Beside Still Waters

by AnnaLee Conti

  Someone placed a cool hand on her forehead. “She’s burning up!” a woman’s voice said. “Call the doctor.”

  Her throat felt as gritty as desert sands. “Water,” she croaked. A few drops touched her tongue. She lapped greedily and fell back exhausted.

  A sweet voice crooned a song. Was it an angel? Was she in heaven? No, God hated her. He’d taken everyone she loved. Why, God? What had she done to deserve such harsh punishment?

  No one answered. The voice sang on . . .

  Someone stuck a smooth stick in her mouth. “Why did you wake me up?” she wanted to ask, but the effort was too great.

  “One hundred three point six,” a man’s voice said. “Apply a hot, wet blanket for four minutes; then sponge her off with tepid water. Do this every hour until the fever comes down. And force her to drink plenty of fluids—half a cup every hour.”

  “Just leave me alone. Let me sleep.” But she couldn’t form her thoughts into words. Hands rolled her over. A wet cloth rubbed her body and brought relief. Then she slept . . .

  Hands shook her shoulders, pulled her into a sitting position. A cup was placed to her lips. “Drink,” a woman’s voice commanded.

  “Why won’t you leave me alone? I just want to sleep!” she tried to say, but the words gargled in her throat as cool water slid past her tongue. She swallowed. It hurt, but the coolness eased the pain somewhat. She drank slowly until the cup was removed from her lips. Hands eased her back against the soft pillows. Exhaustion overtook her. She slept . . .

  Was a bear sitting on her? “Get off me! I can’t breathe! Help me! I’m drowning!” She tried to form the words, but they sounded like the croaks of a bullfrog.

  “This should help,” a feminine voice said.

  Hands removed the clothing from her chest. They rubbed something hot and greasy onto her bare skin. Camphor? Turpentine? “Ow! That burns! What are you doing?” but no words emerged. She felt a thick pad being applied over it and floated back into oblivion . . .

  Hushed voices pulled her back to consciousness.

  “Is she going to die?” a tearful feminine voice asked.

  A man’s voice answered. “She has pneumonia. She’s not fighting to live.”

  “She’s had a rough time lately.” It sounded like John. Had it all been a horrible nightmare? Was he here?

  The spark of hope died when the man continued. “Her newborn baby died a few months ago, and her husband was lost on the Princess Sophia.”

  Unbearable pain tore through her.

  “I see,” said the first man. “If she doesn’t regain her will to live, there’s nothing more I can do.”

  Good. She wanted to die. She retreated deeper into the numbing blackness . . .

  Chapter 21

  A VIOLENT FIT OF COUGHING awoke her. Violet hugged her chest to ease the spasms, gasping until she could breathe more normally. She looked around. The curtains were drawn. Was it predawn or late afternoon? She turned her head toward the bedside table to look at the alarm clock, but it was gone, replaced by several medicinal-looking bottles and jars.

  Why did her back and neck hurt so much when she moved? In fact, every muscle in her body ached.

  When she pushed back the covers, she scarcely had enough strength to lift them. Why did she feel so weak? She tried to sit up, but the movement made her head throb. Everything began to spin. She fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes.

  When she awoke again, it was broad daylight. She glanced around without lifting her head. The room looked vaguely familiar. Where was she?

  A middle-aged woman she didn’t recognize entered. John must have hired a nurse to help her until he came home from his latest trip on the Yukon Belle. “Oh, Violet, you’re awake! How do you feel?”

  “Lightheaded . . . weak as a newborn . . . ” As though the last word reminded her of something important, her voice trailed off. “Where’s my baby? I need to nurse her. She must be terribly hungry by now.”

  With an anguished cry, the woman knelt beside her. Gently, she asked, “Violet, don’t you remember? Your baby died.”

  “No, not my baby!” Hysteria rose in her throat. “She must be in the nursery. Go and get her, please.”

  The woman hesitated. “O-kay.” She rose and left the room. Violet must have dozed off because the next thing she knew the woman returned carrying a bowl on a tray. “Where’s my baby?” Violet asked. “I need to nurse her.”

  “Honey, you’ve been very sick. The doctor said to tell you to rest and regain your strength. Don’t worry about your baby.” The woman hesitated. Her eyes reddened. “She’s . . . uh . . . well taken care of. I brought you some chicken broth.”

  “Who are you?” Violet asked. “I can’t keep calling you ‘nurse.’”

  “I’m Anne.” She set the bowl on the dresser. “Let me help you.” Pulling Violet forward into a semi-sitting position, she stuck another pillow behind her and spooned soup into her mouth.

  The broth soothed her throat, but when the bowl was empty, another coughing attack overwhelmed her. Anne offered her a glass of water from the bedside table. When the coughing finally ceased, Violet murmured, “I’m so tired,” and closed her eyes. The last thing she heard was Anne saying, “Sleep, dear. It will help you heal.”

  The next few days, when Violet wasn’t coughing or eating, she slept. As solid food was added to her diet, she remained awake for longer periods. She discovered she had to learn to walk all over again and needed Anne’s help just to get out of bed.

  One morning, when Anne brought her breakfast on a tray, Violet sat up in bed. “Am I well enough to at least hold my baby today? I miss her so much.”

  Tears welled up in Anne’s eyes. She swallowed hard. “Uh . . . the doctor’s coming to examine you in a few hours. We’ll see what he says.” She set the tray on Violet’s lap and turned quickly to open the curtains.

  Violet asked, “When’s John’s coming home?”

  Anne lifted her apron to her face and fled from the room.

  Violet frowned. What was that about?

  She felt ravenous. Lifting the cloth napkin that covered the food, she discovered scrambled eggs, a biscuit with blueberry jam, and orange juice. The food looked good and made her mouth water, so she put her questions out of her mind and ate.

  Later that morning, voices outside her room woke her. The breakfast tray had been removed from her lap, and the door stood ajar. Violet heard Anne say, “Doctor, I’m worried about her. She doesn’t seem to know who I am. And she thinks her baby is still alive. Today, she asked when John’s coming home. I don’t think she remembers anything that’s happened in the last few months.”

  “Sounds like she has a form of amnesia,” a man’s voice said. “Sometimes when the mind is overwhelmed with too much trauma, it blocks out the memory of it. She’s in a fragile state physically right now. It might be best to play along until she’s stronger.”

  Who were they talking about? Her baby was in the nursery. And John should be home anytime now.

  A gray-haired man in a slightly rumpled suit carrying a black medical bag entered the room. Violet vaguely remembered him as the doctor who had visited when she was out of her mind with fever. He peered closely at her. “Violet, you’re looking so much better today. How do you feel?”

  “Better, thank you.”

  “And your appetite? How is it?”

  “I ate all of my breakfast.”

  “Good girl.” He pulled up a chair to her bedside and sat. He stuck a thermometer in her mouth while he took her pulse. He looked at the thermometer. “Good! No fever. Let’s listen to your chest.” He pulled his stethoscope out of his black bag and had her breathe in and out while he listened. “Heart sounds good. Still some congestion in your lungs. Do you cough a lot?”

  “Oh yes. And I bring up a lot of gooey, stringy globs.”

  “What color?”

  “Yellow-orange, greenish. I think it’s getting lighter, though.”

  “Good. Keep coughin
g it up. You had influenza and pneumonia, you know—a very bad case. We almost lost you. Many young people who get as sick as you were don’t make it. You were lucky.”

  The doctor held up his index finger. “Follow my finger with your eyes without moving your head.” He moved it left and right. “Good.”

  “When will I be well enough to hold my baby?”

  The doctor settled back in the chair. “Before I answer that, I need to ask you some questions first, okay?” She nodded and lay back against her pillows. “What’s today’s date?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it.” She glanced around the room and frowned. “I don’t have a calendar in here.”

  He smiled. “Make a guess.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. Uh . . . I suppose it’s mid-November?”

  “Do you know how long you’ve been sick?”

  She had no idea. “Two weeks?”

  “Actually, Violet, you were delirious, out of your mind with fever, for a month. Today is December fifth. Do you know where you are?”

  She looked around the room as though noticing it for the first time. “Uh . . . I’m not sure. A convalescent home?”

  The doctor didn’t react, so she didn’t know if she’d given the right answer. He continued. “Do you know the name of the woman who’s been taking care of you?”

  “She’s a nurse, isn’t she? Said her name is Anne. She’s taking really good care of me, though.”

  “Yes, she is.” He smiled. “You’re fortunate to have her. Do you know what city this is?”

  “I live in Whitehorse.” Violet frowned. “But . . . this isn’t Whitehorse, is it?” she asked, shaking her head. Why was she so confused?

  “No, it’s Seattle.” The doctor laid his hand comfortingly on her arm. “Do you remember coming to Seattle?”

  “Oh yes, we come to Seattle every year after the Yukon River freezes up.”

  He nodded. “Did you come by yourself this year?”

  Violet rubbed her brow. “I don’t remember. I usually come with my husband, but he’s not here. Anne won’t tell me when he’s coming home.”

  “What’s your baby’s name?”

  “Elizabeth Anne. Do you know where she is? Anne won’t bring her to me. Said I could see her after you give the okay.”

  “Mmm.” The doctor cleared his throat. “Tell me about the birth of your baby.”

  “She came a little early. John was out on his steamer, so I had to walk to the hospital alone. The nurse said Elizabeth was the most beautiful newborn she’d ever seen. I was still in the hospital in Whitehorse when John returned. He carried the baby to our house. He had to go back out on the Yukon Belle—he’s the captain, you know—so my friend Dorothy came up from Skagway to stay with me.” Violet lifted both hands, palms up. “That’s it. Everything was normal.”

  “Why did you come to Seattle ahead of John this year?”

  “Did I?” Something didn’t feel right, niggled at the back of her mind. “I can’t remember.” She sat forward and looked the doctor straight in the eye. “Why all these questions? What’s wrong with me? I can’t remember anything since my daughter’s birth.” Her pitch elevated as panic rose in her throat.

  “You’re okay, Violet.” The doctor patted her arm. His tone soothed her. “It’s not unusual after such a severe illness. Your memory will return eventually.”

  “John will be back soon.” Fear tinged her words. “What if I don’t remember before then?”

  “There’s no need to worry. You’re staying with John’s parents. This is John’s room.”

  “Oh, good! He’ll be able to find me, then.”

  “Yes, and Anne is his mother, your ‘nurse.’”

  “Really? Why didn’t I recognize her?”

  “I don’t know. You have some form of amnesia.” The doctor rose to leave. “Now, don’t worry. Get plenty of rest. Eat nourishing food. And walk around as much as you can. Anne will help you until you’re steady enough on your feet to walk on your own. I’m sure your memory will come back soon enough. I don’t want you to worry about your baby or John until it does.”

  Exhausted by the interview, Violet lay back against the pillow and closed her eyes. But her thoughts spun in all directions. She had amnesia? Why? Would her memory return? Would she be the same person?

  After the doctor left, Anne helped Violet take a bath. She’d had sponge baths in bed until now. As she sank into the soothing water, she tried to remember, but her memory remained elusive.

  She began calling her “nurse” Mother Barston, but she still had no recollection of her as her mother-in-law. Whenever she asked about her baby or John, a sorrowful expression crossed Mother Barston’s face, and she’d turn away. Sometimes she hurried out of the room. That puzzled Violet. She felt as though something terrible lurked behind a curtain in her mind. When she tried to identify it, she couldn’t seem to grasp what it was.

  Soon she grew strong enough to walk on her own and was able to join her in-laws downstairs for meals. In the evenings, she sat with them in the living room. Conversation remained strained, though, because of her amnesia. As Christmas drew near, she wondered why they seemed reluctant to put up any decorations. When she asked, they quickly changed the subject.

  The night before Christmas Eve, the Barstons stopped by her room to say goodnight before retiring. Violet fell asleep quickly but awoke soon after and rose from her bed. She walked down the hallway to the next room. Inside, she discovered Elizabeth sleeping in her bassinet. Violet picked her up. The infant didn’t fuss, but then she never did. She was such a good baby. When Violet looked at the face under the rim of the bonnet, a skeleton stared back at her, its eye sockets black holes. Violet screamed and screamed, until she woke herself from the nightmare.

  Mother and Dad Barston both flew into her room, still struggling into their robes. “What’s the matter? What happened?”

  Dad turned on the bedside lamp as Mother sat next to the trembling Violet. She pulled her into her arms and rocked her back and forth until her sobbing subsided.

  “My baby’s dead, isn’t she?” Violet’s voice was deadly calm. “That’s why you didn’t bring her to me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “The doctor said it was best to let you come to that realization on your own—when you were stronger, when your mind was ready to accept it.”

  Violet stared silently, straight ahead, seeing nothing. When she closed her eyes, another scene entered her consciousness—her father-in-law holding up the newspaper headline about the sinking of the Princess Sophia. She lifted her face to Dad Barston, her voice still deathly flat. “John’s not coming home either, is he? He’s dead too.”

  Even before Mr. Barston nodded his head, Violet read the confirmation in his stricken expression.

  “I’m only twenty-one. My baby’s dead, and I’m a widow.” Her heart felt like the Yukon’s barren, wind-swept tundra smothered in ice and snow. “My life is over. I wish I had died too.”

  “Oh no, Daughter!” Mr. Barston knelt beside her and grasped her hands. “You are all we have left. We need you. Stay with us as long as you want to. Let us be your family now.”

  Mrs. Barston’s arm tightened around her in agreement. “Yes, Violet, please! Nursing you has helped to ease the pain of losing our granddaughter and our only child.”

  “I’ve nowhere else to go,” she whispered as the icy numbness of depression settled over her. She summoned enough strength to tell them to go back to bed. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Are you sure?” Mother asked.

  Violet nodded. They turned out the light and left.

  But she wasn’t all right. She stared into the darkness, trying to believe that her baby daughter did not feel the cold buried in that pine box under the Arctic permafrost. Her mind was not ready to grapple with John’s death by drowning as the Sophia sank beneath the angry waves of Lynn Canal in that violent snowstorm.

  The next day, Violet kept to her bed. Every time Mother Barston brought her food
, she pretended to be asleep. Late that afternoon, the doctor arrived.

  His suit looked even more rumpled. He’d always been kind and patient on all of his visits, even though he must be harried with so many people desperately ill with influenza. He pulled up a chair to her bedside. “So, you remembered everything, Violet?”

  She nodded.

  “How are you feeling?”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I think you need to talk to someone. Talking it out will help you feel better.” The doctor took out a prescription pad and wrote on it. “Here’s the name and phone number of someone I want you to see. Okay?”

  Violet shrugged again.

  The doctor placed the paper on her bedside stand. “I’m leaving now, Violet.” She heard his footsteps retreat back downstairs.

  Christmas and New Year’s came and went, but Violet knew it would be a waste of time and money to call this person. After all, talking couldn’t bring Elizabeth or John back to her.

  Instead, one morning before leaving the breakfast table, she asked Dad Barston for all of the newspaper articles about the sinking of the Princess Sophia.

  “You don’t want to read them, Violet,” he said.

  But she insisted. “With no body and no funeral, I need to understand what happened to John to believe he’s really . . . ” she could scarcely say the word, “ . . . dead.”

  Reluctantly, he gave her all the clippings he’d saved. “There aren’t many,” he said. “The end of the Great War eclipsed this local story.”

  As Violet read the successive articles, she became angrier and angrier.

  She learned that when the weather suddenly worsened that fateful night and blinding snow and strong winds gusting up to fifty miles per hour overtook the Sophia, Captain Locke, who was used to running in whiteout conditions, decided not to slow down. Another boat that had taken shelter from the storm reported hearing her sounding her horn repeatedly, probably using the echo to determine the distance from the sides of the canal. Violet recalled ships she’d sailed on down Lynn Canal doing that at night.

  Apparently, the captain hadn’t assigned a crew member to keep watch at the bow either, as was customary, and as she’d seen done on her trips in bad weather. At some point, in the darkness and swirling snow, a navigation error was made. Out of the main channel, Sophia headed directly onto Vanderbilt Reef. She hit at 2:10 a.m. at full speed with such force that the bow was lifted out of the water. With horrific grinding and tearing, she slid up onto the low-lying rock with a terrific impact.