Downhill Chance (47 page)

“There you go,” she said softly, lifting the baby onto Missy’s belly and covering it with a blanket.

“Lord,” gasped Missy, her eyes widening in fright.

“That’s how they look at first,” said Clair. “She’ll be all pretty and pink in no time. We can leave the cord— I’ve nothing to cut it with—as long as it’s tied tight. But you’ve got to start breastfeeding her—it keeps you from

hemorrhaging.”

“Am I hemorrhaging?”

“No, but you could start. Don’t ask me how, but you must breastfeed so’s it don’t start. Here.” Fumbling with her sister’s clothing, she lifted the baby closer to her breast. “Help me, Missy.”

“How?”

“Poke at her mouth—with your nipple. Just poke it— there you go,” she exclaimed softly as the infant’s mouth, no bigger than a freckle, opened, groping blindly. “There—it’s in—is she sucking?”

“I—I think so.”

“Can you feel it?”

“Yes, I can feel it. Lord, she’s so small—”

“Like one of your fairies. Hannah, come see,” said Clair, noting her daughter’s stalled movements before the stove door. “Come,” she urged as Hannah dragged her step, casting a reluctant glance at the baby. “Ooh, come here.” Reaching for her daughter, Clair pulled her into her lap, cradling her head onto her shoulder, rocking her. They were quiet for some time, Clair, calming her breathing through the tangled mess of Hannah’s hair, and Missy, lines of fatigue drawing her face as she gazed from the baby suckling her breast to Hannah to Clair.

“They’ll find us, Clair.”

Clair raised her chin to the top of Hannah’s head, still rocking her. “Of course they will,” she whispered. “And till they do, we’re fine—as long as we keeps warm. At least we’ve all found each other. I swear I’ve died a thousand times this night,” she sighed, kissing the top of Hannah’s head. “Why’d you run off like that, Hannah? Why didn’t you tell somebody?” urged Clair as Hannah burrowed deeper into her shoulder.

“I promised I wouldn’t tell,” said Hannah.

“Ooh, Hannie,” sighed Missy. “It’s my fault, Clair; I should never have made her promise.”

“We should never have left you this morning,” Clair whispered into her daughter’s ear. “But I’m glad we did now, for you saved Missy’s baby, you did.” Cupping Hannah’s chin, Clair tipped her face back and stared into the pair of dark, murky eyes. “You’re a strong, wonderful girl,” she whispered.

“And an aunt,” said Missy, reaching out a hand and jiggling Hannah’s foot. “Come on, Hannie,” she coaxed as Hannah gave a sideways glance at the splotch of red no bigger than an apple suckling her breast. And when her girl grinned, her face brightening onto Missy, Clair dropped a kiss on her nose.

“There, sit besides Aunt Missy whilst I checks the fire,” said Clair, shifting Hannah off her lap onto the bed. “I might have to get more wood, Missy—Hannah will stay with you—” Clair paused, bending over the stove, her eye quickening onto the door at what sounded like someone pushing through the brambles. Just as quickly Missy half rose from her pillow.

“Gideon,” she cried out, and Clair drew back in alarm as the door slowly opened and a grizzled head appeared, a scarf covering his right eye and partially concealing a scarred cheek. A wild look marked the eye that took in the sight of Hannah’s bloodied face and Clair’s startled eyes and the babe suckling at Missy’s breast. Gideon. Gid. Immediately she knew. And saw, too, the excitement tinting Missy’s cheeks as she pulled the blankets off the infant for Gideon to see, and the gentleness with which he stroked a finger across Hannah’s cheek as she babbled, “I found her—I found Aunt Missy first, and then Mommy found us and she borned the baby.”

“I was to the other side of the cove when my water broke,” said Missy. “I come back but you were gone. I—I was frightened, but I lit a fire and waited—and prayed—but then—”

“Your sister came,” finished Gideon as Missy turned to Clair, her smile growing more feeble as her bout of excitement faded.

“But first it was Hannah,” said Clair, kneeling back down, cradling Hannah against her. Yet it was onto Gideon her eyes were fastened. And the look of awe he cast upon the infant as he felt along the umbilical cord with a doctor’s fingers, was akin to that of Luke’s the first time he had knelt besides her, gazing at Hannah, and then at Brother, telling himself that he was a father, he was a father. Murmuring words of comfort to the fretting infant, he fished into his pocket, pulling out a pocket knife. He struck a match, and drew the blade slowly and easily across the flame, his eye warming with fire, gazing onto Hannah.

“I thought I heard you sing out, but then I thought I was dreaming. But I kept waking up, puzzling whether it was a dream or not.” Slicing the cord beyond the rawhide knot on the baby’s belly, he said, “No doubt you’ve earned your namesake, and that’s a far greater gift than a piece of rawhide.” Wrapping the baby, he patted Missy’s hand, then rose, looking to Clair. “I’ll take the woods road to the Basin before it gets too dark. You’ll see that the fire keeps burning. They need to be warm—real warm.”

“Find Luke,” said Clair, following him to the door. “He’s up the Basin somewhere with his boat.”

Gideon paused, then with a slight nod, stepped off the stoop and disappeared through the brambles.

“Hannah,” said Clair, and giving her daughter a quick hug, she ushered her towards the door. “Go gather as much driftwood as you can—hurry now, before it’s too dark. The sea’s rough and it might be a while before anyone can reach us. Just gather a pile, and I’ll come help bring it in,” she called, leaning off the stoop as Hannah ducked through the brambles. Fixing the door in place, she turned back to Missy. There was a calmness around her sister since Gideon had come and gone, and despite her wearied look, her eyes were still bright.

“He seems nice,” she said, shoving more wood into the oil drum.

“He’s not the father.”

“I’m not prying.”

“A silly boy is the father. I never think of him. Do you think me bad, Clair?”

“Bad?” Clair heaved a sigh, staring into the fire. “I was wrong to say those things I said at the grandmother’s funeral, Missy. You’ve never been bad.” She gave a short laugh. “What’s that anyway, and who’s to say what bad is? Only youngsters can say what bad is. We become too guilty as we leave off them days to judge what bad is—or even what good is, for that matter.”

“I’ve always felt bad, Clair. From the moment Daddy left, I felt bad; that it was my fault—because of my dreams.”

“Ooh, Missy, you were a little girl.”

“She turned from us.”

“Our mother? But she was sick.”

“She turned from us. She was our mother and she turned from us.”

“She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Missy smiled sadly. “Not just me, Clair. She left you, too.”

Clair became quiet, looking at her younger sister. Closing the door to the drum, she rose, sitting besides her bedside.

“I always remember how Daddy found her,” she said softly, “fallen down on a wet plank and crying from the cut in her knee. He saved her, he did, and she built everything around him. And when he left, she was just a scared little girl agin. That’s how I sees it, Missy. I can’t bear it any other way.”

“I was scared, too. I was always scared—more so when he come back. It was only because you weren’t scared of him, that you liked to sit next him and read and stuff, that I was able to come home at all. And then when you left—even with him dead—I was still scared; scared of waking at night and hearing him scream—and there’s times I thought I did. And I could never go in the kitchen by myself at night to—to get a glass of water, or something; and one night I even wet the bed because I was too scared to get up in the dark.”

This was last spoken in such anguish that Clair simply hung her head. “I should never have left you.”

“It was Mommy who left. Not you. Not even him. I know,” she added tiredly as Clair opened her mouth in protest. “I know it was because she couldn’t get over him. Nor could you,” she whispered, touching Clair’s hand.

Clair spoke tonelessly. “I was scared, too. Scared he wouldn’t come home, and that Mommy would just get sicker. And then when he did come home …” She paused.

“It must’ve been hard for you,” Missy whispered, “seeing him like that. You always loved him more.”

“He was a wonderful father. Don’t you remember?”

“Not like you.”

Clair’s lips quivered. “I did love him,” she whispered deeply. “And I tried so hard when he come home. But I just wanted him better. You were right; it was pity I felt. But not any more. You’ve given him back to me. I swear to God, you did, Missy, for I found the courage to go find him agin. And I’m glad he went. No matter what, I’m glad he went, for he was a father to all those others. And they needed him more than me. He left enough of himself inside of me for a thousand lifetimes.” She became quiet, wiping the wet that had seeped into her eyes. “Can you remember nothing of them days, Missy?” she asked almost pleadingly. Missy sighed, her eyes closing tiredly.

“Yes. I do. At least, enough to feel that they were there. Perhaps I was too much for myself to feel what you felt, Clair,” she added, opening her eyes and looking back at her sister. “You always felt too much. That’s why you couldn’t come back. I always knew that about you, even when I felt it was because I was bad.”

“I was wrong,” cried Clair. “I never meant any of those things I said!”

“Ohh, you were right in everything you said about the grandmother—and Uncle Sim, too. He was wrong in his ways to you, Clair; I know that. And Lord, bad as it was, it would’ve been worse if you hadn’t gone—the way you and the uncle fought. But I can’t imagine how it felt having to go off teaching like that and Mommy and Daddy both gone. You’re strong-willed, Clair. You’re like him. Ohh, sure, you’re strong,” she managed as Clair shook her head, trying to speak. “Like Daddy, you came back, didn’t you? And I know it’s more hurt than mad I’m feeling with Mommy. It’ll go away someday, especially now,” she murmured, casting her eyes down on the sleeping infant.

“Missy, I can’t feel in my heart for the uncle, but I feels for you,” said Clair, stroking the little hand clenched tight upon Missy’s breast. “He was there for you—like Daddy was for these men. I’ll—I’ll try to get along. To come visit.”

“He’s not long left; I’ve seen that. And I don’t want much—tea, is all.”

“It’ll be good to sit at our mother’s table agin,” said Clair as Missy’s eyes closed. “And I long to hear this youngster’s screams fill the rafters.” She smiled as Missy’s eyes opened onto her. “There, you’re so tired. You sleep now, whilst I goes and checks on Hannah. Listen—I think I hears a boat already—ooh,” she murmured as a tiny hole appeared on the little red face lying upon Missy’s breast, and the faintest wail in the world sounded, bringing Missy’s eyes onto her baby in new-found wonder. Leaving her, Clair crept outside, quietly closing the door. Pushing through the brambles, she spotted Hannah down by the water’s edge calling out to her father who was still a ways off shore. It had been a long day, she thought, smiling as Hannah danced and chanted, “Over here, Daddy, over here.” A long, long day. And for him too, no doubt, she thought, spotting Luke standing at the bow of the boat, and the grizzle-headed Gideon behind him. She glanced upwards. The fog was thinning and a flush of stars shone through a patch in the night sky above them. A ghoulish sound came from the mouth of the cove and she turned to it, remembering Henry’s fear in the story that Roddy had spilled out. Luke’s fear. “It’s the strongest man who hides his fear the bestest.” Her father’s words came to her, and she closed her eyes, remembering him standing so tall in their boat, as Luke was now, eyes squinting from the sun as he smiled down at her. In a flash she remembered too his fright when he had steered them into the piece of pan ice, and his chastizing her mother and Missy for their talk of the dead and the bluebells. And perhaps it wasn’t brave of us, Daddy, to hide our fears behind bluebells and dreams and rivers, she thought. But in the end we create our own saviours, don’t we? And far more easier to imagine a fairy than He who can make the Heavens dance.

EPILOGUE

T
HE FEAR CAME AS HE KNEW IT WOULD
. Till now it had been kept at bay by the ordeal of motoring to the Basin in the fog and sea looking for Missy. They’d just done searching the ravine and he was climbing onto the wharf when Gid appeared. It had circled his belly then, but the joy of Gid’s news drove it off, beat it back like a strong wind against a bird in flight. For that’s what it felt like, a bird in flight, a vulture shadowing him overhead, falling back sometimes, so’s that he was scarcely aware it was there—scarcely. He always knew. Always sensed that it was hiding behind some cloud, waiting for a soft moment to come swooping over him, casting him into the darkness of its shadow. He could never trust it. From the moment he dragged Gid onto the bank of Rocky Head and met it, he could never trust. It was right after Nate had bedded Gid into the bow of his boat and was putting off to the doctor up the Basin that it showed itself. Right in front of his mother, sisters, aunts, uncles, as they stood on the bank watching after the boat, it had appeared; beating at his face with its wings, stealing his life’s breath till he was gaping like a beached fish, his lungs bursting, his face reddening, and his heart beating faster and faster and faster till he thought it would burst. And then it flew off, leaving him leaning onto his frightened old mother, panting with exhaustion as his lungs slowly took back what was left him, and his heart slowed and his breathing calmed.

It tricked him at first. Watching the O’Maras pack and leave for Corner Brook during the next few days (to be near his beloved firstborn whilst he healed in the hospital, O’Mara had announced), and then going about his daily chores of chopping wood and cleaving splits and bringing water, he nearly forgot. It was whilst he stood in front of the teacher’s desk, reading out a poem to the teacher, Mr. Bissel, and the rest of the school, when it came again. No different from the first time, only harder; beating at his face, taking his breath till his lungs sucked and sucked as if breathing through plastic, and his face reddened and his heart pounded like the surf upon the rocks of Copy-Cat Cove. Like the fits, they said, only not quite. Like what that fellow down Conche used to have. And he got so bad he never come out of his house for thirty years—and then it was in a box.