Broken Ground by Karen Halvorsen Schreck

other than who I’ve let myself become. Maybe they would see me as brave and strong, the grandma who never scolds, who only does right by them. Maybe I would have been a good grandma to your babies, Ruth, as I’ve never managed to be a good mother to you.”
    â€œYou are a good mother.” I long to weep with her, but as ever, my eyes are dry. “You were so very good yesterday with Daddy—brave and strong.”
    â€œOnce maybe. Once maybe I was.”
    â€œNo! Not just once. More times than I can count.”
    She ignores this. “Mine has been half a whole lifetime of weakness. But for your babies, the other half, maybe I would have been different.”
    I close my eyes, but still I see them, the babies, tottering— first steps! —through the bellflowers with Charlie and me close behind and Mother watching from the back door, a radiant smile on her face. She looks younger than I’ve ever seen her, and Charlie and I are as we were before the blowout, almost kids ourselves, and our children, a boy and a girl and, yes, a baby in my arms, are the perfect combination of us two. They have Charlie’s blue eyes, and my hair when it turns honey-colored in the summer sun, and his long limbs, and my smooth, clear skin. Maybe the little boy has freckles, because I love Charlie’s freckles, tracing them with a fingertip until there’s the reward of a smile. Little feet pound unsteadily against the earth; the flower stalks stir; the baby is a solid weight in my arms; the baby smells of milk and Ivory soap; the baby looks up at me with blue eyes so big I could fall right down into them. I could drown in those eyes.
    I gasp like I’m coming up for air, and Mother’s face swims before me. Abruptly, she stands and goes to the kitchen clock that long ago stopped keeping time. She takes the clock from the wall and fiddles with it until off pops the back. From the belly of the clock, she removes a slip of paper. She sets the slip of paper down on the table before me.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œLook.”
    I look. “A check?” I look again. “A check.”
    Mother gives a sharp nod. Her expression has hardened to grim.
    â€œTwo thousand dollars,” I say slowly. “A check from the oil company, payable to me.” I look up at her again. “Mama?”
    â€œCharlie must have been thinking what if . A good man watches out for the what-if.”
    â€œLife insurance?”
    Mother nods, sinking back down in her chair. “Your daddy considered it his, as we’ve been putting a roof over your head, and it appeared we would be doing so for some time. But that’s not the case after all. Your daddy still wants the check, I imagine—he had some kind of plan for it, you can bet on that—but I don’t want it. It’s not right to want it. Not anymore. Never was, really. Take it, Ruth.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œTake it with you to California. And take this, too.” She pulls a scrap of paper from the pocket of her apron. She’s written a name there, Alice Everly, and beneath that a California address and a phone number. “That friend I told you about who went west with her family? It took a little doing, but I tracked her down. I spoke to her on the phone, Ruth. I told her you were coming, and she said to call as soon as you arrive. You won’t be alone out there, not if she can help it.” Mother presses the paper into my hands. “Do that for me, Ruth, promise? Call Alice Everly. Go see her when you’re able. I want you to have some folks out there, our kind of people, who can help when need be.”
    â€œI’ll call her for you if for no other reason. I promise.”
    Mother’s expression softens with relief. Her eyes go misty again; she looks quickly down at the clock and gets busy fiddling with the back. When the back clicks into place, she seems like she doesn’t know what to do next.