Tending to Grace by Kimberly Newton Fusco

enough.
    â€œThere’s one thing that would get me to sell some of it off,” she says after taking a loud finishing slurp of her tea, putting the cup back into the pack, and standing up. “Sendin’ you to college. Bo’s right. You read better than anyone, Cornelia. There’s a big enough piece across the street to get you started, anyway.”
    I am speechless and it’s not because I’m afraid to talk. I reach over and hug her for the first time ever and when I do, she hugs me back.
    We climb again and leave the fields and walk into a beech forest. I follow Agatha and listen to her moccasins pad quietly up the hill, past the tall straight trunks of the trees covered with bark as smooth and tight as young elephant skin. We pass another brook and I stop for a drink, feel the water alive on my tongue.
    Agatha’s steps slow as we get closer to the top and I wonder if her feet are getting cold. She wears the moccasins summer and winter; she just adjusts the number and thickness of socks to the weather. I slow down, too, matching my pace to hers so that we walk side by side. Then she slows even more and I start wondering about her age. Just how old is she? I’ve never asked; she’s never told me. I’ve seen her carry bushels of turnips and potatoes, one after the other without stopping. She’s the first one up in the morning, the last one to bed at night. I know she’s solid as her own land, but she is definitely slowing down. The skin on her face looks tight, drawn.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œFine, I’m fine. I just need to sit down for a bit.”
    â€œYou don’t l-l-l-look too well.” I pour another cup of tea.
    She drinks quickly, hands the mug back to me, and I refill it. “I haven’t been here in a long time. You make me remember things. Come on, let’s get going.”
    Agatha’s steps slow and then she stops. Tears puddle in her eyes. “What’s the matter?” I say, alarmed. This isn’t like Agatha, oak that she is.
    â€œI stayed away from here for a long time, Cornelia. That’s all.” As we walk on, I see that the crest of the hill is surrounded by a grove of pines. There’s an opening, a doorway, and sun pours into the space in heavy drapes. Agatha quickens her step and walks into the space, a sanctuary in the woods, and I follow.
    A wooden cross stands in the center.
    GRACE THORNHILL
1960–1961
    Agatha kneels beside the cross and pulls the tiny sweater from the pocket of her coat and lays it on her lap, along with the mittens, hat, and booties. She rubs them and closes her eyes. Tears stream down her face.
    â€œSome things always hurt,” she says after a while.
    â€œYou bu-bu-buried her up here?” I whisper. “It’s b-b-b-beautiful.”
    â€œNo. They buried her near the hospital. Her spirit’s here, though. I made sure of that.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    Agatha looks over at me. “I didn’t dump her off, as you said that day.”
    I wish she wouldn’t get into that fight we had all those months ago. Everything just hurt so much then.
    â€œThe doctor told me that no woman by herself could take care of a child that sick, that Grace would be better off in a hospital. I didn’t argue, I didn’t know any better. I was young and foolish and didn’t speak up. I have been sorry about that every day of my life.”
    â€œIt’s so t-tiny,” I say, looking down at the sweater.
    â€œTook me half a year. I kept ripping it apart and starting over. But she wore it. It was winter when she was born.” She rubs the sweater on her cheek.
    â€œI’m sorry,” I say again.
    â€œMe too. Lots of pain in life. Lots more joy. You got to find a way to stand through both.”

96
    One day in early December, Agatha and I drive back from the library with a pile of books between us. Agatha’s
Bird Behavior
rests on