Viola took the old Afghan sheets and ever so gently covered the child. In doing so, her heart wept. The pain came back so deeply and vividly that it was almost as if it were fresh instead of the old pain she had carried for 35 years. The pain every parent carries when the natural order of time becomes unnatural, out of whack, off-balance, out of sync. When a child dies before a parent. The worst pain of all. The loss of one's own flesh and blood. She not only suffered this loss once but three times with her own children and twice with her grandchildren.
"It's so unfair. It's all so unfair," Viola whispered to the spirits that filled the house, herself, and to little Travis as if warning him about life and what was to come.
"What's unfair?" Regina asked suddenly, standing next to the bed and looking down at little Travis. Pushing the pain deep inside, she brought Viola back to reality. Viola unconsciously hoped it would never appear again, knowing it would come back to her as long as she drew breath.
"Nothing," Viola answered almost sadly, "Nothing child," she repeated again, not wanting to explain herself or frighten Shelby. For if one could go through life never feeling that pain, then all the better for them. One should never describe the pain of loss to someone who may never feel that kind of pain. Like the life that would be unfair, an extra burden, one should not have to carry that pain. That kind of pain is only treasured in heaven, adored by the Savior. Loved ones, it seems, are never forgotten, yet always greatly missed. Time never heals the pain; it merely numbs it, allowing it to resurface on holidays and birthdays.
"I parked my car out front," Shelby told her. "My name is Shelby," she said, holding out her hand to Viola. Viola placed her small hands in Shelby's, her soft skin making Viola's hand tingle. "Please meet you, ma'am. Sorry about your fence. I promise to get it fixed even if I have to do it myself."
"I know, I know, you will. I believe you," Viola answered as if it were no big deal. The red numbers on the alarm clock read "10:15". She couldn't remember when she was last up so late.
That night they both became friends. It didn't matter that there were 75 years between them. Shelby and Viola stayed up talking late into the evening and on into the morning. They talked about things Regina knew about and things she didn't know about. They talked about things they wanted to talk about. Shelby liked talking to Viola. There was a smooth rhythm and easy laughter. They both looked to Travis as they spoke. Shelby felt as though she could tell Viola anything and not be judged for the worse. She felt trusted and felt she could trust. It was like her mother said about a year before she passed, "You don't miss what you're not educated to miss." In this case, she knew that truer words were never spoken. Shelby missed having someone to talk to.
If someone had told her about this night a week ago, she would have told them they were daffy. But not anymore. She laid on the couch in the old woman's living room, her son sleeping soundly, not 15 feet from her in the old queen size bed with Miss Viola. She listened to the house, and Miss Viola gently snoring. She thanked God for the day and the one He was about to give. She closed her eyes as she said, "Amen," going to a restful sleep before gathering another thought. Gone and at peace.
Years later, she would look back at this night. She would look back at it just being peaceful and relaxing, telling whoever would listen that she just liked hearing their heartbeats. She never explained. No one asked her too. Because anyone she told the story too knew exactly what she meant.
Viola Dugan awoke with a small hand tracing her face and another small hand holding a clump
of long gray hair. She was confused and disoriented and felt as if she had gone back in time. Back to a time that was much more to her liking; to a time, she felt young, youthful, and whole. But most importantly, a time when her family was whole. When the summers were sunny and not so hot. When the afternoons were filled with screaming children running through sprinklers and summer nights catching lightning bugs in a jar. The snowy winter days of sliding down the nearest snow-covered slope with her three youngsters in tow laughing, smiling, and arguing, asking a thousand questions as if tomorrow would never come. She knew most of the time, they already knew the answers.
She opened her eyes at the first sign of little Travis. The night before came flooding back like rain-soaked earth, causing a dam to explode. Still, when she looked at Travis, she swept back to Drew and only had to look at her liver-spotted hands to come back to reality. The past is exactly that: the past. Today is today, and there's only today because tomorrow is never promised. Never was, never will be.
Viola gently untangled the small hand from her hair as Travis cooed softly. "How about some breakfast?" she asked the child as if he were far beyond his years. Travis nodded his head as if to say, "Yes." "Well let's go see what we can rustle up then," she told him, sitting upright and slowly bringing Travis into her arms. Young Travis couldn't have weighed more than a sack of potatoes. Still, she made sure her feet were steady as she secured her grip. "Might ought to get you a fresh diaper too." Viola added.
"Doodoo," Travis whispered quietly. Viola agreed.