Wings of a Dream (37 page)

But still, Aunt Adabelle had believed—and said with her dying breath—that God had brought me here. To this very place.

I poured milk, cut cornbread. Janie whined, her hands pulling at my skirt. I lifted her into my arms. Her shape shimmered before me as I heard Irene’s voice in my head.
“Life has a way of surprising you sometimes.”

My heart swelled, pushing tears into my eyes. I beckoned Dan and James to my side, pulled them in, held them tight.

Dan wriggled away first. “When will Daddy get back? He said we’d build a tower of blocks afore bed.”

“Soon, Dan. He’ll be back soon.”
Please, God, let him come back soon.

As if in immediate answer to my prayer, the kitchen door banged open against the wall. Frank hung his hat on a peg, but it fell to the floor. He yanked the gloves from his hands, his bare fingers reaching for mine. “Irene’s coming.”

“What did she say?” I gripped his hand more tightly, surprised at his touch, greedy for his strength.

“She’s not far behind, in the wagon. I came through the field. It was faster.”

I poured out hot coffee and handed him a cup. He savored that first drink, and then his eyes found mine. “They had a visitor—didn’t wait to find out who. He took Brother Latham to get the doc.”

Doc Risinger. Fever, cough, chills. The nightmare had returned. But at least this time I didn’t have to face it alone.

Irene, Frank, and I watched and prayed and nursed Ollie half the night before Doc Risinger arrived. His skin looked thin as paper in the lamplight as he leaned across the bed and examined Ollie.

He gathered the rest of us in one corner of the room. “I’d hoped the scourge had passed over us, but I was wrong.”

My skin prickled. “What do you mean?”

His wiry hair, whiter now than when we’d first met, stuck out from all ends. “Spanish flu. I’ve seen enough of it now to recognize it.”

I shook my head and backed toward the wall. “She can’t have that.” My hand crept to my throat, my whispers resounding until they ceased being whispers at all. “It’s gone. No one in these parts has it anymore.”

“Rebekah.” Frank took my shoulders in his hands. “Doc’s here. Just let him—”

“He doesn’t know. He’s just a doddering old man. Can’t you see? She needs a real doctor!”

Ollie moaned. I pushed past Frank and rushed to the bedside. “Do something! Help her!” My shrieks filled the room before Irene slapped me right across the face.

I stared at her in silent shock, just as she’d intended. Then her voice broke through, calm and gentle as an April dawn. “You have to be strong, Rebekah.”

She glanced quickly at Frank’s pale face before raising her eyebrows at me. Then she put her arm around my waist. “Why don’t you go upstairs and rest? We’ll take care of Ollie.”

I whimpered like a kicked puppy, but one look at Frank’s red-rimmed eyes composed me. He looked as if a stout wind would blow him over. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.”

“Good girl.” Irene nodded as I sank down next to the bed, folded my hands, and begged God to give me the flu instead of Ollie.

For two straight nights I fell asleep on my knees, my head resting on the mattress. When I woke the third day, a yellow streak of sun streamed in through the window and fell across Ollie’s body. Doc Risinger and Irene had cautioned me that we might not know the severity of the illness for several days. But as long as the purple spots didn’t appear, there was hope.

I studied Ollie’s thin face. Pale, from forehead to chin. But no darkening tones. I forced my legs to straighten and my head to change direction. I staggered to the kitchen. Irene and Frank sat at the table drinking coffee. Irene poured me a cup, as well. I sipped it, plain black.

Irene laid her hand on mine. “She’s holding her own.”

I tried to smile, but my lips refused to obey.

Ah-ooga. Ah-ooga.

Before the others could move, I bolted for the porch, waving my hands for the visitor to cease his noise. One of the older Latham boys hopped from the running board of Mr. Culpepper’s automobile.

“Tell Mama to come quick. Beulah’s sick. So’s Daddy.”

Irene must have been standing behind me. She bustled down the walk, the hurry in her step the only indication of crisis. She even managed to remember to wave good-bye as she climbed in beside Mr. Culpepper.

Little Beulah. I licked moisture into my lips as I reached for the column holding the porch roof overhead. But my hand landed on Frank instead. His arms closed around me. I buried my head in his chest.

All I could think was that I’d sent Ollie to school carrying the Spanish flu.

A
fter Frank’s arms, I knew nothing, until I found myself in bed alternately hot and cold, throat parched, chest tight. But I needed to be with Ollie. I threw back the covers, or I thought I did. They barely fluttered. I groaned, closed my burning eyes.

Then cool covered my forehead. A wet cloth. I tried to reach for it, but it hurt to move, so I succumbed to sleep. I dreamt strange vignettes of Mama and Will and Daddy and Aunt Adabelle. Arthur and Sheriff Jeffries even made appearances. And those sweet children. Far off in the distance I recognized Frank. I never saw his face, only his back, but somehow I knew him.

Finally, my eyes opened to darkness. I sat up, head pounding with pain.

“I’m here, Rebekah.”

“Who?”

“Frank.” An arm cradled my back. “Drink this.” Tart liquid dribbled into my mouth. “Sleep now.”

“But Ollie—”

“Shh.” A hand stroked my hair. “Just get yourself well.”

I tried to focus on his face, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate. So I returned my head to the pillow, drifting again into a crowded slumber.

People I loved, and who loved me, jumbled together, saying things I knew they’d never say. I walked among them in confusion, no one speaking to me directly. I asked everyone what I should do, where I should go. But not one head turned in my direction. I could only listen.

I woke again, every bone alive with aching. Daylight now, eyes focusing more clearly. No one sat in the chair by my bed. I pushed myself up, reached for a cup of water on the table next to me.

“Let me help.” The cup lifted, held to my lips by hands much stronger than mine.

“Thank you.” Hot tears slid down hot cheeks, stealing the clarity of my vision.

“Don’t cry, Rebekah. Please don’t cry.” It sounded like Frank. Yet would he be so solicitous toward me? Another apparition, I imagined. I eased back down to sleep, anxious to shut out the pain that filled my chest with every breath.

More tumultuous dreams. Then my brain registered the birds outside my window, my eyes recognized the sunshine streaming through the window. I shifted beneath the covers and spied Sheriff Jeffries dozing in the chair by my bed.

I sat up too fast, spinning the world around me. My shaky hand went to my head, trying to still the motion. The sheriff hovered over me, touching my cheeks, my forehead. Without permission or embarrassment.

He closed his eyes and fell back into his chair. “You gave us quite a scare, Rebekah. You’ve been in bed two days.”

I attempted to pull threads of thought from a tangled ball of memory. “Ollie?”

“She’s been asking for you.”

I swung my feet over the side of the bed, noticing a rumpled skirt covering my knees instead of my nightdress. At least I had that much dignity left.

The sheriff helped me stand, his shoulder and arm bearing my weight. “I’ll take you to her.”

I wanted to voice my thanks, but I couldn’t manage the words. I had to concentrate on the steps. I had to get to Ollie.

Frank slept in the chair beside Ollie’s bed, his elbow propped on a table, his hand holding his head somewhat upright. As we entered the room, he leapt to his feet.

His confused gaze searched my face, and then his eyes narrowed at the sheriff. “Should she be out of bed?” Gravelly words.

“Fever’s broke.” A clipped response.

I looked from one man to the other, trying to comprehend the antagonism that crackled the air between them. A shiver swayed me. Each man’s face softened, but I disregarded their concern. I needed to know about Ollie.

She looked so tiny in the middle of her parents’ bed. A slick, almost bloodless face. My stomach clutched. Was she dead? Then I realized that no spots shadowed her eyes or her cheeks. Her body shook with a deep cough. I winced, trying to suppress the answering one creeping up my own throat. Frank reached across the bed and felt her face and the back of her neck.

He dropped back into the chair. “She’s still fine.”

I wavered. Frank jumped up, caught hold of my arm, and kept me upright. He led me to the bed and urged me to lie beside Ollie.

As the fog in my head cleared further, fear pounced at me like a threatened bobcat. “Where are the boys? And Janie? Tell me.” I gripped Frank’s shirtsleeves.

“They’re fine. They’re at the Crenshaws. Under the weather, but not the flu. Definitely not the flu.”

I looked to the sheriff. He nodded. Once.

“Truly?” My gaze held Frank’s. He wouldn’t lie to me. He couldn’t.

“I promise.”

I let out my breath and relaxed into the pillow propped behind me. Then I remembered Irene—the news of Beulah and her hasty exit.

“Irene?”

Now Frank refused to look anywhere but Ollie’s face. I held my breath.
Not Irene. Please, God, not Irene.

A fit of coughing shook me. Frank’s tortured eyes found mine, but it was Sheriff Jeffries who found a cup of water. I sipped until the wracking calmed. I lifted my eyes to the sheriff. If Frank wouldn’t tell me about my friend, he’d have to.

“Doc’s there.” The sheriff refused to hold my gaze.

I pushed up from the bed, clung to his arm. “I have to go.” In spite of my dry eyes, my voice sounded gruff and full of moisture. “Please. Take me to her.”

His gaze slipped to the floor.

“Please . . . Henry.”

His head rose. I hadn’t expected to see quite so much anticipation in his eyes, but I pushed my uneasiness aside. I had to be with my friend, as she had been with me.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “You might want to change clothes.”

If I’d had the strength, I’d have thrown my arms around his neck.

Frank pushed past us. “She’s not going anywhere until she eats something.” Watching him retreat into the kitchen, I wondered why I couldn’t restrain the upward twitch of my lips.