All That Lives (47 page)

“Is this the cure?” I turned the glass bottle over in my hand, trying not to think how it reminded me of the Spirit’s poison.

“What cure there is. It will depend on the strength of the inflammation and the strength of her lungs.”

“What will depend?” I knew I must sound as stupid as the bedpost, but I could not accept his words.

“Her improvement will depend.” He closed his bag and looked away from me, taking up Mother’s hand at the wrist. He pulled
a silver watch on a chain from his vest pocket, and stood counting the beats of her racing pulse, and then he sighed. “Her
improvement will depend on the strength of the inflammation in relation to the strength of her lungs.” He put the watch away,
and I thought I saw pity and some regret in the gesture, so I grew most concerned.

“Mother has more strength than most!” I meant to reassure myself, as clearly he did not intend to.

“Here, she must be propped up on her pillows.” With more kindness in his tone than he had previously allotted me, Dr. Hopson
showed me how to arrange Mother so she lay half sitting up. “The exudation will be less in this position.” He stepped back
and sighed, as she thrashed her head violently, left and right, when we moved her.

“Jack …” she groaned.

“Good Lord, she calls for him!” Dr. Hopson turned away and busied himself closing his bag, and I thought I saw his hands tremble
slightly, tightening the buckle. “I will return tomorrow,” he cast an unreadable eye on Mother, “to examine her progress.”
I followed him out of the room and into the hall, where he turned to me, expecting his coat and hat. I froze, thinking he
must not leave. What was I to do for Mother?

“Dose her every mealtime, with the tincture. And don’t forget the broth.” He frowned, seeming aware of my confusion. He spoke
over loud, as if he meant Chloe in the kitchen to hear his repeated instructions, and I realized he thought I was incompetent.
I recovered myself enough to hand him his coat, still cold from his ride to our house.

“Thank you for coming.” I did not feel polite, I was so worried, but Mother occupied my mind, insisting as she would have
that I behave responsibly.

“I am a physician, Miss Elizabeth! I took an oath to treat those who are diseased.” Dr. Hopson turned his back on me, and
hurried out the door.

I went to the kitchen to tell Chloe what to do, but when I got there I saw the kettle was boiling and the jars of slippery
elm and mint were already on the sideboard. Chloe stood by the soup pot, plucking the last feathers from a plump chicken that
had only recently lost its head.

“You heard the prescription for her care?”

“I did, and we must get the medicine inside her, for I done seen the pleurisy before, and it is a nasty ill.”

At supper, Chloe served the chicken meat with boiled hominy, and the broth was kept back to spoon to Mother. The meat was
most delicious, but I was terribly distracted, for looking around the table, I had the uneasy feeling it was growing larger
as its number of attendants shrank. The places once occupied by Jesse, John Jr., Mother and Father sat empty, and I was afraid
every one of us would soon be absent.

“We must make Mother well!” I hit my fist down on the table, and Drewry, Joel and Richard jumped, engrossed in the silent
tension of illness.

“Sister, let us take turns, and dose her through the night.” Drewry’s concern had greatly deepened after hearing the doctor’s
diagnosis.

“Mother will be well again.” Richard refused to think there could be any other possible outcome to her illness.

“We must pray it will be so.” I smoothed my napkin on my skirt, looking down so he could not see my eyes.

“Why not ask the Spirit if it can heal her?” Joel suggested.

“No!” In unison Drewry and I both reprimanded him. “Call not that ungodly entity,” I warned.

“It did like Mother best,” Joel said, shrugging his shoulders at our vehemence. He returned to chewing his meat. I knew he
was thinking of the time the Spirit had saved Richard from the whirlpool of quicksand and all the rest of us from the falling
tree, but all I could think of was the bottle of poison on Father’s bedside table, and the voice of the Being proclaiming,
Jack Bell, off to Hell
and
Betsy Bell, do not have Josh Gardner.

Drewry took the boys upstairs after supper, so I might have the first turn by Mother’s side. The fire hissed and sparked in
the parlor and Mother’s breath came irregularly. I placed the lamp on the table, and tried my best to coax spoonfuls of butterfly
root and broth down her throat, but some of it spilled down her chin and I had to wipe it away with my sleeve. I thought of
when I had poured whiskey into Father’s throat. I had not known it would be his last drink. Mother’s skin still burned like
fire, and her lips were the red of a tomato in summer, ripe to bursting. I thought of the times she had taken care of me as
I lay ill and I refused to think on what our lives would be like without her ever-present caring and concern.

“Jack … Jack!” She twisted her neck, resisting my attempts to feed her medicine. She breathed out heavily, as if she fell
more deeply asleep, and I sighed, frustrated, for she had not woken for near three days.

“Mother, it’s me, Betsy, can you hear me?” I decided I would read to her from the good book, an inspiring passage, though
I knew not if she could hear.

“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, who made Heaven and Earth.
The Lord is thy keeper: The Lord is thy shade on thy right hand.” There was a sound like the flutter of bird wings under a
shrub and without cold winds or noise to announce its return, the Spirit spoke in a comforting voice.

Poor Luce, poor Luce, I am so sorry you are sick.

“Please, torment us not!” I cried. “Have mercy on Mother, for ever she was good to you.” The Spirit did not reply and gave
no other sign of being present, and though my fingers holding the Bible began to shake, I continued reading.

“The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night. The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: He shall preserve
thy soul.”

Be quiet, Betsy. Let her sleep!

The Spirit admonished me in the most condescending tone, but I prevented myself from responding with anger.

“What is her fate? Can you help her?” I knew it was wrong of me to ask an evil demon favors, yet I feared with Mother in such
serious condition the Spirit and its power over life and death was, as Joel had suggested, perhaps our best hope. It did not
speak to me again but directed its ministrations solely to Mother.

Luce, poor Luce, I am so sorry you are sick.

“Ohhh,” Mother groaned as though she suffered greatly, “I am too ill to speak with you.” I was amazed to hear her voice.

That’s all right.

The Being’s tone surpassed Mother’s own in soothing tenderness.

I will be back in the morning. Rest, Luce. I promise you will feel better.

I had no reason to trust the Spirit, but its promise entered my heart and gave me hope. I felt comforted, for in all my efforts
through the day, Mother had not spoken a word, yet the Being had elicited a response. Drewry arrived to relieve me and I told
him all that had occurred. He listened, then put the back of his hand to her forehead.

“I believe her fever has broken.”

“Thanks be to God!” He looked into my eyes and I understood we were both aware we had the Spirit to thank, though neither
of us said so.

Mother rested well through the night and in the morning she awoke showing awareness of her situation.

“Betsy, help me to my pot.” She needed my arm to assist her and hold her as she squatted. I could tell she was embarrassed
to have me there, but also grateful. “I fear I am most truly unwell.” She moved slowly back to bed, leaning heavily on me,
for the journey to the corner of her room exhausted her.

“Dr. Hopson came while you were sleeping yesterday. He says you have the pleurisy, but if you rest and swallow down his tinctures,
you will soon recover.”

“What tincture did he leave?”

“ ’Tis butterfly root.”

“Did he leave no milkweed?”

I’ll fetch it.

The Spirit spoke like an eager child, and all of a sudden, a glass jar labeled
milkweed
, in Mother’s round cursive, appeared on my lap. I clutched it instinctively as it arrived so it did not fall from my knees
and break open on the floor. How had it materialized? I knew not! I held up the jar and inside was the milkweed herb, already
ground into a fine white powder.

“What am I to do?”

Mix it in a boiling kettle, two parts water to two parts weed.

“Yes …” Mother nodded, weak and fragile, sinking back in her pillows.

How do you fare today, Luce? Are you much recovered?

“Yes, thank you, but I am not yet myself completely.” Mother was honest with the Being and seemed to bear it no malice.

What can I do for you? I wish to be of service.

“You are kind.”

I do not like to see you ill or disconsolate, dear Luce. I will make you well.

“God gives us health and strength.”

Speak not. You must rest and I will sing to you.

I sat with the milkweed on my lap, unable to move from my spot, mesmerized by the sweet music of the Spirit’s song.

This day God gives me strength of High Heaven

Sun and moon shining

Flame in my hearth

Flashing of lightning

Wind in its swiftness

Deeps of the ocean

Firmness of earth

This day God gives me strength as my guardian

Might to uphold me

Wisdom as guide

Your eyes are watchful

Your ears are listening

Your lips are speaking

Friend at my side

The song was so profoundly moving, I felt I might shed tears from the pure beauty of it, or perhaps it was just my relief
over Mother’s turn for the better that made me weepy.

“Thank you,” Mother mumbled, polite even in illness. She gave the slightest smile and I saw she too had tears gathering in
the wrinkles at the corners of her fevered eyes. She closed them, as though she would return to sleep, and in my ear the Spirit
whispered.

Betsy, make the milkweed!

I had forgotten I was meant to do it, I was so absorbed. I almost asked, why did you not provide it ready-made? Yet I thought
twice before questioning the Being. I went to do the task and in the kitchen questioned Chloe instead.

“I must make a milkweed tincture for Mother and the Being has returned to sing her lullabies, promising she will improve.
Just now, did you feel the Spirit in the kitchen? The jar it brought came from the pantry, here.” I looked up on the shelf
and saw the place where the jar usually stood between
marjoram
and
mint
was empty, and I turned to Chloe, who had her back to me, busy at stoking the woodstove so I might set the kettle on to boil.

“Miss Betsy, I do say, I feel that ’haint all the time, all the time, and everywhere.” She looked around the kitchen and rolled
her eyes to the corners of the ceiling, as if she feared it listened even as we spoke.

“If it heals Mother quickly …” I did not know what to say, or what to think. If it saved our mother’s life, must it be redeemed
in my affections? I made the tincture of milkweed as instructed and returned to wait silently at her bedside to dose her with
it. Before long, her eyes fluttered open and her head shifted forward off her pillows. Immediately the Spirit spoke.

So, Luce, how do you feel now? Are you much recovered?

“Oh yes, thank you,” she replied in a hoarse whisper, but she did not look at all well to me. Her lips were swollen with white
blisters and her skin was pale and dry where before it had been flushed. She was recovering, but clearly she was still unwell.

The doctor is on his way, Luce, and he will be most impressed.