“Maybe I should stay.” I know he’s just being neighborly.
“No, I’m fine. Really. I don’t need looking after, but thanks, thanks for everything.” I mean more than thanks for coming to the rescue. The baby kicks hard, and I step away.
A few minutes later, he starts up his Ford and pulls out of the drive.
Around me, quiet. No wind. No animals barking, just the soft snow.
Mrs. Potts is gone. Thomas Proudfoot is gone. Becky Myers is gone. William and Katherine MacIntosh are gone and now Bitsy, but I am still here and a new life is coming. The snow sizzles when the flakes hit the still flickering remains of the picket fence, and it smells like we’ve been having a campfire.
From the front porch, I watch as the vet’s taillights get smaller and smaller, then almost wink out. Then I watch as he stops at the intersection of Salt Lick and Wild Rose Road and turns the Model T around. He must have forgotten something. The Ford creeps reluctantly back up the mountain.
“I can’t leave,” Hester says, slamming the roadster’s door.
“Why? I told you I don’t need looking after.”
He lifts his eyes from the ground. “You don’t?” And gives me his half smile.
“Okay, maybe a little.” For me this is a big admission.
The snow falls harder, dampening the ring of fire. I take Daniel’s palm and lay it over my abdomen. There’s no need for words. He looks at me a long time, not surprised about the pregnancy. He’s an animal doctor . . .
Shelter
“Sasha! Emma!” We call the dogs in. They’ve had a great time chasing the departing cars, and they shake their wet smell over everything. Hester throws more logs on the fire and opens the damper. Then, without talking about it, we go up to bed and strip off our damp clothes . . . all of them, even our socks. We lift our cold feet and pull up Mrs. Kelly’s feather quilt. Unlike the last time we lay together, I am shy, unsure what will happen.
“Close your eyes, Patience,” Hester says. “I’ll be here in the morning.”
“My name is Lizbeth . . . and I need to tell you my story.”
He turns on his back with his hands under his head and says softly once more, “Close your eyes, Lizbeth. I’ll be here in the morning.” Then he takes a deep breath, and I can tell he’s asleep.
Most of my life I’ve felt I was dreaming. Now and then I wake up, sometimes for months, sometimes for minutes. Tonight I’m awake, and I lie thinking about the recent events and the people whose lives have crossed mine like veins in an old woman’s hands. Their faces float past . . . the twisted and the lame . . . the strong . . . the loving . . . for we are all twisted and lame, strong and loving.
There they go, moving down the Hope River. Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Potts, who never knew each other, holding hands, their wet gray hair plastered over their heads, then Bitsy, Mary, and Thomas Proudfoot, wading tall in the shallows, and William MacIntosh too, floating facedown.
Ruben and Lawrence are there, and they race each other as they dive into the water. Katherine sits on the green grassy bank, keeping her golden bob dry and playing with baby Willie. There are rocks in the river that are unavoidable. Some of us will be bruised; some will be torn. Some will be sucked under, but some will be freed.
I rest my cheek over Daniel’s heart and take shelter in the sound of its beating.