Chapter Four - Shattered
I was aware of nothing until they tried to move my mother. I awoke with a vengeance. There were many men around me when I began to fight. Small as I am, it took a dozen arms to gain control of me. I screamed for them to leave her alone, but they did not listen. They decided to remove me from the scene. I was carried about a hundred feet further down the ravine behind the wreckage.
The faceless men placed me on a boulder where I hugged my knees. I closed my eyes as a wave of pain swept over me. Rocking back and forth did not seem to help, but I continued to move that way. Time lost all meaning.
"Alice?" a familiar voice asked seeping concern, "Mary Alice Brandon can you hear me?"
My eyes slowly focused, and recognition moved slower. I blinked furiously until a man's face became clear. Dr. Abbott smiled grimly at me. He was our family doctor. He had delivered Cynthia when she was born. Several years earlier, my worried parents had taken me to visit him after I had my first vision. He had given me a clean bill of health and chalked it up to an overactive imagination.
"Dr. Abbott?" I asked confused as I remembered my mother's ice-cold skin, "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here for you. Were you hurt in the accident?" he inquired, assuming that I had been in the buggy.
"It was no accident," I said dryly.
"Pardon me?" he shot back in surprise.
"A man with a strawberry birthmark ran her off the road intentionally," I professed as my voice quavered, "He murdered her."
"Did you witness this?" he asked again with concern.
"Yes I saw it happen," I confirmed and then rambled, "And I ran to save her, but I was too late. I got here too late."
"So you weren't in the buggy when it went over the embankment?" he asked likely remembering my visit years ago.
"No," I replied sadly, "I was at home when I saw him kill her."
"You're that girl I heard about at church," a young man accused from behind me, "You cursed your own mother?"
I screamed like an angry animal and threw myself at him. He stumbled backward and nearly fell. Several hands grabbed a hold of me just before my fingernails found their mark. Sherriff Ben Roberts was among them, and he instructed me to calm myself. Instead of taking his direction, I blurted out everything I knew about my mother's murderer. He began asking me pointed questions for several minutes, but he could not sway me from the truth.
My eyes locked on movement near the wreckage. Four men were carrying a burlap bundle up the steep grade with the assistance of ropes. The sheriff droned on, but I heard not a word. Burlap irritates mama's skin, and they have wrapped her in it. This ran through my mind as my ears began to ring. Then I saw only darkness-blessed darkness.
"Alice sweetheart," father said worriedly and shook me, "Wake up."
I opened my eyes to find myself in my bed. A nightmare was my first thought until I looked into my sister's eyes. She stood silently next to her father, and her skin was red and blotchy from crying. I closed my eyes once more as a wave of grief hit me. I sat up gasping for air, and father rubbed my back like mama always does-did. Great sobs escaped me, and it hurt all the way down to my bones.
Cynthia climbed onto the bed, and wrapped her arms around me. I kept whispering 'I'm sorry' as she silently wept. We clung to each other for hours. Father stood silently until someone would knock at the door, but he would return minutes later to continue his quiet vigil.
When the sun was making its decent toward the horizon, he insisted we try to eat something. Dishes of food covered all the surfaces in the kitchen, and father said that the icebox was also full. Mama's apron hung on the hook behind the door, and Cynthia stood staring at it. I took it down and put it over her head. Tears streamed from her eyes as I tied it. She was still wearing it later that night when the sheriff paid a visit.
I was eavesdropping when Sheriff Roberts informed my father that my mother's death had been declared an accident. They could find no evidence of another car being involved. I rushed into the parlor and tried to argue, but my father ordered me to be silent. He threatened to have me committed, and I relented. I could not leave Cynthia alone with no one to look after her. The issue was dropped.
The skies were dark and grey on the day of mama's funeral. It reflected how we all were feeling. The mourners were few, but their pain ran deep. They did not avoid me as people usually did. I was embraced and offered sympathy as much as the rest of my family. My aunt even put her anger aside for the day. At the internment, the desire to crawl into the wooden box next to my mother was nearly overwhelming. Then I looked at my little sister, and found the strength to resist.
The following afternoon my father went to visit my mother's lawyer and returned home in a rage. He demanded to know why she had done it, and I told him that I did not know. The attorney had informed him that the trust could not be transferred for one year. He fumed because he had planned to replace my mother's vehicle. I assured him that I could walk or ride Buster if I needed to go anywhere. This only added to his frustration.
Days and weeks crawled by as we tried to adjust to life without her. I tried to step into her vacant shoes, but it so painful. Cynthia was my first priority. I devoted myself to caring for her. When she was at school, I tended my mother's beloved orchard. I tried to keep myself as busy as possible. At least once a day, I would give in despair. My father spent even more time away. However, when he was at home, he seemed happy. I envied his ability to move forward.
Four months later, he proved his resilience. He returned home with his new bride Polly Burnham Brandon. We had no idea she existed until ten days before the wedding. Father sat Cynthia and I down one evening and gave us his good news.
"My beautiful girls," he began warmly, "The past months have been very hard on all of us. My dear Alice, you have been doing a wonderful job with the house and with Cynthia. You will be nineteen in just over a month, and you should be making a life for yourself. I feel badly that you are anchored here."
"You and Cynthia are all I have left," I sighed, "I love you both, and I don't feel anchored at all."
"I know you don't feel burdened," he said softly, "But your mother would want you to live and right now you are doing everything but."
"She just misses mama," Cynthia defended, "I still miss her too."
"Well," my father brightened, "I have some news that will cheer you up. I have met someone. Like you, I was nursing a broken heart and did not intend for it to happen, but she is so vital and lovely. She has brought sunshine back into my life. I want you to meet her because I believe she will do the same for you."
"Oh papa," Cynthia chimed, "I am so happy for you. What's her name?"
"Polly Burnham," he said smiling as I had my first vision in months.
Unhappily, I sat alone in the front row of an unfamiliar church. Less than a dozen people occupied the left side of the center isle, but the right side was packed with the bride's family. Cynthia looked beautiful in her pale pink gown; she held a small bouquet of roses. Standing immediately to the left of the bride, I assumed her the maid of honor. Then there was the bride.
The extravagant white gown fit her perfectly. The bulk of her long blonde hair was pinned up smartly with wispy ringlets framing her young face. She looked to be in her twenties. She shot a hateful glare at me as she turned to hand my sister her huge bouquet. In the next instant, the lovely smile had returned to her pretty face. Her grayish blue eyes sparkled as she smiled lovingly at my sister and then at my father.
"Do you think she'll like me or have you told her about me?" Cynthia asked unsurely.
"I have told her all about you," he replied happily, "And she loves you already."
"Really?" she asked, her voice going up an octave.
"Yes," he replied, "She is so excited to meet you."
"When will I meet her? Where did you meet her? What's she like?" my sister began firing random questions at him, "Are you going to marry her?"
"Whoa," he interrupted in an amused tone, "One question at a time."
"How old is she?" I inquired piously.
He looked right into my eyes and answered, "Polly is twenty eight, but very mature for her age. She lost her husband in the first wave of the Spanish Influenza, not even a year ago."
"That's so sad," Cynthia exhaled.
"Yes it is," he replied and turned back to my sister, "Samuel Burnham is one of my best clients, and he invited me to have dinner at his home one evening. I met Polly there, and we found we had much in common. We were both recently widowed and found comfort in each other's company. You will be meeting Polly for yourselves the day after tomorrow."
"Is she coming here?" Cynthia asked.
"No sweetheart," he explained, "We will be taking the train to see her early tomorrow morning."
"The train," she said excitedly, "I've never been on a train."
"That's not the best part;" my father beamed, "On Saturday afternoon, Polly and I will be wed. You are going to have a mother by the end of the week."
"Step-mother," I spat, "Basile's Cinderella had a stepmother too."
"Please give her a chance," he asked softly.
"I don't need a new mother," I said coldly, "Especially, one that is closer to my age than yours. I have a mother, and she was senselessly murdered."
"Polly could never take your mother's place," he reasoned, "But maybe you could become friends or confidants even."
"Does she have children?" Cynthia asked changing the subject, "Will I have a new brother or sister?"
"She does not," he answered, "But maybe in a year or two-God willing."
"A baby?" Cynthia squealed in delight.
"Well don't get your hopes up quite yet," father warned, "It took years for you to come along."
"Okay papa," she agreed.
"Now you two go up and pack," he kindly instructed, "We will be away for at least a week."
Cynthia darted out of room without a word, but I sat there unable to move. Thoughts of mama played through my mind. I wondered what she would think about all of this. The pain from her death was still too raw, and everything was moving much too fast.
"I'd wager," he began- interrupting my thoughts, "That you think I am moving too fast."
"Yes," I replied, "You are exactly right."
"I thought so," he said quietly, "She is so right for me. I feel as if I have known her forever."
"I just don't understand how you can forget mama so soon," I sighed as tears welled in my eyes.
"I will never forget my little mouse," he said using the nickname I despised, "But your mother was devoted to making those she loved happy. Polly makes me happier than I ever thought I could be."
I sat silently as my mind tried to accept his argument. My heart however would have none of it. Polly's angry glare came to my mind, and I considered not attending the nuptials. I was considering excuses when another vision filled my mind. The wedding scene was nearly the same except Aunt Agatha and Uncle Charles sat in the front row. In addition, much of the bride's side had migrated to the groom's so it seemed more even.
"I know you would like me to attend your wedding," I began unsurely, "But I would like to stay and get the house ready for Polly's homecoming. Besides, someone has to feed Buster."
"Uncle Charles will care for the horse while we are away," he offered, "I really want to have both of my girls there."
"Aunt Agatha and Uncle Charles will attend if I am not there," I countered.
"How did you," he began and then stopped.
"It will be a beautiful ceremony," I said softly, "And everyone seems happier without my presence."
"Your sister and I certainly will not be happier," he sighed and then remembered, "And Polly wants to ask you to be her maid of honor."
Polly's glare made sense to me as I continued, "It's still too soon for me. I am not ready for that, and Cynthia will be so thrilled to fill in for me."
"I suppose she would like that," he resigned, "Well, you have until six am tomorrow to change your mind."
"Okay," I said and stood, "I will help Cynthia pack so she doesn't forget anything. I'll pack some things for me as well in case I wake tomorrow with a new outlook."
"Good night Alice," he said warmly.
"Good night father," I responded and ascended the stairs to help my sister.
It was a good thing that I helped Cynthia because she packed like an eight year old. When I got her squared away, I turned in. I did not pack any of my things because I had made up my mind to stay home. That night I did not sleep well as my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. I finally gave up on getting any rest and made my way to the kitchen.
I made a huge breakfast for them, and they were pleasantly surprised. We spent a good hour together before it was time for them to leave for the station. Father offered the use of his Model T, and I respectfully declined. I knew he would worry about the safety of his motor car while he was away. I assured him that I could ride Buster if needed. We bid our goodbyes in the yard, and I watched them pullout onto the street.
The house was quiet, and I busied myself cleaning up the breakfast dishes and cleaning the kitchen. I then tended to the orchard. After a light lunch, I gave Buster a good brushing before I fed and watered him. While returning the brushes to the shed, I noticed a familiar box in the corner. It was my mothers sewing kit, and it was covered with dust. I cleaned it off the best I could and carried to the kitchen table.
I stared at it for a long time before I actually opened it. I wondered who had returned it and when. My mother's voice echoed in my head 'safely tucked in the bottom of my sewing kit'. Tears filled my eyes at the sound of her voice, and my hands shook as I tried to open the box. It had been damaged in the crash so I had to pry it open with a butter knife.
My mother's things were still neatly organized, and I ran my fingers across the tools she used nearly everyday. I unpacked the kit, and at the bottom was the peacemaker. The pistol was wrapped in a needlepoint sample that I sat aside. The steel was cool and heavy in my hand as I carried the weapon to my parent's bedroom. I returned it to the wooden box in the crawlspace.
Everything was back in the box when I finally looked at the cloth the pistol had been wrapped in. I froze; hundreds of tiny stitches spelled my name. 'Alice' was framed by an intricate pattern of vines and roses. I held it to my chest as I carried the sewing kit to my closet. I flopped onto my bed and cried myself to sleep without eating supper.