Not a Sparrow Falls (23 page)

She was beginning to feel uneasy about going through these things, but she kept on, not sure if curiosity or something else was driving her. Things got even stranger the closer she came to the bottom of the box. These last items were still gift wrapped, unopened. One package was decorated with sleeping babies. The bow was squashed flat, but the card was attached.
Congratulations, Alasdair, Anna, and Samantha. Hope your blessings arrive safely and on time! Best wishes, Bill and Sarah Andrews.
She put the card back and gazed hard at the flattened stack of boxes, trying to understand what she was seeing.

If the baby things had gotten packed away in the days after Anna’s accident, she could certainly understand that. But these gifts seemed to have been given before that. Why hadn’t Anna opened them? Why hadn’t she unfolded the tiny garments, washed them fragrant and soft, ready to meet tender skin? Could this be the same woman who had so painstakingly preserved every remnant of Samantha’s childhood?

She picked her way toward the remaining boxes. At least half of her was yapping that she should stop. That she was nosing around in what was none of her business. She flipped open the lid of the closest one. It held an assortment of leather-bound scrapbooks. Bridie took out one of the
books and opened it. The handwriting was neat and small. The entry was dated fifteen years before.

Alasdair says I should keep a record of our life together so not one moment will be lost. I think he’s right, for once a moment is lived, it is gone, and our time together is too precious to meet that fate. I will write it all down, and when I am old and gray and my children are grown, I will read it back to them so they can know us as we are today.

We found our apartment. Alasdair felt badly that it was small and dark. I say it is a beautiful place. I shall make it our home. I’ll set a beautiful table tonight to celebrate and have supper ready when he returns from the library.

Bridie stopped reading, forcing her eyes away from the page. She replaced the book. Her hand hesitated before selecting the last one. She flipped open toward the back, to an entry dated two years prior.

Sometimes I feel as though the empty pages of this book are my only friends. As if some evil power has cut me off from every other human soul. Alasdair says I should counteract these thoughts with Scripture, and I know he is right. But when they come upon me, I can’t seem to muster the strength to resist them.

Last week when I was feeling well, I took Samantha shopping and out to lunch. We picked out new dresses. Seeing her little face light with joy, I felt almost overwhelmed with sadness and regret for all the lost time. When we came home, I took out my Bible and wrote down some verses. I’ll try to remember to read them when the darkness comes back.

Bridie turned her eyes away from the diary. This was private. This was none of her business. She closed the book, then sat silently, wondering what had happened to change Anna from the hopeful young girl to the woman who talked of darkness as if it were a person, evil and familiar.

“What are you doing?”

Bridie startled and turned toward the voice. Samantha’s head bobbed up from the stairwell.

“Those are my mother’s, aren’t they?” She thumped up the stairs, crossed the attic, and took the journal from Bridie’s hand. She looked inside, long enough to read a few lines, then turned pale. “These are none of your business,” she said.

“I know it.”

“Give them here.”

Bridie rocked back on her heels and didn’t try to prevent Samantha from taking the box. Samantha gave her another malevolent look and clutched the box against her chest as she disappeared back down the stairs. Bridie shook her head and massaged her temples. Just what she needed. Another situation. She got up, turned out the light, and firmly closed the attic door behind her. She would buy whatever Christmas decorations she needed at Wal-Mart. She wasn’t looking in any more boxes.

****

Lorna felt a warm satisfaction. The last dish was dried and put away, the last baby changed and bedded. Alasdair had finished his first full day of pastoral duties in two weeks and retired gratefully to bed. Samantha’s future was decided, at least for the present. Alasdair had agreed that she would remain at home through the New Year, which bought at least a temporary reprieve. She seemed greatly relieved, the proof being that she was in her room reading instead of sulking at one of her disaffected friends’ homes.

“Tea?” she offered Bridie.

Bridie nodded gratefully as she flipped on the dishwasher. She looked tired, Lorna realized. And no wonder. For the last two weeks she’d been tending to Alasdair all night and the children all day. Lorna breathed another prayer of gratitude that Bridie’s path had crossed theirs. She longed to be able to care for the children herself, but the important thing was
that their needs were being met. She was thankful. “You sit,” she encouraged. “Let me serve you.”

For once Bridie didn’t argue, just flopped into the chair.

“The house looks wonderful,” Lorna said. “I can’t tell you how I appreciate what you’ve done.” She put the thought of Winifred, almost recovered from her bunion surgery, out of mind. She took out the tea, then sat down to wait for the kettle to sing. “And I’m so grateful you can stay with the children while Alasdair attends his conference.”

“No problem,” Bridie said. “I’m going to potty train the babies while he’s gone and get them to sleep through the night,” she vowed. “It’s time.”

Lorna smiled.

“I found some things in the attic today,” Bridie said after a moment. Lorna looked up quickly. Bridie’s eyes were troubled. “They looked like diaries, scrapbooks.”

Lorna nodded and felt a cold chill stir her insides. So that’s where they had gone to. “Anna’s journals,” she supplied.

Bridie nodded.

Lorna got up and began fiddling with the dishrag, wiped the already clean counter, then rinsed and refolded the rag, hanging it up where it had been moments before. “Anna was a great record keeper,” she said. “Journals, photo albums, every piece of paper generated by this family. I didn’t know what happened to them. Alasdair must have put them up there.” She thought of her brother’s icy competence in the weeks following Anna’s death, and somehow it didn’t surprise her at all that he’d boxed up her sister-in-law and locked her in the attic.

“Samantha came up and saw me looking at one. She took them,” Bridie blurted out, her expression a cross between guilt and defensiveness. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t feel it was my place to tell her she couldn’t have them.”

Lorna took in a deep updraft of air.

“I didn’t know who to tell, so I’m telling you.”

“I see.” The kettle whistled and Lorna turned, grateful
to have a task. She put the tea in the pot, then poured in the boiling water, and had time to think while she gathered the cups and took the carton of milk from the refrigerator. By the time the tea had steeped and she’d poured them each a cup, she’d reached a decision.

“That’s all right,” she said, stirring in a teaspoon of sugar and watching the tiny shreds of tea swirl into a miniature maelstrom. “Let her keep them.”

The silence was thick for a moment. “Aren’t you afraid she’ll find out more than she needs to know?” Bridie finally asked.

Lorna had considered this, of course, but a conviction was taking hold with the stubbornness of a barnacle. “I’m beginning to think part of the problem with this household is that no one talks about anything. There are too many secrets. Let her keep them,” she repeated, even more firmly. “You know what the Bible says about knowing the truth. . . .”

Bridie’s eyes still pointed toward her, but they had glazed over at the word “secrets.” She was probably wondering what they might be. Lorna kept silent, and after a moment Bridie shifted back her gaze.

“It’s supposed to set you free,” Lorna finished her sentence.

Bridie looked confused.

“The truth,” Lorna clarified. “ ‘You will know the truth and the truth will set you free.’ ”

“Oh,” Bridie said, her head nodding but her face saying something else. “Right. That’s what they say.”

****

Samantha made sure her door was shut. Just for safety’s sake she shoved her chair up against it and piled a few books onto the seat for added weight. She took the box and set it in the middle of the bed, then sat herself down. Her feet were cold, but she didn’t want to take the time to find a pair of socks. She crossed her legs and looked at the cardboard
square before her. Her mom was in there. All that was left of her. Finally she leaned forward and flipped open the lid.

She heard someone coming. She stashed the box on the far side of her bed. It was Dad. She could tell by the footsteps. They stopped outside her door. He knocked.

“What!”

“May I come in? I’m leaving early in the morning, and I’d like to say good-bye.”

The chair was in the way, and if she moved it, he’d go ballistic and want to know why she’d had it there, and if he found out about the diaries, she would totally be in trouble.

“I’m busy.”

She waited.

“Good night, then. And good-bye. I’ll see you in a week.”

Samantha felt bad. He sounded so sad. “Hang
on,
” she said, but he must not have heard because his bedroom door opened and closed. She blew out a mouthful of air and just sat there for a minute. She could go to him. And do what? Ask him to give her a hug bye-bye? That would be, like, totally lame. She sat thinking for a few minutes.

She got out of bed and went into the hall. The light was already out in his room. Great. If she knocked now, it would be like a huge big deal. He’d have to get all dressed again, and it would look like she was this totally desperate little kid. And he might decide they needed to have one of their
talks.
Translation—he would totally yell at her for all the ways she was messing up. She shook her head, went back into her room, and replaced the chair.

After a while she got the box from beside the bed and opened it up again. She stared at the books, like, forever. Finally she picked one from the middle of the stack and opened it up.

Samantha spoke today. She said cupcake. That is Alasdair’s name for her and it’s fitting. She is sweet and tiny and delicious.

Samantha closed the book. Her hands were shaking as she
set it back in the box, replaced the lid, and shoved it in the closet. She turned out the lights and burrowed down under her covers. She put on her headphones and turned up the music as loud as she could stand it. She cried for a while, smashing her face down into the pillow so no one would hear. She wondered if someone would come. Aunt Lorna or maybe Bridie. They were both totally pains in the butt. She waited and finally she started getting sleepy.

She remembered the chair. She got up and put it back where it belonged, then opened her door and looked out into the hall. She could hear voices downstairs. She left the door open, then went back and got into bed and put her headphones on again. No one came. That was fine, she told herself, wiping her eyes on the sheet. She didn’t want to talk to anybody anyway.

Nineteen

Samantha rolled over and opened her eyes. She looked at her clock, and then she remembered, and it was like something hard hit her. Dad was gone, and for just a minute she felt really sad, like she used to feel when she was a little girl and didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to him before he left for work. She had that same feeling now. Sort of empty and wishing she’d gotten to say stuff, and sort of scared that she might never get a chance to say it again. She blinked for a minute, then got a grip. You’re being totally lame, she told herself. She wasn’t five, she was thirteen, and Dad would be back in a week. Besides, he was totally a pain, and there wasn’t anything she wanted to say to him at all.

She rolled over and her eyes landed on the poster of
The Misfits
she’d bought at the record store. She should dye her hair black. Maybe she would. With Dad gone there’d be nobody to yell at her, at least not right away. She sat up and frowned. Somebody was singing. She could hear the voice, all chirpylike, coming up the heat vent from the kitchen. She clicked her tongue in irritation. Why couldn’t she live in a normal house instead of one where you could hear every single thing a person said?

She got up and went downstairs, purposely dragging her feet, liking the sound of her slippers flopping behind her. It drove Aunt Winifred nuts when she dragged her feet. Or slumped her shoulders. Or let her hair hang down into her eyes. But Aunt Winifred wasn’t here. Just Bridie, the hillbilly from Hooterville, and it was
her
singing, of course, some lame Christmas carol nobody’d ever heard of.

Samantha leaned against the kitchen doorway and listened to the words. They were totally moronic. Something about birds singing and the house full of friends and family and
logs popping in the fireplace and carols sung off key. Well, that part was right at least.

Bridie looked up and stopped her singing. Cam and Bonnie were clueless as usual, playing with some toy over in the corner.

“What’s the matter?” Bridie smiled at her, which was even more irritating. “Don’t you like Christmas?”

“Sure,” Samantha said. “I like Christmas. I just don’t like Christmas on Walton’s Mountain.”

Bridie didn’t answer, just started humming and went back to whatever she was doing at the sink, which really annoyed Samantha for some reason. She narrowed her eyes.

“Do you see many friends and family gathered around the old Christmas tree?” she bit out. “Is there a birdie outside the window pecking out a happy song? Let’s just look and see if there’s a snowman in the yard.”

She went to the back door and peered out the window. It
had
snowed last night. Big deal, she told herself. She wasn’t some little kid who would go crazy making snow angels. “Nope,” she said. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed, and glared. It was so irritating how Bridie smiled all the time. Suddenly she had the urge to make Bridie as unhappy as she felt herself this minute. “I don’t need any phony Christmas cheer from somebody who’s totally clueless about the way things really are. If you’re looking for happy stories, you should just go home to Mayberry. If you had a clue, you’d know that real life isn’t like that, at least not around here.”