by Leen Elle
But finally, it was decided on that the boy should be named after his father. Nathaniel John West II. But of course Nathaniel wouldn't allow the boy to be called Nathaniel too; it would be far too confusing. They tried all sorts of variations. Junior was too childish. Nathan sounded too similar to Nathaniel, only being separated by a syllable. Nate was immediately dismissed, for Nathaniel said it sounded too close to Kate. And he could never be John or Johnny, since that was the name of John Lindsey, or Jack, which happened to be Nathaniel's father's name. Nathaniel II went for another week without a name, for nothing could be decided on, until Nathaniel settled the matter in one final swoop.
"The boy's name is Nat," he said one morning, as he rolled into the kitchen. He nodded, "I'm sure of it."
And so it was affirmed. Nat West was born.
And only a year later, he was followed by another baby boy, Michael.
They both had seamlessly straight, bright red hair and amber brown eyes, like their mother, with very pale skin and thin limbs, from their father. But their tempers were obviously an inheritance of both parents. For from the moment they arrived in the world, they were screaming.
It should be said that the raising of Nat and Michael was far different than that of most children.
Neither Nathaniel nor Gail had any experience with children and neither had thought to ask their family or friends for tips, lessons, anything that might aid their effort. And because Nathaniel didn't like to admit that he had absolutely no knowledge of a certain subject, he refused to allow Gail to call in her sisters for help. So instead, they went about the task day by day, learning only from trial and error. And although it may seem rather frightening to some, it was actually a very amusing turn of events.
Most young parents would go crazy with two screaming babies in the house: having no idea why the babies were crying, losing all their sleep in the process of finding out, changing diapers, nursing, washing them up, teaching them to use the potty, and on and on the list goes.
But Nathaniel and Gail were the rare, unbelievable exception. They were never angry or frowning or weeping their eyes out at night from the pressure of it all. Tired, yes. Sometimes a bit frustrated, of course. But they went about raising the two babies together and when they were together, with two wailing babies, they couldn't help but laugh. So when Nat was crying uncontrollably and Gail, nearly on the edge of exhaustion herself, tried with no success to bounce him up and down in an effort to sooth him, Nathaniel couldn't help but give a sly grin. And Gail, in turn, burst into giggles herself. And when Nathaniel was changing Michael's diaper on the bed and the baby wouldn't stop wriggling and sobbing long enough for Nathaniel to wipe the his bottom, causing Nathaniel to shout in anger, Gail couldn't help dissolving into laughter. And Nathaniel, seeing her smile, relinquished his own frown and chuckled along.
It was really quite a miracle Nat and Michael turned out all right; both Nathaniel and Gail were astonished at the fact. But they never would feel comfortable calling themselves parents, for they never acted as any other mother and father might do.
To Nat and Michael, they were more like friends. All four of them entered into loads of quarrels and it wasn't rare for Gail or Nathaniel to act as childish as their own sons at times. Their house was always loud, a fiery of screams and shouts and laughter. And if one saw them on the street together it would take more than a moment to distinguish who was who in this peculiar family. But if they were looked at closely enough, saw the woman place a swift kiss upon the man's cheek, saw the two teenage boys run up ahead, they'd recognize the relationships of the undeniably odd Wests. There was the invalid father with sleep in his eyes, his merry young wife, and their two, fire-haired sons. A strange, temperamental, unconventional family, but a joyous one nevertheless.
Nathaniel's health continued to fluctuate as it always had in previous years. Some days he'd feel fine, other days he'd be bedridden and weak, and still others he'd be lying in a hospital bed looking as eerily sick as ever. There were times it seemed he'd never grow ill again, but then a relapse would occur and he'd be back in the hospital.
All this drained on Gail and her sons a bit, as it rightly should, but they bore it better than most families ever could- with laughter and smiles and kisses aplenty. Gail had learned by now not to dwell on her husband's ailment and she found the optimism to struggle through his many hospital visits. Knowing Nat and Michael were healthy, that no genes had passed on their father's mysterious disease, was a gift both Nathaniel and Gail couldn't be thankful for enough. If the first Nathaniel West had wasted his life away in a hospital, at least the second Nathaniel, Nat, would be able to live a full life, untainted by pain and misery.
I would love to tell you that Nathaniel was able to live to an elderly age, as he'd never thought was possible, and that as he grew older his illness faded away. But it didn't. And it would be a lie to say so. And because, as he told Gail numerous times, the one thing Nathaniel West could not stand was a lie, I shall not lie to you now, though I would love desperately to do so.
Near the age of thirty-eight, Nathaniel grew gravely ill again. He was sent to the hospital in Wickensville and his family joined him there, sitting by his bedside everyday. Nat was sixteen, and Michael only fifteen. They and their mother did their best to comfort Nathaniel and make him laugh, but to little avail. One last time, Nathaniel's face grew as white as snow, his eyes were rimmed in dark shadows, his fingers shook uncontrollably, and his forehead was peppered in sweat. He began to cough up blood, ghastly amounts, yet the doctors were still doing everything they possibly could to save him. The following day, he lied silently in bed. He could scarcely speak, his voice hoarse and his breath nearly gone, but his charcoal gray eyes sparkled, speaking the words his mouth never could.
Nathaniel West died late in the afternoon near the end of November. It was an unspeakably grave day for all, though his death certainly hadn't been a surprise. He'd given them numerous scares before, countless times in the past. From the first day Gail met him he'd held no reserve when discussing his death. After all, as he'd said, we're all dying, aren't we? They'd known he was on the brink this time, that it was possible, yet it still shook them all to their cores.
The family boarded Violet for the funeral, heading far out into the ocean until only a sliver of land was visible on the horizon. The weather seemed to do him justice, which made Nat and Michael smile. The water was horribly chilly, splashing aboard the decks where the boys were leaning over the edge and turning their cheeks pink, and the wind was in a fury, its howling seeming to mimic Nathaniel's contentious attitude and terrible temper.
All dressed in black, they gathered at the edge to watch as his ashes were thrown into the ocean's waves. Ignoring her sisters' pleas that she ought to bury him in a cemetery, Gail wanted everything to be just as Nathaniel had wished it, for she'd always remember the day he told her about what he wanted to happen when he finally did die. So she didn't drag him to a cemetery or buy an expensive coffin or place a slab or marble on top that said something silly and untrue. And she didn't buy a bunch of pretty flowers to place over a man who was dead. For if he could see her now, somehow, she didn't want him to think she was a fool for wasting her money on a corpse. But she did weep, just once, when she returned to an empty bedroom that night and realized he truly was gone. With her body curled up into a little ball and her head nestled into the pillow, she finally allowed the tears to fall. And she hoped, oh how she hoped, that Nathaniel had seen and that he knew that his life hadn't been a complete waste.
The St. James Sisters
Each Christmas the five families would join together at Ethan and Mary's house, all the joyous sisters with their husbands and children in tow.
You could see Ethan at the front door, hammering in a loose nail, while Mary instructed him fretfully. She'd scurry into the house, running back with a wreath, and trying to get everything into place before her guests arrived. Amelia would sit beside the window with her nose pressed against the
glass, her satin slippers tucked beneath her and her black curls pinned up atop her head, waiting anxiously for her cousins to arrive.
Sara always arrived first, knowing Mary would need some last minute decorating and cooking to be done. While Charlie carried in the sacks of gifts, fumbling to wave to Amelia at the window without dropping a parcel or ribbon, Sara would hurry in to give her sister a hug and help chop up some carrots or light one last candle. Then you'd see the children rush out: rowdy Royston throwing a snowball at his Uncle Ethan's back, Violet joining Amelia inside beside the fire, Thomas carrying the last few boxes his father had forgotten.
After that came the Wests, always in a flurry of shouts and laughter. Nat and Michael bounded out first, desirous to be free of that cramped carriage and rumbling around in the snow. Then came Gail, never quite ready for the holidays and attempting to rewrap a few last minutes gifts before she emerged. She'd yell at the boys before rushing inside to join her sisters, carrying in a bowl of messy cookies she and Michael had baked. Then while Michael and fifteen-year-old Nat pulled out the wheelchair from the back, Ethan would hop inside the carriage and carry out Nathaniel, who thanked his brother-in-law profusely yet screamed at the boys not to damage his chair.
Brook and Emy arrived soon after, their hired hack so old its wheels were nearly falling off. Emy carried in the fig pies and apple tarts, all smiles as she greeted her sisters, before Caroline followed after with a crate of fresh vegetables. Then came Sophia, careful not to let her skirts dampen in the snow and quickly heading inside to join her cousins, followed by Brook and his sacks of and Colleen were always last, making snow angels and letting snowflakes drift onto their tongues before they entered the house.
By the time Sawyer and Nora arrived, carrying in loads of crates with all sorts of souvenirs from their latest journey, Royston, Nat, and Michael would already be engaged in a lengthy snowball fight that Raymond immediately joined. And Josephine, though giving a nod and wave to her female cousins couldn't help but join the boys. But as soon as they caught glimpses of the goodies in Sawyer's crate, carved shoes from Holland, little rag dolls from Mexico, decorated eggs from Russia, all the children would soon be rushing inside again.
One could see that they were a joyous family, to be sure, as they gathered around the fire beside the Christmas tree. Gifts were thrown across the room, shouts of gratitude exchanged, hugs received. Mary with her doctor, Sara with her professor, Nora with her diplomat, Emy with her artist, Gail with her invalid, and all the many children scattered about. They'd all overcome separate difficulties in the past, whether infidelity, refusal, superficiality, shyness, or illness, but in the end, they realized, all you need is love to help you get by.
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The End