The Scarlet Thread (24 page)

tremor of weakness in her mother’s grip. “This is my favorite

time of year. The cherry trees bud, and the daffodils come up.

Everything’s so green and pretty.” She sighed, and it was a

sound of contentment, not sadness. “How can anyone fail to see

God’s hand in all of it?”

Sierra’s throat closed. She stared out the window as the clouds

moved slowly across the blue sky. Her mother wouldn’t want

her to cry. She had to be strong. She had to be
brave.
But inside,

she could feel pieces of herself crumbling.

“Every year, Jesus shows us the Resurrection,” her mother

said and squeezed her hand lightly.

“It’s a pretty day,” Sierra said mechanically, thinking that

was what her mother wanted to hear. She couldn’t say what she

was really feeling. How could her mother talk about Jesus

now? She wanted to curse God, not praise him! Her mother

had served the Lord for as long as she could remember, and this

was her reward? To die slowly, in pain? Her mother saw God’s

hand in everything. But where was God’s hand in
this?

“Can you raise the bed?”

“I think so,” Sierra said and went to the controls. She pressed a

button, and the bed came up. When it stopped, her mother had a

good view down on the garden below.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, content.

Sierra checked her oxygen tube and readjusted the elastic

straps looped behind her mother’s ears. One had left a crease in

her mother’s cheek.

“Would you pick me some hyacinths?”

“Hyacinths?” Sierra said bleakly.

“I can see a few down by the walk, near the birdbath.” Her

hand trembled weakly as she tried to point. “The clippers are in

the bucket under the steps.”

Sierra hurried downstairs and out the back door to the porch.

She found the clippers exactly where her mother said they’d be.

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everything in its place.

Walking quickly along the brick path, Sierra was dismayed at

the state of the garden. Even during the winter, her mother had

weeded and raked and kept everything neat. Now it was clearly

neglected.

Sierra found a patch of the pretty blue flowers near the back of

the garden. Hunkering down, she selected two stalks of perfect

blooms and cut them for her mother. When she returned to the

upstairs master bedroom, she saw her mother had the controls in

her hand. She had raised the head of the bed a foot higher, giving

her a better view.

What must her mother feel looking out at the sorry, deserted

garden below?

“Thank you, sweetheart.” She touched the flowers with her

fingertips. She moved restlessly, pain flickering across her face.

“It always amazes me to think how God made the garden and

then placed man in it,” she said, her words coming slowly, sluggishly. “Everything he made, from the bottom of the seas to the

heavens, was for us to enjoy. Like hyacinths and blooming

cherry trees and sunshine. Sweetness, hope, light.”

Hope, Sierra thought. Where was hope when her mother’s

cancer advanced like an avenging army, ravaging her body,

sapping her strength? Where was hope when death was imminent?

She readjusted the oxygen tube. “Is that better?” she said,

touching her mother’s face tenderly.

“It’s fine, honey.”

At night, when Sierra lay on the cot she’d set up near her

mother’s bed, she’d listen to her mother’s breathing. And count

seconds. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Her own heart would

stop after six and then beat faster at seven. Eight. Nine. Sometimes ten. And then her mother would take another precious

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breath, and Sierra would find herself relaxing for an instant before she started the count all over.

“Spring’s coming,” her mother said, gazing out the window.

“The garden’s always so beautiful.”

All Sierra could see were the weeds that had come up and the

suckers sprouting at the base of several unpruned rose bushes.

The fall leaves from the birch trees had never been raked and lay

like a heavy black blanket over the uncut lawn.

Over all the years the family had lived in this beautiful house,

it had been her mother who had kept up the flower gardens and

pruned the roses and trimmed the bushes and trees. It had been

her mother who had been the gardener to loosen the soil, mulch

in the compost, plant the seeds, and tend the young seedlings.

Her mother had been the one to lay out the design so that flowers

bloomed all throughout the year, filling the yard with a profusion

of brilliant color.

Sierra remembered the hours she had spent with her mother

outside in the sunshine, playing with her small tin bucket and little spade while her mom plucked weeds, thinned seedlings, and

snipped dying blooms. She could remember the day her mother

had planted the trumpet vine, gently tying green shoots to the

lattice. The vine now covered the back wall.

Without her mother, everything would go wild.

Clouds moved across the sun, casting shadows over the yard

below. “I hope it doesn’t rain again,” she said softly.

“It can’t be sunshine all the time, or flowers wouldn’t grow for

lack of rain.”

Even now, hurting, dying, her mother saw the brighter side of

things. Sierra’s eyes burned. Her throat ached with tears. She

put her hand against her chest, wishing she could lift the weight

of grief that grew heavier every day. She was choking on it. Suffocating. If it hurt this much seeing her mother slip hour by hour,

what would life be like when she was gone?

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Seeing her hand fumble weakly, Sierra took it. “What, Mom?

Are you uncomfortable? Can I get you something?”

“Sit down, honey,” she said.

Sierra did as she was asked and forced a smile as she enclosed

her mother’s hand in both of hers.

“I want you to do something for me,” her mother said softly.

“What, Mom? What can I do?”

“Let me go.”

Sierra’s throat closed up. She had to press her lips together so

she didn’t cry out. She used every bit of willpower she had and

still the hot tears bubbled into her eyes. “I love you,” she said

brokenly. Leaning down, she put her head against her mother’s

breast and wept.

Her mother stroked her hair once and then rested her hand

weakly on her head. “I love you, too. You’ve always been God’s

blessing to me.”

“I wish I could go back to when I was a child, sitting out on the

patio in the sunshine while you worked in the garden.”

Her hand trembled in weakness. “Each stage in our lives is

precious, Sierra. Even now. The door isn’t closing on me, honey.

It’s opening wider with each breath I take.”

“But you’re in so much pain.”

Her mother stroked her hair again and spoke gently. “Shhhh.

Don’t cry anymore. I want you to remember that God causes all

things to work together for good to those who love him, to those

who are called according to his purpose.”

Sierra had learned those words as a child when she was in

Sunday school. Her mother had helped her memorize them as

they worked in the garden. But the words held no meaning.

What good was there in suffering? She breathed in the scent of

her mother and was afraid. Wasn’t God supposed to heal those

who had faith? Her mother had faith. She’d never doubted. So

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where was God now? She wanted to cling to her and beg her to

fight harder, to hang on to life; but she knew she could not speak

those words aloud and add to her mother’s burden of pain. It was

selfish to even think of asking her to endure more.

Anguish filled her. What would she do without her mother?

Losing her father had been hard enough, but her mother had always been her counselor, her fountainhead. How many times

had she run to her mother for help? How many times had her

mother walked through troubles with her, gently guiding the

way, showing her the higher road?

Sierra listened to the beat of her mother’s heart. No one in the

world knew her as well or loved her as much as her mother did.

Not even Alex, her own husband, who should. Sierra’s lips

thinned. Especially not Alex, who hadn’t even bothered to call in

the past three days, the hardest of her life.

“Oh, Mom, I’ll miss you so much,” she murmured, wishing she

could lie down beside her and die with her. Life was too painful,

the future so bleak.

Her mother’s hand moved slowly against her hair. “God has a

plan for you, Sierra, a plan for your welfare and not for calamity,

a plan to give you a future and a hope.” Her voice was so weak,

so tired. “Do you remember those words?”

“Yes,” Sierra said obediently. Her mother had taught them

to her as well, and like the others, they’d made no sense to her

either. It had been her father and mother who took care of her.

Then it was Alex. God had never come into the equation.

“Hold to them, honey. When you turn, you’ll know I’m no farther away than your heart.”

Sierra thought her mother had fallen asleep. She could still

hear the slow, steady beat of her heart. She remained where she

was, her head resting on her mother’s breast, taking comfort in

the closeness, the warmth. Exhausted, she stretched out beside

her, arm around her, and slept.

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was grim and controlled. “Her hand’s cold.”

Sierra noticed other things. The fluid level in the catch bag

hadn’t changed in hours. Her mother’s skin color had changed.

She called the hospice, and a nurse was sent. Sierra recognized

her, but couldn’t remember her name. Her mother would have

remembered. Her mother always remembered everyone by

name. She remembered things about them, too, asking after family members and job situations. Little things. Personal things.

“It won’t be long,” the nurse said, and Sierra knew the woman

was saying her mother wouldn’t be waking up again. The nurse

adjusted the blankets and lightly stroked the hair back tenderly

from her mother’s temple. She straightened and looked at Sierra.

“Would you like me to stay with you?”

Sierra couldn’t make a sound. She shook her head. She just

kept watching her mother’s chest rise and fall slowly and

counted seconds. One. Two. Three.

“I’m going to call Melissa,” Mike said and left the room.

Soon after Melissa arrived, Luís and María Madrid came in.

Alex’s mother embraced Sierra and wept openly, while his father

stood with tearless, grave dignity at the foot of the hospital bed.

“When is Alex coming?” he asked.

“I don’t know that he is,” Sierra said dully, standing by the

window. “I haven’t talked to him in a while.” She listened to the

click of the oxygen machine and counted.

She didn’t want to think about Alex or anyone else just then.

She didn’t want to think about anything.

Seven. Eight.

Alex’s father left the bedroom.

Melissa came in a few minutes later and stood beside Sierra. She

didn’t say anything. She just took her hand and held it in silence.

Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

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Melissa let go of her hand and moved to the bedside. She

touched Marianna Clanton tenderly and checked her wrist pulse.

Leaning down, she kissed her forehead. “Good-bye, Mama.”

Straightening, she turned slowly to Sierra. “She’s with the

Lord,” she whispered, tears running down her cheeks.

Sierra stopped counting. Her heart felt like a cold stone inside

her chest. She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She just turned

and looked down into the moonlit garden and felt the stillness

closing in around her.

“She’s not suffering anymore, Sierra.”

Why did people always feel they had to say something? She

knew Melissa meant to comfort her, but no words could. She

heard another click as the oxygen machine was shut off.

Everything fell silent. Everything was still . . . so still she wondered if her own heart had stopped beating. She wished it would.

She couldn’t think. She felt numb, so numb, she wondered if

she was becoming exactly like the little statuette of the Virgin

Mary her mother-in-law had brought and set on the windowsill.

Bloodless. Hollow.

Mike came into the room again. He didn’t utter a word. At

least her brother understood. He just stood at the foot of the

hospital bed, looking down at their mother. She looked peaceful, her body completely relaxed. When he turned away, he

touched Sierra’s arm. It was the merest brush of his hand, but

enough to let her know she was there, alive.

Crossing the room, Mike sat down in the chair and leaned forward, hands loosely clasped between his knees. Was he praying?

His head was down. If he wept, he did so silently. And he didn’t

leave the room or her, not until the men from the mortuary arrived.

Sierra followed the men downstairs as they took her mother

away. She stood in the front doorway watching until the doors of

the hearse closed. She’d still be standing upstairs if Melissa hadn’t

made the call.

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without anyone knowing. No fuss. No bother. Everything like

clockwork. She would be cremated by tomorrow morning.

Nothing but ashes left.

Sierra closed the front door and leaned her forehead against

the cold wood. She was so tired, her mind whirring like an engine in neutral, going nowhere.

The telephone rang. She heard Luís answer. After the first

word, he spoke in hot, hushed Spanish. The words might as well

have been spoken in Greek for all the sense they made to her, but

she knew he was speaking to his son.

He came into the parlor where she was sitting. “It’s Alex,” he

said and held out the portable telephone. “He’s been trying to

reach you.”

A lie, kindly offered, but unconvincing.

She took the phone and held it to her ear.

“Sierra? I’m sorry about your mother.” He was silent, waiting.

She shut her eyes tightly. What did he want her to say? Did

he think one call and a little sympathy absolved him of days of

neglect? She’d needed him. “I tried to call you yesterday, but the

phone was busy.” She couldn’t speak, not with the weight of

grief bearing down on her. “Sierra?” One word and she’d shatter. Worse, she’d say things she’d regret.

“I’ll make reservations,” he said at last. There was no inflection

in his voice to give away his own feelings. “The children and I

will fly up to San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll rent a car. We should

be in Healdsburg by evening.” He sounded as though he was

making business arrangements. Silence again. It stretched. “Are

you all right?” His voice was almost gentle. It filled her with

infinite sadness and memories. “Sierra?”

Pressing the off button, she put the portable telephone down

on the side table.

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James works hard as Papa ever did.

He goes out at dawn and comes in for the midday meal. Then out again he goes until dusk. I am

left alone to care for Papa.

Papa has changed much in the four years

I have been gone. His hair has gone white and

he is so thin and weak he can not get out of

bed. I thought he was blind when first we

came, but when Joshua came to stand in the

doorway I knew he was not. His face got all red

and awful. He started shouting loud enough for

Aunt Martha to hear him all the way back in

Galena.

He said—Keep that devil child away from me

or I swear before God I will kill him.

Joshua ran out of the house. If I had not heard

him crying, I would never have found him inside

the hollow burned out tree. It was at the edge of

the fields Matthew burned.

When I came back to the house, James asked

why Papa would say such a terrible thing. I said

he is crazy.

I know what’s killing Papa. Hatred. It is eating

him alive.

Sometimes I wish Papa would die and there

would be an end to all his pain. And mine.

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himself. And nothing I do for him helps. It makes

things worse. He will not look at me or speak to

me. He would not even take food from my hand

until necessity and hunger made him. James does

not ask for explanations. He thinks Joshua is my

babee just like everyone else thinks it. I never told

him otherwise.

James moved Papa into the little bedroom off

the kitchen. We need the big bed for ourselves.

Papa did not say anything, but I saw tears in his

eyes.

I felt strange sleeping in the bed Papa shared

with Mama. James wanted to love me the first

night and I could not. All I did was cry. He said

he understood, but I do not think he did. He

thought I was tired and sad. What I feel is so

much worse than that.

Papa and Mama made Lucas and Matthew and

me in the bed James and I are sharing. Papa and

Sally Mae made Joshua. That was on my mind

too. I could see her sneaking in during the night

while Papa lay drunk and unawares. She was just

like Lots daughters. And look what come of that.

My only comfort is remembering that Ruth was

a Moabite.

I am all mixed up inside. Papa hurts me with

his silence and meanness. But I am angry, too.

And grieving. I wonder what Mama would think

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of all this. And me. I wonder where Matthew is

and what he is doing. I hope he is well and happy

wherever he is. But I doubt it. Matthew took

everything to heart.

Seems to me Papa is the one who should

answer for the pain he caused. Sally Mae did

not do what she did without him helping. Being

drunk is no excuse. I have not said so to Papa.

It would do no good and he is Determined

I done wrong by keeping Joshua alive. Papa

does not think he is to blame for anything. It

was all Sally Maes fault. And when she died, it

was all Joshuas fault. When I took him up, it is

all my fault.

So be it. I am stronger than Joshua and can

take the heat of silent hell Papa pours down on

me. Like God. I can feel it every time I walk

through his door. Hatred is a powerful thing.

Joshua will not even come into the kitchen

because he knows Papa is in that little back room.

I am glad of it. I think Papa would kill him if he

had the chance. And I do not intend to give him

one. But at night I lay wondering what will come

of all this.

When Joshua grows up he is going to want to

know who his father is. What do I tell him if he

asks?

I heard tell once that the sins of the father are

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