Susannah's Garden (Blossom Street #3)(28)

Years ago, Brian had asked if he could have Doug’s old baseball cards and her father had refused. Susannah had fumed about that for weeks. Now they appeared to be missing, as well.

Doing her best to ignore the nagging worries, she packed what was left in her mother’s closet, which took most of the afternoon. She put aside a few additional outfits for Vivian, although the purple dress did not come to light. Her one real find was an old journal her mother had started in 1951, shortly after Doug was born. The fake leather front had cracked over the years. It had a tiny lock without a key, but Susannah tested the fastening, and it sprang open as if waiting to share its secrets.

She held the open book in her hand for the longest time, wondering if she dared read it. Deciding it would be an invasion of her mother’s privacy, she set the palm-size diary on the dresser.

More than likely her mother didn’t even remember that she’d kept a journal. But then her mother remembered the oddest things.

By the time she’d finished clearing out the closet, packing clothes and shoes into boxes for Goodwill, Susannah was ready for a break. Her mother hadn’t worn any of this stuff in years, but she’d only scraped the surface—there were two chests of drawers in the bedroom, plus shelves, a dresser…. This wasn’t promising.

The phone rang just as she was about to make herself some tea.

“Mom!” her daughter cried. “Where’s the curry powder?”

“What do you need curry for?”

“A recipe,” Chrissie said. “I was watching a show on the Food Channel and I decided to make curried chicken but it calls for curry powder and I’m supposed to add it now.”

Susannah refrained from mentioning that curried chicken obviously needed curry power and she should have gotten it out earlier. “Look on the shelf next to the refrigerator.”

“I already did. It’s not there. This is important, Mom. Dinner will be ruined without it.”

Chrissie’s tone suggested that the world would come to an end if she didn’t locate the curry powder within thirty seconds.

“Try the next shelf up. If I have it at all, it’d be there.”

“Okay.” The word was smothered as if Chrissie had pressed the receiver against her shoulder.

Susannah could hear tins and bottles being shuffled around, followed by an exclamation of victory. “Thanks, Mom. See ya.” With that, the phone went dead.

“Glad to be of service,” Susannah muttered as she set the phone back in place. This was the first display of enthusiasm she’d seen from Chrissie since her return home. Joe hadn’t given a definite answer to their daughter’s request about visiting Colville, but apparently Chrissie had accepted the fact that she was needed at home. That was fine with Susannah. While she’d welcome help with the house, Chrissie would be a distraction, too.

As she put on water for a pot of tea, Susannah felt a sense of pride that her husband and children were managing without her. Her kids were maturing, assuming more responsibility.

Sitting at the kitchen table a few minutes later, with her tea steeping, she remembered the old diary she’d discovered. It’d been buried in a hat box, tucked away years ago and forgotten. Still feeling guilty about her interest, she brought it out of the bedroom and set it on the table next to the ceramic teapot and tiny pitcher of milk.

Susannah stared at the diary, afraid she might learn things about her parents she’d rather not know—and yet she was intensely curious. It wasn’t hers to read, she reminded herself. This was her mother’s private property. Then Susannah remembered that her mother had read her diary. Shortly afterward, Susannah had been shipped off to boarding school. Turnabout was fair play, she decided, squelching the guilt.

She opened the book and saw that her mother had used a fountain pen to record her thoughts. It was a five-year diary with only a few lines for each day. Vivian had maintained it faithfully through those years, as if not entering the day’s activities would’ve been wasteful. The blue ink had darkened but remained completely legible. As always, Susannah admired her mother’s penmanship, the beautifully rounded letters sloping gently to the right.

April 3, 1957

George took Doug to his Little League practice and then pitched balls to him for an hour afterward. It did my heart good to see how much my husband loves his son and how much Dougie loves his dad.

Susannah recalled how often her brother and father had practiced together. She’d felt a little left out and…unimportant.

June 20, 1957

I talked to George again about going to nursing school, but with the children so young he feels my place is here at home. I tried to tell him that lots of women are working outside the home these days, but he wouldn’t listen. I know I’d be a good nurse. George is right, although I can’t help wishing I’d gone into nursing school instead of marrying so young. But with the war…

Susannah frowned. Her mother had wanted to be a nurse? This was news to her. In all her years of growing up, Susannah couldn’t recollect one word about her mother having—or wanting—a career, nursing or otherwise. Everything had centered on her father and his role as a judge.

Now that she thought about it, however, Susannah remembered how tender and caring her mother had been anytime she or Doug was sick. When he was ten, Doug had broken his arm in a tumble from his bicycle. It had been a bad break, but their mother had remained calm and gotten Doug to the hospital, where he’d required immediate surgery to have the bone reset. Her mother was a natural caregiver, and yet this one desire had been denied her.