Part Six: Mom Wakes Up
I went back into the living room.
I knelt down in front of Dad’s old recliner. I put my hand on Mom’s knee, on top of the afghan.
“Mom,” I said. “Mom, wake up. It’s Connie.”
Her eyes opened slowly.
She looked at me. Confused. Then she blinked.
“Connie?” she said. Her voice was thin and hoarse. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night.”
“You didn’t answer your phone,” I said. “Two nights. I got worried.”
She looked around the room. At the frost on the windows. At her own breath in the air.
Then she looked back at me.
And she saw my face.
I don’t know what she saw on it. Anger, probably. Fear. The pink delivery ticket in my hand.
Whatever it was, her own face changed. Fast.
She reached out and grabbed my wrist with her gloved hand.
“Don’t you start with your sister,” she said.
I stared at her.
“Mom—”
“Don’t you start with Pam,” she said again. Her grip on my wrist was surprisingly strong. “She’s got enough going on.”
“Mom, the tank’s at five percent,” I said. “It’s fifty-one degrees in here. You’re sleeping in your coat.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“You’re not fine. Your hands are like ice.”
I took her hand in mine. Even through the knit glove, it was freezing.
“Pam’s husband had back surgery,” Mom said. “In September. Did you know that?”
I did know that. Mark had ruptured two discs lifting a grain auger at the elevator. They’d done surgery at Trinity in Minot. Pam had mentioned it at Thanksgiving.
“He hasn’t worked since,” Mom said. “Not a day. The elevator doesn’t have disability. They’re living on what Pam makes at the clinic.”
She looked down at her hands in my hands.
“Pam says propane’s dear this year,” Mom said quietly.
She tried to smile.
“I don’t mind it cool,” she said.
Part Seven: The Phone Call
I didn’t argue with her.
I didn’t have time. It was almost midnight. The tank was at five percent. The furnace was going to quit for good any minute.
I tried the co-op in Harvey. Their after-hours line. It went to a recording.
I called again. And again.
At 12:40, a man answered. Sleepy. Annoyed.
“Harvey Farmers Co-op, emergency line.”
“This is Connie Weber,” I said. “My mother is Elsie Heinz. Out east of town on 64th Street. Her tank is at five percent. Her furnace is going out. She’s eighty-two.”
There was a pause on the line.
“Elsie Heinz,” the man said. “Art Heinz’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“Ma’am, this is Duane Kessler,” he said. “I’ve been driving propane out there for twenty-two years. I knew your dad.”
His voice had changed. He wasn’t sleepy anymore.
“Is she okay?” he asked. “Is she warm?”
“She’s in her coat and hat,” I said. “It’s fifty-one degrees in the house.”
Duane didn’t say anything for a second.
“I can’t get the truck out tonight,” he said. “Roads are drifted shut. County won’t plow 64th till morning. I’ll be there first thing. Soon as I can get through.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“In the meantime,” Duane said, “turn the thermostat down to fifty-five. I know that sounds crazy. But it’ll make what’s left last longer. Get her in the warmest room. Close the doors to the other rooms. Is there a space heater?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look in the basement,” Duane said. “Art always kept one down there. A little electric one. For the well pump.”
I found it.
A small electric heater with an orange glow. Dusty. Behind the water softener.
I carried it upstairs. I plugged it in next to Dad’s recliner. I closed the doors to the kitchen and the hallway and the dining room.
I tucked the afghan tighter around Mom’s legs. I took off my red parka and put it over her too.
Then I sat down on the floor next to her chair, with my back against the vinyl, and I didn’t sleep.
