Darla's Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

whorls gleaming even through the
dusty glass of the Mason jar.
    “Where’d you get—”
    “They were my mother’s. I got them out once
when you were little—three or four, maybe—but you weren’t
interested in them. You inspected them for a few minutes and then
went back to following your dad around, carrying that plastic
hammer you used to lug everywhere.” Mom’s eyes gleamed in the
candlelight, like the marbles, but wetter.
    “Are you . . . okay?”
    “I’m fine.” She wiped her eyes.
    I pulled her into a hug. “I wasn’t always a
very good daughter, was I?”
    “No, Darla. You were the very best daughter.
Are the best. And I love you, even though I don’t always understand
you.”
    “I love you, too.”
    “I never told you, did I? Why you’re an only
child?”
    “No . . . I just figured you only could
handle one of me.”
    Mom smiled ruefully. “That’s probably true,
but . . . I got pregnant again only a year after I had you. A boy.
We were going to name him Tom.”
    I wasn’t sure what to make of this strange
confession. I pulled away from Mom, wrapping my arms around
myself.
    “He came early. It was a horrible birth.
Everything went wrong. Tom . . . he died, and I couldn’t have more
children after that.”
    I hugged my arms around myself tighter.
“That’s . . . terrible, Mom.”
    “We never told you because we never wanted
you to feel like you weren’t enough. And your dad, he latched onto
you as if you were Tom. You seemed to like the attention, and you
picked up mechanical stuff so fast. Still . . .”
    The look on her face was heartbreaking. I
flung my arms around her. “I should have spent more time with
you.”
    “No, Darla. You did exactly what you should
have. I see so much of your father in you, it’s like a part of him
is still with us.”
    I gripped Mom tighter, holding on until I was
afraid I’d drown in her maudlin mood. The embrace went on so long
that I started to get antsy. “Well, this pump isn’t going to build
itself.”
    “I guess not.” Mom released me.
    I dumped the marbles on the bed and sorted
through them, selecting the three largest—Mom called them shooters.
They were perfect—more than an inch and a half in diameter. As I
thought through what else I’d need to make an inertial pump, I
muttered to myself, “Thank God the well’s not too deep for
this.”
    “See,” Mom said.
    “What?”
    “I told you prayer works. Who do you think
gave us a high water table?”
    “Christ, Mom.”
    “Darla!”
     

Chapter 7
     
    Now I had a marble the right size, but it
still took the rest of the day to finish the pump. I cut up the
washing machine’s drain to get a piece of pipe large enough for the
body of my pump. I made a huge hole in the wall, getting at the
drain, but when I shoved the washing machine back in place, the
hole was hidden. I’d have to remember to tell Mom before she used
the washing machine. And trek to the hardware store in Dyersville
to get parts to fix the damage I’d done. If we got our power back,
Mom probably wouldn’t mind. Much.
    I chopped up an old pair of Dad’s boots,
making an O-ring from the leather. When I put it in place within
the pipe, it leaked like a sieve. I soaked the leather in olive oil
for a while, and that helped, but it still didn’t seal well enough
to work. Then I hit on the idea of carving up the rubber soles of
the boots. I made three rubber O-rings—cutting up both boots—before
I got good enough at it to make one that didn’t leak.
    I attached a reducing fitting to the end of
the drain pipe with PVC cement. The O-ring nestled against the
inside of the fitting nicely. Then I used a rope of plumber’s epoxy
to lock the O-ring in place. I dropped the marble in the pipe, made
sure it was free to move up and down, and my pump was done.
    Mom went outside with me to help me pull off
the well cover and lift the submersible electric pump out of the
well. We tied wet dishtowels over our faces and used a roll