The Edge of Mercy

by Heidi Chiavaroli

  He ran his hand beneath my hair and ever so gently—so I did not think that the others noticed—he slipped something rough beneath the collar of my shirt. He pressed it tenderly against my skin.

  In a louder voice, for his guard to hear, he said, “I will be back to offer more.” He kissed me on the cheek.

  And then he was gone.

  I told my mistress I would be gone but a moment to relieve myself. When I was alone in the woods, I slipped the rough paper from my collar and unfolded it.

  Make for the isolation tent.

  Run north when the moon is directly above.

  I will be waiting.

  My head pounded as I read his words. When I had written them on my heart, I dug a hole in the ground with my fingers and tucked the words inside, so as not to be found.

  When I returned to my master’s wigwam, I told my mistress that my course was upon me. Soon after, I took up residence with six native women in the isolation tent.

  July 29, 1675

  Evening

  Word has come from Philip that we must prepare to leave this place for another. We will begin our journey tomorrow and I can only pray I will not still be among the enemy.

  There is much distraction among the camp as they prepare to go northwest to the land of the Narragansett. The English must be pressing in for the natives to want sudden escape. I know their men will be drunk on feasts and dancing and worshiping their gods tonight.

  ’Tis a good night to prepare for Caleb’s plan. I only must sneak by the six other women in the tent. The Lord be with me.

  Chapter 28

  Mariah let out a low whistle when she entered my house for the first time. “Geez, girl. Your ex left you with all this? Wish mine was so generous.” Apparently telling Essie about my impending divorce meant half of Bristol County also knew of it.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, generous. But he’s not my ex. We’re not divorced.” I led her to the back patio, where Essie, Katie, and Jen sat sipping champagne. It was Essie’s idea to invite them. Pete had asked me to go to a fair with him tonight, but I resisted. Two date nights in a row was too much. Having the girls over gave me a perfect excuse to politely turn down Pete’s offer.

  Flames crackled in the fireplace, keeping away mosquitoes. The mid-August nights held a chill to them, promising days of apple picking and pumpkins and fall foliage. The kitchen timer beeped and Essie joined me in the kitchen to fetch the stuffed mushrooms and potato skins from the oven.

  “This isn’t too much for you, is it?” Essie asked as she placed the mushrooms onto a serving platter.

  “It’s nice, actually. Things have been lonely around here, even with Kyle home.”

  “You sign that petition yet?”

  “Not talking about that tonight.”

  “Got it.” She tapped her hand on a freshly printed stack of papers—Elizabeth’s story that I’d transcribed so far—before grabbing up a platter of mushrooms in one hand and a set of plates in the other. I followed her outside.

  “Whatever happened with your neighbor?” Jen gestured to Barb’s property before serving herself a mushroom. “Have you gotten in touch with her daughter?”

  I’d confided in Jen on a break at work one day, weeks earlier. We hadn’t talked of Barb since.

  “No. I’m actually working on it.”

  “And spending every spare second you have doing it,” Essie said.

  I rolled my eyes, thinking I should clarify. “Barb left me a letter in her will requesting I find her daughter and give her the story of one of her ancestors. I’ve been transcribing it from a museum in Plymouth.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.” Katie wiped her mouth with a napkin, then tucked it under her plate so the wind wouldn’t blow it away.

  “It is, but it’s interesting, too.” I swallowed, not sure how much to share with them, but feeling the sudden need to open up to these women, to feel understood. “Barb thought there was something there worthwhile. I spent the entire day working on it and I’m nearing the end. I think I’m getting a glimpse what it might be.”

  Essie raised an eyebrow. “And . . . ?”

  I inhaled a deep breath. “It’s about finding hope when we’re at our weakest. About the power of God’s love, and our potential to love one another.”

  The table grew quiet and I wondered if Essie regretted inviting everyone here. My sister sipped her wine. “Wow, Sarah. That’s . . . deep.”

  I wished I hadn’t shared my discovery. Reading Elizabeth’s journal that afternoon had given me something. That Elizabeth’s history of suffering centered on the rock where I’d lost my wedding rings felt . . . supernatural. And as I read of her journey and her heart change, I had felt mine doing so also. For the first time, I didn’t feel angry at Matt—I felt sorry for him. For the first time since the divorce petition arrived, I’d felt that it was all a definite mistake. That love—maybe even if it was just my love—might just be enough to get us through this mess.

  But now, looking around at the blank stares of my friends, I wondered if I hadn’t just been caught up in an old story.

  Jen tucked her foot beneath her. “I think that’s neat—and I think you’re right, though yeah, we don’t go talking about it enough. What about the patients at the hospital? The ones that feel hope and love thrive. The ones that wallow in despair don’t.”

  “But what about when someone can’t just up and choose hope, or choose love? What about when the strength just isn’t there?” Mariah said.

  I nodded. “I was wondering the same thing. And I think that . . . maybe that’s when we need someone else to step in for us.” Elizabeth saw God as the one doing that for her. Then Caleb. Deep down, it’s what I desired to do for me and Matt.

  “Time to break out the Ouija board, then,” Essie said.

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m serious, Sarah. You could contact Elizabeth’s spirit.”

  “Essie, I don’t play around with that stuff.”

  “Why not, because Mom and Dad say it’s against their precious Bible? For goodness sakes, think for yourself for once, would you, Sis?”

  “I am thinking for myself. And the answer’s no.”

  But her words poked at my heart. Think for yourself for once. My own soul-searching was long overdue. What did I believe? How could I wade through life’s difficulties without knowing how to gauge the world, my life, and eternity?

  “Okay, change of subject,” Mariah said, holding her left hand over the table. A glittering rock reflected the light of the tiki torches. “Rick proposed last night.”

  Essie and Katie gave the proper squeals. Somehow I had trouble scrounging up joy for her, but I smiled and gave my congratulations.

  Mariah leaned back and held her hand out to admire. “Yeah, I’m hoping second time’s a charm.”

  Mariah’s second chance.

  Above the excited squeals, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I went indoors and dug it out.

  Matt.

  What could he want . . . unless . . .

  “Hello?”

  “Sarah.” His voice was strained, heavy.

  “Matt, what is it? What’s wrong?” My pulse hammered against my temples, and I put my hand on the breakfast bar alongside Elizabeth’s journal to steady myself. There was only one reason he’d call at almost ten o’clock on a Saturday night.

  “It’s Kyle.” Muffled sounds in the phone, like sniffling or crying.

  Thoughts of fixing me and Matt with my love alone drained from my being. All I could think about was the terror behind the phone. All I could think about was the most precious person in my life—my son. “Tell me!” I yelled. Outside, I was barely aware of my friends’ sudden silence, of the fuzziness consuming my brain.

  “He was on the motorcycle—Sarah, he was in an accident.”

  My world fell. I gripped the cold granite countertop, reaching for something dependable and solid. Everything I’d been agonizing over—the journal, Elizabeth, Pete, even my marriage, f
ell away. Nothing mattered, nothing except getting to my baby.

  “Where is he?”

  “They’re flying him to Boston. Mass General. I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter 29

  Life is fragile. But we don’t live like it is. We don’t walk around day to day, cognizant of the fact that this could be the day. This could be the day it all ends. We don’t approach life with a label that says Fragile, Handle with Care.

  But we should.

  Because that’s what it is. Tenuous. Unstable. As delicate as a butterfly’s wings and, in the life of my son, one hundred times more beautiful.

  I placed my hand on Kyle’s limp one and squeezed. The whirring of the mechanical ventilator and the steady beep of the vital monitor sounded through Mass General’s intensive care unit. The scent of medicines and astringents and Lysol and latex gloves—smells I usually found comfort in—unnerved me.

  Kyle had spent the night away from us, the doctors casting bones and running blood tests, CT scans, MRIs, EEGs, X-rays and probably about a million other tests. Now, he lay in a bed, an IV drip and a bag of blood beside him, his head bandaged and his battered eyes closed, a breathing tube down his throat. Everything I’d learned in nursing failed me. Words came and went, each making me more and more frightened. Head trauma. Skull fracture. Swelling in brain. Coma—one the doctors had not induced.

  They couldn’t tell us if Kyle would wake.

  Ever.

  I’d cried all my tears. My world was shattered. Nothing mattered except for the fragile body of my son beside me.

  Across from me, Matt ran a hand over his own bloodshot eyes and stood, exiting the room. I hadn’t been much aware of his presence through the night. He hadn’t touched me or tried to comfort, which I was more than okay with.

  Now, I was left alone, just me and Kyle and no lifeline except my anger.

  A need to blame. And a need for answers.

  I squeezed Kyle’s hand one more time and told him I’d be back soon.

  I left the room and made a couple of turns into the long hallway, the walls closing in on me. A window at the end showed bright sunlight outside. Shouldn’t it still be dark? Shouldn’t the sun and moon cease their everyday jobs until Kyle was awake and well?

  I made one more turn and saw Essie sitting hunched in a cushioned chair. A scattering of people occupied various seats in the waiting room. Quiet grief cloaked the room. All of us—strangers though we were—bound in a state of purgatory, where life could go neither backward nor forward.

  Matt stood slouched at one of the vending machines. I walked toward him, solely aware of my fuzzy world and the anchor that was my anger.

  Something dropped inside the machine and Matt stooped to pick out a water. He straightened as I approached and held out the water to me. “Thought you’d be thirsty.”

  I didn’t take it.

  “What was he doing on that bike?” I whispered the words—hot, sharp, lethal daggers targeted at the man before me.

  He didn’t answer. His hand hung suspended in the air, the water still held out to me.

  I slapped it from his hands. It flew past him, landing on the laminate floor and spinning in crazy circles.

  “What was he doing on that bike!” This time my words were loud, uncontrolled. I felt the others in the room staring at me. I didn’t care.

  “Sarah . . .” Essie’s voice from behind. I ignored it.

  “I didn’t know he took it, Sarah.”

  “Where were you? You were supposed to spend the weekend with him! Where were you?”

  Again he didn’t answer, but his silence spoke louder than any words could.

  I lunged.

  My fists found his chest, his face, anything I could reach. I clawed, I hit, I would have bitten if I’d thought to.

  He stood there, taking it. When he backed up a couple of steps, he straightened again, letting me pummel him over and over. I felt Essie’s arms trying to calm me, but my anger was no match for them. When my energy was spent, I erupted into sobs. My hits became weak. Matt clung to me tightly, and I leaned my head into him, letting my tears wet his shirt. With a defeated hand, I pounded at his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m so, so sorry.”

  But sorry wouldn’t make any of this better.

  I shoved him away. “Go.”

  “What?”

  “Go! Kyle and I don’t need you. Go!”

  “I’m still his—”

  I pointed an accusing finger at him. “You caused this. You started it a long time ago, but we’re here because of you. I hate you—hear me? I hate you! Leave. Just leave.” I collapsed onto the floor, my eyes burning with more tears.

  Essie’s arms came around me. She led me to a chair, smoothed my hair, made shushing noises to me as if I were a small child. I sobbed in her arms until I fell asleep.

  When I woke, Matt was gone.

  Mom and Daddy and Lorna were both at the hospital by ten. Kyle’s grandparents took turns visiting him, then set up camp in the waiting area. Pete texted me three times and called once. I didn’t return either his texts or his calls. What was there to say?

  I sat by the hospital bed, holding my son’s hand, talking to him in soft tones. I studied his bruised and swollen face—nearly unrecognizable to me—for signs of life. I prayed out loud, not caring who heard, my words often little more than babble. Eventually I clung to one simple prayer, over and over again.

  God, help.

  A doctor I didn’t recognize came in later in the afternoon, told me they wouldn’t know anything for a couple more days. It all depended on the amount of swelling, and if that swelling would accompany permanent—or even deadly—damage. He encouraged me to keep speaking to Kyle, to let him know I was here.

  So I did. I spoke to him about anything and everything, taking breaks only to use the bathroom or sip some water. I prayed my two-word prayer with him, over and over. I relived stories of his boyhood, of our special times together at the beach or playing in the sandbox in the backyard. I retold the time he broke the living room window with a baseball. The time we ran our first 5K together when he was only in second grade, how he’d whipped my behind even then.

  Always, always, I left Matt out of the stories.

  I knew Kyle must have been mad at Matt when he took the bike. The blatant act of going against his father—and the law—was a cry for attention.

  I still couldn’t think of Matt without immense anger bubbling to the surface. Why hadn’t Kyle’s own father been able to see the signs? Why had he been so blind? How could he have been so incredibly selfish?

  At suppertime, Essie brought me a bowl of chicken soup, which she coaxed me to eat. I forced it down, but it sat heavy in my stomach.

  “I’m going to go home and shower,” she said. “I’ll stop by the house and grab you a few things, okay? I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  I thanked her and returned to my conversation with Kyle, which had mushroomed into over-exhausted gibberish.

  I sensed a tall form at the door and lifted my head. I hadn’t expected my reaction to seeing Pete. More tears. I held out my hand to him and his arms came around me. I melted into them, sobbing, shaking my head, telling Pete he shouldn’t have made the drive, he shouldn’t have come.

  “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No. I want all this to be a nightmare.”

  A doctor came in to give us another update and this time I took comfort in Pete beside me, asking questions I hadn’t thought to ask, hadn’t known to ask. He gave off an air of authority while not taking his hand from my shoulder. I leaned into him when he asked the doctor what Kyle’s GCS number was.

  He seemed disappointed when the doctor told him four.

  “What’s that? That number?”

  The doctor and Pete exchanged a look.

  “It’s a number that lets us know how deep the coma is,” Pete said.

  I didn’t ask what the lowest number was—from Pete’s reaction, four was low enough. The do
ctor said it was a matter of time, of seeing if the swelling in the brain reduced . . . or not. They’d continue with the CT scans to monitor.

  We were just finishing with the doctor when Matt came in. I watched his gaze travel first over Kyle, then to the doctor, then finally to me and Pete. His eyes landed on Pete’s hand on my shoulder.

  “How is he?”

  The doctor gave a summary of all he’d just told Pete and me, then left with a promise to be back in the morning.

  The silence in the room grew thick and hot. I wondered if Kyle could sense it. Surely it wouldn’t promote his recovery.

  “Who are you?” Matt finally asked of Pete.

  Pete held out his hand. “Pete Keller. I work with Sarah. Nice to meet you.”

  Matt didn’t take Pete’s hand. “I don’t think my son needs you here,” he said.

  “What do you know of what your son needs?” I spat out.

  Pete backed away from me. “No, he’s right, Sarah.” He dug in his pocket, slid a card into my hand. “I got you a room in the hotel next door. You’re booked for the week. You should head over there and get some sleep while—” he looked at Matt—“while someone else is with Kyle.”

  “His father.” Matt leaned over Kyle, snatching the card from my hand and throwing it back at Pete. “And I can take care of her accommodations, thanks.”

  Pete shrugged, slipped the card back in his pocket. I knew he didn’t want to make this harder on me than it already was. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Pete.”

  Pete left and I massaged my temples.

  “He shouldn’t have come.”

  “Great time to be jealous, Matt.”

  “You don’t see me bringing Cassie here, do you?”

  “Don’t you dare speak her name in this room.”

  Matt sighed loudly, sat in the chair opposite me. “Look, no more arguing, okay? For Kyle’s sake.”