The Leftovers of a Life

by Anna Oney

  It was a constant fight to keep the entry point within sight. Using what strength remained, Emma kicked with all of her might and stretched for the rope. As the tips of her fingers grazed against it, she kicked once more and was able to fully grasp it.

  Miraculously, whomever it was at the end of the rope began pulling the dead weight of her body against the current. As Emma's arms reached the hole in the ice, someone tugged the rope sharply to the right, and in an instant, her chest was topside. Everything was a blur; she couldn't see, and it hurt to breathe. She was freezing. Her entire body was shaking uncontrollably.

  "Mom!" Emma heard her son shout. "Mom!"

  Strangely, Samuel's was the only voice she heard, though she felt the presence of another. Whomever it was seemed to refuse to speak, so Emma knew it wasn't Tom. After this stranger assisted Samuel by dragging her from the ice, he immediately began stripping her clothes.

  "What are you doing?!" Samuel exclaimed. "Stop!"

  "Look," the man said. "Leave your coat and fetch my horse."

  "I don't know you. I'm not leaving her here with you."

  "Hypothermia'll be settin' in soon. Fetch my ride like I said."

  Emma was still too stunned to concentrate. She couldn't focus on anything but the pain. The name of the man who had rescued her was struggling to surface in her brain.

  "But—"

  "Your momma and me go back a ways. Trust me. Now git."

  With Samuel's leave, the man removed the rest of Emma's drenched clothing and covered her with their coats. He wrapped his arms around her, and began rubbing her back. He pressed her cheek against his warm chest, and said, "He looks like you."

  "I guess . . . you got me . . . me wh-where you want-wanted," Emma struggled to reply. "Reed."

  "Naked and in my arms." He chuckled, pecking her on the forehead. "But never in pain."

  Emma hadn't seen or spoken to Reed in nearly eleven years, but it seemed he still cared for her. As she realized this, it had an overwhelming weakening effect that only worsened the cloud of agony she was under. Throughout the years, due to Tom's request, all of the dealings they'd had with the Bogan Farm had been handled by Winston and Maddox.

  Upon Samuel's return, Reed instructed him to keep her close while Reed mounted his horse. Once he was situated, Reed leaned over the side and motioned for Samuel to bring her forward. Though sadly, as Reed grasped her wrists, Emma realized the animal he sat upon wasn't Brute.

  "Br-Br-Brute?" she stuttered as her body uncontrollably shook.

  "He's gone," Reed replied, hoisting her up. Leaning her against his chest, he turned his attention toward her son.

  "What's your name, boy?" he asked.

  "Samuel."

  "Samuel." He sighed, grasping the reins. "I'm Reed. And I'm fixin' to take your momma to Back Wood. And you're, well"—he paused—"you're just gonna have to be okay with that."

  "You know where we live?"

  "Like I said, we go way back."

  And with that, he gave the horse a kick, and they were off.

  The moment they arrived, Emma felt as though she was being tugged and pulled every which way. Reed swung her leg over the side of the saddle, dragged her from the horse, and sprinted up the steps with her over his shoulder. He barged through the door, laid Emma before the woodstove, and went to fetch the covers from the master bedroom. Upon his return, Reed bundled Emma up, held her close, and began rubbing her feet and hands.

  They sat there for what seemed like a long while until Reed abruptly rose from the ground and exited through the back door. Shivering and alone, Emma jolted from the floor as Reed rang the bell, alerting everyone that something was wrong. By her side again, he resumed his position, cradling her in his arms.

  "You're gonna be okay," Reed kept repeating. But Emma had this strange feeling the person he was trying to reassure wasn't her. It was himself. "You're gonna be okay."

  Jane, Lizzie, and Claire, who were now in their twenties, and sought after by many of the men, were the first to arrive, then Samuel after them, and then Tom after him, and so on, and so on. Emma's husband wasn't happy to see Reed. In fact, Tom acted as though Reed weren't there. Instead of thanking Reed, Tom practically snatched Emma from him and took over his role.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Passin' through. Quicker through the woods."

  "Our woods?!"

  "Dad," Samuel cut in, "if he wasn't there, Mom would still be at the bottom of the creek."

  Seeming to refuse to acknowledge his son's statement, Tom glared at Samuel.

  "Get your uncle."

  "Which one?"

  "The doctor, for God's sake," Tom replied through gritted teeth.

  Before Samuel could leave, Reed instructed him to use the back door, and by Tom's facial expression, it was obvious this didn't set well.

  "Don't tell my boy what to do."

  "She doesn't need cold air blowin' in her face. Does she?"

  Raising his chin, Tom looked to Samuel, who awaited his commands.

  "Samuel," he said, "go ahead and use the back door." Helping Emma up, Tom nodded toward Reed, and said, "Pull up the recliner, will you?"

  In response, Reed grasped the back of the chair and began dragging it across the linoleum toward the stove. Once Emma was situated, she tugged at the bottom of Tom's shirt and motioned toward Reed.

  "What is it, baby?"

  "Be, be nice," she managed to reply. "Please."

  Offering his hand for Reed to take, Tom seemed to swallow his pride.

  "Man, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. I can't help myself sometimes. Thank you for all you've done."

  "Need to boil some water," Reed said, taking his hand. "That'll help bring her temp back up. You got any pots lyin' around?"

  "At the dance hall. Bottom cupboard."

  "I'll be back," he said. "Keep her warm."

  With Reed's leave, Tom began using the edge of his sleeve to wipe up the blood seeping from Emma's nose.

  "It's not broken," he said, assessing the damage. "Oh, baby, no!" he cried, his attention drawn to her fingers. "Two of your nails are peeled back."

  When Emma had hit the ice, they must have scraped against it. At the time, the pain in her nose and back had outweighed the other, so she simply hadn't noticed.

  Darby and Link came flying through the front door with their daughter, Willa, trailing behind them.

  "What's happened?" Darby asked, kneeling beside her. "Oh, no, Emma," she said. "Your fingers. You're shaking—"

  "She fell in the creek," Tom cut in. "Cooper'll be here soon."

  "Mommy!" Willa cried, gripping her father's hand. "Is she gonna be okay?"

  "Yes, honey," Link replied. "She is. Don't worry."

  "Daddy, can I say a prayer for her?"

  "Sure you can."

  When Samuel had been born, Emma knew it would pain Darby to see her cradling a baby of her own. They'd tried getting pregnant and had experienced letdown after letdown. There was no doubt that Darby was happy for her friend, but at the same time, Emma knew it broke her heart. So much so that Emma hadn't wanted her in the room when he was delivered. Despite Emma keeping it from her, Darby had been there to support her friend, and after years of heartache, she'd become pregnant at the age of thirty-three.

  What a joyous memory that was, the day sweet little Willa had been brought into the world. Willa had the same blond, curly wisps of hair her mother had had at that age. She was the miracle they'd been waiting for, and Emma had been overcome with gratefulness that the good Lord had finally blessed her friends with a child to call their own.

  "Here, I'll take her," Jane whispered. "We've got a prayer circle over here."

  "Thank you," Link replied. "You go on with the ladies; we'll be right here."

  "Okay, Daddy."

  Minutes were all that passed before Samuel arrived alongside Cooper, Griffin, and Shelby, who had grown to be as almost as tall as Emma's brother. At Emma's side, Cooper began fumbling through M
rs. Maples's old medical bag, and he started dressing Emma's wounds. Griffin, on the other hand, just stood there and stared at her, seemingly perturbed, for the longest time. He finally woke from his trance, and whispered, "Sister," kneeling beside her.

  "How long has she been out of the water?" Cooper asked, feeling her swollen glands and gently pressing against her midsection. "How long?"

  "I don't know!" Tom frantically replied.

  "Who does?" Cooper said just as Reed returned from outside. "Does he know?" As Reed set the pots on top of the stove, Cooper seemed to notice just then that they were full of snow.

  "Good thinking," he said. "How long you think it's been since you pulled her from the water?"

  "It took us thirty, forty-five minutes, tops to get here."

  Concerned, Cooper looked to his brother, and then down to Emma.

  "This has the potential of turning into something else."

  Chapter 48:

  Samuel

  During his mother's worst days, Samuel caught her trying to stash away the cloths she used to catch the blood when she coughed. For days, she'd slept in the same recliner by the woodstove, bundled in one of his great-great-aunt's quilts.

  The sicker she got, the farther he wanted to stay away, but Samuel couldn't shake this need to be by her side, even if it hurt to see her that way. He hated the feeling of losing her, and it felt as though her illness pained him as much as it did her, but Samuel knew that couldn't be true. She was the one who was dying, and he had many more years to go on without her.

  The previous week Samuel had overheard his Uncle Cooper telling his father and Uncle Griffin that she wouldn't last for much longer. The infection in her lungs had already taken its toll. By the looks of her, they already knew, but hearing it said aloud made it more real.

  After they were informed of Emma's fate, the urge to know everything about her forced Samuel to bombard his relatives with questions. All he knew of her were innate things, like her favorite color—which was green—or how she'd met his father, but Samuel wanted to know more.

  As a child, he'd been told the story of how Back Wood was taken, and how they'd fought to win it back. His mother had spoken fondly of the Natives, whom she called their ancestors and whom she claimed had returned to save them, but Samuel had trouble believing this tale. Her reluctance to confess the part she'd played had only added to his curiosity, but no matter his persistence, she had refused to tell him. His father had said it was a difficult time, but Samuel sensed it was far worse than that.

  He'd been taught to give thanks and to worship the Lord, but his prayers hadn't been answered. Oftentimes Samuel thought to himself, Maybe I'm not praying well enough. Or maybe . . . maybe He doesn't love us as much as we've been taught to believe He does.

  Lately, her main request was to be read to, and despite Samuel's dislike of reading aloud, he couldn't turn her down. He figured her choices of literature would've remained within the realm of her favorite genre—fantasy, in particular the Wizarding World of J.K. Rowling—but she'd chosen the Bible instead. When Samuel had asked her why, she had simply replied, "I need to be focusing on His word rather than the pages of my favorite authors."

  ***

  "Hey, Mom, what were you fussing about last night?" Samuel asked after reading her favorite verse.

  "When, baby?" she replied, pulling the blanket over her chest.

  "You must've been asleep if you can't remember." Closing the Bible, he said, "I thought you and Dad were fighting about something."

  "You . . . you little eavesdropper." She smiled. "No, we weren't fighting. You remember what I said?"

  "Something about a woman in the woods. You kept asking, 'When?' And then, like, right after that, you'd ask, 'How?' You kept saying it over and over. You got pretty loud a couple-a times, too. Woke me up."

  Seeming nervous, Emma shifted in her seat, and said, "I must've been dreaming. I'm sorry, baby."

  "Mom—"

  "You know how much I complain about your daddy talking in his sleep." She giggled, cutting him off. "Don't tell him." She coughed. "I'll nev-never hear the end of it."

  It was clear to Samuel by the way she'd made light of the situation that she didn't wish for the discussion to continue. There was something about the dream that seemed to frighten her. In an instant, Samuel's curiosity was piqued, and he urgently needed to learn what she'd kept hidden from him all of these years.

  "I want to know what happened. Who you are. I want to know."

  "You know who I am."

  "I know some things. But I want to know everything."

  "Samuel . . . there are some things that simply ain't worth reminiscing about."

  "Please just tell me."

  "Things that would only scare you. And things that would pain me to speak of."

  Nearly knocking the chair to the floor, Samuel jolted from his seat and slammed her Bible on the coffee table. Before she could speak, Samuel stormed out the door of the house, defeated.

  How bad could it be? he asked himself as he headed toward the goat pen. What, did she kill somebody? I mean, what the hell?!

  All Samuel wanted was answers, and it angered him that she wasn't willing to give him any. He couldn't go to his father, because one of his key responses was always, "Ask your mother"—so it seemed he was simply out of luck. Then he got to thinking. My sisters! Surely they would know something.

  Luckily, when he arrived at the gate, Samuel found one of them struggling to clip Brownie's hooves.

  "Hey, Jane," he said, accidentally startling her.

  "Hey," she replied, attempting to keep Brownie's back legs from kicking her face. "Help me, would you?" She grunted, dodging another blow.

  "Oh, sure!" he exclaimed, entering the pen. "Sorry."

  "'Preciate it," she said. "Good grief. It's so damn cold out here."

  "I know." He shivered, blowing into his palms and rubbing them together. "Why'd you decide to do this today?"

  "Today's good as any. Doesn't look like this cold will be letting up anytime soon, and little Brownie's been needing some relief for days."

  Once they were finished, Brownie left them to join his mother, Tina 2, who was sheltered with the rest of the goats inside of the barn. The chickens, on the other hand, were all lined up on the railing of the fence.

  "When do you think they'll figure out it's warmer inside?"

  "They're too good to roost where the goats sleep," Jane joked, elbowing his shoulder. "Whatcha out here for anyways?"

  "I wanted to ask you something about Mom."

  "You want to walk and talk?" She smiled, looping her arm with his. "Hmmm? I figure if we keep moving, our asses won't be freezing as bad."

  "Agreed."

  As they went, Samuel could feel the tension lingering in the space between them, which made him assume Jane knew what he was about to ask. He began to fear that she wouldn't be up for discussing it. So instead of asking what he'd escaped into the bitter air to ask, Samuel said, "Sooo, I don't think we should be naming the goats anymore."

  "What?" She giggled. "Why? What for?"

  "It's just—they're our food. It's weird."

  "Just because they are, doesn't mean we can't name them. I mean, I understand what you're getting at. But we've always, always loved them while they were here and mourned them when they were gone. That's just the way it is. With people, too."

  "I guess."

  "Now what is it about Mom you wanted to ask?"

  Taking a deep breath, he exhaled.

  "Am I the only one on this road who doesn't know what really happened?" he asked.

  "You mean when it was taken?"

  "What did she go through that was so bad?"

  "I have asked her that myself a thousand times."

  "And she's never told you?"

  "No, but after it was all over, and Uncle Griffin was home, I caught her writing in a journal. She took it everywhere. Wrote in it for days and days. I figured it was her way of getting all that happened out
of her system."

  "You read it, didn't you?"

  "I did. And I wish I'd stayed clear of it. It's not a story I'd like to hear twice."

  "You know where it is?"

  "Samuel, it was an invasion of her privacy!" she argued. "I shouldn't have read it."

  "You're right. I guess you shouldn't have. But, Jane, Mom is dying. She's dying. And I want to know everything that makes her who she is. Everything . . . everything that makes her this, this respected lady across East Texas. I want to—"

  "Fine, okay?" she said. "Fine."

  "You'll tell me?" he replied, grasping her wrist. "Really?"

  "Yes. But first of all, Mom's respected, but that's not to say she isn't feared. She can put the fear of God into some arrogant assholes. Seen her do it, too."

  "Just tell me where it is," he said, growing impatient. "Where is it?"

  "I read the thing when I was around your age, which was more than a decade ago, so I doubt it'll be in the same place. She may have moved it. You know how she is. You know the cabin Dad and Link built? The one down the creek from the bridge?"

  "Yeah."

  "I was a little detective back then. I watched her put it in a tin and bury it at the base of a big cypress tree."

  "But there's a bunch of cypress trees."

  "Yeah, but this one," she said, leaning forward, "this one has the word 'forgive' carved into it. It's small, but easy to find if you're looking for it."

  "Forgive what?"

  "You'll find out. Just . . . when you do, don't let it show on your face," Jane advised. "Believe me, she'll know."

  After parting from Jane, Samuel began the search for his mother's darkest secrets, which he knew sounded intrusive and strange, but he had to know. With the setting of the sun came everyone returning from the day's hunt, so he knew the possibilities of being caught were slim.

  The snow had deepened throughout the day, making every step he took a tiresome one. Because of this, Samuel's progress was slowed, and by the time he reached the cabin, it had begun snowing again.

  The cabin Tom and Link had built was meant to serve as a honeymoon spot or quick getaway, but the youngsters weren't allowed to stay without a grown-up present. Samuel, for one, believed fifteen was beyond the appropriate age for a spend-the-night, but his mother would disagree.