Chapter 20

"The problem of evil assumes the existence of a world-purpose. What, we are really asking, is the purpose of suffering? It seems purposeless. Our question of the why of evil assumes the view that the world has a purpose, and what we want to know is how suffering fits into and advances this purpose. The modern view is that suffering has no purpose because nothing that happens has any purpose: the world is run by causes, not by purposes."

-W.T. Stace, Man Against Darkness

The screen was still playing despite the shattered pieces. Elizabeth turned it off and then sank to the ground, sobbing. She put her hands up to her face, the bloody hand still with small pieces of glass stuck in it. It scratched her face but she did not feel the physical pain, tendrils of panic seemed to twine up and about her neck. All the pain was in her mind, and in her mental agony she cried out, "No, no, please! Don't let them die! Why did you make them die? What did I do wrong? What did I do wrong? It's not fair. I don't understand! It's all my fault!"

For a time – how long, she could not tell – she fell into a darkness and was unaware of her surroundings for a long time. Then she realized she felt deathly sick. She ran to the bathroom, falling to her hands and knees, and vomiting over and over into the toilet until her stomach was writhing. Then she lay down on the cold bathroom floor and pulled a towel over her, shaking.

It was morning, but she did not even try to get up. She must have slept for a little while, because she woke with a crick in her neck from lying on the hard floor. She got up and stumbled to the couch. She was sweating, and ripped off nearly all her clothes in an attempt to cool down. She was still shivering and her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

She was in a heavy dream again – or was it reality? She was standing alone, barefoot, on the sands of Zimbabwe, and the natives were carrying her mother and father on boards in a funeral procession, singing a hymn slowly in their own tongue. She was weeping, but the tears sizzled as they hit her skin, and she felt she was being burned under the beating sun – her hand especially stung. Then another small hand slid into hers and she looked down to see the white teeth and smiling face of little Maisee. But it couldn't be Maisee – Maisee had died of the disease a week before her parents had succumbed.

But this isn't real, thought Elizabeth. I'm not a child. They've been dead for twenty-five years.

Maisee's soft hand pulled her away across the dusty ground and then suddenly the singing funeral procession was gone and she could see the orphanage where Maisee had lived. Elizabeth stooped in order to enter by the arched door. But instead of being filled with children playing, or with beds full of dying children, as it had been later on, now it was completely empty and silent. The beds along the walls were all made, the pillows plumped up, the windows open, shining in some dusty particles through the air. The dressers were still full of medicines. This had been an orphanage primarily for children with HIV. Then she suddenly heard a soft sound of crying. Maisee pulled her over to a bed in a corner where a boy of about twelve was hunched up, sobbing. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he was saying amid gulps of tears, and Elizabeth knew suddenly that it was her brother John. She reached out to embrace him, filled with pity, but then he suddenly was gone, and her hand was empty. She looked down but Maisee too had disappeared.

She called out their names, but her voice only echoed through the empty halls. She tried to find the way out, but seemed trapped in a maze of empty rooms. She was trapped there for hours, it seemed, calling vainly for John and Maisee.

She tried to lie down on one of the beds to sleep. Maybe she did sleep, but when she awoke she was ten years old again, lying on her bed in the foster home where she and her brother had lived for two years. She shuddered and looked over to the other side of the bare, empty room, where the bed of Molly, the girl with whom she shared a room, usually slept. All the comfortable pillows and blankets had been appropriated to the other bed, which was empty. She gave a sigh of relief but then froze as she heard footsteps and voices outside the door. Then the knob turned. A boy and a girl stood outside.

"Ha! There she is!" crowed Molly, a stocky, dark-haired girl of thirteen. The boy with her was about fourteen, but tall and bulky.

"What are you doing in here, freak?" he said, cracking his knuckles. Elizabeth flinched as he loomed closer.

"I heard her again last night, crying in her sleep," cackled Molly, "Speaking in that weird language."

"What was she saying?"

"I don't know, probably crying for her mommy and daddy."

"Your mommy and daddy?" Erik mocked. "Your poor mommy and daddy? Where are your mommy and daddy, freak? Are they dead?"

He laughed and Elizabeth tried to get up and run past him, but Molly blocked the door, grabbing her by the arm. "Where do you think you're going, cry-baby?" she jeered, and shoved her back into the room.

"You let me go!" Elizabeth whimpered.

"Or what?" said Erik with narrowed eyes.

"I'll tell on you!"

"Oooh!" Erik and Molly's voices became high in imitation. "You'll tell on us!"

"Let me go!" she shouted, and struggled vainly against Erik's strong arms.

"Hmm... what shall we do with the little pipsqueak?" Erik asked Molly.

"Hmm. We could lock her in the closet. No one would find her for hours – she'd miss dinner and then get a whipping. I'd love to see that."

Erik picked her up and she clawed and wriggled but he was too strong. She was almost in the closet when John came to the door. He was fifteen now, but of slender build and frame for his age.

"What are you doing?" he demanded angrily, stepping in and grabbing at Elizabeth. "Leave her alone. Are you all right, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth only wept in answer.

"Get off her," said John.

"What are you going to do, Jesus freak?" said Erik.

"Let her go," said John in a soft but deadly voice.

Erick laughed and shoved Elizabeth away. She looked up through her tears to see him shoving John back out of the room. "What are you going to do about it, Jesus freak?" he said again. "Fight me?"

"I'm not going to fight you," said John calmly, standing his ground.

"Why not, coward?" said Erik menacingly.

"Oh, yes, I'm the coward," said John. "At least I don't go around beating up ten-year-old girls."

Erik lunged at John's throat and threw him to the ground, but just then a woman's voice came up the stairs. "What are you little shits doing up there? Stop making such a racket! Bob, go see what they're doing."

A heavy thumping resounded in the wooden stairs and a thin man in a wife-beater shirt appeared. He had a buzz cut and a rough , unshaven face, and was holding a beer. "Shut up! Shut UP!" he growled. "What do you boys think you are doing? Fighting? Get downstairs! Git!" He dragged each boy by the ear downstairs and into the front yard. The house had a gravel driveway and was far away from the road. There was one cracking oak tree on the lawn. Bob pushed both boys down the few steps on the porch to the grass and growled, "You boys want to fight? Then you do it outside. You've got too much pent-up testosterone to tear up the house. Go on! Fight! Whoever loses misses dinner tonight."

Elizabeth stared, horrified, as Erik began to circle John, his fists up, while John made no attempt to fight. "I'm not going to fight," he said. "This boy was bullying my sister, and further fights will not solve that."

"Oh, you're a coward, are you?" Bob spat. "This is how I raised my own boys – if you win, they'll have to leave your sister alone."

Erik took a swing at him. John ducked. "Ha! Always knew you were a coward, Jesus-freak," he said.

Even though he was a year younger, Erik was taller and thicker. He began to rain down blows while Molly cheered him on. John fell to the ground many times, trying to shield himself with his arms, but still ended up with blood running down his face and shirt, a shining black eye and a split lip. Elizabeth was sobbing hysterically, calling his name, but John called out to her, while trying to protect himself from the brutal onslaught, "It's all right, Elizabeth. It's all right. Just close your eyes and sing the song Mother and Father taught you."

Elizabeth closed her eyes and tried to sing,

"Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world."

John was on the ground again, and now blood was dripping from a cut over his eye, and he spat red liquid from his mouth.

"Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight…"

Erik was now kicking John in the stomach and ribs as he sobbed on the ground.

"Jesus loves the little children of the world."

She heard John sobbing, covered in blood on the ground, Erik shouting obscenities and Molly's jeers. Bob dragged Erik away from John , and Elizabeth ran over to where her brother lay, curled upon the ground. "It's okay, Elizabeth. Don't cry. I'll be fine, see?" He tried to sit up but winced and lay back down again.

"What can I do, John?" she asked, sobbing.

John smiled despite his injuries. It was a horrible sight, amid the blood and the bruises. "Just pray, Elizabeth."

She nodded her head.

"Erik and Molly must be very miserable people to enjoy beating up others. We must pray for them."

Elizabeth shook her head. "Look what they did to you. They deserve punishment, not forgiveness."

"Ah, but that is not ours to give. Help me up, please, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth was angry at John, angry that he wanted to forgive them, when they hadn't even asked him for it. She hated them all – Erik, Molly, and Bob. She wanted them punished. Why hadn't they died in the Pandemic like the rest of her family? Why did her parents have to die instead? She could hear her father preaching a sermon, reading from II Chronicles, "If, when evil cometh upon us, as the sword, judgment, or pestilence, or famine, we stand before this house, and in thy presence (for thy name is in this house), and cry unto thee in our affliction, then thou wilt hear and help."

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth?" said a voice, and she vaguely recognized it, although it seemed immeasurably far away, as if from some other life. She found she was lying down, and looking up, she saw Will stooping over her, a bright light shining behind his dark hair, so he looked in her confused brain like an angel.

"Will?" she said, trying to reach up to him, "are you here to help me?"

But her arms felt strangely heavy, and the pain had returned to her hand. "Yes, I'm here to help you, Elizabeth. Everything's going to be all right."

"Help John," she said. "You have to help John. He's lying on the ground, covered in blood. I think his ribs are broken."

Will looked puzzled. "Elizabeth, it's just you and me," he said soothingly.

Elizabeth looked around; but John, the house and the lawn were gone. She could see Will bending over her. She tried lifting her arms again, and was able to get them up far enough to put around Will's neck. He leaned down and she kissed him on the cheek, her ten-year-old self still imagining he was an angel in her nightmare.

"It's all right, Elizabeth," he said. "Try to drink this." He put a cup up to her mouth and she tried to take a sip but choked on the hot liquid. She felt a cold cloth on her forehead.

"I'm so hot," she said, shivering.

"It's all right. I've called a doctor. He's coming."

How's the doctor going to find me out here? she thought. She was lying on the hot, hard earth and the sun was beating down on her. Sweat trickled from every pore in her body. She saw, as if from far away, the funeral service of her parents, as the few still healthy tribesmen shoveled dirt over their emaciated bodies, and twelve-year-old John was crouched next to them, his hands over his face, sobbing. She felt a sharp stab of pity for him, suddenly.

"We have to pray for them," John had said, as he lay on the ground, bloody from Erik's punches. She had been angry at him at the time – angry at him for being so forgiving – angry at him for going off and leaving her while she sat and watched both her parents die, unable to do anything to help them – not even able to touch them.

She must have slept, for when she woke, she could feel herself lying on something soft. Echoing voices came through the fuzzy surroundings.

"I've given her a shot of antibiotics. It should help her body fight the virus faster."

"What about her hallucinations?" asked Will's voice, worriedly.

"I don't know that they are hallucinations," replied the other voice. "It seems to me she is reliving some moments in her past. Do you know if there was anything traumatic in her childhood?"

"I have no idea," said Will. "She never talks about it."

"There might be a reason for that. In the meantime, she needs to rest. Try to keep her calm."

It was then she recognized the voice of Dr. Carlson. She tried to call out to him, but no sound issued from her lips. Then the door shut and he was gone. She saw Will leaning over her. He pushed the wet hair from her forehead and put a cool cloth there. "Tell John I'm sorry," she tried to say, but she could not move her lips.

"Hi, Liz. Can you hear me?"

Elizabeth tried to nod, but she felt too tired.

"Try to sleep now, so you can get better." His voice echoed in her ear as she fell asleep.

She did not know how long she had slept, but awoke disoriented. She thought she was still in her dream, in which Dresle had been helping her feed the sick children in the orphanage. Those with HIV, like Maisee, had died first. They could not keep the corn meal mush down, nor did they have the strength to get up to go to the bathroom, so holes were cut in their cots and buckets placed underneath. The children were crying and calling out in pain, but she could not do anything for them. The children who were not sick had been moved from the orphanage and were living now all together at her parents' house. But now Dresle was feeding her something warm from a spoon, and she looked up. "But I don't have it. I never got the disease," she said, looking down at her skin for boils, but her arms were clean and healthy.

"It's okay, you're not dreaming," said Dresle. She looked worried and terrified. Elizabeth saw that she was in her bedroom. It was bright out again. Will was standing at one side of the bed and Dresle at the other.

"Have some more broth," said Dresle, moving a spoon toward Elizabeth's mouth.

"But – where am I?"

"You're at home," said Will. "Everything's all right. You had the flu, but you're doing better now."

Elizabeth looked at both of them, at last understanding, but still weak.

"I'm so sorry, Dresle," she said. "I'm so sorry."

Then Dresle burst into tears. "No, no, I'm so sorry, Elizabeth. I shouldn't have watched that video. I just wanted to know about your family. And I shouldn't have left you when you were sick. I thought you were going to die!"

"It's all right, Dresle," said Will soothingly. "It's not fatal – it's just the flu. It's common enough."

"Will, what are you doing here?" asked Elizabeth groggily.

"Well, I came to pick you both up for Twelfth Night, as I said I would. But I was surprised to find Dresle gone, and you lying sick on the couch. That was two days ago. Then I called Dresle to see what had happened and she didn't know you were sick. She came up to Oxford as soon as she could."

"Thank you," said Elizabeth. She took several more sips of broth and then felt too tired to have anymore. She was no longer hot or shaking; the fever must have gone. "I'm going to sleep," she muttered, and soon had fallen into a peaceful, dreamless slumber.

When she woke at last her mind was finally clear. She pushed herself up on her elbow and looked around. She was in her bedroom and the curtain was closed, but she could see light streaming out from behind it.

"Will?" she said.

It was Dresle who entered a moment later. "Will's not here," she said. "He had to go home last night – I made him go, he was so exhausted from sitting up with you."

Elizabeth felt a twinge of guilt. "But it's all right," Dresle said, seeming to sense Elizabeth's feeling. "He said he would stop by today after work."

"What time is it?" Elizabeth asked, sitting fully up.

"It's about 2:30 p.m.," said Dresle. She was speaking very softly and almost restrained, unlike herself. There was a pause. "Let me get you something to eat. Will said you might be hungry."

"Can you help me to the bathroom?" Elizabeth asked.

"Of course." Dresle helped her out of bed and supported her to the toilet.

When Elizabeth came out again, she found that she had been dressed in purple shorts and a t-shirt. She wondered who had changed her clothes, and then blushed to think that it was probably Will. "How did I get into these clothes?" she asked.

Dresle was at the counter, getting some bowls from the cupboard. "Oh, don't worry. I dressed you," she said "Will had only moved you to the bed before I got here." She poured some steaming broth into the bowls and carried them over to the couch. "Just sit and rest here. The doctor wrote down what you should be eating."

"You shouldn't be serving me like this," said Elizabeth, as Dresle set down a bowl of broth, a glass of ginger ale, and some crackers onto the coffee table.

"But you've done so much for me since I got here," said Dresle, "I wanted to do something for you. Especially after what I did," she said, looking out of the corner of her eye at the cracked TV screen.

Elizabeth reached down for some water and saw that her right hand was bandaged. She was ashamed now of her outburst.

"Dresle, I never should have been so angry or yelled at you. I'm so sorry. I did tell you that you could watch any of my videos."

"I should not have been so curious. Curiosity is individualistic and harmful to society. I only wanted to know about your family, and the video was labeled twenty-five years before."

"There's nothing wrong with curiosity," said Elizabeth. "You didn't know. That was a very difficult part of my life that I don't like to share."

Dresle looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"What?"

"Well…" began Dresle, "when Will came here and found you alone, he called me to see where I was. He couldn't understand why I'd gone back to London without you. So I – I told him what I saw and what had happened."

Elizabeth for a moment thought she felt a panic rising up in her, and then realized that Will's knowing this did not bother her so much as she had thought it would.

"He – he knows about your medicine too," she added reluctantly. "The doctor came and asked if you'd been taking it. Will didn't know about any medicines, so I answered him. We had to make you swallow it with some water."

Now Elizabeth did feel panic rise up in her. What would Will think of her now, after she had shouted all those things in her sleep, and he knew about the anti-depressants and anti-psychotics she was taking, as well as the sleeping pills? She could not bear it if her best friend turned from her. But now, no doubt, he thought her a "freak," as she encountered so often in her life. She tried to eat but suddenly felt sick. She put down her spoon and sank back into the couch.

"You really should try to eat, or drink a little of the broth," said Dresle. "Will got this for you, if you wanted it. It's called ginger ale, he said."

"Thanks," said Elizabeth and sipped it.

"Do you want to watch some of the Sherlock Holmes videos Will gave me?"

"Sure."

Dresle got up and attached the microdisc to the TV. It still worked, despite the broken part on the right side. "Which one do you want to watch? There's The Speckled Band, The Engineer's Thumb, and The Adventure of Black Peter…"

"Why don't you pick your favourite?"

"Okay. I love the one with the hound. It's so very clever."

They sat and watched several Sherlock Holmes episodes and Elizabeth drank her broth and had some crackers and ginger ale. Around a quarter to six the doorbell rang. Dresle got up. "That must be Will," she said, and Elizabeth suddenly felt sick to her stomach. How was Will going to greet her? Like someone mentally ill? Would he ask her why she took those medicines? Maybe he would pretend nothing was wrong but simply be stand-offish and distant from now on? She had had that from "friends" before.

Dresle opened the door, and Will stood there, wearing gloves and a hat, his cheeks red from the cold. He held a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a plastic bag in the other. Elizabeth tried not to look him in the eyes, but he was beaming at her. "I'm so glad you're doing better, Liz," he said. "You're looking so much better." Dresle took the flowers from him and looked for a vase to put them in. Will came over and hugged Elizabeth tenderly, holding onto her for several long moments. A warmth spread up into her cheeks, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her. He didn't think she was a lunatic or a freak. He let go and looked at her, then said. "I brought some dinner. I didn't know if you'd be hungry. It's from your favourite place – that Peruvian restaurant." He took some styrofoam boxes out of the bag and opened them at the counter. The delicious smell of spiced rice filled the air and Elizabeth suddenly realized she was hungry.

"I would love some. Is that seafood paella?"

"Yes – your favourite."

They sat to eat, but after a couple of bites Elizabeth felt full.

"Are you okay?" asked Dresle, eyeing her anxiously.

"I'm okay. Just tired."

"I'll leave the leftovers for you in the fridge," said Will. "I don't want to keep you up."

"No, no, stay, Will. I've been looking forward to seeing you all day."

He sat down with a smile. "So what did you two get up to today?"

Dresle launched into the account of how Elizabeth had awakened in the afternoon, and told him all the details of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Elizabeth listened, smiling unconsciously and thinking how thankful she was to have two such friends, who didn't care about her past or her mental 'illness,' as she referred to it. She wasn't sure to whom or what she was thankful, but was thankful all the same. She remembered having hugged and kissed Will when she was sick and felt embarrassed. Did he remember that? Hopefully he had just taken it as a part of her illness.

"…And then you came," Dresle finished. "I need to put those flowers in some water. Elizabeth, do you have a vase?"

"In the second cupboard next to the fridge," Elizabeth replied. "Will, thank you so much for the flowers. They're beautiful."

"No problem," said Will, smiling.

"I think I can name all these flowers," said Dresle, bringing the vase and bouquet over to the table. "There are roses – red roses … pink, red, and yellow tulips, sunflowers, hyacinths, hibiscus, forget-me-nots, and yellow chrysanthemums."

"Each flower had a specific meaning in Victorian times," said Will. "You could send a message to someone with such a bouquet."

"Interesting," said Dresle.

"I'm so thankful that neither of you got sick," said Elizabeth.

"I got my flu shot a couple months ago," said Will.

"I never get sick," said Dresle. "But you look really tired. Could I read to you?" she asked eagerly. "I've been looking at your books – not touching them, though," she added.

"It's okay," said Elizabeth with a smile. "You can touch them. And I'd love for you to read to me."

"I've never read out loud before," said Dresle, taking Dombey and Son carefully from the shelf. "You just lie back and I'll read."

"Uh—" said Will, uncertainly. "I don't think maybe that one is such a good idea…"

"It's okay," said Elizabeth gently. "I'll be fine. This is a good one. Go ahead, Dresle."

Dresle began to read.

"Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great arm-chair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin, and it was essential to toast him brown while he was very new."

Dresle turned out to be a dreadful reader, but Elizabeth was so happy to be with her friends that she listened, with a smiling face, until she fell asleep.