Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Episode 15 (10 page)

“Really?
You want to do that?
It looks like a hassle.”

“Looks fun to me.”
She called out a few questions and turned to Chad, excited.
“Did you hear that?
A shearing school in New Cheltenham!
I want to go.”

“Then you’ll go.”
Despite his personal lack of interest, her excitement appealed to him.
“I love how into all this you get.”

“Even though you think I’m nuts.”

“You are. I agree with Mother on that one.
Sheep are stupid and obnoxious.”
He nudged her boot.
“Kind of like chickens.”

“They’re tasty like chickens too.”

“How would you know?”

Willow giggled at the gawky-looking sheep before answering.
“Had it with Bill at that restaurant the day you made me wear my slippers to town.”

“They were flip-flops.”

“I felt like I was walking around town in my pajamas.”

Chad shook his head.
“I remember thinking you looked amazing.”

“You acted like I looked ridiculous.
” She winked.
“That’s probably because you wanted an excuse to stop coming.”

“I did.”
He winked back at her before adding, “I’ve never been more happy to be wrong.”

“Me too.”

“What were you wrong about?”

Willow laughed.
“No, I’ve never been happier for you to be wrong.”

“That’s it.
They don’t need me, you’re insulting me, I’m going to go inside.”

“I’ll be in when they’re done.”

Books on shearing, cleaning, carding, and spinning littered the kitchen table.
For three days, she’d stacked them out of the way before each meal, dragging them back as soon as the plates were cleared.
She had wool now.
What good would wool be without a spinning wheel?

A glance out the door told him he only had a few minutes.
Scrolling through his phone, he looked for numbers of yarn shops all around the Rockland Loop.
He consulted her book, asked questions, and took notes of what each shop had in stock.
By the time she climbed the steps, still waving at the departing shearers, he thought he had a plan.

“What’re you doing?”

“I have here a list of every type of spinning wheel I could find within driving distance.
What do you think about us going to get one?
What good is that fleece without something to spin it with?”

His eyes closed and he laid his cheek on her shoulder as Willow slid onto his lap at the table, poring over his notes
.
It hadn’t been that long ago that the movement would have been instinctive—instinctively friendly.
This was different, and every time she made those little gestures, it filled his heart with gratitude.
Only the Lord could have effected that change in her.
Only the Lord.

Saturday morning, Chad sat at the table
,
amazed as he remembered the week he
’
d
enjoyed
with his wife.
Wife.
Had it really been just a year
since
he
’
d prayed that the Lord would take Willow out of his life?
Had he really resented her as much as he remembered?
Seeing her as she pulled muffins from the oven, scooped eggs and
“
breakfast steak
”
onto his plate, humming contentedly, he
almost
couldn
’
t remember why he
’
d rejected her for so long
—almost.

He had almost expected something to go wrong—some kind of awkwardness or argument to upset the balance of their relationship—but it didn’t happen. Each day had its new experiences and opportunities for misunderstanding.
They’d never spent that much concentrated time alone together.
During her injury and his, there had always been times apart.
Willow liked her solitude.
Still, even amid the newness of marriage, their comfortable camaraderie never wavered.

Chad smiled across the table.
“
What are you going to do today?
”

After a bite of her eggs, Willow shrugged.
“
I
’
ve been neglecting the chickens.
I think it
’
s time to do some more butchering.
I
’
ve got those new chicks coming in so…
”

“
Great day to go back to work
.”

“I waited for it…” she teased.
“I considered offering, but I’m too selfish.
I want the blood—the guts—”

He jumped up and carried his mostly-empty plate to the sink.
Kissing her cheek, he dashed out the door calling, “See you tonight.”

She hurried to the front porch and waved as he drove down the drive
—
another first in their life.
As the truck brake lights disappeared, Willow gave
one last glance at the empty drive
and hurried to clean the kitchen before her afternoon of chicken slaughter.
She wanted it all done and every trace gone before Chad
came home from work
.

Her eyes widened as she
opened the
cupboard.
Her fingers slid down the stack—
stack of plates
—as she put the breakfast dishes away.
Eight plates.
Eight bowls.
Eight mugs, glasses, small plates.
The silverware drawer had silverware in a tray inside.
No more forks, spoons, and knives in a mason jar next to the plates.
There were enough utensils and dishes for the entire family.

Sobs wracked her body—again.
When would the little changes stop
affecting her so deeply?
As she lay curled on the mat in front of the sink, her hands wiping ineffectually at her eyes, Willow tried to pray.
Words and thoughts failed.
In the deepest part of her heart, hidden under the secrets in her soul, a small part of her was comforted by that pain.
It meant she had not forgotten Mother or their life.

Willow
awoke
half an hour later, refreshed. It took a moment to realize just what she was doing on the floor, but when the memories flooded her again, she felt comforted.
“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered.

Chickens.
Time to butcher chickens.
She changed clothes and jogged down the back steps to the barn, setting up her butchering station.
Portia raced between her legs, charged the coop fence, and barked at the slightest movement.
“Well, girl, your herding skills are excellent, but I do not want my chickens herded!
Go!”

Portia did not go.
She chased again, until Willow, frustrated and ready to lock her in the cellar, tied the yapping bundle of fur to the front porch.
Although the chickens weren’t any more cooperative, Willow didn’t care.
She grabbed the first bird, wrung its neck, and carried the animal to the barn.
In nearly record time, she had the birds skinned and ready to process in the kitchen.
Once she plucked and gutted the last two birds, she
would
be done
.

The clock showed five-thirty by the time she
finished the butchering, fed the animals
, milked Ditto, and put away the rest of the tools.
She grabbed her favorite skirt and top, a towel, and raced for the shower.
After the day
’
s work, she looked forward to relaxing in the porch swing until Chad got home.

Showered, dressed, hair braided—
refreshed.
Willow
strolled out to the summer kitchen to give the chicken a final baste before she walked around to the front of the house and untied the puppy.
She grabbed th
e
journal she was
currently
reading
and Portia’s favorite bone
and settled into the porch swing
,
kicking the bone across the porch.
While she found her place in the journal, the puppy bounced after the bone, grabbed it, growled, rolled and made a puppy nuisance of h
erself
over it.
Willow read.

June 2001,

I realize that I need to stop treating Willow as my child.
I mean, she is my child but she
’
s an adult now.
The law can say what it wants
,
but she
’
s been an adult for many years already.
I think I need to ease her into a different way of interrelating.
I
’
m not sure how to do it.

I have tried to remember what mom and dad did.
I don
’
t know.
It seemed as if one day I was just there and had been for ages.
One thing that I am certain of
—
she needs a solid idea of what work comes when
,
so she can plan her own time and not rely so heavily on me.
I
just don’t know how
to do
it
.