by Reiss Susan
TJ and I meandered between the markers. They were all in good condition, a sign of TJ’s tender care. The earliest stones were about four feet in height, except for the captain’s grand marker, of course. There were many, too many, small white stones marking the graves of infants and young children. It seemed that around the early 1800s, the convention for grave markers shifted to large stone slabs. I eyed the names chiseled there, hoping to find Daniel’s name quickly.
“What are you looking for?” asked TJ. “Someone in particular?”
I was hoping to find the grave without concocting an excuse for TJ. I had to think fast. “I’m amazed to see the names of some people I’ve been reading about.”
He nodded. I was relieved that he accepted my explanation. He walked slowly between the graves, reading off the names.
“Let’s see, there’s John Dorset and Elizabeth Dorset.” He stopped by one marker and looked down. “And here’s…” He stopped then quickly turned to another collection of markers. “Over here—”
“Wait, who is buried there?” I maneuvered around so I could see the name for myself and when I read it, I froze. It read, Emma. Just Emma. It was unsettling to see my name carved on a gravestone, especially after barely cheating death only months earlier. No wonder TJ tried to distract me. I too wanted to look away, but I forced myself to read the rest of the words marking her grave. Below her name were the words Wife of Joshua. I checked the dates. They were in the right period. Was this Daniel’s Emma? The part of me where I’d buried my romantic notions long ago fluttered awake. I didn’t want to know that she had married someone named Joshua.
Was it the same Joshua who was supposed to deliver Daniel’s message? Was he the reason Emma didn’t meet Daniel at the Lone Oak the night he left Waterwood with her father? Did Joshua fail Daniel so he could win Emma’s hand in marriage? I swayed with the thought.
TJ rushed over and gripped my arm to steady me. “Are you okay?” His face filled with concern. “We’d better go. This is too much.”
I took a deep breath and stood straighter. I had to maintain my newly won independence. “No, no, I’m all right. I think it was the surprise of seeing my name like that. I’m okay now.”
“Are you sure?” I nodded and he too looked at the gravestone. “Oh, you were looking at her marker. Emma of Waterwood. She seems to have a strange effect on people.”
“What do you mean?” I wanted to know.
“Some people say that she is restless. Some have reported that they’ve seen her walking along the shore near your property line.” Quickly, he added, “But I don’t believe any of it.”
I knew Daniel was eager to connect, but why was Emma agitated? “It says that she was the wife of Joshua. Do you know that name?”
“He married into the family. Emma was the daughter of the plantation owner back then. My aunt did some genealogical work on the family tree and, if I remember correctly, Joshua was the son of another local landowner. That marriage complicated the lines of inheritance regarding the Waterwood lands. I don’t remember the details. If you’re truly interested, I could check the library at the house and see what is there.”
“Oh yes, that would be wonderful.”
“I’ll let you know what I find.” TJ pulled his keys out of his jeans pocket.
I didn’t want to leave. Not yet. “Before we go,” I said quickly. “Could you see if there is another name in the cemetery? Is there a Daniel here?”
TJ gave me a puzzled look then made his way around the stones, checking the names. “Who is this Daniel? Do you have a last name?”
“Oh, I came across some of his letters in my research.” It wasn’t a lie. I wasn’t doing all my research in the Maryland Room at the library. I hoped TJ wouldn't ask for specifics.
“No, I don’t see that name anywhere.” He was standing in a grassy area without any markers. There were two small tree stumps cut close to the ground. “I have no idea who is buried over here.”
“But wouldn’t the church have burial records?”
"This is a private family cemetery. The records were kept by the family. Somebody misplaced them."
“Maybe nobody is buried there,” I said, hoping to hide my disappointment.
“I think the area inside the wall is pretty full. The modern graves are outside the wall. Some of my ancestors don’t have markers.”
“Why not?”
“It was once considered bad luck to place a gravestone for someone dearly departed, even if it was for a member of the family.”
“Why? Wasn’t it a sign of respect to mark someone’s grave?” I asked.
He shook his head. “There was an old superstition that if you placed a gravestone for someone, you would be the next to die.”
“That’s creepy.”
“Well, if you can’t have superstitions in a graveyard, where can you have them?” He pointed to the old tree stumps. “I guess these might be a sign of another old tradition of burying a person with something like a walnut in his mouth in the hope that a tree would grow to mark the person’s final resting place naturally. I guess these trees didn’t last.”
That story made me shiver. I felt the first twinges of PTSD starting. I had come too close to needing a grave marker. “I think you’re right. I think it’s time to go.”
As we made our way back to the truck, I thanked TJ for bringing me to his family cemetery but said no more. I had come in search of Daniel and found a troubling mystery.
As we drove up to the Cottage, TJ cleared his throat as if he had something to say but was reluctant to say it. “Ah, is it possible for you to reschedule your P.T. appointment for tomorrow morning? Something has come up and I won’t be able to drive you until after lunch.”
“That’s okay, I have someone else I can call. I don't think it will be a problem." I hid my smile of pride that I was taking another small step to controlling my life.
He frowned. “Who is that?”
“Stephani. Remember I met her at the library?” Of course, he did, I thought as I remembered his reaction at seeing her. “She said if I ever needed a ride, I should let her know. If it’s a problem, I’ll reschedule the appointment. It’s not a problem. Thanks again for bringing me to your family’s cemetery today. It was interesting in more ways than one.” I flashed him a big smile.
“You’re welcome.”
When we arrived back at the Cottage, I remembered something. “You will let me know if you find any information about Emma or Joshua at your house?”
“I don’t understand why you’re so interested, but I’ll take a look tonight.”
I watched him drive off and turned to work my way inside. Slow and steady. Slow and steady, I murmured to myself when the front door burst open and Maria welcomed me home.
“Hello! I was worried when I didn’t find you here when I came. I looked all over the Cottage, on the patio, everywhere! Then I figured that you must be at your physical therapy appointment or out with Mr. TJ. I’ve been getting my work done.” She took a breath in relief. “But I must say, I was really glad to see you getting out of his truck.”
I knew it was important for Maria to think I was getting stronger or I’d have someone else trying to baby me. It felt so good to sit down at the kitchen table. I would never admit that the trip to the cemetery was more demanding than a P.T. appointment, but it had been worth it. Maria fussed around the kitchen and I enjoyed a wonderful lunch on the patio that helped rebuild my strength. I don’t know where Mr. Saffire found her, but she was a gem.
Maria slid the patio door open and came out, holding a tall, chilled glass of milky liquid. “I brought you something special because I know how much you like coffee, but it’s too humid to have hot coffee in this afternoon heat, so I thought I’d bring you a surprise.”
She put the glass down on the table in front of me, beads of condensation running down the side. It was a magnificent glass of iced coffee.
“Wonderful!” I took a sip and relished the taste. “It�
�s perfect, just the way I like it. Thank you, Maria.”
“You’re welcome. Think of it as a celebration of your accomplishment.”
“My accomplishment?”
“Sure, you’re making good progress. When I first saw you, you could barely get around. Now, you’re using both legs. Before you know it, you’ll be walking without any help and even driving again.”
When I realized what a full recovery would mean, I reeled. I didn’t want to drive again, not ever, now that I knew what could happen. It was hard enough to get into a car to be driven someplace, let alone get behind the wheel.
Maria must have noticed my reaction. “Of course, we don’t have to think about that right now. You still have a long way to go and I certainly don’t need to talk myself out of a job.”
She turned to look out at the water, land, and sky. “This is such a beautiful spot. If I lived here, I’d probably sit outside on this patio to watch the landscape change with the seasons. It’s all happening right in front of us.”
“I agree with you,” I said. “Even when I was a child, Uncle Jack and I would sit out here for hours and just watch. A blue heron lived around here for a couple of years. He acted as if he owned the Cottage. I spent so much time watching him, I even gave him a name, Ernie,” I said, smiling at the memory.
“Was he a nice bird?” She asked.
“No, not really. If I went down to the water while he was looking for dinner, he would squawk at me to go away. It was worse than the sound of fingernails dragged down a blackboard. I’d watch him watching the water. He would stand so still his blue feathers would ruffle in the breeze. The fish must have thought he was part of the sky or a plant until he would strike. Then, of course, it was too late.”
Maria sighed and looked up at the immense dome of blue sky above. “I like the geese. Most people don’t.” She shrugged. “They can be nasty birds when they’re riled up. They have a strong sense of family. They mate for life, watch out for their young and fly in a V formation. Many spend the winter here on the Shore, always calling out to make sure everybody knows where everybody is. Used to be that way with families, but now the kids can’t wait to go off to school, get jobs someplace else, travel who knows where, doing who knows what. It’s enough to put you in your grave before your time.”
She started collecting my dirty lunch dishes. “Have you ever seen the Monarchs?”
“No, I think I was back in school when the butterflies flew south for the winter.”
“It’s an incredible sight. At first, you’re alone. Then one bright orange butterfly settles on a nearby bush. The next minute, there are hundreds of them. I read they fly all the way from southern Canada, which is a place I’ve never visited, to central Mexico, which is another place I’ve never been and have no interest in going. I hate crossing the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, let alone traveling all the way up to Canada. I wonder if it bothers them to drink the water in Mexico.”
I had to start coughing to stifle my laughter. This woman, so conscientious about her responsibilities, said some of the funniest things. I had to listen carefully to her ramblings because somewhere in there, I would find a nugget.
Maria went inside to finish her work, leaving me alone with my thoughts. What was I going to tell the writing group? TJ was right. They would expect me to introduce myself, talk about my writing accomplishments, and give them an idea of what I was writing. My only writing accomplishments were notes to parents and student progress sheets. Maybe I was approaching this the wrong way. Maria brought me some paper, the cordless phone, and a sheet of orange origami paper before she left for the day. First, I smoothed out the sheet of orange paper, thinking about the ancient Japanese art form called origami: ori- to fold and gami- paper. An origami shape must be made without cutting, pasting, or marking the paper. A simple concept that takes a lifetime to master.
To begin, I had to select a shape. Crane? Butterfly? No, I thought a fish was more appropriate. It needs courage and determination to swim upstream, the same dedication I needed to tackle my goal of writing a book.
Why can’t I be content with rehab and recovery? I sighed. Because that's not the way I am. I scooted my chair closer to the table and started folding. The minutes flew by and my confused thoughts settled. I put the little orange fish on the table. It worked its magic. Whenever I was in the classroom and got the urge to fold, it was a sign that things were not going well. Creating a shape allowed me to catch my breath and entertain the kids at the same time.
Now, the little orange fish got me in the mood to think about the book. Would the kids enjoy another book about the Civil War? I was about to start a list of other ideas when the phone rang.
“Hello, my dear Ms. Chase.”
I was so surprised by my attorney’s polite attitude that it took me a moment to respond. “Mr. Heinrick?”
“Why yes, of course. I thought I would call and see how things were going for you?”
“I’m still making progress. I want to use a cane, but the therapist said I wasn’t ready.”
“No, no, you must take your time,” he insisted.
“I will. Believe me, this therapist will make sure I don’t reinjure myself. But I do feel stronger every day.”
“No need to rush,” he stressed. “I hope you’re resting all day, every day.”
I swear the man wanted to put me on a glass shelf. “No, I’ve been going to P.T., of course, but I’m doing some research at the library and—”
He cut me off. “You’re not wasting your time trying to write that book you mentioned, are you?”
“Well, I—”
“Oh, my dear Ms. Chase. You have much to do to recover from your brush with death and all the mind-altering drugs. Relax and don’t worry about a thing. If all goes as I plan, you won’t have to worry about a thing. And with that, I must wish you a good day. I have some other calls to make.”
With hands clenched, I was determined to do things my way, I focused on something else I had to do before the meeting. I needed to write a response to Daniel’s letter. I knew I wouldn’t have the energy to write it when I got home. I gathered up my things, including my little orange fish, and went inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Focus more on your desire than on your doubt and the dream will take care of itself.”
---Mark Twain
I took out Daniel’s letter that I had found on my desk this morning to read the words as he’s written them even though they were already fading away. I knew I had the content saved on my computer and in my photo gallery, but there was something about seeing the words he had formed with his pen.
I had to pause for a moment and give my mind and emotions a little shake. Daniel was becoming very real to me. I had to remember that this was an unearthly presence.
Daniel wasn’t alive, not anymore. He was lying in a grave somewhere. I wished he had been buried in the family cemetery. It would’ve helped somehow to see his name carved in stone in the place he loved so much. Where was the body of this man?
I sat quietly and let his words echo in my mind as I reread the story of long ago. Certain lines touched me:
I wanted you to know that I carried you with me in my heart. But it was not to be. The words brought a tear to my eye. I could do nothing to change the past. I could only offer a little comfort. I made a note to do just that. I read more of his letter.
When the Union soldiers came to Easton, dragged a judge from the bench, and arrested him, it was a source of upheaval. I wanted to find out more about this incident and made a note for my next visit to the library.
Do you remember the time he took away your peppermint stick? Yes, I couldn’t ignore this reference.
He believed your mother would have supported him in this decision. I’d acknowledge this line, too.
I was honored and humbled when he asked me to accompany him. Daniel deserved my recognition of his loyalty.
My recognition? Oh, dear. I'm getting very involved. It was time to w
rite my response. I took a fresh piece of paper, opened the inkwell, dipped my pen, and wrote to my ghostly correspondent.
My Dear Daniel,
I too was troubled that we could not say goodbye before you left with my father. Sometimes, the good Lord declares that certain things are not to be.
I thank you for offering this correspondence about my dear father and the dilemma he faced. I knew that something was troubling him, but he spoke almost nothing about it to me.
I too remember the moment he took away my peppermint stick. It was fraught with tension. I remember the quiet mumblings about the confrontation in Easton with the soldiers and how it upset my father deeply.
I am comforted that you traveled at my father’s side. I can think of no one else I would want with him.
I too feel the absence of my mother most keenly. If only she were here to support him and, if I may say, me.
You are kind to consider my sensibilities, but I beg that you do not withhold any details –great or small – about the thoughts and musings of my father.
Please, I pray, continue the story of your journey after you left Waterwood. The more I know, the more I will understand. The more I understand, I hope, the greater peace I will feel in my heart.
If I may be honest, this sentiment is true about my father and about you. Please, if you feel so disposed, share your thoughts with me as you have so many times before. I await your next letter
Most gratefully and faithfully yours,
Emma
After I blotted the ink and gave it a few minutes to dry, I tucked the letter away in the cubbyhole. I would put it out before I went to bed after the writers meeting.