The Painted Table(91)

Nels clears his throat like he does when he’s embarrassed. “Saffee,” he says. There is a long pause. “They were . . . those two . . . I mean.” More silence. He clears his throat again. “Saffee. I know I wasn’t the best father.”

She stops sanding. He’s apologizing. The few words are all “Daddy’s little girl” needs to hear. The humble admission fills her heart with love.

“Oh, Daddy.” She rocks back from her knees to sit on the floor and looks up at him. His eyes get teary so easily nowadays. “You didn’t have a father to teach you how to be one, just like Mother had no mother. But you did fine. Look at me, Daddy. Didn’t I turn out okay? You must have done a good job.”

“Yes, I know, you’re fine, but . . .” Nels shakes his head. “But I shoulda done better . . . Mother, she . . . but it’s not Mother’s fault. I . . .” He leans forward with head down, hands on knees. “And April . . . goin’ off like that. She needed a mother . . . and a father.”

“She’s okay, Daddy. I’m excited that she’s found Kyros. He sounds pretty special. And I’m sure you’re happy they’re planning to move to the States when they can.”

Over the winter there had been a flurry of letters from April, extolling her newfound Greek friend, Kyros, who soon became more than a friend. In February, April wrote that they had been married on the island of Santorini. The sisters had missed each other’s weddings but promised by mail to make amends in the future.

“Mother’s condition made your life really hard, Daddy, and . . . and sometimes it was hard for April and me too. Mother was too broken to love us well. But for us, everything is okay now. Really, Daddy.”

I am loved. My life is different. I am not my mother. I am different.

Nels pulls out his handkerchief and blows his nose. “I dunno what else to say. But you’re a good girl, Saffee. I, well . . . I dunno what to say.” The handkerchief goes back to its pocket. Nels drums the arms of the chair for a moment, then stands abruptly. “Wonder if there’s some coffee left?”

She smiles. “Sure, Dad. In the kitchen.”

He ducks into the house and Saffee goes out to catch another glimpse of the kite. It flies like young Jenny Rose, wonderfully tethered, wonderfully free.

Saffee has commented more than once that she and Jack would be “just fine” with no children. But now, after watching Gail and Bill nurture their daughter and new baby, she can see that life is supposed to be more than just fine. Investing, investing, in a child is an opportunity to give the world a Jenny Rose. Again, Saffee has watched, and listened, and learned.




An early morning rain stops abruptly and moves on, leaving behind an overcast sky and a vigorous cool wind. Saffee switches on the garage ceiling light. The Norway table, its rich honey-toned wood finally bare but for a fresh coat of varnish, stands as if on center stage. The heirloom piece closes a circle begun years ago when a young man planed hand-hewn planks of birch and carved an enigmatic vine. The circle has compassed spiritual blessings, hardships of everyday life, terror, shelter, and demonic delusion. It survived the tyranny of a paintbrush and the excoriation of chemicals and sandpaper.

Clouds begin to part in the eastern sky. A strong shaft of yellow sunshine bursts onto the table, as if blessing it.

Saffee spins the radio dial until orchestral magic befitting celebration fills the air. She’s grateful for the day at Joann’s bedside when she thanked her for imparting love of classical music. For years, mother and daughter shared this spiritual grace, this communion  , unspoken. She boosts the volume, exhilaration surging with the harmonies. She gathers empty paint remover cans and newspapers that litter the floor and throws them into the trash.

Saffee looks out across the road where the stand of young birches bend and sway as if in rhythm with the music. Shimmering green leaves fling showers of raindrops into the air.

“Oh,” she breathes. “God, You have choreographed the trees to worship You.”

She lifts her arms to join them.

“Thank You, Lord, for Your gifts,” she whispers. “I have seen Your Spirit at work. You have ushered goodness and healing into my deepest being, giving my life a new lyric. You have chosen my inheritance. I needn’t fear.” She lowers a hand to touch the restored wood—wood that once had stood in sun and rain and swayed in the wind.

As rings mark the age of a tree, circles of life also close and begin again.

Tonight, the Norway table will take its welcome place in their home.





CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR



REDEEMED