Every Day After (5 page)

Before long I was marching back to the pond with another fat cricket hanging from my hook. I tossed the line into the water and waited. And waited. And waited. I watched my hands bobbing up and down for good measure.

“How long did it take you before?” asked Ben as he tossed his freshly baited line into the water.

I glared at him. “Not this long, but then again, I didn’t have an all-fired pest sitting right next to me either.” I reeled in my line. “Ha!” I said, waving the empty hook in Ben’s face. “Those blasted bream don’t know how to leave your bait alone.”

Back out in the field, I pretended to be calm, but a small cloud of doubt had formed. It’s funny how you can be sure
of yourself one minute, then doubt yourself the next, but that is exactly what one little bream made me do.

Twice more I repeated the process. Bait, line, wait. And wait. And wait.

“I think you oughta check your line again,” said Ben after stringing up his third bream.

Again I reeled in my line. The cricket remained. I had to face facts: The cricket wasn’t missing. Daddy was.

The cloud that had been growing bigger by the minute burst into a furious storm inside my head. Ben tried to comfort me, but I couldn’t hear his words. I was straining to hear Daddy’s:
You’re a Hawkins, Lizzie Girl. A true one. You were put on this earth for a reason—to fight and to win. Don’t ever forget it. I know you won’t let me down
.

Born to succeed? Yes. But was I born to succeed without him? I wasn’t so sure.

 
Five
 

Heaven Is at the Feet of Mothers

Please, Lord, not again!

Sleep laughed at me, poked at me, refused to come. And when I thought I’d beaten it, it brought nightmares—nightmares about failure, and loss, and loneliness.

Since Daddy had gone, night after night had ended with me wide-eyed and balled up like a baby beneath a rumpled pile of scratchy sheets. Though I couldn’t force sleep to come, I had to try. I couldn’t help myself.

Mama said I’d been stubborn like that even before I was born. The doctors had told her many times she’d never have a baby; just the way God made her. Daddy said I proved ’em wrong. I fought my way into existence, and on a mild night in May of 1920, I fought my way into this world. I hadn’t stopped fighting since.

I rolled over and squinted at my clock, trying to make out the time. Ten till five.
Ugh!
It’d be another whole hour before I needed to wake Mama.

I’d been fighting all night. There wasn’t any sense in
whipping a dead horse. I threw back my covers, shuffled over to my dresser, and rummaged past the clutter in the bottom drawer: photos of me with Ben last Easter, wads of single socks, and two crumpled brown paper bags that still held the scent of long-ago-eaten Goo Goo Clusters. Beneath the jumble lay the leather-bound journal Mama had given me for my last birthday.

“You’ll know when it’s time to write,” she’d said.

She was right. I did know. I knew the morning Daddy disappeared. It was the only thing I’d written so far—an entry dated March 30, 1932. After I wrote about Daddy leaving, I couldn’t stand to look at the journal anymore. I’d stuffed it into the bottom dresser drawer and hadn’t touched it since. The feelings I felt on that morning were trapped inside the journal, and I wanted to push them away. If I cracked open the journal’s cover, all that hurt and pain might come rushing back inside me. But the fear of failure had built up too high. I couldn’t help it. I had to let it spill out.

I held the journal in my hands, feeling the smooth leather cover and the weight of the words under it. I closed my eyes and promised myself I wouldn’t peek at that first entry. Then all that pain would stay where it belonged—on the page.

Eyes still closed, I opened the cover and counted three pages in, just to be safe. I opened my eyes and looked at the clean white page before me. My pencil drifted onto the sheet and I let the words flow.

April 29, 1932

I went fishing with Ben today. He told me to catch One-Eye again. He said it’d prove I could do anything I set my mind to, like taking care of Mama and keeping everything in order. I failed. I know Daddy would be disappointed in me, not just about One-Eye, but about my grades too. They’re not bad, but they’re dropping. I just don’t have enough time to study anymore. It’ll be a miracle if I can hold on to my top spot in class. If I don’t, it’ll kill Daddy
.

I can’t let him down. Anytime I do, I feel just as bad as I did the first time I disappointed him. Even though I was only seven, I remember it plain as day
.

Thunder boomed and lightning flashed outside, but I wasn’t scared. I was brave, staying in my room to play with the Humpty Dumpty Circus I’d gotten the Christmas before
.

A heavy clap of thunder rattled the windows. Mama called to me from the parlor, “Lizzie, you want to come sit with me?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not scared.”

“That’s my girl,” Daddy called back. “You see,” he said to Mama, “what a brave girl we have. You tell me of any other little girl—or boy, for that matter—who’d sit alone through a storm like this.”

I puffed up like a toad at hearing that. I
was
brave. But I’d gotten too puffed up too soon. A few seconds later, a blinding flash of lightning cut through the darkness outside, followed by a boom loud enough to wake the dead. The lights in the house flickered and my room went dark. Pitch dark. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. My skin turned to gooseflesh and the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. I imagined bony ghost fingers reaching out through the blackness and grabbing me
.

“Maaaammmaaaa!” I screamed. Until then, I didn’t know I could squeal that loud
.

“I’m coming, baby,” Mama answered. “I’m coming.”

Light flooded into the room as Mama entered with her kerosene lantern. She reached down, took my hand, and led me into the parlor. The second Daddy saw me, he started shaking his head. “Uh-uh-uh” was all he said, but I got the meaning full on
.

“Here, honey, sit with me on the sofa,” Mama said as she squeezed me to her. “Look at you. You’re whiter than a ghost.”

I didn’t tell Mama, but I wished she wouldn’t say the word “ghost” ever again
.

“Well, don’t go babying her, Rose,” said Daddy. “She’s plenty old enough to know the dark can’t hurt her. Plenty old enough.”

Mama patted my arm and gave Daddy a harsh look. “Just so you know, Will, I don’t care for the dark either.”

Daddy just shook his head. “Uh-uh-uh.”

I laid my head in Mama’s lap. Before I closed my eyes, I spotted Daddy eyeing me. He was still shaking his head
.

Well, truth be told, I’m afraid again. I’m afraid my whole life is about to go dark. I’m afraid of losing Mama, afraid of Erin’s plan for revenge, and afraid if I back down to Erin, I’ll only disappoint Daddy yet again. Yep, I’m scared. Only this time, I will not let it show
.

I put the journal back into my drawer, on top this time, took a deep breath, and began to dress for school. Once I was ready, and had fully forced my fear deep down inside me, I went into Mama’s room to wake her.

I stood there watching her sleep, pretending she was her old self again—loving and happy, with a twinkle in her eyes. Each morning when I went to wake her, I said a little prayer that when she opened her eyes, the twinkle would be there once again, replacing the blank stare that had slowly grown worse over the past weeks.

I shook her gently. “Good morning, Mama. Time to get up.”

She rolled over to look at me. No twinkle.

I pulled back the covers and helped her to her feet.
She sat slumped over on the edge of the bed while I took out her clothes for the day—her pink floral dress with the lace collar and white buttons. It was a little too fancy for wearing around the house, but Mama wouldn’t protest, and I liked the way the pink brightened her face.

Mama slowly put the dress on and I helped her with the buttons. She should’ve worn silk stockings, but I never made her. I thought they’d feel itchy and uncomfortable, and she wasn’t going out anyway.

I gently wiped her face with a damp washcloth and sat her down in front of her dresser. Her hair fell loose and wavy down her back. I took her brush and smoothed it. It was soft and thick and dark as molasses. Silvery hairs were beginning to appear in front. I brushed it back and braided it neatly. Mama would’ve preferred a bun, but I liked the braid. It made her look younger. A bun was the expected way for Mama to wear her hair, and most days, I did as I should. But about once a week, I did it my way—braid.

Standing back, I admired my handiwork. She looked beautiful in her pink dress with her braided hair.

I reached for her arm. “Outside today, Mama?”

She nodded ever so slightly. I took her book from the bedside table and walked her to the back porch. On rainy or stormy days, I had her sit in the parlor, but on nice days, I let her sit on the back porch.

Mama once told me that our house had no back porch when she and Daddy first moved in, not long before I was born. Daddy added it so Mama could sit outside in
the fresh air with her knitting or sewing while he fished down at the pond or worked out in the field. He even made it covered so she wouldn’t get burned in the sun or wet in the rain. Once I was old enough to fish with Daddy, Mama would sit in her rocker and watch us any time she wasn’t too busy fixing supper or straightening the house or scrubbing the laundry. We’d wave and she’d wave back. Sometimes I’d hold up a big fish for her to see. She’d clap and call out, “That’s a fine one, honey. Real fine.”

On the day Daddy left, it was like an invisible rope got tied around Mama and pulled her out to the porch. It kept on pulling her out there every day after. I figured it made her feel closer to Daddy.

Once she was comfortable in her rocker and clutching her book, I went into the kitchen to make her some coffee. I’d left a few biscuits in the cookstove warmer the night before, so I didn’t bother making anything else. Wasn’t much else anyhow. Gone were the days when Mama made hot biscuits smothered in sausage gravy, or crisp bacon or smoked ham to go with our eggs. Not that we needed it. It didn’t take much to fill me, and Mama had started eating like a sick bird.

I took her skimpy breakfast onto the porch and sat it on the wooden table beside her. Kneeling in front of her, I gently eased the book from her hands. “Here. I’ll read to you while you eat.”

This was our morning routine. I read to her. She ate. I hoped the proverbs comforted her in some way. Back
when Mama had packed my lunch, she’d put in a note with a proverb on it. It was like getting a little present every day. Sometimes I understood them, most times I didn’t, but I missed seeing them now. I flipped through the dog-eared pages of her book to the place I’d left off—page 154.

“ ‘Graceful Proverbs.’ ” I looked up at Mama to see if she was listening. She was taking tiny sips of her coffee and seemed to be concentrating. I prayed it was on me. “ ‘A closed fist is the lock of heaven and the open hand is the key of mercy. A gem is not polished without rubbing, nor a man perfected without trials.’ ” I paused at that. I hoped God was perfecting us good if that one was true, ’cause trials were exactly what we were going through.

I read on for a little while, long enough for Mama to finish her coffee and eat half her biscuit. Once it sat on the plate for longer than a couple minutes, I knew she was done with it. I ended my reading with: “ ‘A widow is a rudderless boat.’ ” Now, I know Mama likes her proverbs, but that one sounded downright rude to me.

I returned Mama’s book to her and we sat there for a while in silence, watching the pond ripple in the breeze and listening to the finches and sparrows chattering in the trees. The crisp morning air cooled my skin, and I breathed in the scents it carried—the sweetness of Mama’s roses, the warm grassiness of the field, and the soapy smell of Mama herself. The familiar scents and Mama’s touch soothed me, and for a moment all the uncertainties of my new life—life without Daddy—faded.