See?
I huff out a breath and give the porch floor another kick. The rocking chair creaks.
“I barely remember that.”
She’s quiet again and the night creeps in, filling the void. Field crickets and tree frogs, the rustle of the barn animals.
“You want some advice or just space to vent?” she finally asks.
I roll my head along the chair’s back so I can look over at her. Some of the light from the lantern hanging over the barn door skims her face, fills the dimples around her mouth. She may be nearing seventy, but I’ve always thought she looks young for her age. Her struggle with her hands, the loss of control she once had, must frustrate her to no end. Everyone who grows up on a farm knows about death. And yet when I think about losing Em or Henry, it feels like carving out a part of myself. Something impossible to lose.
“I always appreciate your advice,” I tell her.
The chair creaks again as she gives it another push. “Imagine that tomorrow, Edward Gilbert tells you he’s proposed to another girl and that she’s accepted.”
I blow out a breath. “Cutting right to the heart.”
She shifts away from me, her face no longer in that slant of light. I can’t see her expression but I imagine her grinning. Aunt Em has the best smile. Like crocuses breaking through the hard crust of winter. The kind of smile that makes you think of warmth and strength.
“Go on,” she coaxes.
I let her imagined scenario play out in my head. Edward breaking the news to me, me knowing that our relationship is over, that I will no longer have to dodge his proposals.
I almost feel relief.
I suck in a breath and then let it out.
Aunt Em gets up. Her movements are slow, her back slightly stooped before she finally straightens out. As she passes me, she gives my shoulder a squeeze. “It’s your life, Dorothy. Just make sure you choose it, whatever it is.”
I nod up at her.
“Good night, my sweet girl,” she says.
“Good night, Aunt Em.”
Inside the house, the light goes out and a few seconds later, I hear their bedroom door click shut.
I give myself another push in the chair.
The wind kicks up and dust swirls in the yard.
I leave the rocker and head inside, determined to make a choice in the morning.
THREE
Dorothy
Strong hands shake me awake.
My eyes pop open but there’s only darkness and the howling of wind. It takes my vision several long seconds to register the figure standing over me as Uncle Henry.
“What—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Storm rolling in. Going to secure the barn. Get in the cellar with Em.” And then he’s gone.
I sit upright and blink through the sleepy haze. It isn’t the first time I’ve been dragged from bed to the storm cellar, but sometimes it’s nothing more than a lot of rain and thunder. I hate spending the night in a cold hole beneath the house with nothing but dirt surrounding me.
I’m not afraid of the dark. I just hate the discomfort of it all. I like my warm bed with its crisp cornflower-blue sheets and the thick white quilt Aunt Em and I made together the second summer I lived here.
