Not a Sparrow Falls (33 page)

She glanced at Winifred. Alasdair’s siding with the enemy had sent her into full fury.

“No!” she shouted. She pounded her cane on the floor. “You cannot do it. It is wrong. It is ridiculous. It’s vulgar and inappropriate. Mother would hate it. Father would hate it. I hate it. You cannot do this. No! No! No!” She blew out
little drops of spittle along with the words, and her whole body trembled.

Bridie stared. Lorna was shaking her head. Now Alasdair looked as if he were seeing his sister for the first time. There was silence for at least a minute, and when Alasdair spoke his tone was flat and unequivocal.

“Not only can we do it, we have. It’s done, and this is the way it will stay. Your only choice is whether you will accept it or not. I would hope our relationship wouldn’t be damaged by a fuss over furniture, but I can’t allow you to come into my home and treat Bridie and Lorna like this. It’s inexcusable, and I won’t tolerate it.”

Winifred stared. Her face crumpled. No one moved for several minutes, and the only sound was Winifred’s muted sobs. Bridie finally broke the silence.

“Here,” she said, moving toward Winifred, touching her arm. “Come on, now. Everything’s going to be all right.” She found her a tissue, and Winifred allowed herself to be led to the couch.

Alasdair rose from the beanbag. “Show me what you’d like to take home, and I’ll carry it down for you.” His tone was kind, but unapologetic. “That is, if Lorna doesn’t mind, and of course, I expect you to consult with her and Fiona about who should have what.”

Winifred nodded and sniffed. “Do you?” she asked Lorna.

“Do I what?” Lorna looked as if she were trying to solve complicated math problems in her head.

“Do you mind if I take some of Mother’s things?” Winifred repeated with a surprising lack of impatience.

“No. Of course not.”

Winifred nodded and dabbed at her eyes and nose. “I’ll take the glass figurines and the tea service today,” she said, sounding so subdued Bridie felt sorry for her. It must be very difficult to realize you’re only human, after all, after so many years of running your world like a powerful little deity.

“Here, let’s put that foot up,” Bridie suggested. She helped
Winifred get settled and found a pillow for her foot. “How about I bring you a cup of tea?” she offered.

Winifred nodded without speaking, but her eyes filled again. Bridie gave her a smile and patted her arm.

“I’ll be right back,” she promised and went to make the tea.

Lorna followed her out. When they reached the kitchen and Bridie had the kettle on, Lorna turned toward Bridie, her face still wearing an expression of amazement.

“All these years,” she said, “and this is all it would have taken.”

****

Alasdair refused to cancel the coffee hour after the Christmas Eve candlelight service. It was not well attended, though, and Winifred seemed to have recovered enough to enjoy this small triumph. She manned the silver coffeepot and emphasized her victory by filling far too many Styrofoam cups than this tiny crowd could drink. They lined the table in front of her, rows of them, silent witnesses to the fact that she had been right and Audrey Murchison had been wrong. Bridie sat sipping her cider. She turned to look for Lorna, and came face-to-face with Alasdair, leaning inches from her.

“What are you pondering?” he asked with a smile.

She tried to ignore the rush of adrenaline that shot through her. She was surprised to see him. That was all. “How did you know something was on my mind?” she came back, keeping her voice calm, even though her poor heart was still galloping like a runaway horse. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”

“Sorry.” He smiled, put his foot on the folding metal chair, and rested his arms on his bent knee. “I can tell you’re preoccupied, because it’s all over your face. I’ve lived with you for some time now. Give me a little credit.”

Such innocent-sounding words.
I’ve lived with you.
Bridie took a sip of her cider and wished it were iced instead of hot.
“I wear my heart on my sleeve, I guess. My grandma always used to tell me that.”

“Some people are incapable of pretense.” He smiled. Someone called him. He turned away, held up a hand in greeting to a man who beckoned to him. “I’d better talk to him.”

“I should go, too,” Bridie said, taking the last sip of her drink. “I’ve got stockings to fill.” She rose from the table, aware of several sets of curious eyes on her.

“I’ll be home soon,” he said, stabbing her heart again.
Home. Our home.
She nodded but was all stirred up as she went out the squeaking double doors. She heard them click and clatter shut behind her as she stepped onto the frosted lawn. It crackled under her feet, and the air was sharply cold. It felt good to her fevered face. Her fevered brain. She had the feeling she was flying down a mountain road in a car with bad brakes, foot flat against the pedal, headed full-bore for trouble. She needed to stop. At least slow down. The trouble was, she didn’t want to.

****

It was after midnight. Officially Christmas now, and the house was finally silent. Everyone was tucked away, dreaming of sugarplums or some such. All except him. He was alone with a familiar companion.

Alasdair leaned close to the bedroom window, his breath fogging it. He could see the faint outlines of the gravestones, the ghostly tables where no feasting would occur, and for the first time in his practical life, he understood how people could believe in hauntings.

It was odd, but it did seem as if some, when they breathed their last, passed gently and quietly from one life to the next like a child falling asleep on the sofa and waking up in their own bed. Others, though, seemed to leave this life but not move on.

Like Anna.

It seemed she still clung to him every day. She was the silent
listener to every conversation. She observed him each night as he lay on his bed. She watched as he sipped tea with Bridie, as he played with his children. She listened when he preached.

In those months after her death he had begged and pleaded with her. Don’t leave me, Anna. Please don’t leave me. Little had he known that those words, along with her presence, would come back to haunt him.

He stood back from the window, irritated at his irrational hyperbole, then climbed back into the bed. He lay there, eyes pressed tightly shut, willing sleep to come.

****

Bridie waited until the house was silent before she crept out of her bed. She and Lorna were sharing the guest room on this special night. Lorna was asleep beside her, breathing slow and deep. Bridie crept downstairs, expertly avoiding the two steps that creaked. She pulled aside the curtains and peeked out the hall window. No snow.

Oh well, you couldn’t have everything. The night was still pretty in a sparkly, luminous way. The little particles of frost were suspended in the air, making haloes around the street and porch lights. She dropped the curtain and padded toward the living room. She didn’t turn on the table lamps, but she plugged in the lights on the tree.

She grinned. It was a mess. All the cookies were gone, so the bottom was bare except for the tropical fruit refrigerator magnets Samantha had hung on with paper clips. The children’s presents were piled underneath, their stockings tipping up against the boxes, candy canes and tangerines and chocolate kisses spilling out. Bridie turned on the CD of Christmas music, softly, so no one would be disturbed. She sat down on the beanbag, laid her head back, and let the music wash over her.
O come, O come, Emmanuel, And ransom captive Israel, That mourns in lonely exile here. . . .

Something stirred in her, something deep and eternal, and
it was rocking and shaking the deep crevasses of her heart like an underground earthquake.

So many secrets. Hers and Anna’s and Alasdair’s. So closely guarded. So much energy required to keep the confession from spilling out of the lips. Walking through life was nearly impossible, for the feet were always cautious. Always testing the ground before letting the weight shift, then quickly doing the same again with the next step. Nothing could be trusted. Never could the guard relax. The earth itself was unsteady, unstable. Perhaps thick enough to be trusted, but more likely concealing underground caverns, whole rooms and tunnels, passageways, vaults. Sepulchers and tombs. The secrets, like Lazarus, lay still and cold inside them, bound tightly with gravecloth, somewhere between dead and alive. Waiting for someone to call them into the light of day, to loose them and let them go.

What was it that Lorna had said when they’d discussed reading the journals? About the truth setting you free? She smiled, bitter at the irony. Her truth, were she to tell it, would do the opposite. If she told the truth, she would go to jail. But just now she hardly cared. Wasn’t she in jail already? Wasn’t she?

What could be worse than this yawning emptiness inside her that had once been filled with the presence of the Lord? Now there was a gaping hole where He had been. Wouldn’t jail be better than this if her heart could be clean again?

Ah, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Could it be clean again? Really? She knew what her grandmother would say, her mother, Alasdair. But something inside her couldn’t believe them. She was afraid this stain went too deep, perhaps clear through to who she was instead of just tainting what she’d done.

“Oh, how my heart yearns for thee,” she whispered, the words coming from an unguarded place. “Oh, how my heart yearns for thee. More than the watchman waits for the morning.”

Oh yes. She felt she could endure a lifetime in prison easier than another day away from Him. For she had known Him, no matter what that accusing voice said to her in the tiny hours of the morning. It had been more than filling out a card at the end of a service, or raising a hand during a prayer, or even going forward during an invitation. She smiled, remembering how she’d tried to explain it to her grandmother. “It’s like having an invisible friend,” she’d said. An invisible friend who also happens to be the God of the universe. An invisible friend who gave His very life for you.

Her breath came softly in and out, in and out, a continual gift from the one who held everything together, who waited patiently, who would wait until the rocks grew old, wait and wait until she grew tired of running. She blotted her eyes with the sleeve of her pajamas. She was tired and would stop now if only she knew how.

Twenty-Seven

“I always wanted to be a woman of mystery.” Aunt Lorna put on the moonstone necklace, pulled her pajama top down so one shoulder showed, and sort of squinted up her eyes.

“You look dumb,” Samantha said.

“Thanks.” Aunt Lorna smiled, put her pajamas back, reached across, and kissed Samantha on the cheek. “I love it even if I don’t quite live up to the label.”

“You will,” Bridie promised. “I just know that one of these days romance and mystery will be your calling card.”

Aunt Lorna laughed really hard at that.

“Open yours,” Samantha urged, turning toward Bridie. Samantha shoved Cam’s tape recorder out from under her leg. He was clueless as usual, hanging on Dad, playing with the fire engine Samantha had given him, and not even opening the rest of his presents. She smiled. Bonnie liked her talking doll, too. She’d already taken its clothes off.

Bridie looked at the little pile of presents in front of her. Samantha had made sure she had the same amount as everybody else. She had even gone to the drugstore last night and bought some more stuff just in case there wasn’t enough. But actually it was okay. Dad had gotten something for Bridie, and Aunt Lorna had wrapped up some stuff from Cam and Bonnie.

“There.” Samantha pointed out the paper she’d picked—with the birds on it because it had reminded her of that dumb song Bridie had sung. “Those are from me.”

Bridie took one. Samantha tried to remember what was in it. Oh. That was the hair spray.

“Well, for goodness’ sake, how did you know I needed one of these for my purse?”

“She’s thoughtful, that’s how,” Aunt Lorna said, and suddenly, for no good reason, Samantha was glad she was in this
family. She brushed her hair back, leaned against Dad’s legs, and watched Bridie open the tiny little comb and brush and the fold-up mirror.

“Well, I’m all set,” Bridie said, her face all smiling and happylike.

“You haven’t even opened the best one. There. Do that one.”

Bridie picked up the box with the earrings. Samantha forgot the name of the stones, but they were the same bright blue as Bridie’s eyes and were set in real silver. She almost held her breath as Bridie opened the box.

“Oh!” Bridie held them up. “They’re beautiful!” Bridie was, like, crying and all. “Oh, Samantha, I’ll treasure them forever.”

Samantha smiled. “They’ll look better with clothes than they do with your sweats.”

“You had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?”

Samantha smiled again. Her dad bumped her with his knees. “Go get us some coffee, Samantha. It’s probably ready now.”

“Check the cinnamon rolls, please,” Bridie said.

“Don’t open anything until I get back.”

They promised they wouldn’t. She put the cups and coffee and sugar and cream on the tray as fast as she could and went back to the living room. Dad had put on the MacPherson plaid vest Bridie had made for him, and it looked dumb over his sweatshirt.

“The cinnamon rolls will be done in five minutes,” Samantha announced, plopping down again. “Now, whose turn is it?”

“Why, I believe it’s yours,” Dad said, and he handed her a package, a tiny box. She opened it, and there, resting on a bed of black velvet, was a necklace, a heart with a tiny diamond in the center. Dad took it out of the box and hooked it around her neck. “There,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Now all the boys will know who you belong to. You’re mine until I give
you away.” Samantha still didn’t say anything. She leaned up against his knees and watched Bridie and Aunt Lorna open the rest of their presents, and every now and then she picked up the little heart and adjusted the chain.

Twenty-Eight

January blew in with a foot of snow that stayed on the ground for weeks, another inch or two being added as soon as one melted away. Samantha’s school was closed for three days, and Bridie played outside with the children until their faces were numb, then brought them in for cocoa and baths. She made snapping fires and hearty soups and loaves of bread. She knew everyone’s favorite foods and favorite clothes now and how they liked their eggs and whether they wanted the crust on or off their sandwiches. It was easier and easier to pretend that they were hers. All of them.