Always Forward

by Ginny Dye

  “Are you all right, Carrie?”

  Kyle’s voice broke through her thoughts, allowing Carrie to regain control. “Yes,” she said with conviction. She had decided to treat these sick people. It was no time to let her fears cloud her judgement. “Did you get Abby to drink all the water?”

  “I did.” Kyle gazed down at her. “Is she really going to be all right?”

  “Absolutely,” Carrie responded. “She needs sleep more than anything.”

  “So do you,” Kyle observed.

  Carrie shook her head. “Each of them will need the remedy every three hours through the night. I’ll stay awake to make sure they get it.” As fatigue pressed in on her, she hoped she could do it.

  “Nonsense,” Stanley said briskly. “I don’t want to mess up the remedy by doing it wrong, but I can wake you when you need to give it to them.” He gestured toward the bed where Abby was asleep. “There is room enough for both of you. You get some rest. I’ll wake you up in three hours.”

  Carrie nodded, struck by the agony in his eyes. She recognized that look all too well—the haunted look that said he was thinking about the nights he had lain in bed with his wife before she had died. She knew he needed reassurance more than anything else. She stepped forward and grasped his hands tightly. “No one is going to die,” she repeated again. “Your children are going to be just fine.” She knew she couldn’t restore the family he had already lost, but if she could relieve his fears, it would also help the rest of the children who were watching silently.

  Stanley stared into her eyes and finally seemed to reach a conclusion. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “Now you get some sleep. You look all done in. I’ll wake you up.”

  Carrie lay down on the bed and was asleep in moments.

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  Ginny Dye

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Carrie wasn’t sure what jolted her awake, but her still weary mind refused to process the information it was receiving as she gazed around the strange room. Slowly, it all filtered back—the long carriage ride, fording the swollen creek, Abby and the children having influenza. As the last piece of information settled in, she sat up quickly and looked beside her. Abby was still asleep, but even in the dim lantern light, she looked like she was better. Carrie laid her hand on her forehead, relieved beyond words to find the fever almost gone. Abby would be too weak to travel for a few days, but she was going to be fine.

  Carrie swung her legs off the bed and looked around the small cabin, taking in details she had not noticed the night before. The log cabin was as rustic as she remembered, but there were touches that said the Marlton family had not always lived in such dire circumstances. A fine oak dresser was tucked up against the wall, with delicate lace doilies beneath a gleaming silver comb and brush. She suspected the comb and brush had belonged to the mother who had died. Carrie felt a wave of sadness, but along with the sadness came a depth of understanding she had never experienced before.

  A quick sweep of the room told her she was the only one awake, and a slight glow coming from one of the two windows in the house told her the sun was about to make its appearance. Suddenly desperate for fresh air, Carrie stepped silently to the door, eased it open, and walked outside. The sight that met her took her breath away.

  The clouds that lingered from last night’s thunderstorm danced across a verdant green landscape that stretched as far as she could see. The sun kissed the clouds as it rose toward the horizon, touching them with hues of purple, pink, and orange. She had seen many beautiful sunrises over the James River, but had never seen one that seemed to stretch on for endless miles. Carrie stood quietly, taking deep breaths of the cool morning air, knowing the sun was going to deliver another stifling day. For just a moment, she understood why people had moved to Kansas.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Carrie turned her head, somehow not startled to find she wasn’t alone. She smiled at Bridget. “I can almost understand why people live here,” she said softly, not wanting to break the magic of the morning.

  “It’s about the only thing that makes it worth it,” Bridget responded in a voice that was both bitter and stoically accepting.

  “Have y’all been here long?” Carrie wanted to know more about the young woman standing before her with eyes full of sharp intelligence and aching sadness.

  “Long enough,” Bridget replied with a sigh. “We left Ohio less than a year ago.” Her eyes took on a faraway expression. “My mama didn’t want to leave home. We had a good farm, and we were surrounded by family.”

  “Why would you leave that?” Carrie pressed, knowing Bridget needed someone to talk to. Since she was the oldest child, Carrie was sure most of the care and burden had fallen on the young woman.

  “I believe they call it Westward Fever,” Bridget said. “My papa caught a bad case of it. He believed everything would be even better out here. Nothing Mama said made any difference, so we sold our farm, said good-bye to friends and family, and headed for Kansas.”

  Carrie waited, knowing Bridget had more she needed to say.

  “Baby James was only six months old when we left,” she continued, her words twisted with pain. “He didn’t make it even a month before he died on the trail.”

  Carrie shuddered, wondering how Stanley had been able to take such a young child on a long, arduous journey, but just as quickly realized he had probably believed he was doing the best thing for his family, and had no comprehension of how hard the trip would be. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

  “I think it broke Mama’s heart. She died a few weeks after we got here, and then my two-year-old sister, Claire, died right after.” She shook her head. “The dying seems to have stopped for a while—at least once you got here last night. I was sure I was going to lose my other brothers and sisters, too.”

  Carrie reached out and took her hand. “I’m so sorry, Bridget.”

  “Thank you,” Bridget whispered. She lifted her head with determination. “You’re sure they are going to be all right?”

  “Abby’s fever is almost gone,” Carrie replied. “I’ll check on the children when we go back in, but I already know they are fine. We caught it quickly, and children are much more resilient than adults when they catch the flu.”

  Bridget cocked her head. “Are you really a doctor?”

  Carrie hesitated, not sure how to answer that question. “I was,” she said finally, looking away from the girl’s searching eyes to gaze at the sunrise again.

  “Was?” Bridget pressed. “What do you mean?”

  Carrie sighed. She would rather not have this conversation, but she supposed there was no getting around it. “I was in my final year of medical school, and also in an internship with a homeopathic physician…” Her voice trailed away because she couldn’t find the words to finish the explanation.

  “Something real bad must have happened,” Bridget said, her voice thick with understanding.

  Carrie shot her a glance. “Yes.” She remained silent as she watched the sun slip through the lowest layer of clouds and perch on the horizon like a blazing ball of fire. The dew clinging to the grasses around her sparkled and danced as a light breeze sprung up. “My husband was murdered five months ago,” she explained in a halting v
oice. “I went into early labor and lost my daughter.” Her voice cracked with the memory. “Her name was Bridget,” she whispered.

  Bridget reached over to take her hand and held it firmly. “I’m so sorry.” Her voice was both compassionate and heartbroken.

  Carrie recognized it for what it was—the voice of someone who had walked through their own dark pain. Somehow it comforted her. She stood quietly, glad for the connection of their linked hands.

  “You blame yourself,” Bridget said after several minutes.

  “Yes,” Carrie said. It didn’t matter how the young girl knew; it was simply the truth.

  “I blamed myself, too,” Bridget said. “When Mama died.”

  Carrie looked at her. “It wasn’t your fault,” she protested. “You couldn’t have possibly stopped it.”

  “Maybe,” Bridget said, “but I don’t think I tried hard enough to talk Papa out of coming here. I’ve always been his favorite, I guess because I’m the oldest. Anyway, Mama asked me to talk him out of it, but I think I caught something of the Westward Fever too,” she said sorrowfully. “I didn’t try to convince him to not come. Mama died. So did James and Claire.”

  Carrie understood the desolate look in the girl’s eyes. “Bridget…” She couldn’t say anymore as stark realization stole her breath.

  “What is it?” Bridget asked, a slightly alarmed tone in her voice.

  Carrie turned away and watched as the sun baked away the sparkling dew on the grass. Everyone had tried to tell her the deaths had not been her fault. She had not believed them, perhaps had not wanted to believe them, because blaming herself gave her a target for the rage and grief that consumed her. Blaming herself gave her a point of understanding, when the reality was that the deaths had been so senseless that understanding was not even an option. Perhaps Bridget would have lived if Carrie had not ridden home to be with Robert, but her medical training said she might well not have lived either. In reality, a four-hour horseback ride should not have killed a healthy child coming from a healthy mother. She would never know what might have happened, but hanging on to the guilt, trying to attach understanding when there was none to be had, was as senseless as the deaths that had spawned it.

  “Carrie?” Bridget’s voice, more insistent this time, broke through Carrie’s thoughts.

  Carrie turned to her, hearing the vulnerability in the girl’s voice. “It was not your fault,” she said firmly. Truth pulsed through her as she accepted what had just poured into her soul. “You want to blame yourself because it helps make sense of it, but the truth is that there is no sense to all the deaths. Your mama and siblings were taken by a disease that has killed millions across the country.” She took a deep breath. “The worst part of it is that there is medical care to keep that from happening.” Her mind raced as she realized, perhaps for the first time, just how much power she had to lessen the number of senseless deaths in the world. She couldn’t stop Robert and Bridget’s, but she had stopped influenza deaths in the cabin behind her.

  She gripped both of Bridget’s hands. “Blaming yourself will not change what happened, honey. And your mama would be heartbroken to know you believed it was your fault.” She peered into her eyes, praying the girl was ready to hear what she was saying. “Death just is, Bridget. It happens to every single person. When it happens sooner than we believe it should—before someone has had the opportunity to live a long life—it is even harder to bear losing the people we love. We feel guilty because we are still alive, so perhaps we decide to take on the guilt of the death as well.” As she talked, deeper understanding poured into her. “Your mama loved you, didn’t she?”

  Bridget nodded, tears shimmering in her eyes. “Mama had more love than anyone I ever knew,” she whispered.

  “Then hang on to that love,” Carrie said, a powerful vision of Robert’s loving eyes filling her mind. “That love will carry you through all the days to come. I don’t know why your mama and your siblings died, but I do know that you are still alive. We both…” Carrie shivered as the truth of her words penetrated the remaining layer of guilt. “We both have the privilege of letting our lives be a reflection of the love we lost.”

  Bridget swallowed hard and turned to look out over the horizon, which had lost its magic once the sun had risen high enough in the sky to remind lookers that Kansas was an endless, often brutal plain, which would demand everything from a person in order to survive.

  Carrie stood silently as tears coursed down Bridget’s cheeks. She didn’t say anything when the tears stopped and Bridget lifted her head with a touch of defiance, and an abundance of courage. She simply stood with her, offering her the strength to reach her own conclusions.

  Bridget finally turned to her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Then her gaze sharpened. “Does this mean you are going to be a doctor again?”

  Carrie managed a smile. “I think it does,” she murmured.

  “Good,” Bridget replied. “Can you start by checking on my sister and brothers?”

  Carrie laughed and linked arms with her. Together they strode into the cabin. The first thing she saw was Abby sitting up against the pillows, drinking slowly from a glass of water Stanley had given her.

  “Good morning,” Abby said quietly.

  “Good morning!” Carrie responded, happy to see the light back in her mother’s eyes. “You look better.”

  “I feel better,” Abby replied. “I understand I have you to thank.”

  Carrie shrugged. “I believe you should thank yourself,” she said wryly. “If it weren’t for the medical supplies you had brought along, I wouldn’t have been able to help anyone.”

  Abby smiled. “Oh, you would have probably pulled some plants out of the woods if you had to.”

  Carrie laughed. “I’m a good doctor, but I’m not sure I’m that good.” She understood when Abby’s eyes widened, but she wasn’t ready to talk through her revelations yet. “I have some patients in the other room to take care of,” she said. “Drink all of that water.”

  “I’ll make some cornbread,” Bridget said eagerly. “We’ve got some honey to put on it that I pulled out of a hive last week.”

  Abby looked relieved. “As long as I don’t have to eat soggy bacon and hard biscuits, I will be so grateful.”

  “My mama made sure I could cook better than that,” Bridget promised her. “I’ll have it for you soon.”

  Carrie winked at Bridget, and then pulled back the curtain to the other alcove. Her heart leapt with gladness when she saw the three children sleeping peacefully. As she watched, Camille stirred and opened her sleepy eyes. The little girl stared around for a minute before she focused on Carrie.

  Gradually, her eyes grew wider. “I didn’t die, did I?” she asked in wonder.

  “You didn’t die,” Carrie agreed, moving over to touch her forehead. “And your fever is all gone, too.”

  Camille grinned and swung her gaze toward her brothers. “Are they alive, too?”

  “They are,” Carrie assured her, happy when both little boys opened their eyes in response to her voice. “Good morning, Abraham. Good morning, Belton.”

  Belton rubbed his eyes and then shot a look toward Abraham and Camille. When he was satisfied both of them were all right, he looked back at Carrie with an appraising gaze. “I guess you were right,” he said. “You’re a real doctor.”

  “Yes, she is!”

  Carrie smiled when Abby’s voice floated through the house. They had so much to talk about, but the conclusion was already obvious.

  Stanley walked in just then, his hands holding a heavy pail of fresh milk from the lone cow in the stable. “I don’t know how to say thank you,” he said awkwardly.

  Carrie smiled. “I think we all have reason to be grateful. Without a bed for Abby to sleep in last night, I’m not sure what would have happened.” It made her uncomfortable to realize how true that was, but she decided to focus on gratitude. After five months of dark grief and guilt, it felt liberating to make a different
choice. She gestured toward the bucket. “Can we dunk our cornbread in that?” Her growling stomach was reminding her she was famished.

  Stanley nodded. “My Bridget makes the best cornbread in the world,” he said proudly, and then his voice faltered. “Her mama taught her.”

  Carrie stepped forward and held his eyes with her own. “Her mama would be so proud of all of you,” she said. “She would be proud of you for making such a comfortable home for your family, and she would be proud of every one of her children.”

  Stanley’s eyes bored into hers before he nodded abruptly. “I made a decision this morning,” he announced as he reached out to pull Bridget to his side. “We’re going back to Ohio.”

  Bridget gasped. “I didn’t think we had enough money, Papa. How can we go back to Ohio?”

  “I got just enough,” Stanley replied. “And last night destroyed the rest of my pride about not admitting defeat out here.”

  Abby’s voice broke in. “It’s not failure to want the best for your family.”

  “You’re right,” Stanley agreed, his face beaming when Bridget kissed him on the cheek. “I’m taking all my children back where they have family and folks that love them.”

  “I’m glad,” Carrie said softly, exchanging a long look with Bridget.

  “I’ve got you to thank for that,” Stanley said.

  Carrie’s eyes widened with surprise. “Me?”

  Stanley nodded. “I was out in the barn when you and Bridget were talking this morning.” He took a deep breath. “My Angela’s death almost killed me, too. I’ve felt nothing but dead the last months since she passed. I know it was my fault that all of them died.” He held up his hand when Carrie opened her mouth to protest. “I know what you’re going to say—that it was influenza that killed them. Part of me knows that is true, but the other part of me knows they probably wouldn’t have gotten sick, or they would have gotten care sooner, if I hadn’t left on that wagon train.” He pulled Bridget close to him. “I’m sorry, honey. You were never to blame. It was always me. There comes a time when you are truly responsible for something that you need to admit it, but then you’ve got to find a way to forgive yourself if you want to keep living.”