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I’ve taken Mom’s car out again, snowstorm and all. I know it’s stupid of me, but I’ve decided to leave Orchard Grove for good. With Chris out of my life and poor Reginald dead and gone, there’s nothing left for me here except for an infinite supply of maternal guilt as soon as Mom gets back from her East Coast vacation.
Justin asked me again to come to Seattle. His sister’s roommate just moved out, but her rent’s caught up through April through some strange set of circumstances (which I take to mean Justin is paying his sister on my behalf). If I go now, that gives me four months to get on my feet. If I act soon, maybe I’ll even find some kind of retail job. Doesn’t every store need extra help at Christmastime?
It’s all settled. He’s got a meeting first thing tomorrow morning, and the rest of his week’s already booked solid, so he’s driving out today.
A few more hours, and I’ll be saying goodbye to Orchard Grove forever.
But first, there’s someone I want to see.
I pull up in front of Safe Anchorage Farm, only there’s no Mrs. Gregory in her checkered apron to greet me. Part of me wants to go back to my mom’s, but I know there’s nothing for me to do there except worry about Justin. At least my visit to Safe Anchorage will give me some sort of distraction.
I knock on the door, hating how timid I feel. I wait out in the cold long enough that I’m embarrassed. They’re obviously not home. I turn around but stop at the sound of bells jingling on the doorknob.
Grandma Lucy’s there smiling, her hair even a shockier shade of white that it appeared this morning in church. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she says and holds open the door to let me in. “My legs aren’t as fast as they once were.”
She doesn’t ask why I’m here.
“Come into the sitting room with me.” She leads the way without looking back to make sure I’m following.
We’re sitting in the same chairs again. It’s been almost a year to the day since our last visit. The day Gracie was born. The day Chris was ripped out of my life forever. It’s not until I look around me, feel the weight of all those memories, that I realize what a mistake I’ve made coming here. My psyche’s already fragile after my little crying fest in the Orchard Grove ladies room this morning. I don’t need to torture myself anymore.
Determined to make this visit as short and painless as possible, I tell Grandma Lucy, “I’m moving soon and just wanted to stop by and say goodbye. Wish you a Merry Christmas.”
Grandma Lucy shuts her eyes. She’s quiet for so long I’m afraid she might have fallen asleep. When she stares at me, she looks a decade older than I remember. She takes my hand in hers, a hand covered with ridges and wrinkles but surprisingly smooth. She leans forward, so close I can smell some kind of buttery pastry on her breath.
“I’m very, very sorry about your husband.”
Don’t ask me why I came here, but it wasn’t for her sympathy. “It’s ok.” I hope she’ll take the hint and change the subject.
“And how is that sweet little girl? Do you still hear from her from time to time?”
I nod. “She’s doing well. It’s almost her birthday.”
Grandma Lucy sighs heavily. “Is that so? Time sure does race past. Come, Lord Jesus, come,” she mutters under her breath, and for the first time I wonder if Grandma Lucy’s age is starting to impact her mind and not just her body.
“You know,” she tells me, “I pray for little Grace every day by name.” She still has my hand in hers. “I pray for you too, you know. I especially pray that one day you will find your healing.”
Now it’s my turn to be quiet. I wonder if Grandma Lucy has any idea how awkward this is for me. Thankfully, she breaks the uncomfortable silence with a prayer.
“Father God, you know my sweet, precious sister in the faith. You know all the sorrows she’s been through, the valleys, the struggles. You’ve counted her tears, Lord.”
Grandma Lucy’s voice is comforting and low, and before I know it, I’m lost in the same room, listening to this same woman, only it’s a year earlier. My belly is huge with child and the husband I’m never going to see again is at home praying for me to return.