Beside Still Waters Page 14

  “Why, God? We waited so long. Why did You take my baby?”

  Tears blurred her vision as she refolded all the baby things and replaced them in their intended places. When that was done, she put out the light and stood in the doorway, memorizing every detail. As she left the room, latching the door firmly behind her, she vowed never to enter there again.

  Descending the stairs to the living area, she sat in one of the cushioned chairs near the fireplace. The house had grown chilly, but she didn’t care.

  The sky began to gray as dawn neared. She thought she’d watch the sun come up. Unable to sit or even stand still at the window, she paced around the room as the sun cast its first rays, cerise to crimson to orange, until it suddenly popped above the mountains in all its glory. But her heart did not respond to its warmth. She felt as empty and frozen as the Yukon River in the dead of winter.

  Heaving a deep sigh, Violet crossed to the kitchen and moved the teakettle to the hottest part of the cookstove. A cup of tea would at least warm her body, if not her soul.

  Chapter 18

  VIOLET STRUGGLED TO FOCUS ON her daily tasks—walk to the cemetery to care for the grave, keep up with the bit of housekeeping required for only one person, harvest and can her vegetables. With no appetite, she had to force herself to eat at least one meal a day.

  At night, she often lay awake for what felt like an eternity. Nightmares stalked her when she closed her eyes. Some days, she could sleep around the clock. Those were her good days, when she could escape from her pain and sorrow in dreamless oblivion. Most days, though, she’d work to the point of exhaustion so she could drop into bed and sleep, at best, for four hours at any given time before nightmares jolted her awake to pace the floors until daylight.

  When she risked a glance in the mirror, a pale, haggard face with dark circles under her eyes and hollow cheeks reflected back at her. She scarcely recognized the creature. The violet-blue eyes that John often complimented had lost their luster. Her clothes hung on her like flabby fur on a bear just emerging from hibernation. With a great sigh, she grimaced and turned away.

  Violet’s stomach clenched whenever she thought about John’s homecoming. She missed him with a longing like a newly caught salmon gasping for air. Yet she dreaded his anxious expression when he returned and saw how awful she looked. How could her husband love that?

  In spite of the lethargy that continually dragged her down, the night before John was scheduled to arrive home, Violet rallied enough energy to take a bath and wash her hair. By the time she set up the galvanized tub in the kitchen area and heated enough water to fill it, she was exhausted. As she sank into the soothing warmth, her muscles relaxed, making it worth all the effort. Maybe she’d sleep well tonight.

  She slept soundly for a few hours until nature’s call awoke her. Then she tossed and turned until dawn. When she arose, she splashed cold water on her face, patted it dry, and slipped into her best periwinkle cotton housedress that John liked because it complemented the color of her eyes. She sat at her vanity, unplaited her hair, and brushed it thoroughly. Instead of the single braid she’d been wearing since John left, she pulled her hair loosely into a chignon at the back of her head, allowing waves to soften the gauntness of her face.

  She never used makeup. Only saloon girls did that. But the mirror told her she really needed some now. A smile ghosted her lips to think how shocked John would be at that—even more so than at her sickly appearance. To bring a touch of color to her face, she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips, but she could do nothing to hide the dark circles under her eyes.

  The memory of how she used to giggle at Aunt Mabel using cucumber slices on her eyes flashed through her mind. “Just wait until you’re older, Violet. You won’t be laughing then.” Violet really needed some now, but cucumbers didn’t grow in the Yukon.

  How she missed her aunt with her take-charge attitude! She’d never let Violet wallow in self-pity. She could use some of Aunt Mabel’s spunk now.

  Violet inspected herself in the mirror. She’d done the best she could. At least she felt more presentable. A sweater might help to camouflage how thin she’d become.

  Violet heard the crunch of John’s feet on the gravel path and flung open the door before he reached the house. With a wide grin, he slipped through the screen door and set his gear on the porch. Grabbing her in a bear hug, he twirled her around. Much to her dismay, something inside of her let go, and she burst into sobs.

  “Oh, my darling! Did I hurt you? What’s wrong?” John set her down and stooped to anxiously search her face.

  “I don’t know,” she wailed. “Nothing!” She tucked herself back into his arms and cried harder. He held her close, rubbing her back in soothing circles. “Everything!” A hiccup escaped. She blubbered into his flannel shirt. “I missed you so much.”

  “And you were in my every waking thought—even in my dreams.”

  For a long moment, they stood there, aware of nothing but being in each other’s arms again—until Violet giggled through her tears. “I think we’ve given the neighbors enough to gawk at. Let’s go in.”

  John led her to the chesterfield and pulled her down on his lap. He wiped away the dampness from her cheeks with his thumb and studied her face. Violet wanted to duck and hide from his inspection. “You’re so thin, dearest. Have you been eating?”

  “I try to, but everything tastes like dry, stale biscuits. My appetite deserted me when Elizabeth died.”

  “I know . . . ” He rested her head against his shoulder as though she were a small child. “I wish I could have been here to comfort you, to cry with you. My heart aches too.”

  A long silence ensued as they simply enjoyed being together. Then John said, “Tell me about your week. What did you do while I was gone?”

  “I harvested and bottled the spinach from my garden and stored the rest of the vegetables in the root cellar. What we can’t eat before we go Outside I’ll give to the neighbors. Next, I sorted through our household goods and packed up what we’ll take with us when we close up the house to go south. The trunks are airing in the spare bedroom, ready to be filled when the time comes.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been busy. But what about you?” John studied her. “How are you . . . really?”

  Violet hung her head. How could she put into words the agony she’d felt hour after long hour? Could she even talk about it?

  She jumped up. “I’m okay.” But even to her own ears, she didn’t sound convincing. She knew John would revisit this conversation.

  During the night, Violet woke up sobbing. “No! No!”

  Instantly, John rolled over and enfolded her in a hug. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “I-I dreamed the Belle . . . sank . . .” Gasping for breath, she pushed away and threw her legs over her side of the bed to sit up. “. . . taking you with her.” The last words hitched higher as hysteria overcame her.

  “But I’m right here.” John threw back his covers, leaped up, and raced to her side of the bed. He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “Violet, look at me. I’m right here. I’m all right.” He pulled her into his arms and crooned the words until, still trembling, she slumped against him.

  “It was so real.”

  “It was only a nightmare.”

  “I know.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I couldn’t live if I lost you too.”

  “You won’t lose me,” John said. He began to hum a soothing melody. She recognized the tune to the hymn, “God Will Take Care of You.” He rubbed her back and rocked her gently until, her emotions exhausted, she finally fell back asleep.

  After breakfast the next morning, John and Violet sat together on the chesterfield in front of the lit fireplace for their devotions. Sunlight streamed in the front windows. The smell of wood smoke mingled with the aroma of bacon, blueberries, and sourdough flapjacks. When they finished reading the Bible and praying, Violet jumped up. “Time to clean up the dishes.”

  John laid his hand
on Violet’s. “We need to talk.” His fingers tightened on hers. “The dishes can wait. This is important.” His tone said he wouldn’t be put off.

  Reluctantly, Violet settled back into her seat. Apprehension clutched her heart. She forced herself to smile at him but couldn’t look him in the eye. Had he discerned how despondent she was? Would he force her to see the doctor again? That wouldn’t do any good. No one could help her.

  “Honey,” John began, “you say you’re fine, but I’m worried about you. You barely touched your breakfast. You’ve lost a lot of weight, and after last night, I know you’re not sleeping much either—”

  “I’m fine!” Her voice sounded ragged, even to her.

  “No, you’re not.” John spoke calmly, but Violet detected the note of determination. What did he have in mind? “Honey, I want you to come with me on the Belle this time.”

  Panic rose from her belly into her throat. She wasn’t ready to face all those people. She’d lived in the Yukon long enough to know almost everyone who lived in the towns along the river and traveled back and forth on the steamers. They liked to gossip and catch up on everyone’s news. They’d talk about her.

  She opened her mouth to protest, but John raised his hand. “Let me finish, sweetheart. I miss you.” His eyes reddened, and his chin quivered. “I want, no I need, to be near you to comfort you when you cry, when you have nightmares. I need to see that you eat better. You say you don’t want to lose me. I don’t want to lose you, either.” He tightened his lips and swallowed hard.

  He was worried about losing her? That realization broke through the façade she’d erected to camouflage her inner torment. For the first time, she really saw him. Her heart melted. Tears filled her eyes. She reached out and laid her hand on his knee. How could she refuse the pleading in his eyes, in his expression? She’d been so focused on her own pain that she hadn’t thought about John’s needs. How could she have been so oblivious to his anguish? After all, he’d lost his daughter too.

  She desperately wanted to acquiesce to his request, but her fears crashed back down on her. What about the people? She was afraid of their stares, their whispers.

  John interrupted her thoughts. “Dear heart, what are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “Yes, you are. I see it in your eyes. Tell me.”

  She didn’t want to admit it. Would he understand or think her silly? He’d never made light of her feelings before. Why would he do so now? “I-I want to be with you, John. I really do. I can’t bear it when we’re apart. But the people . . . ” She turned away, and her voice trailed off.

  John looked puzzled. “What people?” He gently tucked a finger under her chin and tugged her back to face him.

  Violet lowered her eyes and murmured, “Everyone. People will stare and point and whisper about me—the woman whose baby died for no apparent reason. They’ll speculate that I must have neglected her or done something to harm her. I can’t face that.” She lifted her apron and cried into it.

  John drew her close. “Oh, my darling, people don’t think that.”

  “Worse, they pity me,” she spat out. “I can’t stand pity. If one more person says, ‘I know how you feel,’ I’ll scream. How can they know? They haven’t lost a child.”

  “No, Violet, they sympathize with you.” John clasped her hands. “That’s not the same as pity. They’re concerned about you.”

  Violet faced him. “But doesn’t the mere sight of me remind them that their loved ones, even tiny babies, die?”

  “Maybe, but death is a fact of life, dearest.” John spoke tenderly, without accusation. “That’s why Jesus came—to conquer death, the last enemy. It comforts me to know that our baby is with her Heavenly Father and that one day we’ll be reunited with our beloved Elizabeth.”

  With a hard edge to her voice, Violet said, “But I want to hold her now.”

  “I do too.” John’s voice broke. “I don’t understand why she couldn’t remain with us, but I entrust her to our Heavenly Father’s care.”

  “I wish I could be so accepting. All I can think of is that my tiny, defenseless baby is buried all alone in the cold, hard ground.”

  John sighed. “Don’t torture yourself, Violet. It won’t bring her back. We have to find a way to go on.” He lapsed into silence.

  Violet sensed his disappointment and berated herself for causing it. She knew what she must do. She slipped back behind her façade, forced a bright smile, and tried to sound enthusiastic. “Okay, I’ll go with you this trip—if I can stay in our quarters most of the time.”

  John grinned. “That’s my girl! Sure. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He squeezed her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Now, let me help you with those dishes.”

  They spent the rest of the day purchasing and packing what Violet would need for the trip and transporting it to the Belle. Violet hadn’t felt like reading since Elizabeth died—she couldn’t concentrate. In case she got bored with so much time and nothing else to do, she packed a volume of the works of Shakespeare and another book of English poetry. In the past, she’d often found comfort in poetry.

  As they left the Belle late that afternoon, Jonesy handed John a large basket. “Dinner for tonight. All hot and ready to eat.” He turned to Violet. “I fixed your favorites, Missus Barston. Salmon, herbed new potatoes, peas and pearl onions, fresh greens. It’ll be good to have you back on board this trip.”

  Violet felt a flicker of warmth in her spirit. “That’s sweet of you, Jonesy. It smells wonderful. Thank you.” She laid her hand on his arm. “I’ve missed you too.”

  Chapter 19

  THIRD WEEK OF AUGUST 1918

  The day John and Violet left Whitehorse for Dawson on the Yukon Belle, they awoke to heavy frost sparkling like crystal, signaling the arrival of autumn to the Far North. Red and gold transformed the landscape almost overnight as though an artist had brushed great swaths of paint over the greens of summer.

  Once the Belle was underway, Violet sat in the captain’s quarters or stood at the railing just outside their room and watched the changing panorama slide by. She loved the fall, even though it lasted only a few weeks in the Yukon, but she often caught herself staring, not seeing the beauty around her. Occasionally, she attempted to read one of the books she’d brought but found it difficult to concentrate.

  The head steward, Mr. Lawson, delivered meals to their stateroom. John ate breakfast and lunch with her, but she encouraged him to take his place in the dining saloon to eat with the first-class passengers for dinner, as was his custom. Violet appreciated Jonesy’s attempts to create special dishes to tempt her palate, but often, John returned from the evening meal to find her plate untouched.

  The second day out, after devotions in their quarters, John suggested, “Maybe you could resume story time with the children. It might take your mind—”

  “No!” Violet cut him off, sending him a look that asked if he had lost his mind. “I don’t want to be around children. They remind me of . . . ” Her voice trailed off, but they both knew what she meant.

  “I’m sorry.” John lifted his hand in a gesture of peace, but Violet glimpsed the hurt that momentarily crossed his handsome features as he mumbled, “I didn’t think.”

  “Oh, John, I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to bite your head off, but I-I can’t.” Tears filled her eyes, and her tone pitched higher. “I just can’t.”

  “That’s okay.” John rose and pulled her up into a long hug and kissed her. “I’m on monkey duty this morning.” That elicited a tiny chuckle from Violet. “Feel free to join me in the pilothouse if you like. Won’t be anyone there but me.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “I’d really like that.” John smiled boyishly, put on his jacket and captain’s hat, and strode out the door. After she tidied up their quarters and set the breakfast tray outside their door for the steward to pick up, Violet joined her husband.

  The trip was uneventful. Only a few more runs before
the river would freeze up and John would need to put the Yukon Belle on the skids for the winter. After Elizabeth’s death, John had decided to stay on as captain of his ship. Meanwhile, he’d work on his advanced degree at the University of Washington in Seattle during the winter and spring. Classes finished in May—just in time for him to return to the Yukon.

  By early September, the Belle was carrying more passengers as the annual exodus of people from the Yukon going Outside for the winter began. If the residents of the river towns from Dawson to Whitehorse didn’t get out before the river froze over, they’d be stuck until spring breakup.

  The Yukon population was small compared to its size, and everyone knew each other. Violet found it more difficult to avoid people she knew. She dreaded all the pitying glances and, worse yet, not knowing what to say in response to their expressions of sympathy.

  After dinner one evening in their own home between trips, John lingered at the table. “Violet, I know how uncomfortable you are with so many people traveling now. Maybe a change of scenery would do you good.”

  Fear shot through the pit of her stomach, and she stiffened. Had she been so dreary that he didn’t want her around anymore? Hesitantly, she asked, “What do you have in mind?”

  “I thought you might like to go to Seattle ahead of me and rent an apartment? I’m sure my folks would love to have you stay with them until you find one. You can fix it up the way you want for when I join you in October. What do you think?”

  “Do you want me to go?” Violet’s voice wobbled. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “Oh, Violet, no! That’s not what I meant at all.” John jumped up and pulled her into his arms. “I love you,” he murmured into her hair. “I want you with me. I’ll miss you terribly. I’m only thinking of you and your comfort.”

  “I know I haven’t been easy to live with since Elizabeth went away.” Violet’s words tumbled out in a torrent. “I was afraid you didn’t want me around anymore. But I do love you.”