“But not my mother’s hands.”
She shook her head. The good nature spilled right off her face into sadness.
“Sorry, Gran.”
“No harm. Just what it is. But she never had a feel for it. Your mama was never one to sit still.”
It was rare that Gran volunteered any reminiscence about my mother. I looked up, hopeful, thinking she might say more, but she didn’t. The subject veered away from dangerous emotional areas. Perhaps if I’d felt the lack of parents more keenly I would’ve pushed harder, but whatever caused hurt to my Gran hurt me nearly as much, and so, as always, I let it go.
“Hannah, honey. Are you running out of shelf space in the shed? Do you have what you need out there? Heaven knows I haven’t been out there in years. The days do slip away.”
Seeing an imperfect spot, I pushed another tiny wedge of clay into place on the back. Then I looked up and smiled at her. “The shelves are getting pretty full, but there’s space left.”
“One of these days I’m going to walk out there and see what you’ve made. You are wonderfully gifted, Hannah. What are you going to do with it all?”
I shrugged. “Give it away, I guess. Maybe try selling some of it.”
Gran leaned forward, reaching for her cane. “That won’t work hiding away out here in Cooper’s Hollow.”
“Then it’s not time yet. That’s all I know.”
“Get a shop in town. You’d be good at that, Hannah.”
“Gran, please.”
“Or how about a roadside stand? Right out by the state road? Instead of tomatoes, sell your clay pots.”
I looked up. She was grinning. I smiled back and said, “We’ll set you up there with your rocker and your cane, shall we? You can be the one to talk to all those strangers.”
That quieted her. After a while she spoke again.
“What about college?”
I focused on the clay and didn’t respond. She didn’t press me but got to her feet and, between touching the wall for stability and using the cane for support, she made her way back to the bathroom.
Gran was feeling better than she had in a while. I ordered turkey dinners to be delivered. Eva’s son did the delivery, and I met him at the porch. Come Christmas, I thawed out a venison roast an old friend of Grand’s had brought us. We celebrated in our quiet way. I’d never gone back to cleaning houses, nor did I try to find another job. I’d lost the desire to go to college or even to leave. Gran and I did very well on our own. Happy didn’t really figure into it. We settled for contentment, and we were careful not to upset the emotional balance we’d worked hard to achieve.
February was difficult, and as if by prior discussion, Gran left me alone on what would’ve been my daughter’s second birthday. I cooked for Gran, but otherwise we spent the day apart.
Spring arrived prematurely in early March. My thoughts turned to my garden. I felt like making plans for planting. I made a shopping list and tried to estimate how much it would cost. Gran called the man in town while I was out in the cabin. When I came back inside, she asked me to go to the bank in Mineral where money was waiting for us. From there I could go on into Louisa, a little farther than Mineral but larger, as it was the main town in Louisa County, and make my purchases. I did. It felt odd walking into the bank and speaking to the branch manager, but he checked my driver’s license and handed me cash with a smile.
In April, I prepared the bed, but Gran allowed no outside planting before May because one hard frost would end the new growth before it had hardly began.
On a sunshiny morning in early May, the air changed. It felt genuine. Life was stirring. I felt it in myself, too, and after I’d cleared away the breakfast dishes, I made a batch of cookies. While I was baking, I heard a noise, like a brisk knock on the front door. I listened, but it didn’t repeat, so I pulled out the last sheet of cookies to cool. Gran ate a couple while they were hot, and I didn’t fuss at her. Instead, I kissed her on the forehead and left her to it. It was shortly before noon when I stepped out onto the porch expecting to see a broken branch laying on the porch planks, or perhaps an injured bird that had flown into the door.
There was no branch. No bird. Only a little girl, a toddler between two or three years old, sitting in my rocking chair. Her feet didn’t reach the floor but hung there clad in some sort of plastic slip-on shoes, and they dangled above the wooden planks. Her dark-brown hair brushed her shoulders. A blue barrette held her bangs back. The barrette had slid halfway down, and her hair didn’t look clean. She was wearing a blue quilted jacket, stained, and long pants, and a skirt, to boot. She looked bulky, so she was likely wearing extra shirts, too. She was silent and didn’t move.
This child, this vision, stilled my heart. For a long minute, I held my breath. I thought I’d finally gone all the way over.
Is this how crazy happens? One moment you were good, or thought you were, and the next, you were living in a land to which no one else had general admittance. You lived each day thinking you were managing, handling your life, and then one bright morning, when you least expected it, a hallucination laid you out flat.
At first, I didn’t breathe. I wondered what would happen to my poor grandmother now that I no longer had the mental or emotional wherewithal to care for her. Then the child moved. Her shoulders jerked, her feet crossed, and one hand, a small fist, moved up to rub her eye.
In a heartbeat, I crossed the few feet between us. I fell to my knees. Her eyes were brown liquid with amber flecks, and her rosy, chapped lips were pressed together tightly, quivering, as she struggled not to cry.
She must have a person, a parent, someone, nearby. Maybe up at the main road? Had there been an accident and she’d wandered down?
I gave her a closer look. Her face was dirty around the edges as if someone had taken a wet rag and given it a lick and a promise but no real washing. Her nostrils were a little crusty, but noses could run when it was cold. Black dirt lines were ingrained beneath her fingernails. The flesh of her fingers was cracked, almost like mine had been when I’d worked in the wet clay in winter. I thought this might be what was called chilblain in a Dickens book I’d read for school.
“It’s OK, sweetie. Where’s your mommy or daddy?” I reached toward her, and she drew back.
Her shoulders hunched, and she seemed to draw inward.
I wanted to run up to the road and see for myself, but I couldn’t leave her here alone. She might wander off into the woods, and I’d never know what happened to her. I looked at the door. Should I take her inside? What about Gran?
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
She pursed her lips, squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head.