Widow of Gettysburg (35 page)

The boy did go home in the morning, but not by rail. Wrapped in a blanket, he was set aside for burial, and Charlotte asked Amelia to write the letter to his mother.

“Please,” Charlotte said. “I know it’s taxing. But it will mean more coming from you than from me. You were with him in his last moments.” She did not need to remind Amelia that Charlotte had been with Levi in his, and had taken up the task of writing to her son’s family.

Now it was Amelia’s turn. What an agonizing duty.
How do you tell a complete stranger that her son is dead?
Even before she reads a word, the unfamiliar handwriting will give away the message. Her mind will spin back to the first time she held him as a baby to her breast, his first wobbly steps into her arms, the sticky, slobbery kisses on her face, his sweaty arms around her neck after romping about outside. She will long for his scent, just one more time, and will watch him grow into a young man before her eyes. She will crumple to the floor if she has not already fallen and fear she has forgotten how to breathe. Emptiness will rip open inside her and she will expect the void to swallow her whole.

Amelia knew. She remembered it all in vivid detail, when it was her own son who had died. The yellow and white striped summer gown she wore had seemed a garish frame for the letter that had fallen from trembling hands onto her lap. Mad with grief, she had clawed at the silk skirt, knocking over a vase full of daisies, not caring that glass shattered, and water puddled on the walnut table. Hiram, her own husband, accused
of her lying.
He is not dead, he cannot be dead.
Over and over again. The loss would destroy the man she had married and replace him with a cruel imposter.

Amelia breathed deeply now.
Today is not about my loss
, she reminded herself. This moment was for someone else.
How do I begin?
Charlotte’s letter had begun with a single verse—2 Corinthians 1:3. She still knew it by heart.

But if Amelia recalled correctly, the verse ended before the sentence did. Curious, she drew a small black Bible from her satchel and found the passage. “Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort; Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God. For as the sufferings of Christ abound in us, so our consolation also aboundeth by Christ.”

Tears dripped on the thin page. God had comforted her, when Hiram certainly couldn’t, and now it was Amelia’s turn to comfort someone else. She reread the last verse. Had she truly allowed her consolation to abound in Christ? Her heart pinched.

The more Hiram lashed out at her from his own private prison of pain, the more she had dwelled on her loss—not God. She stared at it every day, refused to part with grief, cuddled up to it at night when Hiram left her cold. Mourning had a place, but Amelia Sanger didn’t leave it there. She embedded it into her spirit, until the term “survivor” encompassed her being.

Would she advise this woman, about to be plunged into fresh, raw grief, to do the same?

Finally, she knew what to say. She began, not with grief, but with God, “the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort,” following Charlotte’s example. She would end with the lines of Simon’s favorite hymn.

L
iberty’s tray crashed to the barn floor, draining cups of beef tea into the straw and hard-packed dirt. Steam curled frantically around the steady drips of rain falling from the leaky roof.

“Myrtle!” She called over her shoulder. “Get Dr. O’Leary! Now!”

Myrtle appeared in the doorway, her drenched hair and clothing clinging limply to her body. She took one look at Silas and paled. “Silas wants me,” she said. “Not you. I’ll stay with him and you go. I know how to make him better.”

“Don’t argue with me, just get the doctor!” Liberty shouted over the growl of thunder. “Tell him he needs his zinc sulfate! Hurry!”

Liberty watched the awkward girl run away, tripping on her skirt in the mud, then knelt beside Silas. His skin was cold and clammy, his lips and fingertips tinged an unearthly shade of blue. He opened his eyes, revealing small pupils.

“Liberty?”

“I’m here, Silas. And I’m not leaving.”

“Do you see him? My father is just there—how is my father here?” Terror seemed to seize Silas. He shrunk away from the lightning that flashed beyond the door. “So angry, so angry, he’s always so angry. I’m sorry, Father!”

Liberty swiveled on her knees, grinding oily straw into her skirt. “No, Silas, you’re hallucinating. Don’t be afraid.”

Please God, don’t take him.

Two pairs of footsteps came squelching in. Myrtle dripped on Silas while Dr. O’Leary examined him. He sniffed his breath.

“Does he need more medicine?” Myrtle pulled from her apron pocket a handful of opium pills. “I just gave him some not long ago.”

“Good God, girl, what have you done?” Dr. O’Leary snapped at her, and she pulled her head down into her neck.

“He didn’t feel good, and this makes him feel better.” Her voice wavered. “It makes him sleep.”

Comprehension shot through Liberty. The girl she told to take care of Silas had poisoned him.
I should never have let her take my place!

“Did Dr. Stephens tell you to do that?” Dr. O’Leary did not look up as he pulled the zinc sulfate solution from his bag.
Just as I suspected. Opium overdose.

“No, I learned how to do it all by myself. Sometimes Dr. Stephens gives him medicine, and sometimes I do. When the doctor is busy.”

Dr. O’Leary’s face twitched in anger, as he helped Silas take his first dose of zinc sulfate.

Seething, Liberty stood, grabbed Myrtle by the arm and pulled her outside the barn.

“I trusted you, and so did Silas, and you’ve nearly killed him.” Rain began to soak her clothes.

“What? I gave him medicine! That’s what you do for sick people, you give them medicine!”

Was she really that simple? “No, Myrtle, you don’t give medicine,
the doctors give medicine. If you give too much, or if you give the wrong medicine, you could kill him!”

“Kill Silas Ford? But I don’t want to do that, I love—”

Goosebumps covered Libbie’s skin, though the summer rain was warm. “You what?”

Myrtle hung her head, slumped her shoulders, rounded her back. “Silas Ford wants Myrtle Henderson. He needs me. He asked for me.”

“That’s over now.” Liberty waved the words away, paced the trampled yard, arms crossed across her chest. She wanted to send her away for good, but with Bella gone … she pressed a hand to her aching forehead.

“But I didn’t mean to be naughty! I’m a good girl!”

Liberty stared at this childlike creature. She was not malicious. Simple, yes. But mean-spirited and calculating? No.

“Now you listen to me, Myrtle. I believe you meant well. I know you didn’t intend to harm Silas—but you have. So if you wish to stay here, you will stick to the duties of laundry, boiling water so we can use it, disinfecting the trench, emptying the chamber pots. Do you understand me?”

Tears filled Myrtle’s eyes. “You’re angry with me. You yelled at me.”

Liberty’s fists clenched at her sides. Silas could be on death’s doorstep right now. Yet she modulated her tone anyway. “I’m upset that Silas is very, very sick. I need to know that you understand me. You are not to go near Silas ever again. Nor any of the patients.”

“But he asked—”

“I am in charge here. I say you will not enter the barn again. If you do, I will personally put you on the train back to Baltimore, for if you cannot be trusted in this hospital, you cannot be trusted in any other. Now tell me that you understand.” Shuddering with impatience, she waited for some sign of comprehension.

“Yes,” she hissed. “No more Silas.” Her eyes flashed. Was she angry now?
Fine. So am I.
Liberty matched Myrtle’s scowl with one of her own before running back into the barn.

Myrtle watched Liberty’s lithe form disappear into the gaping barn. She hated that barn with its torn-out doors. It looked like it was laughing at her.

Or yelling at her. She hated it when people yelled at her.

Glowering like the stormy sky, Myrtle plodded back toward the summer kitchen and ducked into its steamy shelter. She sat on a barrel and brought Dolly out of her pocket. At least Dolly was still smiling. Myrtle traced the smile on the rag doll’s face with her fingertip, back and forth, back and forth, to reassure her of its permanence.

Myrtle was mortified.

And heartbroken. She brought Dolly to her cheek and sobbed.
No more Silas? No more Silas? But I love him! And he needs me! I helped him feel better whenever he felt any pain!

Rain splattered against the broken windows, spitting moisture on Myrtle as she sat there. It was as if the sky itself was hissing at her!

“Liberty is mean,” she told Dolly.

No, she isn’t. She just cares about Silas.

“I care about Silas! I love him!”

So does she.

“What? Who told you that?”

Dolly was lying again. She must be.

I’m not lying, Myrtle. She loves him, and it’s plain as your face that Silas loves her, too.

Myrtle’s fingers cinched around Dolly’s waist and squeezed. “How dare you say that? Maybe she’s cast another spell on him. I have to warn him.”

You idiot. You simpleton.

Myrtle shook the doll for being so impertinent and rude. How could Dolly be so rude with that wide smile on her face?

“Why else would Silas ask me to be his nurse if he didn’t care for me?”

Don’t you get it? He wants her to be his sweetheart, not his nurse.

“Shut up.” Myrtle jumped to her feet and slammed the doll down on the barrel. Dirt smudged Dolly’s face. Myrtle smiled. That felt good.

He loves her. She’s beautiful, kind, and smart. You might be kind sometimes, Myrtle, but you sure aren’t much to look at, and you definitely could never be accused of intelligence.

“I said, shut up!” Tears watered Myrtle’s cheeks, and her face swelled with anger. She hurled Dolly against the opposite wall and sat on the barrel, heaving with emotion.

Lightning split the sky outside, and thunder cracked in her ears, but she did not hear Dolly’s voice. Myrtle took a deep breath. She had won. She wiped her face with her hands, then her hands on her apron.

Dumb. Why not just wipe your face with your apron in the first place?

Myrtle jerked. “Why are you so mean to me, Dolly?” She crept over to the doll, lying face down on the jam-stained floor. Hesitantly, she turned her over. Squinted at her.

Faded red dress. Black hair. Pretty, except where the dirt smeared across her face.

Just like Liberty.

Stay away from Silas.

Now even her voice sounded like Liberty.

Myrtle’s gaze skittered around her until landing on a silver gleam. So, Myrtle Henderson wasn’t smart, was she? A smile curled her lips over her small teeth as she swept a loaf of bread off the cutting board, and put Dolly on it instead. Grasping the knife in her sweaty palm, Myrtle brought the blade down with a whack on Dolly’s neck, amputating her head from her body.

“I told you to shut up.”