If Hope Is A Color

By Denise Meagher

With a war threatening to tear the world apart, Dottie is faced with a battle for survival at home. Life on the farm, like Dottie's emotions, has gone haywire. Her older brother has left to fight. Her mother's bouts with depression worsen, and her father's late-night visits to the barn are becoming more frequent and ugly. The care of her youngest sister, Emmy, falls to her. Plagued with mixed feelings, Dottie wonders if she can trust God. In her wondering, she discovers she's not the only one harboring secrets, and despite her situation, she can help others, and hope is something to hold on to. But is hope enough?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 10, 2017
• ISBN: 9781635259995

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If Hope Is a Color

Denise Meagher

ISBN 978-1-63525-998-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63575-397-4 (Hard Cover)

ISBN 978-1-63525-999-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Denise Meagher

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

To my Meagher Men, Ted and Ryan for cheering me on and to my mom, Dottie - thanks for the inspiration!

Chapter 1

The Look Returns

October 1940

Ya nk. The stupid thread had itself tangled in a knot. Yank. Like my stomach. Yank, yank!

Quit fidgeting. Stand up straight, I growled at Emmy. I knelt at the bottom of the skirt, feeling like an indentured servant with freedom nowhere in sight. Why couldn’t I just cut it off and let the hem be as it was? For crying out loud, she’d only wear it for an hour or two. But, no. One of Mom’s everlasting sayings zoomed into my mind like an arrow.

Zing! Bullseye, it found its mark. I could hear her voice as if she were standing right in front of me.

If you’re going to do something, then do it right the first time. I didn’t care if this was done right. I. Hated. Sewing. I’d rather I didn’t have to do this at all, but I didn’t have a choice. Not around here. Yank.

You need to improve your stitching skills. Someday you’ll be glad you know how to sew. Mom’s voice echoed in my head.

And maybe someday I’ll fly to the moon too! I said in reply, to myself of course.

I didn’t care that Emmy’s dress was for the school’s annual Thanksgiving celebration. I couldn’t think of anything I was thankful for at the moment. Yank.

Ouch! A small pinprick of blood oozed from my thumb. I hurried it to my mouth. Yuck!

Come on, you stupid dress, you straighten up too, I growled.

Emmy blinked absentmindedly at me, her dark blue eyes round and huge. I’d better be careful—soften my tone so I didn’t get her crying. That’s all I’d need. Yank. She had no idea what was going on. Yank. Emmy held still for a few more minutes before shifting again.

Little kids! It was like there were ants in their pants, Dad would say.

Dad.

Just the thought of him and what he was about to do filled me with a mixture of dread and anger and hate and love, like someone had mixed a batch of dough with whatever they had lying around in the kitchen and once it was eaten, didn’t sit too well in the pit of the stomach. Yank!

And the sad thing—the anger-stirring thing—the stomach-thumping thing was Dad didn’t seem to recognize the signs. Maybe he couldn’t, but I sure could.

The Look was back.

I’d seen it in Dad’s eyes this morning during breakfast. It’s the one that moves in and makes itself feel right at home from time to time.

Yank!

I thought maybe this time, this year, it would be different.

Yank!

It’s been awhile since the last visit. I’d hoped I’d never see it again.

Yank! SNAP!

So much for hoping.

Chapter 2

Thankful, for What?

I bit back a curse word that if either Dad or Mom heard would get me a nice mouthful of soap for supper—never minding the fact that Dad uses cuss words on a regular basis, particularly when The Look was in residence. I gritted my teeth, tied off the loose ends, and told Emmy she could get out of the dress. I’d finish it without her in it. I had all I could do not to rip the entire thing right off her and cut it to shreds.

Thanks, Dottie, Emmy sang with her arms reaching toward the ceiling. She looked at me expectantly.

I helped her pull the dress up over her head. Before she sailed out of the room and up the stairs, she planted a fat, wet kiss on my cheek. I sighed and cleaned up my things in the living room.

Okay, so I was thankful for Emmy—little pain that she was. I looked around the room I was in. This house was one more thing to be thankful for.

I loved our rambling farmhouse. It was built like a giant box. All the rooms in it were large with lots of windows. Mom had a way with plants too, and they were everywhere green and full of life, even in the winter. Maybe green meant hope. Then again, maybe green was just green, and hope was only an illusion.

Thump. There goes my stomach hitting bottom.

Emmy was oblivious to everything, and that made me cross too. She was too young to understand what was going on. To her, life was one big everyone-takes-care-of-me-and-all-is-well-with-the-world sort of existence.

I remember living there.

That changed about two years ago right after my eleventh birthday. It was the last time I saw The Look too and realized what was going on around here, and when The Look found Dad, the only thing he hoped for was another bottle.

When Dad was on a binge, he’d hide his disgusting liquor—vodka, I think, or whiskey or brandy in the barn. He’d drink until he passed out. He’d pick fights with Mom and argue with Robert. And that year, he’d begun turning on me too. Not physically, though I don’t know that that was any consolation. His words were fists pounding at a person—me or Robert or Mom.

I hated him when he was like that, and I hated what it did, especially to Mom. She’d retreat into herself, and even though Dad never actually laid a hand on her, he’d beat her down with ugly words, like they were clubs; and though I couldn’t see any bruises on her body, I could see them in her eyes. And then I hated her for not fighting back; I hated myself, because I couldn’t.

Maybe that was the reason Robert wanted to leave, the fighting and the drinking. He hated it too. I know he did. During Dad’s tirades, Robert would stay clear, and oftentimes, he’d let me tag along with him to the creek bed, to Ronnie’s house, to the barn loft, and even into town. Sometimes, we’d sneak into the abandoned farmhouse about two miles east of us when the weather was agreeable. Living in Wisconsin, agreeable weather was consistently hard to come by, but when it was, we’d take some food and a deck of cards and have ourselves a little picnic and a game or two of rummy. Sometimes I’d bring along my sketch pad and pencil, and I’d draw what was going on. It helped get whatever was inside of me, out.

I wish I could show them what The Look looked like. Maybe if Dad and Mom saw it they’d stop. Then again maybe all that it would look like is me taking my pencil and blackening the page, coloring it so dark that not even a smidge of the white surface showed.

I know now that all the time Robert let me tag along with him was because he was protecting me as much as he could, and now I’d have to protect Emmy. How was I going to do that? Could I do that?

It was confusing ’cause though I hated Dad when he drank and Mom when she hid inside herself; I loved them both when they were back to being all right again. Then Dad was jolly, and he played the accordion and Chinese checkers. He’d sing and dance with us and sweep Mom up in his arms and waltz her through the house.

He’d be nice to all of us, almost too nice. And Mom, she’d be humming away in the kitchen like a bee, and she’d smile and let us lick the cake batter bowl, and she’d even join in on the games with us. Dad would buy us things and pay us a lot of attention; to Robert too, and especially to Mom, but after the last time, I noticed Robert didn’t really care. He stopped believing that Dad would ever change, and Mom? Well, her voice sounded kind of flat and defeated, and her eyes still had bruises behind them. Maybe they weren’t going away anymore.

All these thoughts raced through my mind. I looked out the front living room window at the stretch of road running by and wished I could go outside and run and run—away. Our pastor, Reverend Krause, says that God knows everyone’s thoughts even before they do and that he hears everyone’s prayers. I wonder how he can keep up with all of mine, let alone the entire planets’. Guess that’s why he’s God. Just in case he was listening, I sent up the only one I could think of. Help! If what Reverend Krause says is true, God didn’t need me to fill in the details; he already knew.

Just the thought of all The Look did made me want to ball up this pathetic piece of brown cloth and toss the sewing box across the room. I’d much rather be out in the barn jumping from the hay mow or in the back field swinging on the cows’ tails, unless Dad had a bull in the pasture. That’s what happened two years ago. There I was swinging along from tail to tail until I nearly came face to face with a bull. He snorted and pawed the ground. I turned my tail and ran like a frightened rabbit with that mean bull right behind me. I barely made it out of the pasture, skidding under the barbed wire fence like I was sliding into home plate. I ended up with a deep scratch on my right cheek but it could’ve been much worse. Still, I’d rather be out with the cows or by the creek at the back of our property listening to the water sing, shoveling manure or milking the small herd of cows we had; even Cornelia who was an ornery cuss-of-a-cow. She’d butt you every chance she got or swat you with her tail like it was a whip.

Even being whipped by Cornelia’s tail was better than dragging a needle in and out of the brown garment so it’d hold up for the entire program. Maybe if I add prayers to the stitching it will. One can hope. There’s that hope again. Between hoping and The Look, I felt like I was on an emotional seesaw—up one second, down the next. The thought of sewing brought me back down again, with another thump.

I sighed. The program was still a good month off—another thing to be thankful for. It’ll take me that and then some to get this piece of cloth finished and looking decent. I slapped the material down onto the top of the sewing box. I’d finish it after supper.

I think maybe I should write down what I’m thankful for before I forget. Usually I enjoyed the Thanksgiving celebration—not the sewing part; but listening to the recitations and helping some of the younger children learn their lines, the making lists of what we’re thankful for, seeing the younger kids dress up like Pilgrims and Indians, and the parents being invited and bringing the feast we always had with them the way the Indians and Pilgrims did that first Thanksgiving. I even liked it better than Christmas.

But not this year.

This year it’ll be different. I don’t think it’ll matter much whether it’s Thanksgiving or Christmas or any other holiday. I won’t feel like celebrating because of Robert’s declaration a few nights ago. He said he was leaving to join the army. And Dad said if he did, he’d sell the farm. Dad has said that a million times before; but now with Robert’s determination to leave—and I know he means to—it’d give Dad a good excuse to carry out his threat. Maybe that was the reason The Look came back.

Thump! There went my stomach again.

This time, The Look with its desperation spreading out like a blanket of poison could have crept in for all sorts of reasons, including Robert’s soon leave-taking—like the war percolating in Europe, the way Mom’s coffeepot does on the stove every morning. Never mind the no-foreign-wars promise our president, Mr. Franklin D. Roosevelt, was hawking to the American public while he campaigned for an unheard of third term. A promise that was as unlikely to be kept as Dad’s was.

The war was spreading its other tentacles like some sick octopus—like the rationing of food, clothing, supplies, you name it. The crunch was beginning to be felt everywhere, and supposedly we were all doing our part this way so more supplies could be sent to the soldiers. Living on a farm was better than in the city ’cause we had our own source of meat and dairy stuff and Mom’s garden was sufficient enough for us to can vegetables to get us through the winter months. I reminded myself that living on a farm was a reason for thanksgiving. And sometimes too, Dad or Robert would catch a plump wild rabbit, and Mom would make stew.

If nothing else, I’ll just pretend I’m thankful. I’ve gotten good at pretending. I’ve sure had lots of practice pretending over the years—pretending everything was fine, pretending we’re one big happy family and God bless us everyone. I got that line from reading A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. His stories were all about poking fun at what was wrong with England. Wish I could do the same with what is wrong in this family.

What goes on at home stays at home. Mom of course. I think that’s the one I hate the most. If people only knew.

Emmy’s footsteps were coming down again. Moments later, she poked her head in. Mom said we could have an apple. Do you want one?

My stomach rumbled. I’ll be right there. Gathering my wits and every ounce of strength I could, I set everything in the living room neat and tidy, the way Mom liked it. I joined Emmy in the kitchen—thoughts, feelings, and all. She was already seated at the table, the apple in her mouth and one set on the table for me.

We sat in silence, well, except for the crunching and chewing. The kitchen was warm and comfortable, and for a brief moment, I put all those things I’d been thinking in the back of my mind, like the forgotten leftovers that’d sometimes get shoved to the back of the icebox. While the radio softly played, I watched Mom.

She stood at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes. I paused in my chewing to marvel as I always did. Mom could peel an entire potato or apple or whatever in one continuous, round and round motion. It was mesmerizing. If I were doing it, the peelings would fall in short, stubby piles. My cooking and kitchen skills rank about as high as my sewing does.

I’d been so lulled I’d forgotten about Emmy. She’d already eaten her apple and disappeared. I heard her soft steps running upstairs. She was quick. Wish my troubles would disappear as quickly as Emmy ran, but I knew by The Look in Dad’s eyes, the troubles were coming back for a family reunion.

The radio made a static sound, like a bunch of noisy, hissing snakes. I paused in my chewing. The music paused. Mom’s knife hesitated, poised over the potato.

War news.

Thump!

Chapter 3

War Isn’t the Only Ugly Thing

Mom’s attention was arrested by the least mention of the war. With Robert’s soon leaving and Mom’s youngest brother Frank already signed up and gone, I couldn’t blame her. The last they’d heard, Uncle Frank was in France. It didn’t affect me much; I hardly knew him. He lived, or he had before he went into the army, in a small town about fifty miles north of us. I could count on one hand the times I’d spent with him.

I wondered if we’re so neutral to what was happening in Europe, like Mr. Franklin D. had declared the United States to be then, why was Uncle Frank in France? And why were many of the young men going anyway like Robert and Ronnie talked about? It was as though the government was luring the young men like we did our turkey for Thanksgiving—fattening them up with a sense of duty and America and then feeding some war-hungry machine with them. Up till now, the men had a choice. Now as the war got worse and more European countries like Belgium and Great Britain and others fell into this awful mess, there was talk of a draft.

At first, I didn’t know what that meant. I thought a draft was something that happened on a breezy day when the door was left open, or when the cold, wintry wind blew in through all the cracks in our house come December. Mr. Franklin D. spoke about it a few days ago during his Fireside Chats.

I wondered if when he spoke on the radio, if he was really in front of a fire, and if he really thought that that was going to make the bad news feel any better. It didn’t. When I asked Dad what a draft was, he’d snarled, "The men will have to go." He’d stomped out of the room, and Mom’s sad eyes got sadder.

Maybe that’s when The Look began lurking and skulking about, watching, and when Dad started thinking and hearing more about this war—getting angrier by the day, The Look had found its own crack to seep into—right into Dad’s head.

That same evening, I made sure to say my prayers. I asked God to keep that draft far away from us, but I don’t think he heard me. Everyone—the radio, people in town, the neighbors, and my teacher, Miss Neil, talked about the war and Mr. Franklin D’s draft would clinch it for Robert and Ronnie. They’re both turning eighteen come summer; still eight months off. I wished they weren’t in such a hurry to go and fight. But, they were and my wishing wouldn’t change that.

Miss Neil didn’t just talk about war; she started teaching us about it during recent history lessons. We learned about the French Revolution and the Civil War and World War I. We even saw some pictures Miss Neil had. War was ugly, that’s for sure. Dad’s own experience was proof of that, and maybe that’s where The Look made its acquaintance with Dad. He didn’t talk about it much.

From what I’ve gathered, these bits and pieces of information about Dad’s life and his childhood were like collecting apple seeds. I could only get a few at a time. He’d fought in the First World War and had scars to show for it. Not like the jagged scar that ran from his ankle to his knee. It looked like a giant, thick earthworm and was rarely seen ’cause Dad wore long underwear all year round. And on damp winter days or when he was overworked and tired, Dad limped. I think maybe his earthworm scar was the reason; but not all of his scars were on the outside.

Sometimes he’d cry