Not my fault. The death of someone who’d never existed but who served an important purpose in our lives nevertheless.
I drew in a deep breath that sounded a lot like a sigh and said, “After he died, his family moved away, and I never knew where they went. I wish I had something of his, perhaps a keepsake, for you. Maybe it would’ve made him seem more real.” I tried to slow my lying heart, which was now racing. “We were young, sweetie. We went further than we should have. We should’ve waited, and then you would’ve had a real family. Remember that when you think you’re in love. There’s an order to things that shouldn’t be ignored. If he hadn’t died, we would’ve fixed that, but we never had the chance. Even so, I have never regretted having you. Never. You have been my heart and my sanity through all the craziness life has thrown at me. I’ve never regretted you—and if you believe anything, you must believe that.”
She nodded. “I do believe it, and I believe his family knew how much you loved each other, and I remember that every time I think of them letting him be buried in the Cooper cemetery. They probably moved away because they couldn’t bear to stay. If they’d known about me being on the way . . . Maybe having a granddaughter would have helped them heal.”
I was stricken. This romanticized version I didn’t know she’d crafted—of a stricken family and her deceased father—was my fault. All my fault.
What you sow . . . I had sown these seeds. These lies. I’d kept them watered and fertilized and pruned because I wanted to avoid an ugly, distorted reaping.
At that very moment, a nearby bird burst into song, filling the air with its warbles. The clear, delicate, earnest notes seemed to erupt from a grove of hollies, and the music soared and brought an expression of wonder to both our faces. Ellen smiled and reached out for my hand. She wrapped her fingers around mine, and for a brief moment, I saw the child with the creek-water brown eyes again who needed me, then she tugged, this child who now looked like a young woman and who was as tall as I was, and she pulled me up the hill along with her.
“Watch your step, Mom.” She stopped. “Hold up. I’ve lost the path.”
“This way.” The brush had made a thicket here. “Are you sure you want to do this? You’re likely to get scratched.”
“Mom, please.”
“OK, OK.” I led her around the thicket, and we did pick up a few scratches, and then we climbed the remainder of the path now carpeted in fragrant pine needles. “These can be slick. Watch your footing.”
Suddenly, there we were—atop Elk Ridge. The geography hadn’t changed, as if the laws of time and nature had stayed their course, despite how greatly our lives had changed since I’d last taken this walk.
Ellen stood beside me, then abruptly moved on.
“Where are you going?”
She shrugged. “To follow the dirt road. I see an old house over there.”
Beyond the fields, and in the gaps between the trees on the far side, the roof and chimney could be seen.
“The Bridger house. Mr. Bridger died years ago. A relative moved in there soon after. I met her, but I don’t really know her. It’s not right to trespass.”
Ellen went a few steps farther, and then stopped. “I guess you’re right about trespassing and all that.” But then, despite her words, she resumed walking. “But we’re neighbors, aren’t we?”
The trees were thinner here, and the fields that used to grow hay were fallow, and thickets of sticker bushes and berries were overcoming them. There were other bushes, too. Planted bushes like abelias and butterfly bushes, and some I didn’t recognize. Gran had loved abelias, and these were in bloom, covered in little white flowers.
Ellen ran her hand over a branch of blooms. It stirred the bush, and a few yellow and orange butterflies took flight.
“Oh, look, Mom!”
She stared, as did I. “I remember seeing butterflies here before. A long time ago.”
“Ouch,” Ellen cried out. She yanked her hand back and stuck the finger in her mouth.
“There are blackberry bushes in there.”
She pulled the finger from her mouth and shook her hand. “It’s too early for berries. Too bad. I’d love a cobbler.”
I examined her finger. “A few seconds of pressure will make it stop bleeding.” In truth, there wasn’t much more than a pinprick of blood, but I knew how those thorns could sting.
She squeezed her finger.
“I used to pick berries when I was young,” I said. “We’d can them. Also, Gran would make blackberry cobbler, and I’d walk it up here to Mr. Bridger. He was alone. A widower. He loved Gran’s cobbler.”
“Who lives here now, I wonder? You said a relative moved in?”
“A cousin, I think.” I waved away a gnat. “It’s time we headed back.” I saw she was looking at her finger again. “We’ll get that washed and put a little ointment on it.”
Ellen tossed her hair again and smiled. “I’m not a baby, Mom. I can take care of it.”
“Sure you can. Because I taught you how.”
Before Ellen could answer, I heard my name called. I turned to see a plump woman walking briskly toward us and waving.
“Ms. Cooper? That you?”
The Bridger relative, Mamie Cheatham.
Just be polite, Hannah. Then you can leave. This is no different from meeting anyone else and being courteous. Take it one step at a time.
I waved at Ms. Cheatham and said to Ellen, “We’ll have to say hello.” We walked and met her midway.
The woman was wearing a straw hat over her gray hair that was pulled back into a ponytail. Her print dress, combined with sneakers, gave her the look of an eccentric.
I apologized. “I’m sorry we bothered you. It’s been a few years since we last met.”
“Certainly I remember you. It was at your grandmother’s funeral, right?”
I touched Ellen’s arm. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’d just come to live at George’s place. What a mess it was.” She put her hand to her face. “I shouldn’t say that about family. Shame on me. I’m sure he did his best. Not easy for a man managing alone, I’m sure.”
“Mom, does she mean Gran’s funeral?” Ellen’s face had lit up as if she’d made a connection, unexpected, but one that put her squarely into this conversation of memories. She’d been young, but not so young she didn’t remember the funeral. She asked Ms. Cheatham, “Did you know my father?”
The woman looked surprised. I certainly was. I put my arm around Ellen, shaken but laughing politely. “Of course not, honey. We lost him long before Ms. Cheatham arrived in town.”
Ellen blushed, embarrassed. “I thought because it was long ago . . .” Her voice trailed off. “My father died before I was born. He was hiking in Colorado.”
“Oh my. How sad for you, dear.”