the farmer's daughter

the farmers daughter: 2

If you're lost you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting
Time after time
If you're lost, you can look and you will find me
Time after time
If you fall, I will catch you, I will be waiting
Time after time

By cyndi Lauper

Your dad sits in the worn-out recliner, silent as the radio buzzes on an AM station.

Your mother places a glass of water next to him, but he doesn't acknowledge her. You've never seen him like this. Your dad's always been lively, often talking back to the radio. But now, he's like a shell, just staring.

"The rehab nurse will come tomorrow," your mom nears, "he just needs some rest for now."

You nod and back out of the room, a grim coldness in the air despite the warmth of spring flowing in from open windows.

You enter the kitchen as your mother trails after you. Without a word, she flips on the burner beneath the blackened silver kettle. You lean on the square island and trace a finger around a ring in the wood.

"Do they know how it happened?" You ask.

"He needs to stop doing too much work in this heat he almost had a heat stroke They say... things like that are hard to catch," she sniffs, "but it doesn't matter now. All that matters is he's home and alive and... he's going to get better."

"I'm sorry, ma," you frown.

You cup your chin and glance over at the door. When you looked in your father's eyes, it was as if he didn't know you. He just smiled weakly and then went back to staring. What happened to the man who used to jump down from his tractor to the dismay of his wife?

"We'll have to figure out what to do about the planting," your mother hums and chews her thumb.

She pulls her hand away and stretches out her fingers, "Shane's done a lot, but... we'll never catch up at this pace."
"I can help," you offer, "ma, we'll make it work."

"No, I need you in here," she counters,

"I'll be taking care of your dad. The hospital gave me all these pamphlets; exercises and all that..." she blows out a heavy breath and flattens her palm to her forehead, "how am I going to do all this?"

"Ma, we'll all help," you offer, "it's okay. We'll be okay. Dad will be okay."

You come around the counter and offer a hug. She latches onto you and rocks you in place. As she holds you, a rumble underlines the chatter on the radio humming from the front room.

You part and look over at the open archway to the hallway. You glance at your mother and give a nod. Visitors already.

You go down to the entryway, wondering where Shane went. He was just out on the porch fiddling with some car part or another. You open the door and lean back on a heel as Johnny greets you with a nod.

"Hey, hope I'm not... imposing."

"Um, dad just got home. He's..." You peek over at the front room, "resting."
"Of course, I figured, I just wanted to drop this off," he held up the basket in his right hand, "had some extra stuff in my pantry."

"Oh, Mr. Miller," You accept the basket, "thank you. You didn't have to -"
"Johnny," he corrects.
"Johnny," your mother's voice carries through the hall as she pads up softly, "Oh, Johnny, how kind."

She looks at the basket as you grasp the handle, and Johnny lets it go, the weight nearly bowling you over. You do your best to keep it above ground level.
"Heavy," he warns too late.

"Please, come in," your mother beckons.

"I wouldn't want to disturb him," Johnny puts his head down, almost meekly. "Just wanted to bring some stuff."
"No, no, please, I just put the kettle on."
"Uh, alright," he accepts reticently. "Thanks, Marie."

"Not at all," she assures and turns to sweep back down the hall.
He steps in and bends to untie his stained tan boots.

He leaves them on the mat and faces you. You give an awkward smile and take stunted steps with the weighty basket.

"Here," he swipes it back as he catches up to you, "don't hurt yourself."
You let him have it. Your arm hurts. He follows you into the kitchen and places the basket on the island as you round to the other side.

"Black tea?" Your mother offers.

"Sure," he stands sternly, arms straight, stance wide.

She takes down three cups as you languish in the radio's buzz. You never said much more than a few words to Johnny.

He never says too much, either. He was always just a sounding board for your father's yammering.

"God!" The back door swings open and hits the wall, causing you and your mother to yelp as Johnny merely looks over dully. Your brother clamors in and skids to a halt.

"Shane, the floor," your mother reproaches.

"Dang it, sorry ma," he huffs, "I just... the tractor's smoking."
"What?" You and your mother stammer in unison.

"Yeah, black shit all out the exhaust."

"I'll have a look," Johnny offers.
"Oh, hey, Johnny," Shane grins dumbly.
"You're so kind, Johnny, but we can get Vol down here--"Don't bother with the bill," Shane shrugs off, "I'll get my boots."

Your mother sighs, and you shake your head at Shane. She might just be right. There's no way the three of you can get the spring planting done, especially if he's going to treat the tractor like one of his dinky cars he played with as a kid.