Chapter 3
July 14th, 1881
North York Moors, England
A torrential storm had passed by the farm, and the family rejoiced at this first rainfall in many weeks. Rain meant less work. There was no need to water the garden or fill up the animals’ drinking troughs, and as the cherry on top, the containers were topped with fresh rainwater; good for bathing, washing, cooking and drinking.
Content after a full day’s work of scrubbing linen, fixing the children’s wooden toys and helping to make a supper of lamb stew, Eva sat by the fireplace with her legs resting on a padded stool and her eyes heavy with sleep.
“Can someone mend the fire?” Phoebe said, propping her hands on her hips. “Abe? Lewis?”
Both boys were nose-deep in a trunk of instruments, paying no attention to Phoebe.
“Hello? Am I speaking to the wall?” Phoebe said.
“I can do it,” Eva said.
“Don’t you dare move, child. You’ve done more than enough of your fair share today. Keep those ankles nice and high for the rest of the evening. Since none of you boys answered, Lewis, you’re on ash duty tonight.”
Lewis’s head sprang up from the trunk. “B-but, I’m not any g-good at it.”
“How will you learn if you don’t try? Abe will sort out the instruments for the evening’s entertainment,” Phoebe said.
Lewis’s face slackened into a frown. Head slumped, he dragged himself to the ash bucket next to the fireplace.
Eva couldn’t help but chuckle at the boy’s displeasure. Then, a tiny murmur made her look down.
Ceci’s head was nestled in the crook of Eva’s body as she slept on the sofa. Entangled in her soft red ringlets was a floral crown of wilting white daisies, made hours ago. Long, black, crescent-shaped eyelashes marked the tops of her pale chubby cheeks. She smelled of summer rain.
“Aha! I knew we had this good old boy tucked away,” Abe exclaimed as he held a harmonica aloft. “Look, Ma, I found Pa’s old harmonica from the war.”
“What war?” Lewis said.
“The Civil War,” Abe said.
Lewis peered up from shovelling ash from the grate. “What is the Ci-Civil War, and why did R-Rich fight?”
“That’s a long story and not one for your age,” Phoebe said. “But Pa didn’t fight; he was a surgeon. He saved many folk from dyin’.”
The harmonica’s windy pitch vibrated through the room.
Abe grinned. “It still works.”
“Show me, son,” Phoebe said.
Abe handed his mother the harmonica. A warm smile flashed across her face.
“Ah, yes. I remember the day when your father tried to serenade me by the large oak tree outside the slave quarters. Ain’t nobody seen a bigger fool than a white Englishman playing a southern song he didn’t understand. But as God was my witness, the fool won my heart that day.”
“Are you telling me Rich can sing?” Eva said.
“Lord, he tries, but my poor husband was born without rhythm.”
“He ain’t that bad, Ma.” Abe chuckled. “If we’re all singing together, that is.”
“Abe, d-do you play the harmohika?” Lewis said.
“Harmonica, Lewis, harmonica. And yes, little man, I can. Want to hear?”
Phoebe returned the instrument to Abe, who settled on a stool next to the fireplace. Within seconds, he kicked off a bluesy song, reminiscent of James Cotton.
The music brought forth a flood of bittersweet memories. Alongside the oldies, Eva’s dad had been a fan of the blues and he often had a B.B. KingCD playing as he tapped away on his keyboard, writing his next true-crime novel. He claimed King’s rough-edged blues helped him understand emotion. It was tragedy and hope. A true testament of the human spirit.
A warmth enveloped Eva. She could feel her dad’s presence, and she drew strength from the comforting thought, making her think of family. The word family had always been foreign to her. After her mom gave birth, she ran off, leaving newborn Eva with her dad. They said her mom suffered from postpartum psychosis. Even so, Eva never understood how a parent could abandon a child that way. In her early childhood days, she had grandparents and a dog, but they left eventually too, as family does over a lifetime. For most of her twenty-four years on this planet, it had been only her and dad. Now, it was only her.
She shut her eyes and listened to Abe’s music.
Family…
Life at the Randall farm was forcing her to think about the important things in life. Not only her recovery but also her future. What kind of life did she want? Did she really want to spend her next few months grovelling in hatred? Or did she want to crawl out of the darkness and move on? Although the days spent at the farm were slow and simple, it was a good and beautiful life. It may even be the type of life she pictured for herself one day.
She opened her eyes to look at the scene in the living room. Abe playing the harmonica, Lewis and Phoebe dancing together before the fireplace, and Ceci fast asleep in her arms.
The thought came fast.
Maybe one day she could have her own curious daughter. Or rambunctious son. She had never considered having children before. She always thought her life would be one lonely mess, destined to fixing inanimate objects and eating peanut-butter ice cream in front of the TV, with a hoard of big dogs. A mix of Great Danes and Australian Shepherds, most probably. But that was before she met the Randall family. Their love and devotion to one another after surviving a harrowing past was inspiring.
Eva thought back to Phoebe’s words about forgiveness. It was selfish to think her problems were worse than the family’s. How could she question the validity of Phoebe’s statement when all she had to do was look around the farm to find proof of it? There had to be an inkling of hope. Even if she could not yet understand how to reach the point of forgiving herself or Henry, she supposed there was plenty of time to figure it out.
The front door opened and in walked Rich.
Welcomed by the sounds of his family playing music, a smile crossed his face, lighting up the room in a beam of blissfulness.
Eva’s heart squeezed. She, too, wanted that happiness.
Rich approached Eva. “I have a gift for you.”
“A gift?” Eva said, straightening on the sofa.
“A patient of mine was kind enough to lend us these,” Rich said as he presented a pair of wooden crutches. “They should help you get around the farm easier.”
Hope fluttered inside her. “Rich,” she exhaled. “Are you serious?”
“Entirely so. I’ve already mended the grip for you—”
A shriek of excitement slipped from her lips. She immediately wrapped an arm around Rich’s neck and pulled him in for a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she cried. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“I have a semblance of understanding, dear,” Rich said with a jovial smile.
“Eva?” Ceci said in a drowsy whisper. “What’s happening?”
“Look, your dad brought me crutches. I can come and pick flowers with you now.”
“And you can help feed the pigs in the mornin’,” Abe said.
“And find c-cats with me,” Lewis added.
“We don’t need strays, boy,” Phoebe said. “We have a household full as it is.”
Rich went to Phoebe and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Let the boy have as many kittens as he wishes. We have plenty of room for strays. What is for supper, my sweet summer peach?”
As Rich and Phoebe walked to the kitchen in a hush of amorous whispers, Abe picked up his harmonica and resumed a song. Eva wiggled to the edge of the sofa, propped the crutches beneath her arms and slowly stood.
An effortless smile crossed her face.
This family had taken her in like a stray, mended her wounds, breathed life into her punctured lungs, and did so without any questions asked. Yesterday she had felt destined to a life of misery. Today, it seemed easier to move forward with her head held high. She hoped her courage was not a fleeting moment, but being presented with a pair of crutches was like a sign from the universe. Maybe it was time to tackle her problems head on, and to do that, she had to face the one thing holding her back.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to retire for the night,” Eva said.
The harmonica came to an abrupt stop. “Do you need help to get to the shed?” Abe said.
“No, thank you. I’d like to do it on my own.”
“All right, but holler if you need something.”
“I know the drill.”
Feeling a rising anticipation in her chest, Eva pushed forward with an awkward hobble. On her way to the door, she passed through the kitchen and caught sight of Rich planting a kiss on Phoebe’s cheek.
Phoebe giggled.
A warmth spread throughout Eva’s chest. It was sweet to see an older couple still affectionate with one another.
Rich caught sight of Eva. Red tinging his cheeks, he stepped away from Phoebe, who turned to look at the commotion.
She gave a small gasp. “Look at you standin’. Do you need some help to your room?”
“I think I can manage,” Eva said.
“Of course,” she nodded. “Of course you can manage, child.”
“Good night,” Eva smiled.
“Sweet dreams,” Phoebe said.
Rich hurried to open the door wide. “Sleep well, Eva.”
Eva said her thanks and stepped out into the warm night air. Unchained from the shackles that had bound her for a month, she was finally moving on her own, and it felt good. She hoped that what she would do next would finally free her from the hatred that poisoned her soul.
By the time she made it to her shed, her ankles were throbbing. She had not physically walked in over a month, and she was disappointed to discover how frail her ankles still were. With a sharp exhale, she fell into bed and focused on the quiet dark scene outside the window.
The clouded moon rising over the horizon basked her room in a pale grey. Beyond the window, moths fluttered past the viny bush of light-pink roses that swayed in the gentle summer breeze.
She inhaled the calming scent of damp earth.
The fresh air did little to alleviate her rising anxiety. Her head swirled with worrying thoughts. Shouldn’t her ankles be better by now? Was there a chance she had permanent damage? Being a cripple in this century was practically a death sentence.
She breathed out.
There wasn’t a need to panic. It was clear her ankles needed more time to heal. For now, she had to focus on healing her mind, which seemed more horrifying, given that she had to summon the devil that haunted her. Maybe it was better to keep ignoring the painful memories, waiting for time to bury them.
She peered at her crutches lying on the bed.
No.
This is your moment to face him, to embrace the pain and move on.
She clenched her teeth and reached for the tiny glass bottle of reddish-brown liquid on her bedside table. Fearful tears came hot and quick as she gripped the vial. The last time she took laudanum, she was screaming bloody murder on her knees after an attempt at walking. Ashamed by her fall and afraid to be scolded, she didn’t have the courage to ask Phoebe for the correct dosage and instead self-medicated. She accidentally took three times the usual dose. She spent the entire night stuck like a magnet to her bed, hallucinating a fictional Henry, who scolded her for trying to walk.
Now, she had other reasons for taking the drug. Reasons that involved telling fictional Henry it was officially over. Maybe if she could trick her brain into getting closure from this ordeal, she could start to heal her mind.
Heart in mouth, she uncorked the bottle and poured ten drops onto a spoon. It smelled strong and sickly sweet. As soon as it touched her tongue, the bitterness made her gag. She set the bottle onto the bedside table, placed her crutches on the floor and buried herself beneath a blanket.
She shut her eyes, waiting for the drug to hit.
Within several minutes, her racing pulse slowed, and her eyes grew heavy with sleep. She welcomed the trance-like sensation that took hold of her body and mind. Like a friend, laudanum had come to take away her troubles. Like a lover, it had wrapped its arms around her, keeping her warm and safe.
“Or am I the one keeping you warm and safe?” Henry’s silky-smooth voice came loud in her ear. “Hello, my little imp. Have you injured yourself again?”
“No,” she said through clenched teeth. Despite expecting him to appear, the sound of his voice made her heart stop.
“Then why did you take the laudanum?”
“To speak with you.” And say goodbye.
“Ah,” he said breathlessly. “You wish to summon me to your bed.”
She snorted. “Careful, your big fat English ego is showing. And the only summoning I want to do is a dagger to your heart.”
“Such fiery words.” The pressure of his finger ran down her cheek. “I suppose all your hatred fuels your desire to heal, does it not?”
She grimaced. “Hatred or a determination to move on; whatever it is, this ends tonight.”
“What does?”
“My pain.”
“Have you come to say goodbye, then?”
She shut her eyes. Say yes and end it already. Tears trickled down her cheeks, and her fingers gripped the edge of the bed. “I need all this to stop.”
He ran his fingers through her hair. “You’ve always been stronger than I, and I love you dearly for it.”
“Why—” her voice caught in her throat.
“Why, what?”
She buried her hot face into the pillow. It was a question she had yet to ask him. Why did you betray me? She feared the answer. Would it even matter to know the truth? It wasn’t like it would change her decision to let go. As predicted, he did not answer. Fictional Henry never did. He was more concerned with comforting and teasing a crying Eva than to give her the answers she truly needed.
“I’m serious about this being the last time,” she said.
“Then let me breathe you in, hold you tighter, kiss you—”
“Stop!” she cried. “Stop talking like that.”
“But it comforts you.”
“And that’s the problem.” She hiccupped through a sob. “If I turn around, you’ll vanish. You’re not real … you never were. Besides all that, I can’t keep doing this to myself. I can’t keep thinking my problems will go away on their own because the truth is … I’m angry … I’m so angry with you, I feel like I’m constantly on fire inside and out. That isn’t the life I want to live.”
“What will you do about it?” he said.
“I need to learn how to let go.”
“Do you speak of forgiveness?”
“I don’t know.”
“Forgiveness is not so easily done without knowing the truth. Find me, my wicked imp,” he whispered in her ear. “Find me and I will give you the truth, I promise.”
She shut her eyes. “You won’t.”
“You will never truly let go until you speak with me again,” he said, his voice taking on a more hostile tone.
“Stop,” she managed.
“Deep down, you know your plan of moving on is not that simple,” he continued, his voice ringing louder. “No matter how much you ignore me, I will always be at the forefront of your mind. No matter what you do, I will be in the shadows like the wind in your hair and the sun upon your skin. No matter what you say, my voice will echo in your ear, like it does now—”
She forcefully rolled onto her back and glared at the empty space to her side. The motion broke the illusion of a fictional Henry. Her plan of saying goodbye was not working. Even a hallucinated version of him managed to make everything more complicated. His promises of truth and soft notions of wanting love twisted her mind with doubts. Worst of all, he was right.
With a groan, she brought a pillow over her head and forced her eyes shut. In case her mind would conjure him up again, the pillow would at least mute his enticing voice.
The mere thought of ever seeing him in person was enough to elicit a stream of fantasies. Would talking to him in person change the outcome of his actions? If she could get revenge for the way he’d treated her, would it make her feel better? Could she really move past her ordeal without knowing the truth behind his betrayal? All answers led to a resounding no.
Saying goodbye to a fictional Henry may not have given her the closure she was looking for, but it sure did make one thing clear: he would forever be with her unless she physically spoke to him again.