I left the farm after the children had gone.
The paint needed time to dry, and there was nothing more I could do that evening.
Brad remained in the yard with Brooke.
I told him I was returning to the hospital.
He nodded.
"Tell Dad I'm thinking about him."
"I will."
I climbed into the truck.
Before starting the engine, I looked at the barn through the windshield.
The red color seemed almost startling after two days of gray.
The white initials stood above the haymow door.
I had spent the afternoon worrying about the work.
Now that it was finished, I could see how much of my worry had been about something else.
I wanted Arlo to know that I had protected a piece of our life while he was unable to help me protect it himself.
I started the truck.
The drive to Sioux Falls felt longer than usual.
I stopped once for coffee and didn't drink much of it.
At the hospital, the corridor outside Arlo's room was quiet.
A nurse told me he had rested after therapy.
She said he had eaten supper with assistance and was watching television when she last checked.
I thanked her and went inside.
Arlo turned his head when he heard me.
His right hand rested on the blanket.
The fingers were slightly curled.
I put my purse on the chair and sat beside him.
"Hello, sweetheart."
He watched my face.
I took his left hand.
"I have something to tell you."
His eyebrows lifted.
I began with the simplest part.
"The barn is red again."
He stared at me.
I told him about the paint, the church youth group, and the twenty-two children who had spent the day working around the building.
I told him about the four fathers and Merle's rented lift.
I told him how the children had sung while they painted.
When I mentioned Emma, I watched his face closely.
"She asked about your father's initials," I said.
Arlo's eyes moved toward me.
I nodded.
"She helped uncover them."
His mouth shifted.
It took him a moment to form the sound.
"Good."
One word.
Quiet and rough.
I held his hand more tightly.
"Yes," I said. "It was good."
He tried to say something else.
The effort pulled his face into a strained expression.
I told him he didn't have to force it.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
Then he opened them and looked at me again.
I understood that he wanted to know about Brad.
I didn't want to bring the argument into the hospital room.
But I wouldn't lie to my husband.
"Brad came by this afternoon," I said.
Arlo waited.
"He saw the barn."
I paused.
"He knows what I did."
Arlo looked toward the window.
I couldn't tell whether he was upset or simply tired.
After a moment, he squeezed my fingers with his left hand.
It wasn't an answer to everything.
It was enough for that evening.
I stayed until the nurse reminded me that Arlo needed rest.
Before leaving, I adjusted the blanket and moved his water cup closer to his good hand.
I promised to return in the morning.
Outside, I sat in the truck for several minutes before turning the key.
I thought about Brad.
I thought about the way he had stood in the yard, unable to find anything useful to say.
I had wanted him to understand why the barn mattered.
Perhaps he did.
Perhaps he was only embarrassed that his plan had been undone in front of other people.
I couldn't tell the difference yet.
I drove home through the dark.
The yard light came into view before the house.
It illuminated the barn as I turned into the lane.
Red boards.
White initials.
The old doors.
I slowed without stopping.
The building looked like itself again.
Inside, I set my purse on the kitchen table.
The folded receipt was still in my pocket.
I took it out and placed it beside the other papers in the drawer.
Then I made a cup of tea and sat at the table.
I was exhausted.
But it was a different kind of exhaustion from the one I had felt in the hospital chair.
For two days, I had been doing something I could finish.
I had opened the buckets.
I had watched the brushes move.
I had seen the gray disappear.
There was comfort in that.
The stroke was different.
No amount of effort could guarantee how much Arlo would recover.
I could sit beside him.
I could encourage him.
I could help him practice the small movements his therapists taught him.
I could not make the future obey me.
That was the hardest thing I had learned since the stroke.
I went to bed after midnight.
The next morning, I returned to Sioux Falls.
Arlo was sitting up when I entered his room.
A therapist had helped him practice holding a cup.
He looked tired but pleased with himself.
I sat beside him and listened while he tried to tell me about the exercise.
He couldn't get every word out.
I asked questions and waited for his answers.
We managed.
Later, during a quiet moment, he pointed toward the bag I had brought from home.
I took out his clean shirt and folded it over the chair.
Then I told him again that the barn was finished.
He nodded.
I didn't know whether he was thinking about the paint or about his father.
Maybe he was thinking about the farm as a whole.
Arlo had never been a man who needed many words to explain what mattered to him.
He had spent his life showing it instead.
He repaired what broke.
He kept what could still be used.
He remembered who had built things and why.
I had loved that about him long before I understood how much it shaped our home.
The next few days were filled with the usual hospital routine.
Therapy.
Meals.
Doctors.
Questions I could not answer.
I went home when I needed fresh clothes and returned when I could.
Every time I drove into the lane, I looked at the barn.
The red remained bright.
The white initials stayed visible above the haymow door.
I began to think of them as a promise, though I knew paint alone could not keep a family together.
A building could be restored in a day.
Trust took longer.
And sometimes it never returned to exactly the same shape.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Barn Was Standing Red When I Came Home Again, but I Still Had to Decide What to Do About the Son Who Had Changed It
The Evening I Came Home to Find a Century of Family History Covered in a Color I Had Never Chosen
Part 6 of 8
