Easter arrived in April.
By then, most of the snow had disappeared.
Only a few dirty patches remained along the ditches and beneath the northern side of the shelterbelt.
The fields were muddy.
Geese had returned to the sky, flying north in long formations.
Steve and I drove from Bismarck on Saturday afternoon.
I hadn't visited the farm since the January emergency.
That made the drive feel different.
I kept looking toward the fields as we approached the property.
Then I saw the white propane tank.
The small monitoring device was attached to its side.
A green light blinked steadily.
I found myself looking at it longer than necessary.
That little green light meant the cooperative was watching the fuel level.
It meant another delivery would be arranged before Mom ran out.
I was relieved.
But I also knew that a full tank couldn't repair everything.
Mom opened the kitchen door when we arrived.
She wore a blue cardigan, an apron, and a pair of slippers.
No winter coat.
No knitted hat.
I looked past her into the kitchen.
The thermometer showed seventy-one degrees.
"Hello, sweetheart," Mom said.
She hugged me.
I held her a little longer than usual.
She laughed softly.
"What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing, Mom."
I looked at her cardigan.
"You look comfortable."
"I am."
She stepped aside to let Steve carry our bags inside.
The house smelled of coffee and something baking.
I glanced toward Dad's old recliner.
The crocheted blanket was folded across its seat.
Mom still used it.
But this time, she wasn't wearing gloves.
That mattered more to me than I expected.
Sunday morning, the family began arriving.
Rob came from Rugby with his wife, Linda.
Dean drove from Fargo with Kelly and their two teenagers.
Steve spent some time watching a baseball game with Rob's son.
The teenagers settled in the living room with their phones.
It was an ordinary family gathering.
Almost.
I knew what I wanted to discuss.
Rob and Dean knew something had happened.
But none of us had explained anything to the others.
We waited.
Mom prepared Easter dinner.
Ham was roasting in the oven.
Scalloped potatoes sat ready in a baking dish.
Green beans were waiting beside the stove.
Two kuchens rested on the counter.
One was peach.
The other was prune.
Mom had learned the recipe from Grandma decades earlier.
She still made them the same way.
I helped arrange the rolls beneath a clean kitchen towel.
For a while, I almost forgot about January.
Then I heard a car pull into the driveway.
I looked through the kitchen window.
It was Pam's tan Chevrolet Malibu.
The windshield still had the crack I remembered.
She parked near the back entrance.
A moment later, she stepped out.
Pam was fifty-seven.
She had always been practical about clothing and appearance.
Her hair was short and gray.
She wore a white blouse and navy skirt.
Her church clothes.
But something about her looked different.
She seemed exhausted.
I noticed immediately that Mark wasn't with her.
Pam opened the rear door and reached inside.
Then she pulled out a cardboard box.
She also carried a large red Folgers coffee container.
The three-pound size.
I watched her walk toward the kitchen.
She entered without saying much.
"Happy Easter," she said.
Nobody answered immediately.
Not because we didn't want to.
We were all watching the box.
Pam placed it on the kitchen table.
Then she put the coffee container beside it.
The sound of the plastic can touching the wooden surface seemed unusually loud.
Dean lowered the fork he had been using to take a small piece of kuchen.
Rob placed his coffee cup down.
Mom turned from Dad's recliner.
Pam looked at all of us.
Then she looked at me.
Her face was tired, but she wasn't avoiding my eyes.
"I need to talk before we eat."
Nobody moved.
She placed both hands on the table.
"Connie has been waiting for me to explain what happened in January."
I felt my stomach tighten.
Pam continued.
"But I don't want her to have to tell you."
She glanced toward Rob and Dean.
"I want to explain it myself."
I didn't interrupt.
For eleven weeks, I had imagined what this conversation might sound like.
I had expected anger.
Perhaps accusations.
Maybe an argument about the account.
But Pam wasn't shouting.
She looked almost frightened.
And that made me uncomfortable.
She pulled out a chair.
Before sitting, she placed one hand on the coffee container.
"I brought something," she said.
Then she looked at Mom.
"I should have brought it sooner."
Mom's hands rested on the crocheted blanket.
She didn't speak.
Pam took a breath.
"Please let me finish before anybody says anything."
Rob nodded.
Dean looked at me.
I nodded, too.
Pam sat down.
Then she reached for the red Folgers can.
Source: kaylestore.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: My Sister Placed an Old Coffee Can on the Table and Finally Explained What Had Happened to the Money We Sent for Mom
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
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