by Rosalyn Eves
This time, Rachel coughs weakly, and I release my held breath on a grateful sigh. Then Rachel gags, and a torrent of river water washes out of her, over Hyrum’s ruined shoes, over mine. Her eyes flutter briefly, but do not open.
Hyrum stands and carries Rachel back to the house. I follow, accusation keeping time with my footsteps. Selfish, selfish. If I hadn’t left Rachel…Mama will have my hide for sure, but I would brave all Mama’s anger if only Rachel might live.
Hyrum sets Rachel in the bed I share with Emily, rather than pulling out her own trundle bed. He looks at me, brown eyes wide and helpless, and I step in, stripping off her wet clothes and tucking the blankets in tight around her. Her fingertips and lips are blue.
The front door bangs, and I jump. A wild hope fills me—Mama is back early. But the footsteps running toward my room are light and eager. My hope dissolves into guilt. It’s only little Henry. I forgot all about him. Suppose something had happened to him too?
Another bang, and my door opens. Henry never could move quietly. “What’s going on? I saw everyone running.” He inches around John, standing unusually still in the middle of the room, and peers at Rachel. “Is she dead?”
“No,” I say, more sharply than I mean to. Please, no. I look over my shoulder at John. “Take Henry into the other room and keep him there.”
“Where’s David Charles?” Hyrum asks as the boys leave, looking around the room as though the oldest of the trio of younger boys might materialize from the walls.
I nearly forgot him too, in my single-minded concern for Rachel. Perhaps Mama was right to doubt me. “He’s still looking for Rachel, alongside the creek.”
Hyrum walks toward the door, shoes squelching. “I’ll fetch him back.”
“Wait,” I say. It’s Rachel that worries me, Rachel that needs our attention. Rachel that needs a miracle. “Should we ask the elders to administer to her?”
In our faith, only men are formally ordained to hold God’s power. Unlike in many Christian faiths, where priests have to study to lead their congregation, any worthy man can be given the priesthood and use it for healing. As a girl, I won’t ever hold a priesthood office or be ordained to such power. I have never minded before—but I have never stood helpless in front of my little sister, pale as a corpse on my bed.
“Far won’t like it,” Hyrum warns, not moving.
Far would hate it. I nod, though I do not let the idea go entirely. If Rachel worsens…“Will you pray with me, then?” Maybe our faith will be enough.
Hyrum ducks his head, not looking at me. “I—I don’t know as I can.”
I stare at him in dismay. Why should my shy, kind brother feel he cannot pray?
“I’ll fetch Sister Larsen,” Hyrum offers instead, naming the midwife who delivered Albert, the closest thing we have to a doctor in town. He disappears out the front door.
Dropping to my knees beside Rachel, I whisper a prayer. The words stick to my tongue and teeth, heavy and earthbound. No familiar warmth surrounds me, and a deep, churning cold settles in my gut.
Maybe Mama is right. Maybe my obsession with the stars is blocking my view of heaven.
I go to the kitchen and stoke the fire, putting a kettle on to heat. Then I return to Rachel and put my hand on her head. She’s no longer ice-cold, but her skin is clammy beneath mine. I lie down on the bed beside her, curling around her, trying to will my warmth into her.
David Charles comes in later—I don’t know how much later, since time has gone strange on me. It feels like hours since Rachel went missing, and like no time at all.
“I found your book,” he says, holding up the precious copy that I borrowed from Miss Wheeler. The cover is a little dusty, a few pages crumpled. He sets the book on the pillow beside Rachel’s head. I don’t touch it: the words feel poisoned, each curl of ink reminding me that I put them before my duty, and my sister might be dying.
“Thank you,” I manage, because David Charles is still standing by the bed, stricken.
“What can I do?” he asks.
“Mind your brothers,” I say, and he nods but doesn’t move.
I force a smile. “It will be all right.” If I’m lying, and Rachel dies, then I deserve to be damned for my actions and my lie.
Some of the tension leaves his thin shoulders, and he scampers out. I rouse myself to fix some tea for Rachel.
“Rachel,” I say, gently shaking her shoulder. Wake up. “I’ve brought tea to warm you.” I test the temperature in the cup with my finger, and then bring the cup to her lips. When I tip it, the liquid only runs down her cheek.
I swallow against the tightness in my throat. I don’t know what else to do. I leave the tea to cool on the floor and curl back around her. The slight lift and fall of her chest is her only movement.
Hyrum comes back into the house. “Sister Larsen wasn’t there—she’s gone out to the Zabriskies’ to help with a baby. Her daughter said she’d tell her, soon as she’s back.”
After that, there’s nothing to do but wait and try to pray.
As the light fades, I fix a cold supper for the boys. I watch as they devour the food, but I cannot bring myself to eat anything, not even when Hyrum tells me I should.
Leaving David Charles to wash up the dishes, I go back to Rachel, hoping to get her to take some milk, at least. But Rachel’s arms are flung wide, and a bluish pallor clings to her lips. Her breath is low and rattling, and when she inhales, her chest does not lift but draws in.
I rush into the sitting room, where the boys are wrestling. Hyrum is on the floor, the three smaller boys piled onto his back like pancakes, giggling. At my entrance, they fall silent. Hyrum sees my face and shakes the others off. Henry, still giddy with his earlier success, tries to tackle him again.
“Rachel’s getting worse,” I tell Hyrum. “Can you go out to the Zabriskies’ and ask Sister Larsen what we should do?”
Hyrum stands swiftly, dumping Henry to the floor. Henry starts to cry and David Charles scoops him up, trying to distract him with promises of a story.
I follow Hyrum to the door and watch as he disappears down the road. Mars, the evening star, burns a baleful hole in the darkening sky. Where are Mama and Far?
I put John and Henry to bed, though both complain at the early hour. I gather up Rachel, blankets and all, and settle in the rocking chair in the sitting room. Her slow, rattling gasps make my own lungs ache in sympathy, and I time my breaths with hers as though somehow I can breathe for her.
David Charles watches me, his narrow face worried. “Is she going to be all right?”
At twelve, he is too old to believe an easy lie. “I don’t know. I hope so.”
He curls up on the nearby sofa, a book in his hands. I think he means to keep vigil with me, but before long, his head is nodding, and soon after that he’s snoring gently, a discordant counterpart to Rachel’s rough breaths.
Finally, hooves sound on the road outside, accompanied by the creaking of wagon wheels. Hope pricks painfully at my heart that it’s Hyrum, returning with Sister Larsen, but Far’s merry voice rings out in the night.
A pang of disappointment that it’s not the midwife is washed away by relief. My parents are back, they’re not fighting anymore, and Mama will know how to help Rachel.
I carry Rachel to the door, watching as Far helps Mama and the baby from the wagon. My sisters Emily and Mary climb down from the back.
Mama’s face pales when she sees me. “What’s happened?”
She hands baby Albert to Emily and takes Rachel from me.
Surely it’s cowardly to hesitate for fear of Mama’s anger, when Rachel might be dying? I tell her about Rachel and the creek.
Mama looks at me sharply. “How did Rachel come to be playin’ alone by the creek?”
I tug at a hangnail on my left thumb. The prick of pain feels right: I deserv
e this. A spot of blood appears in its wake. “I left her with David Charles and went to the school for a book.”
Mama only looks at me, her mouth tight. Far shakes his head. “You’re better than this, Elizabeth.”
I wish they would shout at me. I say, “Hyrum’s gone for Sister Larsen.”
Mary, perpetually emotional at fourteen, starts crying, and Far sends her to bed. Emily follows, bouncing Albert gently in her arms and fretting her lower lip with her teeth.
Mama settles Rachel on the sofa and sends Far into the kitchen to heat water again for tea. I start to follow him, but he waves me back. Mama acts as though I am not in the room at all. She sets two candles on the floor, one at either end of the sofa, at Rachel’s head and feet, and lights them. The twin flames flicker in an invisible breeze, the thin shadows of their smoke rising like ghosts against the wall.
A short time later, Hyrum arrives with Sister Larsen and a couple of women from the ward. Far peers into the room but turns away upon seeing the newcomers, heading to his own room. Hyrum, after pressing a quick kiss on Mama’s cheek, ducks into the kitchen.
The four women gather around Rachel. I press my finger against the still-bleeding hangnail. Sister Larsen glances at me where I stand, awkwardly in a corner, with something like compassion. If I could swallow my questions, if I could fit myself more surely to the role Mama offers, would they ask me to join them?
One of the women drops a bit of oil on Rachel’s head; another sister murmurs a prayer. This is not a formal priesthood affair, but a blessing of faith. The women set their hands on Rachel—on her arm, her legs. Mama brushes a bit of hair from Rachel’s cheeks and puts her hand on her forehead. Then Mama prays, a short earnest plea that pierces me. Heal her, Lord. Let her take no injury.
Silently, I echo Mama: Only heal her, Heavenly Father, and I’ll try to be better. I’ll put my family first and be obedient at home. I won’t ask for more than I’m given, not even for the stars. Just let her live.
If He hears me, He doesn’t answer. I want to pray to my heavenly mother too. She surely understands the hurt of a sick child, but I’ve never been taught how to address her. Though we believe in a divine partner for our father in heaven, we don’t talk about her much. I add, tentatively, Please, Heavenly Mother.
After the prayer, Sister Larsen takes the hot water and brews tea with thyme and sage, waving the cup beneath Rachel’s nose. The other women wrap their arms around Mama. Though Mama has not attended church much in the three years since Far stopped going, she remains a part of their sisterhood.
Sister Larsen puts the teacup in Mama’s hands. “She’ll be well, Hannah. I feel it is God’s will that she live.” These women move through a world where the sacred mixes daily with the ordinary: to them, miracles are as expected as the sun rising after a long night.
Yearning for their certainty makes my stomach cramp.
Mama begins to weep. The women hold her, murmuring into Mama’s hair. When her sobs grow soft, Sister Larsen says, “You should rest, Hannah.”
Upon Mama’s protest that she should be with Rachel, Sister Larsen says, “Let Elizabeth stay with her.”
“ ’Twas Elizabeth’s negligence brought Rachel to this.” Mama will not look at me.
“I swear I will watch closely.” My voice emerges raspy, as though scraped from me. Mama does not move.
“Elizabeth is a good girl,” Sister Larsen says, watching Mama, “and you’ve had a shock. Sleep will do you good.”
The midwife’s kindness pinches more than Mama’s coldness, because I do not deserve it. At Sister Larsen’s words, Mama allows one of the sisters to lead her gently down the hallway, putting her to bed like she would a child.
When the woman returns, Sister Larsen turns to me. “Should Rachel worsen, send Hyrum to fetch me again.”
As though his name were a charm, Hyrum emerges from the kitchen again, to drive the women home. I take a blanket and settle on the floor beside Rachel. I’m still awake when Hyrum returns sometime later, though I pretend to sleep when he passes me. I cannot bear to talk now.
Today has been all wrong. I’ve been all wrong, my desires and will selfish and wicked. I think of my silent prayer, whispered alongside the words of women of greater faith. I’ll do anything, I promise again. Never quarrel with Mama. Give up the stars. Only let Rachel live.
Let her live.
chapter three
Sunday, June 30, 1878
Monroe, Utah
Twenty-nine days until eclipse
I startle awake, pulled from a dream of drowning to find the blanket tangled about my legs. At once, memory pours over me and I jerk upright, searching for Rachel. I didn’t mean to sleep. In the dim predawn light, I can just see that she’s still breathing, her little chest rising and falling. Her rest is still the dull, unmoving rest of the night before. Her face is slack, her lips parted.
Rising, my back stiff from the night on the floor, I settle myself on the sofa beside Rachel. The house is dark and hushed. Footsteps pad across the wood floor toward me, and I look up to find Emily, her dark hair falling loose from the braid she’s worn to bed.
“Is she better?” Emily whispers. When I shake my head, she asks, “What can I do?”
“Can you sit with her?” I can’t heal Rachel, but I can make the day less painful for Mama and the others. I’m resolved to do everything right today, as if I can atone for yesterday’s catastrophe through work. I’ll stay home from church to care for everyone. I’m supposed to teach a children’s class, but if I don’t go, the other teachers will manage somehow.
Emily hesitates. “What if she gets worse? What if I make things worse?”
You can’t make things worse than I have. Drawing a deep breath, I gather my patience. It’s not Emily’s fault that she’s timid, any more than it’s Mama’s fault that she gets her moods. “Then come fetch me or Mama.”
Emily takes my place beside Rachel, and I slip outside. I look up instinctively, but a hazy veil of clouds covers the sky. There are no stars for solace, not even the rising sun.
I milk the cow, give the horses their feed, then head to the kitchen to make a hasty pudding from ground corn for breakfast. Far is already settled at the table, reading the Salt Lake Tribune, now more than a week old. Folded neatly on the table before him is the Rocky Mountain News, out of Colorado. His Sabbath practice these days involves studying the news instead of the Bible. I wonder if there’s anything in the paper about the eclipse, but I don’t ask.
Far hasn’t said anything more to me about Rachel, but his silence feels like a slap.
While I wait for the water to boil, Mama stumbles into the room, Albert clutched in her arms, her graying hair hanging loose about her shoulders. Mama’s eyes are heavy-lidded, with a dead look in them that I’ve come to dread. She’s having another of her bad spells. I’d rather Mama cried or railed than suffered this emptiness. Sometimes her moods come for no reason, but sometimes they’re triggered. Is it Rachel’s condition that’s brought this on? One more fault to add to my tally.
Mama settles at the table beside Far and unbuttons her nightdress to feed Albert, with slow movements like one sleepwalking.
I want to say something to her, to apologize, but her eyes are fixed on something far away. I turn back to the stove, staring unseeing at the boiling water for a long moment before I scoop the ground corn into the pan.
“Why are ye not dressed for church?” Mama asks abruptly.
“I’m not going,” I say, turning to face her. “I mean to stay here and help you with the children, with Rachel—”
“Ye should go. Rachel needs your repentance more than your minding.”
“Let her stay, Hannah,” Far says. “She’s better off here than filling her head with foolishness.”
“So she can fill her head with your kind of foolishness, thinking herself smart
er than God? Better a righteous fool than a godless one. It’s you and your papers and books that tempted Elizabeth from her duty in the first place.”
“So now I am responsible for Rachel? Don’t be ridiculous, Hannah.” Far snatches a newspaper up from the table, stalks toward the door. There he pauses to catch my eye. “Elizabeth, I wish you’d stay.” Then, before Mama or I can respond, he ducks out of the room.
Mama’s grip on Albert tightens, and the baby breaks off nursing with a startled cry.
I release a long, slow breath. My chest aches from holding it.
I love my father, who is generally sunny and good-humored and tells better jokes than anyone. But I don’t like being tugged between his will and Mama’s, especially not when I think Mama is right. I’ve seen what Far lost in leaving the church—a faith, a community, a way of life. I don’t want to lose that too.
It began four years ago with the United Order, a call from President Brigham Young to share all things in common. We were asked to turn all our possessions and profit over to the church, and then the bishop would dole them out as needed. Far had been one of the first to join, proud of his faithfulness.
Then the bishop asked Far for the use of the mill horses. It’d be one thing if he wanted them for church business, but he didn’t. He wanted them for his own use. Far refused. The bishop threatened to turn him and Mama from the faith, strike their names from the church records. To be treated so after all his sacrifices stung Far to his very heart. He’d leave the church rather than be forced out by a man pretending to speak for God.
He never went back. It was pride that kept him away at first, but the longer he stayed away, the more faults he began to see with the church. The Order did not long outlast my father. If it had been meant as our crucible, we had all cracked in the firing.
The pudding begins to boil, drawing me from old memories.
Mama says, “Brother Yergensen has been asking about ye.”
I nearly drop the spoon I’m using to stir. “Brother Yergensen already has a wife.”