Page 91 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Sid slapped her knees and stood, leaving the tree stump deserted. “Well, you and Trent can come and stay with us now. The kids are better, and you’ve been with Gladys long enough. Besides,” Sid added, “Trent will relax more if you’re with us and not relying on a little old lady to protect you.”
Molly was well in agreement with moving in with Sid and her family. Her husband, Dan, working from home added an extra layer of security. Maybe then she could sleep at night. At least at Gladys’s place she hadn’t been hearing voicesor seeing things, not since they’d left this burnt shell of a haunted farmhouse.
“So, what’s next? Are you bulldozing this or what?” Sid didn’t beat around the bush.
Molly reached down to fluff Sue’s feathers as the Ameraucana Gold pecked at the earth by Molly’s feet. “We have to see what the insurance people say. Trent wants to rebuild. He thinks the other half is salvageable.”
Sid grew serious. “Are you all right with that? I mean, staying here after—”
“After someone tried to kill me?” Molly offered a lopsided smile. “No. And yes. I don’t know. Sid...” She looked to the sky and folded her arms across her chest. Tears burned her eyes. She wanted to just spit it out—all of it. The voices, the depression, the grief of the miscarriages, the distance between her and Trent, and now all the added drama with January Rabine’s death and the fire.
“Molly?” Sid came to stand next to her and rested her hand on Molly’s arm. When Molly met her friend’s hazel eyes, she wasn’t able to hold back the tear that rolled down her cheek.
“I’m just...” Molly gave a watery laugh and rolled her eyes. “You all will think I’ve lost my mind.” She shook her head. Nope. Not saying another word. But the weight of it—all of it—was breaking her.
Sid patted Molly’s arm. “Honey, we thought you lost your mind a long time ago.”
They shared a laugh at Sid’s good-natured teasing.
Molly nodded. “Yes, well, it’s worse than you think.”
“Is this finally confession time?” Sid winked. But there was a seriousness and an anticipation behind her eyes that told Molly her friend hoped for—probably prayed for—her to open up about what was troubling her.
Molly walked away a few steps, fixating on a blackened stud that rose from the ashes of the house. “You know there were the miscarriages.”
“Yes,” Sid said quietly behind her.
Molly hugged herself, grasping her shirtsleeves. “Trent has never ... he acts like they’re just something that happened. Not that we lostchildren.” Tears. Yep. They were coming. She was a wreck. The fire. The fear? They had ended her resolve to hold it all inside. “And then he buys this ... thisfarm. I mean, we had dreams—you know we did—to have a hobby farm. Chickens. A dog. Cats. Maybe even a goat.” Molly half laughed and half sobbed. “But I just—it feels like the last four years I’ve been living in a funeral.” Her chin quivered. “You know?” Molly spun. Sid was just standing there, compassion in her eyes. No pity. Just compassion.
“I know.” Sid nodded.
Molly smiled weakly. “How do you live with such grief? The loss, the feeling every morning when you wake up that someone else may die, or worse—you don’tcare! You don’tfeel. You’re a combination of anxiousness and purposelessness. It’s so hard even to get up in the morning, let alone go to bed and let your thoughts just take over.”
Sid licked her lips and rolled them together as if fighting off emotion on Molly’s behalf.
“And when you’re married to someone who justgets over things? I don’t know. Maybe Trent’s faith is stronger than mine? Maybe I don’thavefaith. God doesn’t explain himself. He doesn’t explain away bad things happening, and He doesn’t stop them either. And when good things happen, I’m convinced He cares again, but then something else happens and it’s this spiral downward. I hate myself for doubting and for being weak, and then I hate myself for questioning God.” Molly’s torrent of words couldn’t be stopped. “I think Iamlosing my mind, Sid. Ihearthings. Iseepeople. Who aren’t alive!”
There. She’d said it out loud.
Blatant and bold.
Or maybe so over the top, Sid would take it as an exaggerated description of Molly’s depression.
She was thankful Sid didn’t twitch, or blink, or even move. Only the breeze lifted her burgundy curls and brushed them across her T-shirt-clad shoulder. Sid waited. Silent. Compassion still in place.
Molly squeezed her eyes shut and tears dripped out. When she opened them, Sid was still there. Waiting.
“What’s wrong with me?” she whispered through tears. “What’s wrong with me, Sid?”
In an instant, Sid had covered the ground between them and pulled Molly into her arms. “Molly Wasziak, there isnothingwrong with you. You’ve gone through grief, you’ve bottled it up, and we’ve been waiting to help.”
Molly sucked in a gulping breath and pulled away to look at Sid. “But I doseethings, Sid.” Oh gosh, it sounded so melodramatic. “I hear things too.”
Sid’s eyes shadowed. “Okay.” There was no judgment in her voice. She rubbed Molly’s upper arms. “Okay, so we need to figure that out. We need to get you someone to talk to, to help you work through this. To make sure the medications you’re on are effective. And someone to help you with your questions. This isn’t a lack of faith, Molly. This islife. And we don’t always understand why things happen the way they do. And you’re right. God doesn’t explain everything. But the fact that you’re asking and seekingisfaith. Because you’re choosing to believe thereisa purpose even when you don’t feel like there’s one.”
“But the voices? The sightings?” Molly challenged. She wouldn’t accept a dismissal now that she’d confessed it aloud. Sid wouldn’t dismiss it unless she thought it all figurative. Well, it wasn’t, and Molly needed her friend to realize that.
Sid took a deep breath and then went for it, her eyes sincere and full of concern. “We know you’ve suffered postpartum depression after having a miscarriage, and what you’re explaining to me fits.”
