American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  “No. ’Tis as I told you, Vangie. The babe is holding his own.”

  Her eyes darkened, and Conn saw her struggle, saw her dread of hearing the worst, her inability not to hear it.

  “Aidan?” she finally choked out.

  An entire world of grief hung over the name of their son like a shroud.

  “So it is Aidan, then. Tell me,” she said in a tone dull and thick with knowing.

  Conn tried to pull her closer, but she gave a fierce shake of her head and lifted a hand to restrain him. “Tell me,” she said again, her voice turning hard.

  He was the one who had had to tell her each time they’d lost a child—the tiny girl who had died before being birthed, the infant son who had not lived past his first week. And each time, seeing the raw pain in her eyes and the terrible desolation that hung over her for weeks afterward, he had thought he could never bear to see such sorrow looking back at him again.

  But this was a harder thing entirely, a far worse agony to thrust upon her. To lose one’s firstborn—to watch him grow to manhood, love him and care for him for nearly twenty years, and then know he was gone forever—could there be a more grievous loss?

  If only that loss could have been prevented…

  But I begged him to come. For the sake of your mother, I told him, you must come so you and I can be reconciled and bring her some peace…and so we can all be together again as a family. She is fading here without you. You must come…

  Worse yet was the bitter awareness that, had he not been so hardheaded, had not been such a bane to the boy all of those years of his young manhood, perhaps Aidan might have come across when they did, instead of waiting.

  But he could not think of that now. That was his grief. He could not make it hers. Somehow, for now, he must put aside his guilt, his torment, and help her bear her own.

  She was waiting, watching him, her blue eyes hot and shadowed with fear.

  And so he told her, trying to ignore the part of himself that he could feel dying with every word he spoke.

  In the kitchen, dim in the late afternoon light filtering through the small windows, Renny Magee sat watching Nell Grace try to feed her new baby brother with a knotted cloth dipped in sugar water.

  The poor sickly little thing was doing its best to suckle, and Nell Grace actually seemed encouraged, but Renny wondered if her hopes might not be ill-founded. Ever since the priest had been summoned in the night—and soon afterward sent for the blind man to come and pray with him—she had feared the worst for the wee boy.

  And for Vangie MacGovern as well, though Renny tried hard to shut that thought out of her mind. As yet she couldn’t bring herself to think about Vangie dying. She wouldn’t think about it.

  The kitchen was hushed, as was the rest of the house. The twins and Emma had been put to bed. Miss Susanna and the Irish housekeeper had gone back to the Big House to see to Maylee and the blind man’s little girl.

  Two hours or more had passed since Conn MacGovern had shut the door of the bedroom, where he watched over Vangie. Only the low voices of the blind man and the priest, who had again come together to pray, and the sound of Nell Grace’s crooning broke the silence.

  Renny didn’t like the quiet. It made it harder to ignore her own troubled thoughts. Because she wouldn’t allow herself to worry about Vangie, and since Nell Grace had taken charge of the wee babe, there seemed no escaping the sickening waves of guilt that rode over her at frequent intervals.

  If the MacGoverns’ eldest son had only used his passage to America instead of giving it over for her, he would be alive now.

  If Aidan MacGovern had come across with the rest of his family—if Renny had stayed in Ireland, where Conn MacGovern had wanted her to stay—then the dread news about their son’s death would not have arrived this day. He would not have died in a shipwreck.

  It was her fault. Hers. Never mind that Aidan MacGovern had chosen not to make the crossing with his family. Never mind that Conn MacGovern had failed to convince his son that he was being foolish entirely by letting a raggedy busker girl use the ticket in Aidan’s place.

  If she, Renny Magee, had not begged to come with them, grabbing at her chance for free passage as if it were her ticket to life itself, then perhaps the MacGovern lad would have changed his mind that day on the docks.

  He might have, after all. Wasn’t that so?

  But the boy hadn’t come across, and she had, in his place, and now Aidan MacGovern was dead. And even if Vangie survived her sickness and the birth of the babe, she might still die. She might die of the grief.

  Renny’s gaze went to the two men in the shadowed corner. The big blind man stood with a hand on the silver-haired priest’s shoulder. Their eyes were closed as they continued to pray, but Renny could sense the sorrow in the blind man’s face. He was a good man—a kind man—according to Maylee. Sure, and he must be, to spend the hours that he had praying for Vangie and the babe as if they were family.

  Renny knew she should be praying, too. She had tried, earlier, only to stop when the few words she’d managed to force up from the barrenness inside her spirit sounded wooden and meaningless entirely. How could she pray about the dreadful things that had happened? What was there to pray for?

  Besides, it seemed wrong somehow to pray about the MacGoverns’ tragedy when she might have been at least partly responsible for causing it.

  Without warning, a fierce cry from the bedroom shattered the quiet of the house. Renny jumped and turned toward the bedroom door, as did everyone else in the room.

  The sound of Vangie’s mournful keening stabbed Renny’s heart like a dagger. All the pain of the night before and the long, sorrowful day now came thundering down on her like an avalanche, pinning her beneath it and crushing her with its weight.

  She stumbled from the chair and, without so much as a look in the direction of Nell Grace or the two men in the corner, made a lunge for the door, practically throwing herself outside, into the night.

  She didn’t care where she went, as long as she couldn’t hear the sound of Vangie MacGovern’s heart breaking.

  10

  WHERE SECRETS DWELL

  Where once she walked with graceful steps,

  She falters now as blind.

  She walks the way of hopelessness

  Where guilt and secrets wind.

  ANONYMOUS

  Andrew Carmichael had seen only one patient with symptoms similar to those of Natalie Guthrie. And since he had not been the lady’s physician at that time, but only a medical student tagging along behind the great Dr. Cyrus Cooper, he had gained little from the case other than the disillusioning awareness that some illnesses can frustrate even the finest of physicians.

  Late this afternoon, he had been summoned to the home of Edward Fitch, where Mrs. Guthrie lived with her son-in-law and his family. The heir to Fitch’s Department Store and a highly successful attorney in his own right, Fitch was also a former patient. Since recovering from a severe case of diphtheria a few years past, the man had been quite outspoken in attributing his rather startling recovery entirely to Andrew’s care.

  Andrew, who had simply been filling in during another other doctor’s absence, had done his best to convince Fitch that the man owed his recovery to the grace of God more than to any “miraculous” cure effected by himself. In truth, there was little any physician could do in the face of such a virulent case other than to employ the usual treatment—which was often ineffective. The grateful attorney, however, had chosen to believe that Andrew had worked some sort of a providential healing on his behalf, and no amount of protests to the contrary could change his mind.

  Consequently, Fitch had referred a half-dozen or so wealthy friends to Andrew’s practice. A few had made generous donations to hospital wings or children’s homes at Andrew’s request, when they would have otherwise paid him exorbitant fees. Although not entirely comfortable with spending his time attending to the wealthy, who could afford any physician in the city, Andrew wasn’t
so foolish as to ignore the benefits of having a few patients who could afford to pay their bills on time—and make an occasional contribution to needy institutions as well. So when Edward Fitch’s carriage arrived for him late Friday afternoon as arranged, he had gone willingly enough, leaving Bethany to see to their one remaining home visit for the day, an elderly widow on Houston Street.

  Between Fitch and his mother-in-law, Andrew had by now made quite a few calls to the opulent, but not ostentatious, mansion. Although the residence itself seemed to sprawl over an enormous piece of real estate, it gave an unexpectedly warm impression of graciousness and family living. Andrew found himself relatively comfortable when he called, and he had come to like and respect the heavy-shouldered attorney who resided there. He had quickly learned that the perpetual frown on Fitch’s broad face in no way indicated bad humor, but was more the expression of a man who was always thinking, his mind constantly turning ideas over for inspection. Fitch gave himself no airs. In fact, were it not for the reputation of his family and the genteel elegance of his home, one would never have recognized him as a man of wealth and influence.

  Fitch rose from his chair behind his desk as soon as Andrew entered the study. The two men shook hands but wasted no time on pleasantries.

  “How is she?” Andrew asked.

  Fitch shook his head. “It’s been a difficult week. And today—well, she’s worse than I’ve seen her for some time. Earlier this morning she was so nervous she was in a shake. Pacing the upstairs like a caged cat, not eating—she wouldn’t even speak to my wife or the children.” He paused, looking at Andrew. “Her mood changes without any warning whatsoever. One hour she’s in a fever; the next she’s so enervated she can scarcely communicate with any of us. That’s how she is now—or was, last time I went up to check. I tell you, it’s as if she’s simply—falling to pieces.”

  Andrew couldn’t argue with Fitch’s observation about his mother-in-law “falling to pieces.” That seemed to be exactly what was happening to Natalie Guthrie, and for no apparent reason.

  But there had to be a reason. Apart from her obvious weight loss, which was only to be expected since her appetite had drastically decreased, she seemed to be in good physical health. Yet emotionally and mentally, the woman was clearly deteriorating.

  “When I was here last week,” he said, “you mentioned a family vacation, to get her away from the city. Have you broached the subject with her yet?”

  Fitch’s expression turned sour. “You’d have thought we were trying to put her out in the street. She became almost hysterical. She used to love going to the lodge. Now she won’t even entertain the thought of it.”

  He stopped, giving a shake of his head. “I’ll admit I’m almost at my wit’s end with her. And so’s my wife. Why, the children are actually afraid of her. I can’t bring myself to have her institutionalized, but she’s having a disastrous effect on our home life.”

  He was looking at Andrew as though hoping for an answer, a solution, but Andrew had none. He had become more and more convinced that Natalie Guthrie’s illness was emotional or mental in origin, but as to its specific source or treatment, he had no idea.

  “I wish I had an answer for you,” he told Fitch in all sincerity. “But I’m afraid I can only advise you to seek help from a specialist. Someone who focuses on… disorders of the mind.”

  Fitch scowled. “You mean one of those alienists? I’d never convince my wife to expose her mother to such a person. She believes it’s all quackery. And I’m not so sure but what she’s right.”

  Andrew tried for just the right words, for he understood the man’s distrust of psychiatric treatment in general, even if he didn’t entirely share it. Among the “better families” such as the Fitches, mental and emotional illness were subjects to be whispered about, not discussed openly. And physicians who aspired to treat those conditions were looked upon with either distaste or distrust. Quackery was a common epithet applied to those who practiced any kind of psychiatric care. Andrew himself had questions about some practices, yet knew of patients who had definitely benefited from attention to their mental state.

  “Mr. Fitch—”

  “Edward,” the other corrected.

  “Edward, I wish you and your wife would at least consider the possibility of psychiatric treatment. I’m at a loss as to what else to do for Mrs. Guthrie. And we both know she’s getting worse, not better.”

  “Andrew, you’re the only person outside the family who can even come near her these days. She won’t leave the house, she won’t accept callers—she won’t even come downstairs if the children have friends in to play. Even if I could convince my wife to enlist psychiatric help for her, Mother Guthrie would most likely bar herself in her room and not come out.”

  Andrew knew Fitch wasn’t exaggerating. He was certain he could arrange for a house call from one of the psychiatrists in the city, but that would avail nothing if Natalie Guthrie wouldn’t see him.

  “Well, let’s go up,” he said. “Perhaps I can at least calm her a bit.”

  Natalie Guthrie’s condition appeared even more wretched than it had upon Andrew’s last visit, two weeks previous. Despite her son-in-law’s description of her earlier excitability, the woman slumped in a chair by the fireplace looked as if every last ounce of strength had been drained from her. A sickly pallor had replaced her usually flushed complexion, and her hair clearly had not been dressed that day. Her hands rested limply in her lap as if the bone structure had been liquefied and rendered useless. There was no hint of the self-possession or prideful posture that, according to her son-in-law, had once characterized her demeanor.

  Her expression brightened only a fraction when Andrew entered the room, and her greeting was a lethargic, low murmur of his name.

  He went to her and took her hand, which he found to be cold. She made no effort to return his clasp. “How are you, Mrs. Guthrie?”

  She looked at him with dull eyes. “I am…very tired just now, Doctor. Very tired.”

  Andrew nodded, studying her dry skin, her slack jaw. It struck him that Natalie Guthrie had given up. There was simply no life about the woman; she was virtually fading away.

  But why?

  Edward Fitch stepped up just then. “Mother Guthrie, is there anything I can have sent up for you and Dr. Carmichael? Some tea perhaps?”

  She gave a faint shake of her head but made no reply.

  “Andrew?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just visit with Mrs. Guthrie for a while.”

  Fitch glanced from one to the other, then excused himself and left the room.

  “I’d like to examine you, Mrs. Guthrie. Why don’t I have your daughter come in?”

  She gave an idle wave of her hand. “Not today, Doctor. I don’t want to be examined today.”

  Andrew tried to feign sternness with her. “You didn’t want to be examined last time either. How can I help you, Mrs. Guthrie, if you won’t even allow me to monitor your condition?”

  To Andrew’s dismay, she began to weep. He stooped low and took her hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Guthrie!”

  She shook her head, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I know you mean well, Dr. Carmichael,” she said, her voice low and thick, her words coming slowly and in a monotone, “but you can’t help me. You mustn’t waste your time coming here. Please don’t bother with me any longer. Just…give me something to help me sleep, won’t you? Some laudanum or…perhaps something a little stronger. I’m sure that’s all I need.”

  She had made this request before, and once—only once—Andrew had complied with a light sleeping potion, enough for two nights. But he sensed that giving her anything stronger could be a treacherous mistake. He knew all too well how an innocent act, even on the part of a well-intentioned physician who meant only to help, could turn a patient onto a path that led straight to destruction.

  He also knew this was no time to allow his sympathy for the woman to override his better instincts. “I’m
afraid I can’t do that, Mrs. Guthrie,” he said, straightening. “I don’t believe it would be the best thing for you right now.”

  Unexpectedly, the dullness that had glazed her eyes only a moment before was replaced by a flash of anger. The woman’s chin came up, her jaw tensed, and in that instant Andrew caught a glimpse of the pride and a certain air of condescension that, in a previous time, might have distinguished the woman’s bearing.

  “What exactly does that mean, Doctor?” Her voice was surprisingly firm all of a sudden. Firm and even haughty.

  Andrew recognized that this Natalie Guthrie might once have had the hubris to intimidate her own physician. He wasn’t about to let this unexpected show of strength divert him, however.

  “Merely that a palliative isn’t going to solve your problem, Mrs. Guthrie. I’m interested in seeing you well again, nothing less.”

  She stared at him. “And you don’t trust me with laudanum,” she said woodenly. Again her entire countenance changed. As quickly as it had come, the imperious dignity had fled. Her eyes glazed with tears, her shoulders slumped, and her chin fell.

  “I will never be well, Dr. Carmichael,” she said, not looking at him. “I want only to be less of a burden to my daughter and her family. Caroline is the very best of daughters, and Edward is as good to me as if I were his own mother. But they don’t know what to do with me, and the children—” She broke off, shuddering. “—the children avoid me. I believe…I believe I must consider going away. An… institution, perhaps, or even…I don’t know…”

  She had begun to ramble and seemed to be growing more agitated.

  “Mrs. Guthrie, that’s not an answer,” Andrew hurried to say. “And it’s not what your family wants for you. They love you. They want to help you—”

  “I’m not worthy of their love! They can’t help me! And neither can you!”

  With a strength that surprised Andrew, she half rose from the chair, her hands gripping the arms as if to steady herself. Even in her agitation, she was deathly pale and trembling visibly.