Fate versus destiny. I wasn’t a philosopher and hadn’t studied those things. What I knew or felt was a sum of what I’d lived and learned and what Grand and Gran had taught me.
We reaped our fate by what we sowed. I had an idea that fate was predestined but that a thin line divided fate and destiny. Destiny was the result—hopefully the gift, sometimes the curse—that we might yet reap due to actions, or the lack thereof, that altered fate.
I understood now why I was anxious about Roger’s people going out and hauling away the literal ashes of our history. The past was being erased, along with my ability to correct my lies and omissions—an opportunity I’d never considered an option.
I didn’t think differently now. Was it my conscience that had hoped for a course correction? A restoration of truth?
That proved for a fact that a person’s conscience didn’t reside in his or her heart. I had lost the ability, the free will, to tell anyone the truth of the day that child had looked at me and said her name was Sweet Ellen. External circumstances might have prevailed—a parent might have shown up, Mr. Bridger might have returned home, Gran might have come to her senses and realized her error—and the truth could’ve been recovered with explanations, apologies, and little injury to anyone. But not voluntarily—not on my part. Not then and not now.
Some things were simply what they were. Some gifts must simply be accepted. With luck, or a favorable destiny, the payment could be avoided. If, in the end, fate ruled and the payment must be made, then the balance would be whether the happy interlude was worth the punishment. From my perspective, it was. Ellen might view it differently. I hoped I’d never have to find out.
The driveway had been successfully widened. The spot where we’d huddled during the fire already looked different, and the old lurch in my chest was so faint I could see the time coming when I wouldn’t feel it at all but experience it only as a memory arising occasionally.
Bittersweet but encouraging words.
The road improvements were wonderful. As I rounded the last curve, I saw vehicles in the new parking area.
A large metal container was now in front of the old, burned house. The container had metal doors midway along the side. It wasn’t what I considered a dumpster, though there was one of those, too, and it was nearer the drive. Easy access for the yellow heavy equipment, I presumed.
A dump truck was backed up to the house, and a backhoe was parked nearby. I pulled over to the parking area, parked, and got out of my car. As I walked toward the house and the dump truck no longer blocked my view, I was able to see Roger standing with a group of men on the far side near the pottery cabin.
He saw me approaching. He lifted his arm and waved me over. The other men moved away, apparently returning to work.
I’d dressed in jeans and old sneakers and an old button-down shirt over my T-shirt—to show I was prepared to get dirty. I eyed the blackened pile of boards and rubble as I walked around it to reach him.
This is the last time, I thought. From here on, the new begins.
I pointed at the metal container with doors. “What’s that?”
“For what comes out of the toolshed. I’ve seen amazing things come out of old sheds out here in the country. You might have antique tools or objects you’ll want to spruce up for decoration in the house or yard.”
I was touched. “What a great idea, Roger. Thank you for thinking of it.”
“Yes, ma’am. I aim to please.”
Roger went on to show me how they’d erected the silt fences to protect the creek. “I have a man who’s experienced with restoring old country buildings like the cabin and springhouse,” he said. “They call that barnwood, by the way, in case you’ve seen those TV shows. He isn’t here today, but soon. He’s also a wood carver. I have something special in mind.”
“What?”
He smiled. “Wait and see.” He touched my arm and directed me away from the work area to a lawn chair in the shade. He pointed and said, “You sit here.”
Frowning, I asked, “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t be wandering and getting underfoot. It isn’t safe for you or for the workers.” He pressed the chair firmly down. The feet dug into the dirt. “So you sit and oversee from here. Please.”
I sat, but I must’ve looked annoyed because Roger added, “I’ve instructed them to watch out for anything that looks interesting or salvageable.” He glanced over at the pile, looked down at the ground, and shook his head. “We’ll do our level best for you, Hannah, I promise.”
As with many burned houses, the chimney remained mostly intact. Even the hearth had withstood the fire. The hearthstones had been blackened from use, permanently, I suspected, before they’d put a woodstove there.
The woodstove—I’d burned those news articles about my father in there. I’d flipped open the little door and tossed them in. Gran had watched me. I’m sure she had been wondering what I might say about the decisions she and Grand had made to keep the information from me and doubtless was prepared for the worst—as if I could deliberately hurt her, even in anger. But Gran hadn’t been the only watcher. A pair of big brown eyes had watched, and her sweet voice had asked what Mommy was burning. I had dismissed the folder of clippings as trash I didn’t need or want. She might’ve noted the bright-orange flames through the small window in the stove door, flaring up as they consumed the paper.
Who could know what might catch the attention of a child and percolate in a young brain? The night of the house fire, after Ellen had crawled back into bed, I awoke again sometime later, startled from sleep, knowing something was wrong. I’d run into the living room and seen the stove door open. Loose papers—they looked like pages from Ellen’s coloring book—were on the floor near the woodstove, and the fire, somehow reignited, was skimming up the curtains and taking hold of a stuffed chair.
It was summer, but the day had been unusually cool and rainy, and I’d lit the fire briefly that evening to dispel the chill before bedtime. At most, only hot embers would’ve been in the belly of the stove, and likely, that’s why Ellen hadn’t caught herself or her nightie on fire when she opened the stove door. She’d been lucky.
I shivered even now, thinking of it. The pages she’d pushed onto those dying embers must’ve reignited the fire—if that’s what had happened. A paper aflame, with the stove door open, could’ve cast off burning bits that lit the chair and wherever else they landed.
Or perhaps I was wrong. Gran and I hadn’t kept things up properly after Grand died. I couldn’t recall when we’d last had the woodstove pipe or the chimney cleaned. Or maybe the latch on the woodstove door hadn’t caught properly the last time I’d closed it. Maybe. But those coloring book pages hadn’t been there when we’d gone to bed. And I’d never failed to latch the door properly before.
In minutes, flames had leveled the house that had withstood the passage of so many years.