Five Sisters (25 page)

"The difference is more than eight years," Sara replied, "And he doesn't have much money to speak of or very much property."

"You were never one to admire expensive dresses and trinkets anyway," Mary commented before asking, "Do I know him?"

Sara nodded, "Yes, you know him."

"Well?"

"Quite well.
In fact, he's known you for most of your life."

"Most of my life?"
Mary repeated, "But how . . ?"

Sara couldn't take it anymore. With her back still turned to Mary, she pulled her blankets over her head and said with a muffled voice, "It's Charlie."

As soon as the words were spoken, Mary didn't quite know what to say. Her mouth dropped open and she stammered, "C-Charlie? Charlie Wilkie?"

Sara nodded.

Mary, still bewildered, repeated, "Charlie? You're quite sure, Sara?"

Sara nodded once more.

"But he's . . . He was father's old friend. He's just . . . I can't believe it, but I . . . Well, you two are awfully alike at times. And . . . And now that I think about it I . . . Well I just think it's wonderful. You two would make such a charming pair! Does he know of your affections?"

"Yes," Sara affirmed, "Yes, he knows. But he won't have anything to do with it. He absolutely refused to even consider it . . . But oh Mary, I know he feels the same way! I just know it! When we spoke of it, he just kept arguing with me and bringing up his age and his wealth and father . . . But I know he loves me. He loves me but he just can't bring himself to consider being reasonable . . ."

"It's such a terrible predicament," Mary murmured, "If only he weren't so disagreeable and could love you as he ought."

"I don't know what to do anymore," Sara whispered pitifully, "He won't even look at me."

Mary gave a forlorn sigh as she leaned against the bedpost, Sara buried her head beneath her pillow, and Emy, still listening silently, sat in both shock and empathy for Sara after hearing of her adoration of Charlie. For several moments the room was silent but for the gentle wind whistling past the portholes and the muted
waves
just outside.

When Mary finally spoke she didn't know quite what to say. Although she wanted to be supportive, she still believed that Sara would be matched well with Brook and said, "Well at least you always know that if Charlie never reconsiders you can always marry Brook and still live a happy life."

Sara rolled over, "But I don't want to marry Brook."

"It's only a suggestion."

"And besides, I'm sure Brook's already met tons of nice women at that art school he's at. He's probably already engaged to someone else by now."

"Oh, I doubt it," said Mary, "It's only been several weeks."

"And even if he hasn't, I'm sure in due time he'll find his true love and he won't ever be thinking of me anymore. He'd probably never even consider marrying me."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that. If Charlie never consents and Brook never finds his sweetheart, what would be stopping the two of you from marrying? Besides the fact that you don't love one another romantically, there's nothing to stand in your way! You're already good friends and enjoy spending time together, so why shouldn't you like to spend the rest of your life with him?"

Sara sighed, "Oh, I don't know. I suppose I'd consider it if it was my last resort and Brook agreed as well, but who knows if that'll ever happen?"

"It's possible."

As the two sisters continued to argue and discuss Sara's relations with Brook and her prospect of marrying him, Emy sat in quiet misery beneath her covers.

Throughout this voyage, she'd found herself thinking of him more often than ever. Her days were spent walking the deck forlornly, dreaming of what could never be, while her nights were filled with the tossing and turning of unrequited love. If only he might notice her, just once. Just once would be enough to fill her heart with the joy she'd been dreaming of for so long. And now, as she listened to Mary and Sara speak, her heart dipped even deeper into agony.

She'd loved Brook since the first day they'd met, but now it seemed impossible that he'd ever love her back.

In the stuffy confinement of Nathaniel's room, not long before supper, Gail sat on the foot of the bed, cross-legged. She was rolling marbles down a slide she'd constructed from one of Nathaniel's spare blankets, aggrieved that they could no longer play Chinese checkers because of Nathaniel's ailing condition.

In the past few days, his health had worsened considerably. And Gail, though she tried not to admit it, grew increasingly worried as each hour passed and he only seemed to grow weaker.

With a sickly white face, sunken in eyes, and trembling hands, he sat on his deathbed,
awaiting
the day he would finally pass away.

Most days, he'd simply lie quietly beneath his covers.

Gail kept him company, spending just about every hour of her day, and most nights as well, in his depressing room. Every so often they'd talk to one another, but most of the time Nathaniel was too weak to speak. The effort of conversation drained his strength and he only spoke in whispers.

Although they'd both heard the same tales a million times before, Gail often pulled out a storybook from Nathaniel's bedside table and read to him. Or sometimes, she'd draw him pictures for entertainment.
Pictures of her sisters or the ship or the sailors.
Pictures of pirates or a world full of marine
life,
complete with whales, dolphins, and silly little crabs. The scribbled images, surely not the mark of an accomplished artist, were appreciated by Nathaniel nonetheless. He kept them in a large stack beside his bed and would look at them when in need of a smile.

Sometimes, he'd break out in fits of coughs and Gail wouldn't know what to do. He couldn't breathe and his white face would redden as he gasped for breath. Each time this happened, everything always turned out all right. But for a split second, Gail would feel her heart stop as she wondered if this were the moment when he'd finally take his last breath.

And now, the poor invalid was so frail and weak that he could barely move. When his dry lips were in need of a drink, he'd reach his hand toward his cup but as he tried to lift it off the table, he'd struggle. Even the tiny weight of that little cup was too much to bear.

Whenever it came time to eat, he'd refuse, claiming he wasn't hungry. Gail knew he must eat though, for his nourishment was quickly diminishing, and she'd force him to do so. If it was necessary, she'd spoon the soup into his mouth herself.

Today Nathaniel had barely spoken at all, which scared Gail. As she sat at the edge of his feet, failing to become amused from her silly game of marbles, she'd glance towards him every so often in hope that he might finally speak to her and prove that he wasn't quite
so
ill as she thought.

A blanket reached up to his chest, hiding his gaunt arms beneath it, and he wore the same pair of blue striped pajamas as always. Although the room was neither hot nor cold, his forehead was damp with sweat yet his shoulders were trembling. His light brown hair was flattened on the right side from his pillow and yet the left side stuck up a bit, and his eyes were dead and lifeless, surrounded by dark shadows and blinking slowly. And in the center of his pale face, his lips sat dry and cracked, as always.

"Would you like something to drink?" Gail asked.

In reply, Nathaniel gave a small, almost unnoticeable nod, so Gail leaned forward to retrieve his cup. She held it to his mouth and slowly tilted it forward, letting him gulp down the tea. When he'd finished, she set it back down and sat back again, rolling another marble down her slide.

After a few moments had passed, she finally heard Nathaniel's voice. Its soft murmuring aroused her from the boredom of her game.

"You know, I've been thinking . . ." he whispered, his voice raspy and hoarse, "I really ought to start thinking of something wise or witty to say when it comes time for it."

"Time for what?"

"My death, of course."

Gail dropped her eyes back down to the marbles again.

"All those famous and important people in the past had something great to say when they passed away. And even though I'm certainly not famous or important, I ought to say something good as well."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. It's a hard thing to think of," he paused, "But I'll bet that some of those men planned out their last words. These aren't
spur
of the moment type of things. They must be thought out. What about Beethoven's 'Friends applaud. The comedy is finished' or Karl Marx's 'Last words are for fools who haven't said enough.' Or how about Henry David Thoreau's 'Moose . . . Indian . . .' I'd rather not be known for that one though. It's a bit odd, I think."

"Have you got any ideas?"

"Not yet, my dear," he whispered, his voice growing weaker, "But if I haven't thought of something good to say before I die, feel free to make up something of your own."

Gail gulped, but nodded, "Alright. I'll try."

Nathaniel smiled, his eyes almost closed, "That's all I ask."

*****

Nathaniel fell asleep after that last conversation, and he didn't wake up until after dinner. Gail had moved from the bed to the chair and was flipping through one of the old newspapers from the stack beside Nathaniel's bed.

When he awoke, she noticed something different about him. His breaths were quieter and he was no longer sweating, but shaking violently as though he sat in the center of a blizzard. His lips, still dry, had grown slightly blue and the shadows beneath his eyes were darker, despite his rest.

"Are you alright?" Gail asked.

Nathaniel didn't answer for what seemed like a century, and Gail wondered if he'd even heard the question. She was about to repeat it when he finally spoke again.

"There comes a time," he whispered, still trembling greatly, "when you just can't give any more. Your stomach's no longer hungry, you struggle to find your breath, and, worst of all . . . you can't even lift up your own cup because your arm's so weak . . . . I haven't looked into a mirror for weeks, but I wouldn't like to either. I've never felt so brittle in all my life . . . One good punch would break all my bones into tiny little pieces, I'll bet . . . And I despise being so reliant on others, not that I don't appreciate your company, Gail, but I hate having to rely on you for everything.
For food and for my health and for . . . for everything.
And there comes a point where you just can't take it anymore . . ." he continued to pause, catching his breath, before speaking once more, "I've been sitting in this bed for so long, I doubt I'll ever get out. When I was just a boy, I still had hope that I might someday get out, but I've lost that hope now. After years in this bed, I just don't think I'll ever be strong enough or that my legs will ever gain the strength . . ." Nathaniel coughed several times and his eyes began to water, but once he'd regained his composure he said, "After feeling so ill and so weak for so many years, I just want for my misery to end. It's time, and I won't deny that anymore. Although I surely won't go down without a fight, I won't refuse the destiny that has awaited me for so many years. Lying in a bed without strength or amusement for the rest of my life is not a very inviting future. I only hope that I'm not forced to lie here for the next ten years, like a dead turtle. If I'm alive, I want to live. If I'm lying in a sickbed, I think I'd rather be lying in a coffin, free of my ailment and this constant misery."