“Matthew.”
“I told you not to come.”
“I couldn’t stay away—I haven’t seen you for weeks. You haven’t called . . .” Her voice sounded pouty. They could at least walk down the hall. I didn’t want to hear their conversation. I didn’t. And I did.
“He’s better now, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Kyle’s doing well.”
“Good.” But it didn’t sound like she was happy for Kyle’s sake, or for Matt’s sake, but for her own. “You can come back to Newport sometime then, yes? Mommy and Daddy are talking about redoing the landscaping on the guest house. They want to know your ideas.”
“Cassie—I’m here now. This comes first. My family . . . my family comes first.”
I choked down a half sob, half laugh over his statement. He sounded sincere, but I couldn’t trust it.
“Before your work, yes, but before me? We were just starting things together.”
A long sigh. “Look, now’s not a good time. When we’re out of this, we’ll talk.”
My hope deflated. What had I expected? Him to run back home to our empty marriage after a few trying weeks? For things to be how they were before? Better even?
I was a fool.
I heard her heels click against the hospital floor until they echoed out of sight.
Matt came back in the room. “Sorry.”
I didn’t say anything. I knew if I did, it would come out bitter.
I stood. “I’ll be back in the morning. Dr. Larson suggested moving him to rehab in the next day or two. Someplace closer to home.”
Matt nodded. “Sure. Good.” He waited until I was at the door. “I am sorry, Sarah. She shouldn’t have come.”
I left the room. Matt was sorry a lot lately, but frankly, I didn’t know if it would make one iota of a difference.
On impulse, I drove home for the night. I was sick of hotel rooms, and Cassie’s visit renewed my anger.
I wanted my marriage. Despite the hurt, despite the threat of failure, I wanted to fight for my husband as Caleb had fought for Elizabeth.
I opened the door of our house. It smelled stuffy and stale, and I pushed up all the windows. But silence didn’t loiter in my home. A wonderful steady tick came from the grandfather clock.
Night’s shawl hovered above the last of the sun’s rays as I stood in the living room, basking in the persistent resonance of the old antique. Had it roused to life on its own? It didn’t matter. It was back, faithful once again.
There was a note on the counter in Essie’s handwriting.
Hey Sarah,
I hope you don’t mind but I was grabbing some of your stuff when that clock guy came. I let him fix it. Didn’t want to bother you with this until you were home.
I mentally thanked Essie and focused on my next task. I ran upstairs to pull on a pair of old sneakers and jeans before returning downstairs.
I opened the cabinet beneath the breakfast bar and pulled out the divorce papers. Unless I was wrong or filled with pathetic hope, something had changed in Matt the past couple of weeks. If he truly still wanted a divorce after what we’d been through, he’d have to visit his lawyer again.
I slipped onto the back patio as the clock released seven beautiful chimes, cheering me on. I headed for the shed. I dropped the divorce papers on the freshly-trimmed lawn and hauled the old lawn mower out. It was one of Matt’s firsts. A push-mower that didn’t even propel forward. I don’t know why he kept the thing. It was one of the few old objects he cherished.
I poured some gasoline into the mower, the rich, oily scent churning my stomach. I pulled the cord once, then twice, my arm protesting the effort. The engine stayed quiet.
I took a deep breath, and yanked it once more, as hard as I could. It rumbled to life, and my heart lifted, my aim on the neat papers before me, Matt’s signature at the bottom.
They were gone in four seconds. The mower’s hungry blades chewed the papers into small shreds that fed into the mower’s bag. When not a white speck remained on our vibrant green grass, I unhitched the bag and walked toward the stone wall. Tall, unruly grass beside the rough trail brushed at the legs of my jeans. I saw the pile of lawn clippings Louis and Greg had tossed there and kept walking. I wanted the shreds of paper as far away as possible—the dirtiest, most useless of lawn refuse this family had ever known.
When I found a spot I deemed suitable, I dumped them. White confetti dropped from the bag and when every last shred had fallen, I scraped the spot with my shoe. I turned toward the house.
Yes, a lot of the future of my marriage was determined by Matt. But our union was made up of two, and I had half the say in how our marriage would go.
The following Monday, Kyle was transported to a rehabilitation center down the street from our home. I moved back into the house and stayed with him during the days. I effectively deferred my school enrollment to January. Matt returned to Newport and his work, visiting the center every night.
I felt us drifting back into the life we’d lived before the accident. I wondered if Matt sought Cassie’s arms after he left the rehab center.
The thought sent fresh grief to the core of my being.
I wrestled with God a lot. I didn’t push Matt. I talked to Jesus. I didn’t goad my husband into arguments. I poured my grief-ridden heart out to God, tried to wrangle a blessing, tried to fill up the great chasm I felt in the core of my being—a great chasm that I was beginning to realize only He could fill.
One day, I drove to Plymouth instead of spending the day with Kyle in rehab. Yes, I needed to fulfill my request to Barb, but right now, with things finally settling down with Kyle, I wanted time alone—time to finish Elizabeth’s story.
Jill hugged me after the receptionist called for her. Sometime in the first week after Kyle’s accident I thought to send her an email explaining my absence.
“How is he?”
“Good.” I tried to keep my grateful tears in check. “Really good.”
She led me to the Steinway Library, where she’d already set up Elizabeth’s journal. In some ways, the sight of the yellowed pages felt like coming home to an old friend. I stood above the journal, reflective. “She helped me. In the hospital, I mean. That hope we were talking about? Elizabeth helped me find it.”
Jill smiled, and I felt she understood—perhaps more than my sister and friends, perhaps more than anyone, even. It would make sense that someone who had a passion for history, a passion for the people represented by the artifacts in this room, would understand.
She left me to my work, and I carefully went to the page where I’d left off weeks earlier, remembering how Elizabeth was in the isolation tent and had planned an escape. I read and typed, sinking slowly back into her words and story.
July 30, 1675
I waited until all the women in the tent fell asleep, then made for the site in which we relieved ourselves, my journal the sole item in my pocket. Smoke encompassed the camp—heady fires now dying, its occupants drunk with heavy sleep and full bellies. I walked calmly in the woods, yet as soon as I was out of sight, I ran.
Seemed too simple to escape in such a way. And it was.
I heard footfalls behind me. I stumbled upon a hole in the ground. My skirts caught in brambles. I turned, hoping to see Caleb as the owner of the footsteps. Yet by the moonlight, I could not mistake the black hair and proud stance.
Naveen.
I ran all the faster.
If I were to ever make it out of the camp, ’twas now. After tonight, Naveen would not let me from his sight. He would take me for his wife and I would be bound to him in every way.
The thought of sharing his bed propelled me forward. Naveen’s footsteps drew closer. I ran into something solid and felt hands at my sides. I fought.
“Elizabeth, ’tis me.”
I gave a small cry and clutched at Caleb’s shirt. “He comes.”
Caleb pushed me to the side. A shiny knife in his hand glinted in the moonlight.
I
turned away and crouched in a bayberry bush. I could not bear to see my dear Caleb take another life, even if it be one as horrid as Naveen’s.
The struggle did not last long. Naveen did not expect Caleb.
Caleb took my hand in his own, still wet from Naveen’s blood. I allowed him to lead me, running, through the thick bushes until we met the water’s edge, where a small rowboat waited. He lifted me inside, as gentle as if I were a lamb, and rowed with strong strokes to the large island called Aquidneck.
When we reached its shores, he took me in his arms and I near melted for the feel of him.
“You are safe, little Elizabeth. ’Tis safe here.”
I put my hand on his bearded cheek, and when his head lowered to mine, I did not resist him. For a slice of time, I forgot everything, save what felt like my betrayal to Abram. I pulled away. Caleb’s protective arms did not leave me.
He pushed a lock of hair from my eyes. “I love you, Elizabeth.”
This man had done so much for me, I thought to return his words. Yet still, I cannot trust my heart. I will not speak words that I am not certain.
August 1, 1675
Caleb wasted no time in securing our marriage. He told me he wants to ensure my place as a widow if something should happen to him when he goes to fight.
He will leave me soon.
’Tis more than I can bear, for being connected by marriage now and having shared his bed, I am bound to him in a way I never expected.
Before now I did not realize the ferocity of marriage. It binds with the gentleness of a sweet dove, but protects like a vicious, roaring lion. Beneath its canopy, I find it easier to relinquish Papa to heaven. I can heal from the horrid images I have seen due to war.
I trust the Lord to give me strength in this hour that Caleb should depart from me.
I find comfort in renewing my ties with Goodwife Howland and Andia. They have been at Aquidneck for weeks. Our settlement at Swanzey is gone. If ever this war should end, we will have to rebuild everything.
Andia mourns Hezekiah. He is one of the lost. I can understand her deep sorrow. I keep her company but do not offer up too much advice or words of comfort. These are like daggers to an already broken heart. If she talks, I listen.
I asked Goodwife Howland if she thought beauty could come even from the ashes of our burned settlement. She told me it was not for us to know how God’s hand works. That beauty would come in time, if not for many years, when our bodies lie buried beneath the ground.
Caleb will leave tomorrow. I share his bed tonight with tender knowledge that what we have is precious and fragile. I savor his love tonight and will hold it in my heart until he returns.
September 26, 1675
I have busied myself preparing for the small harvest on this sandy island. The crops are not as plentiful, and we realize the winter will be hard.
I wonder if the little one that grows within my womb will survive such conditions.
News of battles throughout Massachusetts Bay and Plimoth Colony reach us. The number of dead strikes my soul, and I pray Caleb is not among them.
I ache for my husband. I regret not telling him of my love. I have lived in guilt and regret too long. Surely Abram would not approve of this frame of mind.
I spend many nights pondering my feelings for Abram, pondering my feelings for my husband. I have realized that love takes many forms. I loved Abram, but I was perhaps more drawn to the adventure and promise he represented to me.
Now, I am certain. I do love Caleb. ’Tis not wrong to love someone because they first loved you. For isn’t that how we express our love for God? He hath loved us first, showing that love with ultimate measures as Caleb hath shown his love for me. And now to the one who has done battle for me, the one who never gave up on me— I willingly give my entire, eager heart.
Both my sweet Jesus and my sweet Caleb.
December 23, 1675
News has come to us of a great fight across the bay against the Narragansett. ’Tis the worst fight yet. We are told it is a great victory for the English, but with so many dead on either side I wonder who is truly victorious.
I think of Andia’s native boy, another living in two worlds. He seems to have acclimated well. Andia even offered him a way back to his people and he refused. One night, I saw his shadow at the edge of the water. He made sounds I did not understand—sad, mourning sounds of his people. Andia waited at the top of the beach, and when he was finished she wrapped him in a hug. She treats him as a son, for he is the only child Hezekiah has given to her.
Sometimes, even in the ugliness of war, we can break through to the other side. That blessed side where neither skin color nor background are of import. ’Tis not common. But I see it with Andia and Samuel and I am reminded of a time I saw it briefly before, between myself and Abram.
The women keep busy tending the fires and splitting wood. ’Tis strange with so many of the men gone and but few to guard Aquidneck. Yet the threat of attack from the Wampanoag is indeed slim. They have been run off in the land of the Narragansett, and now it appears even this mighty tribe is being defeated.
I hope it ends soon. I hope Caleb’s lifeblood still flows strong within him. I hope I can tell him of my love for him. I hope he comes home to me and the wee child growing rapidly in my womb.
April 24, 1676
I gave birth to little Michael Caleb last night. In the distance, we saw the fierce fires of a waging war off Aquidneck. I wondered if Caleb fought against the continued plundering of nearby towns. I think it strange he has not come to see us if he is close.
Through the night and billowing clouds of smoke far off, I gave birth to our son. He be such a sweet thing. Goodwife Howland and Andia helped me push him from my womb into the world, where he gave lusty cries.
I am struck by this love I have for him. ’Tis another sort of strange love, both protective and sweet.
The weather warms. We have made it through the winter. I nurse my babe in hopes that his father will soon be with us.
May 9, 1676
Caleb has returned to us. He walks with an injured leg, but it is the least of the evils done him I think. He cried when he saw Michael. He does not let either one of us from his sight and fears when I am gone longer than usual to the privy.
My husband is not the same man who left us. Often I see him gazing blankly at the wall and I must call to him thrice before he realizes where he is. He shares my bed with vigor. And though I can’t say I haven’t enjoyed his intense affection, I feel he attempts to drive away the evils in his head with his love for me.
I sat up with him the whole of his first night home. When I told him I loved him greatly, his eyes seemed to lighten. I see hope there. I pray the Lord grants us mercy.
I am patient with him, and with little Michael, who often fusses. I rise each day with renewed purpose. I wonder at how I ever thought there was anything more worthy to do with my life than take care of a man I love and a son I cherish. What adventure could be greater?
June 11, 1676
Captain Church visited us today. When he left, Caleb went down to the shore for a long time. I fear the captain has asked my husband to return to the battles.
I want to keep him here. I want to never let him go again.
And yet I know he will go. He feels ’tis his duty, and part of me wonders if he has unfinished business; if he goes and comes back, perhaps he will arrive home a whole man?
I cried when he confirmed my fears. I asked him if he wished Michael to grow without a father as I did without a mother? We fought, but at the end of the night I allowed him to take me in his arms.
’Tis no use fighting with a man as stubborn as a mule. He will go. And I do not wish his last memory of us to be a foul one.
July 15, 1676
News of English victories come to us from across the river. Little Michael grows. When he smiles at me, he reminds me of his father.
August 7, 1676
News comes of Wampanoag defeat. The body
of Weetamoo was found washed ashore at Swanzey, likely not far from Papa’s old home. Her head was mounted on a pike in Taunton. As much as I want this war to end, I cannot help but feel sorrow for her.
King Philip still eludes our warriors.
August 9, 1676
Caleb has returned! He and Captain Church’s troops rest on Aquidneck. My husband fares well and his mind has seemed to clear some.
We sat outside as Michael slept and I asked him to tell me all the horrors he has seen. I asked him to share his burdens with me so that I could make them lighter.
Caleb tucked me close and I nestled my head in the crook of his neck. The island cools quickly at night and I found my husband’s warmth comforting and enticing, as I had again been without it for weeks.
He spoke into my hair. “You once told me I may not wish you innocent if war came to us. Do you think what you have seen of war has better prepared you for the life you wish to live?”
I thought of Abram’s mutilated body, falling and spinning off his rock. Of the headless, naked body of John Salisbury. Of the fierce painted faces of Wampanoag warriors. Perhaps innocence was not such a bad thing. I could not admit that to Caleb, though.
“I wish to help you. Let me help, Caleb.”
He smiled. “I still love hearing my name on your sweet lips.”
“Will I be less sweet if you share the burden of your heart with me?”
He was silent for a moment. “What my mind sees is poison to the heart. I can no more poison you than I could stop loving you. Let it lie, Elizabeth. I seek the Lord with my burdens and He supplies me with mercy by the day.”
I did not press him. He has always considered it his duty to protect me. This time, I will allow him to do so.
The Edge of Mercy Page 23
