Waking Lucy

by Lorin Grace

  Nope. Nor would she understand the hug Lucy would get when Samuel learned of her plight. A hug that would further break Lucy’s heart.

  A smattering of clouds hovered in the darkening sky. She hoped it wouldn’t snow again. More snow meant she would need to wait longer before anyone could come to the farm or she could leave to seek the help she needed. She would go in the morning. By morning she would cry out all her tears and wouldn’t be so desperate for comfort. It would be safe to get help then.

  She offered up a quick prayer, asking that it not snow again. Would this prayer also remain unanswered? Lucy had prayed for the lives of Ben, Papa, and Mama, for strength, for wisdom, and finally just for help, any help.

  But nothing had come.

  She continued to pray anyway, as Papa Marden would have done.

  On her third attempt, she was finally able to secure the rope to the post. The not-quite-sailor-worthy knot joined the two others there—the one tied by Papa, the other by Mama. She hoped her knot would hold through the night.

  The cow’s mournful lowing from the barn echoed the sound of Lucy’s heart. At least she could fix the cow’s complaints with a bit of care.

  Trudging across the yard, she thought of all the chores still waiting. The animals would need food and water. At least the milking didn’t need to be done as Bessie, large with calf, had dried up weeks ago. And the nanny goat needed milking only in the morning. Had she managed to get this morning’s milk into the lean-to, or was it now sitting somewhere spoiling or freezing? She couldn’t remember at first, but then it came to her. Sarah, her little sister, had put some on her pease porridge this morning. She must have put it in the lean-to. What else was she forgetting? Her mind felt like it was moving as slowly as an ice-clogged stream.

  As Lucy entered the barn and unwound the scarf from her head, great lumps of snow fell onto the floor and her hair stuck to the multicolored wool like strings of molasses to a spoon. Lucy ran her hand over her hair, breaking its magnetic hold on the scarf. She batted several errant strands out of her face and wished she’d taken the time to rebraid her hair this morning. She stifled a yawn.

  The hair fell in her face as she picked up a bucket, so she momentarily set it down and pushed her hair back with one hand. Boring brown. Even their plow horse was blessed with prettier hair than she was. Once, Samuel had pulled her hair, asking if it felt sticky, like syrup. Lucy hadn’t realized he was teasing, and she’d blistered his ears. No wonder he was kissing Elizabeth now. Better a flirt than a shrew.

  Who needs him anyway? He didn’t even check on us after the storm. Though he’d checked on them after every storm since the winter she’d turned six. So what if he couldn’t afford to marry her? He could still care. Or had that ceased along with his ambition?

  “Don’t you ever come and check on me again, you worthless … worthless … ” she said out loud, but she couldn’t think of a word to call him. Putting a voice to her thoughts didn’t help. She still wanted him here to hold her and let her cry out all the emotions that bubbled inside like a pot of burning stew. Lucy sighed. She was beyond tired and being a silly ninny.

  Bart’s snort brought Lucy’s attention back to what the hungry horse considered weightier matters. She rubbed the ill-tempered animal’s nose, then gave him his ration of oats. Barney nickered, asking for his share. She moved to the stall and emptied some oats into his trough, then set the bucket down. The odor of the stall made Lucy gag.

  She patted Barney’s neck. “Sorry, old boy. I just can’t clean it tonight. I promise I will tomorrow.” Barney tossed his head.

  Lucy was so tired even the thought of lifting a full pitchfork overwhelmed her. Climbing into the hayloft would be inviting another fall, this time without a snowdrift to catch her. The mucking would have to wait.

  Hay, oats, and water she could handle. A full night’s sleep would give her the strength to complete the barn chores that had been neglected since Papa Marden… Lucy blinked back tears. Tomorrow. She could do the rest tomorrow.

  “I know I promised the same last night,” she said, even though the animals probably didn’t understand. The poor animals. She should have gone for help. Her fear of interacting with Samuel wasn’t a reason they should suffer.

  She rested her head against the stall, stifled a sob, and grabbed the bucket. A good cry, along with everything else, would save for later. More work awaited her in the house. Sarah would no doubt be straining at the window, watching for her. Her little half-sister had been so good all day. Tomorrow Lucy would need to make some special time for her. Perhaps they could make some gingerbread letters or practice reading from one of the old primers.

  Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.

  The nanny goat bleated, tired of waiting her turn. Lucy counted herself fortunate the ornery goat had stayed in her stall. There wasn’t a jail in the entire country that could hold the animal once she decided to escape.

  Nanny’s and the bossy cow’s stalls were bordering on unhealthy. Lucy’s arms shook as she struggled to move some of the larger flops into the corner of the stall with the pitchfork.

  Hopefully, Papa Marden was too busy welcoming Mama and the baby to heaven to look down and worry about the barn. She knew he would be disappointed with her care of it, but he would understand. Papa Marden always understood.

  The face of Mr. Simms with its usual sneer of contempt filled her mind as vividly as if he still lived. He would have been quick to condemn and punish her for the state of his beautiful barn. She didn’t know what he would be doing now, but it wouldn’t be welcoming Mama. People speculated that he’d gone to the other place.

  Her eyes strayed unbidden to the far corner of the barn and the tack room. Lucy’s heart raced, and her breathing became ragged. She closed her eyes and tried to calm herself. She took in a deep breath, then held it and began counting the way Papa Marden had taught her. Gradually the unpleasant thoughts of her natural father began to fade.

  Releasing the memories as she exhaled, she added a bucketful of water to the pig trough, then set the bucket down, glad to be finished. Before securing the barn door, she checked to make sure the cats were inside.

  Wind-tossed snowflakes danced around the yard. Lucy reached for the rope that usually guided them from the barn to the house in the snow but caught only air, her arm flopping uselessly to her side. She glanced at the roof, where the rope now held its precious cargo secure, and she sighed. There was no other rope. She could see light flickering from the cabin window and used the path she’d forged during the blizzard to guide her tonight, but she’d need a new guide line before the next big storm.

  Sarah and supper waited.

  Lucy shut the heavy door behind her. The stone fireplace her grandfather had built radiated warmth. Her nose began to thaw before she could take off her scarf. Light reflected off the plastered, painted walls. Stew simmered over the fire, its aroma mingling with the ever-present scent of woodsmoke. The smell alone should have been enough to warm any soul, yet it could not penetrate the cold, empty place inside Lucy.

  Sarah jumped up from the braided rug where she was playing with a rag doll. “I waited like a good girl. I didn’t leave the rug. Even to use the necessary. And I need to!” The five-year-old hopped from one foot to the other, her chestnut curls bouncing beneath her cap.

  Lucy managed a weak smile. “I am sorry I took so long. Let me move the stew, and we can run out together. Grab your cloak.”

  A quick check reassured her supper had not burned despite her taking longer than she had anticipated. Using her still-mittened hand, she removed the pot from the crane and set it on the hearth to cool.

  “Ready.” Sarah stood by the lean-to door, continuing her impatient dance under her brown, patched cloak.

  Sarah dragged Lucy down the well-worn path to the privy. The waist-high stone garden wall made a guide rop
e unnecessary.

  When they got there, Lucy lifted the lantern high and searched for fresh animal tracks. Finding none, she opened the door, and Sarah rushed in.

  They returned to the house at a more leisurely pace, Sarah stopping to make mitten prints and doodles in the snow on the top of the wall. Pausing, she squinted at the roof.

  “Is heaven on our roof, Lucy?”

  “No, sweetheart. Heaven is way up with the stars, past the clouds.” Lucy swung her arm wide to include the expanse of the darkening sky.

  “But you said this morning that Mama went to heaven.” Sarah pointed to the three quilt-covered bundles on the main cabin roof. “If she is in heaven, why did you put her on top of the house with Papa and Ben?”

  “Oh, Sarah.” Lucy knelt down on the snowy path and set the lantern at her side. She turned Sarah to face her, pulling the little mittened hands into her own. “They are all in heaven. Those are just their bodies. I put Mama’s body up there to keep it safe from the animals, just like we did with Papa’s and Ben’s. Just until we can get help digging graves.” If the ground doesn’t freeze through first.

  “Remember, we talked about Ben’s and Papa’s spirits going to heaven even though their bodies stay here?”

  “Like Jane?” Sarah tilted her head.

  “Yes, Sarah, like Jane.” Lucy thought of their two-year-old sister, buried last spring on the hill behind the house near her grandparents.

  “Can I take Mama flowers like I do Jane?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, as soon as there are flowers.” Blinking back tears, Lucy drew Sarah in for a quick hug.

  “Good!” Sarah pulled away. “I will take the yellow ones to Mama and the pink ones to Jane.” She paused, her brow furrowed. “What about Papa and Ben? They don’t like flowers.”

  Lucy struggled to grasp where Sarah’s five-year-old mind had wandered. “I am sure they will like flowers if you bring them.”

  “No, Ben won’t!” Sarah’s foot stomped a hole in the snow, then her face brightened. “I will bring him pinecones. He likes those, but not to throw at me.” Sarah waved her finger, scolding her absent brother. “Maybe Papa would like a rock. Like the ones he always puts in piles. He likes collecting rocks.” Sarah spun around and danced down the path.

  Lucy raised her eyes heavenward. Papa Marden made rock piles by the fields, but not because he loved the rocks. He hated them. The confounded things were always jumping up to bend his plow, he claimed. Papa Marden would have laughed to hear his rock pile called a prize collection. For a second, Lucy thought she could hear his deep chuckle, the sound warming her more than the fire had.

  A wind gust swept the snow off the rock wall—a warning that their conversation would be better finished inside. Collecting the lantern, they hurried back into the warmth of the house.

  “Will Mama stay on the roof all winter?” Sarah wiggled out of her cloak and mittens.

  “I am not sure.” Lucy tried to extract her long braid from her greatcoat. “When this clears and we go to town, maybe we can hire someone to dig the graves. Or maybe get some of the Wilson boys to come.” The hair was tangled around a button. She added rebraiding her hair before bedtime to her growing list of must-dos.

  “Oh, like maybe Samuel.” Sarah batted her eyes. “You’d love for Samuel to come. Oh, Samuel, help me. You are so strong.” She teased in a high, false voice. “That is what Elizabeth told him.”

  Trying to ignore her sister’s words, Lucy yanked hard on her hair, ripping the braid loose from the coat. Several long brown strands remained caught on the button. “Ouch!”

  “Lucy loves Samuel. Lucy loves Samuel,” Sarah sang as she skipped around the table. Lucy regretted every word she’d ever said to her mother with her sister nearby.

  “But Samuel Wilson doesn’t love me or even know I am alive anymore,” Lucy muttered under her breath as she rubbed the tender spot on her head. If only she could rub her heart—maybe the ache of that statement would lessen as well.

  With a sigh, Lucy watched Sarah continue her dance. Stopping the dance would add fuel to the teasing or end in pouting.

  A sharp cough, strong enough to double her over and force her to catch her breath, changed the direction of her thoughts. Lucy straightened. She refused to think of getting ill, or of Samuel Wilson. “Sarah, set the table please.”

  Sarah collected a stack of pewter bowls from the cupboard.

  “Lucy?” she said as the bowls wobbled in her hands. “What do I do with these?” Lucy turned toward Sarah. Two of the bowls now sat at their places on the table. In her hands, she held three more. She stared at the table, tears beginning to stream down her face. The pewter dishes clattered to the floor with a hollow clang. Sarah covered her face with her hands, and her little body began to shake with sobs.

  Gathering Sarah in her arms, Lucy sat down in Mama’s rocker, not able to answer through her own tears. They simply held each other close.

  How can a five-year-old understand? Lucy rocked her sister, at a loss to know how to help. At almost nineteen, she found she could not comprehend the permanent changes in their lives. What had started as a nasty cold with Sarah had spread to the rest of the family, in days becoming fatal to the others. Somehow Lucy had escaped it.

  When Sarah had come downstairs this morning, Lucy delivered the news that Mama had died too. Sarah had taken the news stoically. Lucy hadn’t told her about the baby born during the night. She’d wrapped both bodies in the colorful medallion quilt—a wedding gift from Mrs. Wilson and her mother’s favorite. Sarah asked why Lucy used the best quilt rather than an older one like they’d used for Papa and Ben. Lucy told her how much Mama had loved the beautiful blanket. The truth—that she had not dressed Mama fittingly for burial—was not for a child’s ears.

  The creaking of the rocker was the loudest sound in the cabin.

  When both girls had cried themselves out, Sarah put her hands on Lucy’s cheeks, bringing her back to the present, and peered deep into her big sister’s eyes. “Is Mama happy with Papa and Jesus?”

  Unable to speak, Lucy nodded.

  “And Ben and Jane too?”

  Lucy wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Yes, she is happy with Ben and Jane too.” And the baby.

  “Good.” Sarah scrambled out of Lucy’s lap and picked up the scattered bowls. “Let’s eat. Papa would tell us we should eat and go to bed so morrow can come and the sun can shine, because problems always seem bigger in the dark.”

  Lucy half smiled. Papa Marden had said, “Go to sleep little one. On the morrow, your problems will look smaller in the sunshine. Problems, like shadows, are always bigger in the dark.”

  For the first time in her life, Lucy doubted Papa Marden’s wisdom.

  Sarah readied herself for bed as Lucy washed the bowls and banked the fire. She scooped the hottest embers under the copper curfew so they would last until morning. Then she pushed the curfew into the back corner of the stone fireplace where the coals would stay the warmest. The other fire might die in the night, but there would be no need to use one of their precious matches to start the morning cook fire.

  “May I sleep with you?”

  Lucy thought of her narrow bed and shook her head. Sarah often kicked, and Lucy needed rest tonight. And Sarah’s bed upstairs was far too small for both of them. “No, sweetheart, my bed isn’t big enough.”

  Sarah’s crestfallen expression garnered a hasty afterthought. Lucy promised, “But when it is sunny and I can wash Mama and Papa’s bedding, we can both sleep in the big bed.”

  “For certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Sarah clapped her hands in delight. “Tomorrow?”

  “No, but soon. It must be a sunny, warm day first.” Lucy closed the curtain on the window and bolted the door. Her bed seemed to draw her to it like a current
sucking a stick into the rapids. She could not wait to get Sarah settled in.

  Sarah pointed to the big Bible on the shelf. “Will you read and pray with me since Papa—” The rest of the sentence hung heavy in the air. Papa Marden had read to them from the big family Bible and listened to the little ones’ prayers every night. Like Sarah, Lucy missed the nightly ritual.

  Last night, as with the night before, neither she nor Mama had read from the large Bible that had been Papa’s domain. Instead, they’d read a Psalm from the small Aitken Bible Lucy kept on the shelf above her bed. The smaller Bible was a gift to Lucy from Papa Marden on the day he married Mama. The little Bible was the first version printed in the United States and approved by Congress. Papa said it would be a family heirloom her grandchildren would brag about to their grandchildren. It was one of Lucy’s prized possessions.

  Lucy stumbled over her feet as she reached for the large, British, printed family Bible, her lack of sleep threatening to topple her on the spot. She paused to regain her equilibrium.

  Lucy’s arms shook from the strain as she lifted the heavy book. Dropping it onto the table, she sat on the long bench. Sarah squeezed in next to her. Lucy opened it randomly and hoped tonight’s verse would not be a “Thou shalt” or a “begat.”

  Her finger landed on a verse from the Gospel of John. “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

  Peace. What would peace feel like? Papa Marden’s hug? Mama’s humming? She needed that now. Lucy could have pondered on the verse longer, but Sarah began to wiggle, anxious to pray and go to bed.

  Sarah hurried up the stairs to her bed while Lucy wrapped a hot brick in flannel to keep Sarah’s feet warm.

  Listening to Sarah’s simple prayers gave Lucy pause. Could hers be as simple? She sighed. Sarah did not have to worry about what to do with the farm or how they would live. Trusting her parents to God and that He would help her be a good girl seemed easy for a child.