porch, the whitewashed railing gleaming like teeth, grinning at her arrival.
Maybe her mom had invested in a generator, although she heard no telltale hum.
Nothing else would explain the house having power when the lines were down.
But then, strange things had seemed to happen at the farm ever since she was a kid. Odd things that no one could explain, not with any kind of commonsense answers. Like the day Abby had found her mother crying in the kitchen. She’d broken a bowl, one with alphabet soup letters running around the rim. “It belonged to Sam,” Gretchen had told her and sobbed as though the world had come to an end. “Another piece of him I’ve shattered,” she’d said, sighing as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders, or perhaps on the condition of the alphabet soup bowl.
Only seven, Abby hadn’t understood what she meant, but she’d felt Gretchen’s sadness, like a part of her was broken, too. “We can fix it,” she’d told her mom. “We can glue it back together like my piggy bank.” But Gretchen had shaken her head, tears skidding down her cheeks. “No one can fix it, Abs, not even you.” Which, of course, had made Abby start bawling as well, feeling a bit like the unfixable bowl was her fault, even though it was her mother who’d dropped it.
As if their combined sobs weren’t noise enough, a crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder had shaken the walls before the sky had turned entirely black. The rain had begun to fall in earnest as Abby had raced out of the house and up the gravel drive, eager to chase the sadness right out of her soul. The drizzle fell upon her like tears, wetting her face and shirt. But when she got to the fence line and took a step beyond it onto the rural road flush with wildflowers and weeds, she realized the rain had stopped. Well, it hadn’t stopped exactly. It just wasn’t raining anywhere beyond the property line. Not a drop. When Abby had turned around, she saw the sky above the house was gray as gunmetal—but everywhere else, the sky was blue.
Could breaking Sam’s bowl have caused his spirit to cry upon the farmhouse? Her mother insisted that he was and always would be there, looking out for them. “Sometimes, when you’re sad and it rains, it means he’s right beside you, and he’s feeling just as sad, too,” Gretchen had told her.
Abby had rushed back through the rain and inside to tell her mother what she’d seen and what she believed it meant. Gretchen was, by then, mopping up her tears and picking up broken bits of porcelain, clearly in no mood to entertain a child’s vivid imagination. “We live in tornado alley, Abs,” her mom had said, shrugging off any theory of rain-making spirits. “Weird weather is the only kind we get.”
But Abby had known there was more to it than that. She had always believed that some kind of spirit—a ghost or restless soul—lurked around the walnut grove, something that had to do with her father and the past, something that no one else could understand.
Even now as a grown-up, Abby sensed a presence, and it filled her with peace.
“It’s good to be back,” she said aloud and released a slow breath, gazing at the farmhouse, the knot in her shoulders loosening, warmth flowing through her despite a chill in the air. This was her home—it had belonged to Sam’s family, to the grandparents who had loved and cuddled her as an infant, though she’d been too young to remember anything but the idea of them. With every step forward she took, Abby couldn’t help but feel embraced by invisible arms. Her heart thumped with each footstep, as if to say I belong, I belong, I belong.
From within the cloudless sky, the rising moon illuminated a path bright enough that she could avoid storm-tossed limbs and divots in the grass. Somewhere above, a whippoorwill sang its melancholy song, pausing between each verse as if hoping others would join in. Abby was tempted to coo, “Whippoorwill,
Maybe her mom had invested in a generator, although she heard no telltale hum.
Nothing else would explain the house having power when the lines were down.
But then, strange things had seemed to happen at the farm ever since she was a kid. Odd things that no one could explain, not with any kind of commonsense answers. Like the day Abby had found her mother crying in the kitchen. She’d broken a bowl, one with alphabet soup letters running around the rim. “It belonged to Sam,” Gretchen had told her and sobbed as though the world had come to an end. “Another piece of him I’ve shattered,” she’d said, sighing as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders, or perhaps on the condition of the alphabet soup bowl.
Only seven, Abby hadn’t understood what she meant, but she’d felt Gretchen’s sadness, like a part of her was broken, too. “We can fix it,” she’d told her mom. “We can glue it back together like my piggy bank.” But Gretchen had shaken her head, tears skidding down her cheeks. “No one can fix it, Abs, not even you.” Which, of course, had made Abby start bawling as well, feeling a bit like the unfixable bowl was her fault, even though it was her mother who’d dropped it.
As if their combined sobs weren’t noise enough, a crack of lightning and a rumble of thunder had shaken the walls before the sky had turned entirely black. The rain had begun to fall in earnest as Abby had raced out of the house and up the gravel drive, eager to chase the sadness right out of her soul. The drizzle fell upon her like tears, wetting her face and shirt. But when she got to the fence line and took a step beyond it onto the rural road flush with wildflowers and weeds, she realized the rain had stopped. Well, it hadn’t stopped exactly. It just wasn’t raining anywhere beyond the property line. Not a drop. When Abby had turned around, she saw the sky above the house was gray as gunmetal—but everywhere else, the sky was blue.
Could breaking Sam’s bowl have caused his spirit to cry upon the farmhouse? Her mother insisted that he was and always would be there, looking out for them. “Sometimes, when you’re sad and it rains, it means he’s right beside you, and he’s feeling just as sad, too,” Gretchen had told her.
Abby had rushed back through the rain and inside to tell her mother what she’d seen and what she believed it meant. Gretchen was, by then, mopping up her tears and picking up broken bits of porcelain, clearly in no mood to entertain a child’s vivid imagination. “We live in tornado alley, Abs,” her mom had said, shrugging off any theory of rain-making spirits. “Weird weather is the only kind we get.”
But Abby had known there was more to it than that. She had always believed that some kind of spirit—a ghost or restless soul—lurked around the walnut grove, something that had to do with her father and the past, something that no one else could understand.
Even now as a grown-up, Abby sensed a presence, and it filled her with peace.
“It’s good to be back,” she said aloud and released a slow breath, gazing at the farmhouse, the knot in her shoulders loosening, warmth flowing through her despite a chill in the air. This was her home—it had belonged to Sam’s family, to the grandparents who had loved and cuddled her as an infant, though she’d been too young to remember anything but the idea of them. With every step forward she took, Abby couldn’t help but feel embraced by invisible arms. Her heart thumped with each footstep, as if to say I belong, I belong, I belong.
From within the cloudless sky, the rising moon illuminated a path bright enough that she could avoid storm-tossed limbs and divots in the grass. Somewhere above, a whippoorwill sang its melancholy song, pausing between each verse as if hoping others would join in. Abby was tempted to coo, “Whippoorwill,
Similar Books
