* * *
Abigail woke in her own bed. The windows were closed, curtains pulled against the light. Despite the heat, a fire glowed in the hearth. Candles flickered on the mantel. Goody Nurse, her hands cool and capable, veined with experience, sat by her side. Abigail moaned and struggled to rise.
"Hush, child," the woman soothed her. "Lie back for a bit. All is well. You will need your strength when the child comes."
"Judith. Where is Judith?"
"She is safe with John."
Abigail closed her eyes, breathing deeply, gathering her strength for the struggle that would come.
"Hannah Woodcock is here as well. She is deeply concerned for you. Shall I tell her to come in?"
Abigail's eyes opened. "No. Tell her to leave." She clutched Rebecca Nurse's hand and looked into the honest blue eyes. "You are here. That is enough. I have no need of another."
"Another pair of hands would be helpful should anything go amiss."
"No," Abigail insisted. "I do not want her here."
Rebecca sighed. "You are strong-willed, Abigail. I cannot deny you on this occasion, but be warned. There are those who will overlook goodness to dwell on your stubbornness. Times are difficult. Try not to cultivate enemies."
Abigail would have replied, but the ripping pain in her back swallowed everything but the need to bear down, to rid her body of the child she'd nurtured within her for nine long months. "I must sit," she gasped. "The babe comes quickly."
Rebecca helped her into a squatting position on the bed. Clutching the older woman's arm, she gasped and panted, bearing down with each new contraction, biting her lips and digging her nails into the midwife's soft skin until their blood flowed and mingled.
Hours passed and still the child would not come. Again and again Abigail fell back on the bed to rest between contractions.
Rebecca, bloody and sweat-stained, shook her head. "T'is no good. I must call on Jerusha and her daughters to open cupboards and drawers and to untie knots. Only then will the womb open, when it knows the way."
Abigail shook her head. Another contraction tightened her stomach, the pain so fierce and pure it robbed her of speech. Exhaustion claimed her. She was nearly spent. Mustering the last of her strength, she leaned back on her elbows, held her breath and bore down, forcing her aching muscles to expel the head of the child from her womb. She felt the babe shift, moving ever closer to the light. Falling back against the pillows, Abigail's chin fell against her chest. She was finished. Goody Nurse knelt between her legs, murmuring encouragement. "You have done well this time, Abigail. T'is nearly done. Once more will do it."
"I cannot."
"You can." Rebecca gripped her patient's hands. "I need help, child. Let me send for Jerusha or Hannah. The child will need attention and your blood flow must be stopped. I cannot do this alone."
Abigail's teeth were clenched. She felt another contraction ripple across her spine and catch her in its fiery pain. "Not Hannah," she whispered. "Call Jerusha, if you must, but not Hannah Woodcock. She would dance on my grave if she could."
"You are foolish beyond measure," the older woman chided her. "There is no malice in Hannah, but I shall do as you ask and send John to summon his mother."
"Not yet," Abigail gasped. "I must bear down. This time, I think, she will come."
"She?"
Abigail caught up in the throes of pain and pressure, blood and heat, summoned the last of her reserves and pushed, spewing out her daughter amidst a gush of fluid into the waiting hands of Rebecca Nurse.
The midwife, noting the rise and fall of the small chest, swept the mouth free of fluid and set the baby aside, lifted the mother's legs and pressed down on her stomach in an effort to expel the afterbirth, to staunch the blood and save her life. Minutes passed. The rush receded. The midwife sighed with relief. Packing the gaping wound with clean rags, Rebecca managed to halt the flow until it was no more than a trickle.
Finally, she turned to the babe. Adding hot water from the kettle to the colder water already in the basin, she gently bathed Abigail's newborn daughter. Then she swaddled her in linen strips to help her limbs grow straight and strong. Only then did she take a moment to gaze upon the delicate features of the infant.
The child was awake, wide-eyed and alert. Rebecca looked at the tiny face, Abigail's face, at the rosebud mouth and winged brows, at the hairline, no longer dark with dampness, promising to grow in red. But it was the babe's eyes that held her, causing her to gasp and murmur a quick prayer in the rank, foul-smelling room. One was dark, opaque and mysterious, while the other showed pale and clear, its depths completely exposed.
Chapter 16
Maggie stirred. Her eyelids were heavy, too heavy to open and yet she had no desire to sleep. Her chest hurt and it was difficult to breathe as if the air was too light and she was inhaling through a pinhole. Flexing her fingers, she pressed them against her forehead. Someone was calling her name.
"Maggie, wake up. It's over for now. You need water and rest. Open your eyes and look at me."
She recognized Susannah Davies voice, insistent, gentle but firm. Slowly, lazily, she fought against the lethargy threatening to overtake her. Forcing her eyes open she fixed them on her mentor. "I'm tired and I ache. Why is it so hard to breathe?"
"You've been through quite an ordeal. You need rest. But first you need something to eat, soup, maybe, and tea."
Maggie worked to clear her mind of the cobwebs. "Did you see what I saw? Did you see what happened?"
Susannah shook her head. "Only bits and pieces. Relax for a minute and I'll bring you something to eat." She headed toward the kitchen. "Collect your thoughts. You can tell me what you saw."
Maggie's words stopped her. "Abigail gave birth. Her daughter has my mutation, heterochromia iridium, one blue eye, one brown." She spoke in present tense, as if the distant past had happened only moments before.
Susannah knew the importance of sustenance after a leap in time, but she recognized the edge of hysteria edging Maggie's voice. Not until she was sure of her words did she speak. "Abigail has the same mutation. It wouldn't be unusual for one of her children to have it as well."
"But I have it," Maggie persisted. "Who are these people? Are they my people? Wouldn't it be reasonable to assume I'm descended from one of them?"
Susannah gave up on the food and sat down beside Maggie. "More than likely. It's what you wanted, isn't it, to find your roots?"
The woman's calm had a soothing effect on Maggie. Her breathing slowed and the panic left her. "So, you think this is normal?"
Susannah smiled. "There's nothing normal about what is happening with you. But I do think it's logical. I think you're proceeding as expected. But you have to suspend your feelings of disbelief and allow events to unfold in their own time. You've done enough for now. Whether you realize it or not, the physical part of this experience is rigorous. You're young and healthy, but it's challenging. You must keep up your strength, sleep well and not attempt too much too soon. You've made a great deal of progress. It's time to eat and get a good night's rest."
"What time is it?"
"Nearly eleven."
"You've been here three hours."
"Yes."
Maggie frowned. "Why won't you let me pay you?"
"Because you haven't money to spare."
"Do you?"
"I have all that I need, or will ever need."
"I don't believe you," Maggie said bluntly.
"You think because I don't drive a late model car or live in a palace that I need money?"
"Why are you doing this for me?"
Susannah's dark eyes glinted in the lamplight. "I see great potential in you. I want to ride along and see what there is to see."
"You may be disappointed."
"I doubt it." She smiled. "Shall I make you soup?"
Maggie wanted to be alone, to think. "You've done enough. It's late. I can manage."
"Then I'll be leaving." Susannah stood. "Rem
ember," she said casually, "to call when you want to move forward. Don't do this alone, Maggie."
"I won't."
Maggie watched her leave and then made her way to the kitchen. After a tall glass of water, a carton of yogurt and a protein bar, her limbs felt stronger. She climbed the stairs and without bothering to look at the clock, fell into bed and slept dreamlessly, without moving, for nearly ten hours.
* * *
The following morning, she had no sooner positioned her Open for Business sign and stepped back into the kitchen to brew a pot of Chai tea, when she heard a voice call out her name. "Maggie McBride, are you in? It's Deborah Summers. I've come for some valerian root."
Maggie carried the pot and a stack of colorful mugs into the store. The woman, once again wearing sunglasses and without a cane, stood near the door, as if unsure of her welcome.
"Come in, Deborah. I'll get it for you right away."
"What is that heavenly smell?"
"A Chai blend. Would you like a cup?"
Deborah came forward, avoiding displays and shelves. "I'd love one if you have the time to sit down with me."
"Absolutely," Maggie said, reevaluating her original impression of her neighbor. "Give me a minute to fill your order and I'll be right there."
"The weather is warming up and we're having a gathering of people in the neighborhood this Friday night," the woman told her when they were seated side by side. "I'd like you to come. I'm sure you've already met everyone, but it will do you good to meet them socially. It wouldn't hurt business either. Everyone's very curious about you."
"Actually," Maggie felt compelled to tell her, "business is coming along quite well, but thank you, I'd be delighted to come. I'd like to officially meet everyone. The only people who have actually introduced themselves are you and the Hillyards."
"Sometimes our residents have difficulty accepting newcomers," Deborah remarked. "Salem is a small town. But you're here to stay and I understand that you have roots right here in the historic district."
"Roots? Where did you come by that piece of information?"
"Sarah Busbee mentioned that your mother lived here years ago when you were very young and that your father is buried in our oldest cemetery. Only Salem's original families have that privilege."
Maggie's impression did another about face. "What about you, Deborah? Are you a native of Salem?"
"I'm descended from one of the first families," she said proudly. "The Woodcocks came over on the Mayflower."
Maggie frowned. Woodcock? Where had she heard that name before?
"You'll find that quite a few of us have ties to our country's oldest families. The Hillyards, for example, go back a very long way."
"I met Lilly Hillyard the other day. Her shop is lovely."
"Lilly is a dear friend, but...," she hesitated.
Maggie waited, refusing to help.
"She's unusual."
"She's lovely," Maggie said forcefully. "I'm hoping she'll be at your party."
"Oh, well, yes, of course."
"You mentioned that you were friendly with Penny Hillyard as well. Will she be there?"
Deborah sipped her drink and swallowed before she answered. "Penny doesn't live in the neighborhood any more. Besides, if I invited her, Scott wouldn't come."
"That surprises me. It seemed to me that their relationship was a reasonable one. And they have Holly."
"Yes," said Deborah, thoughtfully. "They do have Holly." She finished the last of her tea and handed the mug to Maggie. "Thank you. You won't forget about Friday night, will you? So many people are anxious to talk to you."
"I won't forget. Watch your step on the way out."
"I never fall."
Maggie watched the blind woman reach for the door knob and step down on to the sidewalk without assistance. "I'm sure you don't," she murmured.
* * *
Deborah Summers walked quickly down the street, past the Hillyards' gray two story with its white shutters, past the Pattersons' marine blue Cape Cod and the new barn-red duplex recently purchased by the Eastern Indian couple whose name she could never pronounce and whose children Wayne greatly admired for their intelligence and their study skills, then rounded the corner to her own white wooden cottage with its dark shutters and low, picket fence, again painted a blinding, pristine white. Wayne wouldn't be home. She didn't expect him for hours. Her husband, a dedicated science teacher at the local elementary school, did not believe in bringing work home.
Reaching down, she unlatched the gate, pushed it open and climbed the porch steps. Her hand slid over the key hidden in back of the plant stand. She inserted it into the lock, opened her door and closed it behind her. Walking purposefully into the kitchen, she poured herself a tall glass of Glenfidden without water or ice, sat down at the kitchen table and faced the clock. The instant the hour and minute hand converged at exactly twelve noon, she began to drink.
Four hours later, Wayne Summers, fresh from a day filled with purpose, let himself into his front door and found his wife passed out at the kitchen table. The bottle of Glenfidden's, Scotland's finest, was half empty. He poured what remained down the sink, tossed the bottle and carefully lifted Deborah into his arms to carry her upstairs. The effort should have been more awkward than difficult. She didn't weigh much but she was tall. However, Wayne was experienced. For nine years, ever since their daughter was stillborn, Deborah drank, enough to eliminate the pain, temporarily.
The synchronicity of the child's death and the mother's blindness had been cautiously approached by more than one physician. Therapy had been recommended, but Deborah would have none of it. She pretended to accept the diagnosis. She even agreed to the counseling sessions, but refused to participate. She sat passively, politely, responding to all questions at the most superficial level. Eventually, Wayne gave up. If Deborah preferred her blindness, so be it. If the pain of giving birth to a stillborn child was too great to attempt another pregnancy, he could live with that. If, no more than once a week she drank herself into a catatonic stupor, he would adjust. There were worse scenarios. He was sure he could think of one if he put his mind to it.
She barely stirred when he tucked her into bed and kissed her on the forehead. Tomorrow she would be contrite, almost penitent. She would stay in bed with an icepack on her head and the curtains pulled. She would apologize and assure him it would never happen again. Wayne would put together his own breakfast, sausage and eggs the way he liked instead of Deborah's preference, blueberries and high fiber cereal. He would eat in front of the television instead of seated at the table attempting to make conversation with someone who never listened. It cost him a tremendous amount of guilt to admit that Deborah's alcohol binges were, for him, Godsends. For a brief few hours every week, his home life looked up. His wife was actually pleasantly, uncharacteristically submissive. Her willful tantrums, her paranoia, her dissatisfaction with him were put aside for a restful twenty-four hours.
He was outside on the porch reading the sports' page he'd missed this morning and drinking a glass of pinot noir when Holly Hillyard opened the gate and walked into the yard. She carried a shoebox with her from which came an ominously peeping sound. "What have you got there, Holly?"
"It's a baby possum. I found him on the back porch. Daddy's busy and I don't know what to do with it."
Wayne looked at the tiny marsupial. It had enough hair to survive until adulthood with nourishment but it definitely couldn't make it alone.
Holly's hopeful gray eyes never left his face. "You'll take care of him, won't you?"
Wayne sighed, reached for the box, and rubbed the bald spot at the back of his head. It was hard to disappoint Holly. "I'll give it my best shot, but you'll have to help me. I'll bring it to school and you can come in to feed him. Babies need food all day long so you'll have to come in before school starts, at recess, lunch and after school. I'll take care of the night shift. How's that?"
Her smile blinded him. She clapped her hands. "I knew you'
d do it. Thank you, Mr. Summers. What shall we feed him?"
"Baby formula. He's a mammal, so he drinks milk."
Holly nodded. "I'll feed him. Should we start now?"
Wayne laughed. "I'll handle this little guy today and you can start tomorrow."
Holly sat down on the step, her chin in her hand. "I love animals. Maybe I'll be a vet."
Wayne nodded. "It's a good profession, but it's hard work. Keep at your studies and you'll be able to do it."
She looked at him. "Maybe I'll be a science teacher."
"That's a good profession, too. My guess is you'll change your mind many times before you decide." He smiled at her. "Have you finished your homework?"
She shook her head. "Daddy said I could bring the possum to you first." She stood. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Summers."
"Bye, Holly. Don't forget to come in before school."
"I won't." She forgot to latch the gate behind her. Once again Wayne was grateful that Deborah was in no condition to complain. Setting his wine aside, he inspected his new charge. It had the gray and white markings of an adult. "Come on, little guy. Let's see what I've got for you."
* * *
Maggie had just finished dusting the shelves in the back of the store when the door opened. It was the slow part of the day, between three and four-thirty, after lunch but before the post work traffic. Customers were rare. She recognized the small, dark-haired woman with the pixie hair cut and smiled. "Hi, Penny. Where have you been keeping yourself?"
"You remembered me." Surprise and delight lit up Penny's face.
"Of course. How have you been? More to the point, how is your car?"
"Both are good. I have a new job."
"Excellent. Will you join me in the house? I've brewed a fresh pot of coffee."
"Love to." Penny followed her into the living room and settled herself on the couch. "I would have come before this, but I had to find the right time."
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