Jan 6, 2014 6 min read

? Chapter EIGHTEEN

THE STORY SO FAR: After their long and difficult journey, the children are almost home. But will they find their grandmother alive?

July 25-26, 1828. On the banks of the Little Sandy River, Kentucky.

The last hill is steep, and we roll down slow. “No more runaway wagons,” Moses says. He and I hold Sadie back until our hands are blistered. We eat a cold, quick supper by the river. It’s getting dark, but Moses says, “Let’s keep traveling.” So we scramble into the wagon. No one wants to stop now.

Louisa and Solomon fall asleep in the back, and Moses and I take turns with the reins, singing to stay awake. The moon lights up the dirt track. Near dawn we pass the gristmill on Papa’s map. Even Sadie seems to know where we are. She trots at a fast clip. When the road forks, she takes the right turning without being told.

“We made it!” I cry, hugging Moses. His face turns red, but he doesn’t push me away. I shake Solomon and Louisa. “Wake up! We’re almost home.”

They squeeze in beside us on the seat. We pass the big oak tree, and Moses and I chant together, repeating Papa’s last instructions: “Not the first turning after the oak, but the second . . .”

Sadie trots so fast, she almost tips the wagon on the turn. We squeal, holding on tight. Sandy jumps out and runs beside us, his nose snuffling the ground.

We pull Sadie up in the clearing. It’s not quite light, but smoke already streams from Grandma’s chimney. The cabin looks smaller than I remember. We climb down and help Moses onto his crutches. Two geese come flapping from the shed, hissing and honking. Sandy yelps, and skitters under the wagon. Solomon and Louisa cling to my skirts.

The door swings open. “Grandma!” Solomon screams.

But it’s not our grandma at all. A tall, skinny woman with a baby on her hip steps out, squinting in the dim light. She shakes her head. “Land sakes,” she says. “Homer!” she calls over her shoulder. “Look what the cat dragged in!”

A man peers over the woman’s shoulder while we stand in a silent row, unsure what to do. My mouth is dry as dust. Solomon and Louisa clutch my hands. Finally Solomon blurts out, “Who are you? Where’s my grandma?”

The woman shakes her head and runs her eyes over all of us. I’m ashamed of how shabby we look. We haven’t had a proper wash since we left the widow’s.

“My word,” the woman says. “These are Rebecca’s children. Who would have thought . . .”

“Don’t be rude, now, Etta,” the man says. “I’m Homer Peters,” he tells us. “Y’all come on in.”

“It’s safe,” Moses whispers. “Homer is some kind of cousin to Grandma.” We stumble into the cabin. My heart is down around my ankles.

As we gather in the front room, the woman called Etta whispers, “Your grandma’s not in her right mind. About four or five weeks ago, she took to her bed. Hasn’t spoke since, and she don’t eat much. Doctor says there’s nothing wrong. We were afraid she was fixing to die – so we come on over to help.”

I can’t stand it anymore. “We need to see her.”

“She’s still asleep,” Etta says, “and she cain’t talk to you – “

I don’t care if it’s rude; we push on past Etta to the closed door beyond the kitchen. I open it carefully. Grandma lies in the middle of her bed, her hands crossed the way Mama’s were in her coffin – but Grandma’s chest rises and falls under her faded quilt.

I can hardly breathe. The room is stuffy and hot. And Grandma looks so old! Her face is shriveled and sunken, like Louisa’s dried-apple doll. I blink hard, holding back tears. This isn’t how I pictured it. I thought Grandma would be waiting in the clearing, her arms open wide –

Louisa breaks the spell. “Grandma,” she sobs. She climbs onto the bed and pats Grandma’s cheek with her skinny hand. Grandma’s eyes flutter open as we cluster around her, nestling on the bed like baby chicks come home to roost. We grab her hands and hold on tight. Everyone is crying, even Moses.

Grandma raises herself to her elbows and sits up so she can pull us all close. Her long white braid falls down her back, and her gray eyes, so like Louisa’s, spill over. She traces each one of our faces with her fingers, as if she can’t see. “I’m Jesse,” I tell her, when her hand flutters over me. “And Moses, Solomon, and Louisa – you remember us, don’t you?”

She nods. Then she goes very still and peers over our heads at the empty doorway, her eyes searching.

“They’re both gone, Grandma,” I tell her. My voice shakes.

She pulls me close. “I felt it inside.” Her voice is croaky, like a frog. “But no one believed me.”

“Grandma, you can talk like the rest of us!” Moses says, laughing and crying all at once. “You sure fooled your cousins.”

Footsteps scritch across the floor and Sandy rushes in, wriggling all over. He jumps up and plants his muddy front paws on Grandma’s quilt.

“Sandy, no!” I scold, but Grandma shakes her head.

“Let him be,” she says, and strokes his long ears.

“His name is Sandy,” Louisa says, “after your river.” And then she adds, in a brave voice, “You can keep him, if you want.”

Grandma smiles through the tears that trickle down her wrinkled cheeks. “‘Bout time I got me a dog,” she says. “Now tell me. What happened?”

“You want to hear all of it?” I ask.

She nods. “Every last bit. From the very beginning – to when you pulled up at my doorstep.”

I take a deep breath. “It’s a long story,” I say.

She pulls us close. “That’s just fine. We got all the time in the world.”

So we begin.

The end