Free Tending Roses by Lisa Wingate Page A

Grandma was cooking, it smelled like rotten eggs. She . . .
    The jingle from a public-service commercial twittered through my mind: If you sniff that rotten-egg smell, turn off the gas, open the windows really fast . . .
    My heart leapt into my throat. The propane! My mind cleared, and I rushed toward the kitchen. The smell there was stifling, but the room was undisturbed except for a smattering of mixing bowls and an open flour sack beside the stove.
    Over the hum of the refrigerator, I heard a faint hiss coming from the oven. Covering my face with a towel, I rushed forward and turned off the dial, then threw open the window and screen door, gagging. My legs trembled like wet spaghetti as I rushed from room to room in the house, opening windows and doors.
    Sitting on the stairs as the smell faded away, I held my head in my hands, thinking about what might have happened if I hadn’t awakened when I did. Josh was still sound asleep in his bed . . . helpless . . . What was Grandma thinking, turning on the oven and not lighting the pilot? And then to walk away while propane spewed into the kitchen . . .
    A desperate anger welled up inside me, and I grabbed my coat, then stormed out the door, slamming it behind me. “Grandma!” I hollered, heading for the little house. “Grandma, come out here!”
    She poked her head out the door, her blue eyes wide over two circles of fresh pink blusher on her cheeks. “Katie, what’s wrong?”
    I stopped at the bottom of the steps, gripping and un-gripping my fists. “The house is full of propane gas! You left the oven on and the pilot wasn’t lit.”
    Confused, she stepped out, darting a glance toward the house, then back to me. “I haven’t used the oven this morning. I was going to make a coffee cake, but there wasn’t time. I have to be ready for church.”
    “Grandma, you did use the oven,” I insisted, my temper boiling hot into my throat. “You got out the flour. You got out your mixing bowls, and you turned on the oven, but you didn’t light the pilot.” I waved a hand toward the house. “The kitchen was full of gas. I could smell it all the way to my room!”
    Looking dazed, she shook her head. “That pilot on the oven must be broken. . . .”
    Mouth hanging open, I stared at her in complete shock. “Grandma, you won’t ever leave the pilot lit! You light it every time with a match—don’t you remember? You said it wasted gas!”
    The mist cleared from her eyes like fog evaporating from a mirror. Fingers trembling, she brought them to the sides of her face. “Oh, Katie, I’m sorry. Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll pay for the propane.”
    The hairs rose on the back of my neck, and my mouth sped ahead of my self-control. “I’m not worried about the propane. I’m worried about getting blown up in my sleep!” I looked away from her, not wanting to see her expression of horror and dismay. I was too angry, too scared to care how she felt. “From now on we’re leaving the pilot lit. It’s made to stay on all the time. It doesn’t use that much propane. Don’t turn it off again.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said a second time. “Oh, Katie, I can’t believe I . . .Idon’tremember . . .”The word disappeared into a sob.
    “Don’t cry,” I muttered, my anger suddenly spent. “It’s all right now. I opened the windows and cleared out the gas.” Too exhausted and frustrated to comfort her, I turned away. “I’m going to go take a shower.”
    The smell was gone from the house when I returned, and by the time I’d showered and dressed, it was gone from me. I felt bad about being hard on Grandma, so I went looking for her to smooth things over.
    I found her on the porch, rocking in the glider and drinking a cup of coffee. If she was upset with me, she didn’t show it. She smiled as I came through the door. “I must say, I don’t know when I remember such a stretch of mild weather in December.” She paused to take a deep breath of the sun-warmed winter air,