Chapter Three Mattie

THREE : MATTIE

DELANEY HORSE FARM

NOVEMBER 1969

I woke with a start.

Was that Mama's voice I heard?

It took a moment to remember I'd slept in my old bedroom in Tullahoma and wasn't experiencing a drug-induced dream in some dingy California hovel. While that knowledge brought a wave of relief, it quickly faded when the reason I was here crashed over me.

Mama was dying.

With great effort, I pushed myself into a sitting position, feeling as exhausted this morning as when I fell into bed. I'd stayed on the floor in Mark's room for hours before dragging myself upstairs. A new day beckoned beyond the window curtains. Somewhere on the farm, a rooster crowed. The world continued to spin, and life went on, even if I wasn't ready to face it.

Low conversation came from my parents' room across the hallway, and I sat there, listening. Dad's deep murmur, followed by Mama's soft chuckle. The clinking of dishes. So many emotions rushed through my mind.

Grief. Regret. Anger.

Always anger.

I wrapped my arms around my bent knees and recalled Dad's greeting—or lack thereof—from last night. He'd never been much of a conversationalist. Mama always joked that she did enough talking for the both of them. He preferred being with the horses rather than people. Yet despite my father's tendency toward reclusiveness, he and Mama always got along. They weren't one of those married couples who hugged and kissed in front of others, but I'd never worried about them divorcing like so many of the parents of my school friends. As I got older and started to dream about the boy I'd marry someday, I knew I wanted him to be as different from my dad as an apple is from a banana.

My thoughts turned to Mark.

He was the opposite of our father. As the saying goes, Mark never met a stranger. Everyone loved him, and he genuinely loved them back. I'd often wished I could be more like my brother, but I wasn't. I was impatient, headstrong, and opinionated. Those traits served me well in debate class, but in real life... not so much. Especially when it came to communicating with our father.

The smell of fried bacon wafted into my room from the kitchen below. I could still hear my parents' muted conversation, making me wonder who was downstairs cooking. Maybe Dad had hired help after Mama's diagnosis.

I hauled myself from bed and shivered when my feet met the cold wood floor. Inching the door open, I found the hallway empty. Careful to avoid the squeaky floorboard, I crept to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. Dark circles. Dirty hair. The same wrinkled clothes I'd worn since leaving California.

What would Mama think when she laid eyes on me?

After I brushed my teeth, I tiptoed out and came face to face with Dad.

"Morning. Your mama's anxious to see you."

His expression gave nothing away.

Was Mama having a good day? Would she tell me how much I'd disappointed her? Was she recognizable or had cancer ravaged her the way life had ravaged my father the past year?

I took a deep breath and walked past him into the room.

Mama lay in bed, propped up by pillows, wearing a powder-blue flannel nightgown with lace around the collar and long sleeves. Where my father looked almost skeletal, Mama's face and hands were unnaturally puffy. For some reason I thought most people with cancer lost their hair, but Mama's simple coif looked as it always had, if slightly rumpled.

Tears glistened in her eyes, and she stretched her arms toward me. "My Mattie. You're home. You're finally home."

I'd told myself to be strong and not fall apart, but her motherly words unearthed every emotion I'd tried to bury over the past twelve months.

"Mama," I whispered and stumbled to the bed. I knelt on the hardwood, took her hand in mine, and buried my face in the soft sleeve of her gown. As I sobbed, I felt her other hand stroke my dirty hair while she crooned, "My girl. My poor, poor girl."

I don't know how long I stayed there, but when my weeping subsided, I looked up to find compassion and love in her eyes rather than the condemnation and disapproval I deserved.

"I'm sorry, Mama," I croaked, the words sincere. I wasn't certain what I was apologizing for, but I knew it was long overdue. For leaving. For coming back. For her diagnosis. For Mark's death. Maybe all of it.

"I know, sweetheart." She sniffled and wiped her nose on a hanky. "We all are."

I searched her face, trying to find my beautiful mother in the swollen flesh. "Why didn't you tell me, Mama? I would have come home. You know I would have."

She squeezed my hand, although there was no strength in her grasp. "I didn't want you to come home for me. I wanted you to come home for you."

It wasn't an answer I would argue with. Not now. There were more important things to discuss. "I'm taking you to the hospital. Today. Let them do what they need to do to get you well."

She removed her hand from mine and caressed my cheek. "I know this is hard to accept, Mattie, but there isn't anything they can do. The cancer spread too much, long before we even knew it was there. They'd have to remove nearly all my innards, and still, they couldn't be sure they'd gotten it all."

Panic surged through me. "There must be something." I heard desperation in my voice.

"You're home now, and that's the best medicine in the world," she said with a soft smile. "Tell me about your trip. I bet you saw all sorts of interesting things."

Mama always changed the subject when she decided the current topic of conversation was played out. I'd humor her for now, but I wasn't giving up on the hospital and doctors. For the next thirty minutes I described Arizona's tall saguaro cacti and the forests of pine trees we passed in Arkansas. I told her about the grumpy lady who boarded in Albuquerque and the bus driver who took a wrong turn in Oklahoma City. Mama laughed the way she used to when Mark told his stories, and although I detected a forced joviality in her smile, I treasured the sweet sound.

"I always thought I'd like to travel and see more of the country," she said, her voice weakening. "But I suppose I'll have to be content listening to you tell of your adventures."

I closed my eyes, but tears escaped anyway. "It's not fair," I hissed. First Mark and now Mama.

"Maybe not, but I'm not afraid. God has his hand on me. On you, too."

When I looked at her again, the expression of peace on her swollen face made me mad. "I can't believe in a God who would fill your body with a vile disease and then sit back and do nothing to help. I won't believe in a God who let my brother die a horrific death, fighting a horrific war that should have never happened. This is all wrong, Mama. Don't you see?"

My raised voice brought my father to the open doorway. "Ava?" he said, concern in the single word as he came forward. He went to the opposite side of the bed and sat on the mattress. He didn't look at me at all.

Mama's lips lifted in a tired smile. "It's good to be together again."

Dad didn't voice his agreement. "You don't want to wear yourself out with too much talking."

"I want to visit with Mattie a while longer." She sounded like a little child, begging to stay up past her bedtime.

"You didn't sleep well last night. It's important for you to rest."

I watched him place a small white pill in her mouth, then he held a glass of water to her lips. After Dad helped her into a comfortable position, Mama reached for my hand again. Her eyelids were already beginning to droop. "Come see me after I've napped a little. We have a lot of catching up to do."

I nodded. By the time I'd gotten to my feet and kissed her forehead, her eyes had drifted closed. I stood and watched her for a long minute while Dad tidied up the bottles of medicines and other items on the bedside table.

"She'll sleep a while now," he said when he'd finished.

I didn't look up. "Why are her face and hands swollen?"

"The medicine."

His answer was woefully inadequate. A dozen questions poured through me. What medicine? What's it for? Why isn't she in the hospital? Why are you letting my mother die? On and on, but I didn't voice any of them. Anything he had to say, I suspected, would not satisfy me.

I turned and left the room without another word.

Despite the desire to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head, I trudged downstairs. I wasn't much of a coffee drinker, but I was in serious need of some caffeine or something to keep me going. Ever since my overdose, I'd stayed away from drugs, but I had to admit I wouldn't pass up a line of coke or some LSD right now. The thought of facing my first day back on the farm without something to take the edge off reality terrified me.

I didn't glance at the closed door on my right when I reached the bottom of the steps. When I dragged myself from Mark's room last night, I knew I'd never step foot in there again. What would be the point? His things were gone. He was gone.

The space felt as empty as I did.

I drew to a stop in the kitchen doorway. Nash stood at the sink, scrubbing a propped-up frying pan.

"Morning." He didn't smile but nodded to the table. "There's pancakes and bacon, but they might be a little cold by now. Coffee's still hot though."

Confusion spun through me. "Dad hired you to cook?"

He chuckled. "He hired me to help with the farm. The cooking part evolved."

I wasn't sure what to say. Not only was he the farmhand and chauffeur, but he was the housekeeper too?

I moved to pour myself a cup of coffee from the percolator. A hefty dose of cream and sugar lightened the dark liquid. After I took a long sip, I said, "I saw Mama."

He nodded but continued scrubbing.

I heaved a sigh.

Nash and I may not agree on some things, but right now I needed him. He was the only person who would give me the information I required to help me understand what I'd walked into when I came home. Talking to Dad about it was out of the question. "Tell me about her diagnosis." When he glanced over to me, I added, "Please."

Nash stopped what he was doing, toweled off his hand, and motioned me to the table where we both took seats.

"I got back to the States in February, but I didn't come to Tullahoma until the end of March." He paused, his expression convincing me the memory of his homecoming wasn't pleasant. "I stayed in town looking for a job, but I hadn't seen your folks yet." He shrugged. "I didn't know what to say to them. It might sound crazy, but I blamed myself for Mark's death, even though I wasn't there when it happened."

I sat silent. I blamed him too, but now wasn't the time to bring that up.

"When I finally got the courage to come out and see them, they welcomed me. Your dad asked what I planned to do now, and I told him I was looking for a job. Any job. He didn't hesitate. Said I could come work for him."

A soft smile formed on his mouth. "Your mom... she's been good to me. I wasn't here long before I noticed she was tired all the time. Ava said it was normal aging and told us not to worry. It was real hot the first week of August, and she collapsed out in the barn. Your dad took her to the hospital, and that's when they discovered the cancer. Doc sent her to Nashville for surgery, but when they opened her up..." He grew silent and simply shook his head.

I swallowed hard. Guilt, pain, and regret tightened my throat. "I still don't understand why she won't try to fight it."

He looked out the window, then back to me. "Not every battle can be won, Mattie." He stood and returned to the sink.

I watched him wash and dry dishes, doing it all with one hand. If anyone knew the truth of his statement, it was Nash. Knowing what losses he would suffer, would he still willingly head off to war and take my brother with him? While they'd spent three years fighting the enemy in the jungles of Vietnam, I'd moved to Nashville to attend Vanderbilt and participated in student sit-ins to protest the war. We were beginning to feel like we were making a difference when Mama called with the worst news I could imagine.

Scratching came from the outside door. A loud bark followed.

"That'll be Jake," Nash said. He finished drying off a plate and stored it in the proper cabinet, then strode to open the door. A German shepherd stood on the porch.

"Hey, boy." Nash patted the animal on the head. "You ready for breakfast, too?"

The dog barked again. Nash motioned him in and shut the door.

My mouth gaped. "Dad lets you have a dog inside the house?"

The corner of Nash's mouth lifted. "Your mom's the one who said Jake was welcome. Not much your dad could say after that."

Jake walked with a limp as he slowly made his way into the kitchen. When the animal glanced my way, I was surprised to discover he only had one eye. Furless scars crisscrossed his face, evidence something bad had happened to him.

Nash didn't wait for an inquiry. "Jake is a war dog. He and Gerald, his handler, were both injured by a grenade. The Vietcong target the dogs, hoping to keep them from detecting land mines and tunnels. The powers-that-be up the chain of command were going to have Jake euthanized because of his wounds, but Gerald wouldn't leave Vietnam without his partner. I don't know the whole story, but someone snuck Jake onto the medical transport airplane in a wooden crate, even though it was against regulations. I met Gerald at Walter Reed in Washington."

Nash took a bag from the pantry and dumped a handful of dry dog food into a bowl. Jake hobbled over and began to eat with more gusto than I'd expected.

"Are you keeping Jake for Gerald until he's well enough to come get the dog?"

A shadow darkened Nash's face. "Gerald's dead. He committed suicide. Couldn't stand the thought of being a cripple all his life."

I sucked in a breath. On their own, my eyes darted to his empty sleeve.

"I'm lucky." His tone indicated the exact opposite. "I only lost an arm. Gerald lost both legs. Infection becomes an amputee's worst enemy after he's carried off the battlefield." His eyes narrowed on me. "People back home don't care that not only is the soldier suffering from physical disfigurement, but he's also dealing with depression, hopelessness, criticism from strangers. People out there would rather condemn Gerald for being a soldier in the first place rather than feel any sympathy for what he went through that led him to give up."

Anger laced his words. Was he still talking about Gerald, or had he himself experienced the kind of rejection he spoke of?

"I'm sorry your friend died," I said. "I'm sorry my brother died. But the truth of the matter is, none of you should have been in Vietnam. Certainly not Jake."

He stiffened. "Jake served his country faithfully. That's more than I can say for the cowards who chose to play it safe." He smirked. "I'm sure that includes your friends out in California. Sex, drugs, and pseudo peace. Isn't that their motto?"

I wouldn't take the bait. "You, Mark, and even Gerald chose to go to war. Jake didn't."

The muscle in Nash's jaw ticked. I braced for a full-on argument, but it didn't come.

"Jake, let's go." Nash grabbed his jacket from a hook by the door and didn't look back as he and the dog left the house.

I watched him through the window as he crossed the yard, his long strides evidence of his anger. Dad must've left the house through the front door after Mama went to sleep, because he met Nash halfway between the barn and the house. Would Nash tell him about our quarrel? After a minute of conversation, the two disappeared into the big building.

I sat at the table and sipped coffee that had grown cold.

I refused to feel guilty. I'd only spoken the truth. Still, the look on his face when he talked about his friend's suicide...

I heaved a sigh.

I didn't want to hurt Nash. He'd been like a brother to Mark for many years. But he'd made his choice four years ago and now had to live with the consequences.

A glance in the direction of the closed bedroom door reminded me we all had to live with those consequences.

After I downed a cold pancake, I put the leftovers away and finished cleaning the kitchen. Upstairs, I peeked in on Mama and found her still asleep. A hot shower and a bottle of shampoo worked magic on my appearance and my mood. After donning an old pair of jeans and a sweatshirt I found in my closet, I made my way outside into a beautiful autumn day. Maybe I'd take Moonlight for a ride. I'm sure my horse had missed me the past year.

Standing on the porch, I inhaled a deep draft of clean, country air. I had to admit the farm held a unique beauty that couldn't be found anywhere else. California had its pretty beaches, deserts, and mountains, but this place... These pastures and rolling hills were part of me. They were part of Mark. He and I had covered the two hundred fifty acres countless times, either on foot or on horseback, almost from the moment we learned to walk. We built forts, hunted for arrowheads, and fished in the creek that ran through the back woods. Nash would tag along sometimes, especially on days when Mr. McCallum had been drinking.

Movement near the small guest cottage just past the barn caught my eye.

Jake. He was chasing something. The dog limped along at a quick pace, bent his nose to the ground, and picked up what looked like a red ball. He carried it back to the house, where the door stood open, and disappeared inside. A moment later, a red flash shot through the air into the yard, with Jake right behind it.

Curious, I stepped off the porch and walked in that direction. Jake was just returning with the rubber ball in his mouth when Nash met him at the doorway. They both seemed surprised to see me.

"Sorry. I didn't know you were with him. I saw him from the porch."

Nash bent to retrieve the ball Jake had dropped at his feet. "Sit." The dog did. A moment later, Nash lobbed the ball into the yard, and off went Jake after it. We watched in silence before Nash said, "The vet says exercise is good for him. It may look like he's in pain, but he needs to stay active. Otherwise, his muscles will atrophy."

I nodded. I couldn't help but wonder if the same was true for wounded soldiers.

Jake returned, but instead of dropping the ball at Nash's feet, he plopped down in the dirt, obviously done with the game for now.

I studied the small one-story house. "Do you remember when Granny lived here? She was always so grumpy and didn't smile, but she made the best molasses cookies. Too bad she wouldn't let us have more than one each. Never two."

Nash chuckled. "Then Mark and I would distract her while you snuck in and snitched one for us to share."

"We were quite the team." The memory was bittersweet. "So," I said, needing to change the subject before I ended up in tears. "What does Dad use the cottage for these days? Storage?"

An odd expression crossed his face before his brows rose. "You really don't know?"

I shook my head.

"I live here. Well, Jake and I live here."

I blinked. "Oh. I thought... um, I assumed..." It was best to simply shut my mouth.

He jammed his hand into his jeans pocket. "Mom moved away after I left. She lives in Chicago now." He looked out to the pastures. "My dad still lives in the same house, but I haven't seen him since I got back."

It seemed Nash and I had more in common than I'd realized. He probably didn't like talking about his relationship with his father any more than I did.

"I'm thinking about taking Moonlight Sky for a ride," I said. "Is she out to pasture?"

"You might want to check with your dad before you ride her."

My spine grew rigid. "If I recall correctly, Moonlight is my horse. Just because I've been away for a while doesn't mean I need his permission to ride her."

Annoyance sparked in his eyes. "No one said she isn't your horse, Mattie, but Moonlight Sky is due to foal in the spring. We've been exercising her, but since this is her first foal, Kurt thought it best if she wasn't ridden."

My mouth dropped. "He bred her? Without asking me?"

Nash stared as though I'd gone nuts. "Are you serious? You disappeared after Mark's funeral. Your parents didn't know if they'd ever see you again. You have a lot of nerve getting upset because your dad bred a horse on his horse farm."

"And you have a lot of nerve judging me, Nash McCallum," I said through gritted teeth.

"Someone needs to."

We glared at one another until I whirled and stormed away.