by Kim Murphy
“I should have asked before arranging this meeting if you felt up to it. My apologies. Would you prefer to reschedule?”
At least she sounded like a doctor again, rather than the ex-wife. “I’m good.”
“Then how do you feel about what Phoebe’s told you today?”
Besides wanting to lock up her father or to beat him to a bloody pulp? He kept the thought to himself. Shae didn’t believe Phoebe’s time travel story. He chose his words carefully. “I think I can see where her story is heading, but I fail to understand how my presence here can make a difference.”
“You remind Phoebe of someone she once knew.”
And loved—Lightning Storm. He met Phoebe’s gaze once more.
“Somehow you’re the key to unlocking her memory.”
Returning his attention to Shae, he asked, “How?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask what seem like silly questions. I’m doing much the same as you in your work, searching for clues.”
To this response, he nodded. “I’m not certain we’ll know anything for sure until her story plays out.”
“That could be, but you’re Phoebe’s connection to the present.” She glanced in Phoebe’s direction.
“Aye, ’tis so.”
“Lee, I know you’ve shared continuations of the story with Phoebe. When you do, I don’t need to use hypnosis to get her to reveal the next installment, for lack of a better term. Your participation moves the story forward. What is your role in all of this?”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Are you an observer or are you actively involved?”
“Usually actively involved.”
“In what way?”
Uncertain where she was leading, he answered, “As one of the people in the story.”
“Who?”
“I’ve been Lightning Storm, Little Falcon, and most recently, Henry.” All were Phoebe’s lovers. Unconsciously, he had known as much, but having it pointed out was another matter. What is the connection? It was almost as if he had known Phoebe.
“Keep going,” Shae said, prodding.
“You said you wouldn’t pry.”
He half expected Shae to protest, but she merely let out a disappointed breath. “I’m sorry for bringing you in here. I really thought we’d make progress using this approach.”
“That’s it?”
“You’re obviously uncomfortable. I don’t think it’s wise to proceed. Thanks for trying, though.” Shae turned her attention to Phoebe. “I’ll see you next week. We’ll continue as we have in the past.”
Phoebe collected his crutches and waited while he got to his feet.
“Lee, have you visited your mom recently?” Shae asked.
“I haven’t been much of anywhere, except physical therapy. Why?”
“She’s not well. I hope you’ll make the time.”
Phoebe spoke up. “I shall see that he visits.”
After Shae muttered a “thanks,” he lingered.
Shae looked up. “Was there something else?”
He motioned for Phoebe to continue ahead of him. After she left the room, he said, “I was hoping you might be able to talk to Carol.”
“Carol?” she asked, arching a brow.
“Before the shooting, she called me. I didn’t have time to talk, and Valerie had reassured me that everything was okay. Then, I was laid up. I didn’t remember her call until the other day. To make a long story short, she’s doing drugs, and I suspect Kevin Fletcher is behind it.”
“I would ask how you know all this, but I don’t doubt what you say. You do realize, though, unless a person wants help, there’s nothing I can do.”
“She wouldn’t have called if she didn’t want help. Now she’s afraid to talk to me. She might find you a little less threatening.”
“You know I’ll do it, but you will have to fill me in on the details.”
“Should I call you later?”
“I’ve got a few minutes before my next patient.”
He was afraid she might say that. Lee got off his feet, setting his crutches beside him. A smile crept across her face as he told her about Phoebe mixing marijuana with butter. Her grin faded as he continued. Maybe the time off had done him a world of good. People rarely listened when he sent them warnings like he had with Carol, but Carol might listen to Shae.
* * *
58
Phoebe
A fortnight later, Poppa alternated betwixt shivering and sweating. I ministered yarrow tea for his fever. Three days later, a deep red flush crept across his face. ’Twas either measles or the small pox that ailed him. Aft Momma’s warning, my heart thumped wildly.
Jennet kept Elenor and Bess’s lad away from the sickroom in the loft, whilst Bess helped me tend Poppa. If the malady was indeed the pox, Poppa couldn’t have been in finer hands. In Africa, Bess had treated many so afflicted. ’Twas naught we could do but wait.
The following morn, red spots formed, mostly upon Poppa’s forehead. As the day passed, the rash spread from the top of his head to his toes. The flecks enlarged to pustules. ’Twas as I feared—the pox.
Two morns later, I climbed the ladder to the loft and found Bess bent over Poppa’s form. Poised with a sharp knife, she made a small slice into one of Poppa’s pustules.
“Bess, no!”
“I must. I ain’t goin’ to let my son die.” Poppa groaned as she ran a piece of thread through the open wound.
Intrigued, I moved closer as she bandaged Poppa’s hand. “What do you mean?”
“I do the same to my son. He gets a mild form of the pox.”
Skeptical, I asked, “You’ve done this afore?”
“Aye. ’Tis the way in Africa, as ’twas done to me.”
If she would risk her own child with such an undertaking, then the African medicine must be strong. As one healer to another, I trusted Bess. “I have not had the small pox. Start with me. Be certain to include Elenor for I cannot lose another child.”
Bess bade me to hold out my arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”
I did as she instructed. She raised the knife, and her black eyes met mine. Gritting my teeth, I nodded that I was ready.
She made a quick, modest slit that I barely felt in her expert hands. My blood seeped, and she buried the infected thread in the channel. She placed lint and a piece of a rag over the scratch, afore she bandaged my arm.
“Now what?” I asked.
“We wait for you to get the pox.” Bess returned to Poppa and started the process over again.
Aware of what I had done, I suddenly had misgivings. Would I become like Poppa? But as I watched Bess carry out the same procedure on her son, I knew that my family had a chance for survival. When Bess returned a third time, I took the knife from her hand. “I shall attend to Elenor.” I grasped my daughter’s arm and pushed up her sleeve. Hadn’t the kwiocos said she would survive her childhood? I must believe. “I want you to be brave, Elenor. Momma’s going to make a small cut in your arm. ’Twill keep you from getting the pox like your grandfather.”
’Twas more difficult for me to minister aid than usual. My hand shook. What sort of momma cut her own daughter? Had I not seen Bess infect her own? I bit my lip and proceeded. Elenor winced afore letting out a cry when I sliced into her skin. Like I had seen Bess do, I placed a small thread in the cut. I patched her, dried her tears, and hugged her, all the time praying that I had chosen the right path.
“Phoebe?” came Henry’s voice.
I turned.
“What have you done?”
“Bess says ’tis the way in Africa. We won’t die from the small pox.”
Knowing there was naught he could do, he furrowed his brow. He had already suffered the malady and could only wait to see which of us lived or died. “When I was in England, I saw families lose all of their children...” He cleared his throat and fell silent.
At moments like these, I felt tenderness towards Henry. I touched his cheek. �
�You survived, and so shall we.” From the loft, I heard Poppa groan. Immediately, I went to his side. Upon entering the sickroom, I smelt the sickly sweet odor of death.
“Phoebe, I ne’er blamed you. Can you e’er forgive me?”
“Poppa, I will tend you, but you ask too much.”
The pustules on his face had shrunk and turned to rosy spots. “Your Indian lover—”
“Little Falcon?”
“We didn’t kill him.”
Was he simply trying to gain my sympathy out of fear that he was dying? “Then what happened?”
He swallowed with some difficulty. “The lads had already collected two scalps on our journey and wanted to add another. I told them to let your Indian go. He would have died bravely, but I told him your husband lived. We let him go with that knowledge, and he has ne’er returned.”
“You knew that Henry— Poppa, why did you deceive me so?”
“For your obedience. ’Twas the only way to keep you from running away with the one you call Little Falcon. One of Henry’s mates told us that he was indeed alive in England.”
I didn’t know whether to be elated or furious at Poppa. Little Falcon had survived.
“Phoebe, can you e’er forgive me?”
’Twas not the time to bear malice. “Can you accept Elenor as your granddaughter?”
He sent me a broad smile that I had ne’er seen the likes of afore. “A brush with death reveals to a man the error of his ways. I’m honored to have Elenor as my granddaughter.”
“Then you admit that Lightning Storm is her father?”
“Aye,” he said, lowering his voice.
I sat on the pallet aside him and clasped his hand. “I forgive you, Poppa. I hope someday you can find it within your heart to forgive Momma too.”
He withdrew his hand from my grip. “Ne’er.”
As I had suspected, ’twas Momma he blamed. We had made progress, and for that, I said a silent prayer to Ahone’s goodness. As the day wore on, all of Poppa’s pustules changed. According to Bess, ’twas a good sign, but later in the eve, the spots darkened to purple with angry red rings.
Our hopes were dashed, and Poppa’s breathing grew labored.
“The pustules are inside his throat,” Bess explained.
Throughout the night, I sat with him. Near dawn, I helped Poppa to the pisspot. Instead of yellow, his stream was scarlet red. Since I had given Momma my saffron, I could only treat Poppa’s symptoms. Henry had brought mallow from England. I made Poppa some tea to help ease his breathing and lessen his bleeding. I held the flagon to his lips. When he sipped, he choked and coughed up blood.
Early in the morn, Bess examined his spots and confirmed my fear. “They’re blood-filled. ’Tis the bloody pox.”
Hour by hour, the pustules enlarged ’til his face was naught more than a red, raw sore. Red streams streaked his cheeks as if he cried in blood. I held a linen cloth to his nose, but blood seeped faster than I could wring the cloth. He started retching—more blood. In my effort to help him, I brushed against his bare arm. His blistered skin peeled, and he let out a tortured shriek, reminding me of Master Collins being burned at the stake.
Except for those who had already survived the pox, ’twas the fate that could await us all, if Bess’s ministerings failed. I took heart and focused on Poppa. In spite of his torment, his mind remained clear. ’Twas a curse, more than a blessing.
Again, I helped him drink, talking soothingly as I did so. In spite of his swollen tongue, he managed a few drops. He weakly patted my hand. “For... give,” he rasped.
Ne’er afore had I wanted to embrace him, and now, I could not. To do so, would only bring him agony. “Poppa, I’ve already told you that I forgive you. I meant it.”
His head moved slightly, but he didn’t have the strength to shake it. “El... nore.”
“Momma?”
“Tell... her.”
“I will, Poppa.” The sickly, sweet odor of death strengthened. “Poppa...”
He coughed, spraying blood on me. Incapable of swallowing, he choked. Unable to catch his breath, he gasped and sputtered. I closed my eyes against the sound as he drowned in his own blood. Finally, his muscles relaxed. The man I had wanted to hate for so long was dead.
* * *
59
Shae and Lee
Convinced that Phoebe’s difficulties stemmed from the abuse she had likely suffered at the hands of her father, Shae mulled over the turn of events on her drive to Colwell House. There were a number of instances where people had created fantasy worlds after suffering abuse as children. The scars on Phoebe’s back proved someone had whipped her. But Phoebe’s case didn’t quite fit any textbook model. Even Russ was perplexed as to why she never slipped from the seventeenth-century persona while under hypnosis.
Turning her thoughts to Carol, Shae parked the car along the curb in front of Colwell House. She went up the walk and knocked. Carol answered. “Valerie’s not here.”
Carol nearly slammed the door in Shae’s face. “It’s you I’ve come to see.”
The door cracked open a little wider. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Lee told me about what happened.”
“He had no right.”
“Would you rather he had spoken to his police buddies instead?”
Carol widened the door enough for Shae to enter. “It’s not what you think.”
“Carol, I’m not here to lecture you, and while you’re not my patient, I will respect your privacy as if you were. Lee said you called him before the shooting. He’s sorry that he forgot about it until talking to you the other day. Trust me, he wouldn’t have asked me to speak with you if he truly didn’t want to help.”
Swallowing nervously, Carol motioned for Shae to follow her. Out back, herbs flowered in yellow and pink blossoms, alongside bright red poppies. “This is Phoebe’s herb garden. I continued tending it after she left.”
“Are you saying she grew the marijuana here?”
“She only grew seeds of what she could easily find.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She told me how to make medicine from poppies.”
Think historically, Shae reminded herself. Poppies were for making laudanum, and the basic ingredient of laudanum was— “Opium. Carol, you don’t need to fall into this trap.”
“He says he loves me.”
That was the connection Shae had been waiting for. “If Kevin truly loved you, would he ask you to do things you’re uncomfortable doing? Things that are illegal and could send you to jail?”
Tears entered the other woman’s eyes. “He tells me I’m pretty and smart.”
“You are both of those things, but what does Kevin do when you disagree with him?”
No answer.
“Carol, why did you call Lee?”
Carol brushed away her tears. “He said he could help.”
“He can. You simply had the misfortune of bad timing. Will you let us help now?”
Carol inched away, but then she gave a weak nod.
“Why did you give Phoebe the pot?”
“So Lee would take notice. I didn’t think he’d arrest me, because he got it from Phoebe, but I didn’t really care. I also thought he could probably use it after what he’d been through.”
“A risky way asking for help, but I’m glad you did.” Admission of a problem was the first step in solving it. Shae had high hopes for Carol’s recovery.
* * *
When Lee visited the nursing home, he found his mom sitting beside the window with the dreaded photo album in her lap. This time, the album was opened to a photo of his dad. “Mom?”
She failed to look in his direction.
Not a good day. “I brought a friend,” he said, trying again.
Phoebe moved beside his mother, and he made the introductions—for all the good it did.
His mother’s face brightened with a smile. “Shae, I knew you’d come.”
Ready to apologiz
e to Phoebe, he needn’t have worried. Phoebe bent to his mother’s level. “Mrs. Crowley, I’m Phoebe. Shae won’t be visiting today.”
Bewilderment crossed her face. “Phoebe?”
“I’m a friend of Lee’s.”
“Lee.” Suddenly panicked, she searched the room. “There was a shooting—”
“He’s fine. He’s right here.”
Instead of balancing on crutches, Lee sat in the chair near his mother. “I’m not moving as fast as I used to, but I’m here.”
Her knobby fingers reached for him and touched him on the wrist. “After what I told you, I didn’t know whether I’d ever see you again.”
He finally understood Shae’s words. “Hell, Mom, did you really think I’d desert you because you rushed the adoption through? You didn’t tell me earlier because you were afraid. I see it all the time, and I suppose it’s good to know. But I wonder...” He broke off before voicing his thoughts aloud.
“I’m sorry,” she said, barely above a whisper.
Even though he’d been off work for a few weeks, he hadn’t given much further thought to his birth mother. Had there been a reason why she couldn’t locate him? Or had she left him alone for some protective reason? If that was the case, she likely hadn’t been thinking straight. More children than he cared to recall were left in cars for a few minutes during the summer and didn’t make it. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You did what you thought was best. Not many couples would have adopted an Indian child during that era. Who knows where I would have ended up otherwise.”
She patted his hand and turned her attention to Phoebe. “You’ve known Lee for a long time, haven’t you?”
“Though it seems like I’ve know him fore’er, we met in February.”
Amazed as they conversed, Lee leaned back in the chair and made himself comfortable. Phoebe and his mother chatted on and on—the weather, shopping, tales of when he was growing up. He hadn’t seen his mother act so alive or coherent in years. He should have known she’d take a liking to Phoebe. She had never been the sort of mother who thought any woman he introduced to her wasn’t good enough. He nearly laughed to himself. The only other woman he had brought home to meet his parents had been Shae.