Ever Constant, page 2
She sniffed and lifted her chin to give a slight nod.
Granddad put a hand over her dad’s mouth and nose for several moments. He turned back to her. “Your dad’s not dead, honey. He’s still breathing.”
Thank You, God.
But as soon as the prayer whipped through her mind, she shook her head and pressed her lips together. She’d have to deal with this again. What about poor Mama?
“Let’s get him home.” Granddad grunted as he picked up her father and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
They walked in silence for several minutes.
“Wanna tell me why you were out there in the middle of the night?” His tone wasn’t scolding, but she could tell by the way his eyebrows drew together that he’d been unhappy to find her there. Would she get in trouble for going to the saloons?
“Mama was crying because Daddy wasn’t home.”
“Ah, I see. So you thought you should just wander out into the middle of town looking for him?”
The truth was the best way to go. “I’ve gone to get Daddy a few times. I don’t see why I should get in trouble for that. He’s the one who causes all the problems.” She dared a look up at her grandfather.
His eyebrows raised. “Young lady, that’s no way to talk about your father. . . .” His face pinched and he clenched his jaw several times. A long breath came out before his next words. “And I wasn’t saying you were in trouble, though you should never leave the house unaccompanied—especially in the middle of the night.” The words were hushed. Sad.
“But . . . what else was I supposed to do?” She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “Besides, I’ve heard what you’ve said about him to Mama—”
“What were you doing listening in on our conversations? Those words weren’t meant for your ears. And besides, that’s no excuse for you talking about him that way.”
Now he was scolding.
She bit her lip. Caught. Heat rose into her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Granddad. But someone has to take care of Mama. That’s why I was up. If Daddy isn’t home, I always listen for her . . . to make sure she’s all right.”
His lips pinched together. Several moments passed before he continued. “Your mother would be heartbroken to hear you say those things about your father. And to find out that you’ve been sneaking out in the middle of the night to bring your dad home.” He huffed and shifted her dad’s limp form on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Whitney. So sorry that you’ve had to do this. This is all my fault.”
She had to strain to hear his last faint words. “Why is it your fault, Granddad?”
He shook his head as they trudged up the hill to their little house, and his breaths came faster. “I should have taken care of this long ago.”
“Taken care of what?” Her heart pounded in her chest. “Could you have stopped Daddy from drinking? From it making him sick all the time?”
Then why hadn’t he done so? Why had he let them be hurt this way?
“No. I’ve tried to get him to stop, but to no avail. Your mother has tried too. This is something only your dad can stop.”
“So what should you have taken care of?” It made little sense.
Granddad turned to her and stopped. He took several moments to catch his breath. He smiled, but not really. It wasn’t a smile that warmed her or made her want to smile back. Instead, she wanted to cry. “It doesn’t matter now, Whitney. Your dad drinks until he’s sick—”
“But why?”
Granddad sighed. “The one thing I can gather is that it helps him to forget.”
“Forget what? He doesn’t want to forget us, does he?” Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them out. Fine! If Dad didn’t love them, she wouldn’t love him. She didn’t want his love. Let him forget her. She didn’t care.
The tears almost escaped. Almost.
“No, sweetheart. He’d never want to forget you.” Granddad started back up the hill. “But a lot of adults need to forget the bad things that have happened to them, and the bad things they’ve done.”
“Like God forgets?”
Granddad’s face scrunched up and then relaxed. “Yes. We wish we could forgive like God does. But we have a hard time doing it, don’t we?”
As they walked the rest of the way up to the house, Whitney couldn’t get Granddad’s words out of her head. If only she could forget all the bad things she’d done too. All the times she’d been mean to her sisters. Or selfish. Or the times she’d lied. Mama said Jesus forgave her when she apologized to Him. But those bad actions came back to haunt her.
A lot.
Why couldn’t she be better? Like her mother.
A few Sundays ago, the reverend talked about forgiveness and how God chose to forget their sins, to put those sins as far away as the east from the west. How could He do that?
God, I sure hope You forget all my bad deeds.
Maybe God could forget her daddy’s too? And forgive him? Make him do better?
Jesus died for everyone’s sins. God loved all of them the same no matter what they’d done.
She sniffed and winced. She was supposed to forgive Daddy like God did. It was a good thing her dad wasn’t dead. Now she had to find some way to help him forget so he didn’t need to go out drinking.
Mama made certain to tell them every day that Daddy loved them. She promised it was true. That should be reason enough for him to give up his drinking. Shouldn’t it?
If he could stop, then she could forgive him. God would help her.
Then Mama wouldn’t cry anymore.
And then they could be a proper family.
That ate every meal together around the dinner table.
Talked about their days.
Laughed together.
Made memories together.
Went to church together.
Gathered around the piano to play music and sing.
Had picnics in the meadow on red-and-white checkered cloths.
The pictures in her mind were so vivid that she smiled.
“Whitney?” Granddad’s voice broke through her thoughts. “It’s freezing out here, honey. Let’s get inside.”
“Yes, sir.” As she walked into the tiny cabin they called home, she let the remnants of the pictures cement into her mind. She turned to close the door and watched as the snow laid a fresh white coating on everything.
Clean. Bright.
New.
Tomorrow could be the start of something new for them. It could.
And she couldn’t wait.
ONE
Sixteen Years Later
Monday, January 9, 1905—Nome, Alaska
Snow glimmered in the moonlight. A beautiful start to another morning in Nome. Whitney whistled a lively tune as the sled swished and shushed over the snow. Her dogs were in fine form, obeying every command with precision and executing each turn in perfect unity. Not a tangled line or misbehaving pup. By the time the sun crested the horizon, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
Oh, for more perfect days like thi––
She grimaced.
The ache started in the back of her neck and radiated up into her head. She lifted a hand to her neck and rubbed. But once this pain started, it was hard to get rid of. What came next was usually much worse.
When would these blasted headaches let up? They’d tormented her for months.
Ever since––
No. She wouldn’t think about it. She’d gotten away from him. That’s what mattered.
“Whoa!” Her dogs responded, coming to a stop.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bottle of tonic. Dr. Cameron gave it to her months ago because of the blow to her head. Thank heaven it helped ease her discomfort. A sip here and there was all it took.
She took a sip, replaced the bottle in her pocket, then urged the dogs back into motion. The pain lessened enough that she could make a mental list of everything she needed to accomplish today.
Lists kept her on track. Helped her to focus.
Life on the farm moved at a rapid pace, thank goodness. It kept her mind occupied, her hands busy. Between the cows, dogs, sheep, and chickens, she and her family had their work cut out for them. Havyn and Madysen had found good men to marry, men who wanted to help run the farm. Which she and her sisters needed. There was no way they would have been able to keep up by themselves.
Especially with Granddad still laid up after the bouts of apoplexy.
His movement had improved with exercises, but this past week he’d looked so weary. Maybe the winter doldrums were taking effect. It was, after all, the dead of winter. Or maybe he’d pushed himself too hard and too long over the past few weeks. He’d been determined to get up and walking soon.
Whatever it was, there had to be a way to lift his spirits. Lift all of their spirits. Maybe they should spend a bit more time around the piano in the evenings, on nights they weren’t at the Roadhouse.
Just the thought of playing with Havyn and Madysen brought a smile to her face.
With Maddy on cello and Havyn on the violin, they made quite the trio. But it was when they sang together that everything was the way it should be. There was something wonderful about singing tight harmonies with her sisters. With letting their voices soar.
As much as she was a mother hen to her younger sisters—even more so since Mama’s passing last year—the way they’d come around her after she’d been attacked showed her how much she needed them too. Whitney didn’t want to face a day without either of them. No matter how much they might get on one another’s nerves.
As her sled crested the hill, she caught sight of the farm. The expansive log-and-stone home Granddad built had smoke billowing from the chimney. The barns were alive with plenty of activity as the workers milked the herd. The usual cacophony of chickens chattering drifted on the air.
The sled glided over the snow as the dogs brought her back to the kennel area, their delight clear in their wagging tails and lolling tongues. Whitney hopped off the sled and worked with deft fingers in the bitter cold to unhook her team and get the dogs rubbed down and fed. Her mind sped through her responsibilities. Surely she had some time to shut her eyes against the pain. But no. Next came helping with breakfast, and then, since it was Monday, it was her turn to work with Granddad on his exercises.
She hesitated. Maybe Granddad needed something other than the same ol’ things he did every day. What if she were to read to him . . . or perhaps wheel him into the gathering room by the roaring fire and play the piano for him?
Of course! That was it. He’d love that. And it would be a pleasant change of pace for him. A break from the strenuous routine of stretches he did every day.
Ohhh . . .
Why wouldn’t the pain in her head stop? What she needed was a hot bath. So hot that it could melt the pain. But there were too many things on her list to do before she could even think about relaxing.
The morning meal passed in a flurry of pancakes, eggs, and fried ham steaks. All the noise and laughter increased the stabbing pain in her head. It took every ounce of her self-control to not let it show. She scraped plates into the bucket they took out to the animals. She rubbed her forehead.
Relax. Breathe. So much left to do.
But the throbbing didn’t lessen.
These darned headaches seemed to come more often. Maybe she needed to see Dr. Cameron. Find out if something was really wron––
“Whit . . . another one?” Havyn placed a hand on her shoulder.
With a sigh, she glanced at her sister. The child within her was beginning to show. “Yes. But don’t worry. You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll make it through. I always do.”
Hands on her hips, Havyn quirked an eyebrow at her. “You might be the oldest and think you can still boss us around, but I most certainly will worry. When one of us is hurting, the rest of us hurt.” She grabbed the wooden spoon out of Whitney’s hand and tilted her head. “Let me finish this and take it out. Everyone else has already gone out for the rest of the chores, so you go ahead and spend some time with Granddad. I think your idea of playing music for him will help you both. Especially with the house being quiet for a bit.”
Since when did Havyn give her orders? Still, her fingers itched to play some relaxing music on the piano. She’d give in.
This time.
“All right. But don’t think you’ve won.”
Havyn’s wide eyes blinked at her. “Oh, never.”
“I can hear the sarcasm, sis.”
“Good.” Havyn gave her a little pat. “Now go on.”
Whitney removed her apron and hung it up before heading into their large parlor. The piano gleamed in the lantern’s light. The dark wood drew her. Mama had them polish it with oil and beeswax twice a week without fail. Running her hand over the smooth surface, she allowed the memories to assail her senses. All those times they’d gathered around it, the times Mama taught them at it, the times she accompanied them as they sang . . .
Oh, to see Mama at the piano again.
Stop it. Sadness wouldn’t help. Not her or Grandad. Whitney went to the cabinet in the corner to pull out the music to Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu.
Mama’s favorite piece.
How Whitney had loved to sit on the floor and watch mother’s fingers fly over the keys as she played this piece. For years, Mama had wanted Whitney to learn it. But the technical piece intimidated her when she was younger . . . and there was something special about watching someone else play such a phenomenal creation.
Whitney set the music on the grand piano and opened the lid. She should have learned it at Mama’s side––
No. Stay positive.
She could work on it for Granddad. It was his favorite too. And maybe, just maybe, they could comfort each other with the music. Be reminded of the beauty his daughter, her mother, gave them.
With a few deep breaths, Whitney examined the opening of the piece. The part that amazed her and daunted her the most. The triplet pattern in the left hand was contrary to the rhythm of the sixteenth notes in the right. Mama always called it three against four. Told her that the way to conquer it was for each hand to learn how to play independent of the other.
“You have to master it hands separately, my dear.” Mama’s voice was so clear in her mind. Almost as if Whitney could conjure her up beside her. “Then let them come together. They will know the rhythm. They will know what to do. But only after you’ve practiced it hundreds of times hands separately.”
The emphasis on the words brought a smile to Whitney’s face. How many times had her mother drilled into them, “Count. One and two and three and four and . . . watch those scales, tuck that thumb . . . hands together, hands separately!”
Whitney sat and practiced the first couple of pages. Hands separately, she played each part and paid careful attention to the fingering and rhythm. She knew what the song sounded like, so it was easy to imagine how it would be all together. But this would take a good deal of practice.
The clock chimed and she glanced up. Maybe she should just bring Granddad in here and tell him she would learn the piece for him. He loved to hear her and her sisters practice, no matter how many mistakes they made.
She got up from the piano bench and headed down the hall to Granddad’s room. The past year had been hard on the whole family, but they’d come through it. Together. Music was one way they accomplished that.
She opened the door to their grandfather’s bedroom. Light spilled in from the eastern window and blinded her for a brief moment. A sharp pain started at her right temple and shot across to the left. Blast these headaches!
She covered her eyes for a second and hoped Granddad hadn’t noticed. He was a worrier now that he was laid up all the time. She moved her hand and then squinted into the room. “Granddad? How about we take a little break from the exercises and I’ll play some musi—”
She gasped.
Granddad lay on the floor. His form awkward and unmoving.
“Granddad!” She rushed to his side. “Did you fall? Let me help you get back into bed.”
But as she tugged at his shoulders, there was no response.
She put a hand to his face, then yanked it back at the cold that greeted her fingertips. She rubbed her hand on her leg to rid herself of the offensive feeling.
No. It couldn’t be.
Forcing her trembling fingers forward, she held them over his nose and mouth, counted to one hundred.
No breath escaped.
The gray pallor in his skin made her want to lose her breakfast.
No.
With a hand to her forehead again, she closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening! Not again. Not now. Her headache must have her imagining things. Granddad was indestructible. He’d survived two bouts of apoplexy!
She opened her eyes and stared at his form on the floor.
No nightmare.
It was real.
As she knelt beside Granddad, time stood still.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t utter a sound.
The ticking of the clock on the dresser suddenly broke through the cloud in her mind.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Each sound grew louder and louder until she put her hands on the side of her head. With a gulp of air, she collapsed on her grandfather’s stiff chest and sobbed.
He’d always been there. Always. Ever since Dad died—well, left—Granddad had been a father figure to her. Besides Mama, he’d been the one to understand her the most. Something she desperately needed—because she wasn’t merciful like Maddy, nor fun loving like Havyn. She was just like him. He’d said so on hundreds of occasions.
He’d always been there.
But . . . he wouldn’t be with them any longer.
Granddad . . . was dead.
Tears clogged her throat and blurred her vision. It was too much. The throbbing in her head grew as she wailed out her anguish into Granddad’s shirt. But what was a little more pain in the face of another horrific loss?
The clock ticked the minutes away until her nose was stuffed and her tears dried up. Straightening and swiping at her eyes, she stared down at her grandfather.
No. No! This wasn’t happening!
Granddad put a hand over her dad’s mouth and nose for several moments. He turned back to her. “Your dad’s not dead, honey. He’s still breathing.”
Thank You, God.
But as soon as the prayer whipped through her mind, she shook her head and pressed her lips together. She’d have to deal with this again. What about poor Mama?
“Let’s get him home.” Granddad grunted as he picked up her father and tossed him over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
They walked in silence for several minutes.
“Wanna tell me why you were out there in the middle of the night?” His tone wasn’t scolding, but she could tell by the way his eyebrows drew together that he’d been unhappy to find her there. Would she get in trouble for going to the saloons?
“Mama was crying because Daddy wasn’t home.”
“Ah, I see. So you thought you should just wander out into the middle of town looking for him?”
The truth was the best way to go. “I’ve gone to get Daddy a few times. I don’t see why I should get in trouble for that. He’s the one who causes all the problems.” She dared a look up at her grandfather.
His eyebrows raised. “Young lady, that’s no way to talk about your father. . . .” His face pinched and he clenched his jaw several times. A long breath came out before his next words. “And I wasn’t saying you were in trouble, though you should never leave the house unaccompanied—especially in the middle of the night.” The words were hushed. Sad.
“But . . . what else was I supposed to do?” She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “Besides, I’ve heard what you’ve said about him to Mama—”
“What were you doing listening in on our conversations? Those words weren’t meant for your ears. And besides, that’s no excuse for you talking about him that way.”
Now he was scolding.
She bit her lip. Caught. Heat rose into her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Granddad. But someone has to take care of Mama. That’s why I was up. If Daddy isn’t home, I always listen for her . . . to make sure she’s all right.”
His lips pinched together. Several moments passed before he continued. “Your mother would be heartbroken to hear you say those things about your father. And to find out that you’ve been sneaking out in the middle of the night to bring your dad home.” He huffed and shifted her dad’s limp form on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Whitney. So sorry that you’ve had to do this. This is all my fault.”
She had to strain to hear his last faint words. “Why is it your fault, Granddad?”
He shook his head as they trudged up the hill to their little house, and his breaths came faster. “I should have taken care of this long ago.”
“Taken care of what?” Her heart pounded in her chest. “Could you have stopped Daddy from drinking? From it making him sick all the time?”
Then why hadn’t he done so? Why had he let them be hurt this way?
“No. I’ve tried to get him to stop, but to no avail. Your mother has tried too. This is something only your dad can stop.”
“So what should you have taken care of?” It made little sense.
Granddad turned to her and stopped. He took several moments to catch his breath. He smiled, but not really. It wasn’t a smile that warmed her or made her want to smile back. Instead, she wanted to cry. “It doesn’t matter now, Whitney. Your dad drinks until he’s sick—”
“But why?”
Granddad sighed. “The one thing I can gather is that it helps him to forget.”
“Forget what? He doesn’t want to forget us, does he?” Tears stung the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them out. Fine! If Dad didn’t love them, she wouldn’t love him. She didn’t want his love. Let him forget her. She didn’t care.
The tears almost escaped. Almost.
“No, sweetheart. He’d never want to forget you.” Granddad started back up the hill. “But a lot of adults need to forget the bad things that have happened to them, and the bad things they’ve done.”
“Like God forgets?”
Granddad’s face scrunched up and then relaxed. “Yes. We wish we could forgive like God does. But we have a hard time doing it, don’t we?”
As they walked the rest of the way up to the house, Whitney couldn’t get Granddad’s words out of her head. If only she could forget all the bad things she’d done too. All the times she’d been mean to her sisters. Or selfish. Or the times she’d lied. Mama said Jesus forgave her when she apologized to Him. But those bad actions came back to haunt her.
A lot.
Why couldn’t she be better? Like her mother.
A few Sundays ago, the reverend talked about forgiveness and how God chose to forget their sins, to put those sins as far away as the east from the west. How could He do that?
God, I sure hope You forget all my bad deeds.
Maybe God could forget her daddy’s too? And forgive him? Make him do better?
Jesus died for everyone’s sins. God loved all of them the same no matter what they’d done.
She sniffed and winced. She was supposed to forgive Daddy like God did. It was a good thing her dad wasn’t dead. Now she had to find some way to help him forget so he didn’t need to go out drinking.
Mama made certain to tell them every day that Daddy loved them. She promised it was true. That should be reason enough for him to give up his drinking. Shouldn’t it?
If he could stop, then she could forgive him. God would help her.
Then Mama wouldn’t cry anymore.
And then they could be a proper family.
That ate every meal together around the dinner table.
Talked about their days.
Laughed together.
Made memories together.
Went to church together.
Gathered around the piano to play music and sing.
Had picnics in the meadow on red-and-white checkered cloths.
The pictures in her mind were so vivid that she smiled.
“Whitney?” Granddad’s voice broke through her thoughts. “It’s freezing out here, honey. Let’s get inside.”
“Yes, sir.” As she walked into the tiny cabin they called home, she let the remnants of the pictures cement into her mind. She turned to close the door and watched as the snow laid a fresh white coating on everything.
Clean. Bright.
New.
Tomorrow could be the start of something new for them. It could.
And she couldn’t wait.
ONE
Sixteen Years Later
Monday, January 9, 1905—Nome, Alaska
Snow glimmered in the moonlight. A beautiful start to another morning in Nome. Whitney whistled a lively tune as the sled swished and shushed over the snow. Her dogs were in fine form, obeying every command with precision and executing each turn in perfect unity. Not a tangled line or misbehaving pup. By the time the sun crested the horizon, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
Oh, for more perfect days like thi––
She grimaced.
The ache started in the back of her neck and radiated up into her head. She lifted a hand to her neck and rubbed. But once this pain started, it was hard to get rid of. What came next was usually much worse.
When would these blasted headaches let up? They’d tormented her for months.
Ever since––
No. She wouldn’t think about it. She’d gotten away from him. That’s what mattered.
“Whoa!” Her dogs responded, coming to a stop.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the bottle of tonic. Dr. Cameron gave it to her months ago because of the blow to her head. Thank heaven it helped ease her discomfort. A sip here and there was all it took.
She took a sip, replaced the bottle in her pocket, then urged the dogs back into motion. The pain lessened enough that she could make a mental list of everything she needed to accomplish today.
Lists kept her on track. Helped her to focus.
Life on the farm moved at a rapid pace, thank goodness. It kept her mind occupied, her hands busy. Between the cows, dogs, sheep, and chickens, she and her family had their work cut out for them. Havyn and Madysen had found good men to marry, men who wanted to help run the farm. Which she and her sisters needed. There was no way they would have been able to keep up by themselves.
Especially with Granddad still laid up after the bouts of apoplexy.
His movement had improved with exercises, but this past week he’d looked so weary. Maybe the winter doldrums were taking effect. It was, after all, the dead of winter. Or maybe he’d pushed himself too hard and too long over the past few weeks. He’d been determined to get up and walking soon.
Whatever it was, there had to be a way to lift his spirits. Lift all of their spirits. Maybe they should spend a bit more time around the piano in the evenings, on nights they weren’t at the Roadhouse.
Just the thought of playing with Havyn and Madysen brought a smile to her face.
With Maddy on cello and Havyn on the violin, they made quite the trio. But it was when they sang together that everything was the way it should be. There was something wonderful about singing tight harmonies with her sisters. With letting their voices soar.
As much as she was a mother hen to her younger sisters—even more so since Mama’s passing last year—the way they’d come around her after she’d been attacked showed her how much she needed them too. Whitney didn’t want to face a day without either of them. No matter how much they might get on one another’s nerves.
As her sled crested the hill, she caught sight of the farm. The expansive log-and-stone home Granddad built had smoke billowing from the chimney. The barns were alive with plenty of activity as the workers milked the herd. The usual cacophony of chickens chattering drifted on the air.
The sled glided over the snow as the dogs brought her back to the kennel area, their delight clear in their wagging tails and lolling tongues. Whitney hopped off the sled and worked with deft fingers in the bitter cold to unhook her team and get the dogs rubbed down and fed. Her mind sped through her responsibilities. Surely she had some time to shut her eyes against the pain. But no. Next came helping with breakfast, and then, since it was Monday, it was her turn to work with Granddad on his exercises.
She hesitated. Maybe Granddad needed something other than the same ol’ things he did every day. What if she were to read to him . . . or perhaps wheel him into the gathering room by the roaring fire and play the piano for him?
Of course! That was it. He’d love that. And it would be a pleasant change of pace for him. A break from the strenuous routine of stretches he did every day.
Ohhh . . .
Why wouldn’t the pain in her head stop? What she needed was a hot bath. So hot that it could melt the pain. But there were too many things on her list to do before she could even think about relaxing.
The morning meal passed in a flurry of pancakes, eggs, and fried ham steaks. All the noise and laughter increased the stabbing pain in her head. It took every ounce of her self-control to not let it show. She scraped plates into the bucket they took out to the animals. She rubbed her forehead.
Relax. Breathe. So much left to do.
But the throbbing didn’t lessen.
These darned headaches seemed to come more often. Maybe she needed to see Dr. Cameron. Find out if something was really wron––
“Whit . . . another one?” Havyn placed a hand on her shoulder.
With a sigh, she glanced at her sister. The child within her was beginning to show. “Yes. But don’t worry. You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll make it through. I always do.”
Hands on her hips, Havyn quirked an eyebrow at her. “You might be the oldest and think you can still boss us around, but I most certainly will worry. When one of us is hurting, the rest of us hurt.” She grabbed the wooden spoon out of Whitney’s hand and tilted her head. “Let me finish this and take it out. Everyone else has already gone out for the rest of the chores, so you go ahead and spend some time with Granddad. I think your idea of playing music for him will help you both. Especially with the house being quiet for a bit.”
Since when did Havyn give her orders? Still, her fingers itched to play some relaxing music on the piano. She’d give in.
This time.
“All right. But don’t think you’ve won.”
Havyn’s wide eyes blinked at her. “Oh, never.”
“I can hear the sarcasm, sis.”
“Good.” Havyn gave her a little pat. “Now go on.”
Whitney removed her apron and hung it up before heading into their large parlor. The piano gleamed in the lantern’s light. The dark wood drew her. Mama had them polish it with oil and beeswax twice a week without fail. Running her hand over the smooth surface, she allowed the memories to assail her senses. All those times they’d gathered around it, the times Mama taught them at it, the times she accompanied them as they sang . . .
Oh, to see Mama at the piano again.
Stop it. Sadness wouldn’t help. Not her or Grandad. Whitney went to the cabinet in the corner to pull out the music to Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu.
Mama’s favorite piece.
How Whitney had loved to sit on the floor and watch mother’s fingers fly over the keys as she played this piece. For years, Mama had wanted Whitney to learn it. But the technical piece intimidated her when she was younger . . . and there was something special about watching someone else play such a phenomenal creation.
Whitney set the music on the grand piano and opened the lid. She should have learned it at Mama’s side––
No. Stay positive.
She could work on it for Granddad. It was his favorite too. And maybe, just maybe, they could comfort each other with the music. Be reminded of the beauty his daughter, her mother, gave them.
With a few deep breaths, Whitney examined the opening of the piece. The part that amazed her and daunted her the most. The triplet pattern in the left hand was contrary to the rhythm of the sixteenth notes in the right. Mama always called it three against four. Told her that the way to conquer it was for each hand to learn how to play independent of the other.
“You have to master it hands separately, my dear.” Mama’s voice was so clear in her mind. Almost as if Whitney could conjure her up beside her. “Then let them come together. They will know the rhythm. They will know what to do. But only after you’ve practiced it hundreds of times hands separately.”
The emphasis on the words brought a smile to Whitney’s face. How many times had her mother drilled into them, “Count. One and two and three and four and . . . watch those scales, tuck that thumb . . . hands together, hands separately!”
Whitney sat and practiced the first couple of pages. Hands separately, she played each part and paid careful attention to the fingering and rhythm. She knew what the song sounded like, so it was easy to imagine how it would be all together. But this would take a good deal of practice.
The clock chimed and she glanced up. Maybe she should just bring Granddad in here and tell him she would learn the piece for him. He loved to hear her and her sisters practice, no matter how many mistakes they made.
She got up from the piano bench and headed down the hall to Granddad’s room. The past year had been hard on the whole family, but they’d come through it. Together. Music was one way they accomplished that.
She opened the door to their grandfather’s bedroom. Light spilled in from the eastern window and blinded her for a brief moment. A sharp pain started at her right temple and shot across to the left. Blast these headaches!
She covered her eyes for a second and hoped Granddad hadn’t noticed. He was a worrier now that he was laid up all the time. She moved her hand and then squinted into the room. “Granddad? How about we take a little break from the exercises and I’ll play some musi—”
She gasped.
Granddad lay on the floor. His form awkward and unmoving.
“Granddad!” She rushed to his side. “Did you fall? Let me help you get back into bed.”
But as she tugged at his shoulders, there was no response.
She put a hand to his face, then yanked it back at the cold that greeted her fingertips. She rubbed her hand on her leg to rid herself of the offensive feeling.
No. It couldn’t be.
Forcing her trembling fingers forward, she held them over his nose and mouth, counted to one hundred.
No breath escaped.
The gray pallor in his skin made her want to lose her breakfast.
No.
With a hand to her forehead again, she closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening! Not again. Not now. Her headache must have her imagining things. Granddad was indestructible. He’d survived two bouts of apoplexy!
She opened her eyes and stared at his form on the floor.
No nightmare.
It was real.
As she knelt beside Granddad, time stood still.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t utter a sound.
The ticking of the clock on the dresser suddenly broke through the cloud in her mind.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Each sound grew louder and louder until she put her hands on the side of her head. With a gulp of air, she collapsed on her grandfather’s stiff chest and sobbed.
He’d always been there. Always. Ever since Dad died—well, left—Granddad had been a father figure to her. Besides Mama, he’d been the one to understand her the most. Something she desperately needed—because she wasn’t merciful like Maddy, nor fun loving like Havyn. She was just like him. He’d said so on hundreds of occasions.
He’d always been there.
But . . . he wouldn’t be with them any longer.
Granddad . . . was dead.
Tears clogged her throat and blurred her vision. It was too much. The throbbing in her head grew as she wailed out her anguish into Granddad’s shirt. But what was a little more pain in the face of another horrific loss?
The clock ticked the minutes away until her nose was stuffed and her tears dried up. Straightening and swiping at her eyes, she stared down at her grandfather.
No. No! This wasn’t happening!
