The Daughter's Walk - Jane Kirkpatrick [124]
I looked at her, this resilient woman who had endured loss she rarely spoke of, hurts over faith too deep to share with friends.
“I’m not the prettiest woman—”
“That’s not true,” Louise said. “You’re lovely!”
“Please.” I held up my hand to stop her. “I have to say this or I won’t. I’m not the most attractive woman. I know that. I’m not particularly talented. Oh yes”—I rushed on to prevent another Louise interruption—“I know I’ve created some designs that were well-received, but those lie at the bottom of the ocean now. I have no ability to talk to people, make them feel warm and welcome the way you do, Louise, and I’m certainly not relying on my faith the way you two do. I told myself I listened for God’s direction, but it’s not true. I go on about things my own way, as independent as … well, you know.” I brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “The one extraordinary thing I did in my life I can’t talk about without pushing my family further from me, because it was a failure in their eyes.”
I could feel the emotion welling up, threatening to choke my words. “The one thing I thought I did well—manage my money, make something of myself financially, be a successful businesswoman …” I scoffed the way Olea did when she was disgusted with something. “I’ve now proven that was a sham as well. I’ve failed at everything.” My voice broke. “And I’ve taken your confidence in me down too. I’ve … failed, and I’m sorry, so very, very sorry.”
The clock ticked into my terrible ache.
“May we speak now?” Olea asked.
I nodded.
“You’ve left out the greatest gift,” Louise said. I looked up at her, took the handkerchief she handed me as she slipped her arm around my shoulders. “You have a servant’s heart,” she said. “You give to your family.”
“My family won’t even claim me,” I said, “unless I abandon you.”
“This family. Us. Our family.”
“But I’ve lost the money you invested, all the money I invested too. How is that serving you?”
Olea said, “You’ve looked after us from the time we met you, helping with our books, giving us new interests at a time in our lives when we’d begun thinking we were, well, old. And most of all, you forgave us for not rescuing you in New York.”
She’d once said I kept them in a business they’d tried to get out of. Time had changed the tune.
“But it was you who took care of me, sending me to school, giving me a roof over my head, providing me with a job, granting me money—”
“Which you’d earned,” Louise insisted. “Didn’t she, Olea? It isn’t clear.”
“It isn’t clear,” I said. “You let me become involved in your fur industry, introduced me to Franklin,” I rushed on. “What did I ever do for you?”
“You let us,” Louise said. “You let us give to you.”
I sat stunned.
“I’d add another gift,” Olea said. She came to sit in front of me on the big round hassock. “You know how to evaluate a situation, take in new information, and start again. That’s no small feat. And that’s exactly what we’ll do. We’ll go to Spokane and we’ll get jobs.”
“I’ll need to sell the car.”
“If you wish. But we can still work. We’re not so old. Louise is right. You’ve taught us that. We’re a family of new beginners.” She patted my hand. “Clara, the best is yet to be.”
“Is it?” Louise asked. “It’s unclear.”
But it wasn’t.
“You’ll come back,” Louise said as I boarded the train in June 1915. I knew she wasn’t talking about my business acumen. Here I was: nearly as penniless as my parents had been when the farm foreclosed. The pharmacist purchased my car for nearly what I’d paid for it, so we had a little cash, and the women insisted I keep Franklin’s ring “until we’re desperate.”
“Yes,” I said. “As soon as I have employment, I’ll come back. We’ll move, and things will get better.”
As the train rumbled across the tracks, I thought of how I’d gotten here, my risk taken. I’d tried to control everything, but of course, no humans control the weather or “acts of war” or, I was learning, much of anything else. I leaned back on the seat, closed my eyes, tried to hear the Voice I hadn’t heard for so long whispering to me, This is the way, walk ye