Ghosts of Graveyards Past

by Laura Briggs

  “Forgive me. I should have mentioned it the first time. It is just that Mrs. Lesley already told me of the lard and sulfur you gave her, so it seemed pointless—”

  “It was not,” Mariah interrupted. Her voice was sharp with anger. She calculated how long it had been since Mrs. Lesley’s rash appeared. By now, the other woman must have experienced the same symptoms as the girl before her but simply chose not to consult her about it.

  “I am so sorry—”

  “Do not apologize.” Mariah rubbed her forehead, weariness replacing the flash of irritation. “But we must agree to have no more secrets about this. You must understand, Mrs. Kendrick, how vital every detail is when forming a proper treatment.”

  “Please,” the girl began, somewhat shakily, “would you call me Geneva? I have so few friends here, no one to remind me of home. This new name is still so strange to my ears.”

  Her request—so unexpected and so badly timed—met with a long silence from Mariah, who scribbled something in her daybook before she formed an answer. “I…I am not accustomed to addressing patients so informally. Perhaps, for now, it is best if we continue as we are.”

  “Of course,” the girl murmured.

  She seemed to shrink a little in her chair, fingers toying with the brooch she had removed for the exam. Dampness spread beneath the hazel eyes, her gaze moving away when someone rapped against the parlor’s wood trim.

  A man stood awkwardly in the doorway. He was tall with clean shaven features and hair that turned gray at the temples. “All right if I come in?” he asked, pulling a straw hat from his head.

  “Quite all right,” Mariah told him. She noted the hitch in his step, the injured leg dragging slightly behind the other. Aside from this deformity, he seemed quite robust, with none of the illness that marred his wife’s features.

  “I am afraid that Mrs. Kendrick’s condition is much worse,” Mariah told him, “and I will need your help to see that she makes a recovery as soon as possible.”

  “I will do what I can.” Coming behind the girl’s chair, he placed a tentative hand on her shoulder.

  Her fingers returned the touch, light against his stronger ones. Liquid swam in her eyes, but the tears from earlier had been wiped away.

  They listened attentively as she gave instructions on medicine and bed rest. When she was reaching for her bag, the husband cleared his throat. “I remember the apothecary used to give a paregoric—”

  “I have something stronger among my supplies,” Mariah interrupted, handing him a bottle of laudanum. The only drug to ease her mother’s cries in the final stage of consumption, it was her first choice for dealing with a powerful illness. She found the smell repugnant. It brought back memories she would sooner forget. “I shall call again in the morning,” she promised, rising to see herself to the door. “Until then, I must ask that you follow my advice. Do try and rest, Mrs. Kendrick,” she urged the patient whose gaze remained elsewhere.

  As expected, Mrs. Lesley now complains of a cough and stomach pains. Her fever is mild, but will, no doubt, require confinement. If only she would accept this before it becomes inevitable.

  “You can’t expect me to leave off the cooking and chores. What with the men working all day, there is no time for laying in the bed and what not.” This was spoken by a woman who looked as if she should be there already, her face flushed and hair plastered to her forehead. The rash had spread to her shoulders, neck, and torso, though she refused an examination of it.

  “I only tell you what is necessary,” Mariah insisted.

  “Says one who knows naught about it,” her patient retorted. “Your mother may have been one to have the servants run the house, but this family depends on my hands alone. Think what you are asking of me.”

  “The illness will demand your strength without asking. There will be no choice if the chills take hold or the dysentery—”

  Mrs. Lesley silenced the doctor with a hand on her arm, her gaze flicking to the gangly youth who peeled potatoes by the fire. Though he faced away from them, the tilt of his head indicated not a word of their conversation escaped him.

  Lowering her voice, Mariah said, “Anything of a contagious nature places our whole community in harm’s way. You put your family at risk by refusing to hear the truth of this illness.”

  “My family,” the other woman responded, “is my responsibility. I may trust a physician for the odd ailment, but don’t be thinking I need you to run the house.”

  She found a more receptive audience waiting at the Hinkles’ cabin, where young Charley was already put to bed with a quilt, his furry companion, previously banned from crossing the room’s threshold, now present in the chamber.

  “Knew you would be seeing him once I heard of the Kendricks’ trouble.” Mrs. Hinkle lugged a tumbler of fresh water across the sick chamber’s doorway, splashing its contents into the nearby basin. “Don’t want the baby near sickness of any kind. Nor the others, though it will be near impossible keeping them away from here, goodness knows.”

  Mariah felt the patient’s skin, the cheeks once ghostly pale now a shade of pink.

  His gaze followed her movements with childlike curiosity. “That a potion?” he asked of the dark liquid sloshing in the medicine vial. “Looks like one Harvey Stroud brought to school. For making the hair grow on his face.”

  “It is something to help you sleep,” she told him. “And while you are dreaming of plat-eyes and Harvey Stroud’s potions, this medicine will cool your fever.”

  “What about Rufus?” As he spoke, his hand moved protectively to where the dog’s head rested on his knees. “Is it safe for ‘em? Can he catch the sickness?”

  “Rufus is safe,” Mariah assured him. She measured off drops of the elixir into a teaspoon before cautioning, “Your brothers and your sister are at risk, however. They must not come any closer than the doorway.”

  Swallowing the medicine, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I don’t ask ‘em to come. They sneak in while I’m sleeping. It is only Rufus I want with me.”

  His mother made a tsking sound, as she dipped a cloth into the basin of water. “More trouble than the other five put together, aren’t you?” She pressed the cloth to his forehead.

  Mariah stroked the boy’s hair, feeling the dampness from the heat within. “I will come by early tomorrow and see how you get on. Remember, sleep and good dreams.”

  In the hall, she instructed his mother on the dosage of the medicines. A last look at the boy’s door showed the other children crowded outside, hoping for a peek at the patient before their mother shooed them away again.

  The boy Charley shows the same symptoms as the two women. At present, his fever is mild, and the rash seems to give him more trouble than anything else. Because he is so young and already of a frail disposition, I feel that —

  Mariah paused in her writing as footsteps sounded in the hall. A shadow hesitated just outside her door, a girl’s form appearing close behind. The Darrow daughter, her expression obscured in the hall’s shadow.

  “You are busy,” Nell apologized, turning as if to leave again.

  “Wait,” Mariah told her, placing aside the pen. “Has someone called for me?”

  “No. It is only…I wished to look for a book I lent my brother some months ago.”

  Of course. She sometimes forgot that the former occupant’s belongings were still scattered throughout the room, including a set of dog-eared paperbacks on the bottom shelf of the book case. Volumes of travel and history, cheaply printed from decades past, the words Property of Henry Darrow written in childish script inside the covers.

  “Search all you want,” Mariah urged. “The books have not been moved.”

  Smiling, the girl advanced into the lamplight. She was considered plain by their neighbors, Mariah knew, her features as honest and simple as her manner of dress. This lack of beauty was more than compensated for by the gentle civility that so many of her elders seemed to struggle with.

&
nbsp; “So many books,” Nell said. Her gaze had wandered to the upper shelves where the doctor’s collection of sturdy leather bindings filled the space. “You are fond of reading.” She glanced over her shoulder.

  “When I have time, yes.” Detecting the girl’s interest in the volumes, she added, “You may borrow one. Or several, if you like, though you may find the medical ones a little harder on the eyes.”

  “I should think so,” Nell laughed. This friendly curve of the mouth rendered her a little less plain, her fingers brushing the book’s rigid spines. Two of these bore Mariah’s father’s name, Barnaby Moore, M.D., his textbook writings used in several of the Alabama hospitals.

  Nell continued down the row, past novels by Charles Dickens and George Eliot, pausing when she reached a volume that was larger than the rest. Pulling it free from the shelf, she turned it over to reveal a cover that was embossed with a spiritual design.

  A wooden cross and a ragged robe. The bloodstained fabric entwined with gilded lettering to create a title for a Bible with copperplate illustrations. The girl’s gaze held more than one question as she glanced up from the image.

  “My mother’s,” Mariah explained.

  Part of her wished to pack the volume away, someplace free from prying eyes and questions. But a lingering memory connected her to the pages, ones she hadn’t touched in years. The feel of her mother’s arms encircling her, helping her to balance the heavy book as they sat on the family staircase.

  Her small hands flipping through the pictures of Noah’s Ark and the Ten Commandments, of Christ healing the sick and calming the storm. His feet and hands nailed to the cross, blood weeping past the crown of thorns upon His brow. Images which had seemed moving and real enough to her mind as a small child, although now they seemed less so in the face of science texts and modern philosophers.

  “This has been well-read,” Nell observed, turning the pages with care. “I see fade marks where passages were studied often. Your mother’s faith must have been very strong. “

  “It was.” Mariah’s voice felt tight in her throat. “That was her favorite possession. Reason enough for me to keep it, I suppose.”

  “Yes, of course,” Nell replied. Quiet sympathy shone in her eyes as she flipped the cover closed. As if sensing this was not among the copies to be borrowed, she slid it back in place. “She would wish it to be near you, I am sure.”

  In my hand you mean. She suppressed the sardonic response, her first reaction to anyone who challenged her spiritual apathy. Arthur had tried and failed many times, proving not even a lover’s influence could break through her resolve.

  The girl had finished her search, pulling a battered copy of Robinson Crusoe from the shelf, the bookmark still in place where its previous reader abandoned it. Pausing in the doorway, she hugged the book to her chest.

  “Is the Hinkle boy very ill?” she asked. “Someone told me he has remitting fever.”

  “I see no reason to fear the worst,” Mariah answered, going back to her work. “Especially since it is not remitting fever, as idle talk says.”

  What it was, though, she couldn’t yet say.

  

  The knock came at seven o’clock, a mad pounding that interrupted the Darrows’ mealtime blessing. Exchanging looks of surprise, most of the family rose from their chairs, though it was Nell who answered the door.

  On the other side, a frantic looking Mr. Kendrick sought the doctor’s face. “My wife,” he said.

  It was all the words necessary for Mariah to fetch her bag and coat from the hall. She would have gone alone, except that Mr. Darrow insisted on driving her in the buggy. “May not be back ‘til late,” he reasoned, voice gruff with meaning as he took his hat from the hall table.

  They took the dirt lane past the spring at a bumpy pace, the worried husband urging his stallion far ahead of them. When they reached the house, he helped Mariah from the cart, steering her anxiously towards the door.

  “When did she last take medicine?” she asked.

  “Right before I came for you. She…she couldn’t keep it down, though.”

  Mariah could smell the sickness before they reached the hall, an odor familiar from years of work in her father’s practice. Her patient lay in bed, propped against pillows as she clutched the quilt in silent agony. Her night dress was soaked with sweat, dark hair clinging to her thin, shaking shoulders. Seeing Mariah, she tried to sit up. A spasm of pain twisted her features as she gasped, “It hurts…please…” Words that died away as she retched violently into a nearby pan.

  Mariah rummaged through her bag, unearthing some paper packets. Thrusting them into Mr. Kendrick’s hands, she told him, “Boil plenty of water for tea. The ginger root will help to settle the stomach pains.”

  He seemed relieved to have the task, pushing past Mr. Darrow, who watched from the doorway.

  Motioning the other man forward, Mariah whispered, “If he will let you, bring the tea in his place. I do not want him to see what may follow.”

  Glancing at the girl, he gave a reluctant nod.

  Geneva’s expression had a wildness about it, fingers clawing at the covers as she rocked in silent despair. Anyone might think she was close to death—and she quite possibly was.

  When he had left them, Mariah arranged herself carefully on the bed.

  Her patient seemed not to notice, hugging herself as she muttered something between coughs.

  Forcing calmness to her voice, Mariah began, “Mrs. Kendrick, you’re hurting I know—”

  “Mama?” The girl was looking past her shoulder, eyes wide and searching as she propped herself up to see the door. “Where are you?”

  “It is your doctor, Mrs. Kendrick,” she said gently. “Do you recognize me?”

  But the girl was still searching the empty doorway, panic building in her features as she called, “I’m sick, Mama. Please hurry. “

  Cold fear touched the doctor’s bones.

  Geneva Kendrick was hallucinating, a side effect of the fever that flushed her normally pale skin.

  “Do not distress yourself,” Mariah soothed, attempting to draw her attention. “It is all right.”

  “Where are you?” the girl begged, almost screaming this time as she tried to rise from the bed.

  Mariah held her shoulders, afraid she might somehow crawl to the floor in her desperation. She had kept watch at many troubled bedsides while working in Mobile, but never one so disoriented. Only once did she hear such agonized groans, such fits of sobbing. Those were the sounds from her mother’s room, where the door had been cracked wide enough to show a form writhing in pain on the bed, servants rushing to hold it back.

  “Stay with me,” Mariah urged, clinging to the restless patient. The girl batted her hands away, sobbing as she clutched the blanket to her chest.

  The laudanum and other medicines lay on the nearby table, along with the pearl brooch Mariah had seen the girl wear that morning. A pang of guilt shot through her at the sight, eyes closing in something that might have been a prayer were she someone else.

  “Geneva.” She touched the girl’s face, a firm but gentle pressure. “Look at me, Geneva. You must hear my voice, please.”

  For a second, the girl’s gaze rose to meet hers. Tears and confusion clouded the depths before another cough was racking her frame.

  Mariah turned at the sound of footsteps, grateful to see the steaming cup in Mr. Darrow’s hands. “Help me raise her,” she told him.

  The task proved difficult as the patient fought their hold, striking blindly at the air.

  “Hold her arms.” Raising the cup with shaky hands, Mariah forced some of the liquid past her lips, only to have it spewed back again as the girl gasped and retched, eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Geneva? Wake up, Geneva!” She shook the younger woman, watching her sway like a broken doll, pulse fast, mouth slack as burbling sounds issued from her throat. “Wake up, wake up,” Mariah pleaded under her breath, clutching the face that hung lifeless beneath dar
k strands.

  There was no response, no movement from the passive features.

  Mariah yanked a bottle of smelling salts from her pocket and waved it under the girl’s nose. A few breaths of the eucalyptus scent were followed by a gulping sound, Geneva’s eyes fluttering open. They settled hazily on the worried doctor.

  “Just breathe,” Mariah urged. “Calm and deep breaths.”

  They stayed like that for a while, the patient resting against Mr. Darrow’s weight. She took a swallow from the cup of tea when it was offered, then another. Tentative draughts, with spells of coughing in between.

  “A little more,” Mariah told her, mixing the medicine into the cup’s remaining liquid. This was taken without complaint, the patient’s eyes drifting shut from exhaustion. Her breathing, though ragged, came slow and steady.

  Mariah checked her pulse to find it had calmed somewhat. Placing the cup aside, she offered, “Let me sit with her while she rests. It may be some time before we know she is out of danger.”

  She cradled the drowsy patient like a child, tucking the quilt around her sleeping form. She rested her head against the wall, gaze focused on the glow of the oil lamp by the door. No shadows stirred, the murmur of masculine voices audible from further down the hall.

  Hours passed, Mariah conscious of a clock ticking somewhere nearby. Twice she drifted off, the dreams changing the weight in her arms to resemble something else. First, it was the bag she held on her journey from Mobile; then, her mother’s Bible, its heavy binding threatening to tilt away from her childlike grasp.

  Fearful panting sounds told her the patient’s rest was equally troubled. Geneva stirred then woke from her stupor with a groan. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she seemed to recognize Mariah’s face in the lamplight.

  “You came,” she said, pulling herself up, limbs shaking from the weight, as she glanced around the room. “Lucas was so worried. He thought…where is he?”

  “He is in the kitchen,” Mariah told her, steadying the girl’s shaky form. “Your fever is starting to abate,” she said, feeling her forehead and cheeks. “Are you still in pain?”