Mother Of Prevention. Lori Copeland
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The tension was so thick you could have cut it with a knife and called it fudge. I sighed. Well, at least nobody was crying.
Kelli padded into the room and cast a jaundiced eye at the set table. “I want Fruitee Pops,” she announced.
My mother matched her look for look. “Kelli. I got up early to fix pancakes for you.” Her tone said, Therefore you will eat them.
Kelli stuck out her lower lip. “I don’t want pancakes. I want Fruitee Pops.” She sat down at her usual place and propped her elbows on the table. Mom slapped a plate of pancakes down in front of her. Kelli pushed it aside.
Mom burst into tears.
So did Kelli.
Followed by Madge.
I excused myself and went upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom.
Somehow we made it to the funeral home on time. Flowers were banked on both sides of the casket. Neil had a lot of friends, and the auditorium was crowded. I’d let Neil’s mother pick out the songs, and now I regretted it.
“‘If we never meet again, this side of heaven,’” the soprano trilled, and I sobbed into my handkerchief.
Neil would have liked his service, if that were possible. The church held over six hundred firemen today, all dressed for a solemn occasion. When the funeral cortege left the church for the cemetery, the fire signal system started tapping at regular thirty-second intervals. The procession passed Neil’s station, Station 16. His fellow workers and friends—some with tears openly streaming down their cheeks—stood at attention with their caps over their hearts. Behind the hearse was a body of twenty men who were his closest friends. Behind them, one hundred uniformed firemen accompanied my husband on his last run.
The service at the cemetery was mercifully brief. We didn’t linger at the grave site. By this time I knew it wasn’t Neil in that box—that wasn’t my vibrantly alive husband.
As soon as we got back to my house everyone started loading cars, looking for lost items and saying final goodbyes.
Dad hugged me. “Listen, kitten. You need us, you call. Oklahoma isn’t that far from Kansas. We’ll come in a heartbeat.”
I leaned against him, feeling like a little girl again. “I know. Thanks.”
Mom wrapped her arms around me. The tip of her nose was red from crying. “Oh, Katie, I’m so sorry. We loved Neil.”
I kissed her cheek. “He loved you, too.”
“Call me and let me know how you’re getting along.”
“I will.”
“Anything you need, call,” Dad reiterated.
I nodded, knowing they couldn’t provide what I needed—my life restored, my husband resurrected from the dead.
They both hugged the girls, then they got in their car and drove away, and we went through the whole routine again with Neil’s parents.
As suddenly as they had appeared, everyone was gone. Sally and Ron Fowler had offered to take Neil’s parents to the airport. I’d agreed, thankful for the reprieve.
That night I sat in the empty living room, holding a cup of tea I didn’t want. The kids were in bed, the doors were locked. For the first time in days the house was silent. I had never realized how devastating silence could be.
I was a widow with two small children and I knew I couldn’t make it alone. Never mind how I knew, I just knew. Neil’s worn Bible lay on the coffee table where he’d left it. We had been strong believers, faithful in our church, but nothing in our Christian walk had prepared me for this. A man didn’t die at thirty-two; that wasn’t possible. The past week had been a nightmare and I wanted to wake up.
But I wasn’t asleep, and I knew it.
Was my faith strong enough to face the future? Neil had left a reasonable insurance policy, so with proper investment I wouldn’t have to worry about money. If I kept my job…but I had to do a lot of flying. What if the plane went down? The thought winged through my subconscious and formed a grapefruit-sized knot in my stomach. What would my children do with both parents gone?
Kelli and Kris would be orphans. Neil and I had never gotten around to making a will. Mom and Dad would take the kids…but Neil’s parents would want them, too. I gripped my hands in my lap, imagining the war. There’d be a big fight. Split right down the middle along family lines.
My children would live in turmoil; they’d end up in therapy, warped for life because I was a thoughtless parent who was so self-absorbed I’d forgotten to consider my children’s future.
I’d never fly again.
What was I saying? If I wanted to keep my job I had to fly. It was all too complicated for me in my mixed-up state.
Somehow I’d hold my family together. Life went on, and people went on.
As I recall, that was my last rational thought for a while. I sank into a blue funk. I knew that being a responsible parent meant being there for my children no matter how badly I was hurting, but my mind rebelled. So I slipped away to a private place where I could mourn Neil’s passing without the world’s interference. If it hadn’t been for kind neighbors and my church family, I don’t know what would have happened to Kelli and Kris. I loved them—loved them with all my heart—but anguish had rendered me nonfunctional. I faintly recalled someone being in the house at all times, but mentally I was absent. I couldn’t explain it; only those who had lived the experience could put the feeling in plain words.
And I stayed that way for maybe two or three weeks. I’m not sure. I’m only sure of how and when my body slowly came back to life. Well, not slowly. Swiftly was more accurate.
It was when Kelli suddenly burst into my bedroom, startling me from my black abyss.
“There’s a snake in the attic!”
I blinked, focusing on my daughter. “A what? Where?”
“A snake,” she repeated. “In our attic. Come and get it Mom.”
Chapter 3
A what? My heart jolted, and started beating for the first time in weeks. I was still sleeping on the pallet, unable to return to the bed Neil and I had shared. I jumped up, wide-eyed, hair standing on end. Kris, evidently the calmest Madison, wet a paper towel in the adjoining bath and slapped it across my forehead. I sank back on the pillow, feeling cold water running down my neck.
Snake.
In my attic.
When I found my voice, I asked if Kris was certain.
“Real sure, Mommy.”
The snake had slid behind the cubbyhole where we kept Christmas decorations. My natural instinct was to call Neil; my second was to break into frustrated tears.
Kris patted my hand. “Don’t cry, Mommy. I’ll get the snake.”
Although I was tempted, I couldn’t let a seven-year-old engage in an attic snake hunt. I had no idea what kind of snake resided in my home other than Kris’s description: big.
And black.
Maybe.
“We’ll call Ron Fowler,” I said. “And what were you doing in the attic so late?”
“Playing.” Kris glanced at the clock. “Mr. Fowler will be asleep by now.”
Worry kicked into overdrive. If Neil was here he’d dispose of the snake and that would be that, but Neil wasn’t here, and this was just the first of a series of problems I would face without him. I couldn’t call on my neighbors, the Fowlers, in every crisis. Kris pressed a tissue into my hand, and I tried to get a grip on my fear.
I hated snakes about as much as I hated