All That Lives (46 page)

“I find this thrusting and shoving motion impossible to master!” I made an excuse for my sorry work.

“Elizabeth, even your spinning, which is not your strength, is better than this weave.” Mother held my efforts up to the light,
and the cloth appeared to be a fishnet. “Enough. Retrieve your sewing, child, for ’tis wise to work to your strengths.” I
was happy to abandon the clumsy loom for the needle and thread, for my thimble fit just right on my thumb, and through the
dim winter afternoons of our mourning, I found I could sew for hours without a tangle.

Toward the end of January, Mother and I sat together sewing in the parlor. The light was at my back and my needle moved smoothly
over and through the white cotton shirting of the new tunic I was stitching for Drewry. I was having a moment of thoughtless
contentment, absorbed in the repetitive motion, when Mother gave a groan and I looked up, surprised to see she’d dropped the
cloth she worked onto the floor.

“Uh, Betsy, I feel unwell. I believe I must lie down.” I studied her face. Her cheeks were flushed and red and small tendrils
of her dark hair appeared damp at her forehead. What was the matter? Mother was never ill. I laid my sewing down and stood
to help her.

“Mother? What is it? What ails you?” She shut her eyes and leaned farther back against her chair. She did not rise, or immediately
reply.

“Dear Betsy, just help me to my bed.” I took her arm and we slowly walked across the parlor. I could not go into her bedroom
without thinking on Father’s passing, and I imagined it must trouble Mother also, to sleep each night in the bed where he
had died. I wondered if it was in her mind to have Dean build a new one. She had said nothing of it. She sat down heavily
and I removed her boots, while she struggled to untie her sewing apron.

“My bedclothes, Betsy. I would have them …” Though it was the middle of the day, I helped her dress in nightclothes. “ ’Tis
cold …” she said, shivering. I pulled the quilts up high around her neck for the room was chilly, even with the fire next
door in the parlor.

“What may I fetch for you, Mother?”

“Water,” she answered in a hoarse whisper that was frightening, and I hurried to the kitchen. Dean and Drewry had managed
to unfreeze the pump at the well, and Chloe had drawn a pitcher, so the water was fresh and cold.

“Mother is feeling poorly,” I told Chloe and saw my hands shook slightly as I poured. I returned quickly, but when I reached
her, she was sleeping, with her head at an odd angle, reminding me of the last head I had seen lying askance on that pillow.
I set the water on the bedside table, and put my hand against her forehead, pushing back her hair. I found her flesh burned
hot as embers from the fire under my fingertips.

“Please, no,” I whispered, wishing I might take away what ailed her.

“Why is Mother in bed?” Richard and Joel asked when they tumbled in from playing out-of-doors.

“She is feeling poorly. Please, be quiet! Play checkers or some other game upstairs.” I ushered them from the room and returned
to sit beside Mother all the rest of the day. She continued in a fever, waking only briefly to ask for water, and twice she
fell back asleep before I could hold the glass to her lips. I grew ever more concerned and sat in prayer and fear, for it
was in my mind the Spirit had not finished with us. Did it mean to murder my family, one by one, before my eyes? I made an
effort to cease all thoughts of my own pain and concentrate on Mother’s suffering. I prayed the Lord would care for her, body
and soul. The room grew slowly dark and I did not move, but simply listened to Mother’s raspy breathing, hoping any moment
she would awake, recovered. Near suppertime, I heard Drewry come in, and Richard and Joel ran immediately down the stairs
to greet him.

“Mother is not well!” I heard Joel’s fear clearly in his declaration and I felt guilty having left the two of them alone all
day with little explanation. I hurried to the hallway to tell Drewry myself what had happened, and I was there before he’d
hung his shot bag on its peg.

“It came on her very sudden, brother. She dropped her sewing and said she wished to go to bed.” I held my hands clasped to
my breast with anxiety and Drewry clearly saw my worry.

“Do not distress yourself, dear sister. Most likely she has some minor ailment, requiring simple rest.” He unshouldered his
gun and turned away to hang his coat and I stood most surprised, for I had expected him to say he’d saddle his horse, though
it was already dark, and ride the cursed ride to Dr. Hopson’s home.

“Drewry, I believe we must call Dr. Hopson,” I said, gripping his arm, most urgently.

“Betsy, has the Witch been here?” Drewry spoke softly to me, raising his eyebrows high, mindful of Richard and Joel beside
us. I was silent, thinking how the Spirit had been on my mind, but not present.

“No, no … ’tis not the work of the Being. She has a fever.”

“What does Mother say of fever? A day to run its course, and feverfew for two.” He smiled, reciting Mother’s familiar rhyme
regarding when to use the herb feverfew for treatment. “If she is not improved in the morning, I will ride for the doctor.”
He cast his glance to Richard and Joel, who listened as though they were nothing but ears. Joel’s eyes were watery, and I
realized Drewry would make a good father when his time came, as his voice and reason successfully reassured me and my little
brothers.

“Let us eat our supper.”

Chloe had boiled turnips and made squirrel gravy to pour over the biscuits, and we took our places at the table. I was grateful
Drewry led the conversation, telling an anecdote he’d heard from Dean.

“There was a slave, working for a farmer we don’t know, outside Robertson County. Someplace far away. Dean said he heard the
tale from Aggie, who heard it from her cousin, who knew the wife of the slave.” His opening was intricate enough to force
Joel and Richard and me to concentrate, and I suppose that was his intention. “The slave, they called him John. He stole a
hog from his master, because his master had so many, he thought the shoats could not be counted, and he thought the master
would not notice were there just one less. So, he caught a hog and killed it and put it in a bag and was hauling it down to
where the other slaves were waiting to get the fixings for a feast when his master rode up after him, asking, ‘What you got
there, John?’” Drewry made his voice momentarily gruff, a bit like Father’s had been when sussing a transgression. “The slave,
he answered, ‘A possum, sir,’ for he was brave and hungry, but the master, he paid close attention to all his stock, and he
had seen John make every effort to better his lot. ‘Let me see it,’ the master demanded.” I laughed at Drewry’s imitation,
for he turned his mouth way down at the corners stretching his jaw in a comical way. “John had to open the bag, but when he
did, he jumped back, feigning disbelief, shouting, ‘Whoa! master! It is a shoat now, but it sure was a possum a while ago
when I put ’im in the sack!’ ”

Joel and Richard and I laughed at this silly story and after supper when Drewry and I went to check on Mother, I heard the
boys playing a game of slave and master, with Joel pretending to act surprised there was no possum in his sack. I heard them
laughing, while Drewry and I stood in Mother’s room, observing and assessing her condition.

“She is burning,” Drewry said and frowned, placing his hand across her forehead. “What did she say of fevers? The strongest
folk burn hottest?” I recalled her saying so, when Joel was ill, and yet, I was uncertain again. I shook my head, close to
tears with worry. Mother was the one who knew what to do with illness. She knew what tea to make, what herbs to rub against
the skin. I realized I had taken her knowledge for granted, and faced with her illness I did not know how to react. I wished
I had paid better attention throughout my life, so I might know the cure, but which herb was used to treat what disease was
as foreign to me as how to make the shuttle fly through the loom. I felt I was a most unworthy child.

“I know not what she said of fever,” I stammered and Drewry frowned, but seemed to understand.

“I told you, sister, if she is not better by morning, I will ride to fetch the doctor.” He turned the lamp down low, but left
it burning on the bedside table, in case she woke in the night.

We rose early the next morning to find Mother much worse than the day before. She was now pale with the fever and would not
properly awake. While Drewry and I stood over her, deciding on a course of action, she called out in her sleep.

“Jack, Jack …”

“She is dreaming,” Drewry offered as an explanation, but she thrashed her head on the pillow and I thought it most distressing
she believed Father was in the room with us.

“I think you must call for Dr. Hopson.” I squeezed Drewry’s hand and he did not argue, but left immediately, and was gone
by the time the boys came down for breakfast.

“Whatever you do, be quiet today,” I told them, forgetting I wished to be nice. “Mother needs her sleep.” The tension of harboring
illness in our home again descended and I watched the boys spoon Chloe’s creamed buckwheat quickly into their mouths, as if
they could eat their fear.

“Shall we have a sled race, Joel?” Richard understood it was better if they were out-of-doors, and after they had finished
their food I helped them put on their winter things. I wrapped their scarves tightly around their necks in the hall, but I
felt I was a poor substitute for Mother.

“Will she be made well today, sister?” Joel’s knit hat slid down over his brow, and he pushed it back with a mittened fist.

“The doctor is on his way.” I did not comfort him as I should have, but I could not. I kissed his bare cheek and sent him
off to play, and returned to Mother’s bedside, hoping she would wake and instruct me in the means to treat her illness.

“Jack …” His name came forth in a whisper as I crossed the threshold, and her eyelids fluttered, as if she woke.

“No, Mother, it is Betsy, here beside you. What must I do?” She did not answer but a groan and the next moment she had turned
her head and lay asleep again.

The hours passed slowly, while I listened closely to her breathing. Several times she mumbled Father’s name, but did not wake,
and it was near the dinner hour when I heard hoofbeats on the road and I left her to meet Dr. Hopson and Drewry at the door.

Dr. Hopson entered with his head down, so I saw first the shiny black of his top hat, before his wary eyes met mine in greeting.

“How does your mother fare, Miss Elizabeth?” He looked anxiously toward the parlor, slowly withdrawing his arms from his greatcoat.
He removed his scarf and handed it to me.

“She is hot as the fire and will not properly awake.”

“Has your demon visited?” I felt he watched me too closely as I hung his things, as if I knew not how to do it.

“No,” I answered simply, then added, “sir,” with respect, for despite my resentment, he was the doctor and Mother was ill
and in need of his services. I saw his shoulders shiver and he hunched forward, as if he walked into a strong wind requiring
fortitude as he passed over the thresholds of the parlor and the bedroom. I followed, feeling no sympathy for his trepidation.
He placed his leather bag on the chair and proceeded to examine Mother in silence. He felt her head and frowned, then withdrew
an instrument from his bag.

“Undo the laces of her nightdress,” he commanded, and I did as I was told, surprised to feel Mother’s chest was hot as the
woodstove with a fire within. The doctor stretched his instrument from his ear to her breast, intently listening.

“She has the pleurisy,” he announced, “but the exudation of liquid in the chest cavity has not yet occurred.”

“What do you mean?” I had heard of pleurisy. Becky Porter’s Aunt Mabel had died of it.

“She may get worse, before she improves. If she improves.” The doctor lowered his glasses, and wrinkled his nose with displeasure.

“What must we do?” I was horrified to hear his prognosis.

“Have your girl prepare sugared slippery elm and mint tea, and broth, and spoon it to her mouth. Dose her every mealtime with
a dropperful of this.” From his bag he pulled a tincture labeled
butterfly root
in his tall script.