by Anna Oney
The snow was piled high above the cabin's porch and was steadily climbing the outer walls. No one would stay here for a quick escape. No one, and not for some time, Samuel believed, unless they enjoyed this skin-splitting, freezing atmosphere.
Instead of retreating indoors, he was on the lookout for the cypress tree that concealed his mother's tale. The search proved to be difficult, he realized, after the second hour. The amount of sunlight left wasn't much, so he knew he would have to hurry.
"Shiiit," Samuel said, but as the hot breath billowed from his lips, he took another step forward and noticed a massive tree hidden from view by another one.
Like the cabin, snow climbed from the bottom of the tree. Kneeling before it, Samuel began brushing away the flakes until the word he was looking for was slowly revealed. If what Jane said was true, and Emma hadn't sought a better place to hide it, then her memoirs would be buried before this very tree.
Excitedly, he began shoveling away the snow and digging for the prize. Roughly, he dug four inches into the ground when his fingers scraped against the top of a rusted tin box. Found you, sucker! he thought. Ha!
As he pulled it from the earth, Samuel found himself experiencing feelings of guilt. But they proved to be momentary as he hurriedly broke the seal of the box and pried it open. The notebook was weathered, but it might as well have been glowing. Its frail condition and smudged lines had no effect on him. Samuel was finally going to get the answers he deserved!
Notebook in hand, he reburied the box and began his trek to Back Wood. The snowfall had let up, so he was able to read along the way. There were parts of her story that were difficult to finish, and some made him regret digging it up in the first place.
When he came upon her "eerie visit in the night," it didn't take long for him to connect this part of the tale to the nightmare he'd overheard her fretting about. Now he knew the reasoning behind why she had continuously asked, "How?" and "When?" This woman knew his mother would die, and Samuel suspected the Native knew the answers to his mother's questions.
But...this lady, he thought, who was she? And then he imagined his mother replying, "Just keep reading."
Though Roland's part to play was something Samuel could've done without, he felt most of her experiences should have been shared. And it angered him that he'd literally had to go digging through the freezing earth to find the truth.
She'd never mentioned this "invisible stranger" or how he'd come to her in the room that she referred to in the journal as her "tomb." In fact, she'd never mentioned dying before at all.
And how could I appear to her as she died? Samuel thought. I wasn't even born yet. But then he remembered. A couple of years back, Emma had told him that every morning when he was younger, he would crawl into her bed, take her hand, and drop it over and over again to wake her. So maybe, he thought, it really could've been me. Or some version of me.
The man who had helped Samuel pull Emma from the water wasn't kidding about them going way back. There was a connection between them that Samuel hadn't understood until he opened this weathered book. This man had saved her life years ago, and she had returned the favor. Reed held a special place in her heart, and because of that, Samuel understood his father's attitude toward him. The day Reed had said his final goodbyes, there was an undeniable expression of grief in his eyes, further validating his love for her.
The more Samuel read, the more he learned who his mother truly was, and the anger he'd felt earlier turned into guilt—guilt that he hadn't appreciated her like he should have. At the very bottom of the last page, his mother had labeled her journey as a "test of strength and self-discovery." Through all of her struggles, she'd never given up; not even when Granddaddy Doolie died, or Stella, or Aunt Mary, or Grandmother Shirley, or the countless others she'd lost. In her journal, she'd written about wanting to quit, but she never had. Even on her deathbed, she remained this fierce woman who Samuel, up until recently, never knew existed.
By the time he made it home, his boots and trousers were caked with snow. When he arrived at the bottom of the steps, he realized a fresh layer of ice covered each one. Samuel tucked the journal into the back of his trousers underneath his shirt and grabbed the rail. Carefully he began climbing the steps, when he heard his father's voice coming from inside. Samuel loosened the laces of his boots, set them quietly to the side, and began brushing the snow from his pants.
"I guess if that's the way it's got to be," he heard his father say, "short and sweet sounds a lot better than long and miserable."
"Half of a lifetime," she replied. "I never understood the bewitchment of men until I met you, Tom McCord. I'm grateful I got to love you for as long as I have."
"Not nearly long enough. It's just not enough."
Samuel opened the door, and noticed the empty bowl of soup sitting on the coffee table. It was suppertime, and regrettably, he'd forgotten it was his turn to feed her. And the award for 'The Worst Son in the World' goes to . . . Samuel McCord!
"Where have you been?" Tom scolded, and as his parents turned to face him, Samuel began thinking of a believable excuse as to why he hadn't been there—but sorry was all he could think of to say.
"Where were you?" his father asked. "We've discussed this," he said. "If I hadn't come by, she wouldn't have been fed till later tonight."
"I'm sorry." Samuel cowered, looking to his mother. "Really, I am."
"Don't let it happen again," his father said. "I mean it. Not again. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
Emma reached up, and rested her palm upon Tom's shoulder.
"Hey, honey, could you leave us for a second?" she hoarsely whispered.
Patting her hand, he replied, "Sure, baby." He looked from her to Samuel. "I'll go check on the goats."
"Give Brownie's belly a good rub for me."
"Will do," Tom replied. His father tucked a couple of her stubborn strands of hair behind her ear, and then kissed her on the forehead. "Love you."
Samuel had just arrived, and it was obvious to him that she already knew. He was positive this treachery was a result of "mother's intuition," as she'd called it. Or it could've been Jane, but they swore they would never tell on each other. Not without just cause.
Once his father was gone, she cut her eyes toward him.
"So now you know, huh?"
Betrayal! he thought. I will have my revenge!
"How?" he asked.
"The moment you walked through that door, I knew."
"Why didn't you tell me? All of those stories you told us about the Natives, and you leave out the best part? I deserved to know!"
"If anybody knows, Samuel, it's because they disobeyed me. Like you just did."
"But Mom, this story, it, it needs to be heard. Maybe not all of it," he said, mulling it over, "but everything you've gone through for this road."
"I haven't told anyone because of the very way you're looking at me now. I've avoided that look for years."
"I, I didn't know how bad it was. I'm sorry."
"And you just had to know," she said. "Just had to."
"I know. I—"
"You're just like me."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"When you were born," she said, "I prayed you wouldn't be like me. I prayed you'd be able to make peace with the things you couldn't change. Prayed you'd have your father's patience. His discipline. But now, I"—she coughed—"I see you got a little dab of both of us." Struggling to sit up, she grasped his hand and pulled him closer. "Just remember something for me, will you?" she asked, caressing his cheek. "It's okay to be saved by someone other than yourself. Just don't make a habit of it."
"Aren't you mad, Mom?" he asked as he could feel himself losing control over his emotions. "Mad that it'll all be over? Just over?"
"I am," she replied. "But what use is displaying it to the world? None," she said, bringing the cloth to her lips. "Absolutely none. When Momma got sick, it . . . it was unbearable to see her go. Not just because sh
e was dying—that was hard enough. Because she was angry. You . . . you were still in my belly. And she knew she'd never get to hold her grandbaby."
"I wish I could've known her," he replied, tucking the blanket around her.
"She loved you. Even before you came into this world. You've made her proud up there. I'm sure."
"How were you able to go on after so much bad had happened?"
"I had the girls. Your father." She paused, coughing into the cloth. "But it wasn't just them. There was this little boy." She smiled weakly. "A little boy who took my hand, and called me momma. He said, 'Momma. Momma, wake up.' Since you read the journal, you must know," she said, taking his hand. "That boy was you."
As she lowered the cloth from her lips, he noticed a fresh spatter of blood soaking through the fabric.
"Mom?!" he cried in concern. "Are you okay?"
"It's just the same ol' thing." She coughed again. "Hey, since . . . since you forgot to feed me, make it up to me." She smiled while, unbeknownst to her, blood began to trickle down the side of her mouth. "Read to me in-instead."
"Your favorite?" he asked, refusing to acknowledge the blood for her sake.
"Anything with magic," she replied. "That . . . that involves a swish of a wand."
"Sure!" he exclaimed, heading toward her bedroom.
"Hey, baby?" she said, stalling him at the door. "I love you."
"I love you, too, Mom."
Chapter 49:
Emma
As Emma slumped back in the chair, the mask she'd donned for Samuel's sake dropped to reveal her face in its normal solemn state. Every time she coughed it felt as though she was being torn apart from the inside. She no longer had the strength to hold up her head, nor the will to speak.
Tears flowed as she watched her son disappear into the bedroom to fetch her favorite novel. I wish I could escape into it, she thought. Maybe then I could last longer for my children. For my husband . . . my love. Emma wished she could've remembered to tell Tom that when they married, she thought she would be his last love, but the harsh reality was, he was hers—the only love of her life—but she didn't want to be his. Emma wanted Tom to laugh and fight with another as much as he had with her.
Leaning against the armrest, Emma closed her eyes and silently began to pray when the shuffling noises of Samuel digging through their pile of books reached her ears. As she raised her chin, the racket he made was muffled by the familiar cries of a lost friend. Assuming they were a product of her dissipating brain cells, Emma clamped her eyes shut and tried blocking the sounds from her mind.
It wasn't until she felt the sensation of a scratchy tongue licking her palm that she realized it was Stella calling her home. It was the flick of a light switch that forced Emma's eyes to open. Instead of dark and gloomy, the room she lay dying in was illuminated and cheerful. A smile formed at the edges of her mouth as Emma witnessed Stella nudging her arm and nibbling at her fingers. Giving in to her persistent growls, Emma stood and scratched behind Stella's pig-like ears.
She felt weightless. Emma's hair no longer clung to the back of her skull. It was rich with red and stripped of gray, and the volume of her bouncy curls was fully restored. The clothes she wore were her usual pair of jeans and her green plaid, button-down shirt. The boots on her feet were the same ones she'd lost in the creek during her battle to survive.
Standing before the glass double doors, Stella seemed to wait for Emma to join her. By her side, she looked Emma in the eye and dipped her snout, seeming to command her master to open it. As Emma grasped the knob, the noises coming from the back room stalled her. Samuel.
Nudging Emma from the back, Stella pushed her through the door when a bright light flashed before them. Emma closed her eyes and opened them again, and realized the light had transported all of her loved ones to this very spot. Now, the most important people to her in life became the most important in death. A crowd of people Emma recognized from weathered black-and-white photos and family reunions began guiding her through this abundant group of deceased Clerys.
Once they reached the end of the line, the crowd parted, revealing Emma's closest loved ones standing before a grand willow tree—a tree she knew all too well.
"Hey, baby doll," her father said.
"Hey, Daddy!" Emma cried, looking from him to Rambler, who was wagging her tail at his feet. As she turned to her mother and Aunt Mary, she sobbed. "Oh my! Y'all are all here. You're really here."
"There's no need to be afraid," Aunt Mary said, grasping her hand. "It's time to leave that life behind you."
"But I need to know they'll be okay!" she cried.
"They will," Shirley said. "They'll pull through just as you did when you lost us."
"But I, I never did. Not really."
"They'll continue being what they've always been," Aunt Mary said. "Leftovers of a life well lived."
"Are y'all gonna take me now?" she asked, choking back the tears. "For good?"
"No, darling," Doolie replied. "We just came to see you off."
"Step forward," Shirley instructed. "And place your hand on the tree."
With Stella by her side, Emma passed through the swaying branches and did as she was told. But just as she did, they disappeared. With their leave, something within the tree began pulsating. It was as if the tree had its own heartbeat. Emma's hand began sinking into the bark as the willow's temperature rose. A minute was all that lapsed when she realized her hand no longer rested upon the trunk of a tree, but on the chest of a man.
Wakiza grasped Emma's hand and grazed the bottom of her chin with his finger.
"So, Bank Lady." He smiled. "Are you ready to meet our Lord?"
"Hey, Mom!" Samuel shouted from the back of the house. "I can't find—wait!" He paused. "Oh, here it is! I found it! Mom? Mom?! Mom!" he screamed, and as he made his way back to her, Emma could hear the grief rattling his breathing. "Mom!" he screamed again. "I didn't mean it! I do. I, I do need you! Don't go. Please, Mom. Wake up," he begged.
Her son dropped the book, and Emma heard it land upon its spine, the swooshing of the pages as the book fully closed.
"Wake up! I need you!" He wept. "Please. I'm sorry. Wake up!"
As Emma stood there, on the brink of death, she remembered the first day she cradled Samuel in her arms. What a tiny miracle he was. He smelled so good, and his skin was soft, and now, as he clung to her lifeless form, Emma could feel his tears gliding over her skin. His heart was broken, and she was the cause. But this time, Emma couldn't be there to make it better. She prayed he would remember how much she loved him and that she would've given anything to stay.
But it was simply time for her to go.
Gripping her hand, Wakiza forced Emma to meet his gaze.
"Ready?" he asked again. Nodding, Emma gazed at the steps of their home and imagined giving her son a last embrace.
"We will see each other again," she whispered. "But until then . . . be humble. And be kind. How proud I was to call you mine. Love you. Goodbye."
Epilogue
When his children asked about their grandmother, it pained him to speak of her. When he thought of his mother, he remembered the nights she stayed up reading to him, or the long afternoons during which she taught him how to shoot a bow. But the memories Samuel cherished the most were those when she would erupt in uncontrollable spurts of laughter. That high-pitched squeal she made before she laughed, and the snort that followed.
When Willa and Samuel were wed, she said she wanted to have a minimum of five children. With Samuel being ten years older, he figured he would only carry enough juice to father one, maybe two. Never did he believe he would live to be a father of six.
They had struck a deal that when their first baby was born: Willa had free rein to name the child whatever she wished. Samuel had just never believed it would be as silly as the name Fawn. Their first was a girl; the second was a boy who Samuel named Pete. The twins, a boy and girl, were named Axton and Marie. The last two were girls, and by t
hat time, they were tired of arguing over names, so they named them after their mothers, Emma and Darby. As Samuel and Willa had figured they would be, the two girls were inseparable.
Over the years, there had been one message that had stuck with him, and Samuel had recited it to his children many nights: "There aren't such things as witches and wizards or pointy-eared elves and ax-wielding dwarfs. But angels are real and there is a God. And like me, He loves you exactly the way you are. So to change who you truly are is to doubt His masterpiece. Being above the crowd is having the courage to be yourself and no other. Never forget that."
Each of them took to calling their grandmother, who they never met, Gran, and it warmed their father's heart considerably. Their children had read every story on the shelf except for one—one that Samuel had forbid them to open until they were mature enough to handle it. When each of them reached their twenties, Samuel felt it was his duty to tell them the truth of what had happened all those many years ago.
Surrounded by his eager children, Samuel sat in his grandfather's rocking chair, over twenty years older than his mother was when she passed, and wondered if he'd made her proud. Have I, Mom?
There was two questions Samuel'd constantly asked himself: Have I done right by you all? Have I given you the knowledge to survive? He was blessed with two parents who'd done both. But he doubted if he and Willa had done the same for their children.
"Before I start," he said, "I want you kids to know that we love you. More than anything."
"We love you, too," Emma smiled, grasping his hand. "We couldn't ask for a better father."
He took a deep breath, exhaled, and asked, "Okay, everyone ready?" Samuel opened the book and scanned over his mother's recognizable scribble, when a flash of red caught his eye. He looked up from the weathered pages, and spotted his mother sitting in the middle of her grandchildren.