Chapter 2: Sickness

After all the dishes were washed and all the food was on the table, my father still wasn't home. My hands were pickled from being in the soapy washtub for so long, because my mother had dawdled making dinner. Even Edward was slow with the table settings. When the food was on the table, we three sat around the cooling dinner, waiting for a knock on the door. Waiting and waiting. Sometimes, I even forgot to pretend I was eating.

"Did you both have fun with your friends today?" my mother asked, trying to jump-start the sullen atmosphere.

Edward nodded, stabbing a pea with the tip of his fork. He had made a kebab of his utensil, alternating in carrots and peas. "We played ball at the old field again. Our team won once."

"And lost once," I added under my breath, tearing a piece off my drop roll.

"Losing is as part of the game as winning is, Eleanor." My mother never used my short name "Ella." I never understood why.

"That's what I told her," injected Edward, giving me a look. I stuck my tongue out at him when I pretended to cough.

"What did you do today, Mother?" Edward asked, ignoring me.

My mother sighed, and looked more tired than before. Her elbow was leaning on the table edge again. "I was visiting over at Ms. Palmer's for a few hours. She's taken sick."

Old lady Palmer was almost ninety years old, and lived in a pink house half a block up the road. I had helped her make ginger snaps the week before. "Is she gonna be OK?" I asked. I wondered if she'd caught what David Williams had.

"Yes, Eleanor. I believe so. Her daughter is in town this week, and she's there nursing her. But…" My mother shook her head, frustrated. "She should go to a hospital." And that was mother's way of saying it was worse than old lady Palmer's daughter thought it was.

I caught Edward's eye, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. He narrowed his eyes, silently telling me not to say what I was about to say. "Well, I think that she –" and a knock at the door caused my words to cease.

Edward and I both shot up from our seats, but my mother held her hand up to stop us. "I'll get it," she said. "Finish your dinners."

Sourly, I thumped back down in my chair, and snatched up my spoon. Edward said nothing as our mother answered the door. But the voice that met my ears was not my father's.

"Mrs. Masen?"

"Yes?" Her voice was worried.

"Um… I don't know how to say this, but… Edward's collapsed. We took him to the hospital, and he hasn't woken up. We… we thought you should know."

I recognized the voice after a while. It was Mr. Sanders, a man my father worked with at the factory. My mother was silent for a long time, and I watched my brother's eyes grow in disbelief.

"I see," said my mother. She was trying to make her voice strong. "Could you take me there is him?" I was surprised at her forwardness. My mother was never forward.

"Of course. That's why I'm here," said Mr. Sanders.

"Just one moment, please." And my mother was back in the room.

Her face looked strained, and her eyes were as wide as Edward's. "Children," she said, and she had to swallow to find her voice again. "Your father is at the hospital, and he needs me, all right?"

We both nodded.

"Don't go out of the house until I get home; I don't know how long I'll be gone." Without warning, she left down the hall to her room.

I looked back at Edward, and questioned him with my eyes. There was no expression in his eyes, but his brow was furrowed, and his lips were in a frown. The hand he had on the table was clenched into a fist.

My mother returned then, with a shawl around her shoulders. Her eyes were much like Edward's – empty – and I wondered if my eyes looked like that, too.

"Edward, look after your sister. Get to bed on time." And that was her way of saying that we wouldn't see her until the morning. She kissed both of our foreheads and told us she loved us.

"I love you, Mother."

"Goodbye, Mother."

And then she left with Mr. Sanders in his vehicle.

:*:*:*:*:*:*:*:

"Edward?"

"Yes?" The reply was immediate.

"I can't sleep, Edward."

I heard a sigh. "Neither can I, Ella. Just try."

I turned onto my other side for the hundredth time, and pulled my thin sheet up to my chin. We'd left the window open when we went to bed, and the cool night had invaded the bedroom. An owl hooted from somewhere in the dark.

"I've already tried, Edward. I just can't."

I heard the covers shift, and Edward's head appeared over the edge of the bed. "We have scrap rounds in the morning, Ella. You'll be sorry for not sleeping."

I turned over so I couldn't see him. "It isn't my fault. It's because" – I sighed – "they're not here." He knew that I meant our parents.

The mattress shifted again and I knew he'd lain back down. "I know." And that's all he said for a long time.

The mattress I slept on was only a few layers of bedding, hardly more comfortable than our front lawn. Since my and Edward's bedroom was so small, my bed slid out from under his at night, and slid back under during the day. My father had built the wooden trundle bed for us after I had escaped my crib for the fifth time.

The hours of the night ticked away as I lay there restlessly. I stared at my beloved song poster for a long time. I had saved up all my dimes and nickels early that summer to get the "Me-Ow!" poster for the new Mel Kaufman song. I had to deny myself Coca-Cola for a solid month to save up enough for that piece of paper, and I'd pestered my parents to get a kitty and name it Arogona ever since.

And then I stared at Edward's war poster, which he'd gotten for free when our father signed his draft for at the recruitment office. There was Uncle Sam, pointing straight at me with a stern look that didn't match his jolly clothes. "I WANT YOU FOR U.S. ARMY." It was unlikely that my father would be called off to Europe for the Great War, and God forbid it last long enough for Edward to be sent. But the patriotism in my brother's heart couldn't keep him from wishing.

Once the grandfather clock in the hall had struck three o'clock, my agitation burst from me in a loud, frustrated groan.

"Eleanor," my brother said drowsily, his voice gruff from sleep. "Eleanor, be quiet." I couldn't tell if he were awake, or talking in his sleep as he did occasionally.

Nevertheless, I threw the covers off myself and sat up straight. Edward was turned away from me, but his breathing was too even to be awake. I poked him twice on the shoulder, but he slept on.

So, I stood up, and quietly slipped out the door.

The house looked different… surreal in the moonlight. Barefoot, I crept silently down the hall, and jumped at my reflection in the wall mirror. I smiled at my mirror image to reassure myself, but the smile was strange-looking in the dark, so I frowned instead. I looked like a little owl in the mirror, with big, black eyes and tousled hair. Blinking several times, my eyes turned green again.

My brother and I had matching green eyes, but I had more red in my hair than Edward did. My mother always said that it was because I wasn't strong enough to fight my Irish half. My father always said it was because I ate too many carrots when I was little. My father always teased.

Tiptoeing the rest of the way out of the living room, I was stopped again by another troubling sight. I was surprised that I hadn't heard her come in; I must have fallen asleep somewhere along the line.

"Mother?" I asked, approaching the form at the kitchen table. Her hands covered her face completely, and she sat very still.

"Mother," I said again, more quietly. I sensed something was wrong, but I'd never seen my mother cry before.

And then Edward was there, by my side in his PJ's. He looked at our mother, and then he looked at me questioningly. Unknowingly, I shrugged.

He walked over to our mother, and put a hand on her trembling shoulder. "Mother," he said, and I heard a quiet sob come from her throat. "Has Father… is Father…?"

"Go back to bed, you two," she said, and her voice shook. "Go back to sleep, and we'll talk in the morning."

I knew that Edward didn't want to, by the way his shoulders squared. "But Mother –" he began.

"In the morning, Edward," my mother said sternly. And we knew that we mustn't disobey.

I caught Edward's eyes when he turned away, but they still held that vacant, emotionless gaze. Like the gaze I found in my owl-eyes in the mirror.

Even though we were silent returning to our room, and we were quiet as we lay down, I knew neither of us slept.

:*:*:*:*:*:*:*:

"Ella! Eleanor! Pssst! Wake up, Ella!"

"Edward?" I said, immediately squinting against the light that met my eyes. I couldn't remember falling asleep.

"It's morning. C'mon, get up!" he whispered. And then he disappeared.

I stretched my arms over my head, and wiggled my toes under the sheets. I smiled at the sunlight that streamed through the window, at the birdsong that flowed to my ears… until I remembered what happened at three o'clock that morning.

I sat up quickly, my head pounding from lack of sleep, and scanned my small room. Edward was there, standing over my mattress, fully dressed, waiting for me.

"Where's Mother?" I asked, reaching out to him.

He pursed his lips and took my hand, helping me stand up. "She's making breakfast. Hurry up and get dressed, OK?"

I nodded my head, and couldn't help the yawn that escaped me. Edward left then, and I started taking off my nightdress. I folded it neatly and put it in bottom drawer of the dresser, which was where my clothes were kept. I pulled out a fresh blouse, and my faded pink summer dress from last year. I strapped my sandals in place and pulled my fingers through my tangled hair.

My thick, brown-red hair was a curly mess that came to just below my chin. All the girls were wearing it short in those days. It was no wonder that Timmy Butler across the street used to call me "carrot-top."

Edward was waiting for me right outside the door, and he let me go first down the narrow hall-way. The smell of fried eggs wafted from the kitchen, and I felt my stomach flip-flop at the thought. But I was hungry all-the-same – I hadn't finished my dinner after my mother left.

The grandfather clock said it was six-thirty.

My mother was at the stove, but something was wrong. The red-and-white gingham apron she always wore while cooking was still hanging on its hook by the wash basin. My mother always wore her apron in the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mother," I said, just like any other morning.

She turned at my voice, but she didn't smile like she usually did. "Good morning, Eleanor. Did you sleep well?" Her voice was tired.

"Yes," I lied.

Since she hadn't said good morning to Edward, I suspected that he had already been awake for a while. I wondered how long, and what I had missed.

"Set the table for breakfast, please. We have something we'd like to talk to you and Edward about, dear."

At "we," I became aware of the foreign presence behind me at the kitchen table. A man I didn't recognize was there, and he spared me a small smile. I glanced at Edward uncomfortably, and he gave a small, sharp nod that said 'it's alright.'

"But," I argued, turning back to my mother, "Edward and I have scrap rounds this morning."

"We won't be long, Eleanor," my mother said, glancing at me disapprovingly. "Set the table, please."

It was awkward setting the table while the man sat there, but I managed to do so. Four plates of fried eggs and buttered toast sat around the table in under five minutes, with four people sitting around. I nibbled the crust of my toast and sipped my milk in silence.

It was a minute or so before my mother spoke. "Edward, Eleanor – this is Mr. McGee, a friend of Father's."

"It's good to meet you," I said, darting my eyes up from my plate for half a second. He didn't look like a McGee.

Edward just nodded his head, and Mr. McGee nodded back.

"I'd forgotten that you had a daughter, Elizabeth," Mr. McGee said, a dull smile ghosting his wrinkled face. He was much older than my father.

My mother laughed humorlessly, but it was with good effort. "She's quite the young lady now, Charles. I don't think you've seen her for many years."

"No doubt," said Charles McGee, and I felt his eyes on me. It felt strange.

"Mother?" I said, fed up with pleasantries. "What's happened to Dad?"

Mr. McGee sobered, and my mother's face hardened. I could feel Edward's displeasure at my forthrightness.

"He's become ill, Eleanor. The doctors are taking care of him at the hospital."

"What hospital?" I asked. I wanted to know where my father was.

My mother would have scolded my disrespect had Mr. McGee not been there, but she answered me anyway. "St. Luke's, dear. Downtown."

That would take at least two hours to get to on Edward's bike. I hoped Mr. McGee had brought an automobile. "So, why is Mr. McGee here, Mother?" I asked.

My rudeness had gone too far. My mother gave me a stern, cold look. "Mr. McGee is here to help us, Eleanor," she said calmly.

Something wasn't right, and I wanted to know what. I felt Edward kick my ankle under the table.

"Yes, Eleanor. I'm only here to support your mother, sweetheart. This is a hard time for your family," said Mr. McGee. The sincerity in his voice was undeniable.

It didn't feel as though they were telling us what was going on... it felt as though they were trying not to tell us. The situation was making me ravenous with nerves, and my toast was already gone. I cut into the yoke of my eggs.

"Mother, is there anything we can do?" Edward asked diplomatically. I gulped my milk.

"No, Edward. Just send your father well, and hope that he'll be healthy soon." It wasn't the answer he was searching for.

My brother nodded, and then stood. His food was already gone, and I swallowed the last bite of my eggs. "We should go. We're going to be late for our route."

Edward took my plate, too, and I stood up. My mother hadn't touched her food, and our guest was eating slowly.

"All right. Come straight home once you're done, Edward. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mother."

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-Scarlet