by Kate Hewitt
Ellen was packing her valise for the journey home, the windows of her dormitory thrown open to the summer air, when Harriet McIlvain hurried into the room.
“Ellen, Superintendent Cothill wants to see you in her parlor.” Harriet looked anxious, and Ellen felt her own sharp pang of nervousness. To be summoned to the nursing superintendent’s parlor was never a good thing. Would those sharp words she’d spoken months ago come back to haunt her now?
She walked slowly down the stairs to the little private room adjacent to the nurses’ parlor. Miss Cothill stood in the doorway, a piece of paper in her hand, her expression grave.
“You wanted to see me, Miss?”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of grim tidings, Nurse Copley,” Miss Cothill said quietly, “but a telegram has just been delivered to my care. It regards your aunt.”
“Aunt Rose?” Ellen’s mouth was dry and her eyes widened.
“No,” Miss Cothill corrected, “your Aunt Ruth. She’s very ill and you have been summoned back to Seaton immediately.”
“Aunt Ruth?” Ellen repeated, and found she could not quite believe it. She hadn’t known Ruth ever to be ill; somehow she could not imagine her stern countenance made pale and tired in illness. Yet, she realized, she had not seen her aunt and uncle in over a year. The thought grieved her, and she felt a clutch of panic at the thought of Aunt Ruth being ill, gravely so. “Is it... serious?” she asked numbly. “I mean... will she die?”
“I do not know,” Miss Cothill said gently, “but your uncle is asking you to come at once.”
Stiffly Ellen nodded, her mind whirling. From somewhere she found words. “I shall finish packing my things.”
“Yes, do. I shall arrange a carriage to take you to the station.”
Just a few hours later she boarded the train to Ogdensburg. It would take all day to reach Seaton, a day that felt endless as her mind ran through a reel of memories made unbearably poignant by her aunt’s illness. Aunt Ruth slapping her hand when she’d touched the bolt of fabric in the store, and then later making her those dresses of her own. Her aunt’s sharp rebukes and then sudden, reluctant relenting, her stern features softening into an almost-smile.
As the train chugged steadily through the countryside burgeoning in summer Ellen felt as if the memories might swallow her up completely, suffocate her with sadness and regret for what might have been. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the seat, willing the train faster and her own mind to rest.
She spent the night at Rouse’s Point, and by the next afternoon she alighted at Seaton, a bit tired and grimy, but glad to be there.
“Ellen Copley, my word! It’s been a while, hasn't it?” Orvis Fairley heaved her valise down as Ellen stepped from the train. The station, she saw, had had an addition built onto it in the last year. There was a ladies’ waiting room with several benches next to the ticket window. “It’s good to have you back, now.”
Ellen took the station master’s hand as she stepped from the train onto the platform. “Thank you, Mr. Fairley.”
“I’m glad you’ve come,” Orvis Fairley continued soberly, “considering your Aunt Ruth.”
Ellen felt a prickle of alarm and even fear though she kept her expression and voice calm. “Is she very ill, then?”
He took a step backwards, his face suffused with embarrassed color. “It’s not for me to say, Miss Copley. It’s not for me to say...”
Ellen nodded in acceptance. The last two days of travel from Kingston had left her in a quagmire of doubt and exhaustion. The telegram had been so brief; she had no idea just how ill Aunt Ruth really was. Part of her knew that Hamish would not have sent for her unless Ruth was truly unwell; another part insisted that Aunt Ruth was invincible. She would simply have to find out for herself.
“Do you mind if I leave my valise at the station? Uncle Hamish can fetch it for me later.”
“Oh, there’s no need for that, miss,” Orvis said quickly. “I’ll bring it up to the store. There’s not another train coming for twenty-three minutes.”
That was the first time such an offer had been made, and it took Ellen by surprise. She wasn’t used to people being so nice to her in this town, and it made her uneasy. Aunt Ruth must be truly ill, she thought, and felt fear prickle coldly between her shoulder blades.
“Thank you, Mr. Fairley.”
They walked quietly up the street. A heavy, humid pallor hung over the town, making the late June weather hot and oppressive. Ellen murmured greetings to several people she recognized, the regretful looks and quick bobs of their heads making her more and more nervous.
When she arrived at the general store, it seemed forlorn somehow, even though it was no noticeably different. The same barrels and bins lined the wide front porch as they had six years ago, when Ellen had first arrived with Da.
There were a few new additions, Ellen saw after a brief moment of inspection—gloves and goggles for automobile riding on one shelf by the door, with a handprinted sign, ‘Don’t Get Left in the Dust!’. Displayed in the window were a telephone and a typewriter, both shiny and black and strange-looking.
Inside the store had its familiar smell, both musty and sweet, and Ellen blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. A few people browsed through the aisles; Ellen heard their murmured helloes as if from a distance. Uncle Hamish was not at the counter.
Ellen couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been there, his apron white and spotless, his cheeks rosy, his smile bright. Now a thin young man with sharp eyes and overly pomaded hair lounged against the worn marble, and he straightened his bow tie as Ellen approached him.
“Do you know where Hamish Copley is?” she asked politely, although what she really wanted to know was who this fussy young man actually was. She recognized him vaguely, but that was all.
“He’s back at the house, tending to your Aunt Ruth.”
“You know who I am?”
“Of course.” The young man smiled smugly. “You’re Ellen Copley. I was in school with you, when you went to the upper class. I’m Artie Dole.”
Ellen remembered the cheeky boy who had yanked her plaits, and she smiled coolly. “Yes, now I remember. Has Uncle Hamish hired you to work the counter?”
“Yes. I’ve been here since September.”
Ellen blinked in surprise at this news. Why had no one informed her? When, she suddenly wondered with a dawning panic, had she last received a letter from her aunt and uncle? She couldn’t remember, and she felt even more disconnected from her life in Seaton, from Uncle Hamish and Aunt Ruth.
Someone grasped her arm. Ellen turned and saw it was Elmira Cardle, her face heavily powdered and her eyes bright. “We’re so sorry, Ellen. You did the right thing, coming home.”
“Thank you,” Ellen murmured. “I think I’ll just go see Uncle Hamish, now.” She excused herself and crossed the yard to the house.
It was quiet and dim when she let herself inside. “Uncle Hamish?” she called softly, and moved into the kitchen.
He sat slumped at the table, his head in his hands. Ellen felt as if her heart had risen right into her throat. She took a step forward, one hand stretched out to that weary figure. “Uncle Hamish?”
Hamish looked up blearily, managing a weary smile when he saw Ellen. “We knew you’d come.”
“I had no idea...” Ellen trailed off, unable to finish her thought, not wanting to explain the shock her uncle’s appearance gave her. Hamish was unshaven and untidily dressed, his eyes bloodshot, his expression so despairing Ellen felt a lump form in her throat.
“You’ll be wanting to see your aunt,” Hamish said as he struggled up from the table. “The doctor’s been this morning. Said she was no better, but no worse. It’s been like that for days.”
“What... what is it?” Ellen asked hesitantly. “Does she have the influenza?”
Hamish shook his head. “If only. Although that kills off people too, I suppose. No, she’s had stomach pains—for months, she says now, though she n
ever did tell anybody. The doctor said it’s a cancer, eating away at her insides. He doesn’t think she’ll last very long, another week or two at most. That’s why I sent for you... I knew you’d want to pay your respects. And I didn’t know what else to do.”
Ellen could only nod, one hand reaching for the table for balance. Even in her worst imaginings she hadn’t dreamed of anything quite so dire. Aunt Ruth on her deathbed. It seemed impossible, and Ellen realized that the emotion flooding through her was sorrow. Grief, deep and real and overwhelming. She swallowed, her throat tight and aching.
“I’ll go see her.”
Ellen climbed the stairs, noting the layer of dust on the banister Ruth normally kept polished and shining. The house seemed so still, so lifeless, as if the heart of it had gone already.
She went to the front bedroom, a room she’d only entered once or twice, and knocked on the door. There was no answer.
Hesitantly, Ellen pushed it open. She saw Ruth inside, lying in bed. Her hair was unbound and had turned nearly all white. She’d lost a great deal of weight, and the skin seemed drawn tightly over the sharp bones of her face. One claw-like hand rested on her middle, and even in sleep her breath came in awful, labored gasps.
Ellen pressed one hand to her mouth, truly shocked by the sight of her aunt. Gone was the strong, robust woman she’d both feared and respected. All that was left was a pale, gaunt shadow lingering between this world and the next.
“Aunt Ruth?” Ellen whispered, her voice scratchy. After a moment, her aunt’s eyes fluttered open. The color seemed to have drained out of them. It took Ruth a moment to focus on Ellen, and when she did she smiled faintly, her breath a rattle in her chest. “It’s Ellen,” she said softly. “May I come in?”
Aunt Ruth nodded. “It’s good to see you, child,” she said, each word a long, drawn-out rasp. “I was hoping you’d come.”
As if there had been doubt that she would. And why wouldn’t there, Ellen realized with a sudden surge of self-recrimination. She’d never really wanted to be in Seaton, and her aunt and uncle must have always known that. Hesitantly she went to the side of bed. She’d had experience of many sickrooms in her year at KGH. She’d seen people die, had closed their eyes and dressed them for burial. On more than one occasion she’d wheeled a corpse on a gurney down to the morgue in the basement. She’d held a dying child in her arms, and felt grief pour over in a scalding rush.
Yet none of that prepared her for this moment. Looking into Ruth’s faded eyes, seeing the stern lines and angles of her face both softened and clarified in illness, being the subject of her wispy smile, brought Ellen right back to the coal dust and smoke of the kitchen in Springburn, her mother’s frail hand grasping her own. She remembered the confusing rush of despair and love and she gave a tiny choked cry, her throat thick with tears.
Ruth reached for her hand, her grasp so weak Ellen barely felt the brush of those bony fingers against her own. “I’m glad you’ve come, Ellen. It was good of you, considering.”
“Of course I would,” Ellen said, her voice coming out choked. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“Never mind that.” Ruth’s eyes fluttered closed then struggled open again. “I wasn’t going to send for you,” she said after a moment, each word labored and slow. “Hamish said to, but I told him it wasn’t right.”
“I’m glad he sent for me, Aunt Ruth,” Ellen said. “I want to be here.”
Ruth shook her head, barely a movement against her pillow. “Why should you waste your summer in a sickroom? You’ve spent enough time there.”
Ellen brushed at her eyes. “I don’t mind.”
Another shake of her head, and Ruth’s eyes fluttered. Just these few moments of conversation clearly exhausted her. She looked at Ellen with pain-clouded eyes that still saw all too much. “It isn’t right. What am I to you, after all?”
The words echoed in the still room, in Ellen’s still heart. Yet she couldn’t respond; even if she’d known what to say, Ruth had already fallen back asleep.
The question kept up a haunting refrain in Ellen’s mind as she went back downstairs. She busied herself with chores, tidying the kitchen and parlor, making supper. Within a few hours, the shell of a house seemed like a home again, if only in the trivialities of a lighted stove and a meal on the table.
What am I to you?
Ellen closed her eyes briefly as she saw Ruth’s sadly knowing look. It hurt her to think that Ruth wouldn’t expect her to come, perhaps wouldn’t even want her to come. Admittedly, Ellen had fled Seaton before for the comforts of Amherst Island and life with the McCaffertys... her own palpable relief at leaving Seaton time and time again both humbled and shamed her now. Ruth had obviously known how she felt, but then hadn’t Ruth been relieved too? What was she to Ruth?
Still, the Copleys had sheltered her when her own father had chosen a different path, a life apart. They’d fed her, clothed her, offered her opportunity, even if it had been without affection. Without love.
Had it?
What am I to you?
They were questions, Ellen realized painfully, she could not truly answer.
That evening Ellen pulled the overflowing mending basket towards her while Hamish sat in his favorite chair in the parlor, staring into the empty grate. The air was hot and stuffy, but Hamish didn’t want to open the windows that faced the street. He’d drawn the curtains so even a breath of air or fading sunbeam couldn’t penetrate the muggy dimness of the sitting room.
“How long has she been like this?” Ellen asked quietly, and he shrugged.
“A few weeks. But looking back she was tiring more and more easily, since Christmas, and not eating as much. I just didn’t want to see it.”
“You could’ve sent for me sooner.” She was obviously needed, Ellen thought, if just to keep Hamish looking presentable and food on the table. The residents of Seaton had brought hams and casseroles by the barrowful, but Hamish hadn’t seen fit to do much with any of it.
He shrugged again. “Ruth said not to.”
“Don’t you think I would’ve wanted to know? To be here?” Ellen could not keep the hurt from entering her voice, even though she blamed herself. Her actions in the past few years had shown otherwise. She’d only been to Seaton twice in all that time, and the visits had been brief and awkward.
Perhaps they truly believed she wouldn’t have come, wouldn’t have wanted to.
“Ah, Ellen.” Hamish’s voice was thick. “What am I going to do without her? I know she was sharp, and some thought she was cold, but she was dear to me. She was the soul of this store, even if I was the heart. She was my soul.” He wiped his sleeve across his eyes, unashamed. “I don’t know why I loved her so much, I honestly don’t! When I told Douglas that I aimed to marry her, he laughed right out loud. Told me she was too prickly for his taste, and he was right. She is prickly. But you know, after all these years, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He turned to Ellen, smiling sadly, the traces of tears still visible on his pouchy cheeks. “I wouldn’t have her any other way.”
Ellen knelt in front of her uncle, putting her arms around him. “Of course you wouldn’t, Uncle Hamish. And I wouldn’t either.”
As soon as she spoke the words, Ellen knew them to be true. Aunt Ruth was prickly and difficult and proud. She was hard and stern and strict, and yet she was more. It was only now that Ellen saw it and knew it to be true. A tear slipped down her cheek as Hamish returned her embrace, and she laid her cheek on his shoulder.
The next week saw Ellen occupied with familiar tasks, caring for Ruth who drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes not noticing Ellen and the small duties she performed, at other times all too aware of Ellen moving quietly in her room, changing sheets or filling the water pitcher, bathing her forehead, bringing clear broth for her to drink.
She watched Ellen with bright, knowing eyes, but rarely spoke, and neither did Ellen.
One afternoon when the heavy weather had broken so the sky was
clear and the air fresh, Hamish told Ellen to take a walk.
“You’ve penned yourself inside all this time, and there’s no need. Ruth is sleeping, and I can be on hand. I know for a fact Louisa Hopper would like to visit with you. She’s here until August, when she goes up to Amherst Island.” From somewhere Hamish found a smile. “What’s that about, then?”
Ellen managed to find a smile as well. “Louisa’s found a beau, Uncle Hamish. I reckon we’ll be hearing wedding bells soon.” She surprised herself by how normally she was able to say it.
“How about that, then!” Hamish slapped his knee. “Another man likes them prickly as well! Go see her, Ellen. I’m sure it will do you good to hear her news.”
Ellen did not really want to hear Louisa’s news, but she knew her uncle meant well. In truth she’d barely given her friend a thought since her return, so occupied had she been with her duties towards Ruth and Hamish. Now she felt a different foreboding fill her, for she didn’t really want to speak with Louisa, not with the memory of their words at the New Year still fresh in her mind.
“Go out, enjoy yourself,” Hamish urged, and Ellen smiled thinly. She would have to see Louisa at some point; perhaps it was best to get it over with. She changed her dress, instinctively smartening herself just a bit, and walked towards Water Street.
Mrs. Hopper answered the door, but this time she greeted Ellen warmly, taking her arm and drawing her forward into the house.
“Ellen, we’ve been so sorrowful to hear about Ruth. The doctor says she isn’t long for this world. Do you think it’s true? I know you’re only a nurse, and in training at that, but...”
“I couldn’t tell you how long it will be,” Ellen answered with quiet dignity. “But we’ll be by her side until she passes.”
“Of course you will,” Mrs. Hopper murmured. “So dedicated, despite you rushing off to Canada like that. I’m sure Louisa will be thrilled to see you. Did you know she is spending all of August on that island? We’ll be coming ourselves at the end of the month, to meet them, and this Jed, of course. Louisa tells me they have one of the most prosperous farms on the island.” Mrs. Hopper’s mouth tightened a bit, and Ellen doubted she liked the idea of her only daughter being courted by a farmer, prosperous or not.
