The Drowned Forest Read Online Free PDF Page B

what. So I followed you around like a puppy. Whenever any little chore came up—running to the Chevron for snacks and toothbrushes, going to find the nurse—I jumped to it. But no matter what, God kept prodding me, prodding me. There was something else He expected me to do.
    I remember you were braiding my hair when your pa-paw found us in the lobby. He hadn’t left her room for three days, and when we saw him, we knew. Knowing couldn’t cushion the blow. All our waiting couldn’t make us ready.
    Your pa-paw held you while you both cried, and I sat watching, one sneaker pressing down on the other. I prayed for God to tell me what to do. Fingers digging into the chair’s slick vinyl, I prayed to take some of your pain on my shoulders, one pebble from the heap. I was furious because God refused.
    I didn’t know what I was asking, Holly. Now you’re gone, gone, gone, and I know the Lord refused my prayer because I couldn’t have handled it. One pebble would have crushed me.
    While your pa-paw talked to the funeral home, you squeezed my hand—I can still almost feel your fingers in mine—and asked me to spend the night with you. Of course I said yes to camping out on your floor in clothes I’d worn for two days.
    The next morning, your pa-paw fixed sausage and eggs and said we were going to Robbins’ Music.
    Your mouth was full of biscuit when you asked, “You’re getting a new guitar?”
    He shook his head. “It’s for you, Little Bit. If you’ll play it at your me-maw’s service.”
    “What song?”
    “Don’t think she’ll care.”
    The guitar you picked was cream and chrome, so pretty I hated to touch it and get fingerprints on it. You decided to play “I Know Who Holds Tomorrow,” digging the song out of the big suitcase where your pa-paw kept his sheet music. It was a good choice, Holly, but remember trying to learn it? You’d been playing your pa-paw’s guitars for years by then. Picking up songs was as easy for you as picking wildflowers; I’d seen you work out a song after three or four listens. But that day, for whatever reason, you wrestled with it. You had to rip the tune out of the strings. The new electric guitar wouldn’t play right. It didn’t feel like your pa-paw’s black thumping acoustic. You fiddled with the knobs and chords, but nothing helped.
    I sat cross-legged on your bed while the night drew down. God pushing me to do something. He needed me to tell you something, but I didn’t know what.
    Then the melody tore in your hands again. You grabbed the guitar’s neck like you wanted to strangle it.
    “Come on, Holly. You can do this.” Hollow words clanged like empty gas cans.
    “No, I can’t.”
    “Just relax, stop getting upset, and—”
    “Jane, shut up, okay? This guitar’s messed up. The pick-ups aren’t right or something.”
    “I don’t think it’s messed up. Let’s just take a break—”
    “It’s messed up, okay? I can’t do this! I can’t!” You swung the guitar up, ready to smash it. I caught your wrists before I even realized I’d jumped off the bed.
    “Stop! It’s not messed up. It’s new. It’s new, and … and you’re scared. You’re just scared of it.” It sounded like gibberish, even to me, but somehow I knew it was what I needed to say. “How are you going to stop being scared of it?”
    “Jane—”
    “How are you going to be fearless, Holly? Because you have to. You have to be.” God held both of us, Holly. I felt Him. The days of waiting, of standing by being useless, it was so I could be with you right then, telling you to be fearless.
    We walked out to the garage in that cool red hour before nightfall, when fireflies flash and every tree, bird, and blade of grass seems enchanted, when you can’t help but see it all, really see it. Scrounging through the tools and boxes of scrap wood, we found stencils and spray paint. You glorified the guitar’s white base in sunrise crimson: FEAR NOT .
    At the funeral, your lonely guitar