62. Viola
Viola
Sarah and I looked out across the gray expanse of Lake Michigan from the window seat in my bedroom.
“I regret it all,” I said. “It was so public. I told him I didn’t want him, and everyone heard. Can’t believe I said that. At least I stayed true to the whole reason for my silly plan and managed to avoid any kissing.”
“And then he left?” Sarah asked.
“He plodded to the train station like a man headed to the gallows. I spied on him from the window of the Inn. Hoped he would turn around, but he left on the next train out of town.”
“You didn’t see him again?” Sarah asked. “What do you think will happen now?”
“I think I’m an idiot, and I told him so in a note,” I said. “I hope he’ll forgive me. But he also needs to own up to some of the blame.”
Sarah put her hand on my shoulder. “Do you still love?—”
Greta burst into the room and leaned on the doorframe, panting to catch her breath. “Miss Viola, Miss Sarah, you must go. Something’s happened. She’s asking for you.”
I jumped up. “You’re not making sense. Go where? Who?”
“Mrs. Newman.”
My heart barely dared to beat as Sarah and I ran—not out on the sidewalk but straight across the yards. We pounded into her too-quiet entryway without stopping to knock, and her staff waved us upstairs.
Our dear old friend lay tucked under a pale blue coverlet with a nightcap covering her hair. She was sleeping. She must be sleeping.
Her eyes were closed, but her pale skin was too close to the coverlet’s color.
I whispered, “Is she?” Tears welled, the room blurred, and I clutched Sarah’s arm.
The coverlet rose with her slow, shallow breath, and I unclenched my jaw, though the ache remained lodged in my heart.
Her maid said, “She is in and out of sleep. She asked for you. Thank you for coming.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“It was sudden this morning. She couldn’t get out of bed.
Doctor came right away. He says it’s her heart.
The rhythm is all wrong.” She shook her head.
“Nothing to be done but wait and see.” She bent close over her mistress, smoothing her hair under her cap, and fussing with the pillow. “My lady, they are here.”
Sarah and I sat in chairs at the head of the bed. I took Mrs. Newman’s limp hand in mine and brushed over her paper-thin skin with my thumb, back and forth, soothing her as I had learned from Jacob.
The pauses between her breaths stretched impossibly long.
I willed her chest to rise again and again, synchronizing my breaths with hers.
Her staff moved slowly about the room—changing the flowers by her bed, adjusting the draperies, and bringing a glass of fresh water to the bedside. It was too quiet.
Sarah’s voice broke the silence, gentle but incomparably strong.
“We’re here.” She cleared the roughness from her voice.
“My dear Mrs. Newman, I hope you were looking out the window a moment ago. You would have witnessed an impressive footrace the like of which has never before been seen on our street.” She took a shaky breath and continued, her voice sweet and calm, as if we had stopped over for tea and she was sharing the latest news.
“With my longer legs, I had the advantage and was off to an early lead. But as we closed in on the finish line, your hedge sat between us and our goal. In the final stretch, Viola vaulted clean over your hedge while I chose to skirt around it.”
I choked out, “Only a small shrubbery.”
Sarah said, “Her hem was so high above the hedge, the leaves did not even stir with her passing.”
I warmed to the familiar feel of sharing stories with dear Mrs. Newman, though my heart ached at the pretense. “I had a running start, and I’ve had some practice. Not so long ago, I leapt over a flooded creek.”
Sarah said, “When she soared past me, I faltered and…”
Mrs. Newman opened her otherworldly blue eyes, turned her head slightly toward us, and smiled. “Ah, my girls. You’re here.”
“What do you need? What can we do?” I asked. I needed a plan. I needed to do something.
Her fingers twitched in mine. Sarah leaned in and placed a hand on her arm.
“What can you do? You can enjoy it,” Mrs. Newman said in a breathy voice. “No regrets. No fear.”
She closed her eyes but continued to speak. “Love and friendship and music and kissing.”
“Kissing?” Sarah’s voice broke with the word.
Mrs. Newman’s thin eyebrows rose to her cap and pulled her eyes back open. “Lots of kissing.”
I said, “Yes, my friend, lots of kissing.”
“And lots of love,” Sarah promised beside me.
The ache expanded from my heart to include my throat, tightening, blocking. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t even swallow, but still I moved my trembling thumb, back and forth, back and forth, caressing and comforting in the only way I was able.
Mrs. Newman softly bobbed her head, face shining.
“Can almost see them… not long to wait.” She started humming her favorite song, the one I had played so many times.
Sarah joined her. But the music stayed lodged in my throat.
There was only my thumb moving in time to the beat.
As the last note trailed off, she focused on us one last time and whispered, “Proud of you. My girls.”
Then, the oldest, wisest, and most beautiful woman in Chicago relaxed with her final breath and joined her family.
And around the lump in my throat, I managed to whisper, “Try not to get into too much trouble.”