelings every which way. Hunted, haunted feelings that he couldn’t shake. He told himself that going back to work would be the cure for what ailed him, but he didn’t really believe it, and somehow the thought of the work that awaited him made him feel tense and tight again, just as it had when he had left. But he would go. He would do it. What other choice did he have?

As they finished their breakfasts, Sam caught Carl up on each patient’s progress and condition. They went to the hospital, finished the morning rounds, then checked on all the patients Sam had seen in Carl’s absence. The mule-kicked farmer’s eye had healed well. Lewis Wilson had not died yet, but this time Carl prayed, and Sam saw the family’s eyes light with peace. They even had tea and scones with Eliza Goddard, who was giddy with relief to have her friend back and didn’t even pretend to be ill.

These were Carl’s people, Sam realized. His friends, and he thought perhaps if that was all Carl had to show for his life, it would be enough. He felt the heaviness again at the thought of returning to Knoxville. To his apartment. To his life. He brushed away the thought that nothing had really changed.

****

Annie dreaded going to Mary’s for supper. She finished her packing, then taking a look at the picture of the gentle shepherd, she prepared for another errand she had. She took the rug she had made, rolled it, and tied it with a piece of ribbon, then drove to Silver Falls to say good-bye to Mrs. Rogers.

The Open sign was in the window, the front door open wide. In fact, as she drove in she could see Mrs. Rogers on her knees in her vegetable garden. She was wearing pink polyester pants, a wildly patterned blouse, and a huge straw hat. Annie smiled and felt a rushing sense of relief. She had worried that the old lady had disappeared, had gone away in her absence, and somehow that had pained her. Even though she planned to leave herself, she wanted to know that this place would still be here, that this person would remain. She parked her car and got out, tucking the rug under her arm. Mrs. Rogers rose up slowly to greet her, grinning as usual.

“Did you know I was coming today?” Annie asked.

“I don’t think my radar was turned on today,” the old woman admitted. “I got flustered and fretted over Imagene this morning, and when that happens, it just drowns out the voice of the Lord.” She shook her head. “I sure am pleased to see you, though.”

“What happened with Imagene?” Annie asked as she followed Mrs. Rogers inside.

“Oh, just the usual,” Mrs. Roger said, hanging her hat on a nail inside the door and wiping her feet. She put her hand on her hip and scrunched up her face and imitated her daughter in a fast, high-pitched drawl. “
Mama,
you need to come down here to
Charleston
so I can keep an
eye
on you.”

Annie laughed out loud, and Mrs. Rogers smiled, gratified.

“She’s not altogether a bad girl,” Mrs. Rogers said, her face softening. “I know she really does care for me, but sometimes, with Imagene, caring looks a lot more like running over folks. Been that way ever since she was a little girl. Contrary. Throw her in a river and she’d float upstream.”

Annie grinned.

“Sit down,” Mrs. Rogers invited. “I’ll put on some coffee.” Annie sat and put down her purse and the rug. Her hostess disappeared into the store again and came back with a cellophane-wrapped coconut cake, which she opened and sliced.

“My grandmother used to buy those,” Annie said. “They were her favorite treat.”

“They’re not good for me, but they’re good to me,” Mrs. Rogers said.

They sipped and ate.

“Were you close to your grandmother?” Mrs. Rogers asked.

Annie nodded. “She led me to the Lord.” For a moment she was lost in her memories. She remembered going to church with her grandmother and singing old hymns and memorizing verses in Sunday school.

“I was nine years old,” she said. “I was sitting in her porch swing, and she told me about the ABCs of salvation. Accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart. Believe that He is the Son of God and that He died for you. Confess Him with your mouth, and you’ll be saved.” She remembered praying after her, repeating the words, then sitting at her kitchen table, feeling the oilcloth slick under her hands, reading her King James Scofield Reference Bible.

She looked around and realized Mamie’s kitchen was not so different from this one. That was probably why she was so comfortable here. She remembered that kitchen well, full of the soft chatter of women’s voices. She remembered the feeling she had when she was there—safe, cocooned, loved enough to be scolded and taught. She remembered the broad bosoms and shirtwaist dresses and starched hair and Chantilly cologne of her great-aunts. She remembered paper fans, with pictures of Jesus kneeling in the garden or of The Last Supper, waving in sonorous rhythm after the last dish was washed. She remembered the white linen tablecloth and the chipped dishes.

She remembered the babies, for it seemed that there were always one or two at their family gatherings, and how she, the only child, the motherless one, had loved to hold them. She remembered their fat cheeks and lard bellies and the smell of them in the hot Carolina summer—a mixture of powder and milk and Ivory Snow.

“I brought you something,” Annie said, reaching down and handing Mrs. Rogers the rolled rug.

Mrs. Rogers’ face lit with pleasure, and Annie was amused to see that she didn’t waste time protesting the gift. She untied the bow and unrolled the rug, then caught her breath in surprise.

“Why, mercy’s sake.” She unfolded it and turned it over in amazement, then stroked it with her hand. “Did you make this?”

“I did,” Annie said.

“Why, it’s beautiful.” She gave Annie a smile that was beautiful, as well.

“It has all the things I love about this place,” Annie said, and she pointed out each color and design and told what they meant to her.

“I’ll treasure it always,” Mrs. Rogers promised. “And I’ll think to pray for you every time my eyes fall upon it. I hate the thought of stepping on it, though. Maybe I’ll hang it on the wall,” she said and beamed.

They sat in silence for a moment, then Mrs. Rogers spoke. “You sound like you’re fixing to leave.”

Annie was struck again at how astute the old woman was. She nodded.

Mrs. Rogers didn’t look dismayed or try to protest. She leaned back and began speaking. “I never did finish my story,” she said. “I’m glad you came back.”

“I’d love to hear it,” Annie said, and she realized that was one reason she had made the trip, in addition to saying good-bye.

Mrs. Rogers went into the bedroom and came out with the now-familiar box. She pulled out another journal, took three brown-tinted photographs from the front, and handed them to Annie.

“This was the reverend,” she said.

Annie looked at the picture. The first thing she noticed was that he was smiling, unusual for that time when posing for a portrait could mean hours instead of seconds. He had kind eyes and a smile that caught at her heart, but it could have been the other part of the scene that did it, for a little girl, about four or so sat on his lap, her arm about his neck. Clearly she adored him.

“That’s Sarah with him,” Mrs. Rogers said. “Annie’s child. My mother,” she said with a gentle smile.

Annie felt startled. Of course, it stood to reason that one of the children would be Mrs. Rogers’ parent, and somehow the connection between herself and the other Annie and the old woman before her seemed even more real now.

“Did they have any of their own?” Annie asked.

Mrs. Rogers passed her the second photograph.

It was Annie and Lucas and Sarah, now a young woman. Still smiling and lined up across the picture were three young boys wearing uncomfortable-looking suits, but in spite of the formality of their dress, their faces showed mischief and good cheer. She remembered what Annie had said about her first boys, that they had been strong and happy, and she thought that perhaps her Margaret had been, as well. She examined Annie. She was sitting beside her husband, holding an infant. Her face was calm and full of quiet joy.

“That was Clarence and Frederick and Douglas, and the baby was Minnie. Reverend Johnson planted churches all around the Smokies. One at Grassy Creek, one at Hopper’s Gap, one up at Pigeon River, and another over at Dillon’s Cove.”

“Did Annie travel with him?”

“Sometimes. Until the children came along.”

“Was she happy?” Annie asked. She knew the answer, she thought, but somehow she wanted to hear it said.

“Here,” Mrs. Rogers said, handing her the journal. “Read for yourself.”

She paged through a few entries. There were details about the children’s education, housekeeping lists, and then an entry. She scanned it.

We took in the last of the potatoes this afternoon. The cellar is full, as well as the smokehouse. Lucas says the Lord has blessed us, and looking at our children lined up around the table, I know it is true. The Lord has appointed me my portion and my cup.

Annie startled and felt a little chill, for she had once quoted that verse about her own life.

My portion has included sorrow as well as joy, but whose has not? I can say now, after all, that the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places. God is good. And I am grateful.

She handed the diary back. “How did her life end up?” she asked.

Mrs. Rogers smiled. “Her children grew up and went various places. She and Lucas lived here in Silver Falls. Lucas died when he was eighty-five, but Annie lived on ten more years, teaching Sunday school right up until the day she died.”

Annie sighed and looked at her watch. “I suppose I’d better go.”

Mrs. Rogers didn’t argue, just rose along with her.

“I’ll never forget you,” Annie said, and she hugged the thin shoulders.

“Nor I you,” Mrs. Rogers answered, patting her face with a veined hand. “I’ll pray for you every day,” she promised, and Annie blinked away tears as she drove away.

****

As Annie had feared, the supper at Mary’s was a strained, tense affair. Papa’s presence livened things up a little, but everyone seemed quiet, lost in their own thoughts. Annie was subdued and so was Sam, she noticed. After supper she found him out in the yard by the statue of Margaret. He handed her an envelope. She stared down, not knowing what was inside.

“The divorce papers,” he said. “I signed them like you wanted. The property settlement looks fine. I’m happy to give you half of everything.”

She couldn’t have felt any worse if he had slapped her. She nodded and handed him the package she had carried herself.

“They’re the photos of Margaret,” she said. “I made copies. Now we each have a set.”

“Thank you,” he said bleakly, then looked down at his shoes.

“I’ll go over and finish at the house tonight,” she said.

“Like I said, whatever you leave, I’ll take care of.”

“Is there anything else you want?” she asked, and something in her hoped he answered the real question behind those words.

He shook his head.

She nodded and felt her throat close, for this wasn’t what she had intended. This was all wrong, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. It felt like a runaway train, like a car without brakes. It was rolling, going, and there was nothing she could do to change its course.

Sam’s cell phone rang. He answered it in that way she remembered. “Truelove,” he clipped out, back now to being the pressured surgeon, the man who had no time and carried the weight of tiny souls on his shoulders. She watched as he listened silently, and his face went from expectancy to shock to grief. “Thank you,” he said, then signed off.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“That was Melvin,” he said.

After a moment she placed the name. Sam’s attorney.

“Kelly Bright just passed away.”