Francine Rivers - Her Daughter’s Dream

When she came out of the bathroom, Mom sat at the kitchen nook table, face in her hands. Granny still sat in the corner recliner in the living room. Dawn felt the tears rise again; she hadn’t been here fifteen minutes and she was right back in the middle. Granny’s head lifted as Dawn stepped toward the living room. “Come on in and sit down, Dawn.”

“Why don’t you come in here, Granny? I’ll fix some tea.”

Granny glowered at both of them. “I don’t want to talk about moving.”

“Why not?”

“Look around.” Granny’s shoulders slumped. “And I’m not talking about the million-dollar view. I’m talking about-” she waved her hand like a white flag-“everything.”

Dawn understood. “I have to pare down every time Jason and I move, Granny. I pick what means the most and sell or give away the rest.”

“Well, it all means something to me, honey. There’s a story behind everything in this house. You know how much Papa loved this place. It was his last big project.” Granny’s eyes grew moist as she looked at Mom. “It might not mean anything to you, Carolyn, but Dawn understands.”

Mom didn’t even try to defend herself.

“I understand, Granny, but Papa wouldn’t want you living here alone.” She didn’t let Granny’s look of hurt silence her. “If you wait too long, someone else will have to make all the decisions-what to keep, what to throw away.”

Granny got up. “Well, that would be fine with me. When I’m dead, I won’t care anymore.” She dumped her tea in the sink. “Have it your way, Carolyn. If you’re that set on getting me out of this house, go on down to the garage and get started sorting.” She slammed her mug on the counter. “I’m going to turn on the TV and see how bad this storm is going to be.” Granny went into the living room.

Dawn sighed. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was trying to help.”

Mom shrugged. “It’s not your fault. It is overwhelming.”

Dawn smiled at her. “What was that you used to say? First things first.”

“One day at a time.”

“Granny loves you, Mom.”

Mom made a soft sound of doubt, got up, and put her mug carefully on the counter. “I think I’ll take advantage of the moment.” She took her jacket by the door and went out.

Dawn went into the living room. Granny tipped her recliner up and peered around her. “Your mother isn’t leaving, is she?”

“Would you care if she did?”

“Of course, I’d care.” She started to push herself up from the chair.

“It’s all right, Granny. She’s going to the garage.”

“Why?”

“You told her to get started, didn’t you?”

Granny sank back in her chair. “I didn’t mean now .” She frowned. “It’s freezing out there. It’ll be dark soon.”

“She’s not going anywhere, Granny. I think she just needs to be alone for a while.”

“She’s always preferred her own company.”

Dawn sat on the couch. Sonoma County was on the national news. “Another storm coming in tonight…” Aerial film crews showed the Russian River at flood level. The vineyards around Wohler Bridge were underwater. So were the ones near the Korbel Winery. The roads had closed. The river had risen high enough to close the Safeway in Guerneville.

Shivering, Carolyn stood in the garage, surveying the massive project ahead of her. Dad’s white Buick Regal still took up half the garage. Mom had forgotten to take the keys out of the ignition. Carolyn backed the car out of the garage and parked it behind Dawn’s car.

Shelves lined the walls. One section displayed canned vegetables and soups; jars of peanut butter, jelly, and jam; cans of tuna; and boxes of macaroni and cheese. Another rack of shelves held small appliances in their original boxes and enough Costco plastic-wrapped boxes of Kleenex, toilet paper, and paper towels to last a year. Carolyn set a kerosene lamp near the door. They might need it. Cabinets lined the back wall: one held shelves of vases in all shapes and sizes; another Korbel champagne, Johnnie Walker Scotch, bottles of Mondavi cabernet sauvignon, Wente Brothers zinfandel and chardonnay, all dusty. The devil prowls like a lion. After more than thirty years of sobriety, Carolyn felt the sharp urge to drown her sorrows.

She still attended AA meetings, but Cornerstone Christian Church filled another gap in her life. It had started with Pastor Daniel’s compassion the day Dad died. Then Georgia openly shared her life on the streets before God got ahold of her. Others with less-than-pristine pasts rejoiced over restored lives and made others, still struggling, welcome. Carolyn made friends, though she never let anyone as close as Chel, with whom she had shared all her secrets, even the one she had never told Mitch.

Why was she thinking about all that now?

Carolyn looked over Dad’s tools, mounted neatly above his worktable, all rusting in the sea air. She counted five boxes tucked in the rafters. She set up the ladder, pulled her tiered skirt up between her legs and tucked it into her leather belt, and climbed. Brushing away cobwebs, she brought them down one by one. She was warm by the time she lined the boxes on the cement floor. Mom had labeled each: Family Pictures , Clothing , Trip , China/FRAGILE , and Mama .

Carolyn pulled open the top flaps of the box marked Mama and drew out a hand-crocheted granny-square afghan. It reeked of damp and mold, holes eaten away by mice or rats. She folded it into the garbage can, annoyed that Oma’s labor of love had been stuffed in a box to rot. Next was a shoe box. Carolyn uttered a soft gasp when she found Oma’s leather journal on top of bundles of thin, folded airmail letters with Swiss stamps. She took out the journal and carefully opened it. A picture slipped out and fell on the floor: Oma sitting on a chair holding a baby, a little boy beside her, and a tall, blond, very handsome man in a dark suit standing behind them. He was holding a little brown-haired girl and had his other hand on Oma’s shoulder. Carolyn picked up the picture and turned it over. Winnipeg, 1919.

“Mom?” Dawn stood in the doorway, bundled in a down coat. “Please come back inside.”

“I was just going through a few boxes.” She tucked the picture back into Oma’s journal and glanced around. “It is going to be a big job.”

“Not one you can finish tonight. Granny fixed corn bread. The table is set for dinner. We can bring in a few boxes and go through them later, if you’d like.” She examined one of them. “Might be kind of fun.”

Carolyn put Oma’s journal on top of the shoe box and stacked them on the box labeled Family Pictures . May Flower Dawn lifted the box marked Trip . They carried the two boxes into the house and put them in the living room. “It’ll just take me a minute to get the others.” When she’d stacked the other boxes in the middle of the living room, she washed her hands in the kitchen sink before sitting down with May Flower Dawn and her mother, who gave the blessing.

Carolyn put her napkin on her lap. “I found Oma’s journal.”

“My inheritance.” Her mother snorted, scooping stone soup into bowls. “She gave Rikka a few pieces of jewelry. She’d already given Bernie her car. Cloe earns a stipend for handling the college trust Mama set up. I got her recipe book and a box of letters, written in German.” She set a bowl in front of Dawn and filled another for Carolyn.

Dawn took a spoonful of soup and smiled. “Yummy.” She glanced across at Carolyn. “It’s not just a collection of recipes, Granny. When we visited her, Oma gave it to me to read one night. She told me she only wrote important things that made a difference in her life: tips on how to keep a house, yes, and some recipes, but also quotes from people she met, important dates like when you were born and the circumstances, ranch schedules, a funny poem a boy wrote about Summer Bedlam, her thoughts on life. It’s wonderful. It defines her. I’d love to read it again.” She looked at Carolyn. “She sent me a journal after that visit. Remember?”