* * *
“Georgia could hardly contain herself, constantly running ahead, yelling back at Gwen, who struggled to keep up with her baby brother in her arms. Buster would trot ahead of both of them and circle back around in his lovingly protective way.
“‘Gwen, hurry up!’
“Georgia was a hundred feet ahead and continued sprinting up the steep incline, further distancing herself from her sister. Gwen walked a ways, then put the baby down to rest. He could barely stand on the uneven ground, and the alfalfa came up to his chin, almost covering him as if he was another sapling growing in a green forest. Gwen was furious that Georgia would not wait, so she boycotted the trip more than once by sitting down and putting the baby on her lap, thinking that she would just turn around and go home.
“Georgia kept her sights on the lonely crab-apple tree as she approached the summit—a truly special place for her. She had spent many summer afternoons under the shade of that tree, pretending she was a princess or an heiress with all the expensive trimmings that life could afford. Gwen would come occasionally, but she usually ruined the fun by putting too much realism into make-believe.”
* * *
“See Pam, you need to lighten up. You do the same thing as Gwen.”
“I do not. I know how to make-believe just fine.”
Margaret lifted up her head and smiled at the girls.
“Remember when I was trying to be a ballerina, and I put Mama’s stocking on?”
“Well, ballerinas don’t wear brown stockings and especially not ones that go up to your armpits. You looked ridiculous.”
Margaret put her head back and pretended she heard nothing.
* * *
“Today was different. Georgia sensed it. A strange feeling overcame her as she reached the grassy knoll that led up to the tree with its twisted and irregular branches reaching out in all directions. She smelled something too. Something familiar. Then, she noticed an object sticking out from behind the tree. A table. Clearly, it was a table, for she could see its leg and the sharp angle where the table-top jutted out from the tree. As Georgia edged forward, she caught a glimpse of a simple wooden chair, pushed away from the table, and a man, dressed in a rugged workman’s overcoat, sitting and staring out the opposite way into the rolling plains which seemed to carry on eternally to the end of the horizon.
“Georgia tilted her eyes and cocked her head, cautiously approaching the tree but keeping her body tucked behind the trunk, so she could not be seen by the man. When she reached the crabapple, she put her back against it and looked down the valley. Gwen was nowhere in sight, hidden behind one of the rolling bluffs which weaved their way the entire length of the climb.
“Quietly and slowly, Georgia leaned around the tree and peeked at the man. He looked so familiar from the back that she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Suddenly, as if his head had always been looking in her direction, the man stared right at her. She gasped in disbelief, and he flashed that warm, familiar smile in her direction.
“‘Georgia. My sweet Georgia. Come closer.’
“‘Papa? Papa?’
“She couldn’t believe her eyes. Tears streamed down her face as she leapt like a jackrabbit into his arms.
“‘Oh, Papa. I’ve missed you so. I’ve missed you.’
“He caressed her gently. Low-rolling thunder shook in the distance. The leaves of the crab apple whispered softly in the breeze. Georgia could sense it all. She was in tune with her surroundings like never before. She sat in his lap but felt distant from him. It felt like she was embraced by her surroundings, a gentle touch from a branch, a longing stroke from the wind, a peaceful serenade from the insects who busily climbed up the legs of the table beside them. Georgia felt a burning in her heart. A happiness, a warmth, but a burning none the less. It ached. She leaned back in her father’s lap and looked directly into her father’s face.
“‘Are you real?’
“‘Come. Sit at the table. Let me look at you.’
“‘Where is Starling and the wagon?’
“Georgia looked around. He had no possessions; no mode of transport; he sat with only the clothes on his back, and they were ragged clothes she didn’t recognize.
“‘You look so pretty.’
“‘Have you seen Mama yet? She will be so happy. And Gwen and the baby. They’re coming up the hill now. Let me get them.’
“‘No, Georgia. We don’t have much time, and I want to look at you. I’ve missed you so.’
“‘Papa, I don’t understand.’
“He looked over at her with a blank stare but finally smiled and reached out his hand. She reached over and put hers in his.
“‘Papa, where did you come from?’
“‘Up there,’ he said, lifting his forehead toward the sky.
“‘I don’t understand.’
“‘I am like the wind. I come and go, but I will always be near you. Whether near or far.’
“‘Papa, I’m afraid. This morning, I woke up and I …” her voice trailed off, afraid to speak the rest.
“‘What did you see, my child?’
“‘Papa, how did you know I saw something?’
“‘What was it that you saw?’
“‘A light. A bright and powerful light. It lit up the sky like a dozen shooting stars all at once. And—’
“‘It was beautiful, wasn’t it?’
“‘Yes. You saw it, too? Oh, Papa. I knew I wasn’t making things up. Gwen didn’t believe me. She never believes me.’
“‘This is about you, Georgia. What do you believe?’
“‘I believe that I saw a special light in the sky. At that moment, I knew you were coming. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew. That’s what I told Gwen. That’s why I said we had to come to Harper’s Hill today. We just had too. And now you
are
here. Wishes do come true.’
“Georgia’s father looked intently at her as if he wanted to remember every last hair, the exact placement of her dimples, and the precise shape of her earlobes. A single tear came down his face.
“‘Papa, why are you crying?’
“‘Georgia, listen. You have to listen, and listen carefully. And you have to do exactly what I say. Do you understand?’
“‘Yes, Papa.’
“‘I need you to be brave, braver than you’ve ever been before. I am putting you in charge. You have to do it.’
“‘Do what, Papa?’
“‘It’s up to you.’
“‘Papa, I don’t understand. Wait for Gwen to arrive. You can tell both of us, and we can both be brave.’
“‘No. There is no time. I cannot stay here.’
“‘Papa, Gwen is almost here. I’ll go get her.’
“‘No. You mustn’t. It was you who saw the vision last night. That is why I am here. To say goodbye. It is you who must be brave.’
“Georgia paused for a moment. She wanted to ask one more question but was afraid of the answer she might receive. But she had to ask. She might never be given another chance.
“‘Papa, why did you leave us?’
“Her father squirmed around on the seat for a moment and then reached deep down inside his overcoat pocket and pulled out something that he hid inside his fist.
“‘Hold out your hand, Georgia.’
“She held out her hand, trembling as one should never have to tremble in the presence of a loved one. His hand brushed over hers like morning dew vapor that dances in the breeze. She felt something cold and hard placed in her palm. It was a gold locket with a thin gold chain. It looked familiar to Georgia.
“‘Open it.’
“She unclasped the chain and opened it to see an ink portrait of Gwen and herself.
“‘Do you recognize this?’
“‘Yes, this is Mama’s locket. Why are you giving it to me?’
“‘Ours is not to ask why. But there is something you must always remember. This locket shows that no matter what happens, your mother and father always love you, and that’s what’s important. You keep this, always.’
“‘But it belongs to Mama.’
“‘You keep it.’
“Georgia looked down at the locket. She stopped everything for a moment and stared right at her father. Her breathing picked up, and with every exhale, she sensed emptiness around her. She sat on a chair, at a table, with her father in front of her. The tree rustled in the wind, and a lonely crabapple leaf fluttered unevenly, picking up every wind-powered rip current that twirled it uneasily until it gently landed on the table in front of her. Georgia heard it scraping across the table like a team of horses screeching to a halt. She started rubbing her thighs as her breathing intensified.
“‘Papa, I saw a light this morning. Across the sky.’
“He nodded. She panted loudly.
“‘Papa, you came from up there?’ she asked in a tired whisper of a person nearly breathing her last breath.
“Her father nodded again softly.
“‘I must get Gwen,’ said Georgia as she drunkenly stood up, staggered away from the table, and quickly started running around the tree.
“‘Georgia, be brave. Be brave,’ admonished her father.
“‘Gwen! Gwen! Papa is here. Come. Come quickly!’”
* * *
Margaret yelled out the last line with the force of a stage actress, while Sam and Pam sat mesmerized on the couch, a half-eaten pint making them sick to their stomachs.
“Ms. Pritcher,” asked Pam. “Is Georgia’s father for real?”
Margaret adjusted the collar on her shirt and wiped a lonely tear from the corner of her eye. She didn’t want to open her eyes, or turn around because she was afraid nothing was there. Finally, she glanced briefly at the girls, smiled, and put her head back to rest, waiting for the next round of inspiration.
* * *
“I knew it. She’s out of her mind,” said Mrs. Trumble, who naturally was the first to indict Margaret once Reverend Davies told the complete tale of the grocery store incident.
“Come on, now,” interjected Janice. “I’ll admit it is a little strange, but you have to understand that she’s a storyteller. She tells stories at random times.”
“At the supermarket? She doesn’t know what she is doing,” Mrs. Trumble scrunched up her nose, unwilling to give any concessions. “I thought she could barely communicate. How can she tell stories?”
“No, she’s an excellent communicator,” Mr. Tomsey said in her defense. “Superior, in fact.”
“That’s written language.”
“It’s still communication, so let’s be clear here. You said she couldn’t communicate, which is not true.”
“Actually, I’ll admit that I have heard some of her stories before. I have listened from outside the door to her imaginative ranting from time to time. She is quite eloquent,” said Janice.
“Well, of course. You’re her relative. You’re clearly going to support her,” retorted Mrs. Trumble in a searing voice.
Janice shook her head and snapped a quick glare towards Mrs. Trumble.
“Well, if you think I will be anything but fair here …” Janice replied indignantly.
“Okay, let’s not jump down each other’s throats,” soothed the reverend.
“Just let her be,” said Cheevers, rolling his eyes in boredom at the over-zealous Mrs. Trumble.
“Hear, hear,” seconded Mr. Tomsey.
“Well, you weren’t there at the grocery store,” replied Mrs. Trumble.
“Neither were you!” blurted out Cheevers.
“I’m just saying that Reverend Davies wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t think it was important.”
“She’s right,” said Reverend Davies. “Before Margaret’s mother died, she asked me to help Margaret in whatever way I could. I’ve written her letters. I’ve tried to call her and visit her. She just hasn’t responded.”
“Maybe she just wants to be left alone,” said Mr. Tomsey, also getting tired of what the apartment grudge match.
“I think that’s the problem,” continued the reverend. “She’s alone all the time. She has, perhaps, created this alternative world that she uses as a means of escape. And that’s fine and all, but she’s crossing the line. Things are getting blurred, and now it’s affecting others. We can’t just turn a blind eye to people in need.”
Everyone sat quietly—the first lull in quite some time.
“How many people in today’s world have become completely cut-off from others? Our society has created a generation of people who are afraid to be vulnerable, afraid to offend, afraid to cause inconvenience that we don’t even bother to get know our neighbors. Our society has become so ‘me’ driven that we are losing our sense of neighborhood, let alone our sense of community. How many times have you heard about someone who has been dead for weeks, being found in their apartment or house—usually by some bill collector or meter reader? It’s a sad, sad testament of our society. Look, Margaret is lucky. She has a group of people who care about her, or at least I think so, or you wouldn’t have shown up tonight. We need to do what is right for her, and we can’t be worried if we have been slighted or hurt by her actions. Our actions must be driven by her best interest. Nothing else should matter.”
Reverend Davies sat down, and everyone fidgeted around, squirming like a group of school children in front of a principal — even if Reverend Davies didn’t mean it to come across so.