Chapter 13
Barb woke to the sound of quiet movement, not the abrupt gasps of grief that had filled the house for the past three mornings. She sat up slowly, letting her eyes adjust to the gray light filtering through the window.
Cathy stood in the doorway, her hair pulled back with a loose tie, her hands knotted together in front of her. “What needs to be done?” she asked. The words came out thin, but they were steady. They were a choice instead of a collapse.
Barb swung her legs over the side of the bed. “A lot,” she said. “We can start with the fences.”
“Okay. What else?”
“I need nails pulled from the scrap boards behind the shed. Sort them into buckets for reuse. Then, I need the old roofing moved to the barn so I can see what’s salvageable. Some panels are still good.”
Cathy swallowed. “What about the freezer?”
“We’ll handle that, too,” Barb said. “Everything inside thawed. We either cook it today or preserve it.”
Cathy looked toward the kitchen. “Tell me where to start.”
“Finish your water first. Then follow me outside.”
They stepped into the morning air together. The sky was pale and cloudless, the kind of stillness that made every small sound travel far. Birds scattered from the fence posts. The animals stirred in their pens, restless for food.
Cathy rubbed her arms. “It feels different today.”
“It is different, but you’re standing.”
“Barely.”
“Barely counts,” Barb said.
They walked along the fence line.
Barb gave Cathy a handful of wire ties and pointed to the first post. “Test the tension. If it moves more than an inch, tie it tight.”
Cathy pressed the wire, and it moved too easily. “Like this?”
“Exactly,” Barb said.
Cathy tied the first section, then the next.
Barb stayed close, moving beside her, checking the boards for rot, tapping the posts for stability.
They worked without speaking for a few minutes.
Only the brush of grass and the low calls of the animals filled the air.
Cathy stopped at the far corner of the fence and leaned against the post.
“I keep expecting to wake up,” she whispered.
Barb touched her shoulder. “You’re awake, but it’s going to take time for your mind to understand it.”
Cathy took a shaky breath, nodded once, and forced her hands back to work. They finished the perimeter and walked toward the shed.
Barb picked up two rusted boards and handed them to Cathy. “Pull the nails from these. Put the straight ones into the blue bucket. Bent ones go in the red.”
Cathy kneeled beside the pile of wood and set to work. The nails screeched as she worked them loose. Sweat beaded on her temples. Her hands reddened from the friction of the wood, but she didn’t slow down. Barb watched her carefully, knees bent as she inspected the next set of boards.
Her sister worked with a focus that bordered on desperation. She dug out each nail as if carving grief out of her ribs. When Cathy’s breath hitched and her hands froze on a splintered board, Barb recognized the shift. The reality had slammed into her again.
Barb moved to her side. “Stop for a second,” she said softly.
Cathy shook her head. “I have to finish.”
“No. You have to breathe.”
Cathy’s eyes filled instantly. She lowered her head and let out a sound that broke something in the air around them. Barb sat beside her, pulling her into her arms, holding her through the second storm of grief that morning.
Cathy cried against Barb’s shoulder, fingers curling desperately in the fabric of her shirt. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Cathy whispered.
“I know,” Barb said quietly.
“It hurts every time I think of his name.”
“It will for a while.”
Cathy cried harder, and her shoulders shook. Barb held her until the worst of it passed, then guided her back to the pile of boards.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Barb said. “Work helps…just keep going.”
Cathy nodded. “Tell me another thing to do.”
“I will.”
They worked for another hour. Cathy’s hands blistered, but she didn’t complain.
Barb inspected each board, tossing the rotted ones aside and stacking the salvageable ones near the barn.
Her sister’s sweat streaked her shirt, while rust stained her palms. By midday, the sun pressed down hard on the yard.
Cathy leaned against the shed, breathing heavily.
Barb dug into her pocket and handed her a strip of cloth. “Wrap your fingers and finish the last two boards.”
When she finished, Barb motioned toward the house. “Now the freezer.”
“Is it bad?”
“It’s food. That’s all it is now.”
They entered the kitchen together. The freezer door stood open, its interior warm and humid, the faint smell of thawed meat and vegetables drifting into the room.
Cathy covered her mouth. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can,” Barb said. “We need this meat today. We’ll cook what we can and preserve the rest.”
They moved the packages onto the counter. Some were sealed well enough to last hours longer. Some weren’t. Cathy sighed through her nose, forcing herself not to gag.
Barb took a pot from the stove. “We’ll start with the chicken, then the pork.”
Cathy nodded. “Tell me how.”
“Cut the packaging and don’t think too much,” Barb said. “Set it aside. I’ll handle the stove.”
Cathy did as she was told. Her movements were slow, but she didn’t freeze. She worked through the repulsion, worked through the ache in her chest, worked through the memories the freezer brought back. Each motion pulled her a step further away from the paralysis grief kept dragging her toward.
When the worst of the thawed food was sorted, Barb closed the freezer door. “Good. We’ll finish later. Come outside.”
Cathy blinked. “More work?”
“We need to butcher some of the birds,” Barb said. “Eggs are coming daily, and we need to thin the flock.”
“Barb, I don’t know if I can kill anything today.”
“You won’t be alone. I’ll talk you through it. It’s not supposed to be easy.”
Cathy swallowed. “Okay.”
They walked to the quail hut. Thirty-five birds scrambled inside, their wings fluttering softly. Barb opened the upper hatch and picked out four birds quickly, her hands calm. She passed one to Cathy.
Cathy held it gently, her hands trembling. “It’s warm.”
“I know,” Barb said. “Take a breath and keep your hands steady.”
Barb showed her the motion. She didn’t rush it or sugarcoat it.
Cathy closed her eyes once, then nodded.
The work was bloody and messy. It forced Cathy’s breathing into short bursts and pulled tears from her eyes, but she didn’t drop the bird.
When the last quail was hung, she looked at her sister’s hands.
They were shaking, stained with streaks of red, but she kept them open, not clenched.
“You did well,” Barb said.
Cathy exhaled shakily. “I don’t feel like I did.”
“You did. You didn’t freeze or shut down, and that matters.”
Barb helped her carry the birds to the porch. They cleaned them together. Cathy coughed once but didn’t walk away. She rinsed each bird in a bucket of cold pump water, her breath gradually evening out with each repetition.
“Now the duck,” Barb said quietly.
Cathy’s eyes widened. “One of the ducks?”
“Yes. The flock will thrive with fewer males. It’s the right choice.”
“Show me.”
Barb took her behind the barn. She explained each step before doing it, letting Cathy choose her pace. Cathy helped as much as she could. She turned away once, steadied herself, then returned to Barb’s side without prompting. When the duck was cleaned and prepared, Barb lit the wood stove.
The smell of burning oak filled the kitchen. Cathy helped season the pan, her hands still trembling but steadying gradually. They placed the quail pieces in one pan and the duck in another. The sizzle filled the quiet house, a small sound that felt like life reclaiming space after days of terror.
Cathy leaned against the counter. “It smells good.”
Barb nodded. “It will keep us going for a while.”
“Does it bother you? Any of it?”
“It’s work that has to be done. I don’t let myself think past that.”
Cathy watched the meat cooking. “I wish I could be like that.”
“You’re getting closer,” Barb said.
“I don’t feel as lost as I did yesterday.”
“You’re not less sad; you’re just moving. That’s different.”
Cathy stared into the pan. “I think you’re right.”
They worked in silence for a while longer. The smell of cooking bird seeped into the walls. The flame snapped beneath the pan. The house warmed gently, enough to soften the edges of the long day. When the meat finished cooking, Barb lifted the first pieces from the pan and set them onto a plate.
Cathy’s hands stilled on the counter as she watched. “You kept me moving today,” Cathy said quietly.
“You needed motion,” Barb said. “Stillness hurts worse when your mind is full.”
“I’m grateful…even if it hurts.”
“It’s supposed to hurt. Grief doesn’t vanish, but it doesn’t get to own every second.”
Cathy’s eyes filled again, but she didn’t cry.
Barb stepped beside her and placed a hand on her back.
The stove crackled softly. The world outside remained silent and uncertain, but inside the kitchen, for the first time since the flare, something close to a rhythm settled between them.
It wasn’t peace or healing; it was movement.