Dr. Gilbert nodded and pressed her hand. “Abigail Braddock is a fine woman, and you are a fine friend. I’m only a short distance away. You send Tom for me whenever you need me. I’ll come right away.” He reached inside his medical bag and handed Sarah a new bottle. “Continue with the application we’ve discussed. Soon, you’ll need to add this.” He withdrew a note from his bag and handed it to Sarah. Chloral hydrate, gr. 5, Vaseline, oz. 1. to correct fetor and allay pain. “If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.” He had only gone down three or four steps before he turned and looked back up at Sarah and added, “You don’t have to do this alone, Miss Biddle. We’ll do it together.”
With a trembling hand, Sarah set the new bottle and the script on a hall table. She stood for a few moments, staring at the closed door that separated her from Abigail Braddock and the unavoidable. Then, with God’s help, she put on a bright smile and went through the door to Mother Braddock.
In only a few days, she was forced to send Tom for Dr. Gilbert. “I know it’s only been a few days, Dr. Gilbert, but I’ve tried everything you told me about, tamarind tea and rice milk. She can’t tolerate anything on her stomach. I’ve given several injections of pancreas and cream. She’s still losing weight and,” Sarah’s voice trembled, “she’s still in so much pain. I can sense it, even when I’m out of the room.”
“When is Mr. Braddock expected?” the doctor wanted to know.
“He wired yesterday. He should be home tomorrow.”
Dr. Gilbert’s face was somber. “Good.” He picked up his bag. When Sarah started up the stairs, he stopped her. “I’m certain you’ve done everything just right, Miss Biddle. This is to be expected. You are nearly exhausted, and I want you to go into the parlor and lie down while I am with Mrs. Braddock. I’m going to give her an injection to make her sleep all afternoon. While she is sleeping I want you to stay on that sofa or, even better, retire to your own quarters.” He looked at Sarah sternly. “You are going to need every ounce of strength in you during the next few days or hours. We must still pray for a miracle, but we must also prepare for the usual course of action. Now, go into the parlor and I will come for you when she is resting.”
Leaving Sarah, Dr. Gilbert proceeded up the stairs. Gratefully, Sarah went into the parlor and collapsed into a chair. The blinds had been drawn. Sarah welcomed the dark, giving way to the tears she had held in for weeks.
“David!” Abigail moaned. “When are you coming, David? I’ve waited so long. I’m tired David.” Abigail turned her face away from Sarah and began to thrash about.
Sarah lay a cool hand on Abigail’s forehead. At the touch, Abigail grew still. “David’s coming, Mother Braddock. He sent a telegram only yesterday. Remember? He said he was taking the next train out of Philadelphia. He’ll be here soon. I’m sorry you have to wait and suffer so.”
Abigail opened her eyes. The fog of pain cleared momentarily and she smiled weakly. With effort she whispered, “Yes, Dear. I remember. David is coming.” She closed her eyes again and muttered, “I’ll wait for David before—” She flinched again and gripped Sarah’s hand. “I’ll wait for David, then I’m going.”
Sarah raised Abigail’s head gently, coaxing her to sip some tea. It contained a mild sedative, but combined with an injection it took effect quickly, and Abigail sank into a deep sleep. Even though she slept, she moaned and tossed her head. Sarah sat by her bedside, replacing cool compresses on the beloved head and trying to fluff pillows to cushion the thin joints. When it was time to change Abigail’s dressing, Sarah’s hands shook and she prayed her way through it, prayed she would forget what she saw and be able to continue her labor of love.
When it was done, Sarah sat motionless in a chair, her clothing drenched with her own sweat, her face pale. She watched Abigail struggling to live until David arrived, and wondered at the spirit that could survive so long when the body was so near death.
Halfway through the night it became apparent to Sarah that Abigail was going to lose her battle to live to see David one last time. Tom ran for Dr. Gilbert, and he came momentarily, his shirttails not quite tucked into his waist, his dark hair rumpled. Abigail’s moaning had increased until she let out a shriek that sent a chill down Sarah’s spine. Dr. Gilbert pulled out a blue-tinted bottle. Turning to Sarah he said, “I didn’t want to have to do this, but we mustn’t let her suffer any longer. This will take the pain but it will also keep her unconscious. She may not know when David comes.”
From the bed, a remarkably lucid voice said, “No. I won’t have it. I must be awake when David comes.”
Sarah and Dr. Gilbert turned to look at the frail body that was Abigail Braddock. Sarah looked beyond the shrunken, ashen face and into sparkling eyes that were bright and smiling.
At the look of amazement on Sarah’s face, Abigail said, “I’m about to die, Sarah, dear. I know that. But I really do want to be awake for David. When do you think he will come?”
“I’m sure he’ll be here by morning, Mother Braddock,” Sarah lied.
“Then I shall wait until morning. This thing in my body and I have done battle for a long time, and it is about to win. But I will win one more battle.” Without turning her head, Abigail said softly, “Dr. Gilbert, I’d like it if you’d stay in case I can’t bear it. But, please, I feel better now. Don’t do anything unless, unless—”
Dr. Gilbert interrupted his patient. “I’ll stay as long as you like, Mrs. Braddock. And yes, I’ll wait until David comes before administering more sedatives.”
Abigail sighed, and seemed to relax. “Sarah,” she called, and her hand patted the bed beside her. “Come here, Dear, where I can see you.”
Sarah obeyed, and Abigail began to talk. “I have been so pleased with you, Sarah. You’ve been such a dear daughter. Dare I say that? There’s only Dr. Gilbert here, and he won’t tell a soul. I’m so happy that David will have you when I am gone, to care for him. He’s very fond of you. As am I.” Abigail changed subjects abruptly. “And Tom. See that Tom finishes school. Where is Tom?”
Sarah fetched her brother, who limped into the room with the reluctance of any child who fears the changes illness brings to beloved elders. But when Tom stood by the bed and looked into the blue eyes, he saw Mrs. Braddock, and the illness and the odd smells in the room melted away.
Mrs. Braddock smiled lovingly. “Tom, dear,” she said, reaching feebly for his hand. “I’ve great plans for you. Now you study hard, and make me proud. I shall be watching you, young man. I expect great things. I’m leaving you enough money to finish school and go on to the university. Someday, when you’re a great lawyer, you remember me, Tom. Do something good with your success and share it with others. Remember, Tom, when God blesses us, He expects us to pass that blessing on to others.”
Tom mumbled “Yes, ma’am,” before impulsively leaning down to kiss the hollow cheek.
“There’s a good boy,” Abigail murmured. “Now run along. Youth doesn’t need to watch an old woman die.”
When Tom had gone, Abigail sighed again and began to talk to Sarah. “I resent it highly, Dear, that I’ll not be around to be a proper doting grandmother. You tell Augusta Hathaway that I expect her to dote enough for two of us.”
“Yes, Mother Braddock. I will.” Sarah forced herself to answer in a calm voice, denying the reality of the moment so that she could get through it calmly.
“And don’t let David brood. I’ve had a good life. I’m looking forward to seeing William. Remind him of that. All my life I’ve looked forward to seeing William again.”
“Yes, Mother Braddock.”
“There are some in the family who aren’t too kind, Sarah. They may be a bit rude to you. You just remember that Abigail Braddock loved you, Dear. And you’re just as worthy of the Braddock name as anyone. Remember that.”
“Yes, Mother Braddock.”
Abigail drew in a sharp breath and added between clenched teeth. “Now, I think I’ll have to take another rest, Dear. Is it morning yet?”
Sarah looked through the window at the black sky and lied again. “Yes, Mother Braddock. I think, I think dawn will be here soon.”
“Dawn and David.” Abigail sighed, sinking away from consciousness.
Sarah held her hand tightly and sank onto the floor, resting her head on the edge of the mattress until Dr. Gilbert came in and insisted she rest.
“I’ll call you, Sarah, the moment anything happens.”
Sarah shook her head. “No. I’m not leaving.” Sarah dragged a rocking chair to the side of the bed and took Abigail’s thin hand in her own strong one. “I’m not leaving until David comes, or—”
Night wore on and Abigail’s enemy raised its wicked head and began to pound at her body again. Pain seared through her and the sound of it escaped from her pale lips. At last, Dr. Gilbert was forced to administer morphine. Abigail sank into unconsciousness where her mind no longer knew the agonies of the body.
When dawn really arrived, someone pounded at the front door. Sarah dragged herself from her rocker wearily and started down the hallway. At the top of the stairs, she stopped and looked down at Tom, who was closing the door, a telegram in his hand.
“It’s from Iowa, Sarah,” He huffed as he limped up the stairs. Sarah opened the telegram and read it and sank down onto the stairs. In disbelief she read it again and again. Her head sank onto her knees and she began to cry. Then, from behind her, came the sound of Abigail’s voice screeching her son’s name and calling for Sarah.
Sarah ran back into the room. Kneeling by the bed Sarah lied to Abigail. “Mother Braddock, Mother Braddock, it’s David. He’s coming. Please wait, Mother Braddock, David will be here any minute.”
But Mother Braddock couldn’t wait for David. Her body had fought against the pain as long as it could. Mother Braddock was being called across the pain and into eternity. She opened her eyes and a smile lit her face. “David!” she called out in wonder. And she died.
Sarah fell into the rocker at the bedside, trembling, clutching the telegram. Dr. Gilbert sat very still beside his patient for a few moments before looking at Sarah. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Sarah rocked back and forth in the rocker while she patted Abigail’s cold hand.
“Mother Braddock, Mother Braddock, please wait. David—” She stopped talking abruptly. The lie was no longer needed. And it was a lie. For David wasn’t coming. The telegram clutched in Sarah’s hand said that Mr. David Braddock had been killed in a train accident in Iowa the day before. Sarah rocked, patting Abigail’s hand with her own left hand, while her right hand clutched the telegram.
Dr. Gilbert took the telegram from Sarah and read it. “Oh, my dear. My poor, poor, dear.” He reached for his medical bag and produced smelling salts.
Sarah looked at him numbly. Tom was at the door and when he saw Sarah’s face he came to her and held her. Sarah leaned on her little brother’s shoulder and wept.
“It’s David, Tom. David’s gone. Killed. Train derailed. In Iowa.”
Tom said hopefully, “Maybe they mistook him for someone else, Sarah.”
Sarah shook her head wearily. “No, Tom. I can feel it. He’s gone.”
Then she remembered and her face brightened. “Dr. Gilbert,” she said hopefully, “do you think Mother Braddock saw David? Do you think he came for her after all? Is that why she called out his name?”
Now Dr. Miles Gilbert was a man of science. And as such, he was not given to nonsensical presuppositions about the afterlife. But Dr. Miles Gilbert was also a man of God, and as such he was given to kindness and a humble belief that in matters concerning the afterlife there were many things that only God knew. Thus, Dr. Gilbert put a caring hand on Sarah Biddle’s trembling shoulder and said warmly, “I think that must have been it, Sarah. The good Lord let David come for his mother. They’re together. God rest their souls.”
Sarah pondered the thought, and it comforted her. She felt aged. Grief was beginning to grip her heart. Still, at the center of the grief was the still small voice that she had come to know so well since being welcomed into Augusta Hathaway’s adopted family. It was the voice of hope. And while grief lay fresh over the lives of Sarah and Tom Biddle, hope covered it all.
Chapter 15
Let none of you suffer . . . as a busybody in other men’s matters.
1 Peter 4:15
G od smiled on the farmers in Nebraska in the spring of 1884, sending abundant rain that would result in near-record harvests. But for Carrie Brown, the fine, steady drizzle that made the farmers rejoice was an unwelcome obstacle preventing her from exploring her old haunts at Santee. During the first two days of her visit it rained almost constantly, turning the school grounds into an impassable mess. Mud sucked wagon wheels and horses’ hooves down into themselves, making travel a nightmare. School children scraped their shoes along the edges of every porch, forming tiny walls of mud that dried and had to be knocked off with a shovel.
Carrie had to postpone her plans to explore, instead joining Matron Charity Bond in a war against the mud. The mud tried to break through the doorway of the Birds’ Nest, caking so thickly on shoes it was impossible to scrape off. Charity demanded that the children remove their shoes at the door. Mud clung to the girls’ skirts, covering every hem with several inches of filth. Charity met the girls at the door with the admonition, “Pick up your skirts, girls, and hurry up the stairs. Don’t sling mud. Slip out of that skirt and, here, give it to me. I’ll just wash the hem. Now change, and don’t go out again.” Charity stopped, embarrassed, and wished for the indoor plumbing her mother in far-off Lincoln had just boasted of in a letter. “Oh, well, I guess you may have to. But stay on the path and hold your skirts out of the mud!” Turning to Carrie, she lamented, “If only we had enough money to get them more changes of clothing!”
Charity had the boys haul in a washtub and set it up permanently in the kitchen. A different team of girls met nightly after supper to heat water and attack the mud that left stains in their already threadbare clothing. Charity warned the girls not to scrub too hard. “You brought those donation barrels just in time, Carrie. These poor rags won’t withstand too many more washings.”
The school children grew restless, looking up from their work and out across the prairie towards home where soon they would be helping their parents tend meager crops in poor soil.
Her third day at Santee, Carrie awoke, excited that this was to be her day off. Moaning with dismay, she slammed her pillow over her head, trying to shut out the incessant drumming of more rain. When another half hour of sleep failed to change the weather, Carrie crept downstairs in the pre-dawn light. Lighting a lamp, she hastily read through a passage of Scripture, chuckling in spite of herself when her eyes lighted on the phrase a continual dripping of rain.
Reluctantly giving up on her plans to explore her old haunts at the mission, Carrie attacked the mending pile. She managed to sew on an entire row of buttons before becoming restless and heading for the kitchen.
Lighting a fire in the stove she began to heat water for coffee, setting the back door ajar and inhaling the promise of spring. The air was warm, and the rain had changed from an intense pounding to a slight drizzle. Still, the damage had been done. The mud holes had once again filled with water and the wagon tracks were a slippery mess.
Carrie sighed, thinking of the unhappy result she would have to deal with if she attempted to drag her ten yards of calico skirt and three petticoats across the prairie. I’ll be soaked to my waist before I get halfway to the creek.
She finished half a cup of coffee, disconsolate at the prospect of another day of rain, another day of mud, another day of laundry. Jim Callaway would be heading back to Lincoln in only a few days. He was anxious to get home, concerned about leaving LisBeth alone with a baby on the way. Resting her hand on her chin, Carrie traced the pattern of a knothole in the table. Then her eyes fell on the answer to her dilemma.
They hung right inside the door, five pairs of them all clean and mended and ready for the
boys to pick up. Carrie snatched down a pair of pants and a shirt and retreated to her room. She emerged cautiously, happy that no sound emanated from Charity’s closed door. She didn’t want to have to explain her sudden preference for men’s dress.
Gone to explore. Thanks for the day off. She scratched a note and hastily finished her coffee, weighting the small piece of paper with the rinsed-out cup. Picking her way across the compound, Carrie ducked into the storehouse and dug through a pile of rejected clothes, coming up at last with a mouse-chewed bowler hat and a reasonably good pair of high-top boots that had been too small for any of the boys at the school. The boys had howled with laughter when the hat was pulled out of the donation barrel, snatching it from one another’s heads, strutting around the wagon, and then tossing it aside. Carrie had flushed with anger at the thoughtless gift and promised herself to personally sort the boys’ clothing before future donation barrels were delivered to the mission. I wonder what banker back in Philadelphia is patting himself on the back for his generosity to the poor savages, she had thought bitterly, kicking at the hat.
This morning, though, Carrie was grateful for the outdated hat and undersized boots. She knew she looked ridiculous, but she had no plans to be seen, and the hat would keep the rain off the back of her neck and hide her piled-up hair from sight.
Peeking out the door of the supply shed, Carrie saw that smoke was coming from the chimneys of the Riggs’ cabin and the Birds’ Nest. Jamming her hands into her pockets she hurried from behind the shed and up the rise to the north, almost running in her haste to get away for the morning’s adventure.
In spite of the drizzle, the morning proved to be a satisfying diversion from the endless work at the Birds’ Nest. Carrie sat by the creek and remembered Sunday afternoons with her mother, her little girls’ feet sinking into the white sand that covered the creek-bottom. She relived growing up at Santee, the natural beauty of this spot by the creek receding in the wonder of the presence of a Lakota Sioux who had, miraculously, allowed her to be his friend.
Red Bird (Prairie Winds Book 2) Page 11
