On Shifting Sand (54 page)

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That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered.

ECCLESIASTES 1:15

BREATH OF ANGELS NURSING HOME

OCTOBER 13, 2010—11:56 P.M.

Ma always called it cheating to stay up past midnight.

“Tomorrow don’t come with the dawn,” she’d said. “When that big hand sweeps across the top, it’s past midnight. End of one day, start of the next. It’s like stealing two for the price of the one God gave you.”

In the dark, of course, she can’t see the sweeping hands. But she hears them. Steady, rhythmic ticks coming from the same round-faced clock that once graced the big stone mantel in her parents’ home. One of the only possessions she has from that place. In just a few minutes, she’ll close her eyes and transport herself back there, but for now, she directs stubborn, sleepy attention to the harsh, glaring red numbers on the table next to her pillow.

11:57.

Three more minutes until this day passes into the next.

It’s part of her rhythm, dozing through the evening only to wake up in time to witness the changing of the day. Or at least the first few minutes of it. Cheating not God, but death, living a little longer than anybody imagined possible. As a child, it had been a challenge, sneaking out of bed to gaze at the clock face by the waning light of the fire. These days, it’s less of a game, given how few days must be left.

11:58.

A tune enters her head, filling in the spaces between the ticking of the
clock. The fingers of her right hand, thin and curled in upon themselves, move in listless strumming of silent strings as her left hand contorts to create chords on the neck of an invisible guitar.

I know not why God’s wondrous grace to me he hath made known . . .

She hears a million voices joining in, her own, clear and strong, above them. Somewhere at the edge of hearing, a less familiar sound pierces the darkness. Tuneless, wordless. The only kind she’s made since that blinding light took her voice away.

A soft knock on the door—a mere formality, really. She turns her head.

“Miss Lynnie? Everything okay in here?”

She hates that her singing could somehow be mistaken for a cry for help. So she stops and nods, bringing her fingers to stillness at her sides. She looks back at the clock.

11:59.

She hasn’t missed it.

“You ought to be asleep by now.”

Now soft shoes bring the even softer body of Patricia Betten, RN, to the bedside. She hears every swish of the woman’s barrel-like thighs.

“Let me tuck you in, make you a little more comfortable.”

She surrenders to Nurse Betten’s ministrations, keeping her arms still as those pudgy, purposeful hands smooth the thin sheet and blanket. Yet another blanket is dropped over her feet, anchoring her to the bed with its warmth.

“There, there,” the nurse prattles on, obviously quite pleased with her efforts. “Rest up. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

12:01.

Nurse Betten’s wrong.

The big day’s today.

Late.
Late. Late.

She could feel both moss and mud caught up between her toes as she ran across the soft carpet of the forest floor. With one hand she clutched her cardboard-covered journal to her heart. The other gripped the neck of the guitar slung across her back. Every few steps, the strings would brush against her swiftly moving hip and elicit an odd, disjointed chord.

It was too dark for shadows, meaning Ma would have supper on the table. Maybe even eaten and taken off again. Bad enough Dorothy Lynn hadn’t been home in time to help with the fixing, but to be late to the eating—well, there was no excuse.

The dark outline of her family home stood off in the distance, soft light coming through the windows. And then through the front door, when the familiar silhouette of her mother came forth in shapely shadow.

Dorothy Lynn slowed her steps. Ma always said a lady shouldn’t run unless a bear was on her tail. Now, to Dorothy Lynn’s surprise, Ma actually came down off the porch and, with quick, striding steps, met her at the edge of the stone footpath that ran from the main road to their front door.

“Dorothy Lynn Dunbar, I promise you are goin’ to make me into an old woman.”

Even in this new darkness, Dorothy Lynn could tell that her mother was far from old—at least by all outward appearances. Her face was smooth like cream, and her hair, the color of butterscotch, absent even a single strand of gray. She wore it coiled into a swirling bun that nestled in a soft pouf.

“I’m so sorry—”

“Not that you’ve ever been a great deal of use in such things, but even an extra hand to peel potatoes would be nice.”

“So, is he here?”

“Been here for nearly an hour. He’s been entertained, looking through some of your pa’s books, but he’s here to have supper with you, not your mother.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he was just here for the books. They served Pa well all his years behind the pulpit.”

Three wide steps led to her home’s front porch. Ma hesitated at the first step and dropped her voice to a whisper. “From the way he talks about you, your pa’s books are the last thing on his mind.” Ma’s face was bathed in light from the eight-pane glass window, her smile as sly as any fox.

Dorothy Lynn brought her face nearly nose-to-nose with her mother’s. “I think you’re crazy. Could be he thinks I’m just a silly girl.”

“A silly, pretty girl. Or one who
would be
pretty, if her hair weren’t scattered out wild as wheat stalks after a windstorm. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’d be askin’ Pa for your hand most any day. Guess he’ll have to settle for askin’ me.”

Dorothy Lynn clutched her pages tighter, willing herself to match Ma’s excitement. “Well, I’d think if he was going to ask anyone, it’d be me.”

Ma looked instantly intrigued. “Has he?”

Dorothy Lynn lured her closer. “There’s hardly any time between the kissing.”

Shocked but clearly amused, Ma turned and resumed her ascension,
her old-fashioned skirts swaying with authority. At the top, she looked back over her shoulder and said, “Leave that,” indicating the guitar.

Without question, Dorothy Lynn wriggled out from the strap and placed the guitar gently on the swing, knowing she’d bring it in before the night was through. Then, as her mother held the screen-covered door wide, she walked inside to take the first step on the smooth, varnished floor.

“So, has our wood sprite returned?”

Brent Logan, looking entirely too comfortable in Pa’s leather chair, glanced up from the thick green tome open on his lap.
A Commentary on the Letters of Paul
. Pa’s favorite.

“She has.” Ma’s voice was at least ten degrees cooler than the temperature outside.

Brent stood, and the minute he did so, all thoughts of Pa sidestepped behind the commanding presence of a man who seemed perfectly at ease in another’s home. He had broad shoulders and thick, strong arms, testifying to a life of good, honest labor. He might have been taken for a local farm boy, but there was a softness to him too. His hair—free of any slick pomade—tufted just above his brows, which at this minute arched in amusement at her disheveled appearance. Were her mother not standing here, Dorothy Lynn knew she would be wrapped in those strong arms—swept up, maybe—and he’d kiss away each smudge. The thought of it made her blush in a way she never would if they were alone.

“Sorry I kept supper waiting,” she said, rather proud of the flirtatious air she was able to give her words, despite her ragged appearance.

Ma caught her arm, turning her none too gently in the direction of her room. “Why don’t you go wash up, honey-cub, while I get supper on the table?”

Any womanly charm Dorothy Lynn might have been able to muster came crashing down around her at her mother’s singsong tone and that detestable nickname.

“Honestly, Ma,” she said, rolling her eyes straight to Brent, who had the grace to avert his gaze. Instead, he’d wandered over to the fireplace
to look at the pictures on the mantel. The largest, in the center, was her brother, Donny, looking more like a boy playing dress-up than a man in uniform, ready to go to war. On each side of Donny were wedding photos: Ma and Pa’s, in which Ma—standing—was only a head or so taller than Pa, who sat tall in a straight-backed chair, and her sister Darlene’s, which featured the same wedding dress worn by the bride, whose new husband stood by her side.

Those in the photographs were long gone. Darlene’s husband was an automobile salesman in St. Louis, and though the battles had ended, Donny had yet to come home after the Great War.
The world is to big,
he’d once written in purposeful, albeit misspelled, block letters on the back of a New York City postcard.
I aim to see what I can.

On the far end of the mantel, Dorothy Lynn’s high school graduation photo showed her in half profile, gazing into an unknown future.