River's Song - The Inn at Shining Waters Series (4 page)

Anna slept soundly that night. She wasn't sure if it was from pure exhaustion, the comfort of the bed, or the lulling sound of the flowing river, but when she awoke, she felt refreshed and ready to face the day. To her delight the clouds were gone and the sun was shining. And when she looked out toward the river, the water glistened and sparkled—just like diamonds—and she felt a rush of excitement that reminded her of childhood.

Unexpectedly hungry, she lit the gas stove and soon had eggs sizzling and coffee perking. She still hadn't turned the generator on to use the electric toaster, but using a fork she toasted a slice of bread over the gas flame. Then she took her breakfast outside and, sitting on the steps of the porch in front of the store, ate it while watching the river. Several fishing boats passed by. One of the people in a boat waved.

She was just going back inside, wanting to get the generator started when she heard a woman's voice calling out to her." Hallo! Hallo!" Knowing by the accent that it must be Babette, Anna set her plate and cup on the porch and then went out to the dock to greet her.

"Hello, neighbor." Anna smiled as she helped her tie the little motorboat. "You're up bright and early this morning."

"Ees such a beautiful day! How can I resist?" Babette handed Anna a paper bag. "I brought you provisions."

"I have coffee in the house,"Anna told her.

"Fantastic!" Babette linked her arm into Anna's. "Ees so good to see you, ma chérie." She reached up and held Anna's chin in her hand. "And you are still beautiful. But your complexion, chérie, you must use care."

"What do you mean?"Anna asked as they went up the stairs.

"You are beautiful now, but you will look like old woman before your time."

Anna laughed as she opened the door to the house. "I'm not sure that I care what I look like."

"Of course, you care!" she scolded. "You are a woman—you must always care."

As Anna poured them each a cup of coffee, Babette carefully removed some delicate pastries from the bag she'd brought. "I made éclairs," she told Anna. "I remember how you loved them as a little girl."

They sat at the small fir kitchen table together, sharing coffee and pastries and the latest river news. Anna was surprised at how good it felt. "This would be absolutely perfect," she said with regret, "if only Mother were here too."

Babette made a sad smile. "Oui."

"I wish I'd come home more. . . ."

"Why did you not?"

Anna thought about this. "Do you want to know the truth?"

Babette's dark brows arched. "Oui, chérie. As your mama would say, the truth, she set you free."

So for the first time Anna told someone what her life had really been like. She started with her first encounter with Adam's mother and her sharp disapproval of Anna. "In retrospect, I almost wish I'd let that slop water go," she confessed.

"Perhaps it would have been better." Babette shook her head." Then she would know she could not walk on you."

"I never knew, before we got married that is, that Adam's mother was vehemently opposed to our marriage. As soon as she'd heard news of our engagement, she had insisted he call the whole thing off."

"Why was that, chérie?"

"I thought it was because she found out I was half Indian, but Adam swore that had nothing to do with it. You know that Adam was her only son and, after being widowed when he was only fourteen, Eunice had come to depend on him to be the man of the family." Anna shook her head. "I don't think that was the best way for a boy to grow up. Besides being spoiled, he became quite stubborn. He was used to getting his way. As a result, it seemed that the more his mother put her foot down on the marriage plans, the more bound and determined Adam became to marry me. Sometimes I wonder if he married me simply to spite his mother."

"But he loved you, Anna. We all could see that."

She nodded. "I suppose you're right. And, truly, we were happy. For a very short while we were very happy. As long as Eunice kept her distance."

"Then, just one year after your marriage, your baby came." Babette smiled. "Your mama, she was so happy. And such a beautiful little girl." She pointed to a framed baby photo of Lauren sitting on a side table. I have photos of her at my house too."

"And I had actually hoped that Lauren's arrival would improve my relationship with my mother-in-law."

"But it did not?"

"It seemed to at first. Eunice would come to visit the baby, always bringing expensive and somewhat useless presents. It was obvious she loved Lauren, and I'm sure Eunice was immensely relieved that she didn't come out looking like me."

"Oh, Anna." Babette shook her finger. "You are a very beautiful woman. Everyone says so."

"Not my mother-in-law. Eunice made it quite clear that she did not like Indians."

"I think that Eunice would not have liked you no matter what you were."

"Maybe so. No matter how hard I tried to please her, I was never good enough. Nothing I did was right in her eyes and she was never afraid to let me know. It was bad enough with Adam still home, but after he went to war, it became worse. She often called me the Squaw Woman—right in front of Lauren too. I asked her to stop, but she would just laugh and tell me not to be so sensitive."

"Sounds like she is the one who needs to be more sensitive." Babette frowned.

"It got so bad that I was ready to bring Lauren back here. I wanted to come home to the river. I decided I would set up housekeeping in Grandma Pearl's little cabin until Adam came home from the war."

"But Adam came home sooner than expected."

"I had already phoned Daddy, saying that I wanted to come home. And I had just started to pack my bags when the telegram arrived. Naturally, I was relieved that Adam had not been killed in the line of duty, but was upset that he'd been severely wounded in Normandy. The telegram said he would arrive in Pine Ridge in less than three weeks. It was no time to be running back home to my parents. I needed to stay put, preparing for the arrival of my wounded soldier. I felt guilty for how thankful I was that he was coming home. But I figured I needed him more than the army did. I just didn't realize, not until some time later, that Adam's mind had been more severely injured than his body. Even now, after he's been gone for eight years, it's hard to grasp what the horrors of war did to that man. I doubt that I ever will."

"War is horrible, horrible." Babette frowned. "But I did not know this . . . about Adam's mind being injured. Your mama, she never speak a word."

"Because she didn't know. I never told her. I always referred to his physical injuries, not the mental ones."

"But why, chérie? Your mama, she would understand. She knew of hardships."

"Yes. And if she knew I was unhappy . . . she would be unhappy. And Daddy too."

Babette nodded. "Oh . . . I see."

She told Babette that it was after Adam came home, missing an arm and a piece of his heart, that Anna's campaign to protect her parents from the harsh realities of her own life became intense. "Daddy was determined to go up to Pine Ridge and fetch us. He wanted to bring Lauren and me back to the river to live. He suspected something was very wrong. But I assured him we were fine and that I needed to be there to help Adam recover. Looking back, it might have been best to have come home then." But at the time, she thought if things couldn't get worse, then they could only get better. "And so my letters to my parents were written from a very positive perspective." She smiled. "Oddly enough, I usually felt better after I wrote one."

"Your mama loved your letters. She saved every one, you know—reading them again and again. She said they were like medicine. Good medicine."

"It wasn't that I saw the world through rose-colored glasses, but it didn't hurt to hope for better days. My letters became so convincing that I almost believed them myself by the time I sealed up the envelopes and stuck on the stamps. And there seemed no reason to think my parents ever suspected anything different. Then, after Daddy developed his heart condition, it had seemed best to keep up my charade. No need to add stress to his life."

"But after he died?" Babette tipped her head to one side." Why not tell your mama the truth then?"

"Mother was so overwhelmed with grief, she needed me to be strong for her."

"Then why not stay here then? You and Lauren could've lived right here—very happily."

"I still had Adam to care for. His mother had made it clear from the moment he came home from the war that he was my responsibility. And Lauren had school and her friends and activities by then. I thought she'd enjoy seeing where I grew up, but she seemed to hate it. She'd already been influenced by her other grandmother. She wasn't quite eleven and she was already turning up her nose like a spoiled teenager. She thought everyone here was backward and she called the Siuslaw a backwater. Thankfully, my mother never heard her say these things, but I know Lauren is ashamed of her Indian heritage. She is ashamed of me."

"Oh, Anna." Babette had tears in her eyes now. "I am so sorry, chérie." She got up and gathered Anna in her arms, squeezing her tightly, smelling of sweet French perfume. "So very sorry." Babette went over for the coffee pot, refilled their coffee cups, and sat down again. Retrieving a lace-trimmed handkerchief from the bodice of her dress, she daubed her eyes.

"And now I've made you sad." Anna stirred a bit of sugar in her coffee.

"Because I love you, I am sad. Now, please, tell me the rest of your story."

"There's really not much else to tell. I took care of Adam and Lauren and did all the housekeeping in Eunice's house—"

"You kept house for that wicked woman?"

"I had no choice. She and the doctor insisted that Adam needed to live in her house to receive adequate care. He was taken immediately to his old bedroom." She shook her head." And that's where he remained for the next seven years . . . until he passed." Anna didn't have the strength to say that Adam took his own life. No one had ever spoken those words before, but Anna knew in her heart it was true. She suspected Adam had saved up several weeks' worth of pain pills, the ones she carefully doled out daily. His lack of medication would explain his horrid meanness in the last weeks of his life. And, really, on so very many levels, she didn't blame him for doing it. It would be up to God to sort that one out.

"But why did you not come home then?"

Anna sighed. "Lauren."

"Oh. . . ." She nodded sadly. "I see."

"How could I drag her away from everything she loved? And even though I could see my mother-in-law turning my daughter into a brat, how could I abandon my own daughter? I suppose I hoped that I would still be able to influence her . . .that she would grow up and see that Grandma Eunice has her faults. But I'm afraid all Lauren sees is that Grandma Eunice has a fat pocketbook. And I have nothing. And so I kept my troubles bottled up inside and continued writing my sunny letters to mother. And now she is gone." Suddenly Anna was crying again. As if all that she had lost came rushing at her like a tidal wave. "Oh, Babette!" she cried. "She is gone. Truly gone!"

Now they both cried. Flooded with regret, Anna wished with all her heart that she'd come back to her mother sooner— before it was too late. Why hadn't she simply packed up Lauren and brought her back here? Eventually, Lauren would've gotten used to the slower-paced life. She would've made friends. Perhaps she would've grown to love the river eventually. And now she never would.

"I wish I'd been honest. I wish I'd told Mother all about my life,"Anna said through her tears. "All about Adam's problems, how it felt having my mean mother-in-law breathing down my neck all the time, putting me down, calling me names. I wish I'd confessed to Mother that I was letting my daughter push me around—the same way I allowed Eunice to bully me. I should've told her everything."

"Maybe not, chérie."

Anna blinked, blotting her eyes with her own handkerchief now. "Why not?"

"I think it would have crushed her."

"Your mama she was a wise woman in her way."

"Oh."

"Yes." Anna nodded.

"She knew things about Adam . . . things she never told anyone except me."

"What?"Anna waited anxiously.

"Your mama saw a weakness in him. She hoped it was only youth. But when you called her to say you were married—so quickly—your mama, she was worried."

"I know . . . I could hear it in her voice."

"Her worry . . . it make her sick . . . such stomach troubles." Babette shook her head. "All from too much worrying."

"Poor Mother."

"So your letters come . . . and the sun it comes out . . . your mama, she happy. Her stomach is well. Like I said, your letters were good medicine."

Anna thought about this. Perhaps her pretense at a happy life had prolonged her mother's life. Maybe it had all been for the best. At least for her mother. "Do you think she knows the truth now, Babette? That all wasn't as it seemed in my life?"

"I do not know about that, chérie. But I do believe she is in heaven and to be in heaven is to be happy, so I think this—if your mama knows your story, the sad story you have just told me, then she also knows the other part of your story."

"The other part?"

"The part that is not yet to happen!" Babette laughed. "And I am sure it will be the happy part."

Anna sighed. "I hope you're right. You know, if Mother was here right now, I would tell her everything. I would admit that her concerns about marrying so quickly were justified. I would confess that the weakness she saw in Adam was correct, and that I was blinded to it at the time. It was just like that song Lauren listens to on her record player."

"What's that?"

"The words go something like this:
when you're heart's on fire, smoke gets in your eyes."
She shook her head. "But what the song fails to mention is that sometimes when your heart's on fire you get badly burned."

Babette laughed. "Oh, I could tell you that, chérie."

"But Mother never told me much about love and romance while I was growing up. I watched it in the motion pictures at the Saturday matinees, but the silver screen was always filled with heat and passion and fire."