Out of the Ruins

by Karen Barnett

  Mrs. Webster reached a trembling hand to touch Sparrow’s blanket. “Helen was about the same age, I think. She looks so much like . . .” her voice faltered as she raised a finger to brush the tear from her cheek.

  “Helen,” Abby murmured the name. “How beautiful.” She glanced down at the sleeping infant. “I call this one ‘Sparrow.’ ”

  The Websters exchanged confused looks.

  A shiver coursed through Abby as the sliver of an idea grew in her mind. She told them the story of how she and Robert had rescued the child. “A nurse at the hospital said God watches over the sparrows.”

  Mr. Webster placed a hand on her shoulder. “Aye, He does indeed.”

  His wife covered her mouth with a trembling hand. “If only He had watched over my little sparrow.”

  A surge of energy rippled through Abby. “He never left her side.”

  The woman nodded, wiping her face with a worn handkerchief. “You’re right. Of course. But it’s so difficult to be the one left behind.”

  A settled feeling swept over Abby, leaving her no doubt as to her next step. Looking down at Sparrow, she cuddled the child close, rubbing the tip of her nose against the rose-petal soft cheek.

  Abby tucked the towel around Sparrow and held her out to Mrs. Webster.

  The woman reached out, hands trembling. “I may hold her?”

  “Will you keep her?” The words rasped in Abby’s throat. “At least for the time being?

  Their eyes widened. “Abby . . .” Mr. Webster exchanged an uncertain glance with his wife.

  “I believe God wants it this way,” Abby laid the child in the woman’s arms. “I can feel it in my heart.”

  “Are you sure, child?” Mr. Webster’s voice crackled with emotion.

  Abby nodded, eyes stinging. “I love her, but I cannot care for her. She is weakening every hour. She needs a mother. She needs someone who can feed her and someone to love her like she deserves.”

  Mrs. Webster pulled Sparrow close to her heart. “I can do that.”

  Placing a hand on her shoulder, Mr. Webster nodded. “We will need to search for her family, Marta.”

  “Of course.” Her eyes glittered.

  A hesitant smile grew on Mr. Webster’s face. He reached his arms out and embraced Abby, gentle at first, but then nearly pulling her off balance. “God bless you, daughter.” Tears coursed down his cheeks. “Perhaps we can help this child and perhaps she will help us as well.”

  Abby blinked hard, a lump growing in her throat.

  He stepped back and gazed down at his wife, still staring in awe at the tiny face. “If we can’t find her family, we will love her as our own. I promise you.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Webster glanced up. “I can’t call this sweet thing ‘Sparrow.’ Do you mind if we come up with something else?”

  Mr. Webster’s lips parted. “Marta, you’re not thinking of . . .”

  Her eyebrows sprang upward, “Oh, Micah, of course not. There will never be another—oh, goodness, it’s not what I was thinking at all.” Mrs. Webster turned to Abby. A hint of delight grew in her dark eyes. “Abigail, what was your sister’s name?”

  Abby’s breath caught in her throat, tears springing to my eyes. “Cecelia. Her name was Cecelia.”

  The Websters gazed at each other, conversing with their eyes.

  “Cecelia,” Mrs. Webster cooed at the baby. “Cecelia Sparrow Webster, you will be. At least until we discover who you really are.”

  45

  9:15 a.m.

  Robert frowned as he stared out at the sea of people, the scent of smoke clinging to his clothes. Clambering up onto a stone bench, he drew a hand over his brow to shade his eyes against the rising sun. He’d already made a circuit of the park, but now that every square foot seemed to be occupied, finding anything or anyone seemed unlikely.

  More refugees had arrived during the night, piling their belongings on every scrap of open ground, sleeping wherever they could. Barking dogs growled and snatched at any foodstuffs left unprotected.

  Robert shouldered his pack, loaded with the few supplies he’d scavenged from Abby’s ruined campsite. He shuddered, pushing away the image of Abby fleeing in terror with the baby. Where had she gone? Where was she now?

  He turned, bracing his knee against the back of the bench, peering across the crowd, looking for a familiar straw hat with green ribbons—was she still wearing it? To the east, the lines of army tents multiplied, a sign of order being restored in the midst of chaos.

  Robert scraped a hand across his bristly two-days-growth of whiskers. He probably looked more like a tramp than a respectable physician. He glanced back at the row of tents. If Abby were concerned for her safety, she might gravitate there.

  Replacing his hat, Robert stepped off the bench and wove through the campsites. The scent of fried ham wafted through the morning air, mingling with the stench of campfires and open latrines. The crowd thickened along with the smells, everyone streaming toward a large tent marked with the symbol of the Red Cross.

  Large notice boards stood on either side of the tent, covered in innumerable scraps of paper. Robert pushed through the gathering crowd until he could read the closest of the messages as they fluttered in the breeze. Robert scanned the notes.

  Margie, your cousin and I are going to Sacramento, meet us there.

  Seeking John Spencer, age 14, taken by the work crews. Please direct him to meet his family on the east side of the park.

  Uncle Tomas — Luis and I and the children are camped just south of the statue. We haven’t found Auntie.

  Mary, house is gone. Meet us at Uncle Joe’s in San Anselmo.

  Lost: Girl child, age six, named Berta. Please help.

  Robert paced around the board, carefully reading and rereading each message, lifting corners to read other notices hidden behind.

  A scrap of yellow stationery fluttered near the edge of the board, half-hidden by a scrap of brown paper. The large letters printed at the top caught his eye: “SEEKING ABIGAIL FISCHER.”

  A thin-faced woman jostled against Robert as she reached for a note, her arm blocking his view. She pulled a wrinkled scrap of paper from the board and rushed away. Robert stepped into the space she’d vacated, scanning the board for the note he’d spotted and then lost among the sea of slips. He ran his hand along the board, his heart beating out a rapid rhythm. Had he imagined her name?

  He lifted a sheet of white paper and spotted the yellow scrap. Yanking it from the board, he stepped back as others rushed forward. Turning toward the sunlight, he lifted it close to his face, eyes hungry for the words.

  “SEEKING ABIGAIL FISCHER: Abby, I’m at the northwest end of the park, by the corner. I’m so worried, please hurry. All my love, Mama.”

  A surge, like an electric current, rushed up Robert’s arm as he clutched the precious slip of paper. He couldn’t wait to show it to Abby.

  Now he just had to find her.

  9:35 a.m.

  “I haven’t seen anyone by that name, Miss.” The olive-drab garbed soldier shook his head. He tipped his hat to Abby, the blue cord around the brim bouncing with the motion.

  Abby thanked him and moved off, shrinking against the pressure of the milling crowd. She pushed up on her toes, but couldn’t see very far through the gathering. The stench of unwashed bodies and desperation made her head swim. She pulled off her hat, grateful for the slight breeze finding its way under her hair, drying the sweat gathered on her scalp.

  Perhaps she should head back to the Webster’s camp. The couple had coerced a promise from her to return if she could not find her family within a few hours. Now as she milled through the throng of refugees, she wondered if she’d be able to find her way back. And Mama is waiting out there . . . somewhere.

  The hours blurred into each other. Abby plopped down on a curb to rest, once again pulling Aunt Mae’s journal from her pocket, to stave off any attempts at conversation from nearby campsites. Sliding her fingers along the worn leather binding,
Abby tried to picture her aunt as a girl, her mischievous gray eyes hidden in a much younger face.

  The journal’s script matured as Abby flipped to the later pages, morphing from the carefully crafted penmanship of a schoolgirl to the more relaxed script of a confident young woman.

  August 6, 1854

  Yesterday was so frightening and overwhelming, I never got the chance to write. It was awful hot, so Lydia and I took the younger children swimming in the river. Baby Mildred waded too close to the current and was swept away in the waters. She stayed afloat, her little head bobbing above the surface as she spun off downstream. Our neighbor, Hiram Larkspur, jumped in and pulled her to safety. I was so relieved, but I trembled for the rest of the day, even after I went to bed. I gave up trying to sleep and pulled out Mama’s Bible. A verse in Isaiah fit so perfectly with the day’s events I cried tears of joy. I am going to inscribe it below. God was surely with little Mildred today. She should have drowned, but He held her up.

  “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.” Isaiah 43:2

  Abby reread the verse several times, her aunt’s fine hand curling about the words. The crackle of the flames roared in Abby’s memory, the choking clouds of smoke burning in her chest. She whispered the words aloud: “You will walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.”

  She lifted her head, gazing at the dirty campsites and the children playing, forcing the image of flames out of her mind before skimming further through the pages.

  Went driving with Hiram Larkspur again this evening. I haven’t told Lydia, since she’s so miserable at keeping secrets, but I think he has the most handsome eyes. When he smiles, I can feel it all the way to my toes. And he speaks frequently of his faith, as if the Almighty were a personal friend. Hiram would make a fine minister, but he says he’s going west to California to set up a store like his father’s. He says San Francisco is growing quickly because of all of the men looking for gold.

  I cannot tell Lydia, but I think I may have already found gold . . .

  Abby closed the journal and touched the empty spot at her throat where her locket should rest. She could still remember Great-Uncle Hiram’s eyes—as blue as the California sky, just like Mama’s and Cecelia’s. Who knew Aunt Mae was such a romantic?

  Glancing up from the page, she fixed her gaze on a nearby campsite. An older couple sat huddled together, her silvery head resting on his stooped shoulder. A brown-haired young woman handed the gentleman a cup and he held it steady as his wife raised her head and took a sip, a smile working its way across her lips. He held the cup to his own mouth, bracing his arm around her shoulders. After chatting for several moments, the young woman took a second cup to a broad-shouldered man stacking supplies nearby. He grinned, accepted the cup, and snagged her hand as well. Her easy laugh rang out through the morning air as he pulled her into a one-armed embrace.

  An empty hole gnawed in Abby’s stomach. The memory of Robert’s kiss swirled around her heart like peach blossoms caught up in wind. She closed her eyes, imagining his strong arms circling around her waist, pulling her close, his chocolate-brown gaze melting her resolve. Why had she pushed him away? If he were here now, she’d grab on and never let go.

  Abby thrust the journal back into her pocket and pressed up to her feet. Daydreaming would get her nowhere. She had to keep looking. She cast one last wishful glance at the young couple before turning her eyes forward.

  A black derby atop a dark head bobbed above the milling crowd. Abby bit her lip. Most men wore the round hats these days and yet every time she spotted one, her heart jumped. As he walked away from her, Abby’s breath caught in her chest. Maybe.

  She surged forward, elbowing her way past three women and skirting around a pair of children playing jacks. She lost sight of the hat for a moment and she pushed up on her toes, heart pounding. She stepped over a pile of clothes, accidentally knocking over a stack of books. When she glanced upward, the man had reappeared, turning his profile to her.

  “Robert!”

  Abby remembered the day she’d seen him in front of the hospital. Ladies do not call out in public. She thrust away the memory and sucked in a big breath. “Robert!” Her voice rang through the din.

  Abby pushed through the last few people, no longer caring what she stepped on, just eager to feel those arms encircle her. She jumped toward him, the momentum so powerful he rocked back on his heels, his eyes lighting up like a room filled with electric lamps.

  Gripping Abby about the waist, Robert lifted her in the air. “There you are!” He crushed her against his chest. “You had me worried.”

  The pressure of his grip was both painful and glorious. She wrapped her wrists around the back of his neck and laid her head on his shoulder, leaning into his embrace. “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my entire life.” The smell of sweat, dirt, and ashes tickled her nose, but she buried her face in his neck, breathing deep. She didn’t want to miss anything.

  After a long moment, she stepped back, gazing at him. “Look at you—stained clothes, dirty hands . . .” Abby took one of the hands, winding her own grubby fingers around his. She glanced up at his bristly chin, longing to rub a hand across it. “You hardly look like the same man. I’m fortunate to have recognized you.”

  Robert grinned, his teeth a brief flash of white in the grime covering his skin. “You’re not the freshest of daisies yourself, Miss Fischer.”

  Abby glanced down and saw the state of her dress—covered in dirt, soot, and blood.

  “Where is the baby?” he asked.

  “I found someone better suited to care for her.” She glanced down at their entwined hands. She really should let go, but the touch felt so right. “I lost her ring. I guess we won’t be able to identify her.”

  Robert dug into his pocket, drawing out a familiar gold chain. “Do you mean this?” He pressed the locket and wedding band into her palm.

  She gasped. “How—where . . .?”

  He frowned. “It’s a long story—one I want to hear as badly as you. But first, you might want to see this.” Robert reached into his pocket a second time and withdrew a scrap of yellow stationery.

  Abby’s fingers tingled as she took the paper from his hand and unfolded it. The familiar handwriting brought tears to her eyes. “My mother!”

  He claimed her hand again, squeezing it in his strong fingers. “I was just heading there. Come on, we’re not far.”

  She clutched the paper to her chest like it was a message from God Himself. Her throat convulsed, a sob escaping from her gut. Mama and Davy. Finally.

  Abby kept a firm grip on his hand as they pushed past campsites, refugees, children, dogs, and tents. He paused at the northwestern end of the park, eyes scanning the crowd.

  Abby turned, pressure rising in her throat. God, where are they?

  “Abby?” A woman’s voice called from a distance. “Abby?”

  Abby gasped, swiveling on her toes, trying to locate the sound.

  “There!” Robert pointed, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Over there.”

  Her mother burst through the crowd, catching Abby in a massive embrace. Her fine dress soiled and tattered, Mama looked nothing like the fastidious woman who had stepped out on the porch right after the quake. “Abigail, you’re here!”

  Abby flung her arms around her mother’s midsection. “Mama, I can’t believe I finally found you!” She blinked back more tears, intent on not blubbering like a lost child.

  “I’ve been praying in earnest, child, ever since the two of you left.” She drew back and gazed deep into Abby’s eyes. “I knew God was protecting you, but it feels so good to have you back in my arms!”

  Abby cocked her head to one side “What do you mean, the two of you? I just ran into Robert a few minutes ago.”

  The color dra
ined from Mama’s face. “Abigail, where is Davy? Is he with Aunt Mae?”

  The air whooshed from Abby’s lungs. She pressed a hand against her stomach. “What?” Her voice sounded tinny in her ears. “What? Isn’t Davy with you?”

  Mama’s face whitened, her lips parting and closing like a fish. “You took him to Aunt Mae’s after the quake. I haven’t seen either of you since.”

  “No, Mama,” Abby’s knees wobbled, her stomach tightening. “No, Mama, I didn’t. He wouldn’t come. He stayed at home.”

  Robert placed a hand under her mother’s elbow. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  Her mother stumbled back a step. “Abby. Davy . . .” She covered her mouth with a trembling hand, her knees buckling.

  Abby struggled for air. How long had it been? Two days? Three?

  Robert crouched on one knee as he lowered Mrs. Fischer to the dirt, her shoulders heaving with sobs. Bracing her back with one arm, he glanced up at Abby, heart thudding. She didn’t look much better—her complexion resembling the green glass bottle of quinine sulfate in the front of the office medicine cabinet.

  Abby splayed her fingers over both cheeks. “But the neighborhood was evacuated. He couldn’t still be there, could he?”

  Robert leaned back on his heels. “He could have escaped with another family. Or the firefighters.” A child, alone for two days—the weight crushed down on Robert, like all the times he had carried Davy on his shoulders. What chance did the little boy have with his world shattered and ablaze?

  The glow on Mrs. Fischer’s face had faded into the color of ashes. “My baby. I left my baby behind.” Her hushed voice barely passed her lips, but the words cut into Robert’s heart.

  Hasn’t this family endured enough grief, God? His throat closed.

  “I’ll find him, Mama. I will—I promise.” Abby’s voice rose. “I will find him.”

  “I’ll go.” Robert straightened. “You ladies stay here. I’ll go back to the house.” Likely as not, the house was already gone. The idea of Abby or her mother stumbling onto it twisted around in his stomach like a snake.