Grace sat on the rag rug, in the dark log cabin, and stared at the fire, picturing the glowing coals as sunlit peaches.
“Eat your dinner,” her father interrupted. She reached down and lifted a coin of buttered potato into her mouth. “Grace, that creature could’ve killed you?”
Grace tried to find words, but her mouth wouldn’t release them. The bear had spoken to her. It was not pretend. It wasn’t a dream or a game. She could still feel his words against her ear: Help me. It was as real as the heat from the fire burning in the belly of the black stove. Help me.
They sat with the sound of the creaking fire between them until her father stood from the rocking chair, exhaled and said, “Well, I’m just glad you’re alright.” His voice calmed, he reached down and rested his hand on her head. Grace closed her eyes, grateful for the gentle weight, “I’m just glad that bear took a liking to you.” Grace turned her eyes to see his face soften, “You need to take care of yourself, Grace. My heart can’t afford another loss. It just can’t.” Grace loosened at the warmth in his voice. He reached down and picked her up and she let her body go limp against his chest. She dropped her cheek against his shoulder, closed her eyes, and was at the edge of dreams by the time he set her in bed.
***
It was her heart that stirred her awake; her heart shaking with hope at the sound of a woman’s voice in the front room. It took a few minutes of listening before her ears could hear and her mind understand that the voice of the woman was not her mother. It was the pastor’s wife. With disappointed she opened her ears and listened.
“Jonathan says his brother needs a hand and he knows you’re a good worker. He figures in six months you could cover your losses and start over.”
Silence. She pictured her father’s eyes searching the floor.
“Listen, Harley dear. Listen to me. I heard what happened at the park last week.” The pastor’s wife spoke with a gentleness rarely heard in the house. “Harley. The girl needs a mother. We’d be happy to take her in. She’d be closer to town, she’d see other children. We’d take good care of her until you return. I think it might be good for her to get out of this dark hollow for awhile.”
Grace waited, her chest tightly breathing. How could her father leave her? How could he make her an orphan like that? She waited for him to tell the pastor’s wife to go home. She waited until her heart dropped, dropped into a pool of tears at his one response, “Alright.”
***
The first thing that Grace noticed as she entered the pastor’s house was the light. The pastor’s house was full of light from the tall bay windows, to the electric lamps wired along the entryway. All this light turned the front room into a morning garden of wallpapered roses. Everything glowed with morning sun--the laced cloth on the dining room table, the sheen on the mahogany bookshelf, the bluewater vase on the entry table, the beveled glass on the china cabinet—everything skipping with sparkles.
The pastor’s wife closed the front door. “Well, here you are dear. Now don’t look so downcast. It’s only for a few months. You'll take Sarah's old room upstairs, across from the boys. I placed some of her old dresses in the closet. You’re free to wear anything that fits.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Now, you call me Mother while you’re in this house. That’s what everyone calls me, the boys, the Reverend, even the neighbors. You don’t need to be formal. Mother. Alright?” Her voice was warm and sweet and her hands smelled of lavender.
“Alright.”
“Good. Now up to your room while I fix supper.” The pastor’s wife leaned down and hugged Grace against her bosom which was warm and soft like a sponge. She kissed her forehead then stood and stroked the back of her hair. Grace stayed still at the touch, her body suddenly hungry for affection.
“Alright, now,” the pastor’s wife said while patting her head. “up you go.”
Grace walked up the oak stairs, her hand caressing the varnished banister. The bedroom was almost as large as her father’s house. She stepped inside and looked around--a bed so tall and full of feathers that it seemed to float above the floor. A window with lace curtains. A flowered carpet. A real nightstand with a miniature stained glass lamp just like a tiny chapel, with a golden pull chain that caused the glass to glow inside. There was a cedar box filled with two china dolls, their doll-sized wardrobe folded neatly beneath them; a little desk with a feathered pen and glass ink blotter. There was a white brick fireplace in the corner, the kindling stacked and ready, with a reading chair and a tiny stand of books.
The wallpapered closet was full of pressed dresses including a fur-lined coat, that felt as soft as rabbit ears. The closet floor was covered in neatly paired shoes, lace up boots, and polished Sunday shoes.
Gracie closed the closet door, then walked over and quietly shut the bedroom door. This was her room. Her very own room. She lay back on the clean pillows that smelled of rose-pedals and soap and let her heart spill over in wonder. The heaviness of her abandonment suddenly lifted and she spread her arms across the quilted bedcover, then hugged herself tight, and smiled.
