The Edge of Mercy

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  I grabbed some paper towels from their holder on the wall and stepped toward him, putting his cereal on his tray. “Hi, Mr. Caron. I’m Sarah.”

  He eyed me as I stooped to clean up the milky mess on the floor before tossing the towels into the trash.

  “I’d love to help you with your breakfast if you’d like.”

  “Fine,” he mumbled after a moment.

  I held up a small bottle of apple juice. “Would you like some?”

  Mr. Caron nodded. “She thinks I’m deaf, you know. I can still hear fine out of one ear.” One side of the older man’s mouth drooped, and it took some effort to understand what he said.

  “Well, I’m glad you told me.” I twisted open the juice and poured it into the cup on his tray. “Should I sit?” I gestured to the empty space on the side of his bed.

  “Yeah. Good of you to ask. They usually just do it.”

  I scooped a small spoonful of Cheerios into the spoon, and careful not to spill the milk, I raised it to his lips. He opened his mouth and chewed on his left side. Some soggy Os fell from the other side of his mouth and I wiped them up with a napkin. By the time he was done with the one spoonful, the rest of his Cheerios sat in a mushy heap in his bowl.

  Sunlight streamed onto the white blanket of Mr. Caron’s bed. I remembered the beautiful quilt on Barb’s bed with the picture of the Indian. Nétop. Would Elizabeth see him again? And was he truly who I suspected him to be? Barb’s legend . . . alive?

  “Are you expecting any visitors today, Mr. Caron?”

  A long silence. “My wife is supposed to come by later.”

  “That’s nice.” I lifted the juice to his mouth, and Mr. Caron slurped down a wobbly sip, then swallowed.

  I turned back to the Cheerios when an unintelligible sound came forth from the man. I looked up, thought I might see him crying. I pondered whether to pat his arm or ignore it. Maybe I should coax him to take another bite.

  From behind the curtain beside us, a man spoke to the other patient in the room. Perhaps a doctor or nurse. I hoped Mr. Caron wouldn’t burst forth in a show of emotion that might interrupt any exam being done.

  But instead of tears, words came out, slurred. “Hate for her to see me like this, not able to care for myself, having to be fed like a baby. Can’t even take care of my bathroom needs.” Shame shrouded his words and pity erupted in my belly. What could I do to help this man? I felt confident in taking care of a patients’ physical needs, but emotional? I could barely take care of my own these days.

  “I’m sure your wife loves you,” I said, though in truth I hadn’t the faintest clue if being classified as a spouse meant you were in love. I’d been sure Matt had loved me up until last week. Now . . . well, I hadn’t talked to him in days.

  “She does . . . sweetest thing ever walked this earth.”

  “Then she’s not about to be bothered by you needing a little help, is she?”

  “Still humiliating.”

  I lifted another bite to Mr. Caron’s mouth, but he didn’t open. “How did you and your wife meet?” I figured if I could get Mr. Caron’s mind off his current circumstances, it would improve his mood and his appetite.

  His mouth loosened. “I used to be a firefighter. Got burned bad one run. Eileen was a nurse at the hospital—not this one, we were in New York at the time. My leg was burnt something awful, couldn’t walk for weeks, but I sure had the prettiest nurse taking care of me.”

  I was about to point out that since his wife fell in love with him while she nursed him, she certainly wouldn’t mind doing so now, but I didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts. Mr. Caron talked for some time. I couldn’t always understand his slurred words between mouthfuls of cereal, but I listened until he was done.

  When he finished his story and his cereal, he rested back on his pillow. “You’re good,” he said. “Stay like that. Don’t get too busy.”

  I wiped the dribbled milk from his chin with a rough napkin, thankful I hadn’t passed on the task to a CNA. “I’ll remember that.” I moved the tray to the side for food services to get later. “Get some rest. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit. Maybe I’ll get to meet Eileen.”

  The good side of his mouth lifted and I walked toward the door. The other patient’s curtain rustled and Pete emerged.

  My face warmed. I hoped he hadn’t heard everything, and if he did, I hoped he thought I handled the situation well. More than likely, he believed me to be a sentimental nonprofessional who hadn’t a clue about medical care.

  “Hey, Sarah. I heard about your neighbor. So sorry about that.”

  “Uh, thank you.” He must have heard one of the other nurses talking about my absence, though truthfully, most of the doctors that came through the ward didn’t pay too much attention. They were in and out, usually happy to be back at their offices. “She was . . . old.”

  He made a sound of acknowledgment as we walked toward the nurses’ station. “How’d your crazy news turn out?”

  “My crazy news . . . oh, right from the other day.” I shook my head. “Wow, if you remember what your patients tell you half as well, you must be a great doctor.”

  He smiled, dimples tightening his face, stethoscope hanging loosely at his neck. I realized then how handsome he was, and suddenly I wondered whether I’d been inadvertently flirting. I’d never felt quite so insecure around another man, mostly because I had always been secure in the fact that I belonged to Matt. But now . . . did I belong to Matt?

  I forced the thoughts aside. Of course I did—I was his wife.

  “My news was . . . crazy, but it’s all good. Thanks for asking.”

  He stopped outside a room, his green gaze landing on me. “Well, nice seeing you again. And not that it matters what I think, but I’d say Mr. Caron’s pretty lucky to have you as his nurse.” He winked, and then ducked into the room, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.

  Pretty lucky to have you.

  There were so many wrong things about our awkward conversation, and at the same time, something about the man’s presence intrigued me. His compliment swirled as smooth as homemade ice cream in my belly. It had been a long time since someone acknowledged me for doing something well. While I knew I was a competent nurse, the praise didn’t often come, and truth be told, I didn’t need it. But at this vulnerable time in my life, when I was questioning my ability to be a good wife, a good mother, a good neighbor, a good person . . . well, the compliment seemed to be a sort of lifeline. Pathetic, maybe, but I didn’t care. Someone thought I was good at something.

  That would have to be enough for today.

  I sipped my iced coffee, creamy and rich as it slid down my throat. As I’d done since returning to work each day, I left the hospital to go directly over to Barb’s. There, I played soft music inspired by the original inhabitants of North America. It was something Barb played often, and with the light flute sounds and beating drums wafting along the breezes of the open window, I’d almost felt like my friend was with me.

  I went around the rooms, taking inventory of Barb’s possessions, trying to decide on the benefits of an estate sale. In the end, I was overwhelmed by the task and closed the windows, turned off the music, and crossed the wooded trail to my own home, where I settled into a seat on the patio.

  Since the museum closed at four-thirty every day, I had to wait until tomorrow—Saturday—to continue with Elizabeth’s story.

  I leaned back and rested my head against the patio chair, savoring the pungent scent of new mulch weaving through the air in pleasant bursts. Warm sunshine caressed my arms, but the wind licked any intensity away. Above me, casting slants of shade across the cobbled patio, was the pergola Matt built. In one corner of the terrace sat a massive stone fireplace. We’d used it often to entertain guests. When we had it built, I imagined Matt and me cozy on the patio at nights—alone—but in reality we barely started the fire for ourselves. Instead, we saved it for entertainment, usually for people Matt knew through work, people I perfor
med for, people who somehow made me feel a prisoner in my own home.

  I allowed my gaze to travel over the lawn. The patio gave way to trimmed, vibrant green grass, interrupted only by several islands of richly-mulched landscaping. Soon a veritable sea of lilies and hydrangeas would color the lawn. A stone wall, too perfect to be anything but professional, boxed in the gardens, keeping the flawless landscape safe from the wild woods beyond.

  The untamed forest outside the wall filled in this time of year, the faint emptiness of a trail etched through the woods. Louis and Greg, Matt’s two employees who usually took care of our lawn, dumped the lawn refuse back there. All the weeds and grass and plant clippings got left beyond the stone wall, where no one could see it.

  My stomach grumbled. I should go in and fix myself a sandwich. With no one to make supper for and with my additional hours at the hospital, I ate less than usual. My pants already hung looser on my already slim waist and I’d needed to tighten my bra that morning.

  From within the house, the phone rang. I dragged myself off the chair and retrieved it, not looking at the caller ID but answering as I went back out to the patio.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.”

  My breath hitched, loud enough for Matt to hear over the line.

  “Hey.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Okay.” I sounded like I really meant it. Did I? Was I okay? “How’s Kyle doing?”

  “He’s good. Bone tired, but good. He wants to talk to you before I hang up.”

  “What are you guys up to tonight?” I tried to pretend a normal conversation, one where I wasn’t hurt that I was left out of their plans.

  “Ordering in, probably going to bed early. The sun whipped us today, but we got some good progress in on the Waterman mansion.”

  “Good.”

  “Yeah . . . good. Hey, I called the guy to fix the clock. Turns out he’s not in business anymore. I’ll keep looking for someone, though.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  “You will?”

  I dragged in a breath. “I think I’m capable of at least that.”

  “Sure you are. Sure. Listen, I’m putting together the employee dinner and I wanted to let you know the date.”

  My thoughts kicked into high gear. I hugged the phone to my shoulder. Every summer Matt held an elaborate dinner at The Red Parrot in Newport for his employees. I’d gone to every one. But now? He didn’t want to live with me; why did he want me at the dinner?

  “I didn’t think . . . You want me there?”

  “Course I do. Everyone would miss you if you didn’t come.”

  Everyone. I wondered if that included him.

  Then I knew. I knew why he wanted me there and the realization sent bitter bile up my throat.

  “You don’t want anyone to know, do you?”

  “Know what?”

  “That we’re separated.”

  “A break, Sarah. We’re still married.”

  “But you have to keep up appearances, isn’t that right?” I knew Matt. He cared what people thought, especially people who helped him look good, people who made him successful. I was like one of the dried hydrangea flowers from last year, thrown into the back woods for no one to see. For Matt not to see. Now though, he wanted to graft me back in, fix things up to look nice when in reality there was only brittle brown death in its place.

  But life didn’t coexist with death. It didn’t work that way. Beautiful flowers required hard work and sweat. Matt would put the necessary labor into his flowers, into his lawns, into his wealthy clients, but when it came to our marriage, he didn’t want work. He just wanted a flower that looked good—whether or not disease riddled its insides.

  “I would like you there. Please, Sarah.”

  Why did we live like strangers then?

  “When is it?”

  “Next week. Last Friday in June.”

  Friday. With my new schedule, I had committed one night every two weeks to the hospital. That was it. “I can’t.”

  “You can’t. Why not?”

  “I have to work.” I held my breath, knowing what would come next.

  “Since when do you work Friday nights?”

  “I took on more hours at the hospital.”

  Silence. I felt Matt’s heated breath over the phone, assuring me that somehow, someway, he still cared. He cared what I did.

  “How come?”

  “What else do you want me to do with myself?” At the same time that I pretended I didn’t have enough to accomplish with Barb’s request and property, I also wanted to tell him that I liked working at the hospital more. I even thought to bait him and throw out the plan to continue my schooling just to see how he’d react.

  “I like my job,” I said. It was too lonely at home, too lonely at Barb’s. The museum wasn’t open late enough for me to visit.

  I thought of how Jen made me and some of the other nurses laugh so hard we’d joked that we would need to swipe some Depends from the cart today. How Mr. Caron’s wife had come to bring him home yesterday and had brought me flowers to show her appreciation for my help. How Pete had wished me a good weekend before he’d left for the day, jokingly asked if I’d had any more crazy news, then studied me with those sincere green eyes as he’d said good-bye.

  “So when were you going to tell me all this?”

  “All . . .”

  “That you switched your shifts?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Matt, maybe over dinner one night . . . wait, wait that doesn’t happen anymore. Maybe before bed then, or over coffee in the morning . . . wait, that doesn’t happen anymore either, does it?”

  “Sarah.”

  I’d made my point and stopped myself from giving a fake apology.

  Silence clung to the phone before he expelled a long breath. “Fine, if you can’t get it off from work—”

  “I can’t. I just committed to it. I don’t want to ask for time off already.” Really, I simply didn’t want to go to the party.

  “I’ll make it on a Saturday night, then. Last Saturday in June. That okay for your schedule?”

  “That will be fine. I’ll pencil you in.” I put a trace of humor in my voice to let him know I wasn’t holding any grudges. Over this, anyway.

  “Gee thanks. Okay then, I’ll put Kyle on.”

  “Good night.”

  But he was already calling for Kyle.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hi, kiddo. Working hard, huh?” I put my bare feet on the patio table.

  “Am I ever. Planted about fifty hydrangea bushes today. Dad’s a slave driver, man.”

  I laughed. “Ready to come home, then?” I shouldn’t have said that. “Sorry.”

  I sensed Kyle walking, maybe leaving Matt’s presence. “It’s okay, Mom. We haven’t talked much about you guys, but I will work on him for you, like I said.”

  “It’s not your job, honey. You just worry about working and having fun with your dad, okay? I don’t need any reports or pep talks. It used to be my job to take care of you, remember?”

  He snorted. “Okay . . . you have fun too—not too much fun though, right? Be careful around Aunt Essie.”

  I laughed. “I’m working too much to have girl-time over here.” I told him about cleaning out Barb’s house and my new hours.

  “Make sure you drink plenty of water in this heat,” I said.

  “I will. I’ll remember to wash my armpits and bellybutton, too.”

  “Wise guy.”

  We said our good nights and hung up. I sat on the patio for a few more minutes, thinking about my conversation with my husband. Maybe I’d buy a new dress for Matt’s dinner, something pretty that he’d appreciate.

  I rubbed my face, grabbed my phone, and went into the kitchen. A new dress might be a waste of money. It would take more than an article of clothing to fix my marriage.

  It would take a miracle.

  Chapter 11

  April 3, 1675

/>   Andia called on me today. I had just thrust my hand into the oven to make certain the cooking fire was hot enough for the loaves I was to bake when she called to me from outside the door. I near singed my apron on the flames, so filled with glee was I to hear her voice.

  I bid her come in and take some tea with me while the loaves baked. I was grateful Papa had gone to the millers for flour and to the tavern for news. We enjoyed the smell of the baking loaves and our hot drinks as I questioned Andia about married life. She said Hezekiah was kind and she much enjoyed their time together. She said she found working with him on his homestead most satisfying.

  “And what of sharing his bed?” I asked.

  “Elizabeth,” she scolded. “You are too bold.”

  I told her she had a mother to prepare her for what to expect in the marriage bed, whilst I had no one but Goodwife Howland, and I could not think to question her on such a matter.

  She sighed. “‘Tis true, I suppose. Forgive me.”

  We sat in silence for the briefest of moments, as if to remember my mother’s soul, borne away to heaven in the birthing room seventeen years ago the next day of my birth.

  “I shan’t be so indecent as to tell all, but I will say Hezekiah is a patient and gentle man, and that I have come to find—” Andia’s face reddened—“comfort and even pleasure in his arms.”

  I did not further tempt the boundaries of our friendship by asking more.

  “And what of you? Hezekiah tells me Mr. Tanner has spoken to your Papa about a courtship.”

  I stood to add a piece of wood to the cooking fire. “’Tis true, though I shan’t see how I could ever care for the man.”

  “Whyever not?”

  I couldn’t voice my thoughts, even to Andia. I couldn’t explain how the thought of being a farmer’s wife felt like confinement. Shouldn’t life have some greater purpose than spinning thread and churning cheese? I knew if I told her these things, she would declare me mad, and perhaps I am. For what young woman longs for anything more than security and the love of a caring husband?