Elle gave me as much of the world as she could. She was my storyteller. Every festivity she was dragged to, she did with a wink that said I’d know the details later. I learned the world through her eyes, hanging on every description of ladies’ dresses and hum of her favorite songs.
Chamomile follows me along the edge of the water. I collect the few items that have found their way along our shore, either our own or flotsam from passing ships. The laps of the waves calm me. How can this gentle tide turn deadly in only a few hours?
It’s not your fault that you’re angry.
I spot something fluttering a few meters from the end of the trees near the dock. It’s too big to be a leaf, a tannish gray instead of brilliant red. I keep out of the dock’s view in case the man might still be nearby. But I don’t catch sight of his boat, which settles my pulse.
Closer, there’s a dark, intricate pattern—no. Letters. It’s a sheet from a newspaper. I pluck it out of the branch’s grasp, careful not to rip it. There are a few tears, but it’s otherwise intact. Mr. Croxton was rustling through papers while talking to Elle; it must’ve flown out of his grip in his rush.
I glance up, not at the dock but the sky beyond. Layers of darkening grays have overtaken the predusk blues. There’s an acidic tang at theback of my throat. The storm won’t be long now. I should rush back into the safety of the lighthouse. Cower under the watch of its sturdy wood beams.
The problem is that the paper is in my hands, and I can’t be certain it will stay that way if I bring it back to Elle. The masthead shows it’s from April. The sheet was placed deep in the paper from the tiny type of the articles and the(cont.)s that begin most of them. Mr. Croxton must have picked the sheet specifically to add to his collection—why?
Anything worth reading?Chamomile asks, peering over my shoulder.
“We should go back,” I say, more out of habit than true desire. It doesn’t stop my eyes scanning. The first side includes half a page of miscellaneous news and the other half a grab bag of advertisements. News. Even if it’s old, it’s still months better than my last step on the mainland. New Brunswick wool spinners sent six hundred yards by steamer to U.S. troops. Maine has authorized female nurses to be employed in the Army. A couple of Toronto investors found a hidden stash of gold in a shipment of Russian copper coins. Halifax’s population has increased by six thousand in the past ten years. I skim through the usual ads for teething syrups and blood-cleansing sarsaparillas alongside merchant tailors and law firms.
What is electric oil?Chamomile asks, pointing to an ad low on the page. The novel substance claims to cure no fewer than forty-two ailments, but I stop on one: asthma.
“Quackery. My mother bought bottles of the stuff from a medicine show after I was diagnosed. It coated my throat so thick I nearly choked.”
That sounds…detrimental to a lung condition.
“I can’t imagine it was any better at the other claims. Deafness, toothaches, and”—I squint at the small print—“felons?”
Infection of the finger,Chamomile explains.Not criminals.
How does she know that? I’ve never heard of such a thing. Anotherad catches my attention before I ask.The Suffering of Women. It features pills that can heal stomach ulcers and produce healthy bile in women, specially formatted for ourfeeble bodies. I roll my eyes at the wording.The fragile structure and acute nervous sensibilities of womensticks out. Time away has sharpened the edge of words I didn’t used to think twice about. Besides being insulting, it’s wrong. While my constitution may fit the bill, Elle’s surely doesn’t. To consider half the world’s population so unilaterally weak is as logical as believing a concoction of sap and castor oil can cure anything.
I turn over the page. There are a few marriage announcements, full of family names and felicitations. Then a section simply titledFunerals. I skim through them until I come upon my own name.
Delayed funeral, Mr. and Mrs. Charles Forsyth (aged 56, 48), to take place April 7, 1862, at St. Mary’s Cathedral with burial to follow. Highly respected and greatly lamented. Grief deepened by the loss of daughters Mary Eleanor and Caroline Anne. Leaving many friends and business partners mourning.
The tension in my fingers rips the paper. I read the words again, but it’s not coming together.Delayed. Burial. Loss of daughters. Caroline.Me? No. Surely someone else. But the ages are right, the names, everything. Even our church is listed.
My parents are dead. When did it happen? A delay could mean anything. Over the winter perhaps? Burials are often delayed until spring. I focus on these details because I can’t stare into the void my family has become without my knowing.
“Read this. Is it real?” I turn to Chamomile, but she’s gone. Only the trees receive me. They rattle their leaves in the prestorm winds like the tears wavering at the edges of my eyes.
A crack of thunder sounds from the horizon, making me jump and nearly drop the paper. It’s gotten darker since I started reading. I look back to the dock, and to Halifax far beyond my view. I’ve been picturingmy parents there. Waiting for us. How long has that been wrong? It’s October now. The funeral was six months ago. Who attended? What was the hymn sung over their caskets? Was it the ancient priest with the bad ear who blessed them, or the younger one with the permanent sniffle? Every detail I imagine makes it more real, but I can’t stop.
Focus on the tasks, that’s what Elle would do. Oh God, Elle! She doesn’t know. Soon it’ll be treacherous walking over roots and rocks. I must head back.
Everything is blurry. They’re dead.
Elle meets me at the door, the picture of our mother: efficient, meticulous, and overbearing. Our dead mother. The word echoes inside me. Dead, dead, dead and gone.
I set down my finds on the small dining table, save the news. She pesters me with questions with no room to breathe. “Did you see anyone? Is the storm close? Have the winds changed?”
I raise my hands and show her the paper. “You need to read this.”
“Where did you get that?” Elle asks, sharper.
“Just read it.” I can’t get anything else out. Now in the safety of the lighthouse, I’m shutting down. Elle grabs the paper. “Other side. Funerals.”
There’s no going back. That’s what I couldn’t face in the darkening forest. I didn’t say goodbye. The world needs to stop. Let me go back to a world where their hearts still beat. Smell my mother’s perfume. Feel my father’s scruff as he kisses my forehead. They made horrid mistakes against Elle, and me, but they loved us. Everything they did was to give us a better life than they’d started with. Now they’ve got no life at all.
There was a moment, I was so young I doubt anyone knows I remember, when a nun came to our home. She discussed the possibility of my death to my sister. I’d been bedbound for a couple of weeks and couldn’t eat, could barely breathe. They talked within earshot, which in retrospect was rather macabre. She explained that my time might be comingto return to the embrace of heaven, and if there was anything Elle wanted to tell me, she should do it soon. Instead, nine-year-old Elle flew into a grief-fueled rage and attempted to punch the nun for trying to take me away. It took both our parents to restrain her. Elle kept saying, even as they dragged her up the hall, the same mantra I felt:It’s not fair.
