Receive Me Falling (2 page)

Saint
Mary’s was a gothic-style cathedral with an ornate altar framed in saints, tall
stained glass windows, massive columns, and a domed ceiling painted with the
stars in the formation they were in the night the church was dedicated over two
hundred years before.
 

Richard and Anne Owen lay in their caskets,
covered in white baptismal linens, sprinkled with holy water, and bathed in
incense.
 
Brian sat with his arm tightly
around Meg’s shoulders as she watched the fragrant smoke drift over her
parents’ bodies and up to the ceiling.
 

Father Francis was a family friend.
 
He and Richard had attended seminary together
many years before—Richard
 
dropping out
after a year to marry Anne, and Frank staying on to marry the church.
 
He spoke directly to Meg during the entire
homily, assuring her of her parents’ peaceful rest, offering her counsel,
lightening the heaviness with humor as often as he could.
  
But the truth of his words hit her
hard.
 
“This is only a temporary
separation, but one you will have to bear the hardest.”
 

It was a cold day, but a clear day.
 
Brian led her through the funeral, holding
her up as they traveled from church, to cemetery, to the wake at her parents’
house.
 
 
When all the guests had gone, Brian suggested
that Meg get some rest.

“If it’s okay with you, I want to be alone here
tonight,” said Meg.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Brian.
 
“Remember what Father Frank said.”

“I haven’t been alone since the accident.
 
You’ve been wonderful, but I just need some time
alone.”

A flicker of hurt passed over Brian’s face, but it
was quickly replaced with understanding.

“Call me tomorrow,” he said.

Meg reached for Brian and hugged him for a long
time.
 
Then he left, and she stood in the
middle of the foyer, alone in the silence.
 

Meg walked to the kitchen and poured herself a
glass of wine.
 
She walked through the
rooms in a trance, noting all the things that were just as her parents had left
them.
 
There was leftover roast beef in
the refrigerator.
 
Little hardened
circles of mud sat around her dad’s golf shoes in the garage.
   
Her mother’s dried lipstick marks smiled in
little half-moons around the edge of a tea cup on her nightstand.

Meg carried a bottle of wine and her glass into
her father’s office and sank into the worn leather chair behind his desk.
 
She looked at the picture of her and her dad
on the boat and picked it up.
 
They were
Irish—dark-blonde hair with blue eyes—but her dad’s hair was run through with white.
 
Meghan had her mother’s petite frame, but her
father’s lean face and blue eyes.
 
There
were fingerprints on the glass.
 
Meg
stuck her thumb in her sleeve and wiped the glass until it was clear.
 
She put the picture back down next to a
sculpture of a whale she had made in Kindergarten for her father.
 
Its knotty surface was faded blue and held
the imprints of her tiny fingers.
 

There was a stack of file folders on the
desk.
 
Meg opened the first and saw that
it contained papers relating to a vacation home the family owned in North Carolina.
 
There were settlement papers, a real estate contract,
and photographs her mother had taken for the insurance company when the siding
had blown off the eastern side of the house in a hurricane.
 
In the background of one of the photos she
could see the dune covered in sea oats that had been flattened in the wind, and
she smiled.
 

Two years ago, Meg had read an article about how
sea oat roots formed a network of support under a dune to protect the land from
tidal surges.
 
She ordered hundreds of
seedlings, drew detailed maps of where they should be set, and enlisted her
parents and Brian to plant them in early March.
 

The day had been unseasonably cold.
 
Not expecting the chilly temperatures, they
had not packed enough warm clothing for an all day, outdoor planting. Her
father had on Brian’s St. John’s
College sweatshirt and a
painters’ hat he had found in the owner’s closet of the house.
 
She and her mother had wrapped chenille
blankets around their bodies and ears in an unstylish but toasty configuration.
 
Brian had on two shirts and a yellow rain
slicker.
 

At first, they all listened to Meg as she told
them where to put the staggered, horizontal rows, but became impatient with her
and began to plant them wherever they wanted.
 

 
          
“Don’t
complain to me when a tidal surge destroys the house because the sea oats
weren’t planted properly,” she had said as she tried to keep her tidy rows
going.
 

They ended up getting the sea oats in the ground
much more quickly after that, and enjoyed teasing Meg throughout the rest of
the process.
 
The sea oats had done a
fine job of keeping the dunes strong, and did end up holding out a tidal surge.

Meg closed the folder and turned to the next one
that held the history of the house she lived in off of

Meg read through the folders for hours.
 
She took comfort in touching her father’s
things and looking at photographs of places she knew well.
 
She realized halfway through the pile that
all this was hers now.
 
It was
overwhelming.
 

When the clocked reached
midnight
, Meg stood and stretched.
 
She rubbed her aching neck and looked around
at the empty bottles of wine standing erect in a monument to her grief.
 
There was a small amount of wine left in the
bottom of the bottle nearest to her, so she poured it into her glass and sat down
to read through the last folder.
 
In it
was an old photograph of a dilapidated mansion.
 

EDEN
, Nevis.

That was all that was written on the back of the
picture.
 
The house looked as if it had
once been grand, but had fallen into disrepair.
 
All signs of life around the place had vanished: vines grew wild over
the portico, weeds had overtaken the fountain and driveway, broken, jagged,
wooden shutters jutted out from old rotten frames.
 

According to the paperwork, her family owned a
large amount of property on the Caribbean island of Nevis.
 
She vaguely remembered her father mentioning
the property some years ago, but never since.
 
The photograph showed the remains of an old plantation home, Eden.
   

Paradise
.

She finished her glass of wine and stumbled over
to the couch.
 
Her father’s old, gray
cardigan was draped over its edge.
 
Meg
wrapped it around her shoulders, inhaled its salty smell, and slept.

It
was the vase of dead flowers that set off the panic attack. Twenty-four dried
roses faded into various shades of brown, with heads drooping, looking at the
black marble window sill and their own discarded bits of petal and pollen.
 
The flowers had been from her father on her
birthday.
 

           
Meg had only been back to work for
two days after four days of leave, following the funeral.
 
The Governor’s Office gave four days of
mourning for family members, and a pamphlet dating back to 1972 outlining
Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression,
Acceptance.
 
Meg figured that they
allowed one day for each stage, banking on Acceptance falling on the first day
of return from leave.
 
She felt like she
was still lost in the haze of Denial.

Meg looked from the flowers to her desk.
 
There was a binder full of information on an
upcoming fundraiser for the Governor, piles of unopened mail, a blinking light
on her phone, a wedding planner--six inches thick with papers spilling out of
it, and a file folder from her assistant jumping off the bookshelf with a note
on the front of it that read: “When you get a chance.”
 
Her email had ninety-seven unopened
messages—thirty-one with urgent marks.

Meg’s assistant buzzed in.
 

“Your meeting with the Governor?”

“Oh, I forgot.
 
I’ll be right there.”

The upcoming Nelson Night Fundraiser was Meg’s
biggest project, and had gone by the wayside during the past week.
 
Governor Nelson was kind but made it clear
that he needed her to refocus.
 
She
scribbled notes as he rattled off the guest list and the people he wanted to
secure as speakers.
 
Meg kept up but had
little to offer in the way of suggestion.
 

The governor watched Meg chew the inside of her
lip and draw a spiral on her notepad that got smaller and smaller.
 
Her eyes were facing him, but she wasn’t
looking at him.
 
She was looking through
him at some memory that pulled her away, until he said, “You’ve had enough.”

Meg blinked and shook off her thoughts.

“We can continue tomorrow,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”
 
Meg stood and gathered her papers to leave while Nelson walked over to
the door.
 
He stopped her before he
opened it.

“I’m very sorry for your pain, Meghan.
 
If there is anything I can do for you, I am
always available.”
 

Before she could refuse, Nelson had her in a full
embrace that didn’t leave much of his form to the imagination.
 
She extracted herself from his hold, mumbled
something, walked back to her office, closed her door, and sat at her desk trying
to process what had just happened. Meg felt uncomfortable, but knew that she
wasn’t thinking clearly.
 

He was
just trying to console me.

But the way he loomed over her as he held the door
knob—the way he gathered her into his chest.
 
She could still feel his hands pressing into her back and his pelvis
pushing into her body.
 
She shuddered.

Meg looked at the vase of dead flowers from her
father and felt her chest get tight.
 
She
was having difficulty catching her breath, and she began to feel
lightheaded.
 
She clutched the edge of
her desk to steady herself, and tried to focus on something other than the
flowers.
 
Oddly enough, she was able to
use the blinking light on the phone to regulate her breathing until her heart
rate returned to normal.
 
Once Meg
regained control of herself, she walked to the window, picked up the vase of
dead flowers, and dropped it into the trash bin by the door.

2

Insomnia
had lately taken hold of Catherine.
 
She
blew out the candle and stared through the darkness at the various layers of
black that now made her room.
 
The bureau
was coal-black, the walls were blackish-blue, the floor was brown-black, and
the mirror looked gray-black.
 
She went
through her usual night routine of reading, praying, and lying with her eyes
open to make the hours pass, hoping to fall asleep all the while, but eager for
the morning light so she could stop trying.
 
She thought of things she needed to do the next day. With each passing
minute, she found herself feeling more and more awake.
 
She finally got out of bed and opened the
shutters to watch the plantation under the weight of night—the faraway fires
burning on torches in cane fields where slaves worked to complete harvest,
palms throwing around their leaves in the wind blasts.
 

Catherine crossed the room and slipped through the
netting that hung from the ceiling to the floor around her bed.
 
She flicked off several moths and beetles and
again tried to rest.

The night was never silent in Nevis:
shutters tapped the window casing in response to the wind, palm leaves hissed
and rustled, the song of the bellfrogs reached frantic levels. Then there was
the heat.
 
The night was not hot, but the
wood in the flooring of the house absorbed the sun all day and released its hot
trappings as the wind blew the house at night.
 
Catherine pulled her nightdress up to her waist under the light sheet,
and wished she could remove it entirely.
 
The sheet felt cool on her bare legs and she longed for the feeling to
reach the rest of her body.

Just as she was about to let go and succumb to
sleep, her door opened and Leah’s dark form moved to her bed.

“The baby is coming,” whispered the slave girl.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes—any moment now.”

Catherine felt like she could manage to sleep if
she were just left alone, but could not resist the birthing—her first.
 
She dressed hastily, crept on bare feet down
the staircase, and hurried to the back of the house holding Leah’s hand.
 
Catherine’s heart pounded loudly enough, she
feared, to wake her father, but she and Leah slipped out of the house
unnoticed.

The darkness engulfed the young women as they
tread away from the Great House to the slaves’ path, and the moving clouds
rolled thick over the moon.
 
The girls
moved along the dirt path in silence until a thumping of heavy boots could be
heard nearby.
 
They had only just ducked
behind a group of oleander bushes when a large, shadowed figure passed them.
 
They could smell the sharp salt of sweat and
the stale odor of old alcohol, and knew that it was the overseer,
Phinneas.
 
Catherine felt Leah tremble as
they waited for the sound of his boots to vanish.
 
After a short time, the girls moved back onto
the path and hurried to the slave village.
 

When they arrived at the thatched hut, a small
fire crackled outside its entrance.
 
Water was warming over the fire, and gasps and cries could be heard
coming from inside the hut.
 
Catherine
took a deep breath and entered the hut to find Esther, her surrogate slave
mother, wiping a young slave woman’s sweating face.
 
Esther’s dark eyes grew wide upon seeing her
young mistress in such living quarters, and she moved to Catherine and implored
her to leave.

“You must go!”

“Mami, you know how I have longed to see this.”

“You should not be here.
 
This is not a scrape or insect bite.
 
Childbirth is not something your eyes should
see unless you are going through it yourself.”

 
         
Leah
stooped in the corner of the hut trying to sink into the shadows.
 
Esther turned to Leah and began to hiss and curse
at her in her thick African tongue.

“Please, Mami, do not abuse Leah,” said
Catherine.
 
“I insisted she tell me when
the baby was coming.
 
I can be of
assistance, and I assure you that Father will never find out what I have seen.”

“It is not your father who will punish us,” said
Esther.
 
“Mr. Sarponte knows all that
goes on in Eden.
 
He has eyes all over.
 
Other slaves inform him of our goings on when
he cannot be here himself.”

“I’m already here. No one saw us arrive. I’ll slip
out once it is over, and no one will know.”

An agonized scream pierced their conversation and
forced the women to tend to Rebecca.
 
Esther looked from Leah to Catherine, and finally said, “Catherine,
continue ragging Rebecca’s head.
 
Leah,
hold this knife over the fire.
 
Hurry,
this child is eager to enter the world.”

 
          
“How
long has she been like this?” asked Catherine.

“She has been laboring for many hours, but now the
pains are coming close together.
 
I feel
that this child will be born before sunrise.
 
She is moving quickly for her first time.
 
That will be a blessing.”

The women worked in silence, communicating only
through gestures.
 
An hour passed slowly
as they rotated duties in the small room.
 
The stifling heat inside the hut, combined with the odors of
perspiration and childbirth nauseated Catherine and made her feel faint; but
she was determined to be strong, and she fought through her own weakness.
 
Leah, unable to stand the atmosphere,
disappeared outside the hut, and returned looking ashen.

Another hour passed, when Esther announced that
the child’s head could be seen.
 
Esther
soothed Rebecca in her low, musical voice.
 
She then gave Rebecca instructions, and Rebecca adjusted her position.
 
Catherine strained to understand Esther’s
words.

“Leah, hold the stick in her mouth.”
  

Esther turned back to Rebecca and gave her a
command.
 
Rebecca pushed and screeched,
and the baby’s head began to emerge from her body.
  
The women encouraged her until she was overcome
by fatigue.
 
They continued in this
manner for an interminable amount of time until the baby’s tiny blue head
emerged.

Catherine stared at the blue knob between
Rebecca’s legs.
 
Panic seized her and she
began to feel lightheaded.
 
What if the
child was born dead?
 
How could she face
Rebecca?
 
What would they do with the
infant?
 
They would have to bury the tiny
body swiftly since the slaves were superstitious about such occurrences.
 
How could she take care of that without her
father finding out that she was present at the birth?

Esther’s voice became stern as she shouted at
Rebecca.
 
Rebecca pushed and screamed as
the shoulders, stomach and legs of the baby slipped from her womb.
 
Except for Rebecca’s ragged breathing, the
hut became silent.
 
Esther’s hands slid
over the baby’s slippery chest, around his neck, and into his mouth.
 
She flipped him over and struck him on the back.
  
Within seconds a thick, gurgling, guttural
noise spewed from the child, followed by an angry wail. Catherine released her
breath and smiled with relief as Esther placed the boy onto Rebecca’s chest.
  

The child soon quieted and gazed at his surroundings.
 
Catherine approached Rebecca and stroked the
baby’s cheek, while Leah pulled away the flap covering the hut’s opening to let
in the fresh, tropical air.
 
After a few
moments, the women cleaned the baby, and then Rebecca as she nursed her
infant.
 

Esther suddenly exclaimed, “Catherine, you must
go!
 
Dawn is breaking!
 
Go, while the shadows will still hide you!”

Catherine looked with alarm at the sky, and ran to
the shelter of the trees.
 
She moved
toward her home under the protection of the shrubs, flowers, and vines.
 
She passed through the banks of the lagoon
and stayed hidden by the forest until she found the side door to the kitchen
and entered the Great House.
 

Catherine tiptoed to the large staircase, but just
as her hand reached the banister she heard her father gasp.
 
Horrified, Catherine turned around to see her
father passed out on the hall couch.
 
He
was grunting in a spirit-soaked dream.
 
Her heart steadied itself as she crept up the staircase and into the
safety of her room.
 

Catherine lit a candle and ran her eyes over her
soiled clothing.
 
Blood, dirt, and sweat
matted the fabric and caused it to stick to her body.
 
She peeled away the layers of stiff material
and placed them in a pile behind her chest of drawers.
 
Using a coarse towel and fresh water from her
basin, Catherine began to rub the filth from her body, which was stiff and sore
from crouching in the hut for hours amidst such tension.

Once the ruddy stain was bled from her body to the
water in the basin, Catherine blew out the candle and collapsed into bed.

The
candlelight flickered in the drafts blasting in from the shutters, which could
barely hold out the wind.
 
The men sat
sweating in the small room at the heavy wood table.
 

           
“It will soon be over,” said Albert
Silwell.

           
“How can that be?
 
Slavery is as old as the land.
 
England is thousands of miles
away—there’s no way to enforce such laws,” said Jonas Dearing. “The Nevis
Council and Assembly are composed of the seven wealthiest planters on the
island.
 
Are they going to simply free
hundreds of slaves and start toiling the land themselves?”

           
“English abolitionist politicians,
like us, appointed by Thomas Clarkson and the Society for the Mitigation and
Gradual Abolition of Slavery will continue to arrive on the island in droves
over the next few months. Extensive research into the slaves’ quality of life,
the most effective means of phasing out the system, and planter compensation
packages will be outlined and executed.
 
Those unwilling to comply with the new laws will be dealt with justly.”

           
“And how do you propose to find your
way onto these thriving plantations for observation?
 
Will you simply walk to the front door and
ask the master of the house if you may stroll about the grounds?”

           
“Certainly not,” said Albert.
 
“Word has been sent to the three largest
plantations on the island that we are businessmen here to observe their plantations
at work so that we may start our own sugar plantation on the island of St. Christopher.
 
We come as apprentices.”

           
“Some may be suspicious of you.
 
Cane on Nevis
is a dying enterprise.
 
Aside from a few
lucky plantations, many have switched crops or abandoned the island
completely.”

           
The men looked at one another over
the dull light of the dying candles.
 
James Silwell stared between his father and the farmer.
 
Their dialogue had been going on for hours,
and James longed to plunge himself headfirst into the sea that he could hear
crashing in the distance.
 
His stiff,
layered, aristocratic clothing was suffocating him.
 
He thought with disgust of moving about in
such clothing outdoors in the afternoon.
 
James had been reluctant to accompany his father on the trip, but a
motherless bachelor learning the business of English politics had no excuse to
stay in Cornwall while his aging father made the
journey across the Atlantic.