Part 14 (1/2)
She folded her clothes and stuffed them into an empty dresser drawer. The shampoo, her shears, and hair products she'd managed to salvage from the salon went on one of the shelving units under the window. She ran the carpet sweeper, dusted the bric-a-brac, fluffed pillows, and stacked books. The room, clean to begin with, was now spotless.
All that was left on the bed were the shreds of material.
Sinking to the edge of the mattress, Abigail slowly began to sort the bits of cloth. These were all fragments of people's lives, she reflected as she traced her finger over the various textures of satin and beads, wool and cotton, rough and soft. A wedding dress. A pillowcase. A suit jacket, a blouse, a prom dress, a tie, a dog's bed, some curtains, some upholstery, a choir robe, a stuffed toy, a costume . . . Abigail's head dropped into her hands. And . . . a baby's blanket. Danny was dead.
The man who loved G.o.d with all his heart and soul and mind. Dead. Before he ever got to touch his son.
No. Abigail inhaled a deep, angry breath. No! She thought of Jen, sitting there in that hospital with a newborn, grieving. Without her husband. This should be the happiest day of her life! She'd waited for it forever. She and Danny both! Her child would miss out on the best father ever to set foot on this earth. Where was the sense in that?
”Where?” she shrieked at the ceiling and then flopped to the bed and pounded on the tattered fabric with her fists. ”Why would You let that happen?” she raged as she clutched the blanket in bunches. ”Why didn't You save him? He was special! He loved You!” she shouted this accusation, not caring who was listening.
Behind her, the bedroom door softly opened and Bob Ray's wife stepped into the room. Without asking permission, she perched next to Abigail, so closely, their hips were touching. Crying herself, she handed Abigail a tissue, and then opened her arms. Though Heather was a stranger, Abigail leaned into her gentle embrace and allowed the younger girl to comfort her. And to quietly pray for her.
Abigail woke to a knock at the door. Slowly, she sat up and pushed her hair out of her face thinking that was why she couldn't see. But, the truth was, the light outside was gone now. Not really caring, she guessed an entire day had pa.s.sed. She'd worn herself out crying in Heather's arms. The last thing she remembered was Heather pulling a quilt off the other bed and covering her before she'd tiptoed out of the room.
”Abby?” It was Selma.
She cleared her throat. ”Yes?” she croaked, her voice still rough from her tirade.
”Honey, I have some food for you here.” The k.n.o.b twisted and the door swung open. The smell of food permeated the air and made Abigail realize that she hadn't eaten since . . . she couldn't even remember. Selma set a tray on the dresser and then switched on a low glowing lamp by the door. Abigail blinked into the sudden light.
”I made a pot roast. The power went on and off all morning, so I decided to defrost a few things. I fixed you some potatoes and gravy and a salad . . .” She crossed the room and, gathering the pillows off the other bed, propped her great-niece up before moving to get the tray. ”I checked on you several times . . . so did your friend, Justin. I think he's concerned about you, sweetheart. We all are.”
Abigail rubbed her eyes first and then her face before she gave Selma a s.h.i.+very smile. ”I'm okay.”
Selma peered through her gla.s.ses with bloodshot eyes. ”Are you really?”
”Mm. I guess.” She took the fork Selma handed her and began to pick at her food.
”Eat, honey. You'll feel better.”
Too tired to argue, Abigail poked some roast into her mouth. The bits of cloth she'd spread out on the bed before Heather had come in had mostly fallen on the floor as she'd slept. Bending over, Selma picked those up and stacked them with the ones that still littered her quilt top.
”What are these?” she asked, fingering the different textures and sizes.
Abigail chewed for a second and then swallowed. ”Remnants. Literally.”
”Ah.” Selma began to sort through them, arranging them according to color and size. Because she was a quilter, Abigail guessed. Must be habit. ”These are not bits of fabric, you realize.” Chin wrinkled in thought, lips pursed, Selma adjusted her gla.s.ses. ”These are the pieces that need putting back together.”
”Found them all over the place, after the storm. Right now, they represent all my worldly possessions.” With a heavy sigh, Abigail scooped up a fork full of mashed potatoes and gravy and ate. The pot roast was tender and juicy and seasoned to perfection. Almost immediately she began to notice a difference in her att.i.tude. In a blink, her plate was clean and her gla.s.s empty.
”There's more if you're still hungry,” Selma offered as she settled the pile of sc.r.a.ps on the nightstand.
”No, thank you, though. I'm fine.”
Selma took the tray, set it on the dresser, then returned to climb into bed next to Abigail. She was so bird-like she took up hardly any s.p.a.ce at all in the twin bed. However, the warmth she generated, body and spirit, was large and slowly worked its magic. Abigail snuggled in next to her and whispered to her grandmother's younger sister, ”Why, Selma? Why would G.o.d do that to Jen?”
”Honey, G.o.d didn't do it to Jen.”
”Yes! He did. At the very least, He could have stopped it. Weren't we all praying for Danny? Didn't we ask Him to protect Danny? Didn't Danny just have a baby? Danny trusted Him!”
Selma plumped her pillow and made herself comfortable facing Abigail. ”Did you like your hair salon?”
”Uh . . .”Abigail frowned and scanned the ceiling plaster as she tried to second-guess her great-aunt's weird line of thinking. Knowing Selma, she was going to take her on some circuitous route before she drove home a point. The road could be lengthy and sometimes convoluted, but usually ended up making sense. ”Yes.”
”Why?”
”Well, uh, it was pretty. It was stylish. I worked hard on it.”
”You did?”
”Yes.”
”G.o.d didn't do that to your salon? Make it pretty? Paint the walls? Sew the curtains?”
”I . . . well, no. I did.”
”And the awards on the walls? Who won those?”
”Me.”
”G.o.d didn't do that to you?”
”No,” Abigail said and sighed. ”I don't think so.”
”Then why are you blaming Him now? Why do you take credit for the happy things and blame Him for the bad stuff?”
Abigail stared at the ceiling and sighed. The plaster made odd shapes in this light. One patch resembled a calf and another, an ogre. ”Because it's not fair.”
”Fair.” Selma took Abigail's hand and held it up next to hers in the dim light. The differences between the smooth, supple young hand, and the gnarled, spotted one were obvious. ”What would be fair?”
”Danny not dying.”
”Danny had to die, honey. Just like me. And yes, even you. The mortality rate for human beings is 100 percent.”
”But what about his son?”
”What about him? He is going to die, too.”
”Without a father.”
”I suppose pointing out that he has a heavenly Father would sound trite to you at this point, but it's true.” Selma reached over and smoothed Abigail's hair behind her ear and cupped the young cheek with her hand. ”When I was your age, I seriously thought I was placed on this planet to get a suntan. You know, to be happy. I was supposed to be happy. Clyde was supposed to be happy. All the kids were supposed to be- and live-happily ever after. We were supposed to acc.u.mulate stuff. Houses, cars, nice clothes, go on vacation overseas. Live the American dream. Get rich. Get slim. Get tan. Be happy. Happy, happy, happy. When we were done, we would go to heaven and be even happier. No stress, no strain, no thought, no pain. And no G.o.d. Didn't need Him, because I was so busy being happy. But there was something missing. I knew it, even then, in the midst of my supposed 'happiness.' Then, on June 8, 1966, we lost everything. In a tornado, of all things. And suddenly, I wasn't happy anymore. In fact, I was suicidal.”
Abigail's eyes widened. ”You?”
Selma nodded. ”Me. I wasn't happy. Couldn't cope. Ended up in the hospital with what they used to call a nervous breakdown.”
”Wow. I never knew.”
”Yeah, well, that's because that was the old me. The woman who blamed G.o.d because she wasn't always . . .” Selma shrugged.