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“Only her arm.”
She nodded. “And you visited with your father? I heard you singing.”
I looked at the floor. “Only for a little while.”
“It is all right, Lizzy. I am only trying to understand.”
I swung my feet where they hung off the bed. “I sat by him on the bed and sang him the song he taught me, then I left when he fell asleep.”
“Did you touch him?”
“Only his hand!”
“It is all right, my dear. I am only asking. You are not in trouble.”
I sighed and nodded.
“But you did touch him?”
I nodded again.
My mother pursed her lips and looked at me in a way I had never seen before. “I want you to promise me you will never speak of this to anyone, Elizabeth. Do you understand?”
I did not know what I was not supposed to speak of, but I promised never to repeat the conversation.
“Might you do something for me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered, wondering what she would ask.
“I have a sore tummy, right here.” She placed a hand on her lower belly. “Might you hold my hand and sing me a song like you did for your father? Perhaps it will help me to feel better.”
I agreed readily. I did not know what illness my mother had, or what she thought a song could do, but she had been sad ever since Lydia was born seven months ago and I was glad for the opportunity to make her happy.
She settled next to me on the bed and wrapped her arm about me, and I snuggled into her side. We had not sat thus in a very long time and I was so happy I squeezed her tightly to me. She laughed lightly and said, “Shall we sing, my Lizzy?”
She began to hum and I joined her, our fingers locking together. We sang three songs and it was not until the fourth that I realized our joined hands were resting over my mother’s belly, where she had said she was sore.
When the song was finished, I whispered, “What is wrong with your belly, Mama?”
She took a shaky breath, then said just as quietly, “Life is very hard for women, my dear. The bearing of children is rewarding, but it is not without consequences.”
I scrunched my face up in confusion, not understanding her at all, but she held me a little tighter and I felt tears on my head. I said a silent prayer that whatever was wrong with my mother’s body would be made well.
Over the next month, my mother would repeat this strange occurrence thrice more. She would invite me to sit next to her on her bed, or on the settee in her favorite parlor. Once, she invited me for tea and Cook made the little cakes that we only had on special occasions.
“Are you well, mummy?”
“Yes, child, perfectly well. Why do you ask?”
“We are having special cakes,” I trailed off, not wanting to ask if there was terrible news and she was trying to soften the blow. “Is it Granny?” I asked, suddenly worried.
“She is perfectly well as far as I know.”
I continued to squirm and finally my mother said, “Would you like to sing with me?”
I agreed and we went to the pianoforte and squeezed onto the bench together. My mother could not play properly or well, or so she said, but she could pluck out a melody easily enough. She tinkered at the keys as we sang together for the next quarter hour and for years it remained one of my happiest memories of my mother.
Until I understood what she was truly about, that is.
