Emma's Gift Read Free Page A

told me. “‘Blessed Assurance,’ all right?”
    It was all I could do to swallow a lump down and take another breath. They were scaring me, both of them. I could hear George come in to the kitchen, dump a load of wood in the box, and head back out. He should be in here, I thought again. But I couldn’t say it. I hated the very thought of what it implied. Wila was fading. Dying. Oh, God! A mother of ten!
    I couldn’t shake the feeling of it as I started to sing, tears clouding my vision. I was slow and quiet, afraid to be otherwise and hoping for all the world that I was wrong. Emma’s words went tumbling through my mind. “I promised Lizbeth she’d be all right.”
    Lord, help us! She’s got to be all right. You wouldn’t want it any other way!
    I sang on, as much as I could remember, praying that I was just being foolish. The snow would quit and Wilametta would be back to her normal clamorous self by tomorrow, most surely.
    â€œShe sounds sweet as angels,” Wila said, and I almost had to stop the song. “You know what the Good Book says ’bout heaven?” she asked.
    â€œThere’ll be no sorrow there,” Emma answered. “No sickness. No pain.”
    â€œI’ll be glad for goin’ there, one day. You tell Emma Grace an’ all the rest it’s a wonderful place. Will you do that, Emma?”
    I stopped singing and went to rubbing her legs again, feeling heavy and cold inside.
    George came in again, dumped a second armload of wood, and moved in our direction with his slow, even steps. He shook the snow off his coat and left it lying by the bedroom doorway. “She still awake?”
    â€œYes,” Emma said. But that was all she said. She laid one hand on Wila’s chest and left it there, moving her lips without making a sound.
    â€œGood.” George came and leaned over the bed, not seeming to notice that Emma was praying. “Wilametta Hammond,” he said, “I called for the doctor. Folks that say I don’t love ya, they ain’t got a leg to stand on. I ain’t never called a doctor for no one.”
    Wila looked up just enough to meet his eyes. For a moment she and George stayed like that, not a word between them. Then finally Wila smiled, just a little. “I love you too,” she whispered, her eyes slowly closing.
    George looked like he could jump out of his skin. “Emma!”
    â€œShe’s still here, George. She’s breathing just fine.” Emma lowered her head down to Wila’s broad chest, as if just making sure. “Don’t you worry,” she told us again. “She’s breathin’ fine.”
    George pulled his wet hat down off his head. “She just give me the awfullest scare.” He curled at the brim nervously, sending little drips of half-melted snowflakes to the floor. “She’s never been this bad,” he told us again. “You say she’ll be fine, though, ain’t that right, Emma? Didn’t you say she’ll be fine?”
    I looked from one to the other, glad it wasn’t me he was asking.
    â€œI believe it,” Emma told him, solid as anything. “But it’d be a fine thing if you’d pray on it too, George Hammond. You got coffee in the house?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.” He looked like a schoolboy just then, his too-long hair all mussed.
    â€œJuli, go and make us some coffee,” Emma ordered. “I’ll set with her, but there ain’t much more you can do while she’s sleepin’.”
    I made coffee, enough to give to the whole family if they’d been there. Then I picked up the bowls on the table, some of them still half filled with the strange gray porridge. I moved the pot with the same gray stuff in it, heated most of the rest of the water, and did all the dishes. George would have to fetch more water in so we’d have some at hand for the evening.
    When the dishes were clean