When the Bough Breaks (4 page)

I run downstairs. Mother looks as if she has fallen asleep; her head and shoulders are slumped over Eddie, who is wedged between her breast and the edge of the kitchen table. Gently I move her back against the chair and unclasp her fingers – fingers that clutch my brother as if they will never let go.

“Please stay with us, Mother,” I whisper. But I know she has gone away forever. I take Eddie from her and hold him to me. “It's not your fault,” I say, even though
he can't possibly understand. “Your face is the last face Mother saw before she died. She loved you very much.”

One day I will remind Eddie of the words I spoke to him on this terrible morning.

I run out the door with Eddie, run the few yards that take us away from her and to Father. I shush the baby until I notice I'm doing the crying. I stand at the forge door, trying to speak, but the words won't come out.

Father is behind the anvil. He looks at me, and the raised hammer he is holding comes crashing down. Startled, Eddie utters a thin, high, mournful wail.

“Run, Hamish, run for the doctor,” Father says. “Your mother's poorly. Then wait in the forge for me.” Hamish bolts, and Father follows, brushing past as if Eddie and I aren't here … as if he can't see us. He strides towards the house, calling Mother's name.

I don't know what to do. I want to go back in to Mother – to kneel beside her chair, to put my head in her lap, to have her hand on my hair.
Maybe she's only fallen asleep, because she is so tired….

Slowly I walk Eddie round the garden, feeling his weight resting against my left side. I support his wobbly head, the way Mother showed me. Then I tiptoe upstairs and sit on my bed.

“If we keep very, very quiet, Eddie, maybe Mother will wake up and call us to come downstairs to her.” I wait.
A bluebottle buzzes round the window frame, and that's all I hear – the buzzing and Eddie snuffling quietly, asleep.

I hear footsteps, voices; a door opens, closes, and opens again. The doctor murmurs something low and comforting. When I go downstairs, after putting Eddie back in his crib, the doctor puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “There was nothing anyone could have done, Millicent. Her heart just gave out.” He tells me how to mix milk and water for Eddie's bottle and reminds me the baby must be fed every three to four hours. He tells me to take the baby to the clinic at the town hall regularly, to be weighed by the health nurse.

I don't know how to get through the rest of the day or the nights until Mother's funeral. Hamish doesn't leave Father's side. Neighbors bring food: preserves and eggs and a pound of butter. Loaves of bread and buns, a leg of roast pork.

Sadie's and Grace's mothers help me set out the food for the funeral tea – I could not manage without them. I hand round plates with thinly sliced bread and butter and sandwiches, and I make pot after pot of tea. Grace's mother pushes me in Father's direction, saying, “Try to make him eat something.”

Father looks white, smaller somehow; he shakes his head when I offer the plate, but the doctor, Hamish, and the Prices all accept. The afternoon is almost at an end and people are beginning to take their leave. Mrs. Price
asks me, “Is that the baby crying? Go on up to him, my dear; I'll hold the plate for you.”

I hear Farmer Price say, “I'll see you in a few days, William. We'll talk things over.”

Eddie's face is splotched and red – he must have been crying for a while. I change him; I'm getting much faster at doing it. I'm not so nervous as I was, handling something so new and small, even though Mother said Eddie is a big baby at almost eight pounds.

Did Mother know? Did she suspect that she might not be with us for very long?
Maybe she did, because these last few weeks, she kept teaching me things. One day she dictated her piecrust recipe, standing over me to make sure I wrote down everything correctly. She said I was getting to be a good little cook, and she'd like me to take over some of the baking when the baby arrived.

“Do stop crying, Eddie. What is it? Have you got a pain?” He cries harder. Finally I say firmly, “You mustn't cry today. I have to go back down. Be a good boy for Millie.” Mercifully, he settles.

The endless day is finally coming to a close. The last person shakes our hands, speaking words of sympathy about sorrow and pain and God's will. I hope they are of help to the others. Father, Hamish, and I are so tired and sad, but are unable to talk to each other about it.

When I go into the kitchen to clean up, everything is neat and tidy. The dishes are washed, the food is put
away, and for a moment, I think that it has all been only a bad dream … that Mother is still here. But, of course, she isn't. My friends' mothers had straightened up.

And now we are left alone, the four of us who were meant to be five. In the night, I get up to see to Eddie. His crib is in my room now. When he is able to sleep through the night, he will share a room with Hamish. My poor little brother – when will he understand that Mother can no longer comfort him when he cries? It will only be me.…

The 2:00
A.M.
feeding is the hardest; I'm wretchedly tired and can barely keep awake. Eddie drinks so slowly at night … falls asleep … wakes up a minute later … whimpers … takes a bit more … on and on, until finally the bottle is finally finished, and I can tuck him back into his crib.

After I've rinsed out the bottle in the scullery, I go into the living room and open the Bible. I turn to the last page to read Mother's name. Just seeing it gives me comfort. Father has added two new entries:

Neatly folded in the drawer is a copy of the newspaper dated July 2, 1935.
As if anyone of us will ever need reminding of what happened that morning.

I creep upstairs again, knowing that in a couple of hours, the busy lonely day without Mother will have to be got through somehow.

“THERE IS NOTHING TO STEAL”

T
he worst thing about Mother's death – there, that's the first time I've used that word – is that she is not coming back, ever. She has not “gone on a journey” – people come back from journeys; nor has she “passed away,” “passed on,” or “passed over.” I hate those phrases people use. Mother is dead, and every little thing I do reminds me of her and makes me miss her more.

I miss her when I set only three places at the table; when I go into the larder and read the labels on the jams and jellies and pickles we preserved. I wrote the labels for the strawberry jam only days before Mother died. It's been the best strawberry season in years, and strawberry teas have been held all over town since June.

I miss hearing Mother hum that same old tune I've heard as far back as I remember. I miss her braiding my
hair. I miss listening for her to tread on – or to step over – the creaky step on the stairs last thing at night, before she checks on Hamish and me … before she goes to bed.

Most of all, I miss the sound of her voice: talking to Father, to a neighbor, to the milkman, to us. In the three days since Eddie arrived, he must have listened to Mother speak more words and sing more songs than he'll hear from me in a month.
But he has to hear voices, or how will he learn to speak?

I wish I was more like Mother. “Do I take after Father?” I asked her once, and she answered, “You are your own self, Millie, my love,” and I have to be satisfied with that.

Mostly now we eat in silence. I do know how to cook, at least twenty ways of serving up potatoes – mashed, baked, scalloped, or mixed with leftovers in a pie, fried in a bit of lard with onions, made into pancakes, or soup, with or without bones begged from the butcher – and lots of other dishes too. It just takes me more time to prepare meals than it did Mother.

Every day I plan for us to have a pleasant supper together, all of us sharing our day, the way we used to when Mother was here. But the minute I sit down, the baby wakes and wants my attention, so it's hard to have a conversation about even ordinary things.

Our vegetables last us right through the winter because Mother tended the garden as carefully as she
looked after all of us. I try to push away the thought that Mother won't be here for Thanksgiving, or for our birthdays.
How in the world can we celebrate Christmas without her?

The blackberries in the bushes at the end of the street and behind the railway sheds are already turning red. Soon Hamish and I will set off at dawn, before the other kids or the hoboes off the boxcars strip the bushes of their fruit. There's enough for everyone, but we like to go early and fill our pails. Mother won't be at the door to admire the crop when we come home … to make blackberry tart or cobbler for Sunday dessert … to give us a hug … to pretend to scold Hamish for eating too many berries before breakfast.

Father thanks me after every meal, straightening his chair before returning to the forge. Sometimes he looks at us as if he doesn't even remember who we are; he is so full of pain, it hurts me to look at him.

Little Eddie drinks six bottles of milk a day, quarts of milk that have to be paid for. Father says I'm to keep the egg money, and he will give me money to pay bills and for housekeeping at the end of the month; but I know there will be times when he won't be able to. Mother used to say, “I've a little put by; we'll manage,” and when that happened, somehow we did. But I can't sleep at night for worrying about it.

I know how to sew, how to mend clothes, and how to
make over old ones for the baby.
But where will I find time when I start school in the fall? How will everything get done?

It's a scorching summer – the nights feel almost as hot as the days. Eddie still finds it hard to settle after his night feed, and so do I. The traveling woman was right when she said, “There's a difficult time ahead”; the problem is, I can't see it ever getting easier. I wish I was still the same girl who used to look forward to the day instead of someone who frets about every little thing.

Last night, I took out my old clothes-peg dolls and lined them up on the bed in front of me, whispering their names. I thought I'd put all but four back in the dresser drawer, where they've lain for years. I'd left out the four for Eddie to look at and for me to teach him the names: Father, Millie, Hamish, and Eddie. But in the morning, five pegs were lined up. Something must have stopped me from returning one of the “mother” dolls. It isn't a family without the mother. … I'll never be ready to be without mine.

I hurry from chore to chore through the endless days, never quite catching up. There are Eddie's diapers to boil, to rinse and hang out on the line, then to fold and iron; there's the garden to weed and water, and floors to wash. And always, like a bruise that is tender after a fall, there's the ache of missing Mother.

How can one little baby take up so much time?
I'll have to go and see Mr. Mercer this afternoon and ask him to
hold my job open for one more week. I don't like to ask –
suppose he won't take me back?
I just have to get some of the chores finished before I return to work.

After lunch, I ask Hamish if he'll watch Eddie for half an hour, so I can go. It's not wise to take the baby out in the hottest part of the day, the nurse at the clinic told me.

Hamish pouts. “Do I have to? I'm going swimming below the dam with the other boys. We dive around the locks under the swing bridge. All the boys will be there, at least a hundred.”

“Then one more won't be missed, nor is the river likely to dry up before you get there, son,” Father says. “And, Millie, please let Mr. Mercer know he can bring Charlie in this evening, before he does the deliveries. I'll keep the forge open for him; he thinks the horse may have a twig or a stone lodged in his foot.” That's the most I've heard Father say in days, and he took my side, which shows he must have been listening … almost like he used to…. Before.

“I'll tell him, Father. Thank you, Hamish, I won't be gone long. Why don't you read your comic to Eddie? He'd like that.” I coax Hamish, but I shouldn't have to. I'm only three years older than he is, and yet all of a sudden I have to be responsible for everything. If Father hadn't been here, I know Hamish would have refused to stay.

I'm out of breath by the time I reach the drugstore.
The heat is fierce, but the big brass fan that hangs from the center of the ceiling keeps the shop pleasantly cool. I bet the little back room is as hot as an oven. The store is quiet at this time of day, especially when it's sweltering like this – customers come early in the morning or late in the afternoon.

Mr. Mercer, dressed in the white coat he always wears, walks round from behind the counter to greet me. He murmurs his condolences and asks, “The baby is keeping well, I hope?”