by Tricia Goyer
I felt her face, arms, hands. Everything emanated heat and she seemed listless. I felt her chest and it barely beat under my touch. She looked as if she might never wake up again. All I could think of was influenza, that great killer that took Clay’s wife and so many others.
I kissed her forehead, then I went to work. One thing I knew, we had to cool her, break the fever. I sent Patricia to get Clay, and then I did the only thing I could think of. I lifted her weak body from the cradleboard and nestled her to my chest. My pulse pounding, I hurried outside and knelt, then gently laid the sleeping girl in the snow. She wore her coonskin dress, no parka, no hood.
Jolted by the cold, she began to cry, and her cries ignited mine. I brushed them aside. Then with shaking hands, I wiped away hers too. “Just a minute more,” I whispered.
I heard footsteps. Clay approached, his face tight, hands tightly fisted. He glared at me then grabbed her from the snow and held her tight to his chest.
I could barely speak, my throat felt thick with fear. “She must be cooled down, Clay.” He swiveled away from me. I longed to hold her, touch her skin, make her better. I prayed, Grandfather. I prayed so hard. As if in answer, an arctic wind gushed up, blowing a waft of snow into our faces, on Penny’s cheeks. Her fever-hot skin melted it immediately. Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I dried it, but Clay backed off. His eyes brimmed with pain.
I wouldn’t step away, even though he obviously wanted me to. I loved this child as my own. And Clay. Clay couldn’t lose another loved one. I placed my hand on Clay’s back covered in a thick wool coat, rubbed the rough texture gently. His shoulders relaxed a tiny bit. He arched his head and looked at me, not angry this time. Just afraid.
“What do we do?” he asked.
I bent toward Penny, cupped her warm cheek. “She’s cooler. The snow’s making her a little cooler.”
“Thank God.”
I knew the sickness still held her, but I gave thanks to God for even a speck of hope. As we strode toward Patricia’s house, the waiting crowd folded in upon us. Prayers, both silent and spoken, lifted from this strong Tlingit congregation to their Father in heaven, who holds the lambs in His arms.
She was sick for five days, there in Hoonah. The community rallied around, offering blankets, soup, and handmade sealskin dolls. When they weren’t helping, they gathered in the church and prayed. Clay stayed next to Penny’s bed in the small, whitewashed bedroom in Patricia’s house the whole time.
Clay wouldn’t leave the room for but minutes. He sat on the sealskin stool, an Indian blanket around his shoulders, and held her little hand in his strong, reverend’s grip. Like a shepherd, he wouldn’t let her go. He didn’t speak except to share calming, soothing words. Mostly he prayed.
I lingered in the tiny room, providing company, a loving touch. Sometimes I read the Bible to them, quoted his beloved catechism—that one Janey knows so well about God’s providence. Did I bring comfort? He’d seen so many women in his life pass away, I know those thoughts rained down on his mind like the long Alaskan storms. Relentless.
Every day I carefully carried Penny’s hot little body and placed it in the snow. I had to uncurl her fingers from my coat. Her blue eyes were pleading, confused. I sang to her. And it was good to hear her cry; she was so listless the rest of the time. After a few moments, I’d swaddle her nice and cozy, hold her to me, and feel her heart beating against my chest. I’d kiss her head, everywhere my lips could reach, until we laid her on the soft blankets for her papa to hold again.
Patricia agreed it was the right thing to do to cool her. Fortunately some snow piles still remained.
Patricia also helped me find analgesic roots. She does know everything. I can’t help but be impressed by her. I may have misjudged her. At times when we searched for herbs in the hills around Hoonah, a sob would unexpectedly overtake me. She’d stop, put her hand on my arm, and just wait. Not say a word.
Most of those days and nights, I sat beside Clay. Sometimes when Penny woke up, her eyes would catch her daddy’s, and a little girl’s love for her papa would shine through. This happened in the dark of night after the second day, as rain hammered the plank roof and melted snow into the mud outside. The tender child’s gaze broke through the strong front he’d built. He touched her face, tears streaming, until she closed her eyes again. Then he fell into a deep sob. Sliding to the floor, he knelt beside the crib and, like the torrential rain, poured out his heart to God.
His hands gripped Penny’s bed, his knuckles white. “You are my God. You can save her. I give up. I couldn’t protect the others. Adelaide. You are the only One who can.”
Tears, hot and quick, ran down my cheeks, dripping onto my hands. As the moon’s beams—clear and bright, almost carrying warmth like the sun’s—shone through the window, I noticed a simple cross-stitch sampler on the wall. “On Christ the solid rock I stand. All other ground is sinking sand.”
I whispered the words, speaking first, then singing. Clay turned toward me, then buried his head in my lap. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or to God. I stroked his hair as he lifted his chin. Though still mournful, his eyes held a new light as he reached his arms up and cradled my face in his hands. “Oh, Ellie. Ellie.” He leaned in close….
You won’t want to hear that part, Grandfather. Just know that God is healing all of us, and Clay likes me now.
I promise to finish later.
Your Ellie Bell
March 14, 1929
Father God,
The darkness of the night matched my fear. Penny lay in her crib, blankets over her, sleeping in peace. I tried awful hard to keep my reins on my anger toward You. I couldn’t—even when my own words to my children came back to me: “God is with us, even in the darkest night.”
But I’d already lost so many…Adelaide. How could You take Penny too? I yearned for that old anger to rise again and protect me from the pain coming back.
Ellie was there that night. That second night of Penny’s downturn. The medicine roots weren’t working, cooling her only helped for a short spell. I thought my little girl would die. My girl.
I broke, Lord. I crumbled to my knees and wept. I couldn’t lose my girl. Not again, not again.
And then, in the black, a light came. Somehow, I realized I wasn’t trusting You. Not with everything. Not with my heart. I turned and fell into Ellie’s waiting arms, collapsing in her lap. She touched my hair, and it was like a splash of water to my parched soul.
I kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. The love—desperation—was so strong. I was sure to die if my hands didn’t touch her, if my face wasn’t close to hers.
The clouds moved, letting the moonlight break through, as she sang to me. I knew then that You had not left me when Adelaide died. I had a notion of that before, but I couldn’t open to it. I aimed to keep out the pain and closed You out too, and Ellie.
But You were with me all along. And so was Ellie. You didn’t bring her to me as a temptation, to prove my disloyalty to Adelaide.
Ellie is a gift.
This all rushed to me, Lord, as I held her soft frame in that room. Our tears blended as our faces touched. When I finally looked up, the love I saw in her eyes melted my hard heart. The wind opened the window a crack, and a flurry of snow blew in, white, pure. As I cupped her face in my hands I knew You gave her to me. Because You love me. And I wanted that love. Welcomed it.
Thank You, Father God, for my Ellie.
And beyond all hope, You gave us sweet Penny.
You are truly a good and faithful God.
Your servant,
Clay
A soft knock sounded at the door, and Ginny’s eyes darted to the small turquoise alarm clock that looked as if it had been purchased in 1943.
She wiped her face, realizing she’d been crying. Really crying. Were the tears for little Penny? She wasn’t sure. All her emotions were stirred up. Wave after wave hit her, as if a large chunk of
ice had splashed into her soul.
Maybe it was the love of a biological parent that touched her so. Something she’d never known. She instinctively touched the back of her neck and her shoulder where scars lay hidden under her T-shirt. Or maybe it was the love of a woman for a child not her own. A love she’d experienced for such a short time…
“Ginny?” The door cracked open. “Are you decent?”
“Yes…” The word came out with a shuddering breath, and she pulled the quilt under her chin.
Brett stepped through the door, and Ginny let out a low moan.
“Is something wrong? Grandma said you looked a little pale when you came in earlier.”
Ginny covered her face with her free hand. “No…yes.”
“Did I do something?”
“Why would you say that? Didn’t your grandma tell you I wasn’t feeling well?”
“I can tell the difference when you’re sick and when something’s bothering you.”
She swung up her head to glare at him. He wore new jeans and a black dress shirt that he’d rolled up at the elbows. It was open at the collar, and she focused on his neck. It was better than looking into his eyes. He’d read too much in her gaze, she was sure of it.
Anger surged through her at being left. She had wanted the day to be special without him taking off and leaving her to sift through dusty boxes with women she didn’t know. I could be in a studio right now, recording music. I’d be wined and dined, the envy of a thousand women. What am I doing here?
She sat forlorn, staring at the seams of the quilt, running her finger across a checkered pattern, trying not to feel like a fool.
“It’s hard being here. Harder than I thought,” she finally admitted. “I assumed I knew you when we were in California, but now I wonder if I knew you at all.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I can understand. I’m sure it’s a shock for you, trying to get used to this place—to get used to me here.”
She looked up at him and read an apology in his eyes. Why didn’t he say it? Why didn’t he tell her that dropping her off to work with the historical society was a bad idea?
He ran a finger under his collar. “Since you’re not feeling well, I’ve come up with an alternative idea. Stay home. Rest tonight, and tomorrow I’m going to take you on an adventure. A real adventure, out on the water. Lee said I could borrow his boat.”
She sat up straighter. “Really?”
“Yes. I want to show you my world. The world not only here in Gustavus, but up the bay. I’ve told you a lot about this place, but now I want to show you.”
“Are you sure? What will Kelly think about that?”
“Kelly?” His brow furrowed, and then he smacked his head with his palm. “You’re right, I need to call her. Oh man, I told Jace I’d take him fishing tomorrow.” He glanced at her sheepishly and then lowered his head. “How did you know?”
How did I know you care for each other? Ginny didn’t ask the question out loud.
Instead, she cleared her throat, hoping to push down the emotion that rose up there. “I saw Kelly’s drawing of you at the coffee house. It’s pretty amazing.”
“Yeah, she’s a fantastic artist. Sometimes I feel bad she’s stuck here in Glacier Bay.”
“Stuck?”
“Not stuck in this town, but stuck working in a coffee shop to support herself. She could be doing so much more with her art if she wasn’t worried about having to pay rent or buy wood to heat her place.”
Ginny nodded, unsure of what to think. It was obvious he cared for Kelly, but if that was the case, why had he invited her out to the bay?
He’s being kind to an old friend, that’s all. She smiled up at him. Brett was that type of guy.
She blew out a breath, wiped her face, and pushed the quilt off of her legs. “I’m fine with staying in tonight, I really am. I was just wondering…”
She approached him and gazed up into his eyes.
“Yes?” he asked, his eyebrows lifting.
“Do you think your grandma would be willing to show me how to play cribbage? I’m sure if she did, I could beat you…hands down.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
.......................
Brett’s eyes were fixed on Glacier Bay Lodge as the fishing boat carried them out to the bay. Ginny sat beside him with her sweatshirt jacket on. She’d asked to borrow one of his caps, and she’d pulled her hair through the back of the cap in a ponytail. He blew out a breath. He’d never seen her with her hair like that before. Even in Africa she wore it down or in a low ponytail. She looked beautiful today. Then again, she always did.
Her eyes scanned the bay, her face bright like a child’s at Disneyland for the first time. Yet even as her eyes glowed, her hand touched the back of her neck. Brett’s gaze was drawn there, and he noticed small red marks. Scars from chickenpox maybe? Was that why she rarely wore her hair up?
He tried not to focus too much on this beautiful woman. Tried to look at the lodge instead. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to be with her…always. That was why he’d gone to the hangar with Lee. Once he’d walked into his great-grandfather’s cabin and heard Ginny’s reaction to Great-grandma Ellie’s letters, he’d known he couldn’t hide his emotions—his love for her. And if the women there noticed, his feelings would spread all over Gustavus in no time flat. Poor Brett, getting his heart broken again…
Brett cleared his throat. “I have lots of good memories of that lodge,” he said, trying to focus his attention back to the world around him. “I’m not sure if Gustavus would have survived if they hadn’t put that in. It made this beauty, this bay, accessible to outsiders.”
“Isn’t it hard sometimes, though, having all the tourists?” A strand of blond hair slipped from her ponytail and fluttered against her cheek. “Seems like it would complicate things.”
He shrugged and continued to steer the boat. “Most of them are great. They’re like extended family members who come to stay for a while. You can put up with them because you know they’re leaving.” He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, every once in a while there’s a crazy aunt or an obnoxious uncle.” He smiled. “But for the most part they’re good folks who want to experience a bit of the real Alaskan wilderness before they have to get back to their busy lives.”
The boat trolled down the bay, and a fine mist sprayed them. He was thankful Lee had let him borrow the boat. Brett could have bought two tickets on the day boat, but he wanted this to be special. He wanted time alone for them to talk. He still had no idea what to say to her.
The fact that Ginny came all this way told him she wanted to renew what they had, even if she didn’t admit it—even if she didn’t know it yet. But was he willing to take the risk of having his heart broken again? Was giving her a second chance still part of God’s plan?
“Of course the tourists are here for only a short time,” he said over the sounds of the motor and the water lapping against the boat. “The lodge closes to the public after Labor Day.”
She turned, glancing up at him with her large blue eyes. “But… that’s next week.”
“Yes, and that’s when all the extra summer help goes home. And then we get the lodge to ourselves.”
“Really? They don’t board it up?”
“Sort of, but they open it for special occasions—like Thanks giving and Christmas. Everyone comes together to celebrate. I wouldn’t know what to do without our ‘family gatherings.’ For Christmas we draw names, from the retirees to the newborn babies. At Thanksgiving we have quite the feast and…” A burst of laughter split his lips. Brett rubbed his forehead and then shook his head.
“What?”
“I was going to say, ‘And you never know what’s going to be served.’ If it’s been a hard winter and folks haven’t been able to get to Juneau much, then all types of dishes show up. It’s amazing what folks around here can scrape together from odds and ends in their cupboards. And the wildlife! You never know what type of meat you�
��ll find in a dish. In the past, they used to serve bald eagle for dinner.”
“No!” Ginny gasped. “You’re making that up.”
With one hand he reached out and brushed back the strand of blond hair that had escaped her ponytail. “Have you ever stopped to wonder why they’re protected? When folks settled here, they were considered a nuisance. After World War I, food was hard to come by, and folks had a hard time supporting themselves.
“Here in these parts—and other areas of Alaska—fox farmers blamed the eagles. The birds would take their young blue foxes right after they left their dens, and fishermen complained the eagles killed large quantities of spawning salmon. The state was afraid the livelihood of their residents was in jeopardy. They paid fifty cents for every pair of bald eagle feet, and then upped it to one dollar. That was a lot of money back then, and they report that from the mid-1920s to 1940, some eighty thousand eagles were killed.”
“Wow. I remember how Ellie mentions ‘pesky eagles’ in her letters and how the Tlingit people ate them.”
“Ah, yes, Ellie’s letters…” Brett narrowed his gaze. “How did my grandma talk you into reading them?” To tell the truth, his knees had grown weak when he’d walked into Grandma’s house and discovered Ginny reading them.
Years ago he’d found his grandmother going through all her things to compile the letters in order. She’d received most of them from Ellie herself, but she had to track down some others, mostly the ones sent out. But she managed to gather almost all of them. Folks kept stuff like that back then.
“Are those for the historical society?” he’d asked Grandma. “I’m sure Linda would love to have them.”
“Oh no.” Grandma Ethel clicked her tongue. “They’re for one person and one person only—your future bride.”
He swallowed hard again as he remembered the conversation. What was Grandma thinking, giving Ginny the letters? Maybe she didn’t understand that his path and Ginny’s launch into stardom were heading two different directions. Or maybe she’d forgotten she’d said that.
