by Terrie Todd
He would just as soon not have the dreams. Or visions, or whatever they were. They were too unsettling. The thing is, he knew no way to describe them. He couldn’t remember seeing or hearing anything in particular afterward. He only woke from them knowing something extraordinary had happened and feeling aware of a clear action he must take. Perhaps the reason their existence felt so painful to him was because of the one he’d chosen to ignore and the devastating results.
How much should he tell Maggie? She was so unpredictable, seemingly fierce in her independence one day, then entreating him for his assistance the next. In any case, she seemed to have lost the relationship with God she’d clearly had when they were young. Back then, Maggie talked about Jesus in a way that made it seem like she had coffee with him every morning.
He knew this might not be a good time to broach the topic, but they still had a long stretch of road ahead of them, hours to be filled with conversation. He turned and studied her face, seemingly intent on the road ahead. A strand of red hair had fallen loose from her hastily constructed bun, and she tucked it behind her ear.
“Can I ask you something?” he ventured.
“If you’re wondering who taught me my stellar hairdressing skills, it’s top secret.”
Was Maggie’s humor some kind of shield? He could play that game too. “Oh. In that case, I’ll think of a different question.”
“Shoot.”
Reuben cleared his throat. “Unless my memory’s failing, you had a really close connection with the Lord when we were teens.”
Maggie paused. “That’s not a question.”
“I’m getting to it.”
But he’d underestimated her depth of perception. “You wanna know what happened, don’t you?”
“Well . . . yes. I am curious. If you want to tell me, that is.”
Maggie sighed. “I guess I kind of owe it to you.”
“No, not at all. You don’t owe me anything. I’m just . . . It’s hard to tell where your faith is now. I’d love to help you with that if I can. And if not, well . . . maybe something you’ve learned would be helpful to me.”
Maggie sighed and gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I don’t know, Reuben. Life is what happened, I guess. It’s not that I don’t believe in God anymore. I just . . . There have been some tough times, you know? And God wasn’t there for me like I thought he’d be. Guess you could say I got disappointed with him and learned to get along on my own.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“Maybe not. But when someone says ‘God wasn’t there for me,’ it usually means God’s people weren’t there when the person needed help. Somebody was not obeying what God was asking them to do.”
Maggie chewed on her bottom lip as she put another quarter mile behind them without speaking.
“Maybe that somebody was me,” she admitted. “The week before my wedding, I had this feeling in my gut that I should break things off with Douglas. I brushed it off. Now I wonder if God was trying to tell me not to marry him.”
“Why did you brush it off?”
“Oh, who knows?” Maggie’s hands gripped the steering wheel, but her thumbs wiggled back and forth. “The invitations were already out, for one thing. I didn’t want to face the humiliation. I guess you could say my pride got in the way.”
Pride was something Reuben understood. “Did you talk to anyone about it?”
Maggie nodded. “A little, to my dad. He assured me it was normal to feel pre-wedding jitters. So I went ahead.”
Reuben waited, wondering if she would say more or let it drop. He decided to prompt her. “You’ve sort of . . . indicated . . . that the marriage wasn’t the best.”
Maggie let out a snort. The car hit another bump in the road that made both of them smack their heads on the roof.
“Ow!” Maggie rubbed her head with her right hand, still gripping the steering wheel with her left.
“Ready for me to drive?”
“How far to the next town?”
Reuben studied the map again. “We should hit Ignace in thirty minutes or so.”
“I’ll be okay until then.”
“At least the skunk smell is gone.”
Maggie made a face. “We’re probably just used to it.”
“I guess we’ll know next time we stop.” Reuben sighed and looked out his window at the passing scenery. The prairie fields with their ripening crops had long since given way to lakes and trees, as far as he could tell through the fog. He figured Maggie was through discussing her personal affairs, but she surprised him.
“Got any more burning questions?”
He chuckled at her directness. “Yes, actually, I do. About Earl. He didn’t seem all that threatening the day of the funeral. I can’t figure out how a spunky woman like you was rendered silent by him. Shoot, I’ve given you more grief than he has and you’ve given it right back.”
“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.” Her words were light, but Reuben detected a layer of something else beneath them: anger, maybe. Or was it fear?
“I believe you. So why can’t you do the same with Earl?”
“Reminds me too much of his brother.” Maggie said nothing else for a long time, but then her three-word answer broke through the silence, delivered in little more than a whisper. “He beat me.”
Reuben thought he hadn’t heard correctly at first. Who had beaten her? Earl? That didn’t make sense. But if she’d said what he thought she had, it had probably taken all the courage Maggie could muster to say it once. Asking her to repeat herself would be cruel. He looked at her, waiting for her to continue. He could see Maggie’s eye dart sideways at him, then quickly back to the road. When she didn’t speak, he sent up a quick prayer for wisdom and tried again.
“Douglas beat you?”
“Yes. Maybe you’d figured that out already.”
Reuben tried to match Maggie’s hushed voice by speaking as gently as he could. “No. I just want to be clear. Was it a one-time thing, or . . . ?”
“No.” Maggie cleared her throat, and then spoke with more volume and conviction. “It should have been. I should have cleared out after the first time.” She waved one hand away from the steering wheel as if dismissing the thought. “Don’t ask me why I didn’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Reuben looked out the window again, hoping Maggie would feel more inclined to keep talking if she didn’t feel scrutinized.
“I suppose you think I’m pathetic.”
Reuben’s head jerked to the left as he looked at her. “Pathetic? Maggie, I could never think of you that way. Do you want to talk about it?”
To Reuben’s surprise, a tear began to run down Maggie’s cheek and she brushed it away with her hand. “I’d rather not rehash the details.” She sniffed. “But it is good to know someone else finally knows. Part of me wanted to stand up at the funeral and shout it out for everyone to hear, you know? Right when they were going on about what an upstanding guy he was.”
Reuben looked down at his hands and saw that they were curled into fists. He couldn’t stand the thought of any man becoming violent with a woman, but the fact that it had happened to Maggie felt like a personal offense.
“I wish I could have been there for you then.” Reuben wasn’t certain he’d even said the words aloud until Maggie responded with a resigned sigh.
“Guess you could have been, had I asked. Not your fault.”
“What made you decide to tell me now?”
Maggie shrugged. “You told me a secret, I figured I could tell you one too. Anyway, he can’t hurt me now. And I’ve learned I can get along just fine without a man around. In fact, I’m a lot better off. Looks like we’re in Ignace.”
Sure enough, a billboard displaying WELCOME TO IGNACE greeted them. Maggie slowed the car and they cruised into the main street of the small town. A gas station boasting the Imperial Oil brand stood on their right, and Maggie pulled up to the tank like an expert. Though their conversatio
n was laid aside as they climbed out to stretch their legs, Reuben felt a stirring in his heart that made him want to wrap his arms around Maggie Marshall and never allow anyone to hurt her again.
CHAPTER 14
Charlotte hadn’t known such pain was possible. Surely she was going to die. She would perish right here, no one back home would ever know where she was, and the people here wouldn’t even know who she was. She’d probably be buried under some tree with a misidentified marker. Or no marker at all.
But every time she tried to tell someone her real last name, she was overcome by another contraction. This continued until her name no longer mattered. She just wanted the whole thing over, and if she ever laid eyes on Reginald Wilson again, all she wanted to do was punch him in the nose. He would never touch her again!
When they had arrived at the hospital (was it only hours ago? It felt like weeks), the medics had rolled Charlotte inside on the stretcher. Each bump felt unbearable. She had no idea where she was or what direction they were taking her. When they wheeled her alongside a bed and instructed her to move herself onto it, she refused to budge.
“We need to get you onto the delivery table, Mrs. Wilson,” someone was saying. “As soon as the next pain subsides, lift your hips and scoot onto the table. You can do it.”
“I’m not Mrs. Wilson!” Charlotte shouted. “I’m Charlotte Penfield!” With that, she gripped the sheets and wadded them into balls with both hands, hollering the whole time.
Nurses were undressing her and putting a hospital gown on her, as if that was going to help. After some pushing, lifting, and shoving from the medical staff, Charlotte found herself on the delivery table, her knees bent and her feet pushed into some sort of cold metal stocks. She felt like an animal. Or worse, a criminal.
“What are you doing to me?” Charlotte screamed. No one had prepared her for such indignities.
“You need to scoot down a bit, Mrs. Wilson, so the doctor can examine you.”
“I told you I’m Charlotte Penfield. Penfield!”
“Sorry, Mrs. Penfield. Can you please scoot down just a little more?”
“Not Mrs. Penfield—ooowww!” Charlotte was certain she was about to black out, and truly hoped she would.
“Try to calm down, Mrs. Penfield. Your baby is going to come soon, but it will go much better for you if you can relax.” The woman’s voice came from behind her head somewhere.
Then a male voice. “Good afternoon, everyone. Who have we got here?”
“This is not one of your prenatal patients, Dr. Thompson,” the nurse said. “She was passing through by train and went into early labor. Five weeks early or so, from what we can gather.”
“First pregnancy?”
“Yes!” Charlotte shouted. The next thing she knew, the most uncontainable urge to push overcame her, and she didn’t resist. Whether hours went by after that or merely minutes, she couldn’t tell. It was all a blur of pain and pushing and bright lights and white-masked heads floating above her. After she managed one final push, the voices above her cheered. A baby wailed.
“You have a little son, Mrs. Penfield.” Charlotte looked up at the smiling eyes above the mask. Her own eyes followed the doctor’s gaze to the howling, naked infant in the nurse’s hands. Then just as quickly, the baby was whisked away again. She closed her eyes tight and tried hard not to think about what was being done to her. Perhaps now she could die in peace. She’d never been so exhausted, not even after a whole day of waiting tables and washing dishes for Mrs. Marshall.
“Five pounds, ten ounces,” a nurse announced. She brought the blanket-wrapped baby to Charlotte and held him out for her to take. “He’s a little one, but he’s perfect. Either you were further along than you thought you were, or this is an especially robust little man you have here.”
Charlotte had never held a baby in her life. She didn’t even like babies. They made her nervous.
“I’m not—I’m not supposed to—”
But the nurse was shoving the bundle into her arms. That’s when Charlotte caught a glimpse of his tiny face. He had stopped crying, and now he squinted as though trying to focus on something. She took him in her arms.
“Hello, Baby.”
The child squirmed, then relaxed. He looked up at Charlotte, and she felt suddenly overwhelmed by awareness of how utterly vulnerable he was.
“Oh, my goodness.” Charlotte had thought she’d never cry again, after all the tears she’d shed in the last twenty-four hours. But she felt tears of a different sort welling now. Looking at her tiny son, she realized the magnitude of what she had done, who she had been carrying all these months, and the decisions that had already been made for his future.
“I’ve never seen a smaller human being,” she whispered. “Anyone could do anything to you, and you’d be completely helpless. Anything.” This child would have to go wherever people carried him, consume whatever nutrition was offered him or die of starvation. He had no say at all. He was at the mercy of anyone who chose to pick him up, anyone who chose to love him or hate him, meet his needs or destroy him. She couldn’t bear the thought.
“Mrs. Wilson, we need to contact your husband.” A nurse stood next to Charlotte’s bed, clipboard in hand. “Do you have a number where he can be reached?”
“My name’s not—” Charlotte began. Then she looked down again at her son. He’d fallen fast asleep, a mere featherweight in her arms. “M-my husband is in the service.”
“Overseas?”
“Yes,” Charlotte lied. Panic rose in her throat. Surely if they knew the truth, this child would be ripped from her, and she’d never lay eyes on him again. “I’ll be on my own until he returns, or until the war is over.”
“What about your parents?”
Before she realized what she was saying, Charlotte gave the nurse Maggie Marshall’s name and telephone number in Winnipeg. “My father is dead,” she added. If they called Maggie, at least Maggie would know what had happened to her. She’d never come after her in a million years, and with her parents traveling, it might be weeks before they could be reached. By then, Charlotte and her son would have found their way to Petawawa and Reginald. Everything would be all right then.
The nurse left, and Charlotte studied her little boy some more. “You need a name, don’t you, little guy? Yes, you do.” Though she was tempted to name him after his father, something held her back. “What name do you like? You won’t always be little, you know. You’re going to grow so, so big and be a man just like your—”
For the first time, niggling doubts about Reginald’s acceptance picked at her heart, though she wasn’t sure why. If he were truly the love of her life, the hero she’d painted him to be, wouldn’t he have found a way to write to her by now? Maybe Reginald didn’t deserve to know about this little boy after all. Maybe Reginald didn’t deserve her. She shook the thought off and turned to the baby, talking to him as if to an adult.
“I’ve always hated my own name. My mother would have died if she knew the boys at school called me ‘Charlotte the Harlot.’ I suppose I lived up to it, didn’t I? There’s a Charlotte in my favorite book, too—Pride and Prejudice. Charlotte was not an attractive young woman in that book. Unfortunately, my mother never read Jane Austen’s book before she named me. I could name you after Mr. Darcy, but Mr. Darcy’s first name was Fitzwilliam. I can’t very well call you Fitzwilliam, can I? I suppose we could just call you Darcy. And Fitzwilliam for a middle name, since you were born in Fort William? Would you like that?”
The nurse returned. “I tried to place a telephone call to your mother, but the operator tells me there is no answer at this number. Should we try again later?”
“Yes.” Charlotte’s ruse had worked, granting her a reprieve. The baby started to fuss.
“He’s getting hungry,” the nurse said. “Have you fed him yet?”
“No.” Charlotte had only a basic understanding of how mothers nursed infants. She’d never seen anyone do it, but a tingling sensation ove
rtook her breasts all the same.
“Relax. I’ll help get you started,” the nurse said. “I’m Nurse Rhoden, by the way. You have a lovely little boy. So strong for a preemie.”
Within ten minutes, baby Darcy was nursing hungrily and Nurse Rhoden busied herself with Charlotte’s chart. “Change sides in five minutes or less,” she said. “Otherwise, you’ll regret it. I’ll be back in ten.” She left the room, humming.
Charlotte switched sides as instructed, but after only another minute on the second side, Darcy was fast asleep again. Charlotte stroked his hair, ran a finger over his velvety cheeks, and counted his tiny fingers and toes.
How could she have ever imagined she could give away her child?
“I’ll fight for you, Darcy.” Charlotte’s voice was fierce. “No matter what my parents try to make me do. It’s you and me, you hear me? You and me. No matter what.”
CHAPTER 15
It was dark when Reuben and Maggie pulled into Fort William. Maggie had fallen asleep again after their last stop, their conversation unfinished. It wasn’t difficult to find the train station. Reuben pulled up in front and turned off the engine with a tired sigh.
“We’re here, Maggie.”
She opened her eyes and yawned. “Fort William?”
“Yes. I came straight to the train station.”
“You think she’s here?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go inside and see what we can find out.”
The lobby was deserted, one lone light hanging above several empty wooden benches. A middle-aged man with a boyish cowlick sat at the wicket.
“No more trains comin’ or goin’ tonight, folks.”