CHAPTER 4

Meg

After thirty-six hours in the hospital being poked and prodded, x-rayed and imaged, our mother declared herself ready to go home, diagnosis or no diagnosis.

Momma came from country stock, with no time for doctors or what her mother called fuss. Granny could butcher a hog and handle a fishing pole or a shotgun as well as Granddaddy. Every now and then for Sunday dinner, our grandmother would kill one of the chickens pecking in the yard, making Beth cry and Amy threaten to turn vegetarian. Jo and I would watch, squeamish and impressed, as she prepped the chicken for the pot, fingers and feathers flying.

“Tough old bird,” Jo would say, meaning Granny as much as the hen, and we’d sputter with laughter.

I’d never seen our own mother kill anything larger than a copperhead, whacking off its head with a shovel. But she had definitely inherited her mother’s toughness.

She couldn’t drive on pain meds. So Monday morning, after dropping off the twins at preschool, I went to the hospital to fetch her.

The discharge—against doctors’ orders—took forever. I had to call John to pick up the twins.

“I’m fine,” Momma said as I helped her up the steps into the house. “Go home to your family.”

“Let me just pick up your prescriptions first,” I said.

I did her grocery shopping while I was out—Thanksgiving was only three days away—and then milked the goats. I’d never been a farm girl like Beth or a tomboy like Jo. But I was our mother’s daughter. All her life, Abby March had done for others, the perfect pastor’s wife, the perfect officer’s wife, the perfect example. The least I could do was keep things running until she was back on her feet.

When I got home, the twins rushed to greet me the way they usually ran to John, Daisy’s bare feet thumping (where were her socks?), DJ dragging Blankie. “Mommy, Mommy! Momma’s home!” I squeezed them tight, inhaling the salty sweet smell of their necks, absorbing the comfort of their warm, wriggly little bodies. John smiled at me over their heads. A rush of love swept over me for him, for them, for this life we’d made together.

“Thanks for watching the kids this afternoon.”

“We had fun,” John said, a trifle smugly. “I took them to the playground.”

“I bet they loved that.”

I could hear the television blaring from the family room. Frozen. I could sing that soundtrack in my sleep. I settled the twins in front of their movie, adjusting the volume down. Maybe they were getting too much screen time, but at least I wasn’t damaging their ears.

“How’s your mom?” John asked when I returned.

“She says she’s fine. Better.”

“Good.”

I swallowed hard. “They’re still not sure what’s wrong with her. It could be anything.” Infection. Inflammation. Cancer.

“They gave her something, though, right?”

I nodded. “Some antibiotic. And Vicodin, for the pain.” I’d lined the bottles up on the windowsill, with a pencil and paper so she could keep track of her pill schedule, just like she used to do with our meds when we were little.