Philip ripped my mobcap from my head and let it fall to the ground. He fingered my light hair and I shivered, the thought of being scalped causing my legs to tremble.
The two natives who led Abram to the top of the rock before did so again. When he neared the top, I squeezed my eyes shut and looked at the ground, burrowing my head in the rise of my shoulders. As they started up their terrible chanting, the native near me jerked my hair upward so hard I could scarce close my eyes. I braced myself for a knife to be pressed to my scalp. Instead, the native pointed to the top.
He wanted me to watch.
I understood then that the sachem had ordered Abram to jump three times from the rock. I didn’t see how he’d survive another leap.
With my neck bent at an awkward angle, I kept my eyes on the man I loved. I wanted him to fight, to refuse such a fate, but again, Abram jumped. This time he didn’t manage to leap out so far and I scrunched my eyes half shut to spare myself the sight of seeing him impaled on one of the jagged rocks below.
’Tis a terrible thing to watch, a man plummeting to the ground to meet his demise. A man already injured and hurting. A man I loved.
I heard bones crack, and when I turned my head into my sleeve, certain I would lose the contents of my stomach for the second time that day, the native holding my hair pulled my head up again. I choked on the sour bile in the back of my throat, on the sobs I could no longer suppress.
Abram could not get up of his own accord. The other men helped him. I scarce recognized his mutilated face, once beautiful.
“Chickautáw.”
I swallowed the lump of emotion in my throat.
“Jesus meet my heart. And yours.”
In that moment, I could make no sense of his words. All I could see was his disfigured body being hauled up the rock a third time.
“Please,” I said. “Must you torture him so?”
The native beside me shook me hard by the hair. A clump ripped from my scalp.
When at last they reached the top, they placed Abram on the edge. He wavered, raised a crooked hand at me, and fell forward—this time, it seemed, welcoming death’s embrace.
His body slammed against the top of his cave, his head knocking against a sharp rock on top. He fell not far from my feet in a defaced lump.
I prayed he was dead and his suffering gone. I prayed he was meeting his Jesus face to face at that moment. I prayed they wouldn’t drag him up the rock again.
I searched his bloodied bare chest for sign of life and saw nothing.
Without warning, a shot sounded through the air. I jumped. The native who held my hair fell to the ground. My hair landed at my shoulders and I pushed it from my face to see what had happened.
Then the whoosh and stick of an axe, and another native beside me also fell. I stood frozen to the ground as another shot sounded and another native fell.
Then, from the thick of the woods . . . “Elizabeth, run!”
Caleb.
He’d come for me. Foolish man, he’d come for me.
I ran in the direction of the settlement, hoping Caleb could follow close behind.
But the natives regrouped quickly, readied their bows and arrows and a few muskets. From what I could gather, Caleb was alone. His single musket and a couple axes could not compete with their many men and weapons.
A path stood before me, calling me to freedom, and I hesitated. How could I leave first Papa, then Abram, and now Caleb to die at the hands of Philip’s men?
The hesitation was time enough for a native to grab hold of me. A tussle ensued. Caleb hurled himself at my assaulter. He seemed to gain the upper hand, but more natives fell upon him.
With one last surge of strength, Caleb hurled his musket at one of the natives who held me. I felt the release of hands upon my body, but ’twas not enough for me to make an escape. Quick as lightning, one of the natives loosed an arrow.
“Caleb!” I called as I watched him fall.
More hands upon me, dragging me away, taking me with them, taking me from my proud Abram and my loyal Caleb.
They brought me to their camp, invited me inside their wigwams, offered me their food of ground-nuts and pork. I want none of it.
I am here still, refusing their food and their company.
I hate the beastly lot. How had I ever thought them harmless? They have taken everything from me. There is no future or hope on this side of heaven, and I am not altogether certain there is any hope for me there, either.
I care not if they kill me tonight.
“How’s it going?”
I turned from my laptop at the sound of Jill’s voice. I shook my head, still in a trance from what I’d just read. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was closing time already.”
I didn’t want to leave Elizabeth in this place of despair. Both the men she cared for were dead. How would passing on this story to Mary inspire anything good?
Jill glanced at her phone. “You still have a couple of minutes, but your son’s waiting for you in the foyer. I was curious about what you thought, though.”
“Of Elizabeth’s story? It’s amazing, but sad. Barb seemed to think it would heal or inspire hope or forgiveness. . . . I’m not seeing it yet.”
The young woman smiled and opened the case that housed Elizabeth’s journal. “Hang in there.” She turned to me. “I think sometimes we might not recognize hope until we’ve been in the darkness.”
I pondered her words, feeling their truth, wondering if my own life would ever meet hope again. I thought to affirm that Jill was right, or at least thank her, but no words came forth. All I could feel was anger and resentment, for both my situation and Elizabeth’s.
I stood and Jill worked to pack up Elizabeth’s pages. I couldn’t imagine not coming back for an entire five days. Briefly, I entertained the thought of calling out sick tomorrow, but the picture of Jen and the rest of the team pulling extra weight because of my absence caused me to lay aside the idea.
I packed up my laptop and thanked Jill, telling her I’d be back the next weekend.
Whether hope resided in the remaining pages of Elizabeth’s journal or not, I intended to finish it—not only for Barb, but for myself as well.
Chapter 25
Jen caught me in the hall the following day. “Is it just me, or are you avoiding me?”
I had been. Though it wasn’t her I was actually avoiding, but all of my coworkers. I hadn’t told anyone about Matt’s mention of divorce. Not Essie, not my parents.
“Things have been busy, that’s all. How’re the boys?”
“Camden was up sick for most of the night, poor kid. I’m assuming his brother will be next.” Another nurse called to her from down the hall. “Waiting for a call from a doctor. Catch up later? Oh, can you check on Mrs. Gordan? She said her stomach’s bothering her.”
“Sure. I hope Camden feels better soon.”
She flashed me a smile and I turned to attend Mrs. Gordon, but slammed into a hard chest covered in a white lab coat.
“Whoa, there. Where you off to in such a hurry?” Pete placed his hands on my arms.
I’d avoided him, too. But here and now, I realized I was glad to see him. “Room 324.”
“Mrs. Gordon. Just came from there. Might not be pretty.”
I snorted. “I didn’t get into this field for beauty.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. What you do—helping the patients here . . . I think that’s pretty beautiful.”
I blushed. This man always seemed to know what to say. “Thanks.”
“How’s the golf swing? I think it’s time we get you out on a real course.”
It sounded like an invitation for a date. I’d spurned him too often. And now, with my marriage shattered, what was the point? Matt rode around Newport, Cassie tucked cozy on his bike behind him. With Kyle out of his rental house, who knew what went on.
I shivered.
“Is a course that intimidating? We’ll do a small one. I know a good par three
course not far from your house.”
I forced a smile. “That sounds good.”
He straightened. “Really?”
I laughed at his obvious surprise. “Really. Maybe we could grab a bite to eat, too.”
His eyebrows shot up, making him all the more charming. “Yeah…yeah, that’d be great. How’s Saturday? I’ll schedule a tee-off time.”
“Sure—ah, sorry, I take that back. I need to finish up the journal on Saturday.” Okay, I didn’t need to. I wanted to. Surprisingly even more than I wanted to spend the day with Pete.
“No problem, I understand.”
Why was I surprised that he genuinely seemed to? Because Matt had never bothered to ask or care? Or maybe because I couldn’t picture him even pretending to do so?
But the comparisons had to stop. If I was going to move past Matt, if I was going to allow something between me and Pete, I would have to like Pete for Pete—not because he had proven himself a better man than my husband.
My husband.
Something curdled in my stomach—the same feeling I’d had when reading of Elizabeth watching Abram’s last fall from his rock. The same feeling I had when realizing it was Caleb who had come to her rescue, Caleb who had given his life for her.
Unconditional love.
But no one expected me to love my husband unconditionally at this point. The moment Matt had chosen divorce—the moment he’d chosen Cassie over his wife—I’d been excused.
The thought made me feel only marginally better.
“What about Friday night?”
I stared at Pete, not really seeing him. I blinked, shook my head. “Yes—yes, Friday’s great.”
“Great.” He said good-bye and walked down the hall, a light spring in his step.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d made someone so happy.
And the idea of a date wasn’t really so terrible. My vows were practically meaningless at this point. Matt had broken them. They were as good as my wedding rings—forever gone, forever missing.
Like poor Abram, dead at the bottom of a rock.
Four days later, a divorce petition was handed to me by my mailman. It struck me as odd that it would reach me in such an impersonal way, by courier, the unfamiliar name of a lawyer neatly typed on the certified mail envelope. Shouldn’t Matt hand it to me, be here to look me in the eye? I didn’t want us to be one of those ex-couples who never spoke to one another, who constantly pitted our child against each other.
No, there was a right way to do this, and it wasn’t by mail.
I tore open the envelope. Who was I kidding? There was no right way to go about this. No right way to permanently disconnect yourself from a person you shared a life with.
I sat at the breakfast bar and inhaled the fresh smell of rain on pavement. It trickled lightly outside, watering the grass and flowers, bestowing life upon them.
But it also trailed tears down the windows.
Could something be both good and bad? Could good come from my divorce? I thought of Mrs. Rhinehart. I remembered Elizabeth writing of beauty from ashes. I didn’t see how God could ever bless a failed marriage, but certainly he couldn’t bless a marriage in which my husband was unfaithful, either.
I looked at the papers. Crisp, black writing contrasted the brilliant white paper. It all looked so neat and clean, but I knew the papers lied. What waited was messy.
I looked it over, the realization that Matt really wanted to go through with this hitting me as hard as the edges of his familiar signature on the petition—the first step in what was certain to be a lengthy process. At the bottom was a request that I file a response—in essence, sign and agree to the separation—within thirty days.
I wanted to tear the neat papers in two. Flush them down the toilet or place them on the lawn and mow them up until they were nothing but shreds.
Instead, I tucked the papers back in the envelope, opened a cabinet on the side of the bar, and placed them beside my cutting boards.
I wasn’t ready for this. If I signed, I was indicating I agreed with the divorce. That it was okay by me. I simply couldn’t agree to the dissolution of seventeen years with the stroke of a pen.
I slammed the cabinet door closed and took out my phone to play the message from the clock repairman. I jotted down his number and dialed it. He picked up on the second ring. An older gentleman who spoke slow and crackly, like a beat-up old record. I made an appointment for the following week, thanked him, and said good-bye.
I laid my head in my arms and lightly kicked at the woodwork beneath the breakfast bar, where Matt’s divorce papers were hidden.
Outside, rain continued to dribble tears on the panes of the windows.
Chapter 26
The challenge of golf is that there are about a million possible directions the ball can go. Far off to the right, in a thick tangle of shrubs. Far to the left, in the wrong fairway. Not far enough, splashing into a water hazard. Close to the green, but off to the side, in a sand bunker.
It takes skill and persistence to get that ball to cooperate. And there’s only one shot. If it’s not right the first time, the score on the hole is at stake.
Unless the golfer can recover. Unless they can rally their efforts and tenacity and make a good, clean shot on the second stroke.
In golf, the players get a second chance, their opportunity to do things right.
I think that’s what I was coming to like about the game.
I took a deep breath, raised my driver, kept my eye on the ball, and followed through until the head of the club connected with the word Titleist printed in flowing script on the hot-pink golf ball. Pete had given me a small bag of identical ones before we teed off. I liked them. They were flashy and different from the normal white. They stood out.
Maybe that would help when I needed to search for my ball in the hedges.
I kept my arms poised, my driver aimed toward the white flag flying in the breeze, and I didn’t release my stance until the hot-pink blur landed on the green, bounced once, and rolled within three feet of the hole.
“Yes!” I did a small, excited jump—certainly not suitable etiquette for a golf course. I wish my first thought wasn’t of how proud Matt would be of me had he seen the shot.
Pete gave me a high five. “Nice. You showed me up.”
We gathered our bags and started the 150-yard walk to the green. “I still have to putt. That could be a disaster.”
“You’re doing great.”
“Thanks.”
“You getting excited for school?”
Excited wasn’t exactly the word. While I didn’t regret my decision, I wondered if now was the right time. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about putting it off.” I cast a quick glance at Pete. “Matt’s asked for divorce.” There, I said it out loud. I said it out loud and I was still living. I was still breathing. It might hurt like the dickens, but I was still standing.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah.”
“Really?”
We kept walking, and he dragged in a breath that was visible beneath his polo shirt. “No . . . and I’m sorry for that, too.” He put a hand on my arm. “I am sorry you’re hurting, though.”
I swallowed down my misgivings. Matt probably occupied Cassie’s yacht right about now. Or maybe they rode the Harley, or shared a drink after a round of golf, or a kiss on the beach.
I sniffed, tried to gather myself.
“I know it’s none of my business, but school might be just the thing for you in this season. And I’d be happy to help you study.”
I gave him a sidelong glance. “I bet I’d be the only student with a medical doctor for a tutor.”
“That’s right. It’ll be good for your education. We made a great team in undergrad chem lab—we’d probably make a great team getting you your NP license.”
I smiled at his willingness to help, but shook my head slightly, not wanting to encourage him too much.
I placed my golf bag off to the side of the green
and slid my putter from the bag as Pete removed the flag from the hole.
One thing I hadn’t told Pete was how the petition sat in my cutting board cabinet.
I set up for my putt and tried to clear my head. If I made the shot, it would be my first birdie. The ball skimmed the edge of the hole and veered to the left. I groaned.
Second shots weren’t always about redemption. Sometimes those were a mess, too.
Pete and I both finished the hole at par. We played five more holes and headed for his Toyota. He drove toward Rhode Island. He must have sensed my tension as we veered onto Route 24.
“We’re only going to Tiverton. Is that too close to Newport for you?”
He could read me better than a Kindle screen. “That’s okay. I’m up for it.”
We parked at a restaurant situated on Sakonnet Bay, the sun’s red rays shimmering off the water. I reached for his hand and squeezed it.
“What was that for?” A lazy grin played on his face.
“Just for being here.”
“I’ll be here all you want if that’s what I’m going to get.”
I smiled. I found myself doing that a lot with this guy. “I mean it. This has been the worst time of my life, but having you here has made things more bearable.”
The smile fled his face. He turned toward me. The radio hummed in the background, too quiet for me to make out the song.
“Is it weird to admit that I had a small crush on you back in that chem class? Of course after I saw your wedding ring, I didn’t entertain it, but before I knew . . . well, before I realized . . . you had the best laugh. You still do.”
I smiled, but I felt the sadness tugging at its corners.
How would things have been different if I hadn’t been wearing Lorna’s ring in that chem class? If I was just a struggling single mother trying to make something of myself? Would Pete have asked me out? Would we have dated through college? If we’d married, would we still be happy now? Would we have had children? Played golf together? Worked together? Or would we have grown stale and crusty like Matt and me? Was the problem me, or Matt, or maybe the both of us together?
The Edge of Mercy Page 19
