Coldwater Revival: A Novel (15 page)

I searched the house for paper. Mama needed to know I was doing …
better?
Maybe she wouldn’t worry so much if she received confirmation by my own hand. And what was one more lie added to the platter of untruths I’d already served Granny? I looked everywhere, disgruntled because the one time I felt inclined to write, I could find no paper. I recalled the tablet Granny kept in her purse. She used it to write letters, grocery lists, and memory-jogging notes she left on the toilet lid, icebox shelf, and other strange places about the house. Notes to cover her forgetfulness. And when she couldn’t hide her memory loss, she spun it into wisecracks, such as: “Seems like every time I stand up, my memory decides to sit back down.”

As I plowed through Granny’s shoulder bag, my gaze faltered on familiar handwriting: a letter from Mama—stuffed into the folds of her catchall purse. Gripped by a sense of foreboding, I slipped the letter into the pocket of my overalls and scurried to my room. I closed the door and sat on the bed, knowing I was at a crossroad, of sorts. But was I ready to choose the road to truth? As I unfolded Mama’s letter, dated five days earlier, my hands quivered like a divining rod over water, for I sensed that the gnarly knots of truth were about to be untangled.

Dearest Mara,

As I lift my pen to write the latest news, I do so with trembling hand and heavy heart. My heart knows little else than weariness, these days. Though Doctor Landers tries to extend us hope, his eyes cannot hide the truth. The longer Caleb remains in a coma, the less chance there is for a full recovery … or any recovery at all. We’ve been warned that he may have suffered injury to the brain, which could possibly result in retardation of some sort.

My precious boy swallows juices and broth I spoon down his throat. It is a reflexive habit, I believe, for the rest of his body remains lifeless as before. Oh, Mara. What am I to do? How can I help my Caleb fight for life when my own heart knows only the emptiness of sorrow and broken dreams? My poor child. How ashamed he would be to know he now wears diapers as he did when a babe.

How did you do it, Mara? How did you lose your husband and three children, yet today remain staunchly vital and alive? Where did you gain courage and strength to bear such pain? I truly feel I could not survive the loss of another child.

At night, after the family has gone to bed, I return to my beloved Micah. Lantern in hand, I find my way to his side on the darkest of nights. I must! For I hear him calling to me. What kind of mother would I be to leave him all alone? I kneel by his headstone, missing him more than I did the day he left us. With every breath I take, I long to see his sweetness … just one more time. To touch his face and nestle him in my arms. Oh, if only the boys hadn’t wandered off into that field of death …

Please, Mara, tell no one of my lingering sadness. Or the lost condition I find myself in. I admit to you and you alone that my faith has faltered a time or two. But I know it is because of my own weakness—and not because God has deserted us, for his love is unfailing. I continue to put on a good front for the family, especially Roan. He has taken Micah’s death the hardest. For a father to lose his son … I didn’t know what suffering was until we lost our Micah, dear friend. At least I have the sweet release of tears. If Roan finds such release, it is never in my presence.

It saddens me that Emma Grace has not regained her will to live—that fighting spirit that kept her alive during infancy. Where has it gone? She seems not the same vibrant child that filled our home with unceasing chatter and wild, wild tales. If only I could breathe life back into her.

Please pray that I will find the strength to take care of my family—to help them walk through this valley of grief. They need my devoted care and unselfish attention. Not a mother destroyed by loss.

I continue to thank God for your help. How blessed I was the day I married Roan, and gained not only his undying love, but also a mother and a friend. Thank you for taking care of our Emma Grace.

I must close now and try to rest, if not sleep. It brings me comfort to share my deepest anguish with you, knowing that once you felt the same hopelessness and sorrow I now feel. I beg you—let no one know the faithless words I’ve written.

I remain your loving daughter,

Annaleen

Mama’s words echoed in my heart like a trumpet in the wind. If only the boys hadn’t wandered off into that field of death.… If only Emma Grace had kept her brothers near her, where they belonged. That’s what Mama’s words were really saying. My eyes spilled over, teardrops bathing Mama’s penmanship, puddling her words and mottling the paper with streaks of black ink. I wadded the letter into my pocket and rushed to the front porch.

At the top stair, I tossed my crutch to the ground and bottom-bumped my way down to the foundation step. Retrieving my crutch, I raced against the wind, into the unknown. Mind-boggling urgency drove me from Granny’s house. Away from the prison of my own making.

Nineteen

Flickers of fire spun down from the sun, setting the ocean ablaze with feverish light. Such intensity hurt my eyes. Turning my back on the water, I hooded my eyes and scoured East Beach for a niche in which to hide.

My reservoir of energy had run dry some time earlier, and now my legs spurned the thought of dragging through one more pile of loose sand. Like a hermit seeking solitude, I aimed my crutch toward a cluster of sand ridges. Glancing behind, I noted the trail I’d forged in the sand: round holes paired with single shoeprints. They were the tracks a peg-leg pirate might have made once upon a time. Sinking to a sand bed between two dunes, I kicked off my shoes and dug my toes into the cool sand. I rubbed my afflicted leg, repeating a longtime habit of persuasive massage that purportedly helped it grow. The heat of day had deserted this valley floor, leaving only cool shade behind. Concealed from the curious stares of Sunday onlookers, I sat in the shadows and thought about Mama’s letter.

Mama’s letter burned in my pocket like a bonfire: her pretense and my hope—gone up in smoke and reduced to ashes by her neatly written words. Caleb would die, most likely. Even if he lived, he would not be the child he once was. Whatever the outcome, I was responsible for my family’s loss. How I wished I could erase the past and roll back time to that hot August day my brother died. I would hold onto the twins with the strength of a mountain man, and though they’d scorn my protectiveness, I would bind them with a rope, if need be, and never loose them to wander the field of death.

Bitter tears poured from my eyes as I lay in the sand, pleading for a fairy-tale ending to my sorrow. But wishes were like dreams. They never really came true. Deep within, where my heart lay open and bleeding to the truth, I knew there’d be no happily ever after for my family. No magic spells cast in the name of true love. Life was permanent. Micah was gone forever, and Mama’s arms would never cease their yearning. Were I to offer my life for Micah’s a thousand times over, I could never right the wrongs I had done. Oh, that I could put my thoughts aside—if but for a moment—and ease the pain in my heart.

The overhead call of seagulls roused my awareness. Scooting from the shadows, I watched as a quartet of birds dived to shore and battled over bits of food plunder. They raced in wild plunges, attacking and withdrawing, their shrill squawks a bother to my ears. A lopsided pelican swooped low over the water, looking the blunderbuss as it scooped in a mouthful of sea. Even his wide beak and awkward takeoff couldn’t fetch a smile to my face.

I sat in secluded misery as minutes nibbled away the hours, and breakers heaved ashore, carrying parcels of sea floor with them. The waves mixed with lacy whitecaps, leaving dingy ruffles of foam to scallop the sand. As clouds sculpted the beach with bizarre shadows, the hazy sun sank closer to the sea. For a while it rested there, as though a colossal Titan had tossed a fiery ball onto the water. Then the sun scrunched lower yet, dipping to ocean floor, it seemed. Nightfall would soon follow. Granny would be worried and ready to blister my hide. But I couldn’t go back to her house. Not yet.

I left the dune at twilight and shuffled to shore, sitting myself upon a drying pathway of retreating tide. A few feet away, a sandpiper pecked out a nest in the damp sand. Tiny as a robin’s egg, the wee piper popped its head above the hole, revealing a feathery crest. I watched with heavy heart, knowing this little life was in danger, for creatures more powerful and cruel roamed the sky and sand, seeking the weakness of others.

While I sat in the mute numbness of lost and shredded thoughts, the wind tossed my hair and delivered a surfeit of scents to my doorstep: the odor of petroleum from ships anchored in the bay, a whiff of decaying seaweed, and a sweet fragrance I identified as jasmine. They blurred together like the mishmash of thoughts in my head. I licked brackish sea spray from my lips and turned my gaze upon a noisy group of revelers that stomped the boardwalk of Murdoch’s Bathhouse. There was no likening of their boisterousness to the silent sorrow in my heart. Their joyful laughter confounded me, for I could not understand how it flowed with such abundance when my own heart lay smashed in unmendable pieces.

When more of the sun rested below the horizon than above it, a young boy ran past me on the beach, his brown curls flopping like the tail of a high-soaring kite. As his bare feet stomped the damp sand, giggles poured from his mouth. Micah’s giggles.

“Micah!” I shouted, leaping to my feet. I grabbed my crutch and chased after my little brother. “Micah—wait for me.” The wind puffed my words back in my face, but quick was my gait and thunderous my heart as I followed the wee tracks of my brother. His feet churned ever faster, laughter trailing behind him like a string of ducklings on the heels of their mother. My eyes filled with tears of joy.
Micah! Oh, Micah, wait for me!

“Jonathan! Jonathan Theodore Davidson … you get yourself back here this instant. If I have to come after you, I’m bringing a belt.” A voice ranted behind me, drawing closer as I slowed my pursuit.

When the woman hurried by, her face in what seemed a twist of anger and frustration, I slumped to the ground in despair. She lunged after the boy, catching a bit of shirttail, halting his escape. The child’s eyes burned with a look of youthful mischief, reminding me more of Caleb than Micah. He seemed delighted to have the woman scoop him into her arms. As she turned and walked the path she’d previously galloped, the boy’s grin set my heart to trembling. I broke down and cried for the hopelessness of my loss. Micah was dead and buried. He couldn’t run on the beach, as Jonathan Theodore Davidson did. Micah would never run on the beach again. ’Twas a terrible thing to have a beautiful dream come true before your eyes—and then have that dream ripped out of your heart in a moment’s time.

As the sky drifted into inky shades of darkness, I sat on my sand cushion, numb to everything but sorrow. The sea flowed without interruption and the stars—pocketed in hidden valleys of the firmament—blinked with eternal consistency. I placed my hand over my heart, wondering why my brokenness hadn’t caused its collapse. The dull cadence wore on, steadfast, if not honorable. A bird with a broken wing cannot fly. How was it possible that I, who possessed a dead, lifeless heart, detected its beat within?

Blurred images and shadows of movement melded together with the passage of time. Across the bobbing surf, a light floundered. A pinprick of brightness that flickered like a candle teased by the wind. I spied it again, blinking its own rhythm as it streaked the darkness above the rolling sea. The light called to me.

I followed its beam across the pages of time—back to the night of my baptism six years earlier. At dusk, after the Sunday evening service, Dutch Welgren hoisted a lantern above my head while Pastor Emery guided me into the spirited water of Susquant Creek. As he asked God’s blessings on the three children who had just given their hearts to Jesus, of whom I was the youngest, I kept vigilant watch on the creek banks where patches of prickly ash grew. We called the brush “devil’s walking stick,” for within its spiny sharpness a nest of water moccasins was known to abide. Being far less spirit-filled than the preacher, I begged God for one thing only: to keep the snakes asleep in their beds of shrub until the dunking was over and I had bolted from the creek.

The memory departed as quickly as it had arrived. I blinked and narrowed my gaze, searching anew for a signal from the sea.

Lights along the seawall came on as if by magic. Granny had informed me about Galveston’s modern electrical lights. But by the crispness of her voice I knew she preferred the olden days when gas lamps were set aflame by the lamplighter’s torch and pole. Murdoch’s Bathhouse was illuminated as well, lantern light bathing the building with saffron glow. However, darkness abode in its depths, just thirty feet below the fancy railing. Stabilized in shoes of ocean floor, wooden piers stood firm as the tide raced irresistibly out to sea. Those with tender ears could hear the sighing and moaning of the sea as it surged through the maze of timbered beams. They could hear the haunting melody it crooned. ’Twas a melody intended for the brokenhearted. Fortunate I was the sea knew only the story of my grief. Had it also known my guilt, it would not have bothered to sing for me at all.

In the choppy water of the bay, the light toiled on. Perhaps my eyes alone saw the flickering message it sent across the waves.
Forgetfulness is waiting for you. Come—find it within my depths.
I could no longer deny the obvious solution to my pain. Rising from the sand, I moved toward the light.

I had taken but a few steps when I halted and turned away. Retracing an earlier route, I tracked back to the dune of my afternoon respite. Once there, I unclasped Mama’s locket and held it next to my bumping heart. With each tear that spattered the sand, I felt more at peace with the decision I had made. And more sorrowful for the grief I had caused. I kissed the locket and pigeonholed it in a pocket of dune. After sprinkling it with a thin coating of sand, I lay my crutch atop it.

Perhaps Mama will chance upon the locket someday, and remember me with love.

I limped back to the water, content my wanderings had gone undetected. As I shuffled across the doorstep of the sea, waves lapped my ankles and splashed the cuffs of my overalls. Ocean breezes pelted me with moistness that felt more like aloneness. My teeth chattered from the cold. And from fright, as well, for though my will to live occupied less space than a gnat in the universe of time, the path I had chosen was still a fearful one to travel. Through a chute of tears, I located the blinking light and aimed my feet toward it. As I pushed through waves that had their genesis on the far side of the sea, I stayed my vision on the light.