“What does the bottom say?”
Angie frowned and turned it over. “It’s exactly like mine, it only has a picture or impression of a willow tree on it.”
“Then it’s mine. That’s my signature. Authors have pen names, I classify myself as an artist, and my artisan name is Willow Raintree. That’s probably why Bill gave you a hard time, no one knows my real name. I don’t know why I don’t tell people.”
“For safety,” Randall said. “And all this stuff in the boxes and on these shelves? You made them all?”
“Yes. The shelves are inventory, back stock. The boxes are going to my assistant for her to distribute them to shops all over the North West and beyond.” She giggled. “Or that’s what my assistant tells me. Remember when I wrote you a couple months ago and said I was swamped with work? I had to restock my inventory.”
“Oh, wow,” Angie said, and Willow watched as her parents walked around the workshop. When they were satisfied, she took them upstairs and kicked off her shoes as soon as she opened the door.
“Excuse me a minute.” She went to the laundry room, closed the door and within minutes she re-emerged dressed in only a bathrobe. “Sorry, I don’t like to track the sludge through the house. I did it once and never again. The red clay dirt is hell to get out of things.” She grinned when her parents snickered.
“Let me show you around. As you can see this is the kitchen, through here is the living room. Down this hall are six bedrooms, each with their own bath.”
“Oh my god.” Angie breathed in when she saw the first bedroom. “Are they all this big?”
“They are, this used to be an office building. I converted the offices to bedrooms. The bathrooms were already here. Mick’s place is on the other side of that wall, but it has two layers thick of concrete block so I never hear their bikes. We have a connecting stairwell, my bedroom is on the third floor.” She took them up, and they gawked at the sheer size of it. “Now, I’m going to take a shower, go ahead and pick out a bedroom and bring your things up.” They nodded and left, and she did as she said.
Twenty minutes later she rejoined her parents in the kitchen and immediately went to the refrigerator and pulled her ever-present pitcher of lemon water. “Want some?” She grinned at them and watched them shudder.
“No,” they both said as one, then grinned when she laughed. “The medication still makes you nauseous?”
“Yes,” Willow said as she drank down half the glass. “But I can’t complain, at least I’m alive and still healthy, and my body isn’t rejecting the organ.”
“There is that,” Randall said and walked over and hugged his daughter close to him. “Do you want to go out to eat? Or do you have plans?”
“No, I’m open. There’s this new restaurant in town I’ve been dying to try. Do you guys like Mexican?”
“Haven’t really tried it,” Angie said. “As long as it’s not too spicy, or your father will be up all night, I’m willing to try it.”
“Good.” They got around and left to go out to dinner, and after they returned, they were settled in the living room, and Willow finally asked the burning question in her mind. “Can I ask you guys something?”
“Sure,” Randall said as he picked up the remote to her TV.
“Who the hell is Christopher Evans?” She watched as her father put down the remote without turning on the TV and her mother got up and left the room, but she quickly returned with a large shoe box. Angie sat down next to her daughter and Randall joined them on the couch on her other side, sandwiching her between them.
“You were two when Christopher and his family moved to the neighborhood. He was four, but he was already in kindergarten and Douglas got to know him on the bus. They became fast friends. When you were two and a half, you started getting sick. We took you from doctor to doctor, but you seemed to be getting worse until finally your father put his foot down and demanded answers. Just before your third birthday, they found you had Leukemia. You were immediately admitted to the hospital and underwent chemo and radiation. For the next year and a half, your life was hell.”
“Okay, I don’t remember any of that, but other than Christopher being Doug’s friend, how did this bullshit marriage come about?”
“Before you got sick, Christopher always came over to the house to play with Doug. One day you were making mud pies, and you gave him one. I overheard him talking to Doug once that he thought you were cute, but you were a pain in his behind. You were always tagging after them, always wanted to be doing what they were doing, either climbing trees, going on walks in the woods, playing forts. After a few weeks, one day I was giving you your nightly bath, and yousaid you were going to marry Christopher because he was the love of your life.”
Willow snorted. “And no one took into consideration that I was a little young?”
“It was cute.” Randall grinned and opened the box that Angie had set on the table. “This is the three of you that summer before you became ill.” He handed her a small stack of photos. Willow took them and frowned.
“I had dark hair?”
“You did. These first pictures are from when Christopher first came into our lives, before you became ill the first time,” Angie said and watched as Willow looked through them slowly. When she was done, she took the next stack her husband handed her. “These next ones are when you were in the hospital. I have to warn you, Wanda, they aren’t good. I took your picture every day. Your father would stop by the hospital on his way to work to see you, then he’d go to the office, and after Fern and Doug were put on the bus, I’d come to the hospital and sit with you. I’d read, color with you, or just sit and hold your hand. Depending on how you felt that day.” She paused as her daughter went through the pictures.
“Oh my. I was really sick, wasn’t I?”
“Yes,” Randall said. “Each round of chemo you had consisted of eight injections. Not to mention the radiation. Over your time in the hospital, you went through three rounds of chemo. It was after the third round was completed, the tests were run, and the doctor told us to make plans for your funeral.” He paused and rubbed his face. “I don’t mean to be blunt, and the doctor wasn’t that blunt, but that’s basicallywhat he said. There was no improvement, you were getting worse by the day.
“Your mother and I talked it over, and that night when we left the hospital, we went to the church and prayed. Pastor Jones was there, and we told him everything. Before this, he knew you were sick and would come to visit you, he’d mention you in Sunday Service and ask for prayers on your behalf, but he didn’t know the extent of your illness until that night. See we went to the church to ask him to come to give you the last rights. It was that bad.” They were silent for several minutes before Angie continued.
“The next day, your father took off work, and we spent the entire day with you. One of our neighbors brought Fern and Douglas to the hospital after they got out of school. It was then that we explained how sick you were and that you might not last the week. When Pastor Jones came, you asked to talk to him alone. When we came back from the cafeteria, you were alive, but sleeping peacefully, and Pastor Jones left.
