CHAPTER 12
BELLE OF BURDENS
The spine crackled when I opened the ledger and my eyes grazed across the words, my hand consistently turning page after page. And that's how I sat, for hours upon hours, lost in the horrific epic of the investigation that would haunt Ichabod well into the hereafter. It almost didn't seem real, like I was reading a novel by some individual with too much imagination for his own good. Of course I questioned the authenticity of the story unfolding before me. Who wouldn't have a difficult time believing that an ethereal fiend could return from the fires of hell only to slay the lives of innocent people for a lust of bloodshed? Something, though, deep inside me told me that all of it was true, something I could not recognize. Perhaps it was the style of which Ichabod wrote, or his mind almost driving him to the point of lunacy as he attempted to detect the guilty. Yes, every word, every sentence was true whether I rationally believed it or not.
A sharp thud on my door caused my bones to leap from my skin and I instantaneously put my hands to my throat. The moon shone brightly outside my window, and only the flicker of the small lamp lighted the diminutive room, causing eerie shadows to extend from the dark corners. "Y-y-yes?" I answered shakily and swallowed the lump that had accumulated in my throat.
"Pardon me, Melanie, but can you spare a moment?" Ichabod's voice was muffled behind the barrier of the door, and my muscles relaxed knowing that it was only Ichabod's innocuous soul that had disturbed me.
"Of course," I said snapping the ledger shut and shoving it within a drawer of the desk. Throwing the blanket back over my shoulders, I opened the door, but no one was there. "Ichabod?" I asked puzzled. I stared out into the dark hallway and I saw him struggling with my trunk. "Ichabod!" I cried and I ran over to him, not noticing my blanket slip from my shoulders. "Here, let me help you," I offered taking one end of the enormous chest and together, we heaved it into my room.
"How did you…?" I asked almost lost for words. I opened it, and the familiar groan of the old hinges caused tears to brim my eyes. Everything was folded neatly and primed. The black coat Ichabod had given me lay on top of the heap, and I looked questionably into the deep ocean of his eyes.
"Consider it my gift to you," he smiled warmly and I felt the light drift of a lone tear roll down my cheek. "Oh Ichabod," I breathed, and planted him a polite kiss on the cheek. He seemed awkward and timid, and I blushed embarrassed.
"I thought you might you want these," he finally said softly and withdrew from his pocket my ivory comb and mirror. I took my precious belongings from his hand and gazed at them as if I hadn't seen them for years.
"These were my mothers," I said clutching the mirror and comb to my chest.
Ichabod nodded his head. "You miss her don't you?"
"More than anything," Ichabod sat down on the bed next to me, but I didn't notice, consumed in my own thoughts. I took a deep breath. "It's been nineteen years…and I still miss her so much. I see her in my dreams sometimes, but I can never see her face. I don't even know what she looked like, Ichabod. I've never seen a portrait of her, or even read a description. And yet…she still exists… right here," I placed my hand to my heart and looked into Ichabod's eyes; full of understanding and compassion. For a brief moment it seemed he contemplated on what to do or say to comfort me.
"Loosing a mother leaves wounds that will never heal, and no matter how hard we try to conceal them, we will always bear the scares, Melanie." He squeezed his eyes shut as if trying to hold back memories that threatened to break the lock he kept bolted so tight. I placed my hand on top of his. He was shivering slightly, hardly enough to notice, but he wasn't cold.
"Thank you, Ichabod," was all I could think to say. He slowly stood up and cleared his throat.
"Uh, if it's of any interest to you, you are most welcome to join Katrina and I for dinner tonight," he politely offered knowing that I had nowhere else to go.
"It's most generous of you," I smiled weakly. "I'll be down in a moment."
His hand was on the knob of the door as he nodded his approval, and just like that he was gone.
I rummaged through my trunk and pulled out my white Sunday dress. It would suit for the casual evening, and after I changed into it, I drew back the hair from my face. However, seeing that it only accented the black swollen lump that was once my eye, I decided to let my loose curls hang carelessly over my shoulders. My father always liked my hair let loose and rowdy when I was younger. He said it matched my personality and let the ice blue of my eyes, my mother's eyes, waltz and shimmer. And then at the mentioning of my mother, he'd stop in mid sentence and his eyes would go blank, the fire behind them burning out – even to the last coal in the ashes. He'd mumble things I couldn't comprehend, and at first, I was terrified and I cried and screamed. But then, after these became frequent episodes, I would just leave and let the nurses handle his hysterical outbursts, while I, the "Belle of Burdens," sat slumped in the hall trying to drown out his ravings.