“Please, no,” I whispered, wishing I might take away what ailed her.
“Why is Mother in bed?” Richard and Joel asked when they tumbled in from playing out-of-doors.
“She is feeling poorly. Please, be quiet! Play checkers or some other game upstairs.” I ushered them from the room and returned to sit beside Mother all the rest of the day. She continued in a fever, waking only briefly to ask for water, and twice she fell back asleep before I could hold the glass to her lips. I grew ever more concerned and sat in prayer and fear, for it was in my mind the Spirit had not finished with us. Did it mean to murder my family, one by one, before my eyes? I made an effort to cease all thoughts of my own pain and concentrate on Mother’s suffering. I prayed the Lord would care for her, body and soul. The room grew slowly dark and I did not move, but simply listened to Mother’s raspy breathing, hoping any moment she would awake, recovered. Near suppertime, I heard Drewry come in, and Richard and Joel ran immediately down the stairs to greet him.
“Mother is not well!” I heard Joel’s fear clearly in his declaration and I felt guilty having left the two of them alone all day with little explanation. I hurried to the hallway to tell Drewry myself what had happened, and I was there before he’d hung his shot bag on its peg.
“It came on her very sudden, brother. She dropped her sewing and said she wished to go to bed.” I held my hands clasped to my breast with anxiety and Drewry clearly saw my worry.
“Do not distress yourself, dear sister. Most likely she has some minor ailment, requiring simple rest.” He unshouldered his gun and turned away to hang his coat and I stood most surprised, for I had expected him to say he’d saddle his horse, though it was already dark, and ride the cursed ride to Dr. Hopson’s home.
“Drewry, I believe we must call Dr. Hopson,” I said, gripping his arm, most urgently.
“Betsy, has the Witch been here?” Drewry spoke softly to me, raising his eyebrows high, mindful of Richard and Joel beside us. I was silent, thinking how the Spirit had been on my mind, but not present.
“No, no … ’tis not the work of the Being. She has a fever.”
“What does Mother say of fever? A day to run its course, and feverfew for two.” He smiled, reciting Mother’s familiar rhyme regarding when to use the herb feverfew for treatment. “If she is not improved in the morning, I will ride for the doctor.” He cast his glance to Richard and Joel, who listened as though they were nothing but ears. Joel’s eyes were watery, and I realized Drewry would make a good father when his time came, as his voice and reason successfully reassured me and my little brothers.
“Let us eat our supper.”
Chloe had boiled turnips and made squirrel gravy to pour over the biscuits, and we took our places at the table. I was grateful Drewry led the conversation, telling an anecdote he’d heard from Dean.
“There was a slave, working for a farmer we don’t know, outside Robertson County. Someplace far away. Dean said he heard the tale from Aggie, who heard it from her cousin, who knew the wife of the slave.” His opening was intricate enough to force Joel and Richard and me to concentrate, and I suppose that was his intention. “The slave, they called him John. He stole a hog from his master, because his master had so many, he thought the shoats could not be counted, and he thought the master would not notice were there just one less. So, he caught a hog and killed it and put it in a bag and was hauling it down to where the other slaves were waiting to get the fixings for a feast when his master rode up after him, asking, ‘What you got there, John?’” Drewry made his voice momentarily gruff, a bit like Father’s had been when sussing a transgression. “The slave, he answered, ‘A possum, sir,’ for he was brave and hungry, but the master, he paid close attention to all his stock, and he had seen John make every effort to better his lot. ‘Let me see it,’ the master demanded.” I laughed at Drewry’s imitation, for he turned his mouth way down at the corners stretching his jaw in a comical way. “John had to open the bag, but when he did, he jumped back, feigning disbelief, shouting, ‘Whoa! master! It is a shoat now, but it sure was a possum a while ago when I put ’im in the sack!’ ”
Joel and Richard and I laughed at this silly story and after supper when Drewry and I went to check on Mother, I heard the boys playing a game of slave and master, with Joel pretending to act surprised there was no possum in his sack. I heard them laughing, while Drewry and I stood in Mother’s room, observing and assessing her condition.
“She is burning,” Drewry said and frowned, placing his hand across her forehead. “What did she say of fevers? The strongest folk burn hottest?” I recalled her saying so, when Joel was ill, and yet, I was uncertain again. I shook my head, close to tears with worry. Mother was the one who knew what to do with illness. She knew what tea to make, what herbs to rub against the skin. I realized I had taken her knowledge for granted, and faced with her illness I did not know how to react. I wished I had paid better attention throughout my life, so I might know the cure, but which herb was used to treat what disease was as foreign to me as how to make the shuttle fly through the loom. I felt I was a most unworthy child.
“I know not what she said of fever,” I stammered and Drewry frowned, but seemed to understand.
“I told you, sister, if she is not better by morning, I will ride to fetch the doctor.” He turned the lamp down low, but left it burning on the bedside table, in case she woke in the night.
We rose early the next morning to find Mother much worse than the day before. She was now pale with the fever and would not properly awake. While Drewry and I stood over her, deciding on a course of action, she called out in her sleep.
“Jack, Jack …”
“She is dreaming,” Drewry offered as an explanation, but she thrashed her head on the pillow and I thought it most distressing she believed Father was in the room with us.
“I think you must call for Dr. Hopson.” I squeezed Drewry’s hand and he did not argue, but left immediately, and was gone by the time the boys came down for breakfast.
“Whatever you do, be quiet today,” I told them, forgetting I wished to be nice. “Mother needs her sleep.” The tension of harboring illness in our home again descended and I watched the boys spoon Chloe’s creamed buckwheat quickly into their mouths, as if they could eat their fear.
“Shall we have a sled race, Joel?” Richard understood it was better if they were out-of-doors, and after they had finished their food I helped them put on their winter things. I wrapped their scarves tightly around their necks in the hall, but I felt I was a poor substitute for Mother.
“Will she be made well today, sister?” Joel’s knit hat slid down over his brow, and he pushed it back with a mittened fist.
“The doctor is on his way.” I did not comfort him as I should have, but I could not. I kissed his bare cheek and sent him off to play, and returned to Mother’s bedside, hoping she would wake and instruct me in the means to treat her illness.
“Jack …” His name came forth in a whisper as I crossed the threshold, and her eyelids fluttered, as if she woke.
“No, Mother, it is Betsy, here beside you. What must I do?” She did not answer but a groan and the next moment she had turned her head and lay asleep again.
The hours passed slowly, while I listened closely to her breathing. Several times she mumbled Father’s name, but did not wake, and it was near the dinner hour when I heard hoofbeats on the road and I left her to meet Dr. Hopson and Drewry at the door.
Dr. Hopson entered with his head down, so I saw first the shiny black of his top hat, before his wary eyes met mine in greeting.
“How does your mother fare, Miss Elizabeth?” He looked anxiously toward the parlor, slowly withdrawing his arms from his greatcoat. He removed his scarf and handed it to me.
“She is hot as the fire and will not properly awake.”
“Has your demon visited?” I felt he watched me too closely as I hung his things, as if I knew not how to do it.
“No,” I answered sim
ply, then added, “sir,” with respect, for despite my resentment, he was the doctor and Mother was ill and in need of his services. I saw his shoulders shiver and he hunched forward, as if he walked into a strong wind requiring fortitude as he passed over the thresholds of the parlor and the bedroom. I followed, feeling no sympathy for his trepidation. He placed his leather bag on the chair and proceeded to examine Mother in silence. He felt her head and frowned, then withdrew an instrument from his bag.
“Undo the laces of her nightdress,” he commanded, and I did as I was told, surprised to feel Mother’s chest was hot as the woodstove with a fire within. The doctor stretched his instrument from his ear to her breast, intently listening.
“She has the pleurisy,” he announced, “but the exudation of liquid in the chest cavity has not yet occurred.”
“What do you mean?” I had heard of pleurisy. Becky Porter’s Aunt Mabel had died of it.
“She may get worse, before she improves. If she improves.” The doctor lowered his glasses, and wrinkled his nose with displeasure.
“What must we do?” I was horrified to hear his prognosis.
“Have your girl prepare sugared slippery elm and mint tea, and broth, and spoon it to her mouth. Dose her every mealtime with a dropperful of this.” From his bag he pulled a tincture labeled butterfly root in his tall script.
“Is this the cure?” I turned the glass bottle over in my hand, trying not to think how it reminded me of the Spirit’s poison.
“What cure there is. It will depend on the strength of the inflammation and the strength of her lungs.”
“What will depend?” I knew I must sound as stupid as the bedpost, but I could not accept his words.
“Her improvement will depend.” He closed his bag and looked away from me, taking up Mother’s hand at the wrist. He pulled a silver watch on a chain from his vest pocket, and stood counting the beats of her racing pulse, and then he sighed. “Her improvement will depend on the strength of the inflammation in relation to the strength of her lungs.” He put the watch away, and I thought I saw pity and some regret in the gesture, so I grew most concerned.
“Mother has more strength than most!” I meant to reassure myself, as clearly he did not intend to.
“Here, she must be propped up on her pillows.” With more kindness in his tone than he had previously allotted me, Dr. Hopson showed me how to arrange Mother so she lay half sitting up. “The exudation will be less in this position.” He stepped back and sighed, as she thrashed her head violently, left and right, when we moved her.
“Jack …” she groaned.
“Good Lord, she calls for him!” Dr. Hopson turned away and busied himself closing his bag, and I thought I saw his hands tremble slightly, tightening the buckle. “I will return tomorrow,” he cast an unreadable eye on Mother, “to examine her progress.” I followed him out of the room and into the hall, where he turned to me, expecting his coat and hat. I froze, thinking he must not leave. What was I to do for Mother?
“Dose her every mealtime, with the tincture. And don’t forget the broth.” He frowned, seeming aware of my confusion. He spoke over loud, as if he meant Chloe in the kitchen to hear his repeated instructions, and I realized he thought I was incompetent. I recovered myself enough to hand him his coat, still cold from his ride to our house.
“Thank you for coming.” I did not feel polite, I was so worried, but Mother occupied my mind, insisting as she would have that I behave responsibly.
“I am a physician, Miss Elizabeth! I took an oath to treat those who are diseased.” Dr. Hopson turned his back on me, and hurried out the door.
I went to the kitchen to tell Chloe what to do, but when I got there I saw the kettle was boiling and the jars of slippery elm and mint were already on the sideboard. Chloe stood by the soup pot, plucking the last feathers from a plump chicken that had only recently lost its head.
“You heard the prescription for her care?”
“I did, and we must get the medicine inside her, for I done seen the pleurisy before, and it is a nasty ill.”
At supper, Chloe served the chicken meat with boiled hominy, and the broth was kept back to spoon to Mother. The meat was most delicious, but I was terribly distracted, for looking around the table, I had the uneasy feeling it was growing larger as its number of attendants shrank. The places once occupied by Jesse, John Jr., Mother and Father sat empty, and I was afraid every one of us would soon be absent.
“We must make Mother well!” I hit my fist down on the table, and Drewry, Joel and Richard jumped, engrossed in the silent tension of illness.
“Sister, let us take turns, and dose her through the night.” Drewry’s concern had greatly deepened after hearing the doctor’s diagnosis.
“Mother will be well again.” Richard refused to think there could be any other possible outcome to her illness.
“We must pray it will be so.” I smoothed my napkin on my skirt, looking down so he could not see my eyes.
“Why not ask the Spirit if it can heal her?” Joel suggested.
“No!” In unison Drewry and I both reprimanded him. “Call not that ungodly entity,” I warned.
“It did like Mother best,” Joel said, shrugging his shoulders at our vehemence. He returned to chewing his meat. I knew he was thinking of the time the Spirit had saved Richard from the whirlpool of quicksand and all the rest of us from the falling tree, but all I could think of was the bottle of poison on Father’s bedside table, and the voice of the Being proclaiming, Jack Bell, off to Hell and Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.
Drewry took the boys upstairs after supper, so I might have the first turn by Mother’s side. The fire hissed and sparked in the parlor and Mother’s breath came irregularly. I placed the lamp on the table, and tried my best to coax spoonfuls of butterfly root and broth down her throat, but some of it spilled down her chin and I had to wipe it away with my sleeve. I thought of when I had poured whiskey into Father’s throat. I had not known it would be his last drink. Mother’s skin still burned like fire, and her lips were the red of a tomato in summer, ripe to bursting. I thought of the times she had taken care of me as I lay ill and I refused to think on what our lives would be like without her ever-present caring and concern.
“Jack … Jack!” She twisted her neck, resisting my attempts to feed her medicine. She breathed out heavily, as if she fell more deeply asleep, and I sighed, frustrated, for she had not woken for near three days.
“Mother, it’s me, Betsy, can you hear me?” I decided I would read to her from the good book, an inspiring passage, though I knew not if she could hear.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, who made Heaven and Earth. The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade on thy right hand.” There was a sound like the flutter of bird wings under a shrub and without cold winds or noise to announce its return, the Spirit spoke in a comforting voice.
Poor Luce, poor Luce, I am so sorry you are sick.
“Please, torment us not!” I cried. “Have mercy on Mother, for ever she was good to you.” The Spirit did not reply and gave no other sign of being present, and though my fingers holding the Bible began to shake, I continued reading.
“The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve thy soul.”
Be quiet, Betsy. Let her sleep!
The Spirit admonished me in the most condescending tone, but I prevented myself from responding with anger.
“What is her fate? Can you help her?” I knew it was wrong of me to ask an evil demon favors, yet I feared with Mother in such serious condition the Spirit and its power over life and death was, as Joel had suggested, perhaps our best hope. It did not speak to me again but directed its ministrations solely to Mother.
Luce, poor Luce, I am so sorry you are sick.
“Ohhh,” Mother groaned as though she suffered greatly, “I am too ill to speak with you.” I w
as amazed to hear her voice.
That’s all right.
The Being’s tone surpassed Mother’s own in soothing tenderness.
I will be back in the morning. Rest, Luce. I promise you will feel better.
I had no reason to trust the Spirit, but its promise entered my heart and gave me hope. I felt comforted, for in all my efforts through the day, Mother had not spoken a word, yet the Being had elicited a response. Drewry arrived to relieve me and I told him all that had occurred. He listened, then put the back of his hand to her forehead.
“I believe her fever has broken.”
“Thanks be to God!” He looked into my eyes and I understood we were both aware we had the Spirit to thank, though neither of us said so.
Mother rested well through the night and in the morning she awoke showing awareness of her situation.
“Betsy, help me to my pot.” She needed my arm to assist her and hold her as she squatted. I could tell she was embarrassed to have me there, but also grateful. “I fear I am most truly unwell.” She moved slowly back to bed, leaning heavily on me, for the journey to the corner of her room exhausted her.
“Dr. Hopson came while you were sleeping yesterday. He says you have the pleurisy, but if you rest and swallow down his tinctures, you will soon recover.”
“What tincture did he leave?”
“ ’Tis butterfly root.”
“Did he leave no milkweed?”
I’ll fetch it.
The Spirit spoke like an eager child, and all of a sudden, a glass jar labeled milkweed, in Mother’s round cursive, appeared on my lap. I clutched it instinctively as it arrived so it did not fall from my knees and break open on the floor. How had it materialized? I knew not! I held up the jar and inside was the milkweed herb, already ground into a fine white powder.
All That Lives Page 33