Freedom's Ring

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  I searched those deep brown pools. His mouth trembled and I let my hand fall to his sticky, dirtied cheek.

  “Liberty . . . I want joy. I am tired of regrets and grudges. I’m tired of looking at you and wishing things had been different. I am ready—if you are—to make things different.” He licked his sun-cracked lips, swallowed. “You’ve changed. I see a peace in you I long for. What I saw this morning—what I took part in . . . it made me realize I don’t want to live another day without seeking joy. And when I think of joy . . . when I think of a life worth living . . . I think of you. Of James. Of a future and a family.”

  I blinked, drew in a shaky breath as I tried to comprehend all he had said. I let my hand fall to his damp collar. “I’ve missed you,” I whispered.

  His mouth covered mine in a needy kiss. He drank me in with longing, and I sank into him, loneliness finding company in his safe embrace, in his insistent kisses.

  He came up for breath, planted his lips on my nose. “I know things will not be perfect. We are flawed, the both of us, but I do believe with God’s help we can make a marriage succeed. Please, Liberty, say you’ll come and live as my wife in the house I built for you. For us.”

  I caught my breath, tried to wade through his intensity. I pushed away, slightly, seeking words for what I needed to say. “You once told me a marriage must be based on trust.”

  Hugh’s eyes clouded, and I wondered if, in his fragile state of mind, he wasn’t yet ready to claim me and my honesty. Perhaps he wished to remain in a safe fantasy, to move forward without looking at the past.

  I felt him begin to shut down from me. His hands dropped from where they held my waist. I wanted to pick them up—dried blood and all—and plant them back on my middle. Ground him.

  I wrapped my arms around myself instead, pressed them to my stomach. “I have not always been honest with you, Hugh. And I don’t want to enter into this marriage with any more fallacies between us.”

  His mouth pressed into a thin line, the dry dirt on his face breaking away in pieces.

  “I received news of Alexander’s death not long ago. ’Twas after our talk at Buckman’s. He sent me a ring that has been between us. I have it still.” I allowed my words to sink in before I placed a hand on his arm. “Hugh, I meant what I said that day. I am ready to give myself to you—all of me, to you. No more looking back. I am so sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you. When I think of my future, I can imagine nothing better than sharing it with you. Is there any way you can forgive me, that we could mend the broken trust between us?”

  “He is dead. . . .”

  I looked at the ground. “Yes.”

  “And . . . if he were not?”

  I felt peace with the honest answer I would give. “Long before I learned of his death, I knew I loved you. My heart has relinquished him entirely. Were he standing alive in this very room, I would still wish to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  He squinted beneath the setting sun, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he crushed me to his chest, pressed his face to the hair alongside my mobcap.

  “I love you,” I whispered.

  He brushed his lips against my cheek. “There is nothing . . . better my ears should hear.” His mouth moved toward my lips, parting them with a gentle sweetness that built in intensity. Then he was kissing me long and deep and full. There was healing in that kiss. Healing from my past, healing for my future.

  I need not have worried about the intimacies of marriage reopening old wounds. Instead, when I gave myself to my husband the night we were wed, I found his closeness to be a balm to my wounded soul. With the sun long tucked in for the night and the crickets playing a melody especially for us, I shared my entire being with Hugh, finding in his arms not only pleasure and rest but freedom.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE the Patriots’ Day race brought a barrage of unsettling dreams to hover over my consciousness, picking at pieces of my memory and toying with them, drawing them out in fresh horror.

  The day of the bombing and all the horrific sights and scents—mangled limbs, blood and pieces of flesh, wailing terror. A warm ring, the Old State House, red-coated soldiers firing on a mob, Brad’s strong arms . . . and then all was gone, replaced by a black void of desperateness followed by flashes from my childhood with my sister.

  Lydia, holding the back of my Rainbow Brite two-wheeler bicycle seat, the ribbons on the handlebars swatting my knees. Lydia, holding my hand to kneel in front of my grandfather’s casket, his skin pinched and pale—not at all like the Grampy I’d known in real life. And Lydia, coming to my hospital room to tell me they didn’t have to amputate my leg after all but that they had already amputated her daughter’s.

  And then running in the 5K race with Grace, coming upon the finish line and raising our joined hands together, closer and closer. Closer still. A loud explosion. My hand torn from Grace’s. The scent of sulfur. Bloody cobblestones. Grace on the ground, her metal running prosthesis torn from her body, Lydia across the Atlantic in the UK—

  I woke, gasping for air, my body jolted upright from wet sheets. My chest heaved, the room still dark. I scrambled for the light and let it flood the room. The clock read 5:30.

  As I caught my breath, I reminded myself that all of it was a dream. And yet that wasn’t entirely true. Each segment held demons from my past. I couldn’t pretend they were figments of my imagination, for they had all happened.

  I brought my knees to my chest and buried my face in the blankets as sobs shook my body. I was scared. I was helpless. I searched, frantic, for good in place of evil but came up short.

  With quivering hands, I called Brad, but after several rings it went to voice mail. My teeth chattered as I put the phone down and curled into a ball, the sheets still warm from my sweat.

  “Please, God . . . help me.” I thought of Grace’s Jesus, of the pure light upon her face when she spoke of Him. I thought of Brad’s Jesus, a companion on a dark and lonely journey. “Jesus, if You’re there . . . help me.” My words ended on a tremble and I lay, willing Brad to call. I didn’t expect to hear from Jesus.

  I stared at the phone on my nightstand and beckoned life to come to it.

  Nothing.

  My gaze fell to Liberty’s ring beside the phone, where I had placed it when I had taken it off the night before. I thrust out an arm, grabbed the ring, and clutched it to my chest. The cold metal warmed beneath the heat of my skin, and I thought to try to summon power from the metallic elements within. But the futile thought depressed me. I needed something more real. Something bigger than myself. Something—someone—stronger than me. I dialed Brad again, eliciting the same automated response.

  I clutched the ring tighter, slippery now from my grip. I loosened my hold and stared at it.

  Qui fortis salutem tribute.

  Victory belongs to the one who is strong.

  A chill swept through me, and my body took up a shivering so intense I felt I would never be warm. I was weak. Broken. My limbs felt like slabs of concrete. I would have to call Grace and tell her I wouldn’t be able to run today. I hardly had the strength to lift my head off the pillow. I was getting sick; that must be it.

  The ring blurred before me. The anchor faded in and out beside the symbol of the horn.

  “My anchor holds within the veil . . .”

  The words we’d sung in church on Easter.

  “It stands for God’s strength. They put their faith in something bigger than themselves.”

  Brad’s words.

  Victory belongs to the one who is strong.

  I repeated the words over and over, closed my eyes, and lulled myself into a trancelike state.

  Victory belongs to the one who is strong.

  I wasn’t strong. I was weak. The anchor, the horn . . . God was strong.

  Could He be strong enough for me? My eyes popped open at the thought.

  My burden was too heavy. I needed someone to carry it for me.

  Not so far away, the sound of a cannon echoed
through the town. Lexington Common was no doubt alive with thousands of spectators for the reenactment. The first shots of the Revolution. The first veterans of war. Later, they’d commemorate the Battle of Concord at Old North Bridge, where Americans tasted victory for the first time. I thought of Liberty, Hugh, and Alexander. How had they been a part of that fateful day long ago?

  Another cannon shot. With it, the pop, pop, pop I’d heard a nanosecond before my arms reached my niece, a nanosecond before the bomb threw me off my feet, ripping shrapnel through my legs. My nightmares threatened to pull me back into their steel embrace, but I shook them off, felt strength returning to my limbs.

  Today, I had two options. Option A: dwell on this day from two years ago. How Grace had had both her legs, how any number of what-ifs could have changed the course of that day. Maybe by evaluating things in my head I could eventually accept the circumstances, see some sort of good in it.

  Or option B: I could get up, run with Grace, leave all the pain and memories and nightmares beneath my pillow where they’d suffocate a slow death—hopefully before I came back to bed that night. I could accept that life was too wild and uncontrollable for me to waste time sitting in bed worrying about the many things that could go wrong this day.

  I chose B. I heaved the covers off my body and slid my feet into fuzzy pink slippers. I showered, washing the grimy residue of my nightmares down the drain. I brewed coffee, trying to fake myself into thinking it a normal day.

  The percolating coffee filled the room with an earthy vanilla scent. I heard footsteps coming up to the apartment, and I tried to wipe the sleep out of my eyes and fix my hair. A knock.

  I turned and opened the door to see a bob of a ponytail beneath a child-size Boston Strong hat.

  “Hey, Emilia.”

  Emilia stood with her arms folded over her chest, half-hiding a printed American flag on her sweatshirt. She stared at me, unsmiling.

  “Good morning,” I tried again.

  She tapped her foot, kept the arms crossed. A perfect mini adult. “Well?”

  “Well what?” I left the door open to pour my coffee.

  “Are you gonna let me go?”

  “What?” I thought I had been clear. Emilia wasn’t coming. And now the little manipulator stood angry in my kitchen, her hat shouting at me. Are you strong or not? Everyone else has moved past it. Even the double-amputees have triumphed in some way. Claimed to be stronger. What about you, Annie? Are you going to claim strong?

  Then, Brad’s words from the other night. “This isn’t about you. Or me. Or even our faith—as weak or strong as it may be. Jesus is strong enough for us.”

  Strong enough for me.

  It sounded so easy. And what if it was? Maybe today was the day. Not because it was Patriots’ Day or even two years after the bombing. Maybe it was the ancient ring on my nightstand and the history it whispered. Maybe it was the horrible, all-too-real nightmares that I couldn’t shake. Maybe it was that stupid hat a little eight-year-old wore in my kitchen. Reminding me I didn’t have what it took. I wasn’t strong enough. I never would be.

  Maybe there was an option C. Maybe God could be strong enough for me. Maybe instead of looking to Brad to be my faultless hero, I had to look to someone who actually was a perfect hero.

  I closed my eyes, released a breath. Surrendered it all to Him. He knew the past, my struggles, my everything. I hadn’t done well pulling myself up by my own bootstraps. I’d failed time and time again.

  Maybe that’s because I couldn’t do it on my own to begin with.

  Alongside the acknowledgment of my need came a foreign, sweet relief. It swept in like a honeyed balm to my spirit, like a cheery bell of freedom. A warm tear slid down my cheek, baptizing me in grace.

  I felt a tug at my sleeve and I opened my eyes. Emilia tilted her head farther up than normal to peer at me from beneath the brim of her hat. “I didn’t mean to make you sad, Annie. I don’t need to come if you don’t want me to.”

  I squeezed her hand, knelt down to hug her. “Of course you can come, sweetie. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you sooner.”

  “Come on, Auntie. Half a mile more.” Grace puffed the words through winded breaths. She glanced at her wristwatch. “We’re at a seven-twenty pace. Let’s finish strong.”

  Emotions bombarded my soul from every direction at the words. They were almost more than I could take. Doing this—accomplishing this—was almost more than I could take. If I dwelled too much on it, I would melt into a pile of blubbering sentiment alongside the puddles forming in the road.

  I pushed it aside, focused on my feet pounding pavement alongside Grace’s. Nausea welled in my belly, but I pushed onward. We neared the green and I dropped my shoulders, lengthened my stride. I searched for Brad and Emilia, Lydia, Roger, and Joel but couldn’t make them out within the vast crowd of umbrellas.

  We sailed past the finish line and slowed to a walk, hunched over in gasping breaths, into the crowd. I swiped a hand across my nose and Grace and I collapsed into one another’s arms, wet and slick from sweat and rain.

  I let the emotions take over then, as did she.

  “Thank you, Grace. Thank you.” For asking me to run the race. For forgiving me when I’d done the inexcusable. For helping me to glimpse a God whose power far exceeded my own.

  “I love you, Auntie. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too, kiddo. Me too.”

  And then Brad’s warm, dry arms were around me, and I leaned into him, sank into the security he offered. I high-fived Emilia and Joel. Lydia and Roger hugged Grace, gave me genuine smiles, told us we’d both done wonderfully.

  We walked away from the finish line to search out a place for breakfast. As we did, I pondered how normal this felt, how far away my nightmares from this morning seemed. I pondered Lydia’s smile, genuine but with a piece of something missing.

  Perhaps this was how it would always be from now on. We would be together, but not true sisters of the heart. We could tolerate one another, maybe even enjoy the other’s presence for some time, but that closeness, that intimacy, might never be realized.

  I wondered if I could live the rest of my life like that.

  Then I realized I might just have to. I could only bring my repentance to the table of our relationship. Lydia would have to bring the forgiveness.

  JULY 4, 1795

  I rubbed my gently rounded belly as I looked at the barren building site before me atop Beacon Hill. Hugh’s baby seemed to be growing well within the confines of my womb. Though the Lord had not seen fit to grant Hugh and me our own babe until James had grown and taken a wife of his own, I counted myself blessed to be able to finally give this gift to my husband.

  Ignoring social niceties, Hugh placed his hand over mine and shared a knowing smile with me. I inched closer to him, thankful for the good and decent man I had shared the last twenty years with. No, we did not always agree on everything, but we chose to agree on belief in our marriage. We chose to agree on love.

  From the side of the Common, coming up Beacon Hill and passing Hancock Manor, strode fifteen gleaming white horses—one for each state of the union. In their wake, they pulled a sturdy cornerstone—what would mark the foundation for the New State House.

  The crowd murmured as the ceremony proceeded. Governor Samuel Adams arrived with an escort of shiny fusiliers, a container no bigger than a cigar box in his hands. I wondered if my poem was within.

  I remembered the rise of his thin eyebrows as he read the poem on his last trip to Lexington. “Mrs. Gregory, when I asked you to include something that might symbolize freedom, I entertained a small relic of your brother’s. I hardly thought you’d give me a poem memorializing a soldier of the Crown.”

  Hugh had taken my hand, squeezed his encouragement, dear man. He knew Alexander’s death haunted me sometimes still, knew that this final tribute would allow me to lay my past to rest for good. In truth I had thought to bury Alexander’s ring, but something stopped me at the last moment.
As if prompted by the hand of God, I felt a strong urge to keep it, to hand it down to my children as a reminder that God’s strength was forever available, that we weren’t bound by our pasts but where we put our hope for the future.

  “It is not memorializing a soldier but the bond we as humanity have. A bond where love and sacrifice can be used to purchase freedom. Please, Governor, we won our independence. My brother’s blood seeped into the dirt the Old State House was built upon. Allow this to be a sort of truce with England—that we may not forget all that happened but be stronger for it. Let the New State House be a beginning for us to move forward in freedom.”

  Governor Adams scratched the back of his neck. “What will those of a future generation think if they ever uncover such writings?”

  “They will see that despite our differing beliefs, we all long for the same things, do we not? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And whether we are European or African or American, can we not all agree on that?”

  The governor folded the poem, tucked it in the pocket of his coat. “Only because of your brother’s first sacrifice do I even entertain the thought of putting this in our time capsule. I will think on it, Mrs. Gregory. That is all I promise to do.”

  I snapped from my reverie at the start of the fifteen-gun salute. Together, Governor Adams, Mr. Revere, and Colonel Scollay placed the metal box in the ground between two sheets of lead.

  Governor Adams spoke, formally dedicating the New State House to the principles our country was built upon, which should “there be fixed, unimpaired, in full vigor, till time shall be no more.”

  The governor met my gaze then and gave a slight nod. I smiled my gratitude back, confident the gesture meant what I thought it to mean. My poem, my tribute to not only Alexander but to Hugh and every other human as well, would remain beneath the cornerstone of this State House for years to come.

  I wondered who would find and read my poem and what, if anything, it would mean to them. I rested my fingers on the child within my womb and prayed for the future citizens of our infant country. I prayed for those who would one day read my poem, that they would glimpse my brother’s precious sacrifice, my struggle with caring for a man who was the enemy, and the ultimate freedom that the Lord had brought me in the end.