Lucy nodded with obvious relief, then spoke quickly, almost tripping over her words. “You need to get to the bus stop, right? My husband’s driving into town this morning in our old pickup. He can drop you there so you don’t have to walk.”
“And—I stopped by the pharmacy and put together a little bag for you. Sterile gauze, ointment, prenatal vitamins. Thought it might help.”
Valerie’s old instinct was to decline and manage on her own. But she looked at the bag Lucy held out with both hands and nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Lucy.”
The bus got her safely to the next town. From there, a forestry department pickup took her the rest of the way. Sam was driving, same beard, same weathered face, same quiet manner. Most of the ride he said nothing, which Valerie appreciated.
Only when they were nearing Talbot Creek did he speak. “Your mama comes out on the porch every day now,” he said. “Sits there on that old bench and waits.”
The truck rolled to a stop by the familiar fence. It leaned a little now, paint peeling off in strips. The yard was overgrown with thick summer grass, and clean laundry moved on the line in the breeze.
The wooden porch with its three worn steps and simple rails was exactly the same. Seventeen years earlier, her mother had stood there shouting after her. Now a small bent woman sat there in a light sweater despite the warm weather.
Her left hand rested in her lap. Her right arm lay still and awkward. She was looking straight at the gate.
Valerie pushed it open, and it gave the same long creak it always had. Eleanor slowly lifted her head, saw her daughter, and immediately saw the large belly too.
Her thin lips trembled. The way they do when a person is trying not to cry and failing.
Valerie walked up the path, limping slightly on the right leg. She climbed the porch steps and stopped in front of her mother. Eleanor looked up at her, eyes full of tears.
“Well,” she said, her rough voice shaking, “there you are. You made it home.”
