When Mercy Rains (7 page)

Clete offered a brusque nod, then turned on his heel and left the room. In his absence, an uncomfortable silence fell for a few seconds. Then Tanya retrieved a ladle from the drainer beside the sink and began transferring noodles and tomato sauce from the large kettle into the saucepan she’d placed on an iron burner.

“Not too much.” Suzanne pressed one palm to her jumping stomach. “It’s late, and it might not settle well.”

“Just enough to hold you over until breakfast.” Tanya lit the burner beneath the pan, covered the kettle again, and carried it to the refrigerator. As she turned from the fridge, her gaze landed squarely on Suzanne, and tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Suzanne …” She rushed at her, arms wide, and wrapped her in yet another firm embrace. She whispered, “I’m so glad you came home. We’ve needed you for … so long.”

Suzanne put her arms loosely around her sister-in-law’s frame. Her years of nursing bid her to offer comfort, but how? If Tanya needed stitches or medication or even a sponge bath, Suzanne could give it, but she had no idea how to respond to her obvious emotional distress. She met Alexa’s gaze over Tanya’s shaking shoulders, and she read the same confusion in her daughter’s eyes that filled her own head.
What is wrong in this household?

Alexa

“Amen.” Her nighttime prayers complete, Alexa rose from her knees and turned to sit on the edge of the twin-size bed crammed into the corner of one of the upstairs bedrooms. The iron frame let out a low groan, and she cringed. She didn’t want to disturb Mom. Poor Mom … She’d fallen, exhausted, into the room’s other little bed less than half an hour ago and had drifted off to sleep almost at once. Alexa envied her. She wanted to sleep, but her restless mind refused to shut down.

With a sigh, she tiptoed to the window and pushed aside the simple panel curtain. Moonlight bathed the landscape in a soft glow, shimmering on the tin roof of the barn and turning several small outbuildings into lumbering beasts. A shiver of anticipation wiggled its way down Alexa’s limbs. Tomorrow she would explore each of those buildings. Tomorrow she’d walk in the yard where her mother had played as a child. She’d count the chickens in the pen and maybe even collect eggs the way Mom had. Such intense eagerness gripped her it brought the sting of tears. Finally she would know what it felt like to live on a farm. And finally, finally she would get to know her family.

Alexa lowered the curtain with a gentle swish against the windowsill. She stood in the scant light afforded by the glowing face of her alarm clock, which she’d placed on the dresser between the pair of beds, and gazed down at her sleeping mother. Years ago, on the pretense of writing a school report, she’d looked
up information on a library computer about Old Order religious sects and learned the women wore dresses and head coverings. Until then, she’d not understood why Mom twisted her long, dark-blond hair in a bun and always wore long skirts instead of jeans or trousers even though the majority of the women from the church they attended wore pantsuits and cut their hair in short, trendy styles.

“You can take the girl out of Arborville, but you can’t take Arborville out of the girl,” Alexa whispered into the quiet room, smiling at her private joke. With her hair loose around her shoulders and her face relaxed in sleep, Mom looked so much younger than her thirty-seven years. An unexpected wave of tenderness swept over her, and she bent forward to give her mother’s temple a light kiss. Mom snuffled and Alexa froze, holding her breath. Convinced she hadn’t roused her mother, she released her breath in a whoosh and turned toward her bed, but she wasn’t ready to lie down.

She lifted her favorite purple zebra-print bathrobe from the end of her bed and, as soundlessly as possible, moved to the door and inched it open. A shaft of light filtered into the room, and Alexa quickly stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her, sealing Mom in the dark bedroom. Light from the stairwell illuminated the square landing and turned the crystal doorknobs into glittering diamonds. She turned a slow circle, counting the doors. Five in all. Behind one was a bathroom where she and Mom had brushed their teeth at the pedestal sink before dressing for bed. The others were probably bedrooms.

When she and Mom had come up an hour ago, Uncle Clete had taken them directly to the room across from the stair opening. He apologized for not being able to put them in Mom’s old room, but he’d already put Julie and Jana to sleep in there since the little girls liked sharing the double bed. Mom and Alexa had assured him they’d prefer their own beds, even if they were only twin-size beds. But she wished she could have at least peeked into Mom’s room and seen what it looked like. She shrugged. She could always explore tomorrow.

A mumble of voices carried from downstairs. Apparently Uncle Clete and Aunt Tanya were still up. Good. She’d visit with them—pepper them with
questions—until she was too tired to stay awake any longer. She shoved her arms into the bathrobe, tied the belt, then made her way downstairs, taking care to move quietly so she wouldn’t bother the sleeping children or Mom. When she was halfway down the stairwell, the voices lost their mumbling quality and Alexa made out their words.

“—don’t know how Mother will take it.” Uncle Clete sounded distressed. Alexa paused, uncertain as to whether she should continue down or return to her room.

“Give her a chance to explain before you jump to conclusions, Clete.” Aunt Tanya’s reply came, her voice low and soothing. Alexa envisioned the pair on the sofa together, probably holding hands, the way couples in the romance novels she checked out from the library sat for serious talks. “It’s possible she’s adopted. After all, they look nothing alike.”

“That’s true. But if so, why not just come right out and say so?”

“Well, think about it. Do your cousins Andrew and Olivia call Anna-Grace and little Sunny their adopted daughters, or do they call them their daughters? They’ve raised the girls, which makes them theirs in every sense of the word, so of course they don’t qualify their relationship with them.” Tanya spoke so reasonably Alexa found herself nodding in agreement even though she wasn’t part of the conversation.

A heavy sigh carried around the corner, followed by Uncle Clete’s defeated voice. “I understand what you’re saying, but I’ve seen the letters she sent to Mother over the years. She never mentions having a daughter. Why not tell us?”

Alexa jolted. They were talking about her.

Uncle Clete’s voice turned anguished. “I can’t help worrying she’s an out-of-wedlock child. What will the fellowship say?”

Although she was well aware of her illegitimacy, Mom had always assured her she needn’t feel ashamed—she hadn’t sinned by being born, and her birth hadn’t taken God by surprise. She’d been raised to believe she had a purpose in the world and that she was loved unconditionally by both God and her mother. Thanks to Mom’s gentle teaching and the acceptance of her church family,
Alexa had never experienced even a tiny smidgen of disgrace over her fatherless state. But in that moment shame smacked down on her with such force it bent her forward. And something else became very clear.

Mom was embarrassed about her. She must be. She’d kept Alexa’s existence a secret from her family. The realization hacked away at the foundation of Alexa’s security. She didn’t want to hear anything else, but her legs felt rubbery and weak. If she tried to move, she’d surely collapse. So she remained in the stairwell, holding to the wooden rail with both hands and silently praying for the strength to return to her bed.

Tanya’s voice drifted to Alexa’s ears. “Whether she is or not, we can’t send them away. Your mother requires constant care, and Shelley, Sandra, and I can’t keep coming out here. We have other responsibilities that are being neglected. It isn’t fair to our children. We can’t hire another nurse—it’s too costly on top of what it will take to make this farmhouse wheelchair friendly. And she’d probably just run the nurse off anyway.” A hint of desperation entered Tanya’s tone. “We don’t have any other choice. She needs Suzanne.
We
need Suzanne.”

“I know. I wouldn’t have contacted her if there’d been any other option. But how will we hold up our heads if—”

“Shh, Clete, the shame isn’t ours to carry.”

A long pause, and then Uncle Clete spoke in a grating voice. “I just wish she’d come alone.”

At last Alexa found the courage to move. On trembling legs she climbed the staircase, placing her feet so carefully not even a mouse would have been startled by her progress. She entered the room, slid into her bed, and pulled the covers to her chin. Dry-eyed and aching, she stared into the dark room.

“I just wish she’d come alone.”
Her uncle’s words and anguished tone tormented her. She pressed her fist to her quivering lips, hurt beyond description. Uncle Clete had wondered how he would hold up his head if his sister had given birth to an illegitimate child. Now how could Alexa possibly face him?

The family she’d wanted for as far back as she could remember didn’t want her.

Suzanne

Suzanne awoke with a jolt in a dark, too-quiet room on a badly sagging mattress. Her pulse raced as confusion smote her. Where was she? Then, remembering, she dropped back against the lumpy pillow. She stared into the room until her eyes adjusted enough to make out the line of the electrical cord reaching from the plug-in at the base of the overhead light bulb to the dresser where it met Alexa’s alarm clock. A faint yellow glow outlined the black plastic box, but Alexa had turned the face toward her so Suzanne couldn’t see the digital numbers. But she didn’t need to see the time to know it was very early.

The house was completely quiet. No traffic noise filtered through the windows. No neighbors’ voices rumbled through the walls. No trash-can lids clanked or dogs barked or sirens blared—all sounds that had become familiar during her years of living in the city. When she’d first moved to Franklin, it had taken her weeks to learn to sleep through big-city noises. Now their absence held her awake.

Her back ached, too. She shifted onto her side, cringing at the intruding twang of bedsprings. The new position eased the fierce ache in her lower spine but a twinge in her hip kept her from fully relaxing. Her body, confused by the change in her sleeping routine, felt tense and restless. Should she get up? It might be nice to have some time alone downstairs to reacquaint herself with her surroundings before everyone else awakened.

She made herself lie still for several long minutes, hoping she might drift back to sleep, but when her hip began throbbing in protest at the uncomfortable mattress, she decided to give in and go downstairs. She draped her bathrobe over her arm, ducked beneath the electrical cord, and crept out to the landing.
When she was young, Mother had always left a small lamp burning on a table in the landing. But no guiding light directed her now. With no windows allowing in a touch of moonlight, the landing was black as pitch. So black Suzanne suffered a momentary attack of dizziness.

Pressing her palm to the wall, she felt her way to the staircase, then inched her way down, counting the risers as she went. She remembered counting them the night she’d sneaked out to meet Paul Aldrich. Fourteen in all. Fourteen chances to turn around and go back to her room. Fourteen steps to a night that changed her life forever.

She stepped from the staircase into the front room where the lace panels shrouding the windows let in faint, murky light. She paused to tug on her bathrobe, then moved past Mother’s rocking chair to the sofa. She sat at one end and pulled up her knees. The room held a chill, and she considered draping the afghan over herself, but it felt wrong to use it without asking permission. So she tucked her bare feet under the flap of her robe instead.

The old pendulum clock hanging above the piano softly and rhythmically ticktocked, a comforting sound. Like a heartbeat. At least something seemed alive in the deathly quiet house. She squinted at the round yellowed face and scrolled hands. Five fifteen. Or thereabouts. The old clock, although faithful to count the minutes when someone remembered to wind it, had never kept true time. Dad had always moved the minute hand a few positions when he rewound it. Forward or backward? Suzanne couldn’t remember. The clock hung high on the wall. Mother couldn’t reach it there. Who wound it for her?