Coldwater Revival: A Novel (9 page)

Thirteen

Intent on separating myself from the bleakness in Mama’s eyes, I hurled through the black night, falling down, picking myself up countless times. Escape led me over uneven, uncharitable terrain whose foliage tugged on my hair and ripped my clothes to snippets.

As deep night settled in, I scoured the horizon for a pocket of security. I spied a moonlit copse of trees beyond the farthermost field. Aiming my crutch toward the thicket, I gave no thought as to whether or not my actions caused the family additional angst.

As I struggled to reach the shelter of timbers, fresh waves of sorrow reminded me that Micah was gone forever.
And Caleb? Will he die too?
Blood-chilling fear evoked both the longing to know Caleb’s fate—and the desire to never know.

Live oak and cedar inhabited the leafy boscage into which I delved: my hideaway from varmints and humans, alike. I collapsed at the foot of an oak, arms bloodied and bruised, head throbbing from incessant crying. The physical pain seemed inconsequential when compared to the ache in my heart.

When the rushing in my heart quieted, I curled to the ground, pillowing my head with my hands. Moonlight filtered into the grove, illuminating bare patches of earth, spotlighting leafy shadows that swayed with the wind. All else was stillness and quiet, as though my friend, the woods, had turned its back in shame. I had separated myself from the family I loved and the little brother I would never hold again. Now I sensed the forest withdrawing from me also. Treetops rustled overhead, dropping whispers into my ears.
If you had kept stricter watch over the boys, Micah would still be alive.
I stiffened at the trees’ reprimands, but then nodded my head, for I stood in wholehearted agreement with their condemnation.

Crunching leaves roused me from sleep. Though torchlight shone through the trees at some distance, I knew who hoisted the flame. I could identify Elo’s angry footfall no matter the span.

“Emma Grace! Answer me, girl! Are you in here? You’d better pray I don’t find you, ’cause when I do I’m gonna wring your scrawny neck.”

Elo’s bark hastened my wakefulness. I should have known he’d track me down, despite the care I’d taken in hiding. I held my breathing steady, relying on silence to conceal my position. But Elo’s sixth sense charged ahead, his circle of fire lighting my space, striking me full-face with the flame of disgrace.

“You selfish little twit! Do you have any idea the pain you’ve caused Mama and Papa tonight?”

I knew Elo spoke of my negligence in tending the twins, causing Micah’s death. Yes, I knew the pain I’d caused my parents. But what Elo didn’t understand was that I would gladly trade my life for Micah’s. If only I could.

Elo snatched me from my cleft in the tree and slung me atop his shoulder like a sack of cornmeal. Holding my legs and crutch with one hand, his torch with the other, he cleared the trees and set off at a brisk trot. I presumed we headed for the foreman’s house. But had he galloped to the river and dumped me into its flow, it would not have bothered me a pinch. I cared not where Elo carted me, so long as sleep and I traveled there together. Sleep was the only place sorrow could not find me.

My jostling ride ceased some time later. I raised my head from Elo’s shoulder and glanced around, noting a sky gone pink. As Elo dumped me onto the lifeless grass of our front yard, I saw Mama, rushing to my side.

“Emma Grace … how could you do this to us? Didn’t you know we’d be …?”

A fogbank rolled in, obscuring Mama and the sound of her pain-wracked words. I felt her pursuing arms reach out and try to envelop me, but I turned my back on her and scrambled away. Having no suitable apology or explanation for failing my brothers, I hobbled to the house as fast as my crutchless legs would take me. A drone of incoherent words accompanied me like a swarm of bombinating bees, whirring over and around, but not into the world of my understanding. The droning followed me into the house and into my room, where I slipped beneath the covers of my bed. There, under a tent of blackness, I keened in silence until the humming went away.

Gentle hands massaged my body, but I resisted the attempt to rouse me.

“Emma Grace, you must wake up. Mama says you have to eat something. She’d be here herself, but she’s … Come on, little sister, wake up.”

Sniffles wobbled Holly’s voice, but I hardened my heart against her entreaties. My thoughts turned to Mama. Was her grief such that she had taken to her bed? What was she doing? Preparing Micah’s body for burial? Cooking for the hordes that would descend upon us soon enough?

Though Holly’s voice sounded most forgiving, I feigned sleep and didn’t budge from my quilted refuge. I wished to talk to no one, especially Holly. What could I say to a sister who had been straight on perfect for as long as I could remember?

“C’mon, sweetie. No one blames you for the accident. Don’t you understand? It could’ve happened no matter who watched the boys.”

But I’m their protector, Holly. Don’t you understand? I should have kept them out of that field. Please, just go away and leave me alone.

“Come on, Emmy, eat some food. You’ve not eaten in … goodness knows how long. Give Mama a little peace of mind, okay?”

Holly hummed as she patted the lump of me. I spent all my energy in remaining motionless; nevertheless I treasured Holly’s caress, for it restored to life a portion of my soul I had thought dead. Too soon, the patting ceased and I heard Holly’s footfall tread to the doorway. She paused for long moments, perhaps to verify whether there was breath left in my body. Then she walked away.

I left my bed well after nightfall. The house was dark, doused of light save the moon’s pale glow and a flickering lantern in the hallway. During my long hibernation, Mama, or one of The Ollys, had cleaned me up and dressed me in a nightgown. I rolled back the covers and sat up, feeling a moment of light-headedness. Securing my crutch, I walked from the room with but a brief glance at the tray of food on my bedside table.

Holly was right. I should have eaten. At the entrance to Caleb’s bedroom, a wave of tremors buckled my legs. I grabbed the doorpost, telling myself that sickroom odors had set my legs to trembling. The air reeked of carbolic acid and liniment: fetors that packed the punch of a fish, three days dead. I gagged and clutched my stomach, though nothing abode in its depths worth the heaving up.

Mama dozed in a chair near Caleb’s bed. White bandages swathed my brother’s head, reminding me of crypt mummies in comic books we used to laugh over. His dormant state fretted my nerves, for he slept as one who would never awaken. For a boy of constant motion, he appeared more than unnatural.

I gazed at Mama’s fingers, entwined with Caleb’s as though she might prevent his departure from this present world. My heart ached for her. And it ached for the son who appeared more dead than alive. Most of all, it ached for the loss of Mama’s less rowdy son. The one so gentle natured that even the bluebells of springtime held no fear his grimy hands would snatch them from the earth. How would our family go on without Micah? How would I go on?

Though Mama slept the sleep of exhaustion, her face wore a pained expression. One I’d not forget in a hundred lifetimes. I was responsible for her pain. For the stain of blood on her apron, and the hole in her heart that could never be filled. Tears blurred my sight as I slipped from the room and felt my way down the hall.

Someone had stopped the mantle clock in our parlor at 5:37, the assigned time of Micah’s death yesterday. The unmoving pendulum wreaked havoc on my heart. I wanted to force it to action, charge its momentum until the hands of time swung back to the days when Micah romped and laughed and played. But the pendent remained fixed in time, as did my heart. Every mirror and picture in the room was draped with black cloth—even the family portrait, taken by an itinerant photographer last summer. In happier times, I would have laughed at remembrances of the day: Elo lurching for the woods when Mama called us to gather for picture taking; Papa threatening to hang him from the baling hooks if he didn’t join us on the front porch. On any other day, my heart would have smiled. But not today. Death had come to our house. Its evidence was not just in my heart. It was everywhere.

Most likely Elo’s hands had fashioned the cedar coffin resting on the table in our front room. Single candles, at either end of the box, provided scant light for the darkened parlor. I tore my gaze from Micah’s burying box, smaller and more heartbreaking than other coffins at which I had brazenly gawked. Someone had cleared the room of furniture, but for a few straight-back chairs. Papa sat hunched in one of them, chin propped on his chest. I hoped his eyes closed in sleep, not prayer, this being his second night without rest. Elo eyed me from across the room where he sat slump-shouldered, his narrowed gaze trained on my awkward approach. Without words, my big brother upped and left the room. ’Twas the displeasure of seeing me again, I feared.

As I walked to the table, an urgency to pray rushed over me. I could think of no part of my body or mind that wasn’t in dire need of shoring up. But I swayed my stubborn will from seeking even a morsel of God’s strength and courage. He had chosen not to spare Micah—the most prized of his beloved. I felt certain he wouldn’t bother to bend an ear to the likes of me. In that sharp moment of acuity, I understood I was turning my back on God. Perhaps out of anger, for failing Micah—for failing me. Perhaps because I no longer believed in his love. The thought was so disheartening, so foreign to all I had believed since infancy that I knelt on the floor and bawled.

“Come here, Emma Grace.”

I shook my head, not allowing Papa’s storehouse of love to ooze even a mite of warmth onto my ice-packed heart. However, I hadn’t reckoned that Papa’s stubbornness might be as weighty as my own, for suddenly I was in the air, swung into his burly arms as though I bore the weight of a newspaper. For a while we just sat in his chair. As he cradled me against his chest like the baby I wished I were, the pungency of freshly hewn cedar and Mama’s tallow candles joined force, stamping a memory scent on my heart I knew I would never forget. After a time of coddling, Papa set my feet on the floor, retrieving my crutch as he gripped my hand with firmness.

The awful finality of Micah’s death struck me anew when I leaned over the coffin to tell him good-bye.
This is the last time I’ll ever see you, sweet Micah. I’m so sorry, little brother. So very, very sorry.
A gully wash of sadness and guilt flooded my eyes. If only my tears could wash away the suffering in my heart. The suffering of my family.

How could I live in a world that no longer claimed Micah’s bare feet on its paths? His bright gaze darting to nature’s wonders? His silly, snuffling laugh that put me in mind of a snorting piglet? I wanted to shake him awake. Tell him to be up and about the business of following after his brother. A beautiful world awaited his exploration and a pile of mischief lay neatly stacked, ready for him to claim.

Not a scratch marred Micah’s perfection. Nor did a bruise fade purple into his skin. Yet, he was dead.
Why, God?
I wanted to scream. But God and I no longer acknowledged each other. The thought mangled my heart even more. Micah wore his Sunday best: the muslin shirt with buttons from the tinker-man’s wagon; the shirt that bore the embroidery stitches of Molly’s pearl-white buttonholes. Micah had been scrubbed speckless, the faint scent of Mama’s lavender soap tarrying on his pale skin. And his unruly locks now lay in shiny array, for they’d been plastered down with Papa’s hair balm. His appearance gave me pause, for I’d never before seen his free-flying curls subdued in such manner. I could almost imagine it was someone else’s little brother lying in the casket.