Emma's Gift Read Free Page B

and put away the best I knew how, I went about picking up all kinds of odds and ends that had been left lying on the floor. I could imagine the Hammond children playing with the strangest of things, like the broken shoelaces and mason’s trowel I’d found, and then leaving them lie. Anything I didn’t know a place for I stacked in a pile behind the loft ladder, which rose from one corner of the kitchen.
    Emma sat by Wila’s side, praying quietly or singing most of the time. I brought her some coffee and a fresh bowl of warm water a time or two, and she bathed Wila’s face and neck and told me at least three more times not to worry.
    I remembered what it’d been like when baby Emma Grace was born right in this bedroom, coming breech, with Wila sick as a dog. Emma had commanded every minute, telling us they were both going to pull through fine. And they did. It was no wonder the Hammonds trusted Emma. After she’d birthed nine of their ten kids, they must’ve thought she could do anything.
    But right then I couldn’t help noticing her sunken, weary eyes.
    â€œThere’s a rocker out by the fireplace,” I said. “You want me to bring it in here so you can rest while Wila’s sleeping?”
    She shook her head. “You cleanin’s fine, Juli. But rearrangin’ furniture on my account’s another matter. George might want that chair.”
    â€œHe’s in the kitchen. Patching a boot. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
    She didn’t tell me anything else one way or the other, so I went and dragged the chair in next to the straight-backed one that George had been sitting on earlier. The two chairs together took up about all the floor space there was.
    I helped Emma to the rocker and covered her lap with the first spare blanket I could find. It seemed to be growing even darker outside, and cooler too. And I wasn’t the only one to notice it. I could hear George getting up to throw some more wood on the fire. The Hammonds’ sitting room and kitchen were one open area, so with the fireplace at one end and the huge wood cookstove at the other, it wasn’t bad for warmth. Better maybe than Emma’s house, but a lot more cramped.
    Wila was sleeping a long while this time, and George kept himself busy doing a little odd this and that. I went back to the cleaning that the house sorely needed, top to bottom. While sweeping in the kitchen, I stirred up so much dust and wood shavings that I set myself to coughing.
    George looked up at me and shook his head. “You ain’t gotta do that.”
    â€œI know. But I feel better making myself useful.”
    â€œWila does that in the spring, when she can open all the windows and doors.” He said it like he thought I ought to know this kind of thing. “That’s why they call it spring cleanin’.”
    I stared down at the floor, wondering if he meant that she only swept in the spring. I could almost believe it, as sorry a shape as it was in. But she’d been sick, and you couldn’t expect Lizbeth to keep up with everything. With seven boys, though, you’d think at least one of them would lend a hand with housework. Goodness, there was the awfullest crud on the floors and on the counters. Even the walls were a dingy, stained-up mess.
    Despite the dirt, I set the broom aside before I was done, not sure if I was bothering George. I went to take a peek in the bedroom, and Emma looked to be sleeping in the rocker. I tried to back out, but she stirred anyway.
    â€œAny change in Wila?” she asked me.
    â€œI don’t think so.” I was wondering, and had been for quite a while, what she’d meant when she’d said that Wila was off a rhythm. So I worked up my nerve and asked her.
    Emma sat forward, and I stepped closer in case she wanted to get up. She did. I helped her back to Wilametta’s side, and she laid her head against the sleeping woman’s chest.