“What do you need?” Mama asked.
I looked around, seeing a small table tucked away on the other side of the room. A table that wasn’t there before. On top of it were candles, bandages, ointments, books. And beneath it, a bedpan. She followed my line of sight.
“I’ll get it for you.”
A protest clawed and scratched its way to the surface. When it reached my lips, it was a weak imitation of the lion that roared inside. “No . . . I . . .” I couldn’t look at her. I was a man now. No longer her little boy. I couldn’t do this—let her care for me this way. It was humiliating.
She studied me carefully. She seemed to understand my confliction. Her concerned face softened.
“Sam, you can’t get out of bed and needs must—”
“How long?” I choked out.
“For you to get out of bed? Not for another . . .” She looked at my father, then to me. “At least another six to eight weeks.”
“What?” I said with more air than voice. My mother just hugged herself around the middle, her eyes falling to the floor. “I’m to be like this for weeks?”
No one answered. The room fell into an uncomfortable silence.
The fire had raged on before I had awoken.
No one had put out the flames, nor taken away the pain.
Not God. Not anyone. I had felt it all.
I had been alone in my hell.
I had choked on the smoke, unable to breathe through the agony.
I had burned until all that remained was cinders.
And then I had died. At least, in part.
Except there was no funeral. No mourners. No recitation of the burial prayer: Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
No pretty words to call me home. No hope of the resurrection of eternal life. Because to everyone who looked upon me, I was alive. Brutally injured, but alive.
However, inside—inside, I was ashes. I was dust. But I had been denied the gift of returning to the Earth.
I had escaped one hell only to enter another.
“I can do this for you,” my mother said, holding the bedpan. “And I’ve been caring for you while you’ve been unconscious and keeping you bathed as best as I could. I’ve kept you covered, Sam. I’ve maintained your dignity and I will continue to do so. Trust me to care for you.” The shadows moved behind her dark eyes and tears continued to fall. “Trust me, Sam. Please.”
A glanced at my father. He pleaded with his eyes for me to put my trust in my mother. I trusted her. Of course I did. But damn it! I hated this. Hated it.
I looked away from them both and stared out the window. Several seconds went by before I nodded absently. My bladder ached and needed relief. What were my options?
Mama moved toward the bed with the bedpan. Papa stepped out of the way, turning his back. She had lifted the sheets, preparing, situating, when the door opened, and Lucy stepped into the room. Mother stilled. I stopped breathing.
Lucy didn’t seem to notice anything but my eyes. “Awake!” she signed with excitement in her beautiful face.
She moved toward me. I panicked, my eyes flickering to the bedpan in my mother’s hands. “Get out!” I shouted at Lucy. Then I signed it. “Get out!”
She stopped mid-step, her eyebrows pleating together and a frown pulling at her lips. She took in the looks of everyone in the room, blinking several times, before coming back to me. She licked her lips. “Why?” she signed hesitantly.
My heart. It was a drum, beating incessantly as she stood there looking lost and confused. But God, she couldn’t be here. Not for this. Not while I was like this. This wasn’t how I wanted her to see me. Remember me. Have this image of me etched into her brain.
“Get her out,” I pleaded in a whisper to my father.
“Sam,” he said.
“Get her out,” I said again. “Now.”
“Sam, she’s been here since—”
My uninjured arm came out and swiped everything off the table beside the bed. More books and unlit candles careened to the floor. “GET HER OUT!”
Mama jumped and then moved to hold my good shoulder to the bed. “Stop it,” she hissed.
“Get her out,” I whimpered. “I don’t want her seeing me like this.” I glanced at the bedpan, then met her eyes. “Please. Make her leave.”
Again, Mama’s eyes went soft and she nodded. “Jonah, take Lucy downstairs.”
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t look at Lucy’s face. I knew I had hurt her. And I couldn’t look.
I waited until the door clicked shut before opening my eyes again.
Mama stroked my cheek. It felt odd where she touched me. I brought my hand up. Touched where she had touched. Raised skin and stitches caressed my fingertips.
Something cold and hard slid down my cheek. “Feel that? Feel that? Feel that?”
“I’ve been keeping ointment on it. The doctor did a fine job stitching it up. It’s healing nicely.” She bobbed her head toward the door. “That was painful to watch,” Mama said softly,
I removed my hand from my cheek and nodded, feeling a crack in my chest. “I broke her heart, didn’t I?”
“You can fix it.”
“I can’t even fix myself.”
“Wounds heal, Sam.”
But people didn’t rise from the dead. And I had died inside. No one understood that. And they never would.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, pointing to the bedpan. “And then I want to be left alone.”
“Sam—”
“Please, Mama. I just need to be alone.”
She sighed, eyeing me for a minute. “All right. I’m going to help you roll to your side just enough to slide this underneath you. I’ll keep the sheet covering you,” she added. “And I’ll step outside the door. Call for me when you’re finished. That’s how we’ll do this. All right?”
I nodded, gritting my teeth. “Perhaps Papa should do this for me.”
Mama’s gaze cut to mine. “You think it would be less awkward. I suppose that makes sense.” Her mouth twitched with a barely there smile. “But I assure you by the time your father figured out what he was doing, there would be a whole lot of fumbling, a whole lot of mishaps, and a whole lot of awkward.” She raised one dark brow. “You want to give him a go at this?”
“Well, not when you put it that way.”
“All right then. Let’s get started.”
After I was left alone, I glared at my mangled, broken body. I decided I didn’t want Lucy anywhere near me while I endured this new way of living. I huffed at the walls around me. Living. This wasn’t living. I couldn’t let Lucy see this. Because I wasn’t me anymore.
I was changed. Deeply changed. And she deserved better than the man who had died but still breathed.
Lucy
“He ordered me out?”
Papa Burke removed his spectacles, then rubbed a hand down his face. He looked like he had aged ten years in the last ten days. He pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and gestured for me to sit across from him as he put his spectacles back on.
I sat and waited for him to answer my question, the one I hadn’t asked him. Why? Why had Sam ordered me from his room? My hand came to rest over my heart. It ached from his rejection.
Days. I had spent days at his bedside, waiting for him to wake up, hoping that he would, caring not only for him but for his parents every second of those days. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think he would toss me out the moment he did. If he had kicked me in the teeth, I don’t think it would have hurt this badly. It took everything in me not to cry right here at this table.
Papa Burke leaned forward, his eyes searching mine. “I’m sorry,” he signed. “You didn’t deserve that.”
My eyes burned. I knew that. I wanted him to tell me something I didn’t know. I leaned forward as well and asked, “Why was I tossed out?”
He tapped his fingers on the table, a silent beat I couldn’t hear. He looked like a man trying to gather thoughts to put into w
ords. I waited, watching his fingers as they moved up, down, up, down. Until his fingers went still. Then they formed the words, “Sam doesn’t want you to see him like this. He feels weak.”
I frowned, signing my response. “I don’t fault him for being weak. He’s injured!” I stood, feeling agitated. “He’s had a fever! He almost died! I know he’s weak!”
Papa Burke also stood and came to stand before me. “Not that kind of weak.”
I blinked, trying to understand his meaning.
“He doesn’t feel like a man.” Papa Burke eyed me pointedly. “He has no pride. He doesn’t want you to see him like that,” he emphasized, pointing above our heads to the second floor.
Oh.
I reclaimed my seat and shut my eyes. Stupid, stupid man. Yet, at the same time, my heart broke all over again. For Sam. I knew from watching my father how hard men could be on themselves. I’d just never thought Sam would.
Papa Burke put his hand on my shoulder. I glanced up.
“Go home, Lucy.”
My breath caught. That was the first time I’d been issued that command. Everyone was tossing me out? No one needed me anymore? Noah had left without saying goodbye, and now the Burkes were telling me to leave?
“I don’t want to go home,” I signed with a trembling hand.
Papa Burke’s face was sad. He lifted me up to stand. His hug was sympathetic. He released me and said, “Then go back to school. Sam needs some time.”
My nose tingled. My jaw ached. My eyes stung. My chest felt like it was being cut from the inside. Sam needed time. He just didn’t need me. Message received.
I glanced around the room, taking in all the details and all the memories. I packed them all away, but I didn’t know where to place them. My heart felt too fragile. My mind too burdened.
So I left them right where they were and walked out the door.
Six weeks later.
I didn’t go back to school. The thought of leaving, I couldn’t do it. I hadn’t gone back to the Burke home either; however, Mama and Papa still went every day. And every evening when they would return home, I would greet them on the front porch and ask, “Is he ready to see me?”
They would always bow their heads. Like they couldn’t look me in the eyes. They would always answer no.
During the days, I kept myself busy inside our own home, usually helping my sisters. At ages twenty-six and twenty-eight, I hated how they had never found someone—someone to love and someone who loved them back. They were both beautiful and smart. They had much to offer . . . so much to give. But they never ventured out unless it was to run an errand for the household. I knew they, too, had suffered cruelties from strangers. The curse of being a Hallison. And perhaps it had been fear that had kept them from discovering all that was out there. Or perhaps it had been our father. He was different then—when we were younger. Harder. Sterner. Stricter. But I knew they wanted more out of life than to still be living at home. They wanted their own families. They had just given up on the possibility.
Every minute with my sisters was another stake through my heart. Because I felt their loneliness in my bones. It was in the way they smiled, the way they held their gazes on starry nights. Like watching a widow stricken with a memory; wistful at first, then resigning herself to being alone. This was what my sisters had become. And I hated it. I hated it with every fiber in my being.
But there was nothing I could do about it. There was nothing I could do about anything. But I could swing an axe and I could chop wood, and that was what I did on days I felt hopeless and helpless. Noah wasn’t around to do it, was he? No, he was not.
I set a small log down on the stump and brought the axe down. I was so angry. Angry at so many things. Noah hadn’t said goodbye. He had just left. The wood didn’t split. I wiggled the axe out and aimed again. This time the wood split in half, and I replaced it with another small log. My anger grew when my thoughts veered to Sam. I brought the axe down hard. The axe got stuck. My chin trembled to remember our childhood together—all the times he stared at me like I was the most beautiful, cherished thing in the room. And now, he wouldn’t even look at me. I pulled the axe free, lined it up with the cracks in the wood, and swung. It successfully split down the middle. But I didn’t feel joy. I centered another log on the stump and swung. My muscles were starting to burn. I was sweating through my clothes, my hair sticking to my neck and forehead. I recalled every memory of Sam and me from the day we met until the present day, and through it all I chopped and split, chopped and split until my sisters found me sobbing over the stump with blisters on my hands and dirt and sweat clinging to my face.
They gathered me in their arms, took me inside, helped me bathe, forced me to eat dinner, then took me to bed, lying down next to me like Noah used to do until I fell asleep.
The next day, my mind was numb, as well as my heart. However, I was on the front porch when my parents returned from the Burkes’ that evening, asking, “Is Sam ready to see me?”
My father looked at me, his eyes lighting up with something new. My heart thumped with hope. He said something to my mother. She kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand before going inside.
He climbed up the steps, then leaned against the porch column. He shook his head, removed his hat, then beat it several times against his thigh before placing it back on his head. He found my eyes again and signed, “He hurt you. I never thought he would.”
I swallowed. I never would have thought so either. “Papa Burke said he needed time,” I answered.
Papa studied me, eyes roaming my face like he was picking me apart, dissecting me. After a minute, he asked, “What do you need, Lucy?”
A tear slipped down my cheek. No one had ever asked. Not once. Until now. “To matter.” Another tear escaped. Then another. “I want to matter.” I slapped my hand over my heart. The anger I’d felt the day before rose up again, eclipsing the numbness that I had slipped into. “I’m somebody. I’m a person. I feel things too! I hurt too! He can’t just push me away like this! I want to be there for him!”
“Tell him that.”
“He won’t see me!”
Papa shrugged. “He’s bound to his bed. He pushed you out. Push yourself back in.”
“Force myself on him? No thank you.”
He eased off the porch column and stepped into my space. “Let him know how you feel. Like you did for me.”
My heart felt bruised when he caressed my cheek. “Did I hurt you, Papa?”
“No. You were right. I needed to hear the truth. Sam needs to hear it too. Don’t go easy on him. Be fierce and determined. That’s who he fell in love with. He needs that from you now.”
I blinked several times, taking in what Papa was saying. Was he right? Should I force my way in? Make Sam see me?
“I’m right,” he signed, as though he understood my doubts. “Sam had a brush with death. That can mess with a man’s head. He’s confined to his bed. He’s in pain. His circumstances are undesirable. It’s thrown him into a dark place. He’s not himself. This isn’t our Sam.”
I nodded, knowing this wasn’t the Sam I knew and loved.
“You are the only one who can bring him out of that dark place. I know it in my heart.”
“How?”
“Because he loves you. Because you love him enough to fight for him.”
Papa’s face began to blur with fresh new tears.
“Fight for him, Lucy.”
I nodded, wanting to fight, feeling a battle rising inside me. It burned underneath my skin until I felt blistered by it.
Papa stepped back, smiling. “That’s better,” he signed, then pointed to my face. I wasn’t sure what he saw. Maybe it was determination.
“I have something I need to do,” I signed quickly. I started for the door, then paused, turned, and took five quick steps. Papa’s arms were already out, ready to receive the hug I was prepared to give. When we embraced, it was everything I never had as a child, though I was happy to have it now. P
ulling away, I said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Then he said, “Don’t expect there to be miracles overnight. That dark place, it will take time to pull him out. You need to understand that.”
I lowered my eyes, my heart ripping and tearing. If Sam was in a dark place, then I would have to go to that dark place with him. At least he wouldn’t be alone.
“I’ll help you any way I can,” Papa said.
“Thank you,” I said again.
He kissed my forehead and then I left him where he stood. I was going to push myself back into Sam’s life and I needed to prepare.
Boston, Massachusetts
1824
Noah
I’d been in Boston for weeks and weeks and I was tired and homesick and hadn’t slept a full night in what felt like ages. I’d rented a drab little room above a tavern just off Washington Street, and the noise from downstairs where the patrons corralled often swung from a symphony of raucous laughter to a din of yelling and tables flipping. Fights often broke out after someone had gotten too far into their cups and thought himself brave enough to settle a hash. Everyone was brave when liquored.
But even on the rare nights when the fighting settled early enough, I still had trouble sleeping. Too many things on my mind, I suppose. When I’d arrived, I’d brought with me money, clothes, and I had one goal . . . one mission. Finding Fredrick and getting justice for Sam. That was still my goal. Only now, I carried with me a new worry, a new concern. One I never saw coming.
I buttoned up my waistcoat, then sat on the lumpy bed, staring at the topper I’d placed on the dresser when I’d first walked into this four-walled cell, and got lost in my thoughts. Maybe I shouldn’t have knocked on her door. Or perhaps I shouldn’t have listened to her tale of woe, but how could I not? After all, my search for Fredrick was what brought me to her door. I had no choice in the matter. I had to speak with her if I wanted to find him.
The morning I’d left Bridgeport, Reverend Burke had given her address to me, assuring me Mr. Clive’s sister did, in fact, live in Boston. Apparently, Sam’s father had obtained it back when he had insisted Mr. Clive move Fredrick out of Bridgeport. When Mr. Clive had said he would send Fredrick to Boston to live with relatives, Reverend Burke had insisted to know who and where he was sending him. He had told me it was because he didn’t trust Mr. Clive and he wanted to be sure he wasn’t being lied to.
Reverend of Silence Page 17
