Beside Still Waters

by AnnaLee Conti

  Dorothy knelt down beside her and put her arms around her. “Oh, Violet, honey, you know God loves you. He mourns with you. Elizabeth is safe in God’s arms. He wants to comfort you if you’ll let Him.”

  “One by one, God takes away those I love. You call that ‘good’?” Violet set her mouth in a grim scowl and continued rocking. Dorothy picked up the pieces of the shattered tea cup and left the room.

  Around noon, Dorothy tried to get Violet to come downstairs to eat something. The temperature had again risen into the nineties, and the upstairs felt like a steam bath. Sweat poured off both of them, but Violet didn’t notice. She would not leave her vigil.

  To pique her appetite, Dorothy brought her a tray with a mug of tea and a slice of bread with butter and blueberry jam on it. Violet’s hand shook as she lifted the mug to her lips and drank half. Her stomach felt full. Setting the cup back on the tray, she pushed it away and closed her eyes. Eating, drinking, dressing—what did any of it matter if she couldn’t even protect her own baby?

  Exhausted now, she handed the baby to Dorothy and struggled to her feet. She could scarcely stand on legs as numb as she felt inside. Pins and needles began to prickle her flesh as the blood flowed more freely. She was glad for the pain. At least it was better than the numbness. She heaved a great sigh and flopped on the bed in misery. Her head and throat ached, her face felt feverish, and her eyes burned from crying so many silent tears.

  Maybe she could go to sleep. Maybe she’d wake up and find it was all a dreadful nightmare.

  Dorothy laid the infant’s body in the bassinet and sat in the rocking chair while Violet gave in to oblivion.

  Violet awoke to the sounds of voices downstairs. The baby’s bassinet was gone. She rushed down. “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  Dorothy and the doctor turned at the sound of her voice. “Ah, I see you’re awake,” he said.

  “Where’s my baby?”

  “Come and see.” Dorothy placed her arm around Violet’s shoulders and drew her farther into the great room where the bassinet now stood.

  Violet stared down at her beautiful baby. While she had been sleeping, Dorothy had washed and dressed her in the lacy white christening gown Violet had made for her baby’s dedication ceremony to be held when John returned. The white hat trimmed in lace Violet had tatted framed her perfect features. Except for the dark hue of her skin, she looked like she was sleeping.

  “It was so hot upstairs, I brought her down here,” Dorothy said.

  Tears welled up in Violet’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “She’s so beautiful!” Finally, she turned away and gritted her teeth to keep from asking why God was doing this to her. No answer would take away her pain.

  “You need to eat and drink, Violet,” the doctor said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You still need to eat something to keep up your strength.”

  “What’s the point? My baby doesn’t need me anymore.” Her voice rose higher as her vocal cords tightened from trying to suppress more tears.

  “I’m sorry, Violet. I must leave now, but send for me if you need anything.”

  She nodded and slumped into a cushioned chair.

  Dorothy walked him to the door. Violet heard him say, “Here are some powders to give her if she can’t sleep. Mix a teaspoon with water. Get her to drink sage tea to help suppress her milk flow. I saw cabbages growing in her garden. Compresses of fresh cabbage leaves will often relieve the discomfort. I’ll check back tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Dorothy said. Violet heard the rustle of paper. “Would you send a telegram to my husband? He’s a minister in Skagway. I think he can help. I wrote it all out.” She inclined her head toward Violet and whispered, “I don’t want to leave her alone.”

  “Sure thing. See you tomorrow.” And he closed the door softly behind him.

  Late the next afternoon, the undertaker and Brother Paul arrived on the train from Skagway. They brought a tiny casket, which Dorothy lined with pink satin from Violet’s collection of material, and laid Elizabeth’s body in it.

  That evening, Violet sat beside the tiny coffin, staring and unresponsive, as parents of her students, shopkeepers, and many other acquaintances, including the two women who had gossiped outside her hospital room, dropped by to offer condolences. She didn’t even look at them when they exclaimed, “What a beautiful baby!” or “How sad!” or “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She knew if she did, she’d explode into an unstoppable torrent of tears or say something she’d regret. And so her visitors laid their calling cards on a tray nearby and departed.

  That night, she cried herself into a sleep of exhaustion, only to awaken four hours later. Unable to lie still any longer, she crept downstairs, where she paced the floors until daybreak.

  Refusing breakfast except for a mug of tea, Violet dressed and sat dry-eyed beside the tiny casket, drinking in every detail of her lifeless child for the last time, until the undertaker arrived. When he closed the lid, Violet gasped as though the oxygen had been sucked from the room along with her hopes and dreams for her child.

  Brother Paul and the undertaker carried the casket to the church for the funeral service. Behind them, Dorothy escorted Violet. Hymns playing softly on the pump organ filled the little sanctuary where all the townspeople had assembled. As they proceeded down the aisle, Violet stared straight ahead. She noticed that someone had arranged baskets of freshly picked garden and wild flowers across the front of the church. Everyone was so kind.

  But John wasn’t here. How could she bury their daughter without her father present?

  She knew she was being irrational, but the grief that had turned her insides into liquid pools of misery now congealed into cold anger so big it constricted her stomach and hardened her heart against John.

  And God. He could have stopped this tragedy. He could have awakened her and prompted her to check on Elizabeth before it was too late.

  As the service progressed, Brother Paul’s words of comfort served only to fuel her indignation. When the congregation sang the hymn, “Safe in the Arms of Jesus,” Violet gritted her teeth. Her baby should be safe in her arms.

  After the service, everyone draped netting around their heads and walked in a procession to the little cemetery on Sixth Avenue, a tranquil setting nestled under the escarpment of a grove of trees. There, the body of Baby Elizabeth Anne Barston was committed to the grave.

  As the men filled the grave, Violet stood in stoic silence, flinching as each shovelful of dirt hit the tiny casket, lacerating her heart.

  When it was done, she allowed Dorothy to lead her back to the house, where Brother Paul and Dorothy served a potluck meal of all the main dishes and desserts dropped off by the townspeople. Violet did not eat but sat silently, staring but not seeing. She’d shut down any outward display of emotion, but her fury simmered just below the surface.

  Brother Paul and Dorothy stayed until John returned from his trip downriver. When they coaxed Violet to eat, she’d shake her head. “What does it matter? I’m not hungry.” Or, “What difference does it make if I eat or not? I don’t have anyone to take care of.”

  They tried to break through her listlessness but to no avail. Finally, they asked the doctor to come by.

  After listening to their concerns, he said, “Melancholia. Sometimes women experience that after giving birth. With you, Violet,” he turned to face her, “the death of your baby further complicates it. I know of no cure. Usually, it diminishes with time.”

  “But she’s getting too thin,” Dorothy said. “She’s hardly eaten anything all week.”

  “We can’t force you to eat, Violet, but exercise might help you feel better and pique your appetite. Take a long walk every day.”

  After the doctor left, Dorothy tried to get Violet to walk, but she refused until Dorothy suggested they go to the cemetery. She could look after her baby’s grave. She dug up some pansies from her yard to transplant at the gravesite.

  For the first time
since Elizabeth’s death, Violet found a sense of purpose.

  Chapter 17

  THREE DAYS LATER, VIOLET WAS lying on her bed when she heard John burst into the house. “Where’s Violet?” she heard him ask. His footsteps, taking two stairs at a time, grew louder as he neared the bedroom door.

  Pressure built up in her chest. She wasn’t ready to see him. What would she say? When the door swung open, she feigned sleep. She sensed his presence standing over her. Could he tell she wasn’t really asleep?

  “Violet?” he finally whispered, his tone urgent.

  She opened her eyes and stared up into his face. Ignoring the concern she read there, she said, “You weren’t here.” Her tone was flat.

  Hurt shimmered in his eyes. “Don’t you know I wanted to be here more than anything? I came as soon as I could. Ever since I received the message, I’ve been in agony.”

  She flopped over, her back to him.

  “Please, Violet! I pushed the Belle to her limit to get back and ran home as soon as we docked.”

  His words could not penetrate the hard shell of ice that encased her heart. It could beat, but it didn’t feel.

  John sank to his knees beside the bed, his head in his hands, while great sobs wracked his body. After a few minutes, he stilled. In a muffled voice, he said, “Please, don’t shut me out.” His voice cracked and hitched higher. “Elizabeth was my daughter too.”

  That he was suffering too finally penetrated the hard shell she’d erected around her. That realization shattered the iceberg in her chest. With a cry like a wounded puppy, she reached out and touched her husband’s shoulder. Immediately, he gathered her into his arms, and they sobbed out their anguish together. They lost all track of time. Sharing their sorrow and tears brought a measure of healing.

  That afternoon, they visited the grave together. Then they went in search of someone to make a headstone. They chose a slender white marble shaft and had it engraved with Elizabeth’s name, adding the words, “Beloved daughter of John and Violet Barston,” and the dates of her birth and death.

  The next day, Brother Paul and Dorothy had to return to Skagway to prepare for Sunday services. John and Violet spent a quiet day at home and at the cemetery. Because he’d made such good time getting back from the previous trip, he had an extra day before he had to take the Belle downriver again.

  “We need to get you settled on board for our next trip,” John said.

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Why not?” John’s face wore a puzzled frown.

  “I’m not ready to spend time with all those happy people.”

  “But wouldn’t it be better to be with me than here all alone in this house? You could always stay in our quarters to avoid the people.”

  “No, I’d still hear them.” She hung her head. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye. “Besides, as much as I’ll miss you, I need to be here.”

  John lifted her chin with his forefinger, forcing her to look directly at him. “What are you not telling me?”

  “Nothing.” She really couldn’t put into words why she didn’t want to go with him. As irrational as it sounded even to her, she felt like she would be abandoning Elizabeth. She knew he wouldn’t understand that, so she said, “I’m not ready yet. Besides, I need to harvest my garden before the first frost. And I want to tend Elizabeth’s grave. It comforts me to be near it.”

  John frowned. “You could do all that between trips, couldn’t you?”

  “Probably.”

  “You haven’t given me a real reason for not coming with me. What’s going on?”

  Tears sprang to Violet’s eyes. “I don’t know. I just need to stay home.”

  An anxious expression on his handsome face, John studied her. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “No, I’m all right. Please don’t worry.” She lowered her voice. “I guess I’m not ready yet for ‘life as usual.’”

  “If you’re sure . . . ” And John folded her into his arms and held her close. “I’ll really miss you, though,” he whispered into her hair.

  “I’ll miss you too. Maybe next time.”

  When John closed the door to the house as he left the next morning, Violet expected the familiar sense of loss. Instead, she felt strangely relieved. Perhaps it was because now she didn’t have to cover up her emotions. She hadn’t wanted to worry him, so she’d been putting on an act. With no one in the house, she could cry when she felt like it without having to explain why. If she didn’t want to eat, no one would coax her. If she wanted to sleep, she could, with no questions asked.

  The first day, she felt energized. Draped in mosquito netting, she worked in her garden all morning. That afternoon, after drinking a cup of tea for lunch, she walked to the cemetery, carrying water for the flowers. Even with the netting, the mosquitoes drove her back home as soon as she’d completed that task.

  All the exercise and fresh air wore her out. After all, scarcely three weeks had passed since she’d given birth, so she lay down for a nap and promptly fell asleep. The sun was setting when she awoke. She dragged herself out of bed to answer nature’s call but crawled back in and fell right back asleep.

  The second time she awoke, it was dark. Her stomach growled ominously, but the thought of food nauseated her.

  The next thing she knew, the clock on the mantel downstairs was chiming the hour. Six bongs and the sun was coming up. Still feeling exhausted, she shuffled downstairs, heated water for tea, and made oatmeal. She forced herself to choke it all down.

  If she dressed quickly, perhaps she could walk to the cemetery before the day heated up and the mosquitoes descended. She splashed cold water on her face and brushed and braided her hair. She slipped into a cotton housedress and pulled on a warm coat and hat.

  A hint of fall in the chilly morning air invigorated her as she briskly walked the four blocks to the cemetery. When she located the grave, she gasped and burst into tears. Something had eaten all the pansies she’d transplanted there.

  Movement nearby caught her attention. A squirrel scampered up a tree, a petal dangling from its lips. “You scoundrel!” She picked up a stone and threw it at the thief, but it darted away unharmed.

  That was futile. Then she recalled some tricks the gardener at her uncle’s home in Boston had shown her years ago. She could almost hear his words in her head. “Animals don’t like marigolds, and they don’t like cayenne pepper.” That’s what she’d serve up to the rascals.

  Violet turned and marched back into town and headed straight to the general store, where she purchased the largest box of cayenne in the store. Back at her house, she grabbed work gloves and her trowel, dug up a clump of pansies and a marigold plant, set them in a bucket, and carried them to the gravesite.

  After transplanting the flowers, she sprinkled a heavy dose of cayenne all over the ground around them. Staring up the tree, she shook her finger. “Okay, Mr. Squirrel, that should keep you away.”

  Every time it rained, she would have to reapply the pepper. When she returned home, she set the box on the narrow table that sat just inside the front door so she wouldn’t forget to take it with her.

  For lunch that day, she enjoyed her first real meal in a long time—smoked salmon on salad greens from her garden.

  That afternoon, she gathered the spinach from her garden and brought it into her kitchen. She filled her largest pot with cold water and put it on the stove to boil while she brought out her large jars for bottling, selected her canning book, and brought in her new cold-pack processor from the storage room. She worked steadily into the night, blanching the dark green leaves in boiling water, plunging them into a cold bath, packing them into the bottles with hot water, and processing and sealing the jars until all were stored away for winter.

  Exhausted, she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow late that night.

  “Help! My baby!” Violet’s strangled screams awoke her from a nightmare so real she could scarcely comprehend that it was just
a bad dream. She had been strolling along the Yukon River when a grizzly emerged from the woods and snatched her baby right out of her arms. She fought with all her might, but the bear swatted her onto her backside as though she were an annoying gnat and carried her baby away in its teeth. She screamed for help, but no one came. Not even John. No one could help her.

  Trembling, Violet sat up, trying to grasp reality. The bear wasn’t real . . . Then the sickening knowledge crashed over her like the angry curl of the waves at Five Finger Rapids. Her baby was dead, buried in that lonely Whitehorse cemetery four blocks away, and John was always away when she needed him most.

  She clutched her chest. The pain couldn’t be worse if the bear had ripped out her heart.

  Knowing she wouldn’t sleep any more that night, she turned on the bedside lamp, shoved her arms into her chenille robe, ties dangling, and walked to the nursery. She hadn’t gone in there since Elizabeth died. Dorothy had placed the empty bassinet in there and closed the door that John had hung to replace the curtain shortly before Elizabeth was born.

  When she opened the door, the scent of baby powder assailed her, creating such a longing to hold Elizabeth to her breast that she felt her milk let down. The light from the master bedroom cast shadows in the nursery as she slowly walked around, touching each object she and John had so lovingly placed there to welcome their newborn.

  Only then did she pull the string hanging from the ceiling. As light flooded the room, she opened each drawer of the white dresser and, one by one, unfolded the tiny nighties and undershirts she had stitched on the treadle sewing machine, the delicate hats, the booties, and the sweaters she’d knitted, the soft blankets, and the stack of never-used diapers, holding their softness to her cheek.