“Yes. Would you like me to read it to you?”
Emma stared at it for a moment. “No. I think I should read it myself.”
With hands that shook, Emma reached for it, removed it from the envelope, and unfolded it.
Dear Mrs. Baxter,
I’m not sure how to begin this letter, except by introducing myself. I’m Mary Harris, wife of Oliver Harris, captain of theOverton. I found your letters at his flat in Manchester, which is why I’m writing to you. I’m afraid I have some sad news. Oliver has died. His ship went down after colliding with a mine off the coast of Africa as he was making his way back to England from America with a shipment of cargo bound for Tangier. From what I’ve been told, the radio operator sent an SOS and reported that they were going down fast and intended to abandonship. The nearest steamer was sixty miles away, so it took too long to reach them. An air search followed, but there was no sign of the ship or any survivors in lifeboats. A search went on for six days, and some wreckage and cargo were eventually found floating in the ocean, but nothing more than that.
I’m sorry to be the one to deliver this news to you, but I couldn’t let you continue to write, asking when he might return. I also understand and sympathize with your sense of urgency, as I read all your letters. I was the one who cleaned out Oliver’s flat after the news of his death, and that’s where I found them, unopened on the floor in the front hall where they were slipped through the mail slot.
I wanted you to know this because I can only imagine what you must think of him after receiving no replies to your letters. Allow me to assure you that he was a decent, honorable man, and I’m sure he would have returned to you if not for the accident. In fact, he was a changed man in recent years, which has left me with many regrets since his death.
Sincerely,
Mary Harris
Feeling sick and dizzy, Emma lowered the letter to her lap and began sobbing. Tears streamed down her face and neck, all the way to her collarbone. She was vaguely aware of Ruth wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, resting a hand on her back, sitting down beside her.
At long last, Emma turned on the sofa cushion and looked blankly into Ruth’s eyes, then buried her wet face into her shoulder.
“I was so wrong to hate him,” Emma cried, the words gushing out of her. “He didn’t abandon me. I can’t bear to think about what might have happened on the ship when they were sinking. It must have beenterrifying—like the wreck at Sable, only worse, because they were in the middle of the ocean with no one to rescue them.”
Ruth rubbed Emma’s back. “I’m so sorry.”
“How could I have let myself believe that he’d abandoned me? I never wanted to believe it. Everything in my heart told me it couldn’t be true, but I let myself assume the worst. What does that say about me, Ruth? How could I have been so quick to hate him?”
“You didn’t hate him,” Ruth said. “You didn’t know. How could you know?”
“But I should have! I should have felt it in my heart!” She pressed a tight fist to her chest. “My soul! I should have feltsomethingwhen he was drowning. Why didn’t Ifeelit?”
Ruth hugged her fiercely. “He was far away.”
“Oh, God, Ruth! I hate the ocean! I’ll never go back to Sable Island. It’s a graveyard there. A widow-maker! It lures ships and sucks them into the sand. Think of all the dead people ... the skulls in the boat shed!”
Emma’s thoughts were frantic, her emotions out of control. She feared she might lose her mind. Thank God Matthew was outside with his friends, peddling around the neighborhood. She didn’t know how she could ever explain her hysteria to him. Or her wrath. Or the dark and immeasurable depths of her grief.
Chapter 27
On the morning of June 19, Emma sat up in bed and wished it wasn’t time yet to face the day. It had been more than a month since she’d learned of Oliver’s passing, and her raw feelings of loss had not healed over. If anything, the wounds had grown deeper and become more open as she approached her due date and imagined the beauty of what could have been.
Since that dreadful day when she’d read his wife’s letter, Emma had put his ring back on the chain she wore around her neck with her mother’s locket. She’d also spent time reflecting upon her lack of trust in him and her harsh, unfair judgments. Soon, she came to realize that it had been easier to hate Oliver in ignorance than it was to grieve for his death. Easier to tell herself that she was better off without him.
Sliding her bare feet out of bed, to the floor, she tried—as she tried every morning—to be grateful for the brief time they’d had together. What was it they said about such things?It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
Maybe she’d believe it if she could feel happy again—about anything—but the euphoria she’d experienced in the rose garden seemed a million miles away, and unimaginable.
Suddenly, Emma found herself thinking about Abigail McKenna. Perhaps one day Emma would relate better to that poor woman’smoodiness and resentments after a lifetime spent with the lasting anguish of abandonment.
Fighting that dire thought, Emma rose from the edge of the bed, took two steps across the floor, and felt a great gush of water leave her body. Stunned, she stared vacantly at the puddle on the floor. Then she gathered her senses and called out to Ruth, who woke Matthew, got him dressed, and drove them all to the hospital.
By the time they arrived, Emma’s labor pains had progressed to two minutes apart, and all she could think about was Matthew’s grueling birth, and the hours of terror and exhaustion. She couldn’t do it again—she couldn’t!—yet all she wanted to do was push.
After that, everything was a blur, and by 9:22 a.m., she had given birth to a healthy baby girl, eight pounds, nine ounces.
When the nurse placed the sleeping infant in Emma’s waiting arms, she gazed down at her daughter’s sweet, angelic face and marveled at the vastness of love that flooded into her heart. Its beauty was immense, extraordinary, comparable only to what it must be like to enter heaven.
Hugging her baby close, Emma wept with equal parts joy and sorrow, and cried for at least an hour, until she was dry of tears.
