Chapter Thirty-nine
It may not have been sleep that took me away from the knowledge of my surroundings and the passage of time, but when I awaken, it is to a shout of thunder. My body is curled around Janey, who has positioned herself precariously between me and the ledge’s drop.
I’m sore, spent, exhausted, and as depleted as if the very marrow has been sucked from my bones.
A strong, chill wind shakes the treetops.
When did it start raining?
My hair and arms are damp but not soaked. The heat is as gone as if it were nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
A burst of light illumines the sky. An echoing crack follows close behind. I flinch at the nearness of the sound.
“Janey.” I stand. “It’s time to go.”
My dog rises with a pitched yawn. I reach for my backpack, pull out the flashlight, and flip it on, roving the bank with the beam. The phone is dead, so I can’t check the time. How long have I been here? What sort of creatures watched me mourn? Watched me exhaust myself, sobbing toward sleep?
The light reveals nothing I didn’t expect, only the sheen of fresh wetness on rock and clay and parched brambles, until . . .
On an outcropping of rock, tiny white shapes shiver in the wind.
No.
I blink.
No. It’s too late in the season. And much too dry for the delicate spring wildflowers to survive.
But there they are, those defiant little Dutchman’s breeches, sadly hanging over the rocks on long, droopy stems. And hidden behind them is . . .
“The Dutchman’s pocket.”
I inhale a sharp hope through the thick, storm-chased August air. I thought of our secret mailbox on the drive down from Michigan, but once I arrived, other memories crowded in. “I never came back here after Noah left. What if . . . ?”
I stand in indecision until a series of horizontal spider veins cross the sky, accompanied by near-immediate crackles of sound, sparking my feet into motion.
It’s been two years. I push the flowers this way and that.
“Where is it? Where is it?”
Hot, angry tears form and spill. I rip at the flowers now, desperate to unveil the little cave.
A stubborn handful of sagging white blooms gives way, revealing our secret mailbox, but I lose my balance and land, quite hard, on my derriere.
“Stupid flowers! Stupid Dutchman’s pocket! Stupid—!” I gasp, running out of wrath.
Bigger drops of rain fall now, spaced apart. Each hits the dry creek bed like a slap.
The sky lights and booms. Janey whines, her tail between her legs.
“I know, Janey. We need to get going. But if I don’t look, I’ll wonder forever. Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.”
I brush off my backside, glad I stowed my phone in my bag. It’s the one monthly bill my parents still pay for me, and I’m not due for an upgrade if it gets crushed by my bum in a fit of temper.
In my anger and grief, I’ve made a mess of these tenacious little wildflowers, and I feel guilty for the destruction. Carefully, I push the remaining flowers aside and shine the light into the wide crevice.
A spider’s web sparkles in the corner of the opening, and its oversized occupant scuttles out and up the rock. I squeak back a scream and grimace, but the jar is still there, safe within the Dutchman’s pocket. Our secret mailbox.
I grasp the jar and pull it free from the miniature cave. It’s filthy, to be sure. But I have to know. Did he leave me a parting gift?
This jar has seen so many little things, proofs that Noah went out of his way to let me know I was on his mind and in his heart. Notes, funny doodles, song lyrics, a tin of cinnamon-flavored candies . . .
I have to smile, even though it hurts. Two years of muddy rain splatter have rendered the outside of the jar nearly opaque. I tilt it. A tiny clink . . .
“There’s something in there!”
I try to turn the lid, but it won’t budge. I wrap the hem of my t-shirt around it for a better hold, bend at the waist, and groan with the effort until every nerve in my neck is about to pinch. It won’t give.
I switch hands and twist hard. Nothing. And it’s getting slippery now, with the rain.
A loud boom shakes the ground. Janey’s bark ends on a whine.
Enough.
I shove the jar in my backpack. Flashlight in hand, I lift my face to the sky. “God, I know better than to go under a tree in a lightning storm, but I don’t have much choice. If you could just hold off any direct hits until we get to the car, I’d appreciate it.”
Janey stays close at my heels as we trudge back up the creek’s path.
The rain is falling harder now, faster. Wind drives the big drops, stinging the earth and my face on their descent.
The flashlight’s glare illumines the rain almost as much as the path.
By the time we reach the spot where we entered the creek bed, hours ago, the rocky clay of the bank has taken on a sheen.
“It’s going to be slippery, Janey.” My voice is drowned out by a rumble. “C’mon, girl.”
Passing the flashlight into my left hand, I grab onto a low-hanging branch for leverage, but just as I place my left foot higher on the bank, the slick surface of my old sneakers gives way. My body thunks against the bank, and I slide, stomach-to-the-wall, back to my starting position.
I angle the flashlight over my shirt front.
Ruined.
I reach for the branch again, but my wet hands slip down its length, stripping off several leaves.
“Arrgh!” I growl. “I can’t even get a grip on the stupid thing.”
Hold on.
The familiar words caress my mind, but over the last few hours, they’ve grown thorns.
“Hold on?” I tilt my face toward the source of the rain. “Hold on?” Anger laces every syllable. “Are you kidding me?”
The rain stings my upturned eyes, but I ignore it. Every muscle tightens with anger, disappointment, and . . .
Betrayal.
“He didn’t come.” My hands clench into fists. “He didn’t come! It’s over.” My teeth clench around a guttural shout, a sob that scalds my throat. “There is nothing left to hold on to!”
Huge, stinging drops of rain plunge from the sky.
God-sized drops. As if his tears are joined to my sorrow, but . . . bigger.
My anger deflates upon a double-edged sword, hidden in my heart. I drop to my knees, letting it penetrate my soul and spirit, each joint of my body, to the core of every bone.
Jesus wept.
A corner of my soul senses warmth. I cling to it.
“He didn’t come,” I whisper, and even though the storm is loud, I know I’m heard. “But you stayed. You’ve always stayed.”
I think back to the moments I clung to words I’d hidden in my head and, later, my heart. Of how I learned a truer, more loving meaning of obedience through the spiteful gift of one who meant to use that concept as a punishment and a means of control.
“I held on . . . and you’ve held me. You know this feeling, don’t you? Your heart’s been broken, too.”
Peace. There is still pain—so much pain—but within it, peace.
I push to my feet and reach for a sapling, higher than the limb I tried the first time.
It’s thin, but green youth gives the living wood strength and flexibility, and its roots stretch deep enough to support my weight.
It bows as I lean back, but it doesn’t break, and that bend allows me to hang on and walk my feet up the steep slope.
With the baby tree supporting most of my weight, my sneakers have an easier time finding traction in the clay. I throw one leg over the top of the bank and then the other. With four sets of claws to help her ascent, Janey scampers up more easily.
“Double time, Janey. Let’s get back to the car before the storm gets any worse.”
Each blast of thunder pulses in my chest. Keeping the flashlight trained to the ground in front of me, I break into a reluctant jog to keep up with Janey’s stride along the trail. By the time we break through the clearing by the entrance, my sides ache, and my legs are rubber.
With shaking hands, I unlock the car. Janey jumps in the backseat. I’ve barely closed the door when the ping-ping of white pebbles begins to dance on the hood of my car.
“Hail?” I’m thankful we made it to the car in time, but . . . “This can’t be good.”
I fumble to put my key in the ignition and then spin the heat knob to the opposite setting I needed upon arrival.
Janey shakes, splattering the car’s interior with cold water and mud. This is going to be murder to clean, but I don’t care. We have heat.
Tiny spheres of ice bounce on the hood of the car, like Mexican Jumping Beans. I execute a five-point turn. We need to find shelter, someplace safe to wait out the storm.
I’m exhausted, filthy, wet, cold, and more than five miles from Grandma Maddie’s which, judging by the angle of the hail, will be driving into the storm.
I just want to go home.
The thought crunches against my better judgment. I release the accelerator. The car slows. Stops.
It’s so close. I could go in, take a hot shower, sleep in my old bed . . .
But how would I explain my appearance at this late hour? Uninvited, unannounced, filthy . . .
I don’t want to lie.
But Mom will have a field day if she knows the truth.
A sudden return of anger warms my blood.
No. Freaking. Way. I would rather get swept up in a tornado than be forced to tell this story to my mother.
One taste of heartache per day is enough, thank you very much.
My foot presses the gas pedal, and I hum “Ease on Down the Road” from The Wiz.
It’s way more upbeat than how I’m feeling, but it seems appropriate on so many other levels.
The slight reflection of the green road sign is all I can see through the mix of rain and hail. I slow to make the turn toward the highway.
Yes. I’ll drive through the night. Eventually, I’ll get ahead of the storm.
I stop just short of the turnoff.
What if the hail gets worse and damages my car? Will I get in an accident? Or have to file a claim on my insurance?
Does my insurance cover hail damage?
I don’t know, but I cringe at the thought of dipping into my meager savings to pay the deductible.
The one-thousand dollar deductible.
Dollar signs multiply with each teensy grain of ice that hits my car.
The hail is small now. Not large enough to cause damage.
But it could get bigger. Not to mention the visibility issues of rain and wind, and both increase the possibility of an accident.
I have to make rent and pay for my share of utilities, groceries . . .
When I turn on the radio, I’m greeted by the automated voice of the National Weather Service Alert System. “. . . with damaging winds up to seventy miles per hour and—”
I turn it off, hit the brakes, rest my forehead on the steering wheel, and groan.
There’s no other choice. I swallow hard, forcing my pride into my stomach.
I’m going home.