“Then white.”
He looked at me.
“You’re not much help.”
I sat beside him.
“The white one needs ironing. The blue one doesn’t.”
“Blue it is.”
Downstairs, the little seed envelope lay beside his radio.
Nora had written the date, the time, and the school’s address.
Underneath, she had added:
We really did save you a chair.
Dad had read that line several times during the week.
I knew because every time I moved the envelope to dust, it ended up facing him again.
Brent came at five.
He had cleared the passenger footwell and put an extra cushion on the seat.
Dad noticed.
“Expecting me to travel in pieces?”
“Just making room for your complaints.”
“Should’ve brought a bigger truck.”
The evening was cold.
I helped Dad with his coat while Brent waited by the porch steps.
Before we left, Dad glanced toward the window.
The garden was dark.
For once, we were going somewhere that had nothing to do with deliveries, planting, or repairs.
I had forgotten how long it had been.
At the school, Beth met us beside the entrance.
She was still wearing her work uniform beneath her coat.
“You came.”
Dad looked at the building.
“Was I not supposed to?”
She laughed.
“No. I just—Nora will be glad.”
Inside, the hall smelled of floor polish and warm radiators.
Children hurried past carrying instrument cases.
Somebody tested a microphone.
A teacher pointed us toward the side aisle.
There were three chairs near the door.
One had a folded piece of paper on it.
MR. LINDQVIST.
Dad picked it up.
“Well,” he said. “Official.”
He sat carefully.
I took the chair beside him.
Brent stood at the back until a teacher found him somewhere to sit.
When the concert began, Dad leaned forward.
Nora appeared with a small choir.
She stood in the second row, hands clasped in front of her.
For the first few moments, she searched the room.
Then she found him.
I saw her shoulders settle.
Dad lifted two fingers.
She smiled just before the music started.
I don’t remember every song.
I remember Dad listening.
Really listening.
Not checking the time.
Not looking tired in the way he looked tired when people discussed his health over his head.
He watched Nora.
When the audience applauded, he did too.
During the interval, she came down the side aisle.
“You made it.”
“You gave very precise instructions,” he said.
She looked at his chair.
“Is this spot all right?”
“Best seat in the place.”
“It’s near the exit.”
“I can see you from here.”
Her expression changed a little.
Then she glanced at me.
“Was I loud enough?”
“Yes,” I said.
Dad shook his head.
Nora’s face fell.
“You were singing with other people,” he told her. “I was listening for all of you.”
She considered that.
Then she smiled.
“I’ll be back after.”
She hurried toward the stage.
Dad watched her go.
“She’s grown.”
“She’s fifteen.”
“I know how old she is.”
“I mean she’s still growing.”
“So am I,” he said.
I looked at him.
He adjusted his cuffs.
“Apparently.”
We stayed until the end.
Afterward, Beth took a photograph beside the school entrance.
Nora stood next to Dad.
Brent on his other side.
I tried to step away, but Beth handed the phone to a teacher.
“You too.”
So I stood beside my father.
His hand found my elbow while we waited.
The teacher told us to smile.
Dad said, “We were until you started giving instructions.”
The photograph caught us laughing.
On the drive home, he was quiet.
I turned in my seat.
“Tired?”
“Yes.”
“Worth it?”
He looked out at the passing lights.
“Yes.”
The next morning, I found the photograph printed and propped beside his chair.
Brent had brought it before work.
Dad had moved the seed envelope underneath it.
“Going to keep both?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“The concert’s over.”
He looked at the words on the envelope.
We really did save you a chair.
“Yes,” he said. “But she asked me.”
I went into the kitchen before he could see my eyes fill.
That afternoon, Nora came by to collect empty trays for a school project.
Dad asked about the final song.
She explained that her teacher had changed the arrangement at the last minute.
He listened as if this were the most important business he had heard all week.
And for those fifteen minutes, it was.
PART 19: THE SATURDAY WE LOCKED THE GATE
The ice arrived before dawn.
Not snow.
Not the sort of winter weather that looked beautiful from a window.
Just a hard, invisible coating over every step, branch, and stretch of road.
My phone began ringing at five.
Brent.
“Don’t drive yet.”
I looked outside.
The porch light shone on something slick.
“Dad?”
“Fine. June’s there. She stayed last night because of the forecast.”
I sat up.
“What about the deliveries?”
“We wait.”
That sounded simple.
It wasn’t.
By five-thirty, three people had called asking whether we were still opening.
By six, someone had sent a photograph of a car sideways near the turn onto Ridge Road.
I rang Beth.
Then Daniel.
Then everyone else on the volunteer list.
Stay home.
We would work out food once the roads were safe.
Nobody should try to reach the garden.
Dad called at six-fifteen.
“You’ve closed?”
“Yes.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad enough.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “Good.”
I blinked.
“Good?”
“Can’t have people breaking themselves over potatoes.”
After all the arguments we had once had about him going outside, I almost laughed.
Instead, I said, “Exactly.”
By midmorning, I could safely walk the short distance from where Brent had collected me at the main road to Dad’s house.
He had spread grit on the path.
The gate was shut.
A notice hung on it.
CLOSED TODAY. PLEASE CALL IF YOU NEED FOOD.
Underneath was my number.
Seeing it made my stomach tighten.
The garden had become a place people trusted to be open.
Closing it felt like breaking a promise.
Inside, Dad sat by the window while June cut bread.
The radio warned about more freezing rain.
I put my bag on the table.
“I’ve spoken to most people.”
“Most?” Dad asked.
“Still trying two households.”
He nodded toward the telephone.
“Then try again after tea.”
We did.
One answered.
The other didn’t.
It was a woman named Mrs. Alvarez who lived above the old hardware shop.
We had started bringing her a box in November.
She didn’t drive.
Her daughter lived several hours away.
I checked the notebook.
Then called the neighbor she had listed.
The neighbor answered on the second ring.
“Yes, she’s here,” he said. “Power went out upstairs. She’s sitting with us.”
I leaned against the counter.
“Would you tell her Kristin called?”
He passed her the phone.
She sounded mildly embarrassed.
“I was going to ring.”
“That’s all right.”
“I have food for today.”
“And tomorrow?”
A pause.
“Some.”
I wrote her name on a fresh page.
“We’ll call again before anyone sets out. Stay where it’s warm.”
When I hung up, Dad looked at the notebook.
“How many?”
“Four households that might need something before Monday.”
Brent came in stamping grit from his boots.
He looked at the list.
“We can’t promise a route yet.”
“I know.”
Dad pointed to the map tucked inside the back cover.
“Where’s everybody else?”
We spread it across the table.
Not the delivery addresses.
The volunteers.
Beth lived two streets from Mrs. Alvarez.
Daniel was near the trailer park.
One of the brothers’ neighbors worked at the small grocery that had stayed open.
We began calling.
Carefully.
Could they check what was needed?
Could they help once it was safe to walk?
Could they ring back rather than make a dangerous trip?
By afternoon, the work had spread across several kitchens.
A bag of groceries carried along one cleared pavement.
A pot of soup taken next door.
A phone call that turned into an hour of company.
Nobody came through our gate.
Still, people ate.
Dad listened as I crossed names off the list.
Then he asked me to turn the radio down.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
June set a plate beside him.
“Do it while you eat.”
He obeyed.
Late that afternoon, a car stopped outside.
A young man got out wearing trainers with almost no grip.
He caught the gatepost when his feet slid.
Brent was at the window before I reached the door.
“Stay there,” he called. “I’ll bring something down.”
The young man looked at the notice.
“I didn’t know.”
“It’s all right.”
Brent put on his boots.
I packed a bag.
Dad watched from his chair.
“Ask if he’s got somewhere warm.”
Brent nodded.
When he returned, the bag was gone.
The young man had gone too.
“He’s staying with his brother. Their power’s on. Didn’t see the message before he left.”
I let out a breath.
The sky darkened.
Branches shone beneath the streetlight.
For the first Saturday I could remember, the buckets stayed stacked in the shed.
Dad’s garden remained behind a locked gate.
I sat beside him.
“I hated doing that.”
“Closing?”
“Yes.”
He looked outside.
“You made the right call.”
“I know.”
“Still hated it?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
After a while, he said, “Your mother once canceled a delivery because the road flooded.”
“What happened?”
“She sat in this kitchen furious with the rain.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“Then she rang the people she couldn’t reach and asked whether they were all right.”
I looked at the notebook on my lap.
Outside, the gate didn’t move.
Inside, the telephone rang again.
This time it was Beth.
Mrs. Alvarez had enough food until Tuesday.
And apparently she had strong opinions about Beth’s soup.
Dad smiled when I told him.
“Good,” he said. “Means she’s comfortable.”
PART 20: THE PAGE WE COULDN’T FIND
We lost the blue notebook in March.
Not forever.
But long enough to discover how much of our confidence still lived between its worn covers.
I noticed it on Thursday evening.
The kitchen table was clear.
Dad’s side table held his glasses, the newspaper, and a packet of seed Eli had brought him.
No notebook.
I checked the cupboard.
The drawer beneath the telephone.
The packing shelf.
Then I checked them again.
Dad watched from his chair.
“Looking for something?”
“The notebook.”
His expression changed.
“Was here yesterday.”
“Who had it?”
He considered.
“June. Then Brent.”
I called June.
She said Brent had taken it to check the seed order.
Brent said he had brought it back and left it beside the coffee urn.
The coffee urn had gone to St. Luke’s for a lunch.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke on the telephone.
Then Brent said, “I’ll drive over.”
I stayed behind.
Friday’s route was the next morning.
I knew most of the addresses.
Most.
I knew the names.
The ordinary preferences.
Who liked potatoes.
Who needed a smaller box.
But there were numbers I hadn’t memorized.
New arrangements written only once.
Details that seemed too small to matter until I couldn’t check them.
Dad sat forward.
“Get some paper.”
“I’ve got paper.”
“Then sit.”
We began with Walt.
Then Curtis.
Then Dee.
Dad remembered an old arrangement that had changed months earlier.
I corrected him.
He nodded.
Then I forgot whether a newer household needed Friday or Saturday.
He didn’t know.
We looked at each other.
Neither of us liked it.
My phone rang.
Brent.
“Not at the church.”
I closed my eyes.
“All right.”
“I’m still looking.”
After we hung up, Dad watched me write a question mark beside a name.
“That shouldn’t depend on me remembering,” he said.
“Or me.”
He nodded.
We called Beth.
Then Daniel.
We checked the arrangements directly with the people we delivered to.
It took longer than opening the notebook.
It also revealed two things we had wrong.
A changed telephone number.
A Friday delivery no longer needed because a son had moved home and could collect on Saturdays.
By nine, we had a workable list.
Dad leaned back, tired.
I put down my pen.
“We need copies.”
“Yes.”
“And someone else needs to know where they are.”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the cupboard.
Then he smiled slightly.
“Your mother would say she’d been telling us that for years.”
“Had she?”
“Probably.”
The notebook turned up at seven the next morning.
Nora brought it through the back door with both hands.
“I’m so sorry.”
I stared at it.
“Where?”
“In the box of old newspapers.”
She looked miserable.
“I was clearing the table before the urn went back. It must’ve slid underneath. Owen found it when we started cutting paper for the seedlings.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then I took it.
The cover was still faded.
The rubber band still loose.
Mom’s handwriting still inside.
I pressed it against my chest.
Nora’s eyes filled.
“I should’ve checked.”
“It was an accident.”
“You were all looking.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Dad held out his hand.
She went to him.
He took the notebook and opened it.
Examined a page.
Then another.
“Still here,” he said.
Nora nodded.
He looked up.
“So are you.”
She began crying properly then.
Dad patted the chair beside him.
“Sit down. Kristin’s making tea.”
“I’m making coffee,” I said.
“Even better.”
That weekend, we made copies of the current working pages.
We kept them somewhere the people managing deliveries could find them.
We checked details before copying them.
We agreed who would update them.
The old notebook stayed with Dad.
It could still be used.
It simply wouldn’t be the only place we kept everything we needed.
I thought he might resist.
Instead, he asked for a new pen.
“What for?”
“Some of this needs explaining.”
He turned to a page near the front.
Mom had written three names beneath a date.
No addresses.
No notes.
“Who were they?” I asked.
Dad touched the first name.
“Family in the little house by the railway. Moved years ago.”
“And these?”
He began telling me.
One family had come for a few weeks.
Another for years.
Someone had brought back a broken wheelbarrow repaired.
Someone had left a jar of jam on the porch without knocking.
We spent the afternoon filling in small memories.
Not every page.
Not every name.
Just what he remembered and wanted to keep.
Near the back, we found the index card marked NEXT PERSON.
Dad laid it on the table.
Through the window, Nora and Owen were washing seed trays.
She said something.
He laughed.
Dad watched them.
“Keep that.”
“The card?”
“Yes.”
I tucked it into a clear sleeve so it wouldn’t get lost among the pages.
Then I put the notebook back in his hands.
Outside, someone knocked on the porch door.
A man stood there holding an empty cardboard box.
Behind him, a little girl peered around his coat.
“I was told I could ask here.”
I stood up.
Dad looked toward the door.
Then at the notebook.
He passed it to me.
“Better get his name,” he said.
I took a pen from the table and went to let them in.
