by Reiss Susan
The next morning, the sun streamed in the window at a very early hour, because I’d forgotten to pull the bedroom curtains. I turned over and put a pillow over my head until I remembered that an answer to my letter to Daniel could be waiting on the desk downstairs. I’d wanted a reason to get up in the morning that wasn’t a medical appointment. Now, I have one, I thought with a sigh.
It felt like it took me hours to write my journal entry, shower and dress, but I had to get ready for the day first. There would be no running upstairs for me to change or get something. At least, not yet. When I thought I had everything and was ready to start the day, I went to the stairs and mumbled to myself each time I stepped down, Go slowly. Don’t fall.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was winded. It was going to take time to get my strength and stamina back. But there might be a letter waiting for me. Slowly, slowly, I repeated to myself. When I entered the den, I stopped in mid-step.
There, on the top of the stack, was a letter in flowing copperplate handwriting. I moved into the desk chair and reached for the letter.
Dear Emma,
Have you forgotten your childhood friend so quickly? Have you thrown away the love I offered you so truly? Have you buried the feelings you told me you would treasure for your whole life?
This war has killed so many young men. Even though I live, is our love and friendship only another casualty?
I did not leave your side by choice. I hope you know that in your heart. When your father told me that he felt he had to stand by his convictions and join the Confederacy, it was a dark day. When he asked me to attend him during the journey to the other side, I could not say no.
I wanted to stay with you, protect you from the cruel aspects of this war, but no matter what my conviction is, I had to stand with him. After all the things that your father has done for me and my father, it was the right thing to do. You said you agreed with me. You said it brought you comfort that I would be with your father, attending to his needs and protection during this difficult time.
Have you changed your mind? I know it’s been a long time since I’ve been able to write to you, but I am here now. I hope you will accept me into your life again.
Your humble servant,
Daniel
It had happened again. I guess I should have been terrified of such a bizarre happening. Instead, I settled back in the chair to consider the contents of the letter. There was no question in my mind now. I was not the Emma who was the object of Daniel’s affections, but who was she? It didn’t feel right that he was writing to me in such an intimate way. And who was Daniel? Uncle Jack's postscript about the desk kept me calm as I read the letter from a ghost. Because a letter from a ghost was exactly what I held in my hand, I was sure of it.
All good questions to consider, but not without coffee. As I nibbled a slice of cinnamon toast and sipped my second cuppa, I marveled at the difference in my reactions to Daniel’s letters and this incredible situation. Yesterday, I ran around the house screaming—well, screaming in my head—looking for an intruder. This morning, I hurried down the stairs in anticipation of finding a response to my letter.
I looked out the window at the water, sky and majestic oak tree with its limbs spread wide and its green leaves fluttering in the breeze. It was a view that always gave me a sense of security. I am vulnerable, I admitted silently. The important thing is, what are you going to do about it?
The plan for physical therapy would help rebuild my body. What about Daniel? I could tell this Daniel person – or ghost – to Go Away! Would being dismissed make Daniel angry? Could he retaliate in some harmful way? I could have the desk moved back to the garage. I looked at the cubbyholes, slots, and small drawers and liked what I saw. Something about the organization and neatness appealed to me. Besides, if I buried the desk and its ghost under the tarp again, I'd deprive myself of something that might inspire my story. I could feel my lower lip want to jut out in a pout. It was time to admit that I had absolutely no ideas for the book. A nurse had suggested writing about the accident and my recovery. "It might inspire others," she'd said. A shudder ran through me. The last thing I wanted to do was relive any moment of the past months.
I shifted my thoughts back to Daniel. I had to make a choice. Fear wasn’t the emotion pushing me toward a decision. It was curiosity. Who was this man? Who was Emma? What had happened to them?
While I was pondering these questions, I heard strange scrabbling noises coming from the front door, quickly followed by intense knocking. Resigned to another onslaught of visitors, I called out. “I’m coming!” and assumed the position with the crutches firmly under my arms. The knocking continued until I threw the deadbolt and flung open the door.
“Yes, yes, what’s so urgent?” I barked.
The short woman with her strawberry blonde hair pulled up in a bun on the top of her head jumped back. Her pear-shaped body made me think of the children’s rhyme about something wobbling, but it wouldn’t fall down. I had to fight the urge to laugh.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she sputtered. “I thought I’d been locked out and I ask you, how am I to do my job if I can’t get into the kitchen.”
Her non-stop talking made me think that no amount of coffee would have prepared me for the arrival of this magpie. She hustled past me with grocery store bags dangling from her arms. She was half-way down the hall, when she suddenly stopped, turned around oh so slowly, and looked at me.
Her voice cracked with a mixture of fear and embarrassment. “You’re not Miss Emma, are you?”
Not every out-of-the-way house has a person on crutches standing at the door. I didn't want to scare her away, if she was Maria, hired to shop, cook, and clean.
I gave her a weak smile. “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”
Her eyelids closed slowly and she looked like she wanted to sink right through the floor.
“Let me guess, you’re Maria,” I said gently.
All the bags rustled as she held her arms wide and announced, “Yes, that would be me.”
“I understand you’re my angel of the kitchen and all things domestic. Welcome!”
She smiled with relief. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “But I’m here to take care of the house and your meals, Miss Emma.” Her rising comfort level showed as her sentences got longer. She seemed like one tough lady, but the glittery eye shadow above heavy black lashes showed she had a girly side. She cocked her head and narrowed her eyes in confusion. “So, if you know who I am and why I’m here, why did you lock me out? I can’t do anything standing outside.”
“It’s my fault. I had TJ change the locks on the doors yesterday.” I shrugged. “It wasn’t personal.”
“Well, I’m sure glad you’re home. I thought I was going to have to take all this food back to my house. It’s not cold enough yet to leave it on the steps.” She huffed and turned toward the kitchen with her bundles. “People in my town always leave the kitchen door unlocked, so a neighbor can drop in or get something like I did last night. I was making a pot of chili only to find I was out of chili powder, so I went next door to Helen’s, took her chili powder, and finished up my dinner, but don't you worry, because I'll replace what I took. That's the way we do things here on the Shore."
I could tell it was going to take some effort to decipher those long, run-on sentences. As they kept coming, she bustled around the kitchen, reporting on the items she'd brought as she placed them in cabinets and the fridge.
“I wish I could help you put away the groceries,” I said.
“Ha! This ain’t nothing. There are more bags in the car. And Honey, if you could carry the bags and put away the food, I’d be out of a job. You do your stuff and I’ll do mine. We straight on that?”
“Yes ma’am, we’re straight.”
She took the bottle of painkillers from the table. “What about these?”
I stepped forward without thinking and started to wobble. It was embarrassing for her to see how unstable I was, but
she was at my side with a firm grasp on my arm.
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
Maria ignored my moment of weakness and shook the pill bottle. "Where do you want to put these pills so you remember to take them on time because you need to stay in front of the pain as the nurses like to say." She inspected my face. "You did take your pills this morning, didn't you?"
I wanted to say yes, but I braced for the lecture that would come when I shook my head.
“No, eh?” She tapped the top of the chair, the unspoken instruction to sit down, and she pulled a glass from the cupboard.
Dutifully, I sat down. Instead of a lecture, Maria handed me a full glass of water and the pill bottle minus the top. I took the pill with a sip and tried to hand her the glass.
“Nope, drink it all. It helps it work somehow, I don’t know how, but it does.” She watched as I did. “Now, you must have a Smartphone of some kind, right?”
I pulled the useless telephone communication device from my pocket.
"Now, set an alarm for your next pill, so we won't have this problem again," Maria instructed.
Sometimes, good ideas come from the most unlikely places. I did as she suggested while she launched into a story about one of her uncles.
As I listened with half an ear in case there was a quiz, I realized that I’d missed something important about Daniel’s letters. Hopping up on my crutches, I interrupted Maria’s endless flood of words. “Thank you so much for coming. I’ll get out of your way so you can get your work done.”
I swung myself down the hall to my writing den and closed the door. Sitting at the desk, I laid the letters side by side. Yes, there they were, the clues I’d hoped to find.
In the first letter, he wrote about war: This war has brought such deprivations down on our heads. And again, in the second letter, he wrote: This war has killed so many young men…join the Confederacy. It was the time of the Civil War.
His reference to my father suggested that Emma was the daughter of the plantation.
His connection to the desk was clear: I have sat here at my father’s desk. His sense of loyalty was strong: After all the things that your father has done for me and my father, it was the right thing to do.
These clues could lead to the identification of my ghost. I had to smile. Yesterday, Daniel was the source of fright. Today, I’d claimed ownership and the relationship between long-ago Emma and Daniel intrigued me.
I turned on my computer, opened my browser to start a search… and brought my fist down on the desk, hard. No connection. Maybe there was a coffee shop on the way to the physical therapy place.
Physical therapy!
My first appointment was today! If I didn't live up to my promise to show up for every appointment and follow the regimen, the doctor would insist I return to Philadelphia. If I deviated from the plan, the insurance company could cut off my coverage. And I wouldn't heal so I could resume my normal life. No, there was no option. I had to go to P.T.
I checked the printed schedule and looked at the clock. The driver Mr. Saffire hired to take me to P.T. appointments was late. I called out to Maria, who rushed in out of breath.
“Yes, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
I smiled as I shook my head. “I’m fine, but I’m going to miss my physical therapy appointment.” I glanced at the clock. “Unless you drive me. Can you?”
“To where?”
“It’s someplace in Easton.” It was the county seat and center for medical services. “Where all the medical offices are, I think.”
Maria stepped back and shook her head slowly in a wide arc. “No, no, ma’am. I can’t do that.”
“You have a car…”
"Yes, but I don't drive everywhere like you people on the Western Shore," she insisted. "I only go certain places. I do not go into downtown Easton where people drive like maniacs. Ever since all those stores came in—what do they call them—oh yeah, big box stores. It's getting to be a regular big city around here. Nope, I'll drive out here on the Bay Hundred and go to my grocery store, but not on those roads where everyone is in such a hurry or in those big busy parking lots with people fighting over spaces. No, ma'am."
“I’ll pay you extra,” I said, hoping she had a price I could afford.
She came over and stood right in front of me with one hand on her hip. “What part of NO didn’t you hear? Now, if you want me to stop bringing in your food and— “
“N-n-no,” I said quickly. I didn’t want to lose her help. “No, I understand. And thank you for all you do.”
"I haven't done much yet. Now, if I can get back to work." She headed out of the room but made a quick turn toward the front door. "But Mr. TJ might take you."
TJ? How did she expect me to contact—
Deep, rich tones floated in from the hallway. “Hello? Did I hear my name?”
The man had a sixth sense of knowing when to show up at the Cottage. He walked into the writing den. "I hope you don't mind. I honked."
“I’m late for a physical therapy appointment and need a ride. Could you—”
With a sweep of his arm toward the door, he said, “Let’s go.”
I looked down at my loose-fitting top and slacks. Not really what I’d usually wear to go out, but the thought of wrestling my way up the stairs, let alone the time it would take, spurred me into action.
“I’m ready,” I said. “Let me get my wallet with all the insurance cards.”
Maria had dashed out and appeared with it in hand.
“Okay, now we can go,” TJ urged.
I glanced at the desk and saw that the two letters were sitting out so anyone could read them.
“Thank you, Maria. And TJ, I’ll be right with you,” I said, leaning against the desk, trying to hide the letters behind me.
“I thought you said you’re late?” TJ insisted.
“Why don’t you go and start your car.”
“Truck,” he corrected softly. “I have a truck.”
“Fine, whatever. I’ll only be a minute.” It must have been the expression on my face that sent them moving in opposite directions.
Carefully, I stacked the letters and slipped them into a large cubbyhole with a few blank sheets of paper on top, in case someone got curious.
Chapter Nine
House Calls: “I sent for Doctor Matthews… who prescribed rubbing the extremities and down the back and on the stomach with whiskey and repeat it every half hour.” March 10, 1862
“Doctor Matthews came to see Cassie who is sick in bed.” February 9, 1863
—The Willis Family Journals 1847-1951
Edited and Annotated by James Dawson
TJ had to help me get up and into his truck. It wasn’t like a sedan. I had to climb in, but once inside, I was surprised it had all the comforts of a town car. With the crutches stowed in the back seat with Ghost, his dog, we made our way down the drive.
“Sorry about how hard it was for you to get into the truck and all,” he said. “I work on farms and need a rugged vehicle to drive into the fields and off-road. I could borrow a car if I need to drive you around.”
“No, don’t change things for me. With your help, I made it in fine. Maybe someday soon, I’ll be able to spring into the cab all by myself.”
“For your sake, I hope that day is soon.” He made a wide turn as we swung onto the main road. The momentum gently threw me against him and I got a whiff of his good, clean smell. No sweet cologne or sweaty odor for this man.
He braked softly. “Sorry about that.”
The movement of the truck unnerved me a little. I still wasn't comfortable being in a car, or truck, no matter who was behind the wheel. I tried to breathe and concentrate on my hands. I caught him trying to catch a glimpse of me. Once, twice.
Finally, I had to ask. “What, what is it? Why do you keep looking at me?”
He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Sorry, I was trying to figure out if you’d mind if I said something.”
&nb
sp; “Go on, say it, say whatever you want.” I was getting nervous as we headed to P.T.—physical therapy—or as I called it, Pain Today. I turned toward him and was struck by the sad, almost puppy-dog-look on his face. “I’m sorry. I’m nervous about starting with a new therapy practice. All they seem to do is hurt me. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
He glanced at me again, then grinned. “Maybe what I was gonna say is good for you to hear.”
“So…?”
"Okay, first, I want to say that you don't have to hold on for dear life. I'm a good driver and we'll be able to see any trouble coming a mile away on this road if it's gonna come at all."
Beating down my fear, I peeled my fingers away from the bar and clasped my hands in my lap.
“That’s better. Now, what I was going to say was that I’m impressed that you didn’t blow off the appointment. You could have. You had lots of reasons for not going, like being late, no driver, too tired from the move—”
I stopped him. "I can’t do that. I hate not being able to do what I want to do. This is hell for me. I'm used to being on my own, relying on myself. I want to get better. I have to get better. That's why I came down here, and to preserve my sanity. Make me a deal. If I ever try to back out of P.T., make me go. I might not appreciate it at that moment, but I'll thank you later. I promise."
His tanned face moved into a big smile. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Good.”
I nestled into my seat to try and enjoy the ride. The Cottage was a magical place to be, but it wasn't immune from giving me cabin fever. Out here, there were no buildings of concrete and glass to block my view of trees still green with the life of summer and the gentle waters reflecting the blue sky. In spots, I could see for several miles. The land had been ground flat by the massive glaciers of the Ice Age. When they'd finally melted, they flooded the Susquehanna River and created what we know today as the Chesapeake Bay. Here, it was free and open. A wave of happiness went through me, something missing for a long time. I felt like dancing, but that would have to wait until I could stand on both legs.