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Now she wondered if Mam’s death had contributed to his decision to head out west. She and Da had never really talked about Mam dying, or how they’d felt about it. Ellen had known that wasn’t Da’s way. Yet now she remembered that awful, churning mix of guilt and relief when Mam had breathed her last, and she wondered if he’d felt that too. Ellen swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. She still held a hard little kernel of anger for her father, but for a moment, staring at Mr. Lyman’s weary face, Ellen felt the shell of that kernel start to crack open.
She left the pie in the kitchen, and as Rose had requested, asked to pay her regards to Mrs. Lyman.
“I’m sure she’ll be glad for your company,” Mr. Lyman said, and led her upstairs to a room full of dark, heavy furniture, the curtains drawn against the night. Mrs. Lyman lay in bed, her slight form covered with a quilt, her face as pale as the sheets covering her except for a hectic spot of color on each cheek.
“And you are the girl Lucas has told me so much about,” she said with a faint smile. “Ellen, is it? It’s good of you to come. Rose always seems to know when I’ve taken a turn.”
“Is there anything else we can do?” Ellen asked. The antiseptic smell of the sickroom and the wheezy sound of Mrs. Lyman’s breathing made her think painfully of another sickroom, and another woman’s frail form and weak smile. Standing there, Ellen felt as if all she needed to do was close her eyes and she would be back in the smoky kitchen in Springburn with Mam. Her throat suddenly felt tight, and a wave of homesickness rolled over her, catching her by surprise.
She didn’t want to miss Mam, or Da, or her old life. She was happy here on the island, with the McCaffertys. She felt like she had finally found a home, or near enough. Yet for a moment, standing there with Mrs. Lyman smiling wanly up at her, she wanted nothing more than the familiarity of her own home, her own life. Her own parents.
Yet all that was gone forever.
“Not much to do, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Lyman said with a small smile. “But would you read a passage from the Good Book for me, my dear? Lucas has told me what a lovely reading voice you have.”
“Certainly,” Ellen said, and reached for the heavy family Bible of worn leather that Mrs. Lyman kept by her bedside. “Is there a particular passage you’d like to hear, Mrs. Lyman?”
“I’m always fond of the Psalms,” Mrs. Lyman said, and then her poor thin frame was so racked by coughs that Ellen half rose from her chair, wondering if she should call for help. As the coughs subsided, Mrs. Lyman waved her back down. “I’m all right, child, I’m all right. Just read for me.”
Ellen opened the Bible to the Psalms, unsure what to read. She didn’t read the Bible except when she had to in church or school, and she didn’t know what kind of psalm Mrs. Lyman wanted to hear. “Is there one you’re especially fond of?” she asked.
“Oh, you just pick whichever one you like.”
Hesitantly Ellen began to read Psalm 4, since it was where she’d first turned to. “Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness,” she read. “Thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress; have mercy upon me, and hear my prayer.” Mrs. Lyman closed her eyes and smiled as Ellen continued reading. “I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep, for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.”
“That’s a comfort,” Mrs. Lyman murmured, and Ellen closed the Bible uncertainly. She was reminded of her mother’s dying words: He’s been good to me, Ellen. Don’t doubt it.
Mrs. Lyman seemed to think similarly, yet Ellen could not see how or why. The woman was in constant pain, sure to have her life ended too early. Where was her comfort? Ellen put the Bible back on the table, a strange tangle of emotions snarled up inside her: curiosity and desperation and hope, and a little anger too. Have mercy upon me. Where had been the mercy in her mother’s life? Or even Mrs. Lyman’s?
Quietly Ellen rose from the chair, for Mrs. Lyman seemed to have drifted off to sleep. “Goodbye, Mrs. Lyman,” she murmured, and left the room.
Back in the kitchen, Lucas sat at the table, his stockinged feet propped on a chair, a book in his lap. He glanced up at Ellen in smiling surprise.
“Hello there! What are you doing here?”
“Visiting your mam,” Ellen said, and Lucas’ smile faltered.
“That’s good of you.”
Ellen ducked her head. “It’s no trouble. She’s sleeping now.”
“She’s not always so poorly,” Lucas said in a low voice. “Just the other day she was up and about, making an apple pie.”
Ellen just nodded. She knew how painfully slow the progression from illness to death could be, yet she didn’t want to say any of it to Lucas. He’d discover it soon en
ough for himself, for as Ellen had seen upstairs, Mrs. Lyman reminded her far too much of her own mother.
He’s been good to me, Ellen. Don’t doubt it.
Suddenly she heard a low, long, keening wail from the direction of the barn. It was such a miserable sound, it set the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck prickling. “What was that!”
“That was Maggie.” Lucas shoved his hands in his pockets. “Jed’s hunting dog. She tangled with a raccoon and came out the worse for wear.”
From upstairs a fit of coughing could be heard, and then the heavy tread of Mr. Lyman on the stairs.
“Lucas! You’re needed!” Mr. Lyman shouted from the hall, and then he came into the kitchen, ducking his head when he saw Ellen. “Thank you kindly, Ellen Copley, for your visit... and thank Rose for the pie.”
It was a dismissal, and Ellen could understand why. There was something hard and humiliating about outsiders witnessing your weakness, and the Lymans, with their prosperous farm and well-tilled fields, wouldn’t want her seeing the underbelly, the illness.
