Turner's Rainbow 2 - The Rainbow Promise (15 page)

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They buried the baby the next day underneath the oak tree on the rise, where Sarah wanted it. She could see the tree from the window in their bedroom, and there would be shade over him in the hot summers.

From her bed, Sarah watched the small procession as they trudged up the slight incline. She was too weak to even get out of bed, let alone go with them, but it tore her heart to see them carry away the small casket and her not be there. There was Luke, carrying the small wooden box, with Julia beside him and the children straggling behind. The minister from their church was there, too. He had tried to come up and comfort Sarah, but Sarah had told Julia not to let him in.

She didn't want to see the man. She didn't want comfort. She was too consumed with rage.

Sarah hated the world. She hated Luke. She hated Julia, even the children. Everything, everyone. Most of all, she hated herself. How could they all be alive and her baby dead? How could anything dare to breathe, to live? Sarah wanted to scream and throw things, to shout like a madwoman, to tear the room apart. Only a lifetime of training and the complete weakness in her limbs kept her from it.

Sarah had never known anger like this. Even when both her parents had died unexpectedly and tragically, she had been sad, not angry. But now... Now she thought she could pull out one of Luke's guns and shoot someone—anyone, it didn't matter whom—without a trace of remorse.

She surged with fury. There was nowhere to place it. And she could feel nothing else.

There weren't even tears. Her eyes were dry. Her heart was numb. There was nothing inside her, nothing but anger.

Everyone had kept away from her, and she was glad of that. Luke had slept elsewhere, and he and Julia had only come in every hour or so to check on her. Sarah had kepi her eyes closed, her back turned to them, and pretended to sleep. It had been a long, bitter night. She had never been so lost and alone. Yet she had wanted no one there, wanted no hand reached out to her in sympathy. She was closed in with her rage—too filled with anger to give comfort to her husband or to receive it or even to talk about what had happened, and too ashamed of what she felt, too well brought up to let it show.

She watched from a distance as Luke lowered the tiny casket into the ground. Sarah shivered despite the quilts on the bed and the knitted shawl around her shoulders, despite the warmth of the April day. She turned her face away, unable to watch Luke and Micah till in the grave. Sarah scooted down in the bed, further under the covers, and huddled into herself. For the first time, something pierced the numbness, broke through the anger. It was desolation.

She turned her face into the pillow and hot, hurting tears seeped from beneath her lids.

Later, Luke climbed the stairs to their bedroom and came to the doorway. He hesitated, then stepped inside. "I—uh— it's done."

"I know. I saw from my window."

Luke glanced toward the window near the bed and nodded. He remained in the room for a moment, looking awkward. "I'm sorry, Sarah."

Sarah pressed her lips together. Tears clogged her throat.

She looked away. It hurt to look at Luke, to see the pain in his face and to know that there was nothing in her to give him. Poor Luke. He was hurting, just as she was, and she was cold to him, yet she could not reach out to comfort him. She was too empty.

Luke saw the bleakness of Sarah's face, her averted eyes, and he knew that she wanted nothing to do with him. He had ruined her life. He looked away, focusing on the wall. "I guess I'll, uh, go out and work. Julia will be here to take care of you."

He left the room. Sarah closed her eyes and wished she could sleep. She wished she had died with the baby.

Her sister Jennifer drove out from town in her buggy that afternoon. Sarah watched her walk into the room and wished she hadn't. She couldn't talk, not even to Jen. Jennifer's lovely face looked older and not so beautiful today; her mouth was pulled down into lines of sorrow.

"I'm so sorry, honey," she said, crossing the room to Sarah.

Sarah tightened, feeling the invasion of Jennifer's presence, her crashing through the barriers of silence and isolation that Julia and Luke did not cross. She wanted to tell her to stop, to go away. But Jennifer was already there, taking one of Sarah's hands in her own and squeezing it gently. Though Sarah had not wanted it, she was suddenly glad and relieved. She clutched Jennifer's hand tightly. Jennifer sat down on the bed beside her, and they sat together in silence for a long time.

After that, Sarah couldn't quite recapture the numbness she had felt before. Gradually, as the days passed, layer after layer of her disinterest was stripped away, leaving her vulnerable to new, painful emotions.

Her anger against the world coalesced into anger against herself. She was responsible for the miscarriage. She knew that she had lost the baby because she had been careless or because she had done something she shouldn't. Maybe she had lifted something that was too heavy, not even realizing it. Or maybe it was because they had made love that night, and that was her fault, too. She had wanted Luke to make love to her for her own selfish gratification. He hadn't wanted to because of the doctor's warnings, but she had tempted and teased him until he had. Or maybe it was that she hadn't eaten right or—whatever the answer was, Sarah knew that she was responsible. That precious life had been entrusted to her, and she had failed it.

Sarah was overwhelmed with sorrow and piercing loss, with guilt and dread, and she huddled in upon herself, like a wounded animal retreating from the world* She couldn't talk to anyone, could hardly bear to look at them. She was exhausted and broken, wrapped around with misery, and every day when she woke up, she was aware of a sharp sense of disappointment that another day had arrived.

Dr. Banks came to check on her frequently. Sarah barely answered his questions and ignored his attempts to offer her comfort or to cheer her up. Julia took care of Sarah faithfully, bringing her things to drink and later bowls of soup to eat, checking in on her all the time to make sure she was comfortable and well. Sarah knew that Julia would have liked to take her hand and tell her soothing things, too, to talk and listen to Sarah's unhappiness. But Sarah said nothing more to her than to reply to her questions with a simple "yes" or "no."

Sarah knew that it was wrong of her to act this way. Everyone wanted to help her; they felt sorrow for her loss. But Sarah could not respond, not even to Luke.

He came in every morning and two or three times during the evening. He asked how she was, and Sarah responded with the evident lie that she was fine. He asked if she was comfortable, if he could get her anything, and then, after a few more moments of awkward standing in silence, he would leave the room, telling her to call if she needed him or Julia. Sarah always answered him politely and listlessly,

Sarah knew that that, too, was wrong. But she felt so bone weary, so achingly empty that she could not reach out to Luke to offer comfort or to take it. There was no love left inside her, no understanding or ability to rise above her sorrow. There was only a deep, raw misery, and she could do nothing except endure it in silence.

If Luke had come to her and taken her hand, held her close to him, forced her to accept his love and comfort and his own agony of loss, Sarah might have responded, as she had with Jennifer, There was, deep inside Sarah, a faint hope that he might, that Luke would break through the barrier of isolation and silence that surrounded her . Something within her wanted to rip through the years of upbringing that kept her still and quiet against her grief.

But Luke himself had learned to contain his feelings in an even harder school, and he kept silent now. He could not pour out his own sorrow to her, knowing that she hurt more than be and that he had caused both their sorrow. Nor did he dare to offer her his sympathy and comfort. He was certain Sarah hated him for what he had caused. He didn't blame her for not reaching out to him. And though it was like a knife to his heart to see her lying there so still and passive, no closeness or affection for him in her face, he knew he dared not hope for anything else.

A week passed. Luke drove himself mercilessly, rising before dawn and eating a cold breakfast alone, then tackling the fields and not returning until the sun set in the evening. It was as if he thought he could somehow sweat the pain out of him or atone for his sins. Sarah lay in her bed, not eating enough, frail and unhappy, Emily trailed around the house, thumb in her mouth, sticking close to Julia's side instead of playing with Bonnie and Vance.

And Julia took care of them all and worried over what was to happen to them. The only bright spots for her were the evenings when the doctor came to visit Sarah, at first every evening, then every two days. Julia found herself looking forward to his visits with an almost guilty pleasure. She shouldn't be happy to sec him, Julia thought, considering the tragic reason for his coming there. Besides, he was nothing to her, she nothing to him. Any feeling between them was over and dead long ago.

But late in the afternoon, anticipation would rise in her, and when she heard the sound of a horse's hooves coming down the drive, her heart would start to thud in her chest. She would hurry to the door to meet James, and just the sight of his face brought freshness and life into a house sunk in misery.

He would go upstairs to see Sarah, then come back down and tell Julia and Luke, if he was there, about Sarah's progress. He would compliment Julia on her work and tell her to continue what she was doing. She would pour him a cup of coffee and sometimes, if he hadn't eaten, she could persuade him to have a bite of supper They were stiff and formal with each other in a way that would have been amusing, considering what they had once been to each other—if either of them had been able to perceive the humor in it. He called her "Mrs. Dobson" and she called him "Dr. Banks," and their conversation moved along stilted lines—questions about his work and her health and how Sarah was doing, carefully avoiding any mention of the past or any hint of former intimacy.

Sometimes Julia thought, looking at him, how very handsome James still was, and she wondered why he had never married. She couldn't suppress a funny little happiness inside that he hadn't, even though she knew that was a wicked thought. She should wish that he had married a wonderful woman and was very happy, with several children. That would be the nice thing to hope for someone she had once loved. But Julia knew she wasn't that saintly.

She wondered, too, if James ever thought about her, ever regretted what had happened. She told herself she was amazingly egotistical to think that he might. Still... he did always stay for a cup of coffee.

Not that she cared. Not that she had any hope of anything happening between them again. But she always checked her image in the mirror before she opened the door to him.

One afternoon, a week after the miscarriage, James came down the stairs with a worried frown on his face. Julia, who had been washing dishes, went to him, drying her hands on her apron. "What is it? Is something the matter?"

James sighed and made a negating gesture. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. Mrs. Turner is all right. It's just that she's not recovering as quickly as I had hoped. She is still quite weak. I'm afraid that leaves her much too vulnerable to other diseases."

He sat down at the table without waiting to be asked this time, and Julia quickly set a mug in front of him and filled it with aromatic coffee.

"She couldn't be anything but weak, the way she eats," Julia told him. "I can hardly even get any soup down her."

"She should be eating more."

"It's the grief."

"I know. She obviously closes it up inside herself, and I think that makes it even harder on her."

"She doesn't want to talk."

"But it might help her. She needs—I don't know, to somehow be raised from this desolate lethargy. Right now she just doesn't care, and that could harm her recovery." James took a sip of his coffee and looked up at Julia. "Do you think you could encourage her to talk? Maybe persuade her that she has something to live for?"

"I'll try."

He smiled, and Julia's heart warmed within her. It was amazing what power his smile still held over her. She smiled back at him.

"Would you, uh, like something to eat? Supper's on the stove."

James hesitated. He was tempted. He was tempted every time she asked him. Sometimes he refused, but it seemed as if it was easier each time to say yes. It made no sense to stay. There was little ease between them. There was awkwardness and hesitation and too many memories. Yet, crazily, he wanted to linger. It was idiocy, he told himself. Sheer idiocy. He had been unsettled ever since he saw Julia in Harper's store two weeks ago. He kept remembering too much and too often he found her face in his mind. He hadn't needed to come out here to the Turner place practically every night, as he had. And there shouldn't be that swelling anticipation in his chest when he rode out to the Turner place.

He was a fool if he let himself get mixed up with Julia Turner again.

"I guess not." James made himself stand up. "I'd better get back into town. I have a lot of business on my desk to take care of."

"Of course. Thank you for coming by."

"It's no trouble."

Julia followed him to the door and watched him mount his horse. He lifted his hat to her and trotted down the drive. Julia closed the door. It wouldn't be right to stand at the door gazing after him. But she lifted the edge of the lace curtain on the front window and watched until he was out of sight.