THE CONVERSATION WITH Mr. and Mrs. Kirk was short and took no convincing. In fact, Mrs. Kirk was relieved to know we were doing something. She and Mr. Kirk assured Daddy I could stay as long as necessary to see Mama well.
After saying goodbye, Daddy and I walked back toward our house. As we rounded the corner and caught sight of our front door, I pulled him to a stop. “Are we gonna tell Mama?”
Daddy nodded. “I think we should, don’t you? It wouldn’t be right to drop her there without warnin’. She needs to know it ain’t permanent.”
“D’ya think she’ll be mad?”
Daddy scratched his jaw. “It’s hard to know what your mama’s thinkin’ these days. But if the doctors fix her, she won’t be.”
Stepping forward, I wrapped my arms around my daddy’s hips and hugged him tight. “I just want Mama to be okay.”
“Me too, darlin’,” he said. “Me too.”
WHEN WE ARRIVED home, Mama was pulling a dinner roast out of the oven. Daddy and I sat down at the table then dug in the moment it was served. As usual, dinner was a quiet affair. With Mama not talking—and Daddy accustomed to Mama carrying the conversation—dinner had become an awkward thirty minutes each night. The sounds of our forks clinking against our plates echoed throughout the room, breaking the silence.
“May I please be excused, Daddy?” I asked when I’d completed my meal.
He nodded. “Yes, sweetheart. Why don’t you go ahead and get your things ready for bed while I talk to Mama for a bit. When we’re done, I’ll come read with ya for a while.”
“Okay, Daddy.” I pushed my chair in and carried my dish to the sink before heading toward my bedroom.
Knowing Daddy planned to tell Mama about the sanitarium left me anxious. Instead of going to my room, I rounded the corner and knelt low behind the wall. Peeking at them, I watched Daddy rise and move closer to Mama. Lifting her hand in both of his own, he spoke softly. “Anna, honey, I’m worried about ya. Ya haven’t spoken a word since Stephen Andrew’s death, and I don’t know how to reach ya. I don’t even know what you’re thinkin’.”
Mama sat as still as a statue, staring at the table and saying nothing.
Daddy blew out a breath. “I saw Doc Heusman today. We don’t want this gettin’ any worse, and he thinks we should act now to get ya better. This sadness ain’t good for ya, and it ain’t for Victoria.”
Mama’s head remained bowed, still uttering not a single sound.
“There’s a hospital over by Norman that specializes in melancholy,” Daddy said, forging on. “We think it’d do ya good to visit there for awhile. They have doctors trained to help ya.”
Still Mama said nothing.
Daddy lifted his hand toward her face and, with his index finger, tipped her chin so she was looking directly into his eyes. “Anna, I wanna help ya, but I don’t know how. Gimme some sorta sign that ya wanna get better. Go to this place—please. Go for me, and Victoria. Get better for us. Will ya do that? Will ya try to get better?”
For the longest time, Mama sat staring at Daddy without any acknowledgment she understood. Finally, with the tiniest movement, she nodded. If I hadn’t been watching so closely, I would certainly have missed it. But she did it—Mama had said yes!
I rose from the floor, careful to remain unseen, and eased my way toward my bedroom. Releasing a deep breath, I wrapped my arms around myself in relief. Mama was gonna get better! I closed my eyes and said a prayer.
“Thank you, God,” I whispered. “Thank you!”
THAT NIGHT I slept better than I had since before Christmas. I dreamed pleasant dreams of Daddy playing his banjo while Mama and I danced around his feet. Mama’s voice was clear and melodic as the room filled with the sweet strains of a long-forgotten song.
The music played through my head all night, and I awoke the next morning with a grin. After slipping from my bed, I padded on bare feet toward the kitchen. A shiver of excitement raced through me—it was the beginning of a new day, a new chapter! Mama would see a doctor and get the help she needed. Soon she’d be the Mama I’d known before that terrible night.
Except she wouldn’t. As I rounded the corner to the main room, I came up short. There, hanging by a thin rope attached to the lowest beam, was my mama. Beside her, lying tipped over on the rug, was the stool I often used in the kitchen to help her with cooking. Her body hung like a rag doll, her eyes vacant, and her bare feet just inches from the floor.
A horrible scream pierced the silence. I later realized that awful howl was coming from me.
CHAPTER SIX
IN THE WEEKS FOLLOWING MAMA’S DEATH, Daddy changed. Gone was the fun-loving, kind man I’d always known. In his place, was an angry stranger who drank to dull his pain. It was just like Mama but worse. They’d both left me behind; she for another world, and he for alcohol. Only weeks before, Daddy couldn’t imagine leaving me alone while he worked the rails. Now he disappeared for days at a time. Sometimes he’d return in the dead of night, stumbling and stinking of stale sweat and alcohol. On those nights, I helped him to bed and hoped he’d sleep off his binge. I always thought he’d awaken the next morning ready to begin life once again, but he never did. Mama’s death broke him in much the same way Baby Stephen’s had broken Mama. By mid-morning, Daddy was always gone—back to the bottom of a bottle in whatever hellhole he spent his days and nights, never giving me an extra thought.
By spring, I was filthy, bedraggled, and hungry. My hair hung to my waist—unwashed, and knotted in tight snarls; and I was stealing food from neighbors late at night after their families were asleep. Even at eight, I was too proud to ask for charity.
Mrs. Kirk continued checking in on us once daily; but, with Daddy absent, I hid in Mama’s bedroom and refused to answer the door. Mrs. Kirk would knock several times, sometimes trying the doorknob, which I kept locked. Other times, she’d peek through the windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of movement. But with no sign of life within our home, she always gave up and moved on her way.
May of 1914 arrived and brought torrential rains, causing the North Canadian and Cimarron Rivers to overflow their banks. Homes were flooded in the lower-lying areas, and entire wheat crops were destroyed. As the waters receded and families searched for lost loved ones and property, neighbors pulled together to return our town to rights. During this time, Daddy never came home. I hadn’t seen him since before the rains came, and he never returned to check on me in the days after the flood waters receded. Two weeks later, a trio of boys out fishing on the banks of the North Canadian River found his bloated body floating downstream, some twelve miles from our home.
The discovery of Daddy’s body ignited desperation in Mrs. Kirk. In the two weeks I was completely unaware of my father’s death, Mrs. Kirk checked on me with increased persistence. Twice each day, she rapped on our front door, sometimes calling my name from beyond the safety of my home. I never answered—I was too scared.
Four days after Daddy’s body was recovered, Mrs. Kirk rallied her husband and three neighbors to her aid. After banging on our door until it shook on its hinges, Mr. Kirk kicked it open. After a quick search, they found me squatting on the floor in Mama’s bedroom, wedged between a side table and the wall. I was cold and shivering; but I sat there with my head tucked into my arms, hiding. I wore nothing but some flimsy underclothes and Mama’s wool cloak, wrapped tightly around me.
PART TWO
1924-1932
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER DADDY DIED, JULIANNE KIRK BECAME my sister and best friend. When Mrs. Kirk found me squatting on the floor in Mama’s bedroom, she and her husband adopted me as their own. I hated the idea of charity, but where else was I to go? My mother and father were dead, and I had no means of caring for myself. Mrs. Kirk blew in like a tornado, and accepted no argument. I was moved into her home that very day, and her family became mine.
Julianne was the perfect sister. We shared everything—clothes, secrets, and no end of trouble. But the years had transformed us into
young women, and we both knew things could not stay as they were. Julianne had agreed to marry Earl Sykes, a local farmer whose land was approximately five miles northeast of town. I was excited for her, but I hated the idea of losing my best friend; yet another person leaving me behind. Despite my sorrow, I kept a smile on my face.
“Turn around a bit, Julianne,” Mother Elizabeth (as I had come to call Mrs. Kirk) said with a mouthful of straight pins. “I can’t seem to get the length on this hem right.”
Julianne stood on a small stepstool in the middle of the kitchen. At her mother’s request, she turned a quarter turn to her right. Placing one more pin at the hem near Julianne’s ankles, Mother Elizabeth sat back on her heels and narrowed her eyes before turning her smile on Julianne. “That should just about do it, I think. Now, go on in and take this dress off so I can hem it. Victoria, go help her—and be careful not to drag it on the floor. We don’t want it dirty before the weddin’ on Saturday.”
“Thank you, Mama.” Julianne stepped off the stool and headed toward our bedroom.
Tears misted Mother Elizabeth’s eyes. “Of course, darlin’.”
I followed Julianne into the bedroom we shared, then unbuttoned the back of her dress and helped her pull it over her head.
“Three more days.” Her eyes shone with excitement. “Three more days, and I’ll be Mrs. Earl Sykes.”
“Three more days, and I guess I’ll have this bedroom to myself.” I grinned.
“Oh, Victoria! Don’t tease! I’m gonna miss ya somethin’ awful, but I’m so excited to be gettin’ married! Aren’t ya the least bit excited about findin’ some man and settlin’ down? Maybe havin’ a couple babies of your own?”
“No! I’m not like you, Julianne. I don’t ever wanna marry, and I don’t need children of my own. I can just be auntie to your babies.”
“Oh, but you’ll have to marry. You’re eighteen now. Mama and Daddy are gettin’ older, and ya can’t live with them forever.”
Through all the preparations leading up to Julianne’s wedding, I’d never imagined my turn was next. I hid my fear behind a smile. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Don’tcha think they’d like to keep at least one of us around to keep ’em comfortable in their old age?”
Julianne’s eyes widened. “Surely ya don’t mean that, Victoria! Ya know ya gotta get married.”
“Oh really?” I quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because all young ladies must marry! Think of all the things you could do in your own home. Ya wouldn’t have to do as Mama and Daddy tell ya anymore. You’d be your own woman—independent!”
“But then I’d have to do whatever my husband directs,” I retorted. “How is that any better?”
Julianne grinned. “But what about when your husband is out doin’ whatever it is men do? It’ll be you making the decisions. You’ll get to run things your way.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. Could I really gain freedom through marriage? I had sworn off love, but I wasn’t so sure it was integral to marriage. Could I make a man comfortable and, in return, gain some semblance of independence? It was worth considering.
OVER THE FOLLOWING days, I pondered the conversation I’d had with Julianne. I’d passed my eighteenth birthday, and many of the young women I knew were already married, or at least had a beau in mind. I didn’t really want to marry, but I also didn’t want to burden Mother Elizabeth and Father Caleb. They’d done so much for me already, didn’t I owe it to them to move on and stop relying on their charity?
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MORNING OF JULIANNE’S WEDDING ARRIVED, and the house was a flurry of activity. Mother Elizabeth wanted everything perfect, and had planned every moment with exacting precision. Nothing was left to chance, and I was committed to ensuring the same.
Julianne’s gown was made of pure white linen with tiny cap sleeves, a modest bodice ending in a dropped waist at her hips, and finished with an elaborate floor-length lace overlay skirt. She had argued endlessly with Mother Elizabeth over the length, insisting on the more modern mid-calf; but Mother Elizabeth was scandalized at the idea, and would not be swayed. Seeing Julianne now, I knew she’d been right—the floor-length skirt was stunning.
In place of a traditional veil, Julianne wore a cloche hat with an oversized brim wrapped with a long ribbon of linen that extended around the crown, over the edge of the brim, and all the way down to her waist on one side. Mother Elizabeth had argued for a traditional veil; but, having won the battle of the hem, was resigned to cede victory to Julianne over the hat.
Escorted down the aisle by her father, Julianne’s clear green eyes sparkled with joy. Her excitement was tangible and, coupled with her natural beauty, she was the most beautiful bride any of us had ever seen. My heart swelled with joy on her behalf.
Waiting at the end of the aisle was her groom, Earl Sykes, with his best man, Will Harrison, at his side. I knew Mr. Sykes well from his association with Julianne, but I’d only briefly met Mr. Harrison a few weeks before in the chaos of wedding preparations. As a result, we’d not had time for a proper conversation. I studied him now, assessing his tall frame. At six feet and four inches, Mr. Harrison was a good match for my own five-foot eleven-inch frame; but otherwise, he was my polar opposite. Where I was pale-skinned and lightly freckled with dark auburn hair, he was deeply tanned with thick hair the color of newly harvested wheat. Though some years older than myself, I found him quite handsome; and I’d heard from Julianne he was recently widowed with several children. Not that I was interested, but I wondered where those children were now.
I sneaked a glance at the groom. Mr. Sykes, like Mr. Harrison, was a handsome man. Though not nearly as tall, he still towered over Julianne’s petite frame. His unruly hair was the color of sable, and the dark stubble on his cheeks implied that keeping a close shave throughout the day was difficult for him.
Julianne completed her journey down the aisle and was greeted by Reverend Patterson and a smiling Mr. Sykes. I retreated slightly with the best man so as not to detract attention from the bride and groom.
“Dearly beloved,” Reverend Patterson bellowed. “We are gathered here, in the sight of God and these witnesses…”
The expression of pure pride on Julianne’s face left me almost envious. I wondered what it was like to be so much in love, and to be loved the same in return. It wasn’t something I ever expected to know firsthand, and it certainly wasn’t something I sought. Mama and Daddy had both been victims of love lost and, standing there, I promised myself again I’d never suffer the same fate. I would never be broken, and I would not fail.
I was surprised out of my silent musings as Julianne turned my direction and extended her bouquet to me for safekeeping. Accepting it, I closed my eyes and inhaled the strong aroma of the orchids within the beautiful arrangement. Lifting my eyes, my gaze locked with Mr. Harrison’s. With an arch of one eyebrow, he assessed me for a moment then tilted his lips upward into a teasing grin. Surprised, I turned my full attention back to the bride and groom, but was unable to stop seeing Mr. Harrison’s smile in my mind.
What did he find so amusing?
Was he laughing at me?
As the ceremony concluded, I begrudgingly accepted Mr. Harrison’s arm and, together, we followed the new Mr. and Mrs. Earl Sykes back down the aisle and out the sanctuary doors. When we reached the narthex, I stepped back and removed my hand from the crook of his elbow.
“Thank you,” I said politely. “If you’ll excuse me…”
With a small tip of my head, I escaped into the crowd of wedding guests departing the church.
THE RECEPTION FOR Julianne and Mr. Sykes was held on the back lawn of our home. Mother Elizabeth and several neighbor ladies had created a sumptuous meal for all to share, and an area in the far back corner of the yard had been cleared and designated for dancing. It had been some time since our last town social, and Julianne’s wedding reception gave the young men and women an excuse to make eyes at each other. I wasn’t inte
rested in any of that for myself, but I found great amusement watching many of the young ladies make fools of themselves as they attempted to gain the attention of the young men nearby.
“What, I wonder, must you be thinkin’, Miss Hastings?” A deep baritone voice wrenched me out of my silent musings.
“Mr. Harrison!” My hand flew to my chest, and covered my pounding heart. “Ya startled me!”
“I can see that.” He grinned. “But tell me: what in the world is on that brain of yours? You’re studyin’ Miss Barker and Mr. Hurst with quite a lot of intensity—and no small amount of amusement, I might add.”
“I can assure ya I’m doin’ no such thing,” I replied. “I’m simply enjoyin’ the reception. And you? What do you find so amusin’?”
Mr. Harrison gazed at me, his lips lifted in amusement, as though we were sharing some secret. “I was just wonderin’ whether ya planned to stand here on the sidelines all night, or if ya were gonna dance. I can’t imagine you’ve not been asked. So tell me, Miss Hastings, why aren’t ya dancin’?”
“I’d rather not,” I stated simply.
“And why is that?”
“Mr. Harrison.” I blew out an unladylike breath. “You ask a lot of questions for a gentleman I hardly know. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I turned to make my escape, but was brought up short by Mr. Harrison’s deep laugh. Turning, I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, but he surprised me by throwing his hands palm-up in a gesture of defeat.
“Ah.” He grinned wider. “Now I see.”
“What d’ya see?”
“Why ya aren’t dancin’.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, Miss Hastings, I begin to understand why you’re not dancin’.”
The Edge of Nowhere Page 4