by Teri Harman
She ached all over, unable to smile back anymore. “Yeah, okay. Good night … Henry.”
He nodded once and walked away.
Henry
Henry didn’t go up to his apartment. He pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked his truck, and started the engine. For a moment, he only sat, staring out the windshield. He couldn’t stop thinking about the look on Matilda’s face when he’d asked her why she was riding her bike in the middle of the night. Was it fear? Was it despair? He’d had a hard time leaving her alone. He wanted to go back to her, make sure she was okay.
He looked up at the window of his apartment. He didn’t want to be alone either.
He pulled out of the parking spot and onto the road, turning in the direction of Abby’s house.
Henry’s body felt deflated; he really needed some water. His ankle was swollen. But he didn’t want to stay home, he couldn’t. His stomach was in knots and he couldn’t trust himself not to sit down at the typewriter again.
He’d been composing another letter in his head when Matilda’s bike was suddenly there. Then her small body in a heap on the ground. If he hadn’t been worried about her injuries, he would have felt extremely embarrassed. Yet something about meeting her on the road, in the middle of the night, both of them fleeing something—it felt like a bond. And he couldn’t feel that.
What had kept her awake, he wondered again? She was his reason. Even here in the car, he blushed thinking of the feelings he’d awakened writing to her earlier in the night. A nightmare had started it all, and now here he was running to Abby, like a scared child.
At least he had her to run to, though the feeling of having someone was still anomalous.
Out of Silent Fields proper, Henry finally took a full breath, relaxing slightly. He felt stupid for leaving, but didn’t turn around. A half hour later, he tapped lightly on the back door of Abby and Gill’s weathered farmhouse. Memories of his first night there plagued him. After a second attempt, Abby cracked the door, eyes sleepy and gray hair a mess.
“Henry!” She opened the door all the way, looked up at him through the dirty screen door. “What’s wrong, son?”
“Can I stay here tonight? I know it’s crazy, but …” Now he felt like a complete idiot. What am I doing?
She narrowed her eyes at him and then pushed open the screen door. “Come in. Of course you can stay here. The spare room is always made up.”
Henry stepped inside, the smell of dust and aged wood a small comfort. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. He looked down at his sweat-stiff clothes, knowing he must smell and look like a vagrant. “I don’t know …”
Abby put a hand on his arm. “I don’t need a reason, honey.” Her warm smile washed over him. “You look like you could use a shower though. You smell almost as bad as our cows.” She chuckled as she waddled ahead of him down the hall.
“Sorry,” he said again.
“Oh, stop saying you’re sorry.” She opened a linen closet and handed him a soft white towel. “Get cleaned up. I’ll put some clothes on your bed. You go right to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Henry looked down at her. Impulsively, he wrapped his arms around her. “Thank you, Abby.”
Surprised, she hesitated before hugging him back, but then her arms were tight around his middle. When she pulled back, she brushed at her cheeks. “Get away! I don’t want your stink on me.” She smiled, giving him a push toward the bathroom.
After a quick shower, Henry wrapped the towel around his waist, and stepped quietly out into the dark hall. His ankle hurt, and his mind was exhausted from thinking about Matilda. He wanted nothing more than to sleep. He didn’t see Gill standing in the doorway to the spare room until he almost stepped into him. “You ever heard of coming during the daylight?” Gill grumbled.
Henry jerked back a few steps, his hand coming to the edges of his towel. He looked down at his bare chest and wished desperately to be dressed. Especially if Gill was about to kick him out. “I’m sorry, Gill. I—”
“She likes you.”
Henry peered across the dim hall, unable to read Gill’s expression. He hadn’t seen Abby’s husband since that first night, but his impression of the old farmer was the same: a rough, no-nonsense man, who Henry had to admit he was a little bit afraid of. Henry swallowed, “Yes, sir.”
Gill folded his thick arms over his chest, resting them on his protruding belly. “She … uh …” He looked down at his arms, cleared his throat. “She seems happy. And it’s been a while. So … so I hope you aren’t taking advantage or nothing like that.”
“No, sir.” He didn’t know what else to say. He wanted to praise Abby’s kindness and friendship, but his throat was dry. And it seemed like Gill was the kind of man who preferred less words, straightforward answers.
“Good, good. She deserves happy.” There was a softness in Gill’s voice that surprised Henry. Perhaps there was something more under that gruff exterior.
“Yes, she does,” Henry agreed.
Gill nodded once, let out a huff of breath. “Good night, then.”
Henry stepped aside so Gill could move past him down the hall. He stood there marveling until Gill closed his and Abby’s bedroom door behind him. With a small smile, Henry went into his own room to sleep.
Matilda
The corner of the living room by the window stood empty except for shadows.
Matilda took a long breath. She bent to pick up A Thousand Sleepless Nights. The cover was bent, so she tried to flatten it. The mantel clock ticked loudly.
Slowly, she walked over to the typewriter. Desperate, she sat down.
Are you there?
She typed again.
Please answer me.
Her only answer was her own fear.
She looked around the room once more before trudging up the stairs. She cleaned and dressed her wounds. She should sleep, but knew there was no way she could. At the foot of her bed was a small box of things she’d found in Jetty’s room that still needed to be sorted.
She hefted it onto the bed and sat, resolved to put aside her fear and worry until the morning. Problems required morning clarity.
The box contained a few journals, some old letters, and random bills all marked paid. Matilda read a few journal entries, smiling at Jetty’s voice on the page. One entry began, Tilly had her first kiss and her first heartbreak. She remembered it instantly.
Chester Boggs had kissed her after winning the school rivalry baseball game. She’d had a crush on him for most of her sophomore year, dutifully attending every home baseball game to admire him, just hoping he might notice her. Not only had he smiled at her during the whole game, but then he kissed her in the dugout. Her first. Matilda had never felt so excited, so grown up. She imagined dates to the movies, holding hands in the halls, school dances. But Chester never called, ignored her in the halls, and then asked another girl to the junior prom. She’d never felt so embarrassed, so used.
Jetty had hugged her and then burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but with a name with Chester Boggs, what did you expect? Never fall for a man with a silly name.”
“It’s not funny! I couldn’t help it!” Matilda sobbed into Jetty’s shoulder. They sat on the porch swing, chains creaking, the late spring air as crisp as fresh apple. Jetty’s yellow tulips were in full bloom, the front yard an explosion of color, perfectly matched to the purple and green of the house.
Jetty made a consenting sound in her throat. “That does happen, doesn’t it? Emotions are funny things, especially love. It’s so hard to describe or understand that magnetic, inexplicable pull to another person. Sometimes you feel it before you even know them. That’s your soul knowing something before your mind does.” Jetty patted Matilda’s hair. A robin landed on the porch railing, opened its throat and sang. “I loved a boy once with hair as orange as pureed pumpkin and so many freckles he looked like he’d fallen in the mud. I loved him the moment I saw that funny hair. I have no idea why. Can you imagine us tog
ether—two redheads? Our children would have been doomed.” She laughed. “Poor Reggie Waters. No one deserves to look like that. And yet …”
“You liked him.”
“Yes, I did. There are mysterious forces in the world, Tilly. We can’t see them, we don’t often understand them, but they are there. Some good, some bad.”
Seventeen-year-old Matilda had found fleeting comfort in Jetty’s existential words. But now, thinking of Henry, the words only scared her. What forces were at work now? What forces had stolen her memory and broken her mind? What forces made her want to love a man she didn’t know and couldn’t have and caused a typewriter to write intoxicating letters? Was it more than her soul outrunning her mind?
“Jetty,” she whispered. “Forces are at work here, and I don’t like it. How do I stop it?” Gooseflesh rose on her arms. Stop talking to her. That’s why you thought you saw her. Stop it!
Matilda turned back to the box. She lifted another journal. A piece of paper fell into her lap. It looked like it had been crumpled up and then flattened back out several times. She set the journal aside and opened the folded page.
Her name was written across the top. The temperature in the room dropped.
Dearest Tilly -
There is something I feel I must tell you, but I hesitate. I made a promise not to tell. But I’ve never been comfortable with that promise. Even though I made it to my sweet, wonderful sister, Ivy. Your mother.
It is true that she and your father died in a car crash, but that is not the whole story. Your mother was sick. Not physically, but in her mind. As a child she had this incredible imagination. The stories she could tell! But as she got older, some of those stories started to become real to her. Dr. Wells managed to find her the right medicine and the delusions left her. That is, until she became pregnant with you. She couldn’t take the medicine while she carried you; it wasn’t safe for a baby. Right before you were born, things got so bad. She believed someone was trying to take you from her.
After you were born, your dad, Nash, tried to get her to take her medicine again, but her mind was so broken that she thought he was trying to hurt her instead of help her. He loved her so much! It broke his heart to watch her suffer.
That day in the car, Ivy insisted on driving and seemed to be in a good place. Nash allowed her. She drove the car into oncoming traffic, yelling that the only way to keep you safe was to take you to heaven.
You may be wondering how I know this? Nash did not die immediately. He survived for two days after the accident. He told me what happened. I think his guilt took away his will to live. He felt responsible. He loved you both so much.
Now that I’ve written the words, I still don’t know if I should tell you. Your father made me promise to watch for signs of Ivy’s sickness in you. But you’re eighteen now and show none. I don’t think she passed it on to you.
So the question I fight is whether you need to know at all. I don’t want you to be angry at her or to blame her. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t your father’s either. And I don’t want you to blame yourself.
I don’t know what to do …
Matilda’s hands were shaking, the paper quivering. Her eyes were clouded with tears, the sobering words blurred.
My mother was crazy. And now I am too.
She dropped the paper, put her head in her hands, and cried.
Henry
Henry wandered into the kitchen the next morning around ten. Abby sat at the table, feet propped up into a chair, book in hand.
“Well, well. Look who decided to join the land of the living.” She smiled over the top of her paperback novel. “Gill went off into the fields hours ago—thankfully—so it’s just you and me, handsome.” Henry smiled, thinking of Gill’s tender words, his subtle but obvious concern for Abby. Despite their prickly interactions, the couple loved each other. Something about that gave Henry great comfort.
“How’d you sleep?” Abby asked.
“Good.” In fact, he had slept better than in the last couple weeks. Though the unplanned, middle-of-the-night visit had proved the right choice, he still felt a little embarrassed. Gill’s old flannel pajamas hanging off him only added to his discomfort. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat across from Abby. She was reading The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough. “Any good?” he said over his steaming mug.
“Amazing!” She turned a page. “I’ve never felt so many emotions at once.” Her eyes moved up to him and then back down. “Matilda recommended it to me.”
Henry’s coffee sloshed onto his hand. He swore as he set down the cup and mopped up the mess with a tea towel. “Sorry.”
Abby laughed loudly, threw down her book. “So?”
“So what?” he asked, knowing exactly what she meant.
She pursed her lips at him. “So why did you grace my doorstep at four in the morning? Something happen with Matilda? What’s going on with you two? Every time I mention her name you act like I’ve shoved you from behind.”
Henry fiddled with his mug. After a long sigh, he said, “Honestly, I don’t know.” He put his forearms on the table and hung his head. He expected Abby to say something, but she waited patiently. “We’ve had a couple of … run-ins. One last night, literally. And there’s this … energy between us.” He scoffed. “That sounds so stupid.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Abby interjected.
Henry looked up. There was no trace of disbelief or mocking in Abby’s washed-out brown eyes. “It’s strong, Abby. I don’t understand it, and I’ve never felt anything like it. I didn’t think it was possible to feel such a powerful connection to someone. I don’t know her! And I can’t know her. I guess that’s the problem.”
“What problem? Why can’t you know her?”
“It can’t go anywhere.” The words made his heart ache.
“And for the love of everything holy, why not?” Abby raised her eyebrows.
Henry shook his head. “Because … I’m too broken. My life is sort of a mess. And last night she said … she said she can’t either.”
“What’s her stupid excuse?”
“I don’t know.” Henry thought of Matilda’s face when she said it: the pain, the damage. Though the exact cause was a mystery to him, he knew that look, those feelings. He looked up at Abby, whose expression was hard to read.
“Well, son, I gotta say it all sounds like chicken crap to me. Pardon my French.” She smiled coolly and crossed her arms.
Henry scoffed, almost laughed. “You don’t understand—”
“Oh, I understand just fine. You think you two are the first people to be damaged by life? To have terrible things happen to you and want to hide from the chance of more pain? Give me a break.” Abby dropped her feet heavily to the floor and leaned forward over the tabletop. Her eyes clouded, changed. “I lost eight babies.”
Henry’s stomach clenched, the words pushing him back in his seat. The room stilled. “Abby …”
“Most were early on—miscarriages—but two I gave birth to. Right here in this house. One was stillborn. The other …” she paused, put the back of her hand to her mouth. “He took a couple breaths and then stopped. Just wasn’t strong enough. He died in my arms.” She looked down at her empty arms.
Henry didn’t know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut. A visceral clench of pain gripped him. He felt suddenly wasted, empty. When Abby had said she and Gill didn’t have any children, he had ignorantly assumed there had never been any at all, not that she’d lost so many. The revelation made him profoundly sad, her grief so real to him.
Abby inhaled sharply, “After each one, I wanted to give up. I wanted to hide from the pain I had and the possibility of more pain. But after I stopped hurting so bad I couldn’t sleep, I realized something else.” She caught his eyes. “Fearing the pain also kept me from the chance of having some joy. And, Henry, joy is worth the pain.”
He looked away from her, emotions rising in his throat, mind fighting the logic. “But you … never …�
�� He didn’t know how to say it.
“Never got the joy? Well, not in the way I thought I would. But then you showed up on my porch, and though I can’t claim you as my own flesh and blood, I can claim a bit of joy from helping you. God sent you to me, an orphan to a childless mother.” She sniffed.
Henry looked up, lost for words.
Abby took a deep breath, letting go of the emotions. “There is no joy in this life like finding the one person who makes you feel at home. If Matilda is that person, then you best fight for her.” She held his eyes. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll slap you into next Tuesday.” She smiled, sunshine.
Henry laughed, the tension in his throat and gut easing. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. Then he frowned. “But what if …”
“Uh-uh. No what-if’s. Reach for the joy, risk the pain.” She slid her hand across the table and patted his hand. “I’ll make you a big fatty breakfast and then how ’bout a walk? It’s a gorgeous Saturday, probably one of the last days before it gets too hot.”
He nodded, “Sounds good.”
Abby pushed to her feet with a groan. As she moved to the fridge she paused to put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned his cheek into her warm, wrinkled skin. She kissed the top of his head and then went to pull out the bacon.
n
Henry stepped into his apartment, tossing his keys on the kitchen counter. In his head, he replayed all of what Abby had said to him, wondering if he had the courage to reach for the joy. Was it possible to have too much pain? So much that it kills the joy before it can take form?
Lost in his thoughts, Henry wandered over to his desk. His eyes dropped to the typewriter. The earth shifted under his feet.
Who are you? Who are you? Are you there? Please answer me.
He had not typed those words.
Matilda
Hello?”
“I need your help.”
