Before Ezra Brewer and the men unload his gear, Papa comes for me.
“Mary,” he signs, brushing his hand tenderly across his cheek. “Thank the Lord you are home!”
He is better than Ezra Brewer at concealing his shock at my poor condition. He breaks into a smile, swiping the back of one big hand across his eyes. He lifts me in his strong arms and squeezes. I melt against him.
As he carries me to the beach, I see that a small crowd has gathered. But where is Mama?
I see her running! Wiping her shining blue eyes with a handkerchief. And reaching—reaching for me, arms outstretched. Then she is enfolding me in her embrace. When she touches the side of my head, I wince. Mama’s hands rise to her throat, shaking. Her lips tremble, but she manages a smile.
“Really you?” she signs. “Are you okay?”
“Me,” I sign. “I am better now.”
Papa puts me down on the sand, retrieves a blanket from the oxcart, and returns Ezra Brewer’s sealskin coat—his only coat.
Mama’s embrace is soft as velvet. I never noticed her scent before I was taken off the island. It’s a combination of rose water, clean wool, and cinnamon. I run my fingers over the fine features of her face and touch her hair. I feel a gentle peal of laughter.
Mr. Pye and Miss Hammond approach us and sign, “Welcome home.” It’s reassuring to see their friendly faces. I smile and tell them it is good to be back.
Mama and I walk the beach to the high road, with the blanket covering my storm-beaten garments. Nancy races to greet me. She looks me up and down, the way a dog might sniff a familiar bone that went missing. She looks into my eyes.
I sign to her, “I just want to say—”
“Oh, forget it, Mary,” she signs. “I have been thinking about all the ways I could have been a better friend. Don’t you dare outshine me and apologize first!”
“I have a lot to tell you one day,” I sign.
“I have something to tell you too,” she signs as we walk.
Reverend Lee greets me at the high road. “My child,” he signs, overcome with emotion and struggling to find the right words in his hands. “May we be able to distinguish between the angels and demons. And may you stay safe, in the bosom of your family and community for all your days.”
I take the hand he offers me and smile up at him.
As Mama, Papa, and I climb on the oxcart, I look back at the ocean receding under a burnt orange sunset. It is good to be back on my island.
As we near the farm, I see Thomas and Eamon fixing the stone wall. The frozen groundswell must have upended the stones. When we pass, they stop working, take off their caps, and wave at me. I wave back and smile.
Walking through our front door, I am overcome and my knees nearly buckle. Here there are no locked doors. No labor until my hands and knees are raw. No eating from discarded plates. No being poked and prodded. This is the place where we loved and laughed. And where we grieved and fought. This is a home.
Papa lifts me and carries me to the kitchen. I feel big in his arms. Have I grown that much during my captivity? Or have I just become more conscious of my size and age?
Papa sets me down in his chair by the fire. Mama touches my fine dress, now dirty and ripped. What does she imagine?
“Bath, then tea,” she signs.
While Papa drags out the wooden tub and Mama heats water in the kettle, I look toward George’s bedroom. The door is open, and from a distance, it looks just as he left it.
Papa exits while I bathe. I feel no shyness stepping out of my clothes in front of Mama, though I wish to shield her eyes from my injuries and gaunt ribs. I use whale oil soap scented with lavender while Mama gently works out the knots in my hair with a baleen brush. She puts a soothing balm on my ears and hands.
At the table, I sip strong English tea with cream. Images from my time in Boston flash through my mind. It’s hard to shoo them away. They are part of me now as well.
Papa opens and closes the front door. Sam comes running toward me and jumps into my lap, his paws leaving marks on my shawl and clean shift. But I don’t mind. He licks my face and sneezes. I ease him onto the floor and sit beside him. Grabbing hold of his scruff, I bury my face in his softness and cry.
Mama sits beside me and rubs my back. Papa taps his pipe. After a time, I climb into my chair.
“Thank the Lord for bringing our Mary home,” Mama signs.
“And thank our dear friend who twice braved the icy, perilous Cape and brought our daughter safely home to us,” Papa adds.
“Amen,” Mama signs.
I never thought I’d see the day when Mama said “amen” for Ezra Brewer.
She serves my favorite cranberry muffins. I take a large bite, savoring the tartness of the fruit. But my stomach grumbles and aches. Too much grog, not to mention the contents of Ezra Brewer’s larder, has temporarily stifled my appetite.
“Bed,” Papa signs, putting his hands beneath his tilted head. He winks at Mama.
As I walk out of the kitchen toward the stairs, Mama places her hands on my shoulders. She turns me around and leads me to George’s bedroom. His bedstead and bureau have been polished. New curtains drape the windows, and a new blanket covers the bed. The small desk where he worked has been cleared of his books and papers and replaced with blank rag paper, a quill pen, and an inkwell.
“For me?” I ask, disbelieving.
“Miss Hammond says you have a rare talent and the makings of a fine schoolteacher,” Mama signs. “I expect you will find an excellent use for her generous gifts.”
My heart swells.
Still, I cannot rest easy in this bed until we clear the air.
“The things I saw you say my last night at home,” I blurt out.
“I never should have said,” she replies. “Honestly, Mary. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t even know what I was saying. I thought I had lost everything that mattered to me. A cruel lesson taught me nothing could be further from the truth.”
“I want to be a good daughter,” I sign.
“You are,” Mama signs. She nods as her eyes fill with tears, and she takes my hands.
I look out the window. The snow and ice will thaw in a few months. Will the horrors I experienced melt away too?
Mama signs, “Sleep close by. No one can harm you.” Did she sense my thoughts?
I hug her for a long time before I kneel on the red braided rug next to my bed. I give thanks to Our Lord and Ezra Brewer for bringing me safely home, and to Mama and Papa for seeing the best in me. I add Mr. Squints, Dr. Minot, Nora, and the man in the Monmouth cap to the list of people I name in my prayers.
I also remember Andrew. “For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”
I place George’s map of memories safely on the desk before I slip into bed.
I want to stay awake to feel the vibrations of Mama and Papa in the bedroom next door. But I drop into a sound sleep.
When I rise, I put on the dress Mama made for my Christmas present. It is still folded and tied with a velvet bow. It has a floral pattern with pink and green roses embroidered on a cream-colored wool gown. A gold coin is sewn into the hem for luck.
There are two roses on my new petticoat, which no one will see but me. They are like a secret between Mama and me. I put on new woven stockings and an old pair of brown shoes.
Mama is in the kitchen. Her face lights like the sun when she sees me. She rushes about as if I am a special guest.
After a scrumptious breakfast of johnnycakes with syrup, Mama signs, “Get your cloak,” and smiles. Happy little wrinkles beside her eyes appear, something I have not seen in a long time.
When I am tucked into my cloak and hat, she takes my hand and leads me outside along the high road through the remnants of snow. I wonder where we are going.
We see Mrs. Tilton and Carrie in the lane. Carrie embraces me. Mama pauses to speak with Mrs. Tilton. She is being sociable,
and it makes my heart glad.
As we pass the parsonage, Mr. Lee is chipping the ice from his porch. He stops and waves to us, a gesture Mama returns warmly. We follow a wrought-iron fence farther on.
The grave markers are crooked gray landmarks among the patchy snow. She takes me to George’s, which is not yet worn from the passing of time. From her cloak, she removes a Christmas wreath and hands it to me.
“You, place,” she signs.
I kneel and carefully lay the wreath over his resting place while I sign the Lord’s Prayer.
Then I sign, “My dear brother, I will grow up. You will always stay fifteen. Mama tells me that mockingbirds change their tune, but you cannot change your song. Is it fine to follow my own dream, if I honor all that was you and the time we spent together? We must move ahead, never forgetting, but embracing the tangible world. And loving each other more than ever.”
Mama offers me her hand and helps me stand. As we walk toward home, we are at peace together for the first time in a long time.
Back in the kitchen, I smile at Mama and get to work. Without being asked, I sweep and dust. I go out to the well and carry in water to boil. I cut up the “three sisters” without complaint. I add some dried herbs to the stock in the kettle. I even clean Mama and Papa’s chamber pots. Mama could not look more surprised if there were a buffalo running wild through the kitchen!
I like working side by side with Mama. The quiet rhythm of these chores feels newly satisfying. In a few months, it will be time for our big spring cleaning. I intend to help Mama with the heavy work—scrubbing, washing, and beating the rugs.
Mama taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and she signs, “Go out for your walk. I appreciate your help. You wouldn’t be you if you stayed inside with me all day.”
I promise Mama I will be back in a couple of hours, to help her prepare for dinner, and I don’t cross my fingers behind my back.
I pick up a fallen birch stick and walk toward the farm. I trace the tracks from a recently shod horse. I poke at an empty silver-blue mussel shell. I draw a cross on the ground where George passed on. It will always be a sacred patch of road, but his spirit has flown to Heaven.
I spot Papa and Eamon talking in the distant pastures and find Thomas in the barn. He is wrapping his possessions in a calico cloth. Is he returning home at midday? Perhaps there is an urgency in Aquinnah.
“Good morrow,” I sign.
“Good to see you,” he signs, with a simple gesture.
“Sally here?” I sign.
He turns around and calls to her.
To my happy surprise, she walks toward us with her mama. They must all be riding home together. Perhaps there is a Wampanoag ceremony. Papa does not prevent Thomas from observing his traditions. But I am surprised that the Skiffes let Helen and Sally off early.
“We’re glad to have you back, Mary,” Helen signs warmly. She takes my hands in hers. When we let go, she has placed a necklace in my hand. I recognize the white wampum beads made from whelk shells and the carved green serpentine found in rocks and named for its snakelike hue. Both of these are used in gift exchange, and Helen must have chosen the colors and textures especially for me.
I touch my heart and sign, “Thank you.”
Helen signs, “You’re welcome. Stay safe. Be well.”
I turn to Sally and sign, “I heard you helped Bayard. Thank you. George would have been grateful. Were you able to bring your horses from Aquinnah to teach him how to be a good horse?”
“No,” she signs. “Your papa thought his neighbors might consider the presence of our horses and men a threat to your town.”
“Sorry,” I sign, looking downward.
“It’s all right,” she signs with a smile. “Your father is allowing me to take him to Aquinnah, since he likes me best of all.”
I think George would approve. He’d want his horse well cared for. I’m not sorry to see him go to a good home.
I sign, “But how did you know the ways to heal Bayard?”
“Just good sense,” she signs. “Poultices and good sense.”
“Horse sense,” Thomas teases, pulling his hand behind his head to indicate a mane.
Sally shakes her head with a smile.
“Though I like the horses best, I am caring for our animals in Aquinnah too,” she signs. “Papa is teaching me what he learned on your farm, and Mama shows me remedies for their ailments.”
Papa comes up behind me. We walk the Richards family, now including Bayard, to the high road. Papa shakes Thomas’s hand, bows to Helen, and pats Sally on the head. I sign, “Fare thee well.”
As we turn away, I ask, “Thomas will return for the big shearing in March?”
“Perhaps.” Papa weighs the possibility in his hands. “He is considering going off to sea on a whaler.”
“That’s dangerous work,” I sign, remembering the wrecked whaler I saw with Ezra Brewer.
“It is an opportunity for him to greater provide for his family,” he explains. “He’d prefer if Helen and Sally didn’t have to labor in homes like the Skiffes’. It’s more than whales he has to worry about. Even though he is a freedman, he runs the risk of being captured and sold into slavery. And then there’s the question of whether the English captain will pay his Wampanoag crew what he promised.”
I must look distraught.
Papa signs, “Still, the Wampanoag of Gay Head are skilled whalers. I shouldn’t be surprised if we see Thomas Richards again.”
“Good,” I sign, slapping the back of one hand into the palm of the other.
Papa walks toward the house with me. I think there is a part of him that is afraid to let me out of his sight.
“Papa,” I ask, “what should I do when Nancy and her parents speak badly about freedmen and the Wampanoag and treat them unkindly? It’s not right. It’s not fair to treat people as less because they are different. Even Mama has said things that make me blush.”
“Mary,” Papa signs, “you are a good daughter. But you have told lies and spoken with prejudice too. It’s best not to judge others. First look inside yourself. Make yourself the best person you can be. People will be influenced by your example.
“Look at my great-grandpa Lambert,” Papa continues. “If it were not for him, we would not be here in the New World. Because of him, we live in a community where being deaf doesn’t hinder us from living a full life. People were influenced by his example.”
“Yes, but our New World is someone’s old world, isn’t it, Papa?” I sign. “The Wampanoag have lived here for a very long time. What about them? Look how they were affected by Grandpa Lambert’s ways.”
“That’s true. He was not a perfect man. You’re old enough to know that he once worked on a slave ship.”
“Oh no!” I sign.
“I’m afraid so,” Papa signs. “We can’t hide from our ancestors’ misdeeds.”
I interrupt, “But we can make our own choices now.”
Papa nods.
I stand a bit straighter, smile at Papa, and take his hand. While we walk, I let his words settle. “People will be influenced by your example.”
Mama greets us at the door. I think it will take both my parents some time to trust that I am truly home.
Mama and I walk back to the kitchen while Papa returns to the farm. I show her the necklace Helen gave me.
“Did you thank her?” Mama asks, examining it in the light of the window.
I nod.
“Serpentine brings out your eyes,” she signs, making sparks in front of her eyes. “You may wear it.”
My smile turns to a frown when she adds, “But not to church.” I will try to be an example and influence Mama in the future.
“Something smells sweet,” I sign, closing my eyes and lifting my nose to smell the rich cooking aroma.
“A few friends come to visit,” Mama signs. “Everyone anxious see you. We have a little celebration in your honor.”
“Help?” I ask her.
She sh
akes her head. “Go room and rest a little.”
At my desk, I smooth out the map of memories. It has had a long journey. New smudges and wrinkles adorn it. I consider that my world exists far beyond the map now.
I lie down for a spell until I feel the vibrations from activity in the kitchen. Our house is alive again, and I take a moment to enjoy it. I twist my hair back, put on my necklace, and go to greet my guests.
Papa is at the door, inviting in Miss Hammond and Mr. Pye. They’ve brought Nancy. She and I embrace, and I take her by the hand and lead her to my new bedroom.
She looks stricken to be in George’s room, until I point out the new blanket and curtains. She walks over to the desk. “You can write now, Mary. Whatever fanciful stories come into your head.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I sign. “My old stories seem too frivolous now. I will have to find another, more important subject.”
“I’m sure you will,” she signs. “And I have my own path to pursue.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She hesitates, then signs, “Uncle Jeremiah visited the island for Christmas. He stopped to talk to your papa. Your mama wouldn’t meet him. He knows he did wrong by fleeing the way he did. He was hurt by the accident too. Not in body, but in mind and spirit. He wants to make restitution, perhaps with a college scholarship in George’s name.”
She reads my uncertain expression and continues signing. “He has offered to take me to live with him in Boston. He has promised to pay for music lessons and to take me to Concert Hall in Boston!”
“I am happy,” I tell her. I can let go of my anger toward Jeremiah Skiffe. He is freeing Nancy from her choleric father’s influence, though I’m certain her mother will miss her. It hurts to think of another boy going to college in George’s stead, but it is a kind gesture.
“I am happy too,” Nancy signs.
I go to greet my other guests, leaving Nancy behind to examine the map of memories.
I notice Miss Hammond is wearing a golden poesy ring, and Mr. Pye proudly tells me that he made it for her. I am impressed! It is delicate work to make such fine jewelry. It was obviously made with great love and care.
Show Me a Sign Page 13