Chapter Thirty-Five
Two bees slept inside the squash blossom, their tiny legs tucked beneath soft bodies.
Ruth had never seen such a thing before.
She sat quietly on the small wooden bench at the edge of Dr. Turner’s garden, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she stared at the yellow flower spilling open beneath the afternoon sun.
It soft petals had begun closing as the day faded, curling inward around the tiny striped creatures nestled deep inside.
The garden itself felt peaceful, in a way that almost hurt.
Late summer flowers crowded narrow paths of crushed stone: hollyhocks, daisies, and climbing morning glories twisting along little trellises near the fence.
Somewhere nearby, she heard insects hum and leaves rustle lazily in the warm breeze.
The world carried on. Birds still sang, and bees still slept. The sun still moved slowly across the sky, and somehow that felt almost unbearable.
Because Henry lay upstairs.
Ruth swallowed hard and blinked rapidly against the sudden sting behind her eyes.
Two full days had passed since they had raced through town in that wagon. Two days since she had sat beside Henry, his blood covering her hands as she begged him not to leave her. Two days since Dr. Turner had rushed them inside.
Her fingers tightened unconsciously against her skirts as the memory came back with awful clarity.
She remembered George shouting for help before the wagon had fully stopped and Dr. Turner rushing down the steps, still fastening the buttons of his coat. She remembered the expression on his face changing the moment he saw Henry.
“Bring him inside immediately.”
George and Eli carrying Henry inside. Doors opening and closing. Voices. Blood.
So much blood …
Ruth squeezed her eyes shut for a moment before opening them again.
Dr. Turner had operated on Henry, and had removed the bullet successfully, yet he’d lost so much blood.
“He may wake up on his own,” Dr. Turner had told her. “He’s young and strong.”
May was the word she’d heard above all the others—because may wasn’t will.
Since that day, they’d been waiting. But Henry still hadn’t woken. And with each passing hour, Ruth could not help but wonder if she would ever hear his voice again or see his smile?—
Ruth looked quickly away from the flowers.
No, I can’t think that way. I won’t.
If she allowed herself to imagine a world where Henry never opened his eyes again …
Her chest tightened painfully. She simply couldn’t.
Behind her, the back door opened with a soft creak.
“Ruth?”
Ruth turned to see Clara in the doorway, peeking out with flour dusting one cheek and the front of her dress. Her curls had escaped completely from their ribbons and bounced around her face.
Behind her stood Miriam Turner, a small woman somewhere in her middle years, with soft gray threaded through chestnut hair, which she wore pinned neatly at the back of her head.
She had kind eyes and round cheeks that always looked faintly pink from standing near stoves and ovens.
Her dresses were plain but immaculate, and she carried herself with a quiet warmth that had made Ruth feel welcome without any effort on her part.
Ruth had taken to her almost immediately.
Mrs. Turner smiled gently. “We’ve nearly finished the biscuits.”
Clara looked up at Ruth. “I h-helped,” she stuttered.
The words struck Ruth right in the heart. Despite everything they had gone through the past few days, Clara hadn’t gone silent again. She continued speaking, mostly single words, but with the occasional simple sentence.
Mrs. Turner smiled warmly. “You should be rather proud of yourself,” she said. “They’re a fine batch of biscuits if ever I saw one.”
Clara beamed.
Ruth’s tears threatened again, and she quickly blinked them away. Lord, she was tired of crying.
Mrs. Turner studied her for a moment and then her expression softened. “Come inside, dear. Dr. Turner is going upstairs to check on Henry again.”
Ruth’s heart lurched painfully. “Is something wrong?” she asked quickly.
Mrs. Turner’s face softened further. “No.” She stepped aside slightly. “Come on,” she encouraged. “Let’s get you washed up for dinner.”
***
The Turner’s dining room sat just off the kitchen, warm with lamplight and the lingering smell of roast chicken, fresh biscuits, and cooked carrots sweetened with honey.
The table itself was small, polished smooth with age, and covered with a cream-colored cloth and simple blue china plates worn slightly at the edges.
Ruth sat beside Clara, though she found herself looking toward the doorway every few moments. Every sound from upstairs pulled at her attention, and every creak in the floorboards made her heart jump.
Dr. Elias Turner had gone up nearly twenty minutes ago to check on Henry.
Ruth had counted every minute.
Beside her, Clara sat unusually straight in her chair, looking very serious about her responsibilities this evening. Flour lingered beneath one fingernail, despite Mrs. Turner having scrubbed her hands thoroughly before supper.
Footsteps sounded overhead, and moments later, the dining room door opened, and Dr. Turner stepped inside.
Ruth jumped up so quickly that her chair scraped against the floor.
“No change.”
Her shoulders sank before she could stop herself.
“But,” Dr. Turner added gently, removing his spectacles slowly and folding them into his coat pocket, “he’s not worse.” He pulled out his chair and sat. “Sometimes, the body simply needs time, so we’ll continue praying and hoping.”
Ruth nodded quietly; there was little else she could do.
“We should eat before it gets cold,” Mrs. Turner said.
“It looks lovely, dear,” Dr. Turner complimented.
As everyone began to eat, Ruth tore pieces from her biscuit absently and moved carrots around with her fork without taking more than a few bites.
Mrs. Turner watched her for a while before speaking softly. “You need to eat something, dear.”
Ruth looked down. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve hardly eaten all day.”
Ruth tried to smile politely. “I’m all right.”
But she wasn’t. Every moment Henry remained upstairs felt like standing at the edge of something terrible and waiting for it to happen.
Clara suddenly pushed her own biscuit toward Ruth. “Eat.”
Ruth blinked, but Clara looked determined.
“Biscuit.”
Dr. Turner laughed quietly. ‘“Well,” he said, “doesn’t look like she’ll take no for an answer.”
Even Ruth managed a small smile then and so, for Clara’s sake, she picked up the biscuit and took a bite.
***
Later, when supper was done, Ruth tucked Clara into bed upstairs. The little room beside Mrs. Turner’s had become theirs these past two nights. Clara curled immediately beneath the blankets with her rag doll tucked beneath one arm.
Ruth sat beside her and smoothed curls gently away from her forehead. “You did very well today.”
Clara looked sleepy already. “Biscuit,” she mumbled proudly.
Ruth smiled. “Yes.”
Clara then looked at her. “Henry?”
Ruth swallowed hard. “He’ll wake up.” She brushed her fingers gently across Clara’s cheek. “He will.”
She hoped she sounded more certain than she felt.
Within minutes, Clara’s breathing had softened into sleep, and Ruth sat beside her a little longer. Then, she rose quietly and slipped out into the hallway.
Henry’s room sat at the far end of the corridor.
Ruth hesitated outside the door before pushing it open softly, and the room smelled faintly of medicine and clean linens. One lamp burned beside the bed, casting warm amber light across the walls.
Henry lay exactly as he had when she’d left him earlier. White bandages wrapped across his shoulder beneath the blankets, and his face looked pale beneath the dim light.
Ruth’s chest tightened painfully as she crossed quietly to the chair beside the bed and sat.
For a while, she simply watched the rise and fall of his breathing. Making sure that he was still there, still with them. Then, her eyes drifted toward the little table nearby, where a book rested. Ruth stared at it a moment before picking it up.
Slowly, she opened the book, then smiled faintly, suddenly remembering another lantern-lit evening. The night she’d found Henry sitting in the barn, reading aloud to a sick horse. At the time, she’d thought it ridiculous.
“You know,” she said softly, “I thought you were quite strange when I found you reading to your horse.”
Ruth looked down at the pages and began reading. Her voice sounded small in the still room at first, but gradually, it steadied. She read chapter after chapter while evening deepened outside the windows and shadows stretched across the floorboards.
Eventually, she lowered the book into her lap, and silence settled around her again.
She looked at Henry. “There was something I lied about.” Her fingers twisted together. “I told you I had a governess who taught me to read.” A weak laugh escaped her. “I suppose that sounded better.”
Her eyes dropped. “But there weren’t any governesses where I grew up, of course.
When I was a girl, one of the women at the brothel taught me after supper sometimes.
” Ruth smiled faintly through tears. “She used old newspapers and scraps people left behind. I used to read Bible verses aloud to Clara when she was little.”
Tears rolled quietly down her cheeks. “I should’ve told you.” Her fingers found Henry’s hand carefully, and she squeezed his fingers gently. “I should’ve trusted you.”
She waited for him to say something, to respond in some way, but there was nothing.
“Henry…” Her voice broke as she squeezed his hand harder. “Please wake up.” Fresh tears spilled down her face. “Please.”
She leaned forward slowly until her forehead rested against his hand. “I love you.”
But still, Henry didn’t move.
***
The next morning arrived gray and quiet.
Ruth hadn’t slept much. At some point during the night, she’d drifted off with her head resting against the edge of Henry’s bed, waking just before dawn with a stiff neck and cold hands. For one hopeful, terrible second, she’d looked toward Henry, expecting to find him awake beside her.
But nothing had changed.