fires dampened for the night before returning to Mr. Harper’s room one last time. I admit I felt scared to go in there. He’d been doing so poorly all day I thought he surely must be about to die. It’s hard taking care of someone who’s gravely ill because your natural instinct is to nurse him back to health, and when he gets worse and dies you feel like it’s all your fault. Maybe you should’ve done something differently, maybe you could’ve done something more.
I took a deep breath, telling myself not to get too attached to him, then went into his room. He was burning up with fever and so delirious he was out of his mind. I knew he’d reached a crisis point—tonight he would either live or die. I bathed him in cold rags until he shivered, then wrapped a bed sheet tightly around him so he’d stop thrashing. Most of his words made no sense, but when he started crying ‘‘Father...Father, I’m sorry....’’ it sent chills up my spine. I didn’t know if he was calling for his daddy or for his heavenly Father. It made me think about my own daddy, and I wondered if he ever thought about me.
Then Mr. Harper began to weep, and it was such a brokendown sort of weeping that I sat on the edge of the bed and took him into my arms and held him until he stopped. ‘‘Forgive me, Father,’’ he said over and over as he clung to me. ‘‘Please, please forgive me....’’
That’s how it went for most of the night. I changed the dressings on his leg, using up an entire bottle of iodine, and tried to keep him cool. He needed a doctor, no question about it, but I couldn’t drive anywhere in all this snow. I felt helpless. It was just like when Sam died all over again, except there hadn’t been any snow when Sam had gotten sick and nothing but Frank Wyatt’s stubbornness to keep me from driving to town to fetch the doctor. I’d finally walked all the way into Deer Springs to get help for Sam, but it was too late.
I couldn’t do anything else for Mr. Harper, either, but I wanted him to know that someone cared, that he wasn’t all alone. It must be a terrible thing to die all alone and unloved like my father-inlaw had. I pulled a chair close, held Mr. Harper’s burning hand, stroked his brow, and dropped water onto his tongue with a spoon. I talked to him about my own life, and I cried for Sam all over again because taking care of Mr. Harper brought it all back— how Sam had suffered so horribly, how he never should have died.
Then a miracle happened. Way past midnight, Mr. Harper’s fever finally broke. He stopped moaning and thrashing and fell peacefully asleep. I needed some sleep, too, but as I crawled into my own bed early that morning, I couldn’t stop my tears.
I had stepped off the train in Deer Springs ten years ago because I’d wanted to take control of my life, to find the home and the family I’d longed for. But now my life had veered wildly off course like a team of runaway horses, and I no longer held the reins in my hands. I thought about praying, then said aloud, ‘‘No. I’m not asking for any more angels. They’re too much work!’’
I’d been waiting for God to send someone to help me for months now, but I guessed He must be hard-of-hearing. I was all alone, isolated from town, holed up with snow piled to the windowsills— and yet I didn’t want the snow to melt because I had no idea in the world how I would run Wyatt Orchards all by myself come springtime. I had a houseful of people to tend—three grieving kids, a dying hobo, and a crazy old lady with her lunatic pets— yet I still felt like I was all alone.
As I lay in the darkness, feeling sorrier and sorrier for myself, wishing I had someone to keep me company, I heard the click of a dog’s toenails on the wooden floor. The ticking sound moved up the hallway, into my bedroom, across my floor. I peered over the edge of the bed. Winky stood in a pool of moonlight, slobbering and grinning up at me. It was the last
I took a deep breath, telling myself not to get too attached to him, then went into his room. He was burning up with fever and so delirious he was out of his mind. I knew he’d reached a crisis point—tonight he would either live or die. I bathed him in cold rags until he shivered, then wrapped a bed sheet tightly around him so he’d stop thrashing. Most of his words made no sense, but when he started crying ‘‘Father...Father, I’m sorry....’’ it sent chills up my spine. I didn’t know if he was calling for his daddy or for his heavenly Father. It made me think about my own daddy, and I wondered if he ever thought about me.
Then Mr. Harper began to weep, and it was such a brokendown sort of weeping that I sat on the edge of the bed and took him into my arms and held him until he stopped. ‘‘Forgive me, Father,’’ he said over and over as he clung to me. ‘‘Please, please forgive me....’’
That’s how it went for most of the night. I changed the dressings on his leg, using up an entire bottle of iodine, and tried to keep him cool. He needed a doctor, no question about it, but I couldn’t drive anywhere in all this snow. I felt helpless. It was just like when Sam died all over again, except there hadn’t been any snow when Sam had gotten sick and nothing but Frank Wyatt’s stubbornness to keep me from driving to town to fetch the doctor. I’d finally walked all the way into Deer Springs to get help for Sam, but it was too late.
I couldn’t do anything else for Mr. Harper, either, but I wanted him to know that someone cared, that he wasn’t all alone. It must be a terrible thing to die all alone and unloved like my father-inlaw had. I pulled a chair close, held Mr. Harper’s burning hand, stroked his brow, and dropped water onto his tongue with a spoon. I talked to him about my own life, and I cried for Sam all over again because taking care of Mr. Harper brought it all back— how Sam had suffered so horribly, how he never should have died.
Then a miracle happened. Way past midnight, Mr. Harper’s fever finally broke. He stopped moaning and thrashing and fell peacefully asleep. I needed some sleep, too, but as I crawled into my own bed early that morning, I couldn’t stop my tears.
I had stepped off the train in Deer Springs ten years ago because I’d wanted to take control of my life, to find the home and the family I’d longed for. But now my life had veered wildly off course like a team of runaway horses, and I no longer held the reins in my hands. I thought about praying, then said aloud, ‘‘No. I’m not asking for any more angels. They’re too much work!’’
I’d been waiting for God to send someone to help me for months now, but I guessed He must be hard-of-hearing. I was all alone, isolated from town, holed up with snow piled to the windowsills— and yet I didn’t want the snow to melt because I had no idea in the world how I would run Wyatt Orchards all by myself come springtime. I had a houseful of people to tend—three grieving kids, a dying hobo, and a crazy old lady with her lunatic pets— yet I still felt like I was all alone.
As I lay in the darkness, feeling sorrier and sorrier for myself, wishing I had someone to keep me company, I heard the click of a dog’s toenails on the wooden floor. The ticking sound moved up the hallway, into my bedroom, across my floor. I peered over the edge of the bed. Winky stood in a pool of moonlight, slobbering and grinning up at me. It was the last
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