A Tumbled Stone

A Tumbled Stone

Copyright © 2012 by Marcia Lee Laycock

All rights reserved. Neither this publication nor any part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

EPUB Version ISBN: 978-1-77069-591-7

Word Alive Press

131 Cordite Road, Winnipeg, MB R3W 1S1

www.wordalivepress.ca

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Laycock, Marcia Lee, 1951-

A tumbled stone / Marcia Lee Laycock.

ISBN 978-1-77069-455-2

I. Title.

PS8623.A944T86 2012 C813’.6 C2012-901071-5

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER29

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

The book’s cover was black. Fitting, somehow. She took the white pencil crayon and drew on its cover, watching her hand circle an oval pearl, then flow down to make the curve of a lower, smaller one. Two parts of the same whole, one elongated but perfect in its shape, like a tear; the other more delicate, hanging alone.

She didn’t realize she was crying until she saw the stain, a streak on the dull black surface. She stared at it as though it had come from some other source, somewhere outside herself. She wiped it away with the heel of her hand and felt satisfied. There. No more tears. She opened the book.

This diary belongs to _______________________

She traced the line with her finger. The name had only been in her mind until now. She had never spoken it, never written it. She took a blank piece of white paper and practiced on it. Pearl. Baby Pearl. Pearl Drop. Tear Drop. She copied the names over and over, then crumpled the paper and threw it on the floor. She pulled the book toward her and wrote.

This diary belongs to Baby Pearl.

CHAPTER ONE

A farm on the Saskatchewan prairie

Andrea was woken by the banging of the stable doors. She jerked the covers away from her legs and leaned into the window, the glass cold against her outstretched palm. The yard light strobed around the painted red stable as wind lashed the trees and drove the rain sideways across the yard. Her big Paint gelding, Peso, raced from one end of the corral to the other, tossing his head and flicking his tail. The light flashed on his white blotches, making them glow.

Andrea swore under her breath and immediately felt guilty about it. She had forgotten to put him in for the night. No. That wasn’t true. She just hadn’t done what her foster father had told her to do.

She threw on her housecoat, pulling the long belt around her waist as she raced down the narrow stairway into the kitchen. There was no truck in the driveway. Edna and Earl were still at their prayer meeting. Of course.

Andrea jumped as the stable door slammed again. It would be blown off its hinges if she didn’t get out there. She tugged on a pair of boots and gripped the door handle, feeling the cold bite of it on her hand. She flipped the latch.

The wind caught the door as soon as she opened it, almost yanking her off her feet. She slammed it shut and turned toward the stable. Drenched the minute she left the stoop, her long black hair clung to her face and neck in tendrils, her robe threatening to trip her up as she ran.

She reached the stable and secured the door, then dashed to the corral. The rope latch was swollen from the rain and hard to force up over the post. Peso snorted and stomped while she fought with it. When it finally came free, she shoved the gate open just enough to squeeze through and stood still for a moment. She knew if she ran to the big Paint, she’d only spook him more. She tried to calm herself, feeling her way along the stable wall, the rough wood catching at her clothes.

When she got close to Peso, she put her arms out, calling over the wind and rain. Whoa, boy. Whoa now, Peso. It’s going to be okay. Whoa, now.

Please, she thought. Please, let him listen to me. Just this once, let him respond to me.

Peso’s wild eyes flashed toward her, but he dashed to a far corner. Andrea moved another few strides toward him, hoping he’d stay in the corner, hoping he wouldn’t throw his head when she reached for his halter.

She was close to him, now. His eyes were on her, but his ears lay flat. She could feel the hot breath from his nostrils, the panicked snorting filling her ears. She extended her arm, talking softly. Her hand was only a few inches from his head when her sopping robe wrapped around her legs as she stepped into a hole, pitching her into the mud.

Andrea cursed out loud. Her hands slid through the gritty sand as she struggled to get up. On her feet again, she flinched at the crack of a lightning strike and groaned when the big Paint lunged past her. Her attempt to grab his halter just left her with a fist full of coarse mane hair.

The beam of a truck’s headlight shot across the corral, spooking Peso even more as Andrea moved toward him again. She heard the slam of two doors, and in a moment her foster father was in the corral with her, calling to the horse, moving slowly but purposefully. Peso responded immediately, his ears perking forward, the wildness in his eyes fading. His head dropped. Earl had his hand on the halter in a matter of seconds and led the big animal toward the stable.

Andrea stood shivering, watching until Earl looked over his shoulder.

Get into the house, girl, before you catch your death.

Edna was filling the kettle at the kitchen sink, her thin face pinched into a tight frown.

I told him it was a mistake to buy that horse, she said.

She slammed the kettle down on the counter and turned on her foster daughter, her angular face made more severe by the knot of graying black hair pulled tight at the back of her neck.

Andrea mopped at her face with a dish towel.

Look at you. Soaked to the skin and covered in mud. Honestly, Andrea, sometimes you act like you’re ten years old, not nineteen.

Edna’s eyes drifted to Andrea’s belly. The girl’s hand tried to cover it, then dropped away.

Edna turned back to the sink. Get yourself dried off before you go up those stairs. You’ll drip all over the place.

Andrea turned away and fled up the stairs without a word.

Andrea! Did you not hear what I just said?

Andrea thought Edna might follow, but was relieved when the kitchen door banged and Earl came in, Edna’s voice pouncing on him. Their voices boomed up the hall, but she couldn’t hear the words. The tone was enough to tell her that Earl was trying to be conciliatory but Edna didn’t want to hear it. Andrea was glad when one of them closed the door at the bottom of the stairs. The words turned to a muffled murmur.

She went into the bathroom, peeled off her wet clothing and threw the clothes onto the floor, liking the slapping sound they made when they landed. She stepped into the shower, twisted the tap to the hot position, and let the heat sink into her bones. When she was finished, she stepped over the wet clothing and stared at the heap. Edna would rant about it tomorrow.

Andrea sat on her bed and toweled her hair, then stood and let the towel fall away as she walked by the mirror. The swell of her belly wasn’t really obvious yet when she was dressed, but she could see the slight curve of it now, in her reflection.

She pulled a pair of pajamas out of a drawer and thought for a moment about dealing with the wet clothes, but she couldn’t make herself do it. There were so many things she couldn’t make herself do anymore. So many times she made choices that only made everything worse.

* * *

As her eyes flitted open the next morning, Andrea groaned. Sunday. Church. She sighed and lay in bed until Edna’s voice made her head jerk up.

Time to get up, Andrea. We’ll be late.

She let her legs drop to the floor, then pushed herself off the bed.

I’m coming, she answered and opened the door to the closet. She pulled her Sunday dress from its hanger, threw it on, and fought with her hair as she clomped down the stairs.

They were already waiting in the car.

She settled into the back seat and watched the prairie landscape flow by, the barren fields waiting to be ploughed, the stubble of last season’s crop yellow in the early morning light. She released her grip on the front of her jacket and flexed her fingers to relieve the cramping. She wished she could get out and walk, just walk away and not have to face anything normal. Nothing should be normal now. But the car hummed steadily, the gravel loud under its tires as they sped toward the church.

She saw the long line of evergreen trees that marked the west side of the parking lot. It was already almost full. The car slowed and she watched the women in their dresses and the men in their dark suits all moving toward the church as though drawn by some invisible magnet. She gripped her jacket again and stared at the back of her foster parents’ heads. Andrea’s stomach churned. Edna and Earl. Andrea had begun calling them that in her mind a few months ago. Not Mom, not Mother. Edna. Not Daddy, not Dad. Earl.

As her foster father opened the car door for her, she heard familiar music spilling out of the small white building. A few people stood in the doorway, chatting. They turned when they saw the family approaching and called out greetings. Some just nodded. Andrea tried to keep her eyes up, tried not to look guilty as she stepped passed them into the foyer.

Nice to see you, Andrea.

She turned to face Mrs. Norsely, tried to smile.

I hear you’re going on a trip?

Yes, um, to visit my aunt. Andrea was sure her old Sunday school teacher would see through the half-truth.

What a blessing to be able to travel. You young people have so many opportunities these days. But I hope you’ll come back soon and stay with us? We’ll be needing a teacher for the kindergarten class in the fall.

Andrea nodded and opened her mouth to say something just as her foster mother took her arm.

Time to sit down, Edna said.

The sermon was all about judgement, as usual. Andrea tried not to listen. Her back began to ache and she shifted on the hard wooden pew, tried to relax into it, without success.

She peered around at the people she had known for so long, people who only smiled when you did things right. There weren’t any others Andrea’s age; they had all gone off to the city, most of them right after graduation last spring. Andrea wished she had done the same. If she’d had the money, she would have. If she hadn’t been offered the job in town, she would have. If she hadn’t met Cory… so many ifs that would have changed everything.

But she was here now, her insides quivering with fear and guilt no matter how much she told herself she didn’t care what they all thought, didn’t care about any of it anymore. Her head pounded and, as the organ droned with the chords of the final hymn, she hung her head and massaged her temple.

They didn’t linger after the service, Edna making excuses as they headed for the door. Dinner in the oven. A sick calf to care for. Andrea heard the lies spilling out and almost laughed as she thought of the expressions on the faces of Edna’s friends if they had discovered she wasn’t telling them the truth. Then she thought of their expressions if they ever discovered her truth, and the laughter stopped.

No one spoke on the ride home. She hurried to her room, pulling at the pins that confined her long hair as she climbed the stairs. She changed quickly, tossing the long Sunday dress into the laundry basket. She had always hated that dress. She’d be glad when it no longer fit. She pulled on a pair of jeans, noticing the top button was a bit tight. Already.

Edna called her to set the table for dinner, but she lingered in her room, staring out the window at the barren fields. It looked so desolate that she wondered if the land would remain barren this year. The spring had been slow to arrive. Large patches of snow still lingered in shaded areas and the days were still cool. The horses hadn’t yet begun to shed their shaggy winter coats.

Maybe we’ve stepped over some kind of boundary, she thought, and spring will never come. Like the land of Narnia. Always winter. Never Christmas. Maybe I’m the ice queen. Only an ice queen could think the thoughts I’ve had lately.

She heard Edna call again. She sighed and slowly went downstairs. The table was already set. Andrea slumped into her chair, the smell of bacon and eggs turning her stomach. She watched Edna serve the plates, watched Earl as he bowed his head to pray. She dared look at his face when his eyes were closed, dared to study the broad forehead and weather-burnished skin. Was she imagining it or were there new lines, worry lines, on his face? She knew he was aware something had changed. She saw it in the way he didn’t look at her or Edna over breakfast, lunch, or dinner. He said the same blessings over the food, said the same Thanks, hon when he was finished, but he didn’t look at them.

Perhaps because he knows the change cannot be undone.

Eat, Andrea. Edna’s voice was flat, without expression.

Dutifully, she put a forkful of egg into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. Once the action was begun she could continue. When the meal was over, she helped clear the table and do the dishes, Edna giving her direction as though she were a five-year-old. When she was done, she folded the cloth and hung it on the oven door as always, then moved quickly to the stairs.

Have a nap. Edna’s voice followed her. You’ll feel better.

In her room, she opened the drawer on a small desk and drew out a notebook she had bought long ago. She had a stack of coil-bound notebooks in which she had written stories and poems and all the other work her high school teachers had so often encouraged her to do. But this one was different. This one was bound like a normal book, but it was black, inside and out. She picked up the white gel pen that had come with it.

Names had been flitting through her mind for days. She’d suddenly realize she’d been listing them, filing some as possibilities, discarding others. But she had never spoken them, never written them. She put the gel pen down, picked up an ordinary pen, and found a blank piece of white paper.

She wrote the list in alphabetical order. Alyssa, Brandilyn, Cameron, Destiny. She scratched lines through that last one, continued the list for a while, then crumpled the paper and threw it into the garbage can by the door. She pulled the book toward her, switched to the gel pen, and turned to the next blank page.

Dear Diary, I wonder if my birth mother ever had these thoughts I’m having. She gave me away, so obviously she didn’t want me. Why didn’t she just abort me? I guess back then it wasn’t so easy. It is now. I heard two girls at school talking about it in the washroom. They didn’t even care that I was there. One girl knew a lot about it—how to get the doctor to make a referral. Just mention suicide, she said, and there would be no problem. It’s just a tiny blob right now, I remember her saying, but don’t wait too long. Waiting complicates everything.

Waiting. I feel like I’ve been waiting all my life. But for what?

The pen hovered for a moment, trembling. She let it drop and put her hand over her mouth to hold back the sob that threatened to rip from her throat. She had to get out of this room, out of this house.

She grabbed a jacket and slipped quietly down the stairs, out the back door and across the yard to the yellowed field beyond. She strode along the fence line toward the creek, her ears perked for its sound, her eyes peering steadily ahead until she saw the thin line of scrub brush where the land suddenly fell away. Her eyes found the brown scar on the bank where she so often climbed down into the gully. She stood still when she reached it, staring down the incline to the creek. It was swollen with the spring’s runoff, its water muddied and full of debris. Part of the far bank had fallen away, exposing the roots of old poplar and spruce trees.

Andrea stared at the churning water. She wanted the peaceful trickle of midsummer, the small sound of flowing water that so often soothed her. There would be no comfort here today.

She stared down at the steepness of the path. If she fell… tumbled over and over…

A crashing sound made her start. A young poplar had yielded to gravity and plunged into the creek.

She turned away and wandered along the bank, feeling the bite of wind not yet warmed by the sun. She had stopped crying. She felt dry, hollow inside, and wondered at the feeling. Shouldn’t she feel full, with a baby inside her?

Sitting on an old fallen cottonwood, she put a hand on her stomach. She should feel something. But there was only numbness now, even when she thought about Cory. What would he do if he knew she was carrying his baby?

She could still hear the rushing water in the creek. The wind had increased and seemed to punish the trees. She pushed herself up and headed back toward the house, each foot crushing the ground in front of the other. She could feel the stubble under her shoes like blunt needles trying to break through.

The back door swung silently as she opened it into the kitchen. Earl had fixed the squeak. He was always fixing things, quickly, before they became a bother.

But he can’t fix this.

Edna was standing at the sink. Andrea watched her fold the washcloth over the faucet and knew by the slight stiffening of her back that she was aware of her. But she didn’t turn; she just stared out the window at the barrenness of the landscape—the land she always said she loved, perhaps too much.

Can anyone love too much? Andrea wondered. The land, perhaps. An inanimate thing that can’t love back. But that’s so much safer than loving those who should love but never do.

Edna’s long hand rested on the cloth on the tap. Andrea could see the curve of her high cheek bone, a moistness to the curl of her pale eyelashes as her head turned and dropped almost imperceptibly.

Andrea wanted to scream, Speak to me. Look at me! For a moment she imagined Edna turning, a smile quick to her lips, her eyes beaming approval of her only daughter, her chosen one. Andrea had longed for that look for as long as she could remember. But then a cloud blocked the light like a heavy curtain, dim reality returned, and Edna didn’t move. Andrea stepped across the doorway and past into the hall, slowly climbing the stairs to her room. Her legs felt like heavy logs, but her feet made no sound.

Maybe I’m invisible already, only a phantom whose footsteps can’t make the floors creak.

Back in her room, she picked up the book and pen.

I’m sitting on my bed now, staring at the small suitcase partly hidden on the floor of my closet. Edna brought it up from the basement yesterday so I could get ready. She’s arranged everything with her sister, she said. A sister I’ve never met. I’m to leave on Friday, go away for a few months, a year maybe, then I can come home, after, and no one will know.

But I’ve decided. Tomorrow I’ll take that small suitcase and walk away.

A sound on the stairway made her freeze. She closed the book and stood up, leaning toward the door to hear what might be beyond. But there was no sound.

She pulled a box of old books from the closet. Edna had discovered it in the basement the week before and brought it up to see if any of the books were worth reading. But Andrea didn’t feel like reading much lately. She lifted a stack and slid the diary beneath them, then shoved the box back.

CHAPTER TWO

The Yukon River, downstream from Dawson City, Yukon.

Alex Perrin made the final step up over the lip of embankment above the river and stared at the place that had been his home. It seemed strange not to be greeted by the cacophony of barking huskies.

He noticed one of the dog chains was still wrapped around a tree, half-buried under bits of decaying branches. Dry brown evergreen needles layered the ground between exposed roots, their gnarled lengths bending up and down, in and out of the hard ground. The spring rains didn’t do much to make anything here look alive. The ground simply absorbed the moisture, the roots of the spruce trees drawing it up into themselves like enormous wicks. Their branches hung in short clumps, stunted by the press of others around