A Promise of Forever: The Seedling Homestead Series, #3

PROLOGUE

During Hannah Bradley’s childhood, magic was the status quo. Growing up on Seedling Homestead was perfect. It was like living in some kind of Heaven. Before her sisters, Sarah and Margaret came, it was just Mama and Hannah. They did everything together: they walked the fence line checking for breaks, they mopped the floors while singing old show tunes, and they strolled along the creek listening for the sounds of bullfrogs and birds, identifying the meadowlarks and tree swallows by their calls.

The light always seemed to sparkle. And even when it wasn’t sunny, the world was filled with a kind of wonder: rain drops making tiny ripples on the creek’s surface, the snow creating a soft silence while Hannah and Mama snuggled under a blanket in front of the fire.

Of course, being a child, she took this idyllic life for granted.

Then one day, when Hannah was just learning to read, she sounded out the words on the sign that hung between the pillars on either side of the driveway:

Seed … ling. Seedling. Home… What’s that say, Mama?

It says homestead. Seedling Homestead.

What’s that mean? Hannah wanted to know.

Mama took a deep breath, and she didn’t answer right away. When she finally started to speak, Hannah noticed she seemed to be choosing her words carefully, as she often did when she tried to explain a big idea.

Well, do you know what a seedling is?

Of course Hannah did. She’d been planting seeds and transplanting seedlings for as long as she could remember. She nodded. It’s a baby plant.

Right, Mama said. And a homestead is a place where you make a home.

Okay, Hannah said, drawing the word out.

When I moved here, Mama said, I was sad. I was looking for a place to make a home. I felt like a baby plant. Like I was starting over. Do you remember what a plant needs to grow?

Hannah thought for a minute. Sunlight?

Yes, Mama Katherine said. And there’s plenty of that here in Wyoming. What else?

Water?

Yes, and what else?

Soil.

Right, Mama said. Sunlight, water, and soil. I imagined myself as a tiny tree, and I found all of those things I needed here, at Seedling Homestead.

But you were already a grown-up.

I was, Mama said. But I needed to start over.

Why?

Well, that’s a conversation for a different day.

Why were you sad?

That’s a conversation for a different day, too.

Hannah shrugged. She was used to Mama saving stories for a different day.

Some time later, when Hannah was about seven, she was playing near the creek, throwing sticks in the water and watching them float along. Mama came up and sat down on the creek bank.

Hannah, she said, How do you like our life here?

A big feeling—something like happiness, only bigger—swelled up inside Hannah’s body. It that made her want to squeal and run up and down along the water’s edge. That’s what she did, while shouting, I love it!

Do you think another little girl would love it as much as you do?

Hannah was so stunned by this question that she stopped running and sat right down on the wet ground at her mother’s feet. She was perceptive. She knew this question was an important one. She knew it meant that maybe there was an actual little girl somewhere, one who would be part of this life, too. Also, she could tell Mama wanted her to say that yes, another little girl would love it here at Seedling Homestead.

So she nodded, and she could feel that her nod was a little slower than usual. She wondered if Mama noticed.

I need to talk to you about something.

Hannah nodded again. Slowly. Then she stood up.

Remember a while ago, when you asked me what Seedling Homestead means? And I told you that it was a place for new beginnings.

Uh huh, Hannah said.

She’d picked up a stick—one she knew would float quickly along in the creek, bobbing only a little—and now she scraped shapes into the mud with it: a stick-figure girl and a dog.

Well, I’ve come to know of some little girls—little girls like you—who could use some new beginnings.

They’re like baby trees?

Yes, Mama said, and Hannah could tell this pleased her. They’re like baby trees. What would you think about having a couple of girls come to live here? We could plant them and give them water and sunlight and we could help them grow. You and me, together.

But … they’re humans, though, right? Hannah said. We won’t really plant them.

It’s a metaphor, Mama said.

Hannah tested the word out and found that it felt funny in her mouth.

Anyway. We would give these girls a home. We would feed them and love them and help them grow up. They would be your sisters.

Where are their mothers?

Ah, Mama said.

Hannah hoped she wouldn’t say this was a conversation for another day, and she didn’t.

For whatever reason, Mama said, their mothers can’t take care of them. So they need new families.

But why?

Hannah found this concept scary. If other girls’ mothers couldn’t take care of them, did that mean it was possible that there might come a day when Mama couldn’t take care of her?

Let’s sit, Mama said, and she sat right down on the bank of the creek, as wet as it was. Hannah joined her, and Mama wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

I can see your wheels turning, she said, and you don’t have to worry about a thing. I will always be here to take care of you. But what do you say? Do you think we could take care of a couple of girls?

Leaning up against the side of her mother’s body, tucked in like this, Hannah thought they could do anything. Yes, she said. I think so.

Mama nodded. Good. I have a feeling you’re going to love having sisters.

When are they coming? Hannah said, and Mama chuckled a little. I’m not sure. We just have to wait for the right ones.

This made sense. Hannah had seen cartoons where a stork delivered a blanket-wrapped baby to someone’s doorstep and things always seemed to work out.

Mama?

Yes, love?

Did you always know I would have sisters?

Something changed in the way Mama was sitting. She didn’t move, but Hannah could feel a shift.

She simply said, No, I didn’t.

Did you always know there were little girls who needed nurturing, like a baby tree?

Mama made a little sound, like a gasp, and Hannah wondered if she’d said something wrong.

I knew, she said. But I didn’t think about being the one to do the nurturing until recently.

What made you think about it?

Standing up, Mama grunted a little, and smoothed her long skirt before answering. I’m not even sure. I just got to thinking about ways I could help out, you know? And I thought it’d do you good to have somebody to run around this place with. Besides me.

Oh, Hannah said. When you named this place Seedling Homestead, why did you need a place to grow?

She still asked the question every now and then, when she sensed Mama was in a talking mood. But she always got the same answer:

That’s a conversation for another day, Mama said.

Sarah, the first new seedling, arrived a couple of months later. Mama had warned Hannah that when her new sisters came to live with them, there wouldn’t be much advance notice. Sure enough, one morning at breakfast the phone rang. Mama jumped. People rarely called them, especially not at this hour, when the sun was just peeking over the horizon and the sky was still a light gray.

Mama did a lot of listening and nodding and humming while the caller did a lot of talking. By the way Mama dried her hands, again and again, on the dish towel that hung from her apron, Hannah knew this was a serious call. And when she hung up, Mama confirmed it: Well, Hannah, this is it. A social worker is bringing us a little girl. Sarah.

Hannah had about a million questions: she wanted to know how old Sarah was, where her parents were, why she was coming here, whether she’d stay forever or just for a short time. She wanted to know what Sarah liked to eat, what she liked to play, and whether she would be talkative or playful or serious.

Don’t pester her with all those questions as soon as she walks in the door, Mama scolded. Give her time. You’ll find out the answers soon enough.

It seemed like days later when the strange, boxy-looking car rolled into the driveway, its tires crunching on the gravel. Mama went out to greet Sarah and the social worker, and Hannah, suddenly shy, stayed inside and watched through the window next to the front door.

The social worker was as strange and boxy-looking as the car was. She wore a weird coat, long, like Hannah imagined a spy would wear, and her hands were wide enough to use as paddles for a boat. She was probably an excellent swimmer, Hannah thought, before the social worker used one of those flat hands to open the back door of the car.

When Sarah first climbed out of the back seat, clutching a plastic bag, Hannah was surprised. She’d been expecting a little girl like her, one with the slightly chubby, sunburned cheeks of a child who played outside, with bright eyes and a smile at the ready … one who was as excited to be here as Hannah was to have her.

But Sarah looked terrified. And, Hannah thought, sickly.

Her eyes were much too round, and they had dark smudges underneath. Her skin had obviously never seen the sun. It was pale and dingy. And boy, was she skinny! Her teeth and knuckles and elbows stood out, and her knees were so knobby Hannah thought she might need braces on them, like the little boy at the library. Even in a ponytail, her blond hair looked greasy. One stringy piece had come loose and was hanging in front of Sarah’s ear.

The social worker laid a hand on Sarah’s head and said something. Sarah nodded, and then Mama offered her a hand. Together, the two of them walked toward the house. Hannah thought the social worker looked like she might cry as she watched them. Then she got into the car and backed down the driveway.

The front door opened, and when Sarah saw Hannah, she scooted even closer to Mama, hiding. Hannah offered what she hoped was a welcoming smile, but Sarah didn’t return it. Mama had told Hannah about the possibility that her new sisters would take some time to warm up, and Hannah was determined to make that time as short as possible.

Want me to show you your room? Hannah said.

Sarah nodded, and Hannah held out a hand, just as she’d seen Mama do. Sarah took it. As they walked toward the back of the house, Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from pestering Sarah with all those questions.

Your bedroom’s right next to mine, she said, pushing the door open.

After some conversation, Mama and Hannah had decided to leave the room almost plain so that whoever joined their family would be able to make it her own. Now, standing here with Sarah, looking at the plain white walls, the light blue bedspread, and the white curtains, Hannah thought that might have been a mistake.

We left it plain so you could decorate it, she hurried to say. You can do whatever you want. Mama said you can paint the walls black if you want.

This was enough to produce a tiny giggle from Sarah.

Go on, Hannah said. Bring your stuff in.

Sarah walked slowly into the room, looking around as if it were a cavernous castle or something. She walked over to the bookcase and set down her bag. She began pulling things out—a few paperbacks, some clothes, and a little box decorated with sea shells. Hannah had never seen sea shells in real life, but she recognized them from books.

Go ahead, she said. Put your stuff on the shelf. You can put your clothes in the dresser.

Sarah nodded. Then she proceeded to line everything up neatly, even organizing the few items of clothing by color.

You’re very organized, Hannah said, Mama having told her that giving people compliments was a great way to start a conversation.

Sarah nodded again, and Hannah wondered if she knew how to speak.

Are you hungry?

A nod.

Do you eat pancakes?

A shrug.

Have you ever had pancakes?

Sarah shook her head.

What do you eat for breakfast, then?

Another shrug.

Come on. I’ll make you some pancakes.

Maybe Sarah had never had pancakes, but she sure knew how to eat them. She devoured eight—two with syrup, three with powdered sugar, and three with peanut butter and syrup. Then she went back into her bedroom, laid down on the bed, and slept for three hours.

Meanwhile, Hannah told Mama how strangely Sarah had set up her bedroom.

"From what I understand, Hannah, Sarah comes from a very chaotic household where things are confusing, and she doesn’t know what to expect. When people come from chaos, they often seek order … they can be very … well, organized is one way to put it."

That made sense, Hannah thought. She hoped Sarah would loosen up a bit, though, and she said as much.

Just give her time, Mama said.

After a few months at Seedling Homestead, Sarah had loosened up—a lot. She still organized her things (shirts by color, books alphabetically by title, toys by shape). But she was no longer silent and drawn. She laughed, a lot, and she loved to run through the fields, chasing Hannah or being chased, hollering happily as the sun turned her cheeks a rosy color. One day at lunch, when the newly-loosened-up Sarah had finished her own applesauce and was trying to sneak Hannah’s, Mama got another phone call.

This one seemed different: Mama’s initial hums were followed by silence, and then she looked so, so sad. When she hung up, Hannah asked what was the matter, and Mama just shook her head.

A different social worker, a tall, slender, pretty one in a maroon old-lady car, brought Margaret to the house. Margaret, with her wild, curly black hair and bright green eyes, seemed different than Sarah had when she first arrived. She was subdued, but she moved with surprising confidence, eyes alert and cat-like. Still, Hannah didn’t miss the look of fear on Margaret’s face when she accidentally picked a green tomato after Mama told her to pick a red one.

Mama wasn’t mad, though; she offered to cook it up, and even while Margaret devoured it, she sat on the edge of her chair, like she was ready to run at any second. Hannah made Margaret a peanut butter and jelly, and Margaret accepted it like she’d never been offered a homemade meal before. She scarfed it down, at the same rate as she’d eaten the green tomato, and Hannah wondered if she’d ever been offered any meal before.

Margaret adapted much more quickly than Sarah had. Within a couple of hours, she was exploring the property, getting wet and muddy at the creek and swinging from the tree branches like she didn’t have a fear in the world. Later on, Mama told Hannah that Margaret was used to fending for herself, and that she was adaptable.

This was a word Hannah didn’t quite understand, and it wasn’t until the girls were teenagers that she could really apply it to Margaret’s situation. But in those early days, Hannah marveled at how easily Margaret seemed to fit in, how quickly she made friends, and how eager she was to immerse herself in the chores and goings on at Seedling Homestead.

Just like that, they were four.

The Bradley girls became fast friends, playing and fighting like real sisters. Although each of them had her own room, they’d wind up in a single bed every night, limbs flung over one another, heads on the same pillow.

Sometimes, when Hannah described a dream she’d had, Sarah and Margaret claimed they’d had it, too. They’d elaborate on her stories, add in details. Hannah didn’t recognize them at all, but the longer she let her sisters believe they were cosmically connected, the more she started to believe it, herself.

Sometimes Hannah would wake in the middle of the night to hear Margaret moaning, clutching the sheet so hard Hannah couldn’t pry it out of her grip. Sarah would twist this way and that, turning her head from side to side as if she was trying to get away from something—or someone. Hannah would stay awake, rubbing her sisters’ backs until they settled back down. They both claimed they didn’t remember their nightmares, but Hannah couldn’t forget. The sounds they made haunted her daytime hours.

One day, Mama kicked the girls out of the house to get some fresh air and their wiggles out.

Go on down to the creek and catch some crawdads, she said. Fill this bucket and we’ll boil ‘em up for dinner.

Hannah got the bucket, Sarah pulled out some hot dogs for bait, and Margaret hopped and skipped between them, chattering away about how yummy the crawdads would be. They walked on down to the creek, and together, made what Hannah thought was a terrible trap: the hot dogs wouldn’t stay put, the bucket kept tilting, and Margaret repeatedly insisted on pulling it up every few minutes to check and see whether any crawdads had found their way in.

Being the oldest and the wisest, Hannah suspected Mama had known this would happen. She had likely counted on this project taking the girls hours. She had washing to do, and she wanted to mop the floor. Having the girls underfoot would make everything take longer, and she hated footprints on her clean linoleum. So she humored Margaret, pulling up the bucket every thirty seconds, adding more hot dog chunks each time.

Amazingly, by the time an hour passed, they’d collected dozens of crawdads, which moved around the bottom of the bucket in slow motion, opening and closing their shiny claws. Mama seemed a little shocked when they lugged the bucket back, water slopping over the sides, crawdads clambering to escape. But, true to her word, she filled a pot with clean water and set it on the stove. When she put the bucket next to it, though, Margaret’s face twisted into a horrified expression.

"You mean, we’re going to throw them into a pot of water and boil them? While they’re still alive?"

The timbre of her voice made the hair rise on Hannah’s arms, and chills run up the back of her neck, over her scalp.

That’s how you cook ‘em, Mama said. Hannah thought she seemed oblivious to the horror Margaret was experiencing. That’s why it’s called a crawdad boil. Throw in some potatoes, corn on the cob, sausage. We’ll throw it all on the table and eat it with our hands. Dip the bites in melted butter.

No! Margaret was crying now, tears streaming down her face. You can’t boil them! I won’t let you!

She started to pull the bucket off the counter, but she was too little to hold it. The water—and the crawdads—spilled all over the clean kitchen floor in a rush. Margaret started making a strange keening sound, almost howling, and Hannah felt compelled to try to gather up the crawdads, which were slippery and had huge, dangerous claws.

The girls scrambled around the kitchen, collecting crawdads and throwing them back into the bucket as fast as they could.

Don’t let them die, Margaret wailed, on repeat.

Hannah felt simultaneously sad for Margaret and annoyed with her for causing such a ruckus. Still, she was dutiful in saving as many of the little creatures as she could.

Then, in an ironic turn of events, one of the crawdads Margaret was trying to save latched onto her thumb. She froze in the middle of the kitchen, staring at it in horror, before shaking her hand to dislodge it.

When Hannah saw Margaret’s thumb turning purple, she ran to her.

Hold still, she said, her voice more irritable than she meant for it to be. Stop shaking it.

Margaret obeyed, her mouth still open, nothing more than a tiny hiss of air leaking out as Hannah pried the crawdad off her skin and dropped it on the floor before it could pinch her, too. It scuttled away. In the near-silence, Sarah and Mama continued tossing crawdads into the bucket, each one making a plunk! sound in the remaining water.

Where do you think chicken comes from? Hannah said then.

From across the kitchen, Mama gave her a look, eyebrows down, and a tiny shake of her head.

What do you mean? Margaret said.

Never mind, Hannah said.

Tell me!

As if on cue, a chicken squawked in the yard.

Let’s just get these crawdads picked up, Margaret, Mama said, giving Hannah another dark look.

Yeah, let’s, Hannah said.

Margaret carried the bucket back down to the creek, the water sloshing out with every step. She came back sniffling, vowing never to fish for crawdads, ever again. Ever.

And that night, when she crawled into Hannah’s bed just after they heard Mama go to bed, herself, she whispered, What were you gonna say about chicken?

Just forget it, Hannah said. Go to sleep.

What was it?

Sarah came in next, sliding in on Hannah’s other side. She was gonna say the chicken we eat comes from chickens who were alive once. Just like the crawdads.

Hannah elbowed Sarah, and Sarah said, What? She’s gonna find out eventually. We can’t have her going to school thinking chicken comes from the chicken factory, wrapped in plastic.

When Hannah didn’t argue, Sarah went on: They were alive, just like the chickens in our yard. And they grow up on chicken farms. And then the farmers kill them and somebody plucks their feathers, cuts them up, puts them in packages, and sends them off to the grocery store.

Silence.

Actually, it wasn’t silent. Hannah could hear the crickets chirping and the bullfrogs singing outside. She could hear Margaret holding her breath, tiny grunting sounds escaping from her throat.

Is it true? she said, finally.

Hannah nodded. She knew Margaret could hear her head moving on the pillowcase.

Are you nodding, Margaret said, or shaking your head?

She’s nodding, Sarah said. Because it’s true. So I don’t know why you were so wound up about eating those crawdads.

Margaret sighed. I won’t be eating chicken anymore, she said. Ever.

The next morning at breakfast, she held up a slice of bacon, making eye contact first with Sarah, and then with Hannah, who gave a little nod and whispered, Pigs.

Margaret gasped and put the bacon back on the serving platter.

Of course, Mama noticed and immediately gleaned what had taken place. Later that day, when Margaret was planting flowers at the base of the aspen tree in the front yard, Mama cornered Hannah in the laundry room. At first, Hannah thought she was going to get a lecture about telling Margaret where chicken came from. She’d already planned her defense, based on what Sarah had said: Margaret would have to find out sometime. She couldn’t be the only kid in school who thought chicken nuggets