enough.
âThereâs one thing that would get me to sell some of it off,â she says after taking a loud finishing slurp of her tea, putting the cup back into the pack, and standing up. âSendinâ you to college. Boâs right. You read better than anyone, Cornelia. Thereâs a big enough piece across the street to get you started, anyway.â
I am speechless and itâs not because Iâm 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.
Agathaâs 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? Iâve never asked; sheâs never told me. Iâve seen her carry bushels of turnips and potatoes, one after the other without stopping. Sheâs the first one up in the morning, the last one to bed at night. I know sheâs solid as her own land, but she is definitely slowing down. The skin on her face looks tight, drawn.
âAre you all right?â
âFine, Iâm fine. I just need to sit down for a bit.â
âYou donât l-l-l-look too well.â I pour another cup of tea.
She drinks quickly, hands the mug back to me, and I refill it. âI havenât been here in a long time. You make me remember things. Come on, letâs get going.â
Agathaâs steps slow and then she stops. Tears puddle in her eyes. âWhatâs the matter?â I say, alarmed. This isnât like Agatha, oak that she is.
âI stayed away from here for a long time, Cornelia. Thatâs all.â As we walk on, I see that the crest of the hill is surrounded by a grove of pines. Thereâs 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
1960â1961
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.
âSome things always hurt,â she says after a while.
âYou bu-bu-buried her up here?â I whisper. âItâs b-b-b-beautiful.â
âNo. They buried her near the hospital. Her spiritâs here, though. I made sure of that.â
âIâm sorry.â
Agatha looks over at me. âI didnât dump her off, as you said that day.â
I wish she wouldnât get into that fight we had all those months ago. Everything just hurt so much then.
âThe 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 didnât argue, I didnât know any better. I was young and foolish and didnât speak up. I have been sorry about that every day of my life.â
âItâs so t-tiny,â I say, looking down at the sweater.
âTook me half a year. I kept ripping it apart and starting over. But she wore it. It was winter when she was born.â She rubs the sweater on her cheek.
âIâm sorry,â I say again.
âMe too. Lots of pain in life. Lots more joy. You got to find a way to stand through both.â
96
One day in early December, Agatha and I drive back from the library with a pile of books between us. Agathaâs
Bird Behavior
rests on
Lesley Thomson
M. Suddain
Jennifer Echols
Janet Schulman
Illeana Douglas
Donna Thorland
Renee Lee Fisher
Karen Hancock
Juan José Saer
Michael Capuzzo