Lizabeth's Story (8 page)

L
izabeth ran to Rose and Chris.

“Tracy? What is it? What happened?” she asked.

Chris and Rose looked up, startled. “Nothing,” Chris mumbled.

“You were
crying
!” Lizabeth said.

Chris looked furious and embarrassed. “She's my little sister, too, you know.”

“Where were you? We were all looking for you,” Rose said. “Your aunt didn't have the heart to tell your mother. Not when she's so worried about—”

“What happened to you?” Chris seem shocked at her appearance. “Where are your shoes?”

“What did you hear about Tracy?” Lizabeth interrupted.

Rose reached for Lizabeth's hand. “She's not doing well.”

Chris's voice was ragged. “Dr. Forbes says it's critical.”

Lizabeth gasped. “I saw her last night and she—”

“How did you see her? The quarantine…” Chris said.

“I sneaked in last night and the night before,” Lizabeth told them. “I
had
to! I'm just waiting for dark to go back.”

Chris wiped his eyes roughly. “And you exposed yourself? I've been wanting to see her, I've thought of nothing else—didn't you give a thought to Mother and Father? If you catch it, too…”

“I
had
to—” Lizabeth repeated.

“Of all the stupid—” he started.

“Leave her alone,” Rose's eyes were sad and gentle. “She feels as bad as you do.”

“Well, you don't have to sneak in tonight,” Chris said. “You can go in the front door.”

“I can't. They'll send me away to Pittsfield.”

“You've been exposed already! You think they'll send you to infect our uncle and aunt?”

“Oh,” Lizabeth said. “I never thought of that.”

“You never thought at all.” Chris sounded both angry and miserable. “You picked a great time to go missing!”

“How…how bad is Tracy?” Lizabeth asked.

“Bad,” Chris said.

“Oh, Chris,” Rose said. “There's always hope.”

Her big brother had been
crying
! Lizabeth was terrified. She ran all the way home and burst through the front door. Mother, Father, and Dr. Forbes met her in the hallway. They stared at her, shocked.

“Lizabeth! You can't come in!” Mother's eyes were red and swollen.

“What are you doing? Go back to the lighthouse!” Though Father was shouting, he couldn't hide the fear in his voice. “Immediately!”

“I'm here to see Tracy. How is she? I need to see her.”

“Don't you understand?” Mother said. “She's
contagious
.”

“I've
been
with her. Last night and the night before. So it doesn't matter anymore, does it? Let me see her.
Please
.”

“Not you, too,” Mother moaned. “I can't stand it.” She held a glass of water, her hand shaking so that it threatened to spill. She looked at Dr. Forbes.

“If Lizabeth was already in Tracy's room,” Dr. Forbes said slowly, “I suppose she could…. Under the-circumstances…” He looked exhausted.

“She's been calling for you,” Father said. “Maybe seeing her sister…”

“I…I was just taking this up,” Mother said.

“I'll take it.” Lizabeth grabbed the glass. She hurried to the stairs before anyone could change their mind. She wanted to run, but the water forced her to move slowly.

Halfway up, she heard Father roaring at Dr. Forbes. “Can't you do
something
? Try leeches! Remove the bad blood.” He was so used to being in control.

“I don't believe in leeches, Mr. Merchant.” Dr. Forbes said quietly. “I won't torment her.”

“Do
something
!” Father raged in his helplessness.

“Stanton, please,” Mother sobbed.

“The only thing is to keep her hydrated and comfortable,” Dr. Forbes said. “We have to wait. We have to hope the fever will break by morning.”

Lizabeth felt Father's rage. Why wasn't there medicine for scarlet fever?
Why
? It was 1906! New things were being discovered all the time!

She entered Tracy's room. Tracy looked so terribly flushed against the white sheets.

“Tracy?”

“Lillibet,” Tracy whispered her long-ago baby pronunciation. Her voice was just a breath. Lizabeth had to
bend over to hear. “You came back.”

“I'm here.” She wasn't delirious! She wasn't! That had to mean she was better.

“I knew you would come back,” Tracy whispered. “I waited for you.”

“Do you want water?” Lizabeth asked. “See, I brought some up for you.”

Tracy shook her head slowly. She seemed too weak to even do that much. But her dark blue eyes were aware. Tracy was back from that faraway place!

“Just a sip?”

“No, no more,” Tracy sighed.

“Maybe a little later.” With her finger, Lizabeth placed a drop on the parched lips and rested the glass on the nightstand.

Tracy's lips flickered into the trace of a smile. “I knew you'd come back.”

“Nothing could keep me away,” Lizabeth said. “Nothing in the whole world.”

Tracy moaned. “I'm hot and then I'm shivery and then I'm hot.”

“Oh, I know.” Please, God, she's only a little girl!

“Lillibet,” Tracy whispered, “stay with me.”

“I will,” Lizabeth promised. “I love you, pussycat.”
She took Tracy's tiny hand. “I love you.”

Tracy's eyelids fluttered closed.

There was another sigh; a deep sigh that seemed to rattle Tracy's small body. Her hand suddenly went limp in Lizabeth's.

“Tracy.” Lizabeth shook her arm. “Tracy, wake up.” Over and over again, she repeated, “Tracy. No, Tracy, come back.
Tracy!
”

But she knew, as surely as she knew anything, that she had just seen Tracy's spirit escape.

“Mother! Mother!” someone screamed. “Mother!” It was a while before Lizabeth realized it was her own voice.

L
izabeth stumbled on the stone steps in front of the church. If Father hadn't been holding her arm, she would have fallen.

The church was a simple white clapboard building that, except for the spire, blended into its surroundings. Inside, plain white walls surrounded rows of oak benches. Their armrests had been lovingly hand-carved by parishioners, with no two designs alike. This was the place where Lizabeth had always felt peace and harmony.

Tall windows gave an impression of airiness. In winter the snow outside reflected light into the long, narrow room. Today, on this nineteenth day of May, soft sunlight shone through the glass.

The many empty pews were obvious. People were afraid to gather in large groups.

Lizabeth allowed Father to guide her to a seat next to Mother. There was no peace and harmony here today.
There was a small white casket. It was terribly wrong, Lizabeth thought. Such a small casket was an insult to the order of the world. It was covered with white lilies. Their heavy scent became nauseating.

Reverend Morgan spoke. Lizabeth watched his lips move. She couldn't take in his words. She was numb. Everything seemed to click by like disconnected slides in a stereoscope.

The too-tight unfamiliar black crepe dress.

Ada's round tear-stained face at the back of the church.

Father's sobs. “Such a short time. I wish I'd—” He had aged overnight. “We had her for such a short time.”

Mother, deathly still in the pew next to him, her face white and haunted.

Her friends on the stone steps outside. Amanda, Kat, and Rose. Their painful, awkward silence. Kat saying, “You know I loved her, too.” Rose saying, “I'm so sorry.” Amanda's hug, tears in Amanda's eyes. “I know, oh Lizabeth, I know.”

Lizabeth didn't cry. She didn't speak. She was numb.

The gravesite. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” Reverend Morgan's anguished eyes.

She and Christopher, clutching each other's hands,
brother and sister as lost as Hansel and Gretel trying to find a path home.

Chill winds blew into the wide open windows of Lizabeth's house. They were airing out, grimly following Dr. Forbes's instructions. He thought scarlet fever came from airborne germs, though no one knew for sure. They burned Tracy's bedclothes. Lizabeth hated all of it, hated the feeling that they were dispersing the last bits of Tracy.

Later a sprinkling of neighbors and friends came into the parlor. Others, still afraid to enter the Merchant house, left offerings on the porch. Covered dishes, more than an army could ever need. Then, finally, quiet. Lizabeth, Chris, Mother, and Father sat at the table over untouched food. Tracy's chair was empty.

When Lizabeth went up the stairs to bed, Father was still sitting at the table, staring hopelessly into space.

The sleep that overwhelmed Lizabeth was welcome. She burrowed into its dark, unthinking depth.

 

Lizabeth woke up in her own lavender-and-white room, on her own smooth sheets, with a sigh of pleasure. She stretched comfortably. It felt as though she'd been away for a long time….

“Lizabeth! Lizabeth! I'm ready!” Tracy's excited voice preceded her down the hall, and soon she burst through Lizabeth's door.

Lizabeth smiled. Tracy's curls still needed brushing and the red bow perched on her head was crooked, but she looked so sweet in the navy-and-red plaid dress. Navy tights, patent high-button shoes, a white eyelet pinafore that allowed the plaid of the dress to peep through. Adorable! They'd been planning this first-day-of-school outfit together for days.

“It's
very
early,” Lizabeth said. She sat up and swung her feet unto the floor. Her head felt foggy. She had a hazy memory of a bad dream. It had faded away with the morning light. “Can you stay neat while I get dressed?”

Tracy nodded eagerly. Then a frown appeared between her big, dark blue eyes. “I don't want to be late.”

“Don't worry.” Lizabeth laughed. “I promise you, the William McKinley School won't be open for more than an hour.”

“I'm glad you still go there.” Tracy beamed. “I'm glad you're taking me.”

For a moment Lizabeth was confused. Of course, she had just come out of a deep sleep…. Tracy was six
and starting first grade today. So Lizabeth had to be fifteen and in ninth grade…. Of course. When she'd swung her feet over the side of her bed, her legs had been noticeably longer. Yes, she'd graduate from William McKinley next spring and go on to high school in Cranberry. Why was it so hard to keep track of dates? September 1908 already!

Tracy and Lizabeth walked along Lighthouse Lane and turned the corner to William McKinley Road. Well, Lizabeth was walking. Tracy, holding tight to her hand, skipped along.

Mothers and big brothers and sisters were going the same way, bringing other first graders to their first day of school. Some of the little children looked scared. Some were whimpering. One little girl stood still on the sidewalk, bawling. Her mother tried to guide her along, but she pulled back and refused to move. “Come now, Evangeline,” the mother said. “Everyone's going to school. You'll like it.” She pointed at Tracy going by. “Look at that little girl. See how happy she is?”

Tracy gave Lizabeth a big smile. “
I'm
not scared,” she said.

Lizabeth smiled back. “I know you're not.” Pride in Tracy filled her heart. Her little sister was so full of
confidence, so brimming over with joy. What a special six-year-old she was!

“I know how to read ‘cat' and ‘hat' and ‘mat,'” Tracy said.

Lizabeth nodded. Tracy would do well at William McKinley. She was so bright—Lizabeth was sure she was way ahead for her age—and cheerful and outgoing. Everyone would love her.

The sunshine was turning Tracy's golden curls into a halo. “Thanks for walking me.”

“I wouldn't miss it for anything,” Lizabeth said. “I love you, pussycat.”

Then, like a cloud passing over, Lizabeth remembered her nightmare. It was still hazy. Something about illness. Scarlet fever. Father crying.
Father?
That was unimaginable! Tracy, burning with fever and suddenly so still. No, no, that was too horrible.

Lizabeth shook her head, shook away the images. Tracy would do beautifully in school and grow up and fall in love one day, and they'd whisper confidences and giggle like sisters do. Tracy might even have an outstanding talent…. Maybe piano, maybe art like Kat, or…There were endless possibilities.

What a cruel nightmare! The sadness of it seeped
into Lizabeth's bones and made her body feel heavy. Some part of her had lived within that horror all through the night. But now it was daylight and the Indian summer sunshine warmed Lizabeth. Thank God,
this
was reality! Lizabeth breathed deep. Thank you, God. Tracy's little hand was in hers. Lizabeth squeezed it and—

Lizabeth woke up in her own lavender-and-white room on her own smooth sheets. Her bedside clock read nine o'clock. She was confused. Oh, no! She must have overslept. She was supposed to walk Tracy to school!

“Tracy!” she called.

Lizabeth bounded out of bed and her eye caught the black crepe mourning dress draped over a chair. She caught her breath.

“Tracy,” she whimpered.

Lizabeth doubled over in pain. It was the nightmare that was real! It was like losing Tracy a second time. Worse because there had been that sweet, fleeting dream of how it should have been.

T
he only thing Lizabeth could hold on to for comfort was that she'd had the chance to tell Tracy she loved her. It mattered.

Late the next day, after more neighbors with hot dishes had come and gone, Lizabeth saw Chris sitting on the porch rocker in the twilight. His shoulders were slumped forward. She came out and sat on the wicker chair across from him. He looked up at her and then away. They sat in silence, staring out at the darkening evening.

“Chris…” Lizabeth said.

He turned to her. His face, in the light from the gas lamp, was full of sadness. “It's not real to me. I can't get it into my mind.”

“I know.”

They listened to a far-off train whistle.

“Chris, I love you,” Lizabeth said. She felt terribly
awkward. “I just wanted to tell you. Out loud. I was thinking about the things we never say to each other—”

“In this family,” he finished her thought. His voice softened. “I love you, too.”

“We're getting older now,” Lizabeth said. “We should stop sniping at each other.”

Chris nodded. “I'm not a kid anymore.” He shifted in his chair. “Everything's different.”

“I know brothers and sisters tease and fight, but…”

“We have nothing to fight about,” he said. “It seems stupid now, doesn't it? I remember when you were born. I remember being glad I wasn't outnumbered by the grown-ups anymore.”

“I remember when Tracy was born. I was so happy there was another girl.” Lizabeth remembered the rest of it: her thudding disappointment when she saw the red-faced, bald, bawling infant. It took her a while to truly love Tracy.

Chris sighed.

They sat together thinking. The runners of the rocker squealed under Chris.

“Lizabeth? When it comes down to it, you know you can always depend on me.”

“I know.”

“No reason we can't get along. We never gave credit to how much we have in common.” He mustered that crooked grin, the grin that she couldn't help being charmed by, even when she was furious at him. “Look, we even share the same best friend.”

“Your best friend?” Lizabeth asked, puzzled. She hardly knew Michael Potter.

“Rose.”

“Oh!” Rose and Chris, best friends! “Do you…I mean, do you like her as a
girl
?”

“That, too,” Chris said.

“Are you—are you two a
couple
?”

“If she'll have me,” he said quietly.

Lizabeth was astounded. She had never ever heard him sound so
humble
. This was brashly confident Chris, a great catch—and he'd always acted like he knew it. He could charm anyone, and half the girls in town had set their caps for him. And it was
Rose
!

“She's sweet and fun and…” Lizabeth started.

“You don't have to tell me. She's…well, she's
everything
!” For a moment, his face lit up.

Rose, who doesn't follow the rules in the
Girls' Guides
and the
Ladies' Home Journal
, Lizabeth
thought. Rose, who is always just herself.

“Father was out here a little while ago,” Chris said. “It was peculiar. He asked me how I felt about things, why I wouldn't work in the bank, what I wanted to do instead. Even what I thought of the high school! Trying to get acquainted all of a sudden. It was the first time he
listened
to me.”

“He's trying,” Lizabeth said. She had been touched by Father's awkward attempts at affection.

“Too late,” Chris said. “He missed out on knowing his own daughter.”

“There's a big hole in this family now,” Lizabeth said. Two out of three was a lonely number.

 

To her surprise, Lizabeth didn't get sick. No sign of fever. Not even a sniffle from her walkabout in the rain. She went to Dr. Forbes's office to be checked anyway because Mother asked her to. Mother was suddenly so frail and helpless. Lizabeth couldn't refuse her anything.

Lizabeth sat on the examining table in Dr. Forbes' office and looked around at all the shiny equipment and instruments and pill bottles. All those things and nothing had saved Tracy.

“I don't know why one person catches scarlet fever
and another doesn't.” Dr. Forbes put his stethoscope aside. “Some people have resistance. You're lucky. You seem to have some kind of natural immunity.”

Lizabeth couldn't feel lucky.

“Couldn't
something
have helped my sister?” she asked. “If we'd realized she was getting sick sooner. If we'd been in New York? Maybe in a big city or…”

Dr. Forbes shook his head. “Don't, Lizabeth.” His long days and nights showed on his drawn face. “There is no cure for scarlet fever. Not anywhere; not yet. With all we've learned, we still depend on the body to heal itself.”

“You said not
yet
,” Lizabeth said.

“Because I have hope. Medicine has come a long way.”

“Has it?”

“At least now we know that sanitation is important. It wasn't that long ago that surgeons didn't even wash their hands. I have to believe that someday there'll be a treatment, a drug for scarlet fever, cholera, diphtheria, tuberculosis….” His voice trailed off.

“A miracle drug?” Lizabeth asked in disbelief.

“If not in my lifetime, perhaps in yours.”

“Too late for Tracy,” Lizabeth said bitterly.

“But not for other children.” He drew a weary hand across his forehead. “I pray for the day when a doctor can do more than look wise and reassuring.” With an effort, he straightened his shoulders. “We
have
made progress.”

How terrible it must be for him, Lizabeth thought, to lose another patient. But he keeps on trying. She looked at his graying beard and metal-framed spectacles. How does he do it, she wondered. He's some kind of hero.

 

When Lizabeth came home she found Mother straightening up the kitchen with Ada's apron wrapped around her. The servants hadn't returned to the Merchant house yet.

The lady with the sparkling jewels, elaborate hairstyle, and easy smile had disappeared, Lizabeth thought.

“What are we going to do with all of this?” Mother put yet another covered dish in the icebox. “Do people really think
food
will help?”

“They don't know what else to do,” Lizabeth said.

“I suppose it's meant as a reminder to keep on living.” Mother's mouth twisted. “They don't know.”

They know, Lizabeth thought. We're not the only ones.

“We'll never eat all of this,” Mother said, “but it seems wrong to throw it out.” She sighed.

“Wait, I know what to do with it!” Lizabeth juggled two full bowls out of the crowded icebox and put them on the counter. A chicken mixture with a crust of crumbs, and baked fish and potatoes. “I know someone who'll want it. Oh, and I have to get something else!” She ran upstairs and found an extra blanket in the back of the linen closet. Light blue, soft wool. It won't stay clean and sweet-smelling for long, Lizabeth thought, but it will be warm.

“Where did that blanket come from?” Mother shook her head. “I don't remember it.”

“We don't need it, do we?” Lizabeth gathered everything together.

“Where are you going? What's this all about?”

“There's something I have to do.” Mother wouldn't want to know about that night. Lizabeth wasn't ready to tell even Amanda, Kat, and Rose yet. It was too strange and unreal.

She managed to get the bulky bowls into the basket of her bicycle. She draped the blanket over the handlebars. Lizabeth rode slowly along Lighthouse Lane. The extra weight made the bicycle lopsided. At every bump, she put a protective hand over the basket.

She turned onto Wharf Way and came to the tumbledown hut. In daylight, it was horribly shabby: the door hanging from its hinges, broken and weather-beaten planks, shredded wood.

Lizabeth carried the bowls and the blanket into the hut. Mary was out. She placed everything on the crate next to the candles. Mary would be so surprised by this sudden windfall.

She didn't have to know where it came from.

For the first time since Tracy's death, Lizabeth felt good about something.

 

Amanda, Kat, and Rose rallied around Lizabeth. Sometimes it was all three of them together. At least one of them was always with Lizabeth, though Kat had lighthouse chores, Rose had duties at the stables, and Amanda had Hannah. Lizabeth was never alone. They seemed to have planned it that way, taking turns.

The best friends anyone could have, Lizabeth thought.

Kat and Rose did all they could to comfort her and Lizabeth was grateful. But she could speak most freely to Amanda, who knew all about loss.

“I don't know what to do,” Lizabeth told Amanda. “I
don't know how to stop being so sad.”

They were at Amanda's house that afternoon because she had to be at home for Hannah. Amanda had started Hannah on cutting out paper dolls in her room. Then she and Lizabeth settled into Amanda's room. They sat side by side on the bed.

“Does it ever get better? Do you ever get over it?” Lizabeth pleaded.

“You don't really get over it.” Amanda said slowly. “I never stop missing my mother. I choose a new dress or some little thing happens on an ordinary day—even something funny—I
ache
with wanting to tell her, and suddenly a stab of hurt takes my breath away.” She twisted the chenille bedspread in her hand. “I want to tell her about Jed. I want to show her my report card when I get an A. Especially now that I'm older, I want to ask her about womanly things. And it's not Rose's mother or Kat's mother or yours that I want, though they've been so kind to me. I want my
own
.”

“Then you stay sad forever.” Lizabeth felt hopeless.

“No, it does get better. One day you remember how magnificent God's world is. I was in the lighthouse tower with Kat at sunset. For a moment the sea and the sky turned red and orange and pink, and all that beauty
seemed like a…like a message for me. Then I knew I'd be all right. You don't forget, Lizabeth, but you start to enjoy all the good things again. Give yourself time.”

Hannah burst into the room almost in tears. “I cut the tab off by mistake. The coat won't stay on!”

“Let me see,” Amanda said. She took the little blue paper coat from Hannah and bent the shoulder. “I'm bending it just a tiny bit. It won't show.” She folded it onto the cardboard Gibson Girl. “Look, it stays on.”

“It shows!” Hannah exploded. “It does too show. The shoulder looks all funny!”

“But it still looks pretty on her.”

“No, it doesn't! You spoiled it!”

“Look at all those pretty buttons, Hannah-banana. See if you can find the matching hat and cut it out
very
carefully.”

Hannah pouted and grumbled her way out of the room.

“I would have said ‘Don't yell at
me
, it's not
my
fault if you messed up the tab.'” Lizabeth half-smiled. “Mean old me. You're awfully patient.”

“She has no one but me.” Amanda sighed. “Anyway, Hannah's irritable because she can't play with Mary Margaret today. She's usually a sweetheart.”

Why wasn't I more patient with Tracy? Lizabeth thought.
Why?
She cleared the sudden thickness in her throat. “It's terribly hard for you, isn't it? Hannah
and
running the household.”

“I don't mind.”

“I've never once heard you complain, but still—”

“We do have a laundress come in and—I want to raise Hannah right and keep a nice home for my father. Honestly, I
want
to. After my mother…Well, it was good for me to be busy with something outside myself. It helps.” Amanda hesitated before she added, “I like to think my mother would be proud of me.”

“You know she would!”

“I want to make my father proud, too. I wish he had more time with us. He used to be home lots of evenings before. But of course, he's doing important work, counseling and…”

“Everyone admires him,” Lizabeth said. “They say he's the best minister Cape Light could have, always available for anyone who's troubled. But don't you ever tell him? I mean, that you and Hannah need him, too?”

“I can't.” A frown crossed Amanda's forehead. “I think he's driven to keep busy and lose himself in good works. Sometimes I think he's stuck in his grief.” She
clapped her hand over her mouth. “Don't tell anyone I said that. Don't ever repeat it!”

“I won't,” Lizabeth promised. She'd never noticed before; beautiful Amanda's nails were bitten and ragged.

“I didn't mean it,” Amanda said quickly. “I'm lucky to have a father I respect so much. I hope to be worthy of him.”

Stuck in grief, Lizabeth thought. I don't want to be like that, but I don't know
how
to go on.