Chapter Nineteen – Lila126
Chapter Nineteen – Lila
The lavender smell of the cleaning rag reached me before I had the cupboard fully open, sharp and clean and slightly medicinal, cutting through the older smell of the kitchen the way a fresh thing always cut through a settled one.
I pulled the left door open and stood with it a moment, looking at the faded pine interior, the chipped paint at the shelf edges where a hundred years of cups and jars had knocked their small damage into the wood, the half-empty pickle jar standing slightly forward of its line, the accumulated untidiness of a kitchen that had been managed rather than tended in recent months.
I started wiping from the top shelf down.
The rag moved in long, even strokes. The paint underneath was good pine board, just old, the grain of it visible in the places where the white had worn to something close to transparent.
I wiped and straightened and wiped again, pulling things forward, lining them up with the particular satisfaction of a task that had an end you could see from the beginning.
The loose windowpane rattled once in a gust, a dry, light knock of old glass against old frame, and from outside came the horses, the soft, intermittent nickering of the bay in the near stall, which meant the wind had shifted and she did not like it.
The crows were at the barn roof again. I could hear them without looking, their flat calls carrying in the cold air through the gap at the window frame’s corner that had never been fully sealed.
I moved to the bottom drawers.
Getting down was the project. I went slowly, one hand on the counter edge, the other settling against my belly as I lowered myself to the floor, not kneeling, exactly, more a controlled descent into something approximating a crouch, which was the best available option at eight months and which I had developed into a system over the past several weeks.
The drawer stuck in its runner the way it always stuck, the wood having swelled with the winter damp until it required the particular two-finger trick at the left corner to clear it. I knew the trick. I used it.
Inside: the quilted linens, folded years ago in the careful way of someone who had expected them to be refolded soon and then never had.
They were faded along the creases, the white of them gone to the particular warm cream of cotton that had been washed and dried in sun and time.
Beneath them, the tea towels, a collection assembled from no single source, every pattern different, every edge frayed from use in the specific way of cloth that had done actual work.
I lifted them out, one at a time, and refolded each with the slow attention of someone who needed the task to take the time it took.
Outside, the wind moved through the yellow grass along the fence line.
I heard it the way I had been hearing everything this afternoon, present and peripheral, the ranch making its winter sounds around me while I worked through room by room with the rag and the broom and the particular calm that came from putting things in order.
The baby books said it was instinct. Nesting, they called it, in the cheerful clinical way of books that named things without inhabiting them.
I had not thought of it that way. I had thought of it as simply the correct thing to do, the thing that wanted doing, the logical response to a house that had been operated rather than cared for in a long time.
I stood, slowly, with the pile of refolded linens in my arms.
The ache behind my ribs was a familiar presence now, the particular fatigue that had settled in at about month seven and had not left, the specific bone-deep weight that lived between my shoulder blades and announced itself most clearly when I had been bending or lifting or moving in any direction that required my spine to have opinions.
I set the linens on the counter and pressed one hand flat against my lower back for a moment, breathing through it, watching the dust motes rising from the floor where the broom had passed an hour earlier.
They moved in the late-afternoon light, not swirling, just drifting, the slow chaotic descent of things disturbed from where they had settled.
The nursery shelf caught my eye through the open door.
I had not meant to look. I had been working in the kitchen and the hallway and then this room, working in a deliberate order that kept me moving rather than standing in one place too long, and the nursery door was open in the way it was always open and the shelf was where it had been for weeks and the small folded things on it were where we had put them.
I looked at the shelf and thought about the man who had measured it, the pencil mark still there under the paint, and then I moved back to the counter and started pulling things out of the second drawer.
By the time I reached the bedroom it was later in the afternoon, the light through the curtain gap gone amber in the way of a winter sun making its decision.
I tucked the cushions into the bench at the foot of the bed, the sagging bench that had always sagged and that I had never gotten around to replacing, and I straightened them the way they wanted to be straightened, which was to say: enough but not fussed over.
Then I shook out the heavy wool blanket from the cedar chest and draped it across the foot of the mattress.
It was warm against my palms. That was the first thing, the particular warmth of old wool, the slight roughness of the fiber, the faint underlying smell of lanolin that had not entirely washed out from the previous autumn.
I smoothed it down with both hands, running the flat of my palms along the weave, and the scent of it came up at me, something of the barn in it, something of all the cold seasons it had been folded through, the specific living smell of something that had been used by people who needed warmth and had been adequate to the task.
I stood up and looked at the room.
The bed was made. The bench had cushions.
The chest was latched. The curtains hung at their slight gap and the amber light fell across the floor in its particular late-afternoon stripe, catching the old floorboards and turning the grain of them warm.
The dresser held the small things it held. Everything was in its place.
My hand went, without my planning it, to the curve of my belly. Hope shifted under my palm, the slow, deliberate turn I had come to recognize as distinct from her other movements, the settling motion, the one that meant she was comfortable and wanted it noted. I pressed my hand a fraction flatter.
The house was quiet in all directions. A boot on the porch, somewhere toward the back, the familiar, measured tread that I knew without looking.
The sound of someone moving in the kitchen, a cabinet closing.
Small sounds. The sounds of a house with people in it, which was different from the sounds of a house with only one person in it, and I had known the difference for long enough that the distinction was no longer entirely theoretical.
The questions I was not asking were still there.
They were always there, tucked behind the day’s tasks the way things were tucked behind tasks when you needed them to stay there while you worked.
Whether the calf coming in March would put us over the feed budget.
Whether the clinic would have availability the week she was due.
Whether I would know what I was doing when the moment came, whether any amount of refolded linens and straightened shelves would be equivalent to knowing what I was doing.
I did not have answers to any of them.
I pressed my hand flat against my belly, and the amber light went on doing its slow, indifferent work across the floorboards, and the ranch made its sounds around me, and I stood in the room I had put in order and let the quiet be what it was.
***
The barn smelled the way it always smelled in January, hay and horse and the particular cold-wood smell of the old boards contracting against the chill outside, and I had no business being in it at this hour with my back aching and my ankles doing what they had been doing all week, but my hands had needed something to do and the house had been too quiet after lunch and so here I was, adjusting a water bucket that did not require adjusting, checking a latch I had already checked that morning.
The flush came without warning.
It started at the back of my neck, just below my hairline, the way a fever started, not pain, but the precursor to something, the body’s announcement that circumstances were about to change.
It moved down through my shoulders in a single rolling wave, and my joints went loose beneath me in the way joints went when they had been asked to carry more than the surrounding structure was prepared to support.
My grip on the stall door tightened. The wood was cold and rough under my palm and I held onto it and breathed, and then the smell reached me.
It was mine. I knew it immediately, the way I knew my own heartbeat, the floral scent I had carried my whole life, the summers-evening sweetness of it, except it was none of those ordinary things anymore.
It had thickened into something else entirely, heavy and warm and saturating the straw-dusty air of the barn the way heat saturated a closed room, filling every corner of the space without asking.
I recognized what it was the moment before my knees registered their opinion about the situation, which was that standing upright had become, without consultation, optional.
I pressed my back against the stall door and pressed my free hand against the curve of my belly.
“Alright,” I said, to Hope, or to the barn, or to myself.
Cole was already crossing toward me.