“I know, baby. But it will make your cheek feel better.”
I sat with her on my lap, petting and soothing until her tears subsided. “There we go. All better,” I said. She would have a bruise by morning.
I hung the dish towel to dry on the oven door. Glanced out the window. Still no Momma. I felt a sticky tickle of unease, like walking into a cobweb. Mom did most of the farmwork herself. But still, there wasn’t that much to do this time of year.
“Come on, my babies.” I hefted DJ on my hip, held out a hand for Daisy. “Let’s go find Marmee.”
The air in the barn was thick with the dusty summer smell of hay, the salty sweet scent of the goats. The milking does—already pregnant with next spring’s kids—raised their heads as we passed their openpen. The younger ones butted against the fence, seeking affection or feed. I held Daisy’s little fingers tight, mindful of nibbling teeth.
“Mom?”
A low moan answered me. An animal in pain.
“Momma.” Oh, dear God in heaven. My mother lay on her back on the feed-aisle floor, surrounded by scattered stubble. I dropped to my knees beside her. “What happened?”
“Fell.” She arched her back as a spasm hit her, straining, gasping for breath.
“What can I do?”
Her gaze found DJ in my arms. “Take... the children... house.”
“I’m not leaving you,” I said fiercely.
Should I move her? I didn’t dare.
Daisy tugged at me, upset. “What’s wrong with Marmee?”
DJ, alarmed by his sister’s tone, started to snuffle. “Marmee!”
My mother closed her eyes, turning her head away. I struggled to my feet, dragging Daisy by the hand into one of the birthing stalls. I sat her on a bale of hay. Plopped DJ beside her.
Daisy opened her mouth to wail.
I gripped her shoulders. “Stop it,” I snapped.
Shocked, she met my eyes, her little face red.
“You stay here,” I commanded. “Stay and watch DJ. You understand? You watch your brother.”
Because she was the oldest. By two minutes.Only two minutes,my conscience cried.
But, miraculously, she understood. Her mouth closed. She nodded solemnly.
“That’s my girl.”
I patted her shoulders and hurried back to my mother.
The last time I was at the hospital, John and I were bringing DJ home, a week after the twins were born.“Breathing problems,”the nurse had explained as they hustled my baby away.“For his own good.”Nothing I could do.
Even though I accepted the rightness of their decision, even though I was grateful for their expert medical care and the comfort of Daisy’s warm, swaddled weight against my breast, I felt the wrongness of his absence in my womb, in my bones. My body, after sheltering his for thirty-eight weeks, protesting his loss.
Sitting in the emergency department waiting room, holding my mother’s purse, I felt the same. Bereft.
I’d called Dad from the car—he was in a meeting at Fort Bragg, almost an hour away—and again as soon as we reached the hospital. He was on his way, he told me. Until he got here, my mother was my responsibility.
I’d held her hand, sitting on the cold barn floor, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. In between spasms, when she could find breath, she kept telling me not to fuss, she was fine, everything was going to be all right. Trying to take care of me.
I blinked back tears.
