Reflection (6 page)

“Can I help you somehow?” he asked. “What can I do?”

She touched his cheek. He always wanted to fix things for her, but some things were beyond repair. “I don't know,” she said. “All I know right now is that she shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have come. People are”—she shook her head—”no one's ever forgiven her.”

“Have you?”

“Yes. Absolutely. I never blamed her in the first place.”

Ian leaned over to kiss her. “You're a good woman, Lily Jackson.”

They cooked and ate together, then took the dogs down to the small park near their house. They let their own three dogs run loose but kept the two foster dogs on leashes. She didn't trust them yet. Too many foster dogs had taken off on her. Maybe tomorrow she'd give them a chance.

She was tired when she climbed into bed that night, but she couldn't sleep. She listened to Ian's even breathing for more than an hour before finally getting up and slipping on her robe. In the second bedroom, she stood on a chair to reach high into the closet for the old photograph album. She carried the album into the living room and turned on the light in the corner.

The pictures she wanted to see were in the middle of the thick album. Spring Willow Elementary used to take class photos every year in each grade. There was her kindergarten class, 1971, nineteen little students squinting into the sun, and Mrs. Loving, looking far too old to be managing a classroom of squirmy kids. Lily had been the squirmiest of them all. Her problems with authority had started very early. She was standing right next to Mrs. Loving, and it appeared that the teacher was gripping her arm, probably in an attempt to get her to hold still long enough to have the picture taken.

On the end of the front row stood Jenny. The other children had refused to believe that she and Jenny were twins. Twins were supposed to look alike, they argued. Lily had been very blond, while Jenny's hair was fine and dark and straight. Lily had been tall; Jenny tiny. And Jenny knew how to hold still. She was the good twin, no doubt about it. The twin who got all “excellents” on her report cards, while Lily's cards were covered with handwritten messages of doom and frustration from her harried teachers.

Her class had been reduced to eighteen in the first grade because Danny Poovey's family moved to Lancaster. The first-grade picture had been taken indoors. Miss Lintock stood with the boys in the back row. All eyes were wide, giving the children surprised expressions. Lily knew the name of every child in the picture, and she went over them, categorizing each: living, dead, moved away. Jenny wore a startled look in this picture, as though something had frightened her, and the image brought tears to Lily's eyes. She wished she could pull that little girl from the photograph and hold her close, tell her that everything would be all right. A year after the picture was taken, Jenny and nine other children from that class had died, and in their collective sense of powerlessness, the citizens of Reflection had pinned responsibility for their deaths on the children's young second-grade teacher, Rachel Huber.

There was no picture of that second-grade class. Pictures had been scheduled to be taken in late September, and no one even thought to suggest taking a picture of that diminished class of children once the tragedy had occurred. There were no other class pictures in the photograph album, either, although Lily supposed they had been taken. She'd asked her mother about that once, and her mother had replied that she didn't want those reminders in the house. Lily had wanted to say, “But you still had a child in those pictures.” Of course she didn't dare. Her mother had, after all, lost her good twin that day.

HELEN RESTED HER HEAD
against the back of the green Adirondack chair. She was slightly winded and dizzy from the effort of walking out to the porch from the bedroom. The cane she was using was more a nuisance than a help.

Rachel appeared next to her chair. “Are you comfortable?” she asked. “How about one of those little pillows for the small of your back?”

“A pillow would be very good,” Helen said, and she watched as Rachel stepped back inside the house. She was getting accustomed to asking for things, to accepting the help Rachel offered so freely. It had been hard at first, but she'd gradually come to the realization that her granddaughter truly enjoyed taking care of her and the house.

From the Adirondack chair, Helen kept an eye on the sky. It was blue, a little hazy, with just a few clouds. Good. Safe for one more day, she thought. She was growing idiotically fearful of storms.

Rachel returned with the pillow, and Helen leaned forward to let her granddaughter slip it behind her back.

“Do you like polenta?” Rachel asked as she sat down on the porch swing and opened one of the household's vegetarian cookbooks on her knees.

Helen nodded. “All that stirring, though. It's been a long time since I made it.”

“We'll have it tonight.”

Rachel had been with her for four days, and Helen could feel the life returning to her house. The young woman had cleaned the windows and opened them up to let in light and air, making Helen feel less trapped by her invalidism—even though every time she passed the piano she stared in frustration at the keys and her wrist throbbed. Rachel went for bicycle rides and long walks, which Helen envied, and returned with armloads of wildflowers to scatter throughout the house in the collection of old vases. Rachel was not a vegetarian, but she was eating like one and cooking like one as well, and Helen found her own appetite returning. It had been a long time since she'd eaten so well.

Sometimes when they were sharing a meal at the kitchen table Helen would study Rachel's face and see John, her son, in the younger woman's features. The light brown hair, large gray eyes. The narrow, slightly Roman nose and sharp cheekbones. The similarity pained her, and she didn't allow her gaze to rest for very long on her granddaughter's face.

Helen had initially blamed her daughter-in-law, Inge, for driving the wedge between John and his parents. At some point, though, she'd had to admit to herself that the estrangement had been John's decision. He had simply rebelled against them, as most children did, she supposed. She and Peter had raised him a liberal-thinking Quaker, and he'd turned into a narrow-minded Lutheran. He became conservative, bigoted. She and Peter disgusted him, he'd said, wounding her deeply. Fortunately, John and Inge didn't seem to have ruined their lovely daughter. Helen could discern no hint of intolerance in Rachel.

She could see a sadness in her, though. The girl was still grieving. Still trying to adjust from being married to being alone. Only time could help with that.

She and Rachel didn't talk much. Oh, they talked about food and the garden and the house and the birds and the wildflowers. But they never touched on anything of substance. A few times Helen considered bringing up the past, but Rachel seemed so guileless—almost naive—that Helen couldn't find a suitable opening for the conversation. Rachel would talk occasionally of going into town, and Helen would find ways to discourage her, but at some point she would have to let her go. She didn't know what would happen in town. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps no one would even notice her. That was unlikely, though. Strangers stood out in Reflection. Besides, people already knew she was there. Marge had called the day before to ask Helen how she was doing and had told her that customers in the salon were talking about Rachel being in town. Marge trimmed Helen's hair every month or so, and Helen knew what Hairlights was like. News traveled quickly anywhere in town, but you could double the speed if you started it out in the beauty parlor.

“I got the weeds out of the corn this morning,” Rachel said suddenly, pointing toward the garden. “I hope I can finish the rest of them by tonight.”

“I could hire someone, Rachel. I hate for you—”

Rachel leaned forward from her seat on the swing, resting one strong hand on Helen's arm. “I'm enjoying it, Gram. Really, I am. We've got a problem, though.” She looked out to the yard. “You're not getting enough light back here.”

“Ah, yes.” Helen had forgotten about that. She'd meant to have the trees pruned before she planted this year but had never gotten around to it. Suddenly, she felt the devil slip inside her skin. She could barely contain her smile as she turned to her granddaughter. “Maybe you could call Michael Stoltz for me,” she said. “He does tree work and general handyman things in the summer.”

The color rose to Rachel's face more quickly than Helen had anticipated. “Michael Stoltz?” she asked.

“Yes. You and he were friends when you were children, weren't you?” She knew how deep that friendship had gone. She and Michael had spoken about it more than once over the years.

“Yes, we were.” Rachel gazed at the garden, her cheeks a feverish red. “I had no idea that he still lived around here, though.”

“He came back after Katy—his wife—got her medical degree. She wanted to practice here. Do you remember, her father was a doctor in town when you were growing up? Doc Esterhaus?”

Rachel nodded. She looked dazed.

“So Katy took over the pediatric part of his practice when he retired, only right now she's on some kind of special voluntary service program with the Mennonites. She's in Russia, I think it is. And Michael's the minister at the Mennonite church.”

The cookbook slipped from Rachel's knees to the floor of the porch. “He's
what
?” She reached down for the book.

“A minister.”

Rachel shook her head as though Helen must be mistaken.

“He's very well thought of in town,” Helen continued. “He's heading up the organization that's trying to block Marielle Hostetter from developing her land, though I don't hold out much hope for him. She won't talk to him. Won't talk to anyone except her nephews and her lawyer.”

Rachel didn't seem to hear her. “Michael's a minister,” she repeated. “Do they have any children?”

“A boy, eleven, or maybe twelve by now. I'm quite sure he's stayed with Michael instead of going with Katy. I don't recall his name. My memory's not what it once was, I'm afraid.”

“Michael wasn't Mennonite growing up. He was… I don't think he was raised in any faith. Does he wear plain clothes? Use a buggy?”

“Oh, no.” Helen laughed. “Only the Old Order Mennonites still use buggies. Some of them buy cars, but only black cars, and they paint the chrome on them black. But Michael's church is very liberal.”

Rachel looked down at the cookbook, running her fingers over the cover. “I'm having trouble remembering which denomination is which,” she said slowly. “It's a peace church, isn't it?”

“Well, they all are, all the plain sects. And they believe that a church should be made up of adults who belong out of choice rather than being baptized into the faith as infants. The Amish and some of the Old Order Mennonite groups still dress plain and shun electricity and higher education. But for the most part, the modern Mennonites go on to college, and they're very active in various relief programs.”

“It fits,” Rachel said.

Helen thought she saw tears in her granddaughter's eyes, but they only shimmered there for a moment.

“Michael was a conscientious objector during Vietnam,” Rachel said.

“I know. I remember him speaking on the steps of Town Hall.” Helen remembered that speech very well—almost verbatim—but if she told that to Rachel, it would open up questions she didn't feel like answering. “He's still good at speaking, I hear. Gives a good sermon.”

Rachel laughed. “I just can't picture it.”

“So, would you like to call him about the trees, or would you rather I did it?” Helen asked.

“I'll call him,” Rachel said. “Tomorrow.” She returned her attention to the cookbook, flipping through it with a slow, even rhythm, but Helen was certain her granddaughter didn't see a single word printed on those pages.

THE ATTIC STAIRS LOOKED
rickety, but they felt solid beneath Rachel's feet as she climbed them. Fumbling in the dark, she found the light switch. The small attic was crammed with stacks of boxes. The air was warm and stuffy. She fought her way through the field of cartons to reach the window, and it was several minutes before she got it open. She was perspiring from the effort, but the cool night breeze was worth it.

Putting her hands on her hips, she looked around. Which side did Gram say her parents' boxes were on? North? Which way was north? She spotted the name John on the side of a box against the far wall. Picking up an old metal footstool, she walked over to the north wall and sat down.

She'd been putting this off since her arrival at her grandmother's, but now that she knew Michael was here and that she might see him, she knew she could no longer avoid the memories. It had been so easy to do exactly that here in Gram's wonderful house—this refuge from reality. Miles from town and a thousand miles from San Antonio, she might as well have been on another planet. That first day when she'd seen her old triplex and thought about Luke and Michael seemed like months ago. But Michael was here, and that changed everything.

She bent over to open the first box and felt the waistband of her jeans cutting into her stomach. She'd already lost a pound or two, but still, this extra weight was tenacious and repulsive. She was at least fifteen pounds heavier than she had been the last time she'd seen Michael, when she was twenty-three.

So what
? She growled at herself in disgust. He's married. And he's a
minister
. She was still having trouble getting used to that notion. What would he think of her being a Unitarian? She'd joined that church years ago so that Chris could have some sort of religious education. It had been the only denomination she could find that didn't require her to believe in a doctrine she couldn't swallow.