“I heard her and Jasper playing around back.”
“That mangy dog of hers might be as sweet as honey,” Eliza explained, “but I worry about all of the ways he could hurt her, even by accident. Besides, just imagine all of the fleas he could be carrying!”
“Jasper’s a good companion for her,” Rachel said.
“Regardless, she was out the door only seconds after you left!”
“I don’t know just why she was in such a hurry to escape,” Rachel answered. “While I’m sure the nice day was part of it, better odds are that she ran out as much to avoid me and where I’m going to take her.”
“Does she know what today is?”
Rachel nodded. “It is her birthday, after all.”
“And that’s why she needs to go to the cemetery,” Eliza said, turning back toward Rachel and again wringing her hands.
“Don’t you worry that you’re punishing Charlotte by insisting that I drag her out there year after year?” Rachel asked. “It can’t possibly be good for such a young child to be confronted with the fact that she’s without a mother.”
“I don’t ask that you take her there to remind her of what she doesn’t have,” Eliza argued, “but to remind her of where she comes from. You never so much as mention Alice’s name in front of her.”
“That’s because I don’t want to upset her!”
“She needs to know who her family is!”
“She has a family here with us.”
“Just because Alice is dead doesn’t mean that she’s not Charlotte’s mother.”
Rachel’s protesting tongue fell silent and they returned to the awkward silence between them. In the eight years since Alice died while giving birth to her daughter, this was an argument they often revisited. While they both had a profound interest in Charlotte’s well-being, they differed on how to provide it. Rachel knew that this year would be no different from the last or the year before that; she would take Charlotte out to visit Alice’s tombstone alone, regardless of the fact that it was her mother’s desire.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” she asked with little hope.
“No, no, no,” Eliza answered without any hesitation. “I just… I just can’t…”
When Rachel closed the door to her mother’s room behind her, she could already hear the first of the older woman’s sobs.
Chapter Three
RACHEL WALKED SLOWLY down the long, oak-lined street toward Carlson’s cemetery with a heart as heavy as it was determined. The burnt-orange October sun brightened the cloudless afternoon sky, pleasantly warming the earth, while a listless breeze lazily shifted the tufts of dirt kicked up by her feet. Somewhere in the distance, a farmer purposefully burned the remnants of his fields, already beginning the necessary preparations for the next season, and the rich scent wafted over the town. But as beautiful as the fall day was proving to be, Rachel found that she could not tear her attention from her niece.
Charlotte trudged along behind Rachel, silent save for the occasional huff of complaint, her head hanging down toward the ground. Bouncy blonde braids danced over her shoulders, brilliant blue eyes looked out from under long lashes, and her cheeks were nearly as red as her lips. In her favorite blue dress, adorned with bright red buttons, she was certainly a beauty. Even at just eight years old, Charlotte was the image of her mother, except for the penetrating look that Rachel clearly recognized as having come from her father. Unfortunately, on this day her mood was as ugly as that of a chick that just missed getting a fat junebug.
“It’s not as if this visit is punishing you,” Rachel offered.
The child remained silent.
“Look,” Rachel pointed out, “even Jasper is enjoying himself.”
Charlotte’s constant companion, a shaggy dog, ran ahead of them, darting from one side of the road to the other, his eagerly sniffing nose never leaving the ground for very long. Mouth open, his pink tongue hanging from one side, he truly seemed to be having the time of his life. Part Labrador retriever and part collie, Jasper had a black coat that was randomly splotched with patches of white, down to the tip of his long, bushy tail. Though Eliza often complained that he could be a danger to Charlotte, Rachel saw him as a gallant protector. Every bit as good-natured as he was good-sized, he rarely left Charlotte’s side, even when he followed her to school; more than once, Charlotte had sneaked him inside, much to her teacher’s consternation.
“He ain’t either,” Charlotte said stubbornly.
For the briefest of moments, Rachel found herself startled by the sound of Charlotte’s voice; ever since she had been forced to stop her playing behind the boardinghouse, the little girl had remained mute, choosing to sulk instead of talk. “Yes he is,” Rachel countered. “He’s bouncing around and enjoying himself.”
“I ain’t no dog,” Charlotte mumbled.
“Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Charlotte.”
Jasper seemed to recognize that he was the subject of conversation and turned his head back to them for a moment before resuming his wayward sniffing.
Charlotte had always been quick to throw temper tantrums and to argue, far more prone to give a frown than a smile; she was as hard to predict as she was to control. Even as an infant, the sound of her wailing could be heard over the thunderous noise of trains in the depot across the street. Eliza constantly complained of her sinful disobedience, of her refusal to do as she was told. Rachel often tried to practice Otis’s advice, an admonition to be patient with the girl, but there were days…
What kind of mother have I been?
“I didn’t want to come here. I want to play jacks,” Charlotte complained.
“You can play jacks when you get home.”
“It’ll be dark when we get home!”
“No it won’t, Charlotte, I—”
“I don’t care what you say.” Charlotte, lagging behind, stuck her tongue out at her aunt.
“We’re going to visit your mother,” Rachel replied calmly. “We—”
“I don’t have a mother!”
Rachel cringed at the harshness of the words. Deep down, she knew that this was part of the reason Eliza refused to join them on their annual visit to view Alice’s grave marker. To hear the spiteful words of her daughter’s child was a harsh reminder of all that they had lost. Hiding in her room was easier than facing the truth.
Rachel knew that she didn’t have such a luxury; she accepted her responsibility to keep Alice’s memory alive in Charlotte’s heart. Although Eliza had doted upon and loved Alice so unconditionally, jealousy had never entered Rachel’s heart. Quite the contrary, she had idolized Alice. Four years younger, Rachel had dreamed that she would grow to be just like her sister; that she would be the one to receive broad smiles as soon as she entered any room; that she would have a beautiful wedding attended by every man and woman in Carlson; that she would meet a man as handsome and charming as Mason Tucker…
Frowning at the thought of her sister’s husband, Rachel sighed deeply; it still seemed far too soon to reconcile her feelings for Mason. While she’d hoped that the passage of time would erase her memories of the man, it instead seemed to strengthen them, regardless of the anger she still felt toward him.
“Hurry up so we can go home,” Charlotte demanded, breaking into her aunt’s unwanted thoughts.
“Be patient, we’ll go in a few minutes.”
“All right!” she squealed with delight, so satisfied that her burden would soon be lifted that she began to run ahead, with Jasper playfully bounding along at her side.
“Charlotte!” Rachel called, but her niece wasn’t listening.
Not for the first time since that fateful day eight years earlier, Rachel wondered if she had somehow failed her sister. Heartbroken by Alice’s death, she had taken the burden of raising the newborn infant willingly, feeling that it was what her sister would have wanted; but even with her mother and Uncle Otis’s help, she’d felt overwhelmed from the start. Raising a child had proven far har
der than she could imagine. Certainly, she’d done her best, but she wondered if that was enough. She couldn’t help but believe that Alice would have done far better.
If only she’d had the will to live…
Carlson’s cemetery lay just to the south of town, atop a low hill dotted with a pair of majestic trees that stood silent watch over the somber gray tombstones. A black wrought-iron fence encircled the sacred grounds, its gate hanging open on squeaking hinges. Flowers were scattered across the graves, the remainders of previous visits from other mourners. From inside the fence, one could see most of town, along with a spectacular view of the far side of Lake Carlson and the pine trees beyond. But Rachel rarely took the time to marvel at the vista; the thought of her sister lying asleep forever in the black earth was too overwhelming.
“Oh, Alice, I’m doing the best I can with your daughter.” She sighed before pushing open the gate.
On the day Mason Tucker left Carlson to head off to war, Rachel had stood next to her sister on the train depot platform. The weather had been beautiful, unseasonably warm with only a scattering of clouds to mar the sky. The red, white, and blue of the American flag had been draped everywhere.
Although tears streamed down both her and her sister’s cheeks, pride had filled their hearts at the sight of the town’s men marching off to fight for their country. In the middle of the first row of marchers, Mason had stood out; his new uniform was crisply pressed and impressive as it spread across his broad shoulders, and the brilliant brass buttons shone in the spring sun. It was as if he had stepped right out of one of the many recruiting posters plastered around town. With his military cap perched atop his head, he had turned back to them and smiled so warmly at Alice that Rachel knew no one could doubt their love for each other.
“Don’t worry,” she’d consoled Alice. “He’ll come home safe and sound.”
Alice had tried to put on a brave face to her ever-growing loneliness and worry. To be separated from her new husband so quickly was a difficult burden to bear. Every day she wrote Mason, telling him all about her daily life but not including anything she thought might worry him; then, little more than a month after the train carried Mason from her, she found out that she was pregnant.
“We are a newly married couple,” she’d said, beaming, the day she told Rachel. “It’s to be expected!”
Just a few days later, it seemed as if every person in Carlson knew the good news. But even as she accepted all of the warm congratulations, Alice remained uncertain as to whether she should write and tell Mason.
“Why in heaven’s name would you keep it from him?” Rachel had asked.
“Because he doesn’t need anything else to worry about,” Alice replied with as much conviction as she could muster. “If anything were to happen to him because he was distracted, I don’t know if I would be able to live with myself!”
“Don’t you think that if he knew there was about to be another Tucker in the world he’d be even more careful?”
“Well… but…” Alice had stammered.
In the end, Rachel’s argument had won out. On the day that Alice finally decided to tell Mason about their unborn child, she sat in the parlor, hands shaking, and wrote a long letter. When she finished, she let no one, not even her sister, read it. Her eyes were filled with tears when she had handed it to the postman.
And then she had waited… and waited… and waited…
Weeks passed without a letter in return. She was just about to write another identical letter, to assume that the first communication had somehow been lost within the war’s confusion, when Mason’s father, Sherman, had appeared at her door in the company of a military man she didn’t recognize. Both of the men wore somber expressions.
“What’s the matter?” Alice blurted. “What has happened?”
Sherman Tucker had done all of the talking; the military man had done little more than stare silently at his feet. Private Mason Tucker was officially missing, presumed dead. He had last been seen by another soldier entering a small ravine along the front in a French valley she had never heard of. Seconds later, a shell had detonated beside him, sending the very earth skyward. When the smoke cleared, all that was found was the shattered wreckage of his rifle and a few blood-soaked tatters of his uniform.
“But… but… his body… his…” Alice managed to choke out.
“My dear, sweetest Alice,” Sherman answered, pulling her to him as she dissolved into tears. Rachel, while not in the room, had heard every heartbreaking word through a partially open door.
During the difficult days that followed, all the citizens of Carlson came to pay their respects to Alice. On the morning of the funeral, a miserable March drizzle fell. With the entire town swathed in black, an empty casket was buried in the cemetery.
Alice’s despondency grew by the day. As the weeks slowly passed into months, what little hope she held that Mason’s reported death had been a mistake finally faded. Without that slim chance to buoy her, the greatness of her loss began to overwhelm her.
Though Rachel spent most of her days at Alice’s side, it became obvious that her sister was retreating from her own life. She rarely spoke, ate barely enough to nourish a mouse, and even began to refuse to go outside. Even as her unborn child grew in her belly, the loss of her husband, her one true love, proved greater than the hope of the life yet to come.
“What are we going to do when the baby comes?” Eliza had fretted.
“Don’t she know what she’s doin’ to that little one?” Otis added.
Rachel had no answers.
Then, just short of nine months to the very day that Mason left Carlson to do his duty for his country, Alice went into labor. Having helped deliver countless dozens of children, Eliza felt confident that she could bring her own daughter through the birth safely. All of the necessary preparations had been made, all of the pots of water and sheets and rags gathered, even the cradle that had once held Mason as a child was brought to the room; but nothing could have adequately prepared them for what was about to happen.
From the very beginning, the birth proved difficult. Shortly after Alice’s water had broken, she began to bleed excessively. To make matters much worse, Eliza soon discovered this would be a breech birth, that the baby was coming out backward; instead of the crown of the baby’s head, one tiny foot appeared. The last time the midwife had seen such a thing, the child had been stillborn, strangled by the umbilical cord. With all of her experience and hope she could muster, Eliza set about rescuing her unborn grandchild.
“No one’s dying here,” she promised.
Through it all, Alice hardly uttered a sound. Once in a while, air hissed through her clenched teeth. Occasionally she grunted. She never shouted. Her skin was clammy to the touch, deathly cold. Even as Rachel urged her to continue pushing, to follow her mother’s advice, it seemed as if her sister were somewhere else.
When Eliza finally managed to bring Alice’s newborn child into the world, the baby was silent and blue. As her mother rushed to save the infant, Alice continued to pour out her life’s blood onto the bedsheet. Rachel stayed at her sister’s side, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched Alice willingly slide into the darkness, never fighting what was to come. Alice had stopped living the moment Mason’s father and the military man had given her the news of her husband’s death. This was the end she desired.
Even as the baby wailed its first cry, a weak, plaintive noise that sounded like a kitten’s mewl, it was too late. Alice never even looked upon her daughter before she died. They named the child Charlotte, a name Alice had, in better days, once remarked that she liked.
On that day, Rachel lost her sister and became a mother to her sister’s baby.
Rachel stared solemnly at the gray stone of her sister’s grave marker as a whistling wind raced between the rows of headstones. Uncomfortably cold, she rubbed her arms for warmth; she was unsure if her chill was because of the temperature of the wind or where she stood. At the edge o
f the cemetery, Charlotte ran after Jasper, chasing the happily panting dog around the base of a tall spire tombstone.
The words carved into the stone were a cold reminder of what she had lost:
ALICE TUCKER
1895–1918
BELOVED MOTHER, WIFE, SISTER, AND DAUGHTER
SHE LIVES WITH THE ANGELS
Even when Charlotte was an infant, she had cried incessantly when she was brought to the cemetery. On the most beautiful of days, no amount of rocking or cooing ever managed to quiet her. Now she had become both uncaring and defiant. Rachel could hardly imagine what difficulties lay ahead in the years to come.
“Charlotte,” she called to the little girl. “Come over here.”
Though Rachel was certain that she had been heard, the child gave no indication. She continued to chase Jasper around the cemetery.
Rachel sighed. “Charlotte,” she said, louder this time. “Come here!”
This time, Charlotte actually came to a stop, turning her head and fixing a hard stare upon her aunt. “But I’m playing!” she complained, her lip puckered and insolent.
“We came up here so that you could have a few moments with your mother,” Rachel replied with as much patience as she could manage, “and that is exactly what we are going to do. Now please just come here.”
Reluctantly, Charlotte tramped over to where her mother eternally slept. Her arms folded across her small chest, she pouted unpleasantly. She stamped her foot angrily, and, her frustrations overflowing, kicked a couple of loose stones, sending them ricocheting off her mother’s tombstone.
“Stop that!” Rachel ordered.
“She don’t care if I kick her old stone,” Charlotte cried. “She’s already dead!”
“You’re being naughty, Charlotte,” Rachel said, hearing Eliza’s many warnings echoing in her head. “All I’m asking for is five minutes of your time. I think you owe your mother that much.”
Charlotte stood in silence, occasionally wiping her nose with the sleeve of her blouse.
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