Before I explain what happened next, I need to explain how our family handled Mom's propane.
My name is Connie Weber.
I was fifty-four years old at the time.
I was the second of four children.
Pam was the oldest.
Then came me, followed by Rob and Dean.
Pam lived in Harvey, approximately twelve miles from Mom's farm.
She had spent most of her married life there and worked at the local clinic.
Her husband, Mark, drove trucks for the grain elevator.
Because Pam lived closest, she naturally became the person responsible for most of Mom's daily needs.
She bought groceries.
She collected prescriptions.
She drove Mom to appointments.
She stopped by on Sundays.
When something needed repairing, Pam usually knew about it before the rest of us.
I lived in Bismarck with Steve.
I worked as a payroll clerk for the school district.
Rob farmed near Rugby.
Dean worked in agricultural equipment sales in Fargo.
We all had families, jobs, mortgages, and responsibilities.
We couldn't visit Mom whenever we wanted.
Pam could.
At least, that was how we had always looked at it.
After Dad died, we had a family discussion during the funeral lunch at the church.
We knew Mom would need help paying for propane.
The winters were expensive, and the farmhouse was large enough to require regular deliveries.
Pam offered to manage the cooperative account.
Rob suggested that the three of us living farther away should contribute.
Dean asked how much would be reasonable.
We settled on $250 each.
Every October.
Pam would handle the account and arrange the deliveries.
The three of us would send her our contributions.
That meant $750 from us, plus whatever Pam contributed herself.
Four shares.
One family responsibility.
We believed that was a fair arrangement.
We followed it for four years.
Not once had I asked Pam for a detailed accounting.
Not once had I requested a delivery receipt.
I trusted her.
She was my sister.
And I knew how much time she spent looking after Mom.
That night, however, I was beginning to realize that trust and information were not necessarily the same thing.
I returned to the recliner and looked at Mom again.
I wanted to wake her.
I wanted to ask why the furnace wasn't running.
But first, I needed to know how much propane remained.
I put on my gloves, picked up my flashlight, and walked back outside.
The tank stood beside the farmhouse.
Snow covered its upper surface.
The metal lid protecting the gauge was frozen around the edges.
I brushed away the snow.
Then I used my car key to remove some ice covering the glass.
The gauge was difficult to read at first.
I leaned closer.
Then I saw the needle.
Five percent.
I checked again.
Still five.
I stood there in the freezing wind, staring at that little pointer.
The tank held 500 gallons.
Five percent meant approximately twenty-five gallons remained.
In ordinary weather, that would have been concerning.
In a severe North Dakota cold snap, it was much worse.
The furnace was old.
The house was large.
The temperature outside was dangerously low.
Twenty-five gallons might not last long.
Now I understood why the furnace had stopped running.
I also understood why Mom was wearing everything she owned.
My hands were shaking.
I couldn't tell whether it was because of the cold or what I was beginning to suspect.
I went back inside.
The kitchen refrigerator was covered with photographs, calendars, church announcements, and coupons.
Mom never threw away anything useful.
There were school pictures of the grandchildren held in place by magnets.
A calendar from the Harvey Farmers Elevator hung near the freezer.
I began looking for propane paperwork.
I didn't know exactly what I expected to find.
Perhaps a delivery notice.
Maybe an invoice.
Anything that would tell me when the tank had last been filled.
Then I noticed a pink piece of paper underneath a magnet shaped like an ear of corn.
It was a carbon-copy delivery ticket.
I pulled it free.
The date was October 19.
The customer name was Pamela Ruff.
The delivery location was listed as Elsie Heinz's farm.
I read the amount.
Two hundred gallons.
I turned the paper over.
There was nothing else.
I looked at the number again.
Two hundred.
I knew the tank's capacity.
I knew the way the cooperative normally handled winter deliveries.
A 500-gallon tank wasn't filled completely to the top. Propane needed room to expand, so the usual maximum was around eighty percent.
If the tank was nearly empty, a substantial delivery could bring it up to approximately 400 gallons.
Two hundred gallons was nowhere near that amount.
I tried to remember the price of propane the previous October.
It had been around $2.00 per gallon.
That meant the delivery had cost roughly $400.
But Rob, Dean, and I had sent Pam $250 each.
Seven hundred and fifty dollars.
And that was before including Pam's promised contribution.
I stood beside the refrigerator and did the calculation again.
Seven hundred and fifty.
Minus four hundred.
Three hundred and fifty dollars.
Where had the rest gone?
I looked through the papers on the refrigerator.
I searched the calendar.
I checked the kitchen drawer where Mom kept old bills.
There were receipts for groceries, medicine, and various household purchases.
But I couldn't find another propane delivery ticket.
Nothing from November.
Nothing from December.
Nothing from January.
I looked toward the living room.
Mom was still in Dad's recliner.
Her brown coat was zipped to her chin.
I felt something uncomfortable settling in my stomach.
I didn't want to believe my sister had done something wrong.
Pam had always been the responsible one.
She was the person who knew which doctor Mom needed to see and which prescription had to be collected.
She had helped with Dad's funeral arrangements.
She had stayed beside Mom when the rest of us returned to our own homes.
But the numbers were sitting in front of me.
And numbers didn't care about family history.
I folded the pink receipt and put it in my pocket.
Then I walked into the living room.
I knelt beside Dad's chair.
The old vinyl armrest had cracked in several places.
Dad used to sit there every evening after supper.
After his death, Mom had taken his place.
I placed my hand on her knee, over the crocheted blanket.
"Mom."
She didn't move.
I gently shook her arm.
"Mom, it's Connie. Wake up."
Her eyes opened slowly.
At first, she seemed confused.
Then she recognized me.
"Connie?"
Her voice was weak.
"What are you doing here?"
"I came because you weren't answering your phone."
She glanced toward the windows.
Then she looked at the clock.
"It's late."
"I know."
She tried to sit up.
I helped her adjust the blanket.
"Why are you wearing your coat?"
She looked down at herself.
"Oh, I'm comfortable."
I didn't answer.
I reached for her hand.
Even through the glove, I could feel how cold it was.
"Mom, the furnace isn't working."
She looked away.
"The house is a little cool."
"A little?"
I tried to keep my voice calm.
"The thermostat says fifty-one degrees."
She didn't respond.
"The propane tank is almost empty. It's at five percent."
Her fingers tightened around mine.
Then she looked directly at me.
"Don't start with Pam."
I blinked.
"What?"
"Don't go after your sister."
"Mom, I'm not talking about Pam right now."
"Yes, you are."
Her voice became firmer.
I looked at her for several seconds.
She was worried about something.
Not the furnace.
Not the cold.
Pam.
"Mom, I need to understand what's happening."
She shook her head.
"Pam has enough trouble."
"What kind of trouble?"
She hesitated.
Then she told me about Mark.
He had injured his back in September while lifting equipment at the grain elevator.
Two discs had been damaged.
He underwent surgery in Minot, and he hadn't returned to work.
There was no disability coverage through his employer.
Pam's clinic salary was supporting their household.
Their mortgage.
Their groceries.
Their medical expenses.
Everything.
"She's trying her best," Mom said.
I already knew about the surgery.
Pam had mentioned it around Thanksgiving.
But I hadn't understood how difficult things had become.
"She says propane costs too much this year," Mom added.
Then she gave me a small smile.
"I don't mind wearing another layer."
I looked at her coat.
I looked at her gloves.
Then I looked at the frost covering the windows.
There was nothing comfortable about that room.
"Mom, you can't stay like this."
She squeezed my wrist.
"Please, Connie."
Her eyes were tired.
"Don't make things harder for Pam."
I wanted to ask more questions.
I wanted to show her the delivery ticket.
I wanted to know why only 200 gallons had been purchased.
But she was eighty-two.
It was almost midnight.
And the temperature inside the farmhouse was still falling.
I decided that the questions could wait.
Getting Mom warm could not.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Found an Almost Empty Tank, a Sleeping Mother, and an Old Receipt, So I Made a Decision My Sister Would Never Expect
I Thought My Mother Was Simply Sleeping Through Another North Dakota Winter, Until I Walked Into Her Living Room and Realized Something Was Terribly Wrong
Part 2 of 12
