Strawberry Moon by Becky Citra Read Free Book Online

through me. I looked up and watched our cabin get closer and closer with each stroke. Then my heart gave a sudden jump.
    Papa was back.
    He stood at the edge of the lake, his face dark with anger. The canoe bumped against the shore. My heart thumped. I stared down at my hands.
    â€œWhere on earth have you been?” he said coldly.
    â€œThe Indian village,” said Grandmother briskly. “I have had a most interesting afternoon.”
    Papa opened and shut his mouth. For a second, he seemed speechless. Then he frowned again. “You could have tipped the canoe ...”
    â€œNonsense,” said Grandmother. “There was never any question of us tipping. Ellie is perfectly capable.”
    She leaned over and thumped Papa’s leg with her cane. “Stop gaping and help me. And don’t drop my knitting in the water.”
    I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
    Grandmother rearranged her coat and bonnet when she was safely on the ground. She gripped my arm. “Help me to the cabin, Ellie.”
    I walked beside Grandmother, grinning. I looked back at Papa. He stood beside the canoe, watching us with a look of bewilderment on his face.
    Grandmother slept through supper. I told Papa and Max about Lucky. Max groaned to think that he had missed it. He had spent a long couple of days carrying buckets of nails and boards for the men at the Robertsons’.
    â€œWhat will the mother fox do?” I asked Papa.
    Papa shook his head. “It’s hard to say. There will be a lot of human scent on that little fox.”
    My heart sank. Papa and Max went out to the field to finish their burning. I did my evening chores. I felt sick when I thought about Lucky. It was almost dark when I got back to the cabin.
    I opened the door. Grandmother lay in a black crumpled heap beside the fireplace, her cane on the floor beside her.
    â€œGrandmother has had a stroke,” said Papa.
    Max and Papa and I stood by the road, waving good-bye to the doctor. He had stayed with Grandmother all night. His wagon rumbled out of sight around a bend.
    â€œIs she going to die?” said Max.
    â€œNo,” said Papa. “But she is going to need a lot of rest for a long time.”
    I fought back a sick feeling in my stomach. “Did going to the Indian village make her have the stroke?” I whispered.
    â€œNo,” said Papa. “The long trip from England was hard on Grandmother. She hasn’t been feeling well since she got here, but she didn’t want you to know.”
    I thought about all the times when Grandmother had gripped my arm on our walks. I remembered my impatience when she walked too slowly or we had to be quiet because she was resting.
    Grandmother stayed in bed for two weeks. Her hands shook when she sipped her mug of hot tea or soup. When she talked, her words sometimes ran together. Papa said the stroke had paralyzed part of her face. It might or might not get better.
    Most of the time, Grandmother slept. On her good days, when it was easy for her to talk, she told me stories about my mother. Sometimes Max and Papa listened too, but I liked it best when it was just Grandmother and me. In the afternoons, she liked to have the bedroom door open. “I want to listen to Ellie spin,” she said.
    I waited for Grandmother to get well. One warm morning in late June, she got out of bed. “I am going to go for a walk with Ellie,” she said.

    We walked only as far as the lake.
Tap tap tap
went Grandmother’s cane. She squeezed my arm tightly. I spread a quilt out on the grass. We sat in the sun and watched a family of ducks glide across the blue water.
    â€œI am not going back to England in the fall,” said Grandmother suddenly. “The long trip across the ocean would be too much for me.”
    Since Grandmother’s stroke, my fear of going to England had seemed so far away. I had almost forgotten that Grandmother would be leaving us. But at the same time, I felt a