Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Episode 11 (11 page)

“With reason—”

“Y
eah
, but Willow…”

“Yes?”
She barely choked out the word.

“You aren’t her.
You haven’t had the same experience.
I am not Steve.
”

Groundhog Day arrived overcast and occasionally drizzly.
Chad worked from six until two and then again at six again.
She had tried to sound sympath
etic to the long hours he had to work, but all she could
think of was a full Groundhog D
ay—alone.
She could do all the fun things she and Mother used to do and without him hovering.

Oatmeal—and canned cherries.
A smile grew as she threw back the covers; the stove was warm.
He’d stopped by to fill the wood box—probably what woke her up. Jeans, thermals, flannel shirt, wool socks, and a sweater—the perfect outfit for a cold day.

She hurried downstairs, braiding her hair as she went to check the stoves.
The clock said six o’clock sharp.
He couldn’t have been gone for longer than ten minutes.
A quick jog
to the summer kitchen and she had her phone.
“Chad?”

“Mornin’.”

“You busy?”

“Nope.
Just trying for frostbite along the beat.”

Despite his words, she heard a difference in his tone.
He didn’t have the same disdain for the dreaded “beat.”
“I just wanted to say thanks.”

“I didn’t have time for Ditto.
Sorry.”

“No worries.
I’ll get her and the others.”

She heard him wave at someone, calling good morning, before he said, “I got all but Ditto and the chickens.
On a morning like this, you could use a horse.”

“Not hardly.
I like walking.”

“Miss you.”

“Do you?
You were just here.” She couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice.

“Hey, I like being around you.
Sue me.”

“P
retty soon it’d be no different
than suing me, so I’ll pass.”

“I like the way that sounds.”

Ditto bleated
, causing her to cut the call short.
“You’re working and Ditto demands I get to work too.”

“Well, have fun.
Wish I could go woodchucking with you.”

“See you for dinner?”

Even over the phone, she could feel that she’d said the right thing.
“Be there around four.
Have some errands and have to do a load of laundry, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“If you don’t find me, just call.
I’ll come right back.”

The rhythmic motion of milking set the tone for her morning.
The norm, famili
arity, it all f
looded her heart.
A twinge of guilt twisted in her heart, but she fought back.
She stopped by the cat’s pans and poured a little milk into them, before moving through her routine.

Back in the house, the morning work passed and in no time, she banked the fires and pulled on her coat.
Time for the walk. Three steps outside the door, the rain drizzled again.
She dashed back inside for their oversized umbrella.

As she grabbed it, the chokehold of grief strangled her.
Mother would never stroll beneath it again as they walked through the trees, along the creek, or out to scatter feed to the chickens on a cold, spring morning.
Her eyes slid toward the barn.

She sloshed through the mud once more and jerked open the barn door.
Instead of closing it, she tossed the umbrella aside and snapped on the light.
The barrel beckoned her, drawing her in almost magnetically.
She grabbed a plate from the box
with both hands and raised it over her head.
With all the force she could muster, she slammed it into the bottom of the barrel.
With eyes closed, she let the sound of breaking glass against metal echo through the barn until all was silent again.
Ditto bleated in protest. Then, as if she hadn’t paused at all, she grabbed the umbrella and stepped back out into the rain, dragging the door closed behind her.

As expected, the rain stopped before she reached the creek.
With her umbrella closed, she strolled along the banks of the creek, waiting for that beautiful feeling of familiarity.
It didn’t come.
A sense of betrayal slowly filled her heart.
Where was the magical feeling that came with raindrops falling from pine needles onto the pond?
Why hadn’t she seen the birds following, waiting for seeds and breadcrumbs?

Her first instinct of prayer lodged itself in her heart and refused to budge. Every attempt failed, leaving her more discouraged than ever. At last a single thought formed into a full-fledged, if un
usual, prayer.
It’s not the same without him anymore.
“It’s just not the same, Lord,” she whispered.

Mud splashed over the sides of his truck as he drove up the drive.
Where was the snow?
It was too early for rain and mud.
Chad couldn’t r
emember a February free of snow, yet here it was, rain drenched and windswept, only occasional patches of snow remained across the bleak landscape.
He’d never realized what a difference the layer of white made as it covered the fields and tree branches.

The blue glow of the radio clock told him it was three-thirty.
She couldn’t be back so soon.
As he pulled up to the house, Chad started to call but decided to check the fires first.
There was no reason not to have a warm house when they returned.

He burst through the back door, an armload of damp wood in his
arms
.
He dropped them beside the stove in the living room and turned to go upstairs for dry wood when he saw Willow lying on the couch.
A braid lay over one cheek, and her hands were tucked beneath the other.
Closer inspection
showed what seemed to be evidence of tears.

Stoves forgotten, he lowered himself to the floor beside her and moved the braid from her face.
Willow stirred.
“Wha—”

“You ok?
I thought you were off on a romp through the woods.”

“I went.”

“Too wet for you?”

She struggled to sit up, rubbing her eyes with her fists.
“No… it just wasn’t the same.”

It never ceased to cut him when he had to watch as she struggled through yet another change—another part of her life ripped from her.
“If I could give you just one more day with her, I’d do anything—”

“It wasn’t that.
A plate took care of that.”

“Then…”
He almost hated to ask.
Hope welled in his heart as she finally met his gaze.

“I thought I wanted this day to myself.
I was so glad when you had to work so I could have the familiar
again.” Her mouth twisted as she forced her eyes to meet his.
“It wasn’t the same. It seemed weird without you.”

Spiral rollers created a Medusa-like effect to her hair, while a peel-off mask coated her face.
As she waited for permission to strip the green glop from her face, she slathered her body in the cream that Cheri insisted she needed.
She stood, in just her undergarments, waiting for every ounce of the lotion to absorb without any hint of residue while Cheri and Marianne pressed and steamed her dress downstairs.
Her fingernails held their first, and if she had any say in it, last coat of pale pink polish
,
and she held them awkwardly away from her,
certain that
they
’
d end up scratched or dented if she moved them.

The clock chimed five o
’
clock.
Willow heard threats of imminent demise if Chad dared to peek in Cheri
’
s bedroom.
She no longer cared if the lotion fully absorbed; Willow just wanted to be sure he didn
’
t open that door and find her wearing nothing
—
or close enough to it!
Cheri and Marianne arrived minutes later and
the
work on Willow
’
s face began.

She tried to watch as Cheri worked moisturizer, mineral foundation, blush, eye shadows, powder, and then finally lip color that promised to stay fast until the next morning
,
but when mascara joined the party, Willow gave.
It was impossible without feeling like a caterpillar danced in front of her eyes.

Once complete, she stared in the mirror, transfixed.
“
That doesn
’
t look like me!
”