Coldwater Revival: A Novel (24 page)

While Caleb slept, I slipped off to the bathroom, returning minutes later. I was startled to see Elo kneeling beside Caleb’s bed. Wary of intruding, I stayed my position in the doorway. But Elo was born with a bevy of antennae in the back of his head, thus he perceived my presence. He stood with quickness and turned his head, staring me down with hard eyes that glazed with a definite sheen.

Elo—crying?

With a swift jerk, his head commanded me to Caleb’s bedside.

It seemed, along with the nasty bouts of doubt and fear I had fought, that Elo’s impertinent glare was all it took to knock me over the edge of good sense. Knowing Elo would not shed a tear unless he believed Caleb’s condition was hopeless, I ran to him, attacking him as though I was the youthful warrior, David. My nails became the five smooth stones that felled mighty Goliath. I growled as I pounded Elo’s back and dragged my claws down his unprotected arms, knowing all the while that when I scraped away his flesh, I scraped away his pride as well.

“Caleb is not going to die, you witless Philistine,” I sputtered into Elo’s purple face. “Don’t you dare cry for Caleb as though he were already dead. He’s going to make it. Can’t you understand the King’s English, Elo? Caleb is going to live, and you better not think otherwise.”

Elo captured my flailing arms with one fist, his eyes as dark as the muddy bottom of our pond. He flung me onto a chair and squatted on his haunches, breathing fire-eating holes into my eyes.

“Don’t be telling me what I can and can’t do, you mouthy little nitpicker. I’ll cry until the Second Coming if I want to.” Drops of sweat and spittle clung to his sandy-red mustache as his words hissed out like steam from a radiator. I knew he had turned down his shouting volume for Mama and Papa’s sake. He had probably dammed up his flow of foul language for the same reason. “And if you ever come flying at me like a bat out of Hades again, I’ll knock you so far into the sunset they’ll never find you or your fat mouth. Can a log-headed twerp like you understand
that
part of the King’s English?”

In that moment, I didn’t know whether I understood the King’s English or not. I just barely knew who I was and where I was. Too worn out to even care, I wondered if Elo was about to pinch my head off and eat it on the spot. At least I had stood up to the giant. More importantly, I had stood up for Caleb. That was all that mattered.

The storm of anger vacated my heart as quickly as it had entered. I turned my gaze from Elo’s raging eyes and squeezed my little brother’s lifeless fingers with my own.

“We have to believe he’s going to get well. Don’t you understand, Elo? We just have to believe.”

Thirty-one

The family gathered in Caleb’s room at dusk. Each of us had said good-bye to him in our own fashion, secluded from other family members. The best I could manage in the way of farewells was to recount one of Caleb’s favorite stories, for I could not swallow the horror of telling him good-bye. Papa led us in a short prayer, committing Caleb to God’s safekeeping. A forbidden thought raced through my mind: Hadn’t Papa prayed the same prayer over Micah?”

God, please hear our cries. Don’t turn your face from us this time. Mama won’t make it if she loses another son. Can’t you see my mustard seed of faith, Father? Please honor it, small though it is.

Mama and Papa sent us to our rooms while they huddled in sad vigil beside Caleb’s bed. His breathing was a horrible thing to hear. ’Twas like he was drowning inside himself; lungs so thick with mucus they gurgled; chest wheezing as breath rasped wetly from his throat. The worst thing: He hadn’t the strength to cough. His strength had ebbed away as silently as life now drained from his body.

I disobeyed my parents, which was more usual than not, now that I think back on it. Grabbing a blanket from my bed, I sat in the hall, my back to Caleb’s bedroom as I whimpered my heart out to God. He was, after all, a God of miracles. Drawing from memory, I speculated on happenings that occurred in Bible times. Were we not still susceptible to such miracles? I reminded God that the Falins were in dire need of something in the realm of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead … or healing the blind man. In one sense, Caleb was blind. Asleep for long weeks was like being blind. Hadn’t Jesus said that we had not because we asked not? Well—I had done my part. I had asked, and asked, and asked. Now it was time for God to follow through and answer my prayers.

With a scratchy wool blanket tucked over my shoulders and my heart beating the slow tom-tom of fear, I kept an ear perked on Caleb’s raspy breathing, praying it wouldn’t cease. I stood and peeked into his room, seeing the nodding heads of Mama and Papa. Neither had slept much during the last few days. I tiptoed past their chairs and slipped my coldness beneath Caleb’s covers, my hand shifting about until it rested on his chest. The better to assure myself that life continued to flow through his veins.

At morning light, I awakened and listened for Caleb’s breathing. He was still with us! I sat up in bed and saw Mama and Papa, their faces flat of expression as they gazed at me with red-streaked eyes. I sensed it was love, not displeasure, that stirred Papa to speak.

“Seems you’re still having a bit of trouble obeying us, Emma Grace. Guess some things never change.”

“I’m sorry, Papa. But you understand that I have to be with Caleb. Don’t you?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Mama and I are going to get a little rest. You’re to wake us if there’s any change at all in Caleb’s breathing. Even the slightest change—you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

After they left, I got out of bed and tidied the room. As I leaned over Caleb and straightened his covers, I thanked God for one more day … one more hour with my little brother. As long as there was life, there was hope.

Darkness crept from the room like a slow-chugging train. Chill was in the air. Once again I crawled beneath the covers, keeping my cold feet to myself.

I awakened moments later—or so it seemed at the time. Angry at myself for falling asleep and not keeping stricter vigilance, I hurried my gaze to Caleb’s face. Soft brown eyes stared up at me. They blinked with heaviness, as though the coins of death weighted his lids, trying to solder them shut.

’Twas the most beautiful sight in the world: Caleb’s sunken eyes, looking at me as though I had two heads and forty-nine noses. I barked a wild, hysterical yelp that made him cry, but I was too excited to stop my nonsense. Trumpeting like a temperamental elephant, my screams summoned the entire family. They raced into the room, Mama bawling for fear her youngest had departed this world.

“Caleb’s awake, Mama. Look! Look for yourself.” I danced around the room, stumbling on crutchless feet, tilting and lurching as though the floor slanted on unmatched beams. My brother was alive—back from the netherworld of his lengthy habitation.
Like Lazarus coming out of the tomb.
God had heard our cries.
Thank you for our miracle, Father. Thank you …

Mama clasped Caleb to her breast, her tears bathing his face as she rocked him in her arms.

“My baby’s back.” Her eyes blazed with rapturous glow as she pressed her palm against his forehead. “The fever’s gone. I can’t believe it. He’s going to live. My boy’s going to live.”

“Don’t squeeze him to death, Annaleen. Give him a little breathing room,” Papa admonished gently.

The Ollys clung to each other, tears and laughter colliding in birdlike warble, such a welcome departure from the woefulness of late. Nathan beamed as though the university had just handed him a full scholarship. Though Elo presented his back to the room, I knew he was overcome also. I wished he and I could share this moment together, for I was sinking from the overload of joy that filled my heart. I needed to share it with someone.

In dazelike stupor, I walked to Elo and peered around his shoulder. His glaciated expression couldn’t camouflage the entirety of his emotions. As his eyes filled like big fat water pockets, I pressed my chest to his back and slipped my arms around his waist. He made no response. Had I expected any? Somehow, his cold-fish reception mattered not a whit in this moment of monumental delivery. I released my grip on Elo and was about to turn away when a second miracle of the day occurred. One of his hands squeezed my arm with the grip of Hercules, which set me to giggling like a schoolgirl. I slipped from his grasp, before he could spoil the gift and spout something nasty at me.

Papa sat down beside Mama and gently tugged Caleb from her arms. I watched as he entangled himself in Caleb’s savory uniqueness: the way his son fit perfectly in his arms, the sound of his less-cluttered breathing, and his scent—a commingling of medicine, perspiration, and the stench of near death. Papa’s breath caught when Caleb shifted his gaze from Mama to him. Papa clamped onto that gaze like a half-starved alligator. As his broad fingers stroked Caleb’s matted hair, I gloried in the smile my brother presented him. Tentative and a bit wobbly, it directed itself squarely on Papa’s face, rendering his voice box slightly off-kilter.

“Welcome back, Son.” Papa wrenched his mouth a bit, fretting his mustache from side to side. From the cut of his jaw, I knew Papa clenched his teeth, staunching his tears before they could spill over. His broad shoulders hovered over Caleb in a silent declaration that he would protect this child with his life. His hands quivered as they slid the length of Caleb’s arms and legs, probing, prodding his limbs as though he were a newly purchased heifer. After the examination, Papa’s countenance converted from worried frown to the most beautiful smile in God’s creation. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “How’re you feeling, Son?”

“Wh … wher … where’s Micah?” Caleb asked. Unaccustomed as they were to the light, his eyes squinted as the frown on his face deepened. He stretched his hand to the far side of the bed where Micah slept, feeling it with his palm like a person with no sight. When he turned his head to look for Micah, he winced and laid a tiny hand against his brow, as though to still the ache in his head. His countenance appeared troubled, tears slipping past long lashes from which I had often washed morning sleepers. I knew he cried for a loss he did not yet understand. Squiggling deeper into the safety of Papa’s arms, he closed his eyes a second time and fell asleep.

The hub of our home was vacant. A rare occurrence, but rarer still was the tranquility of our empty kitchen. I wilted to a kitchen chair and let my mind stew in its boil of exhilaration. The truth of God’s miracle took its time sinking in. I hoped I hadn’t dreamed it up, as my imagination could be untrustworthy at times, and well I knew it. Hadn’t I proved its fickleness that evening in Galveston when I spied Micah’s bare feet marking tracks in the sand?

Don’t doubt what you know is true,
I chided myself. Caleb lived. He would thrive. He’d grow strong, and in time his memory would return. That quirky, demanding personality I found irresistible would also reappear.

“God … thank you for sparing Caleb. I’m so grateful for our miracle. I love you, Lord—and I don’t ever want to run away from you again. Not ever.”

As I sat in the stillness and wondered about my boldness with God, something moved in the air around me. Not a rush of wind—but perhaps a stirring of breath?
There it is again, whisking against my skin.
I scrubbed my puckered arms and glanced around the room, sensing a presence, knowing I wasn’t alone. ’Twas then I felt a whisper of something—tracing my mouth—tingling my lips with cottony fingertips. I closed my eyes and abode in the beauty of the moment, for it seemed as though God had peeled a smile from his face and pressed it into my heart. In those precious, blissful moments, my joy multiplied like the seed of Father Abraham.

Thirty-two

Odd, how by mid-December I had come to think of Caleb’s improvement as a burden as well as a blessing. He longed for freedom. Most likely, the field mice scavenging for food in our far pasture heard about his yearnings, along with the entire household. The sickroom was a jail Caleb wished to escape, as he had quickly tired of bed confinement, quarantine, an overly anxious mama, and an overly strict papa. He sought one thing: freedom to search for his missing brother.

During one of his verbal crusades for release, Caleb ordered me to saddle up Old Jack. He’d fastened his mind on hitting the autumn trails, crested now with treetop plumes of scarlet and gold. He knew, with no little degree of certainty, that Micah hid out among the live oaks and half-shorn trees on our farm. Either there, or in the midst of brush forests that dotted our property.

Doctor Landers put the fear of relapse into our hearts, reiterating that Caleb wasn’t out of the woods yet. The raging fever had stirred him from the coma, most likely, but he wouldn’t survive another attack. As I recall, he spoke to us with his left brow arched into a tepee and his forehead furrowed to the hilt. I believed he thought my family incapable of resisting Caleb’s cogency, and I was out to prove him wrong. So, corral Caleb I did, though it proved a wearisome task.

The family rallied in defense of Caleb’s pouting, nagging, temper tantrums, and out-and-out irresistibility that tempted us to give in to his demands. His healing claimed highest priority. Since none of us were immune to his persuasiveness, we linked arms and withstood the onslaught as one.

The doctor chicken-scratched his directives on tablet paper; the dos and don’ts of Caleb’s existence, but only Mama could decipher the script. Following his orders judiciously, The Ollys prepared nutritious meals; the boys kept his room toasty warm, and Papa quarantined him from visitors, should nasty germs follow them into the sickroom. The lion’s share of keeping him quiet and contented fell upon me. I was the lioness, caring for her young. Though Caleb acted the annoying cub, crawling away from the den and taking swipes with his paw when things didn’t go his way, I held my growling at bay. I came to treasure naptimes. They were easy to enforce, as Caleb’s eyelids closed at the lowering of a shade, the whispering of a tale, or the humming of a lullaby. He recovered more each day—physically. But his moroseness caused the family untold anguish.

If there was a flaw in Caleb’s healing, it stemmed from the intensity with which he missed his brother: his cowpoke companion; his partner in sabotage and demolition. His pining wreaked further damage on our hearts. Fancying Micah’s imminent return, Caleb grilled Mama incessantly. Mama withheld the truth, fearing a setback. But she cracked a bit more each day, Caleb’s persistent interrogation driving wedges in the gaps of her armor. I watched Mama with care as she daily stepped closer to the line where she would hand over the answers Caleb sought. We dreaded the day, knowing the wall hadn’t been built that could protect him from the pain her confession would bring.

Mama requested I remain by her side when she talked to Caleb. Had she asked me to shove the moon to the far side of the sky, I would have rummaged around for a tool and begun the task at once. But to witness Caleb—suffering the most horrendous pain known to mankind—seemed beyond my forbearance. Just thinking about it sent my heart into a tailspin.

’Twas on the seventh day of Caleb’s awakening that Mama chose to let fly what she had shuttered behind the sashes of her heart. I cowered on a nearby chair, pondering Mama’s power of persuasion, and her taut posture, as she primed herself to answer Caleb’s poison-tipped questions. His head rested on bed cushions, an arm latched around the pillow-puppy Mama had stitched during his deep sleep. But his gaze darted between the two of us, his brown eyes carrying a look of fear I’d not spied heretofore.

“Mama
… where is Micah?”
Caleb asked the question as though he hadn’t asked it a hundred times before. He plucked at the bedcovers, his fingers as fidgety as a rooster in the brooding pen.

“Micah went to be with Jesus, sweetie.” As Mama gnawed her bottom lip, my heart took off like a wild goose dodging buckshot, my heartbeats tripping over themselves in a scurry to exit hazardous territory. Mama moved to the bed and clasped Caleb to her bosom, swaying him in her arms, humming him a lullaby. Her droning wobbled a bit when her thumb and forefinger kidnapped puddles from her eyes. Caleb tugged free of her tightness, piercing her eyes with a stare.

“Micah’s in heaven with Jesus,” Mama crooned, her voice as smooth as fresh-churned butter.

“When’s he coming back?”

Mama stared straight ahead, seemingly entranced by a speck on the wallpaper. The pulse in Caleb’s neck blipped up and down like telegraph keys as he gazed at the one person who could alleviate his fears and abolish his loneliness with just a few words.

Mama tossed a glance my way, seeking help, it seemed. But my gaze strayed to the hands folded in my lap. They held great fascination for my coward’s heart.

“Sweetheart … Micah’s not coming back. You see, he lives with Jesus now—in his home.”

“I don’t want him to live with Jesus! I want him to live with
me
. He’s
my
brother.” Caleb burst into uncontrollable sobs. As Mama smothered him to her heart and rubbed his back with a velvet hand, our eyes met in shared regret. Oh, that we could shoulder some of Caleb’s suffering. ’Twas an impossible hope, for we both knew there is a pain that must be borne alone, with nary a presence to help. Save that from above.

How many times could a heart break and still hold out hope of mending? Mine cracked open anew, fresh pain colliding with old hurt. Caleb’s sobs had awakened my dozing pain. I knew they had stirred Mama’s as well.

I thought Caleb’s worn-out body incapable of producing so many tears, but I was wrong. He wailed as though a dark hand wrenched sobs from his heart. While the clock ticked off the better part of an hour, Mama rocked little Caleb. Her arms and back afire by now, I was certain. I shook with the need to comfort my brother, but it was Mama’s touch he needed. Not mine. The Ollys crept into the room, as did my brothers and Papa. No one attempted to hush Caleb’s weeping. We understood the need to cry your heart dry. Now it was Caleb’s turn. I knew we all pleaded silently for the same thing: divine help. The kind we couldn’t provide the neediest member of our family.

Perhaps God extended his helping hand through the bestowal of sleep. In time, exhaustion had its way and the sobs angled off. Hiccups tagged along for a while, then faded also. Caleb slept, at last.

Nonetheless, I knew questions would arise in the morning; asked through the hiss of missing baby teeth, and the trusting nature of a child for whom death was just a word. Caleb and Micah had been inseparable since conception. Two personalities in identical bodies. God, alone, knew how Caleb would handle his grief; a grief more exacting and burdensome than our own. Perhaps God would heap upon my little brother an extra helping of mercy … and love.

In my daydreams, I envisioned Caleb and Micah awakening together, hopping from bed like a pair of toads, scampering through the naughtiness of the day. I saw them now: running the hills raw; squatting on a ridge to poke sticks in a hole; climbing out on a limb to gawk at a speckled egg. Times they’d never again share. Best I put my daydreams aside and accept reality. ’Twas certain Caleb would be facing it soon enough.

The day waxed adventurous; hearth-warm and as suitable as any for Caleb’s maiden voyage outdoors. Accustomed to sickroom darkness, I hooded my eyes and stepped onto the dirt-packed trail. The wind carried whiffs of ripening cedars, Mama’s cooking, and the hint of creatures on the prowl. I sniffed the openness, seeking a scent I’d not yet called to mind, but for which I longed. Then I remembered: salt-tainted gusts of wind, spiked with flavors from as far away as the playgrounds of humpbacks and orcas.

Until recent days there’d been no time for me to dwell on Galveston. Now my thoughts roamed like the buffalo, hungry and unhurried as I recalled rolling waves and the sandy beaches where I’d buried a portion of my heart, along with the note I left behind.

I turned my head and glanced at the princely portage trailing behind me. I smiled at Caleb’s royal carriage, which much resembled the twins’ painted wagon. My heart couldn’t help but pitter-patter when I spied the luminance in his eyes.

“Mama sure is silly. Ain’t she, Emma Grace?”

I halted the wagon and studied Caleb. He straddled the pile of folded quilts I had carefully tucked into the wagon slats, knowing Mama would peel my skin if her fine stitchery dragged the dirt. A rare smile puffed Caleb’s cheeks, reminding me of the clouds that knotted this fine December sky. I felt my knees wobble a bit when Caleb giggled, his laughter melting my bones like heated wax. How I wished I could capture his child’s beauty in a photograph or with a charcoal stick and drawing paper.

“Don’t say
ain’t
, Caleb Roan Falin. Remember? You’re supposed to say
isn’t
. Why do you think Mama’s silly?”

Caleb leaned forward, motioning me close. I sat on dry winter grass, my face inches from his. While I waited for him to confide what had him ever so tickled, I buttoned his jacket and flicked curls from his eyes. I couldn’t keep my hands off my little brother. Caleb smelled of good health but also a bit like Vick’s VapoRub. I was anxious to discover the mystery behind his smile, since his smiles were as infrequent as Elo’s. Caleb’s soft words tickled my nose, his breath warm and moist as he whispered into my ear.

“’Cause she don’t know that Micah’s hiding from us—somewheres out in them bushes.” He pointed a pale finger toward a natural growth of thicket off in the distance. “He’s coming back … real soon now. ’Member when we use’ta hide from you, and you couldn’t find us?” Caleb giggled at his cleverness. “Me and Micah sure hided good, didn’t we, Emma Grace?”

I grinned and gathered Caleb’s hands into mine. Perhaps the time had come to help him piece together the puzzle of Micah’s disappearance.

“Do you remember Whisper? Our puppy?” I studied Caleb’s eyes with care. My family had not yet discovered the extent of his memory loss. I didn’t want to probe too deeply, or cut into the slice of peace Caleb now chewed on.

His head bobbed up and down like Mama’s sewing machine needle. But soon thereafter his eyes misted over, as recollections skittered to a halt in his heart. A cruel master—remembrance.

“I wish’t Whisper didn’t fall down and get hurted. I tried to catch him, Emma Grace. But I couldn’t.” Caleb brushed a cuff across his eyes and looked away. Almost overnight, he had come to disdain tears. I thought him entirely too young to give them up forever. Perhaps he now tracked behind his heroes—Papa, Elo, and Nathan—who would rather give up Mama’s cooking than have someone see them with wet eyes.

“Do you remember we told you that we buried Whisper—’cause he died?”

Caleb turned his head toward me, his eyes narrowing as our gazes locked together. I read in his expression a wariness that warned me to tread softly over the pathway of my words.

“He ain’t never coming back. Right, Emma Grace?”

I breathed in deeply, releasing a sigh as I shook my head. “No … he’s not coming back.” I felt a buildup of moisture in my eyes, but tried to disguise it around a smile.

“Don’t cry, Emma Grace. How ’bout you take us over ta Mr. Peavy’s house—when Micah gets home. Betcha he’ll give us ’nother puppy. It’ll be all right.” Caleb patted my hand and smiled, his face flushed with excitement.

How about that?
Caleb comforting me.

“I guess what I’m trying to say, Caleb, is that sometimes a person gets hurt real bad, like Whisper got hurt … and they … they …”

The tears poured; a terrible thing to let flow on a day that had brought laughter to Caleb’s heart. What a sad revelation to the brother I had wished to cheer with a bumpy ride on a sunshiny day. I jumped from the ground, latched onto my crutch, and was about to resume our jaunt when Caleb’s sweet voice floated into my ears.

“Emma Grace … me and Micah won’t never get hurted like Whisper did, ’cause you always look out for us. You won’t never let nothing bad happen to
us
. ’Member when you told me and Micah that you loved us this much?” Caleb stretched his arms wide, like a bird’s wings in flight. He wobbled a bit in the wagon as his left arm tried to outstretch his right. For a moment, I glimpsed Jesus, strung high on a gnarled, wooden cross.

Yes. I loved my brothers. But loving them with every speck of my heart hadn’t kept me from failing them.