Rose carefully squeezed Mamma’s bony hand and strode from the bedroom. Out in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, blotting her face with her apron. Her five-year-old daughter was extremely perceptive. Gracie already sensed her mammi was very, very ill, and if she saw how upset Rose had become, there would be no end of painful questions—and Gracie wouldn’t get back to sleep.
The three of them had endured a heart-wrenching autumn and winter after a fire had ravaged Dat’s sawmill, claiming Rose’s father, Myron Fry, and her husband, Nathan Raber, as well. The stress of losing Dat had apparently left Mamma susceptible, because that’s when the cancer had returned with a vengeance, after almost thirty years of remission. The first time around, when Mamma was young, she’d survived breast cancer, but this time the disease had stricken her lungs—even though she’d never smoked.
With the family business gone, Rose and Gracie had moved into Mamma’s house last September. Rose had sold her and Nathan’s little farm so they would have some money to live on—and to pay Mamma’s mounting bills for the chemo and radiation, which had kept her cancer manageable. Until now. Rose had a feeling that this date, April third, would be forever emblazoned on her heart, her soul.
Little Gracie has lost so many who loved her, Rose thought, sending the words up as another prayer. She composed herself, took a deep breath, and then climbed the stairs barefoot. She peeked into the small bedroom at the end of the hall.
The sound of steady breathing drew Rose to her daughter’s bedside. In the moonlight, Gracie appeared carefree—breathtakingly sweet as she slept. Such a gift from God this daughter was, a balm to Rose’s soul and to her mother’s as well. For whatever reason, God had granted Rose and Nathan only this single rosebud of a child, so they had cherished her deeply. Rose resisted the temptation to stroke her wee girl’s cheek, feasting her eyes on Gracie’s perfection instead. She’d seen some religious paintings of plump-cheeked cherubim, but her daughter’s innocent beauty outshone the radiance of those curly-haired angels.
Rose quietly left Gracie’s room. Standing in her daughter’s presence had strengthened her, and she felt more ready to face whatever issue Mamma wanted to discuss. Rose knew of many folks whose parents had passed before they’d had a chance to speak their piece, so she told herself to listen carefully, gratefully, to whatever wisdom Mamma might want to share with her. Instinct was telling her Mamma only had another day or so.
Pausing at the door of the downstairs bedroom, where Mamma was staying now because she could no longer climb the stairs, Rose sighed. Mamma’s face and arms were so withered and pale. It was a blessing that her pain relievers kept her fairly comfortable. When Mamma realized Rose had returned, she beckoned with her hand. “Let’s talk about this before I lose my nerve,” she murmured. “There’s a stationery box . . . in my bottom dresser drawer. The letters inside it . . . will explain everything.”
Rose’s pulse lurched. In all her life, she’d never known Mamma to keep secrets—but the shadows beneath Mamma’s eyes and the fading of her voice warned Rose that this was no time to demand an explanation. Rose sat down in the chair beside the bed again, leaning closer to catch Mamma’s every faint word.
“I hope you’ll understand . . . what I’ve done,” Mamma mumbled. “I probably should have told you long ago, but . . . there just never seemed to be a right time—and I made promises—your dat believed we should let sleeping dogs lie.”
Rose’s heart was beating so hard she wondered if Mamma could hear it. “Mamma, what do you mean? What are you trying to—”
Mamma suddenly gripped Rose’s hands and struggled, as though she wanted to sit up but couldn’t. “Do not look for her, Rose. I—I promised her you wouldn’t.”
Rose swallowed hard. Her mother appeared to be sinking in on herself now, drifting in and out of rational thought. “Who, Mamma?” Rose whispered urgently. “Who are you talking about?”
Mamma focused on Rose for one last, lingering moment and then her body went limp. “I’m so tired,” she rasped. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Rose bowed her head, praying that they would indeed have another day together. She tucked the sheet and light quilt around Mamma’s frail shoulders. It was all she could do. “Gut night, Mamma,” she whispered. “I love you.”
She listened for a reply, but Mamma was already asleep.
Rose was tempted to go to Mamma’s dresser and find the mysterious box she’d mentioned, but desperation overrode her curiosity. She couldn’t leave her mother’s bedside. For several endless minutes, Rose kept track of her mother’s breathing, which was growing slower and shallower now, as the doctor had said it would. He had recommended that Mamma stay in the hospital because her lungs were filling with fluid, but Mamma had wanted no part of that. She’d insisted on passing peacefully in her own home.
But please don’t go yet, Mamma, Rose pleaded as she gently eased her hands from her mother’s. Stay with me tonight. Just one more night.
Exhausted from sitting with Mamma for most of the past few days and nights, Rose folded her arms on the edge of the bed and rested her head on them. If Mamma stirred at all, Rose would know—could see to whatever she needed.
In the wee hours, Rose awakened with a jolt from a disturbing dream about two women—one of them was Mamma, as she’d looked years ago, and the other one was a younger woman Rose didn’t recognize. They were walking away from her, arm in arm, as though they had no idea she could see them—and didn’t care. Rose called and called, but neither woman turned around—
“Oh, Mamma,” Rose
