Lizabeth's Story

by Thomas Kinkade

  She pinned one corner of a white sheet while Kat pinned another.

  “You don’t have to prove anything to me,” Kat said.

  “I’m not trying to,” Lizabeth answered. She wasn’t sure, but maybe she was proving something to herself. It felt surprisingly good to be useful. “Staying busy keeps me from thinking too much.”

  Kat nodded. “I know how that is.”

  Lizabeth was glad she and Kat were friends again. She was sorry that she was going to spoil that soon. She had to go to Tracy, no matter what Kat thought. She had to see with her own eyes if Tracy’s fever was breaking.

  ten

  Lizabeth kept Kat company in the lighthouse tower during her evening shift. She watched the light revolve through the rapidly darkening night. She was too anxious to sit still. She couldn’t wait for hours until everyone was asleep.

  “Kat, I’m going down, all right?”

  Kat nodded. “You must be all tired out.”

  “No, just feeling restless,” Lizabeth said. “Maybe I’ll take a walk.” She couldn’t quite face Kat.

  “All right. See you in the room later.”

  “See you.”

  This time she didn’t have to worry about anyone spotting her on the path to Lighthouse Lane. Sunshine followed her a little way and then he turned back toward the cottage.

  Lizabeth continued on the road. Past Wharf Way and the docks, past the abandoned fishermen’s huts that were meant to be torn down long ago, past the bait-and-tackle shop, past Alveira’s Boatyard, up the hill, and onto the paved section of Lighthouse Lane.

  She hid in the shadows when she heard the clopclop of a horse. In the moonlight, she could just make out Dr. Forbes guiding his horse and carriage up the path to his house. Otherwise the lane was deserted. He must be coming back from visiting patients, she thought. So late in the night! She didn’t know him well—only as “Rose’s father”—but she was filled with respect for him.

  When Lizabeth was sure he was inside, she continued to her house.

  The light was on in the downstairs parlor. Were her parents there? Would they hear her? She knew it was wrong to break quarantine again, but she didn’t care. Nothing could keep her from going to Tracy!

  Lizabeth climbed up the trellis, wincing at each creak. A thorn tore at her dress. The rip was horribly loud in the stillness. She stopped at the top to peer through her window. Through the open door of her room she could catch a glimpse of the hallway in the faint beam from Tracy’s night-light. Mother and Father! They were in silhouette in Tracy’s doorway. Lizabeth was overcome with longing to rush into Mother’s arms. She watched them leave Tracy’s room and head toward the top of the staircase.

  Whew! It was a good thing she had stopped to look first! If they caught her, they’d surely ship her off to Pittsfield. She could imagine Father roaring at her, something about “out of harm’s way.”

  Lizabeth couldn’t see the stairs from the trellis. She gave them time to get downstairs. If they were going downstairs. She couldn’t teeter on top of the trellis forever. She had to take a chance.

  The window of her room was still open and she slipped in. She removed her shoes and tiptoed across the floor slowly, carefully. She was afraid to breathe. She couldn’t make a sound. All clear in the hallway. She crept into Tracy’s room.

  Lizabeth tiptoed to her bed. Tracy’s eyes were wide open.

  “It’s me,” Lizabeth whispered. “I promised I’d come back to see you.”

  There was no reaction from Tracy.

  “It’s me, Lizabeth.” She put her hand on her little sister’s forehead. Burning! How she had hoped and prayed to find Tracy better tonight!

  “Tracy?” she whispered.

  Tracy stared directly at Lizabeth, but her eyes were unfocused. As if she’s looking through me, Lizabeth thought and she felt her stomach clutch.

  “Tracy?”

  Tracy moved her head back and forth, agitated. “I don’t want to leave the party!” Her faint voice was raspy. “Not yet!”

  Lizabeth touched Tracy’s shoulder and Tracy pulled away.

  “More ice cream,” Tracy said, with that terrible raspy voice. “I want to stay!”

  Her words made Lizabeth shudder. “Tracy, it’s all right,” she whispered. “Of course you’ll stay here with us.”

  “Leave me alone! Don’t make me go!”

  Prickles chilled the back of Lizabeth’s neck. It’s as if Tracy isn’t here, she thought. Is this what delirious means? Is it normal for this to happen just before the fever breaks?

  Lizabeth reached for Tracy again and stopped her hand in midair. Tracy’s eyes had closed. She seemed to have fallen asleep. She was taking deep, wheezing breaths through her open mouth.

  Lizabeth softly kissed Tracy’s cheek. Burning!

  She watched and waited helplessly. The only sound in her ears was the wheezing. But then—Father’s voice. She could hear his distress though she couldn’t make out the words. And Mother’s weeping. The click of Mother’s shoes at the bottom of the stairs! Quick, before Mother comes around the curve of the staircase!

  Lizabeth moved through the shadows of the hall and slipped into her own room. She heard Mother’s voice at Tracy’s bedside and then Father’s. All their attention would be on Tracy. She could make it down the trellis….

  Lizabeth jumped from the bottom rung and crept alongside the azaleas on the front path. She was numb with shock. She walked a block on Lighthouse Lane before she realized that she’d left her shoes behind.

  She walked another block before she suddenly stopped and thought, Where am I going? I can’t go back to Kat’s again. I’ve been exposed to scarlet fever twice. I can’t bring it to Amanda’s or Rose’s house. Or anyone’s. Lizabeth bit her lip. I have no place to go.

  eleven

  Lizabeth wandered to the village green. It was strange to feel the grass between her toes.

  She cut across the square of lawn. She came to the statue of the lost fisherman in the center. Under the three-quarter moon, deep shadows accented the folds of his stone slicker and the cross-hatched fishing net over his shoulder. In the hazy light, he seemed about to get off his pedestal and walk over to South Street.

  Lizabeth remembered when the North Star sank six years ago. Eight men went down with her. At first there was going to be a memorial plaque engraved with the names of all the Cape Light men lost at sea over the years. Then the town council realized that more names would have to be continually added. Donations were collected to put up the statue instead, to honor all of them, past and future. Cape Light was so pleasant and peaceful, but it was a seafaring town that depended on an often treacherous sea.

  Death had never touched anyone close to her, Lizabeth realized, except for Amanda. She shivered. She wouldn’t think about death. She wouldn’t! Maybe Tracy hadn’t been delirious at all. If she had just awakened from a deep sleep, it made sense that she was still halfway in a dream. What was the harm in a dream about a party? Someday she and Tracy would laugh about it.

  Lizabeth sat down on the bench in front of the courthouse and brushed grass and pebbles from her soles. In daylight the bench was the property of the old men who gathered there to argue, divided for and against whatever President Teddy Roosevelt was doing next. They’d pass hours there, munching doughnuts from the bakery….

  The bakery was shuttered now. The busy general store/post office was nothing but a dark looming shape. Moonlight glimmered on the red-and-white pole in front of the barbershop. Cape Light looked deserted. She had never felt so all alone.

  What was she going to do? She had never thought beyond seeing Tracy. Where could she go now? Maybe spend the night right here on the bench. It was as good a plan as any. She’d think more clearly in the morning.

  Lizabeth twisted into a comfortable position on the wooden planks and used her arm for a pillow.

  Dear God, Lizabeth whispered, please keep Tracy safe tonight. She’s still so small and innocent. She wakes up happy every morning,
full of wonder for the new day. She doesn’t know that anything bad could happen. Please God, take care of my little sister.

  Far away a dog barked. It would be an endless, lonely night. She heard a new sound: the whistles of gusts of wind.

  Lizabeth sat up. Clouds covered the moon. Now she could barely see more than a foot ahead. New leaves of the big maples around the square rustled. Lizabeth hugged her arms around her chest. The temperature was dropping. The air felt heavy and damp.

  It can’t rain, she thought. Please, not tonight! She had to find shelter. But where? She couldn’t think. Somewhere….

  The Mill Pond! There was a little shed on the far side, where they’d put on their skates or stash hot cocoa when the pond froze over in the winter.

  Lizabeth had to go slowly in the dark, feeling her way on the road. The distance to the pond had never seemed longer. Ow! Something cut deep into her heel. A sharp stone. She dug it out, but now she was limping. She kept her mind on the shed and forced herself forward. Another painful step, a little further…

  Lizabeth heard water lapping against the shore. The Mill Pond! A flood of memories washed over her. Tracy, learning to skate last winter. It was Chris who patiently held her hand, though all his friends were zooming around the ice. Chris did have a tender side, Lizabeth realized. One that he saved mostly for Tracy.

  The last time they went, Tracy was skating on her own with a huge, proud grin. Lizabeth could almost see it: Tracy falling, her little face crumpling but refusing to cry, picking herself up and starting off again. Lizabeth’s heart turned over. Nothing ever stopped that brave little girl.

  Lizabeth was making her way around the pond when the drizzle began. Last week she would have said a drizzle was good for her dewy complexion. Had her mind really been on nothing else?

  She had reached the shed when the rain became heavier. Thank goodness she’d made it just in time! She felt her way around the wooden sides. Here was the door! It was latched shut with a heavy iron lock. Lizabeth was stunned with disbelief. She rattled and rattled the chain. No use. She pounded desperately at the door. She pounded until her fists were sore.

  She stood in misery as the rain drenched her. Her dress was plastered to her body. Her soaked petticoat weighed her down. Water ran from her hair down her face, down her neck, along her arms. If she didn’t get out of the rain, she’d surely get sick—if she wasn’t already.

  She heard the first rumblings of thunder in the distance. She had to do something! But what? What? Kat’s cottage, Rose’s, Amanda’s—so warm and cozy, forbidden to her now when she needed her friends the most.

  Her dripping hair ribbon was blown in front of her face. She pulled it off. She was breathing with rapid, panicked gasps. Stop it, she told herself. Think!

  The abandoned fishermen’s huts! There were three of them down near the docks. Ice fishermen had used them before they became too dilapidated. But they were still partially standing, they still had roofs, she thought. All that long way to the docks—but somewhere to go.

  Lizabeth retraced her steps back to Lighthouse Lane. She lost track of how long she’d been walking. She could hardly see in the pelting rain. Then the first bolts of lightning scared her. Stay away from trees, Lizabeth remembered. They’re hit first in a thunderstorm. But the lane was lined with trees! There was nothing she could do except keep going.

  She limped, favoring her right foot. In the dark, she veered off the road. When she brushed against the bushes, she redirected her steps back to the path. She went from paving to dirt road, her feet squishing in mud. She gave in to the streams of water running down her body. When lightning came, she learned to use the moment of visibility to check her direction.

  She walked and walked, and suddenly she thought, Maybe this is my walkabout. She had nothing: no shoes, no clothing but a torn and sopping dress, none of the trimmings that had been so important to her. I’m stripped bare, Lizabeth thought. It’s just me now, down to the basics. Is this where I meet myself?

  Who would she meet? A girl whose entire soul had been wrapped up in becoming a beauty queen, with Beauty Secrets of the Ages as her bible? A girl who thought her pretty dresses made her special? So very smug and so dependent on being rich—is that all I am? Her tears mixed with the rain running down her cheeks. Not anymore, please, God—I can be better than that!

  Lizabeth was tempted to sink helplessly to the ground. No! She wiped her eyes. No, I’ll go on walking and I will reach the huts. And I will not seek help where I might infect someone else.

  In a flash of lightning, Lizabeth spotted the first tumbledown hut. She almost cried with gratitude as she rushed toward it. The door was half off its hinges. It was easy to get in. She bumped her knee on something—a crate? She went deep into the shed until she hit the far wall. It was dry back here. Blessedly dry!

  Lizabeth went limp with relief. A haven at last. She sank down to the rough, splintery floor and huddled into a ball to keep warm. I’ll make it through the night, she thought, and there’ll be another morning and God’s warm, comforting sun.

  Suddenly she heard the door’s hinges creak. The wind? No, the door was being pushed open. Someone was coming inside! Lizabeth gasped and scrambled to her feet.

  “Who’s there?” a hoarse voice called.

  Lizabeth was too uneasy to answer. She shrank against the wall. She heard the scratch of a match. She saw the flare of a candle being lit. Above its wavering flickers was a grotesque bony face.

  Crazy Mary!

  twelve

  “Who’s there?” Crazy Mary’s hoarse voice repeated. “Answer me!”

  Lizabeth cowered against the far wall. Her heart was racing.

  “Don’t think I can’t hear you! Show yourself!” Crazy Mary lit another candle. Now there were two, placed in hurricane lamps on a crate. Their light wavered unsteadily throughout the hut. “This is my place!”

  “I’ll…I’ll go.” Lizabeth was trembling.

  Crazy Mary, covered by a dripping tarpaulin, was blocking the doorway. Did she dare run past her? She was afraid to get close.

  “Please. If you move from the door, I’ll go. Let me…let me go.”

  Crazy Mary took a step toward her.

  “Don’t come near me! I might have scarlet fever,” Lizabeth threatened.

  “What do I care about the fever?” Crazy Mary chortled, and her laughter was horribly out of place.

  “Let me out,” Lizabeth begged.

  “Foolish girl! You’ll catch your death in the rain.” Crazy Mary peered at her. “You’re a young one, are you? Tell me how old.”

  “Thir—thirteen,” Lizabeth stammered. She saw a neat pile of rags against the wall and a dented tin dish. There was a big straw bag stuffed with pieces of clothing and what seemed to be a faded family Bible. She had stumbled into the hut that served as Crazy Mary’s home! “I didn’t mean any harm, I—” If she could somehow edge around her…

  “Are you a friend of my Kevin?” Crazy Mary asked.

  Who was Kevin? What was she supposed to say?

  “No, no, I get mixed up.” Crazy Mary groaned. “It was six years ago Kevin was fifteen. Nineteen hundred, turn of the century. Six years.”

  Crazy Mary was an old woman, that’s all, Lizabeth told herself. She couldn’t be very strong. Lizabeth gathered her courage. I can force my way past her and get out. Just go!

  “Are you a drowned rat? That’s what you look like.” That awful chortle again and Crazy Mary tossed a frayed blanket at Lizabeth. “Here.”

  Lizabeth caught it automatically. It smelled, but she couldn’t resist wrapping it around her wet and freezing body. She was uncertain. Outside was the driving rain. Inside was Crazy Mary! Though Kat’s father said she was harmless…No, of course she couldn’t stay here!

  “Six years,” Crazy Mary mumbled. “No one remembers the North Star. You don’t know. You don’t know anything.”

  “The North Star?” Lizabeth repeated. She had been seven when the shock and sadness of it affect
ed the whole town.

  “What do you know?” Crazy Mary sounded belligerent and Lizabeth shrank back.

  “I remember the North Star,” Lizabeth said. “It sank.”

  “It took all four with it. To the bottom of the sea. Down to the crabs and the lobsters and the creeping crawlers and—”

  “Eight men went down with the North Star,” Lizabeth corrected. This was crazy! Was she actually having a conversation of sorts with Crazy Mary? But if she kept the old woman calm and talking…She’d make her move soon, suddenly brush past her. Lizabeth shuddered. Back into the rain with no place to go.

  “Four of mine,” Crazy Mary said. “John Dellrow. My husband. He was fifty-six. Fifty-six is too soon, don’t you think? Johnny Dellrow, Jr. He was thirty, the image of his father. A fine boy. Oh, he hated it when they called him Junior. Alan Dellrow, twenty-eight. Alan always said fishing was no kind of life. Not tough enough for it. Wanted to work on a farm. I’ll tell you the truth: John had no patience for him.”

  Lizabeth had never connected the Dellrow tragedy with Crazy Mary. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Crazy Mary didn’t seem to hear her. Her talk flowed out as if a dam had opened.

  “Alan, well, he was the one remembered flowers on my birthday. Daffodils one year, tied up with a yellow ribbon. Now wasn’t that nice? Imagine, flowers on my birthday! And Kevin, just turned fifteen. He was the baby. Didn’t think I’d have another one, but then there was Kevin. He was my special one. Knew his numbers and letters and such a smile! I didn’t want him going out with the others that day.” Crazy Mary groaned. “I said he oughta be in school. But he wanted to be a man like his brothers. You should have seen his eyes, begging to go. John said I was babying him, making him soft. John was head of the house, you know, so I said all right. I had an awful cold feeling that day, but I said all right. That’s what I did. And I started the codfish stew for dinner, cutting up onions and all. Potatoes, too. Had plenty of potatoes in those days.”