by Anna Oney
Before she could get to the door, Cooper stormed through with the doctor shouting after him, "Boy, I told you not to sleep in!"
"I know! I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, nearly colliding with Emma's chest. "Oh, hey there, Miss Emma."
"We got too much crap to be doing for you to," she rambled, stomping toward the door. "Who you talking to out there?"
"It's Emma," he said, gawking at the blood trickling down her foot. "She's hurt."
"What?!" she exclaimed, slinging open the screen door. Looking Emma over, she said, "Cooper . . . leave us."
"But . . . but I want to help."
"No, not this time," she said, ushering Emma inside. "Go on, now."
She shut the door behind them, and led Emma to the couch.
"What about them boys?" Emma asked as she propped her foot on the coffee table.
"Your cousins took Ross and them out to start digging graves for their people," she said. "Don't worry. They ain't going nowhere. Winston'll keep an eye on them."
"How's your shoulder?"
"Fine," she replied, shooing away Emma's concern. "Just a little tender." Mrs. Maples took hold of Emma's foot, rolled up her pant leg, and cut away the makeshift bandage from Eleanor's bedsheet. Assessing the damage, she said, "Okay, well, it doesn't look infected, but you need stitches."
"Stitches?" Emma said. "I hate stitches."
"I'm afraid so. Stay here. Lemme get my bag. I need to wash it out."
Upon her return, Mrs. Maples doused the gauzes with peroxide. Gently, she dabbed at the laceration plaguing Emma's ankle, but her patient was rendered motionless by the sight of her pouring the flaming liquid over the needle. "I don't have anything to numb the pain, so this ain't gonna feel too good. You ready?"
"Just . . . just do it," Emma said, biting down on her lip.
"Relax."
"Relax?!"
"Be still," she said, threatening Emma with the bottle. "I ain't your momma. Now hush."
The process was painful, and Emma was thankful she couldn't see what was happening.
Once finished, Mrs. Maples slapped Emma's knee, and said, "I'm sorry for you. I am. But Back Wood is yours now, and frankly we don't have the time for you to be losing your nerve. And don't you be ducking your head to nobody, either," she said. "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. You're Doolie's baby girl."
Mrs. Maples rose from her stool, and made her way to the kitchen.
"Emma!" someone yelled from outside.
Tom, she thought.
"Emma!" he shouted a second time.
Once he began banging on the door, Mrs. Maples seemed to have had enough. She slung it open, causing it to collide with the opposite wall.
"Is she in there?" he asked.
"Yes—"
"Why didn't she wake me up? Why?!"
Ignoring his question, Mrs. Maples snatched him up by his collar.
"Look here, make yourself useful and fetch the poor thing some fresh clothes."
"But—"
"Nuh-uh, no." She paused, thrusting her finger in his face. "And when you make it back, you best check that attitude before you come a-knocking on this door." Slamming the door in his face, she glanced back at Emma. "And that, my dear, is how you handle a man."
After Mrs. Maples had sent Tom on his quest, she showed Emma to the washroom, where she was gracious enough to spare some water for Emma to wash herself off. With Mrs. Maples's leave, Emma wiped the dried blood and dirt from her face, moved on to her tender ankle, and then went on to the rest of her bruised skin. By the time she was finished, the washrag was ruined. Emma wrapped herself with a towel hanging from Mrs. Maples's shower, and sat upon the useless toilet, staring at the stained rag. She found herself fearing the consequences. Probably just a good chewing-out, she thought. I've been through worse.
Emma heard a knock at the door, and rose to meet her demise.
"Can I come in?"
Emma made sure the towel was secure, and opened the door to find Tom staring back at her.
"Hey," she whispered, holding out her hand for the clothes folded neatly in his arms. "Thanks," she said, accepting them gratefully.
"I wasn't sure what to bring you." He shrugged. "Thought you'd want something comfortable."
"These'll do just fine," she replied. Once Emma realized the clothes he presented were the same ones she'd rejected him in, her heart sank. "Oh," she said, attempting to keep the tears at bay. "Wasn't that long ago, was it? I'm sorry."
"Oh, baby, no," he whispered, pulling her close.
"I didn't used to cry this much. I'm making you sick, ain't I?"
"No, not at all." He chuckled. Embracing her, he brought his lips to her forehead. "Last night when I had you all to myself, I dreamt that you made peace with all that's happened. It made me happy to see you smile again."
"Tom," she said. She sniffled, rubbing her cheek against his chest. "You're a good one. You think . . . you think it'd be dorky of me to tell you that you're the man of my dreams?"
"Ehhh," he said. He paused, seemingly amused. "Little bit."
"I'm trying to be sweet here."
"C'mon, baby. You don't even have to try."
"Smartass." She snorted, turning away him.
Before she could close the door, he flicked her shoulder.
"Just . . . from now on, remember to wake my ass up."
"I'll try."
"I'll be in the kitchen," he muttered over his shoulder. "And don't be jumping out the window to avoid me."
"No worries. Be out in a few!"
Emma slipped her legs through the yoga pants he'd provided and donned her oversize "Vegetation Time" t-shirt. She caught a glimpse of her unsettling reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink. The image of Emma's face was clean, but the lack of filth forced the severity of her wounds to become more distinct. Begrudgingly, Emma exited the washroom and found herself dreading the concerned remarks to come.
Managing to waddle into the kitchen, Emma found Tom sitting on a barstool and Mrs. Maples tending to her aloe vera plant in the corner.
Emma cleared throat.
"Are we all done here?" she asked.
Jolting upright, Mrs. Maples beckoned Emma forward, grasped at the stem she'd snapped from the emerald-green plant, and said, "This'll help that eye of yours. Did you do that to yourself?"
"No, one of the women I brought with me—Eleanor, she did," she replied as Mrs. Maples generously began soothing the slits that had been cut into Emma's skin. "She's a nurse, too."
"What was her reason?"
"I was hit—"
"Do we have to bring that up?" Tom interrupted, slamming his palm on the table.
Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you, she thought. No. We. Do. Not.
Judging from the look on Tom's face and the demanding tone in his voice, Mrs. Maples changed the subject. With her eye beginning to twitch, she continued applying the natural medicine, and said, "Had a little talk with them boys this morning."
Sighing with the relief from the sensation, Emma replied, "Did you?"
"They seem like good boys to me. Little troubled, but who isn't these days?"
"After all that's happened," Tom interjected, "I believe we're all a little troubled."
Troubled, huh? Emma thought, looking from him to Mrs. Maples. That's an understatement.
Chapter 43:
Emma
"Whatcha planning on doing today?" Mrs. Maples asked, raising her brow.
"I can take the next watch." Emma replied. "After yesterday's fiasco, I'm sure Lyle needs a break." Glancing toward Tom, she asked, "You got any plans?"
"None involving you. We've got the barriers covered," he said. "I know you think you're still indestructible—but you're not."
Mrs. Maples chimed in.
"You need to take it slow for a while."
"Well, what am I supposed to do then, huh?" Emma replied, dramatically waving her arms about. "Just sit around?"
"Pretty much."
"We mean it
, Emma," Mrs. Maples said. "You need to recoup."
"I can't be sitting around wallowing in self-pity. It'll drive me nuttier than I already am. Simply put, I refuse. I'm going fishing," she said, standing her ground.
Rolling their eyes, they replied, "Fishing?"
"Yeah," she said, pretending to reel one in. "That's something productive I can do in my condition, right?" Seemingly in agreement, they nodded, and before they could say another word, Emma was headed toward the front door.
"Hold up!" Tom shouted, stalling her. Reaching Emma, he pulled the pistol from his side.
"Take this with you," he said.
Gripping her fingers around the handle, she pushed open the screen door, and said, "If you need me, I'll be at the bridge."
***
As Emma came up on her parents' driveway, she noticed her father's rocking chair, absent of his stoic presence. The pillow he'd used to cushion his ailing back leaned against the backrest. Before passing by it, Emma found herself rocking it with her hands while imagining him telling one of his many entertaining stories. As tears welled up in her eyes, Emma parted from his chair and opened the door of her childhood home, where she found Shirley busying herself with gathering clothes for a wash.
"Hey, Momma."
"Hey, baby. What's up?"
"You think it'd be all right if I borrowed the girls for a little while?" Emma asked, picking up one of Doolie's dirty shirts strewn over the couch. "I want to take them fishing."
As Emma handed over the garment, Shirley replied, "Why wouldn't that be okay?"
"I know you don't like being alone. Especially now." Grasping the handle of the basket she carried, Emma set it on the table. "Are you okay?" she asked.
"I'm just as good as I can be. How are you?"
Sensing the reason behind Shirley's peculiar behavior, Emma blurted out, "I'm sorry I couldn't bring him home, Momma. I was so stupid! I was blinded!" she cried. "But I wasn't blinded by my faith in God. I was blinded by my faith in myself. I should've never left."
Stepping closer, Shirley grazed her thumb across Emma's cheek.
"We're still here. And baby, I still have you," she replied. "And if we can't find strength in anything else, we can find strength in that. That's what your daddy and Griffin would've expected of us. And even though they aren't with us, life must go on." Grasping her daughter's shoulders, Shirley stared her down. "We must go on. Okay, Emma?"
"Okay, Momma." Emma smiled, but when she noticed the girls were out of sight, she asked, "Where are they at?"
"Playing in the blue room," she replied, grasping the basket's handle. "They miss you. Take them girls fishing. You know," she said, "Mary used to say that laughter was the best medicine for a broken heart. But I never really believed her—until now. Please, baby," she said, pecking Emma on the cheek. "Don't let this world bring you down."
"I won't, Momma. Don't worry." Soon the laughter emanating from the back room pulled Emma toward it. Glancing over her shoulder, Emma pointed ahead. "Speaking of."
As Emma stood in front of the door to the playroom, the girls' high-pitched giggles brought warmth to her burdened heart. Looking through the crease in the door, Emma spotted Jane sitting on the floor, balancing a Mad Libs book in her lap. As her sisters leaned closer to sneak a peek at the next line of the story, they began chattering among themselves.
They were unaware of Emma's presence behind the door, so she pushed it open, selfishly interrupting their progress. For a moment, she feared they wouldn't be happy to see her at all, but remarkably, all three of them turned their golden heads and graced her with smiles.
As they stood to their feet, the girls paid no mind to the book sliding from Jane's lap.
"Miss Emma!" they exclaimed.
The girls met Emma in the middle of the room, and then she kissed the tops their heads.
"Gosh, I sure did miss y'all," she whispered.
Seeming to sense the grief in the rattled tone of Emma's voice, Lizzie said, "Everything's okay now."
Jane chimed in, "You're home."
"I'm sorry you couldn't find your brother," Claire said, twirling Emma's hair with her finger. "They buried Miss Mary next to Olivia by the big pear tree. Did you know?"
"No, no, I didn't. But thank you for telling me," Emma said. "We'll have to go visit it sometime. But for now," she said, shaking off a sudden wave of emotions, "do y'all want to go fishing, or what?"
"Yeah!" they all said.
After fetching the supplies needed for their next great adventure, they headed toward the recently mended barrier. Stopping them was the sound of Rambler whimpering before it. Since Emma's return, the deaths of Stella and Doolie had seemed to have broken Rambler's spirit. Just as the losses had done to Emma's, the fragments of Rambler's inner being seemed scattered beyond repair.
"Ask her if she wants to go with us," Claire insisted, tugging at Emma's sleeve. "Ask her!"
"You girls wait here," Emma commanded, handing over her father's favorite fishing pole. "Wait for me."
"Yes, ma'am."
Kneeling beside her, Emma glided her fingers down Rambler's neck.
"She's not coming home, baby. Stella's gone," she whispered.
Longing for Rambler to understand her, Emma embraced her tightly. Doolie, Emma remembered, was the only person Rambler had allowed to touch her in this manner. At that moment, though, Emma felt as though Rambler were hugging her back. As Emma waved the girls over, the sound of their feet shuffling through the overgrown grass sent Rambler's tail wagging.
"Looks like she's coming along."
"Yay!" Lizzie exclaimed, scratching behind Rambler's massive ears.
As they exited through the barrier, they immediately came to the fork in the trail, when her Aunt Mary's words—"He's left you something to keep"—stalled Emma. "You girls go on ahead and get settled," she said, pointing down the trail. "You've got your poles and chairs with you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"All right then," she replied, handing them Doolie's fishing pole. "There's something I need to check on. I'll see y'all down there."
Parting ways, Emma headed toward their Indian dig. She was thankful Rambler had been willing to follow the girls instead of her. It eased Emma's mind to know she would be there to protect them should anything happen.
When Emma arrived, she dodged the briar vines and signs of poison oak and swerved around the mounds of dirt, searching for what Mary had said Wakiza had left for her. Unfortunately Mary had failed to mention a few important details hinting toward what it might be. As Emma grew impatient, her signature huffs and puffs filled the air. Frustrated, she kicked at one of the massive mounds of dirt surrounding her. Startling her, a familiar voice whispered from behind the nearest tree, "Did you forget me?"
"If that's who I think it is, there's no way I'm forgetting." She smiled, peeking around the tree trunk.
Stepping from behind the tree, Wakiza replied, "And I you."
"Aunt Mary said you had something for me."
"Your aunt is by far the kindest woman I have ever met."
"Yes, she was."
"She is," he replied, taking Emma's hand. "It was the brightness of her light that led me home to our Father. And I'm here now to give you a gift."
"You've already given me enough, Wakiza," she protested. "What else could you possibly give me?"
"My people are tethered to this land, and I to you," he said. "And ever since I've been among your kind, I've noticed one thing." He paused, motioning toward the cross around Emma's neck. "The only thing that keeps you going is the impenetrable belief that there is a God watching over you. When we parted ways the first time, it wasn't long after that I was reunited with my family. But it was short-lived because we began to feel the pull of your people's cries."
"Awww, man, we broke up your family reunion?" she asked with remorse.
"Yes, but our decision to return wasn't difficult to make . . . for the land Back Wood was built on was once our own." Tightening his grip aro
und the spear at his side, he passed it over to Emma. "We thought it would give you strength to wield the weapon that silenced the man who murdered your father."
Grasping their heirloom, she asked, "But what about you?"
"I've found peace. I found my sister. My family."
"What about my father?"
"Like Mary, other duties have been set out before him."
"You all have jobs to do, huh?"
"Yes—much like the living." He smiled. "Once your father is ready, he will be taught to bring others to the light. There are some who aren't permitted to venture from the Kingdom of Heaven, but we are not them, and neither is your father."
"So you're an angel of God?"
"Yes, my friend—that I am. We are His watchers of the woods; the warriors assigned to protect this sector from the trespassers who seek to destroy it."
"When did you ever accept Him as your savior?"
"The only kind thing our captors ever bestowed upon us," he said, "was the word of God."
"But . . . all the pain they caused—"
"Because of them, I stand before you," he said. "Therefore, I have learned to forgive them. How could I not?"
"Whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die," Emma recited to herself.
Bowing his head, he leaned forward.
"And neither shall you, Bank Lady. Though I fear, I must confess, I know not the meaning of this title."
"It's someone I used to be. It no longer holds any meaning."
"The past is the past," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Do not let it consume you, for there are more troublesome tasks to come. The three boys. The boys were kept alive for a reason. A reason you will soon discover. They have a story to tell. A story you must hear."
"I don't think I can."
"No matter the hatred you feel toward them, they have a part to play."
