Fourteen-year-old Elvira Witsil lives in a remote area of Wisconsin with her mother, Connie, who acknowledges Elvira only when chores need doing; her grandma, a cantankerous woman who can’t hold her tongue; and her baby sister, Jessie — who, the family discovers, is a seer. Along with the burdens of a difficult family, Elvira also bears a daunting secret — she encouraged her father to enlist in WWII. Ever since he was declared missing in action, Elvira has felt responsible for his presumed death. But Jessie also carries a secret about the father she never met — a secret so powerful that when her mother, Connie, learns of it, she sends the family on a journey to California with a traveling preacher. This powerful teen manuscript tells the story of a family’s journey toward forgiveness and a young woman’s journey toward faith
Fourteen-year-old Elvira Witsil lives in a remote area of Wisconsin with her mother, Connie, who acknowledges Elvira only when chores need doing; her grandma, a cantankerous woman who can’t hold her tongue; and her baby sister, Jessie — who, the family discovers, is a seer. Along with the burdens of a difficult family, Elvira also bears a daunting secret — she encouraged her father to enlist in WWII. Ever since he was declared missing in action, Elvira has felt responsible for his presumed death. But Jessie also carries a secret about the father she never met — a secret so powerful that when her mother, Connie, learns of it, she sends the family on a journey to California with a traveling preacher. This powerful teen manuscript tells the story of a family’s journey toward forgiveness and a young woman’s journey toward faith
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Overview
Fourteen-year-old Elvira Witsil lives in a remote area of Wisconsin with her mother, Connie, who acknowledges Elvira only when chores need doing; her grandma, a cantankerous woman who can’t hold her tongue; and her baby sister, Jessie — who, the family discovers, is a seer. Along with the burdens of a difficult family, Elvira also bears a daunting secret — she encouraged her father to enlist in WWII. Ever since he was declared missing in action, Elvira has felt responsible for his presumed death. But Jessie also carries a secret about the father she never met — a secret so powerful that when her mother, Connie, learns of it, she sends the family on a journey to California with a traveling preacher. This powerful teen manuscript tells the story of a family’s journey toward forgiveness and a young woman’s journey toward faith
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780310426653 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Zondervan |
| Publication date: | 04/19/2011 |
| Sold by: | Zondervan Publishing |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 224 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
| Age Range: | 15 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Insight
By Diana Greenwood
Zondervan
Copyright © 2011 Diana GreenwoodAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-310-72314-1
Chapter One
It wasn't a scream, exactly, coming from behind the closed door of my mother's bedroom. It was more of a moan that started small and rose in pitch to a sharp yip as if a dog were dreaming and someone snuck up and gave it a swift kick. I would never kick a dog. But there were days I wished I could kick my mother, and with all that noise, today was one of them.Her next yell was loud, but everything is loud when you live way out in the middle of nowhere like we did. Even crows scared themselves, the air was so quiet.
Just that morning Grandma said, "Only a fool would live five miles from town with no way to move around come winter. Even a town as puny as Portage is better than nothing if you live close in."
I guess we were fools, then, or my mother was. She picked this place. "Far enough from town for privacy and far enough from the Wisconsin River and the canals to confuse the mosquitoes," she pointed out to back up her decision. But the real reason was my mother liked to keep an eye on my father. She figured living out here would keep him home. She was wrong. Now Grandma lived with us in our tiny house, and she took up more space than he ever did.
Grandma still looked pretty young, no gray hair and hardly any wrinkles. Having had her only child at the ripe age of eighteen, she was done with that early. Unlike my mother, birthing her second right now at the age of thirty-eight, ten years after I was born.
To prove we were all alone, Grandma'd haul me out back when the switchgrass was dry, stand overlooking the rocky dell, and scream "Fire!" as loud as she could. We'd hear "Fire, fire, fire," growing fainter and fainter. She'd wait a bit as if someone would rush right up to save us.
Then she'd say, "See? Not a soul within earshot."
Sometimes she'd shout my name to the sky, calling "Elvira!" at the top of her lungs, and she'd say it bounced off the clouds with nowhere else to go and came right back to stick in her throat. She'd clear her throat to get my name out and even that echoed.
But Grandma's shouts were nothing compared to the noise of having a baby, and my mother's next yell was much louder than her last. While she suffered behind her door, my job was to keep the washtub filled so Grandma could keep everything clean. My mother was birthing that baby without the midwife, as she couldn't get here, and it was too late now to try to get to town with snow to the eaves and no man to shovel us out.
I lugged the kettle from the sink to our old Wedgewood stove. The blue flame puffed and sputtered. Out of habit, I glanced at the stove's little round clock as I did every winter morning, usually while I ate alone, making mountains out of oatmeal with my spoon and squinting in the dim light of the kitchen to read our only cookbook. While I waited for the water to heat, my eyes traveled to where the book lay on the counter. It was a collection of recipes from the Lutheran Ladies' Guild, bound and hand typed, with a cover of red gingham pasted on and fraying at the corners. It was already well used when we picked it up for a dime at the annual St. John's rummage sale, and I'd added a few stains to the pages. When we paid, a white-haired church lady in a sky-blue sweater had grasped my mother's hand and said, "Peace be with you." My mother took a step back. We weren't used to people being nice to us. But the lady smiled and handed the cookbook to me, so I felt as if it were mine.
The dessert section was my favorite. I'd imagine making all those fancy cakes and complicated desserts like éclairs, so foreign-sounding and pretty, thick with whipped cream in a flaky crust, chocolate syrup drizzled on top. I'd read so many recipes I'd lose track of time, the ticking of the stove clock finally sinking into my brain, reminding me it was time to leave. Then I'd start my miss-the-bus worrying. But every day, a part of me wished I could skip school altogether, go back to bed where it was warm, and spend the morning reading recipes.
Except it wasn't morning and school was cancelled, winter vacation extended because of the worst blizzard on record. If I were a baby, I wouldn't have picked today to show up. Before the signal was lost, the radio said thirteen below and dropping. It was already pitch black and it was only five o'clock. Howling wind circled the house, rattling the windows, and an icy draft sneaked under the back door. I stuffed a dishcloth in the crack. The ceiling light flickered. I got candles out and set a box of wooden matchsticks on the kitchen table in case we lost electricity. I imagined the only thing worse than having a baby in the first place would be having a baby in the dark.
Thumbtacked to the wall was our complimentary calendar from Jensen's Hardware, all the days crossed out leading up to today. January 10th, 1943. The words "Happy New Year" on the calendar in fancy red and blue letters looked hopeful, as though words alone could change my mood. But the words didn't lift my spirits. I couldn't think of one thing happy about starting another year. On the other hand, it couldn't be worse than the one we'd just left behind.
The kettle whistled. I sniffed because the kitchen smelled like scorched toast from crumbs caught under the burner and I was afraid they'd catch fire. We kept a box of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda on a shelf beside the stove for emergencies. As I reached to grab the kettle, steam bit my wrist and left a red streak. Maybe it wasn't fire I needed to fear but water instead. The Lutheran Ladies' Guild Cookbook had a Household Tips section and I'd practically memorized it. A baking soda paste would soothe the sting and stop a blister. But I didn't have time to make it.
I heard another snap of a yell. It was exactly the kind of yell my mother used when I broke her last china serving bowl — a terrible, end-of-the-world yell. I wondered if Grandma had broken something too, but then she poked her head out and shrieked, "Elvira Witsil, get that water in here. This baby's coming foot first."
She slammed the door in my face, forcing me to put the big iron kettle down on the oak-plank floor, sloshing a few scalding drops that spread and stained and looked like beads of blood in the red glow from the last of the coals in the fireplace. I'd have to get more wood next.
Behind the door, Grandma said in her fed-up tone, "Trust you to have a baby backwards, Connie. It's going to be long and hard."
I went in, trying not to look at my mother, who was acting feverish. Her wavy brown hair, usually in a braid like mine, was all matted with sweat, her face was purple, and there was a lot of mess I didn't want to see between her legs where that baby was trying to get out. I saw the foot, though, blue as a bruise, with Grandma's hand around it about to give a pull.
"Don't stand there with your mouth hanging open like you're trapping flies," Grandma said. "Pour that water in the tub."
"I am," I said, but the kettle was heavy and my arms shook. Steaming water slopped over the edge of the washtub, splashing my feet and burning like a bee sting right through my wool socks. At this rate, I was going to need a baking soda bath to treat my burns.
"Now look what you've done, Elvira! Go get the mop and sop that up. And get some more wood. This baby'll die before it takes its first breath, it's so cold in here."
My mother sat up like she was a puppet and someone had just yanked her strings. "Will you stop talking?" she screamed. "God, oh, God, I can't bear this pain!"
"Fat lot of good God's going to do you," said Grandma. "Where was he when you got yourself into this?"
My mother scrunched up her face so hard her eyes were puffy lines and her cheeks big as a chipmunk's, and her long hair fell forward and covered her bare chest. I was glad, because it embarrassed me she had no clothes on. I never wanted to see my mother like that, naked and bloody, and I swore then and there if that's how you had to look to have a baby I'd never have one as long as I lived. I didn't realize I'd said it out loud until Grandma, who hardly ever laughed, laughed about that.
Grandma was pretty mad at my mother for having this baby, and she continued to make her opinions known. She said my mother was a fool for having a child so late. She said WWII was started by one evil man with nothing better to do than sit around figuring out ways to get people killed. She thought raising children alone, now that my father was missing in action, gone before my mother even knew she was pregnant, was downright idiotic.
My father's ship blew up the first week he was out — not bombed or anything, just due to some kind of engine failure — in the middle of the night when all the crew was sleeping. They never found the bodies. "Must have been a mess," Grandma'd said a hundred times, "and doesn't it just figure that good-for-nothing would go out in a flash without doing anything to get the glory."
My mother always yelled back, "How could I have known my husband would go missing and I'd be stuck in this godforsaken place, pregnant, with a self-centered daughter, a grouchy old woman, and not a penny to my name?"
But the yelling my mother was doing right now hurt my ears. I clicked the door shut, filled the kettle, and put it back on to boil. The wind was a high-pitched whine, as if it were a poor lost thing looking for a place to settle. I shivered, the mudroom icy as I grabbed a stack of wood for the fireplace. My father's old boots were by the back door. No one had noticed when I placed them side by side, laced and polished and buffed the way he liked them. My mother was right. I was a self-centered daughter. My father was missing because of me. No Lutheran Ladies' remedy would soothe that ache. It burned from the inside out.
It didn't seem real, my father gone for good, especially when he'd been gone so many times before. But he came back those other times. He'd be a little worse for wear, maybe a bruise or two turning yellow around his eyes, but my mother always let him back in. The house would be silent, the air thick and crackling with too many nerves on edge, until his smile would finally break my mother's will.
My father was unpredictable. You never knew what he might do. I liked that best about him and I missed it most. But my mother needed him to come home on time from a regular job and stuff dollar bills in the savings jar behind the bread box. She needed him to fix the step on the back porch and stop disappearing for days on end. She needed him to pour his own whiskey down the kitchen sink so she wouldn't have to.
With him gone for good, my mother was a fire ready to light but missing a match. Grandma'd stepped right in and taken over. We watched my mother's stomach grow and grow and worked ourselves into a routine of eat, chores, sleep, eat, chores, sleep, with arguments for entertainment.
Then my sister struggled out and all that changed.
Chapter Two
My mother gave my sister a name that didn't suit her: Jessamyn Rayann, after my father's mother and his first name, Ray. Grandma refused to acknowledge the association to my father's family, so she called her Jessie instead. I had to agree the nickname was better.Jessie was strange from the start. Being born left foot first in the dead of winter must have done it. She cried all the time and those cries echoed more than all the other sounds combined. Drove me crazy those first few months. I stuffed cotton batting into my ears. Shut myself in my bedroom closet and pulled a blanket over my head, just to get away from that sound. For some reason, my mother didn't seem to mind. She coddled Jessie as though she were the first baby she'd ever seen, and the prettiest too. She cooed and played patty-cake and tested the temperature of Jessie's precious infant formula on her wrist, frowning if it seemed the slightest bit too warm. Formula was rationed, and of course buying it meant we went without something else. Like real milk from cows, for instance. I'd never craved milk until we couldn't have it.
My mother played "This Little Piggy" over and over, and I had no memory of her ever playing that with me. But Jessie cried anyway — deep, chesty sobs, as if the world was too big or too loud or too bright for her — no matter what my mother did. Grandma took to taking long walks in the woods, and I'd never been so happy to go to school in my life.
But by the time Jessie was a year old she'd settled into silence, and I found myself coaxing her to talk. "Say, El-vir-a," I said, drawing out the syllables. "Come on, you can do it." I wanted to be first. I wanted her to say my name before she said Mama, the word my mother expected for weeks. But Jessie stared at me, all green eyes under a mop of unruly brown curls, and did a funny kind of hum, air in and out through puckered lips. No words.
The second she learned to walk, Jessie stuck to me like glue. I'd be dusting or sweeping, lost in my thoughts, and there she'd be as if she appeared out of thin air, right under my feet, just asking to be stepped on. I could never even go to the bathroom by myself without Jessie banging the door open and coming in to pester me. She'd plant herself in one spot and lift her arms, flexing her fingers open, closed, open, closed, which meant pick me up. Five seconds later, she'd lean over and point to the ground, which meant put me down. My mother would hold out her arms but Jessie always toddled right back to me, grabbed a fistful of my overalls about knee-level, and hung on.
I made Jessie a little rag doll out of scraps from Grandma's sewing basket so she'd have something to do besides trail my steps. "Let's name your doll," I said, making the doll dance on the arm of the sofa. "How about Betsy? Do you like that name?" No answer, of course. Jessie hummed a tuneless ditty but wouldn't say a word. "How about Jane? She looks like a Jane. She has nice blue-button eyes."
Actually, the doll looked more like a Mabel who needed the beauty parlor. I'd had trouble attaching the yarn hair, and it stuck up every which way in orange spirals. Grandma had helped embroider the mouth, but she'd made the lips pursed as though the doll had sucked something sour. Jessie liked Mabel, though, I could tell. She carried her everywhere. But Mabel didn't stop Jessie trailing me, and Mabel couldn't make Jessie talk any more than I could.
By the time Jessie was almost two and she'd still done nothing but grunt and point, dragging Mabel around but not calling her by name, my mother started to worry. Her precious, perfect baby wasn't so perfect after all.
"Jessie should be talking by now," she said about fifty times a day.
"She's an unusual child, to put it mildly," Grandma said. "Most children chatter a mile a minute by the time they're her age. She probably can talk and was just born disobedient. Like that fool you married. Ask him to do one thing and he'd do the opposite."
My mother ignored that comment.
"Something's wrong with her," she said, twisting the tail of her braid around a finger. "I can feel it. What two-year-old stands at a window all day long? From the second Elvira leaves to catch the school bus until she sees her coming up the drive, Jessie doesn't move, doesn't play, doesn't utter a sound. It's odd, I tell you."
My mother already had plenty to worry about, living off the war checks, never near enough, and the savings jar was almost empty. But I didn't feel sorry for her. She'd been blind to me since Jessie was born. And with Christmas only two weeks away, I had my hopes up for Holiday Cake. For days, the Lutheran Ladies' Guild Cookbook lay on the kitchen counter where I'd left it, open to the recipe and marked with a slip of ribbon. I hoped she'd notice and send me to the market in town for ingredients. I'd stand in line two hours for butter if I had to, since butter was rationed and hard to get. That Holiday Cake was the least I deserved.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Insight by Diana Greenwood Copyright © 2011 by Diana Greenwood . Excerpted by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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