Chapter 13Zeke
She knows.
The evidence that she’s already heard about my dad is clear on her face the second I notice her standing in the barn.
She doesn’t mention it.
She doesn’t offer her condolences, or willingness to pray for my family during this difficult time.
She doesn’t ask a million questions or offer me whispers of hope that a miracle will happen.
She just brings me a cold glass of lemonade.
I don’t deserve her kindness, but for some reason I find myself watching her while I drink and soaking up every single ounce she offers.
She doesn’t leave immediately after taking back the empty glass, and for the first time in as long as I want to admit, I don’t want her to leave. I want her eyes on me as I work. I want her presence near because there’s something wholesome and pure about her, and with the darkness closing in around me, I’m desperate for a little of her light.
She calms me a little, but this is the last place I want to be. I should be at the hospital helping Mom get him ready to come home to die. Our time is more limited than I ever anticipated it being. They give him weeks, not months or years. And I feel guilty for the hatred I feel toward my father. He’s been sick for months, and for months he’s refused to accept it. He wouldn’t go the doctor, and all the while, cancer spread through every organ until it was too late for anything to be done. His stubbornness will put him in an early grave. My mother will be without a husband. I’ll be left without a dad.
The calm that entered the barn when Frankie walked in disappears and the gloom of my mood settles again.
“Fuck,” I grunt as the wire cutters slip out of my hand.
I didn’t take the news of my father’s diagnosis well. The holes in my bedroom wall are proof of that. The damage to my hands and knuckles provides even more evidence. My swollen hands have been giving me trouble all damn day, and although I’m no stranger to pain, I’m pretty certain something is broken in my right hand, making it nearly impossible to squeeze the wire cutters enough to clip through the bailing wire on this bale.
“Let me help.” Frankie’s hand covers mine until I release the cutters and let her take over.
I don’t bother moving out of the way, and she doesn’t seem to mind being pressed right up against me as she has to use both hands to make the cutters clamp enough to snip through the wire.
“What are we doing with this?”
“Huh?” I look over at her, but the pity in her eyes is too much to bear. She’s sad for me, and I clear my throat before I allow my emotions to clog it up.
“The hay. Where does it need to go?”
“I cleaned the goat pen. This is for a new layer in there.”
She nods before gripping the remaining wire holding the bale together and dragging it toward the goat pen. If I weren’t so upset with everything, I’d find it comical the way she struggles to get the bale where she needs it to be. Although clumsy at first, she eventually gets the hang of separating the bale of hay and layering it in the pen. The goats are roaming right now, but will be more than grateful for a clean pen by the time I put them up for the evening.
When it’s done, she doesn’t look to me for praise for her help, she merely asks me what’s next. We spend the next several hours getting the work done. She only opens her mouth to ask for clarification when she’s unsure of how to do something, but she doesn’t seem disgruntled about being out here helping me.
I have no doubt that Mrs. Jacobson sent her out here with the lemonade, but she’s here helping because she wants to be, because she knows I need it. She’s not being forced to spend time with me, and it’s evident in the way she holds her shoulders.
We manage to knock all the chores for today off my list and even get a head start on things for tomorrow. I keep working both to get ahead and also to see how far she’s willing to extend her offer to help. She’s slower than I am, but faster than some guys I’ve worked with before. What she lacks in strength, she makes up for in determination.
Not once while we’re working does it cross my mind to insult her or tell her to leave, but I can tell she’s waiting for it to come. I’ve conditioned her to believe I can’t go a day without hurting her, and I hate myself for it. I’m not going to apologize because I know she’d see it as shallow or just another way to manipulate her into doing the things I’d suggested in my truck after our day in town.