Mud Girl (27 page)

After tea, Abi lays out the knitted pieces, and Ernestine shows her how to sew them together. There are not many seams, as the pieces have been knit mostly as one, and it doesn't take long.

“The collar will take longer, but it is the finishing touch, and it's important to take your time. Here,” says Ernestine, “I'll show you how to pick up the stitches.” Her face has none of the earlier tension. This is her world. Abi can see, just from how she handles the yarn and the needles, that this is close to her. This act of taking one thing – a ball of string – and turning it into something else. “A sweater warms the insides of the person as well as the outside,” Ernestine says.

Abi is about to say that she'd like to make a sweater for Dad, but she stops herself. Ernestine doesn't let her off easy. “I've picked up a few stitches…see? From the outside. You do the rest.” She hands it over, and watches closely as Abi picks them up, one by one. “That's right,” she says. Horace pours more tea, and watches, too. “Maybe I should start.”

“Start what?” Ernestine looks up.

“Knitting.”

“You?”

“Why not?”

It's hard to know what Ernestine is thinking, but it does take her a bit too long to repeat, “Why not!”

Then it's done, buttons sewn on, dark rich green to match the wool. Ernestine had them in her pocket, ready. “It's beautiful!” says Horace. Ernestine looks proud. Abi can't quite believe she's made this, and she hugs it to her.

The morning has passed. What's left of the tea is cold.

“We need to be at the train station at half past two,” says Horace shyly.

“Oh, but I need to wash up here,” says Ernestine, and with a lot of arm movements, and skirt swishings, she seems to make the job of gathering up the few mugs and plates look like twice what it is. Horace picks up the tray for her to set them on, and he seems somewhat mystified.

“It shouldn't take long, and I can do it –
we
can do it – I've been washing dishes for some time now,” he says. He follows her as she bustles into the house, and there's a great clattering, even a crash, and the pouring of water sounds as if she's turned the tap on full. Horace staggers back to the doorway from inside, looks at Abi, and rolls his eyes. “She has her ways, Mary does,” is all he says. “But I've called us a taxicab, and she'll have to put an end to it all then.”

He begins to lock up the house, securing the windows, the back door under the porch. A cab pulls up the driveway. “Mary! It's here!” There's a sudden silence from the kitchen. Then another crash. A typical, though not so chirpy “Oh my!” that makes Abi want to laugh. Or cry.

Horace just says, mildly, “Don't worry about it…” Then, after a few seconds pass and they don't see Ernestine, he says less mildly, “And don't you
dare
touch a broom!” Finally she shows up, locking the front door behind her, checking it, and checking it again.

“That apron is still on you,” Horace points out. “And the flowers clash with the roses on your suitcase.” The grin on his face is wide, though. He picks up her suitcase and bounces down the stairs.

“Oh my,” murmurs Ernestine under her breath and looking after him. “How did I get here?”

“I don't know,” Abi says, and takes the apron from her because she's taken it off, but doesn't seem to know what to do with it. “But when you get
there
, ask someone to take a picture of you two for me, okay? I want to see the mountains.”
And you, together.

Ernestine gives her a look, and again, Abi's not sure how to read it.
A bit terrified
, she thinks, as she sees a last wave from the cab pulling into the street. Abi's left standing with a daisy-covered apron in her hand, at the end of the driveway. She waits until the yellow car is gone from sight and then she wanders through the yard to where she's left the little sweater and the bag of leftover wool and needles. Horace has put away the train cars and there is a deserted feel to the place.

She packs the apron with the sweater into the bag and puts it in the basket on the bicycle. Now, if she had any courage at all, she'd cycle over and see Lily and Dyl. But she can't. She can still see Jude's face, his dark eyes with a brightness to them – anger? – and it makes her shudder. No, she can't bring herself to do that. Not yet, anyway. So she climbs onto the bike and turns in the direction of River Road, and there she turns east. Once she leaves town, she settles into the rhythm of the bike and the road and, in spite of the humid heat, and the perspiration trickling between her breasts, she begins to enjoy the pedaling and her thoughts.
I can start work on a big sweater now. I know enough. One for Dad. Then one for me!
Pedal, pedal. The river churns on the far side of the road, moving away, making her speed seem faster.

She sees a familiar blue truck coming in the opposite lane, at top speed, hurtling through the curves. Jude doesn't even see her, and then he's past. Where can he be going like that? A couple of other drivers honk at him.

Abi doesn't even realize she's climbed off the bicycle and is staring after him until she moves to get back on and she's shaking so badly she can't. Something is terribly wrong.

She walks the bike a bit, pushing it in the gravel.
Dyl? No, it must be Lily. Should she follow? No. But maybe. Yes.
But she circles back to
no
, and pushes the bike on. She's close to her house now. She'll phone, that's what she'll do.

She drags the bicycle onto the porch, leaves it by the door, and goes to the phone. The local telephone books slips from her hands, and her fingers fumble the pages before she can get it right.

She's quivering, frightened for Lily, wave on wave of fear, frightened for herself because she doesn't want to hear Jude shout at her again. At least she won't have to see his eyes. But she can: they bore right into her head now. The phone to her ear, she turns away, faces the side window, the back window, but she still sees those angry, hateful eyes.

“Yeah?” That's his voice.

“Jude?” she says. “I saw you on River Road…what's happening?”

The phone almost slips from her hand, she's shaking so hard. Her eyes close, expecting his rage, but it doesn't come.

His voice is tired, and he speaks quickly. “I can't talk now, Abi. An ambulance is coming for my mother. She's going to the hospital.”

There's a sound in the background: Dyl crying.

“Dyl?” Abi asks.

“He's with me. Look…” He pauses. “I'll let you know.”

“Thank you,” whispers Abi, and she holds onto the phone long after she hears the click of his hang-up. She replaces it slowly, and stands in the kitchen, not moving, waiting to hear something outside herself. There's no tv. She can hear the
gentle rasp of her father's snore. Then she can hear the river. She goes over to the chair and kneels beside it, lays her head on the arm of the chair, near her father's hand. Tears flow silently from her eyes. The snores stop and she can feel big fingers tangle in her hair.

Paper Boat

“I
'll pick you up at about eight,” says Amanda.

“How about earlier,” says Abi. “I'd like to go to the hospital. Lily was taken to hospital today.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, even though it's where she needs to be. Yes, of course. When do you want me to pick you up?”

“Soon.”

“I'll be there.”

Abi wonders if Amanda has ever not kept to her word about something.

Jude never did call back, so there's even a chance he may still be at the hospital. Abi hopes not, but she has to take the chance. At least he didn't shout at her.

A
t the information desk, a nurse tells her which room Lily is in. The ward is hushed. Abi sees only one other visitor in another room, a woman who looks very directly at her, and does not smile. There's a smell here, and other smells trying to hide it.

A nurse is tending Lily when Abi comes into the room. “Are you family?” she asks.

“A friend.”

“She's not doing too badly – she's not in too much pain, I mean.” She's nodding, and she looks at Lily quite tenderly, Abi thinks.

“Have you been caring for her today?” asks Abi.

“Since she came in, yes, and I'm here for another six hours into the night.”

“Thank you,” says Abi. She does feel that she needs to thank this nurse who so obviously cares for her patient.

“Oh,” says the nurse, surprised. She squeezes Abi's arm with a gentle touch. “I'll leave you with her for a bit, then. Push the buzzer if you need me. She comes to now and then.”

Abi sits in the chair beside Lily's bed and looks at the older woman's hand resting on the blanket.
But she's not old. She shouldn't be dying.

Abi knows she doesn't need to think about Amanda waiting. Amanda brought along a thick book and told Abi to take her time. So she does now, taking Lily's hand in her own.

She can't think of anything to say, even though she knows that there was a lot she wanted to before she got here. Now she just holds the pale hand. Much like two days earlier, but she knows that this time it's different.

Then Lily speaks. “It may be that you can't,” she says. “I'll understand.” It's just breathy words.

“Lily?” Abi speaks softly.

Lily's eyes don't open.

“Are you talking to me? Abi?”

There's only silence

The nurse is standing in the door. “Are you Abi?” she asks, and she sounds surprised.

Abi nods.

“She left me something for you. From what she said, I expected you to be older. Here,” and the nurse hands Abi a piece of folded paper, then notices that her eyes are watering, and hands her a tissue. Abi puts the paper into a pocket and wipes her eyes, blows her nose. She hands Abi another and another, and goes on. “I was going to give it to the son to pass on to you, but here you are…” She looks at Lily. “I'm sure she's glad you're here.”

Again Abi nods, and the nurse stops her companionable babbling and backs out of the room. Abi sees a pad of paper lying on the bedside table, and she tears off a sheet and fold by fold makes a boat. She tucks it into Lily's hand. Waits awhile before she whispers
goodbye
.

“I
don't think I want to go,” says Abi, back in the old Dodge van, with Amanda rattling the engine to life. “No?” Amanda doesn't push it. “Do you want to come back to my place and hang out?”

“Not that either.” She hopes that Amanda doesn't ask for an explanation. “I'd just like to go home.”
Home
. The place by the river. For all her wanting to leave it, it's surprising how easily the word slips out.

“Okay.” Amanda swings out onto the road, and soon they're by the river. “You'll phone me on my cell if you change your mind, right? Wherever you want to go?”

“Yeah.” Abi can see that there are dirty whitecaps on the river. After a week of sultry, humid weather, a wind is rising. She opens her window right down, and the wind tears at her hair, blows it into her face.

“Did I tell you that Horace and Ernestine went downtown to the train station today? They're going through the Rockies.”

“No!” The significance of this is not lost on Amanda – she's heard all about those two – and a grin comes over her face.

Abi tries to hold her hair back, and fails, lets it blow, its ends licking into her eyes, her cheeks.

“Why don't you close the window – halfway even.”

“No.” Abi wants to feel the wind. It gives her an excuse for the tears that are streaming out from her eyes.

All at once, there's a jag of lightning.

“Whoa…! Did you see that?” Amanda cranes her neck to look up through the windshield.

The roll of thunder answers. “Okay…not too close,” she continues, but Abi notices that her hands tighten on the wheel.

Abi thinks how as a kid she'd count off “one Mississippi… two Mississippi…three Mississippi…”

“Sure you don't want to come? Somewhere with me?”

“Manda!” Abi laughs. “Are you afraid to be alone?” Before Amanda can answer, she adds, “Just teasing! And no. I feel like being at home.” But inside, a feeling is growing. Nothing she can put a name to yet. The clouds are rolling as they rarely do in this part of the world, except maybe, yeah, the odd August. There's not a boat to be seen on the river. She knows what it'll sound like under the house tonight. Like they're a part of the river. There'll be creaking and moaning, and snapping sounds… Dad will turn the
TV
off and listen… He always listens to those sounds.

Another memory surfaces. The wind draws it up from the depths: there'd been a storm like this last August, not long before Mum left. She always hated them. Last one, she'd tried to convince Abi and Dad that they needed to sit the storm
out on the front porch. “It's the only part of this damn house that'll be left after this round” – as if it was a fight – and then she'd gone out and sat there herself. Maybe that was when she'd concocted the whole idea of leaving. Her running-away plans. Abi has a new thought: what if Mum hadn't thought of it as running away? What if she thought of it as running
to
? What would she run to?
I'm going to teach you to be independent and strong
, she'd said so many times to Abi. Was that what Mum wanted? To be independent and strong? Did that mean having to be alone?