A Bride in Store

by Melissa Jagears

  Will slid inside, gripping the handle of his medical box tighter. “Is the baby already . . . gone?”

  She shook her head. Her humming cut off abruptly. She laid the thick wad of bunting on her knees. Surely all those layers were overheating the babe. The room was positively stifling.

  He cautiously sat on the edge of the bed. “Would you like to talk, have me examine the child, or . . . ?” He took a quick glance at the babe’s face. Angel-like in sleep, deep red lips pressed firmly shut, a fall of dark lashes across healthy, fat cheeks. Beautiful for a newborn.

  With shaky hands, she untangled the mess of blankets wrapped about the infant. “I suppose you should see him.” She unlayered her son as if jostling him would disturb his slumber.

  When the last swaddling sheet still lay tucked loosely about him, she stopped and sucked in a breath. “The doctors said they don’t know what’s wrong.” Her hopeless gaze held more sadness than he’d ever seen. “Is there any way you might?”

  “Probably not.” He laid a hand atop hers.

  She snatched her hand away. The baby whimpered at the sudden movement, but quickly quieted. “He hasn’t nursed since last night, and he hasn’t cried since Dr. Forsythe forced a syringe of something into him about two hours ago, but he must be hungry.” Her crimson-rimmed eyes welled with unshed tears. She picked up the baby and held him out in front of her. “Be careful with him. I’m the reason he has a big sore on his back. I tried rubbing him to wake him enough to eat, but I didn’t know.” A sob escaped, which she quickly stifled. “I didn’t know.”

  Will wrapped his large hands lightly around the baby and set the boy on his lap though the flannel swaddling was wet through. A perfect face belied everything they were telling him. He peeled away the light blue blanket, the child resting between his legs.

  Beginning at the boy’s upper thighs, massive red sores ran down to his ankles. His lower legs hardly had enough skin to cover the bone. Several blisters bubbled on top of large areas of his skin. The baby’s little hands were balled up and shiny red. Will turned the baby gently over to assess the damage Kathleen assumed she’d caused. A small section of his skin had sheared off below his ribcage.

  However, the worst thing seemed to be the fever and other signs of infection. How could he possibly keep a child with so many wounds free from contagion?

  “Dr. Benning said he’d once seen a girl who had sores and blisters on her hands and face and other places—but not quite like this. Said she died when she was three.” Kathleen’s voice sounded hollow.

  Rolling the infant over carefully, Will examined the boy’s cherry red mouth. He coaxed the baby’s lips apart with the soft pad of his finger. The interior of his lips was redder than the outside and quite puffy. Will tickled the corner of the babe’s mouth for a few seconds, but the boy wasn’t tempted to root.

  “He’s tried to eat, but the last time he cried I could see—” Kathleen pressed her lips together hard, which pushed up more tears—“that his mouth was . . . full of sores.” She wadded a discarded blanket against her eyes and wiped harshly. A heartrending sob wrestled its way out of her chest, making it impossible for Will to keep his own eyes dry.

  With such a fragile bundle in his lap he couldn’t gather Kathleen to him. Why wasn’t Carl in here? Will laid a hand on her shoulder until her tears subsided enough that he could shift his attention back to the baby.

  He gently removed the soiled blanket from under the boy’s chapped body and exchanged it for the one his mother had christened with tears. Though certain the child breathed, Will brought the boy’s chest to his ear, the sluggish heartbeat and shallow breaths barely discernible over his mother’s repressed weeping.

  Dr. Forsythe must have administered some pain medication with the syringe Kathleen mentioned. Whatever he’d given the boy must account for his slumbering so peacefully.

  With outstretched arms, Kathleen took her son back.

  “Don’t wrap him so warmly. I’ll get something for his fever and open the windows and get some cool water on him. Wash his wounds.” He roamed about the room getting things ready, but infection, wounds both internal and external, and a baby refusing to eat . . . no wonder Dr. Forsythe had given up.

  The baby roused enough to cry nonstop while he rinsed his delicate body. Then Will ladled enough willow-bark tincture down the baby’s sore throat to hopefully ease the boy’s pain. He returned the baby to Kathleen, who held a cool cloth to his head and shushed him.

  Once the baby fell back asleep—after only nursing for a few short minutes as Will cleaned up—Kathleen stared at his little face, caressing his eyebrow with her fingertip, tears silently rolling off her cheeks in quick succession.

  Will sat down to take in the baby’s face, so precious, so fragile, nothing more than a vapor that would linger for a little while and then vanish before they even knew him.

  Kathleen let out a heavy sigh, harsh with the sound of tears clogging her throat. “What did I do wrong?”

  How could he let the same question that haunted him for years trouble her any longer? “If he’d had brown eyes instead of blue, you’d not blame yourself for producing the wrong colors. And if he were blind or lame, you’d not be at fault. Jesus once told the disciples a blind man was not born blind because of his parents’ sin or his own.”

  “But why my baby?” Her voice was barely intelligible.

  Will stared at the sleeping bundle, the face almost pristine enough to pretend nothing was wrong, then he turned to look out the small alley-side window.

  Do you have any answer for me to give her?

  A flicker of golden light raced across the windowsill before another cloud covered the sun. Nothing but the moan of relentless wind and Kathleen’s shudders filled his ears.

  “I don’t know, Kathleen.”

  She stared at the boy in her arms. “How long does he have?”

  “I don’t know that either.” No wonder Dr. Forsythe and Dr. Benning had left. How hard to have no answers. Absolutely none whatsoever. “But you should mother him every day he has left.”

  Though tears still coursed down her cheeks, she restarted her strangled lullaby.

  His presence unneeded for a while, Will rose and placed his medical box on the dresser. “I’m going to see Carl.” The man ought to be in here sitting beside his wife, spending time with his short-lived son.

  The suffocating dread that had shrouded him upon entering the apartment weighed heavier with each step he took toward his friend.

  Will sat in the rocker beside him and fiddled with his hands between his knees. Surely Dr. Forsythe had briefed him about the baby’s prognosis—and none too gently.

  Carl sighed. “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “I think I do. You ought to be in there with them.”

  “Just to watch my son die?”

  “No, to love him every second he has left. To support your wife.” Will stared out the window like Carl, afraid to look at his friend in case either of them turned teary-eyed. “You’ll regret not staring into his perfect face for however long you have him. He’s a fine-looking boy.”

  Carl only licked his lips and sniffed.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Carl. I’ll stay and pray and work to rid him of infection. If I can manage that, then maybe . . .” Maybe what? Will pressed his lips together before promising anything. He’d never seen a baby missing skin; surely that wasn’t curable. “When he gets fussy, I’ll give him something to help him endure.”

  Carl ran his thumb along the lower lid of his suddenly wet eye. After a minute of sniffing and swiping at a few traitorous tears, he stood and marched to the bedroom door.

  Once he disappeared, Will leaned back in his chair and blinked his hot eyelids, readying himself for a long night, and hours—or maybe days—of prayer ahead of him.

  First Mrs. Lightfoot, now this baby. As soon as his time with Carl and Kathleen ended, he’d start devouring every medical text he could get his hands on. No matter how long i
t took him to read each page. No matter how much the words and letters refused to cooperate. Perhaps one day he’d have enough information crammed in his head to diagnose and treat people before they died—to give hope to a family instead of affirming their despair.

  For a long time, I’ve known you wanted me to focus on caring for the sick, but I just couldn’t trust you’d help me with everything else. I’ve been focusing on providing for myself instead of relying on you to get me the education I need, and look what distrust has gotten me.

  In love with a woman he couldn’t have, drowning in a business he couldn’t manage, taken advantage of by a crook, and failing at medicine.

  He let out a sad half laugh. He’d done well looking out for himself, all right.

  But had he enough faith to put his insecurities aside and trust God to help him learn medicine? He ought to get over his pride and learn from whatever doctor was willing or just plain study more and trust God to give him enough to live on.

  He glanced at the room where Kathleen’s strangled lullaby continued, now accompanied by a grown man’s sobs, which escalated with gut-wrenching intensity.

  Deep down, was he simply afraid God would require more from him than he was willing to surrender?

  Could he deal with sorrow this deep his entire life? Choose a profession that would bar the woman he loved from his future? Move to a town where he’d have no family to comfort him after shouldering someone else’s unbearable suffering?

  A crowd ten times larger than the five who’d come to Irena’s funeral gathered in front of the newest little grave in the corner of Salt Flatts’ cemetery. Eliza held a handful of wild flowers and joined the men lining up to ceremoniously cover the child.

  Kathleen, unable to staunch her crying, had left with Gretchen and Junior the minute her husband shoveled the first pile of dirt upon the small coffin. Carl stood stoically by the tiny hole as men took turns quietly laying more dirt upon the simple casket, then the shopkeeper shuffled away without saying a word.

  After tossing her small handful of flowers upon the unnamed baby, she stepped back. The world swam as she attempted to maneuver over the uneven ground. Someone grabbed her upper arm; his smell and reassuring squeeze told her instantly who kept her from stumbling.

  If only she could turn and bury herself in Will’s arms. But she hadn’t that right, and now that she owned Irena’s stores, the only way they could be together was if Will worked for her—something she wouldn’t ask him to do, not after watching him with the Hampdens this last week. She wouldn’t hinder him from going to school whenever that opportunity arose so he could become the doctor he needed to be.

  Will’s hands disappeared from her arm, the hot summer breeze frigid against the skin he’d left bereft. She rubbed her arms and turned to see him fidgeting beside her.

  What could he say? What could she say? Their sorrow was nothing like the Hampdens’, and yet it was so deep she couldn’t voice anything worthwhile.

  Will touched her lightly on the shoulder, and his hand ran down her arm for an instant before he turned to head back toward the row of chairs where his entire family sat. Even little Nettie. Though death happened so often, should his little sisters be in attendance? Did they need to know God had chosen not to save a baby despite many, many prayers? That He allowed such misery?

  Rachel beckoned to her, and her feet shuffled forward.

  The moment she sat, the older woman’s arm curled around her shoulders. Rachel’s squeeze conveyed the same message as her son’s solid grip—genuine concern for her. Not for themselves, but her.

  After her mother left and her father died—what she wanted, where she’d go, what she’d do had been all she thought about. Had she ever truly focused on someone else until this terrible past week?

  Reverend Finch scanned the crowd that remained, all silent except for the random bouts of sniffling. What on earth could he say that would do any good?

  He cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  The sniffling around Eliza turned into grim silence despite a pair of birds twittering happily in the branches of a nearby catalpa tree. Its sun-warmed white blooms covered the mourners with a thick floral perfume. Oh, why did the sky have to be terribly cheery blue? Eliza pulled another dry handkerchief from her pocket and wrung it in her hands.

  Reverend Finch opened his Bible and stared at a page. His mouth opened silently a time or two before he cleared his throat again. “Today, let us not focus on this child’s suffering, but rejoice that it has ended. Our lives cannot compare to what the child is now enjoying in the presence of God. So if you aren’t longing for the time you too may leave this world and join him, let the words of Matthew stir you to have more sorrow at your own plight than this babe’s.

  “‘Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul: but rather fear him which is able to destroy both soul and body in hell.’

  “As I stare at this tiny grave, the word unfair echoes through my mind. Unfair. Utterly unfair. I want to cry out for justice for this innocent. But then I think of myself and I crave injustice because I don’t want God to punish me for what I know I’ve done wrong. I want to be with this innocent child in heaven though I am far from blameless.”

  The pastor picked up a handful of dirt. “Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’ God loved us enough to let Jesus pay for our sins so He can remain just and fair in allowing us to follow this innocent babe into heaven if we trust in Him.” He let the dirt crumble between his fingers and drop into the tiny hole. “Each of you still have today to decide whether or not you’ll meet this babe in glory—Christ is your only hope.”

  Without a closing prayer or another word, the pastor walked through the crowd touching shoulders, then departed with his wife on his arm. One by one, people stood to leave in silence.

  The Stantons each gave Eliza a reassuring touch as they passed by, but she couldn’t leave without praying her heart out. It didn’t matter that she’d prayed all night—all week, really. Her tears flowed as she beseeched God. To aid Kathleen in finding the strength to mother two children while grieving her newborn’s death. To help Carl continue running his business and caring for his wife while in mourning. To keep the town from turning their backs on God because He hadn’t saved a defenseless child. And to bolster her fledgling selflessness as she attempted to perceive people’s needs and fulfill them like Will did.

  With no more words left in her heart, she looked up to find every makeshift bench empty.

  Will took a seat beside her. “Can we see you home?”

  “I thought everyone had gone.” She looked over her shoulder. Will’s family stood quietly around their wagon. “I didn’t mean to keep you. Surely the children are antsy to leave.”

  “They’re all right, and Nettie didn’t want to leave you alone.”

  “You’ve got very special sisters.”

  He nodded, but his eyes didn’t hold the same gleam they usually did when he talked about his siblings.

  Nettie wriggled out of her ma’s hold and toddled toward them, her peculiar walk pronounced in her rush to get to them. She climbed into Will’s lap. “Why you and her so sad? The baby wif God.”

  Will slowly exhaled. “I am happy about that, but I’m still very, very sad.”

  “Watch me.” She slipped out of his arms and with her hands extended, Nettie took one firm step devoid of her usual stagger, then another. She turned, and with heels firmly planted on the ground, took several more steps, her awkward gait hardly noticeable. “Did my walking good make you happy?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, and the second Nettie came within arm’s reach, he smashed his sister against himself in a fierce hug. “It sure does, sugar.” His low, hoarse voice made Eliza feel like an intruder, so she rose silently and headed to the others.

  At the wagon, she hugged Rachel and the other two girls. “Thanks for waiting, but there’s no need to inconvenien
ce yourselves for me.”

  “At least let Will walk you home.” Rachel’s commanding voice indicated she wasn’t asking.

  She’d not even attempt to disobey. “Of course.” Though her tears weren’t yet dry, she managed a smile.

  Walking away from the wagon to allow Will to say good-bye to his family, she leaned against the cemetery’s stone wall and stared at Irena’s grave shadowed by a solitary cedar.

  The tears she’d thought she’d spent rose up again.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t have done better by her.” Will hitched a leg on the wall, his gaze lost somewhere on the horizon. “By either one, actually.”

  “Nonsense.” Eliza fished out her last handkerchief and dabbed at her wet cheeks.

  “So you don’t blame me for thinking Irena was simply melancholic rather than about to die?”

  “Don’t make me say nonsense again.” She pulled herself to sit atop the wall and waved at his little sisters as they went by. “Do you blame me? I could’ve attended her better, been there when she passed away, possibly gotten help in time to keep her alive.”

  He slouched against the wall, his hands in his pockets, staring at the grass at his feet.

  “But it seems you blame you.”

  He remained silent.

  “You’re not God, you know.”

  “Obviously not. I can’t foresee death or diagnose what’s wrong with a baby, let alone save anybody.”

  “Didn’t Dr. Forsythe say training your sister to walk on her heels was a waste of time?”

  The happy look he’d given his little sister after she showed off her walking didn’t reappear. “Nettie wouldn’t need help if I hadn’t been the one to deliver her.”

  “Or she might be dead if you hadn’t delivered her. I’m sure every doctor has to deal with death and sorrow regularly like you’ve done the past two weeks. And what doctor would’ve bothered with your little sister’s walk? But you helped her without having one of those fancy degrees.” She nodded emphatically, as if the harder she moved her head the more he’d believe her—and the less painful it would be to tell him what they both already knew. “You should be a doctor, a practicing doctor.”