River of Dust (20 page)

G
race half woke again to the sound of a child crying and fell back asleep. When she heard it for a second time quite a bit later, she lifted her head from the pillow. The wooden shutters were drawn, so she assumed it was nighttime. She heard soft footsteps in the hall and then weeping, this time not a child's, but a woman's weak sobs. For once, Grace could tell that the sounds were real and not in her dreams. She was grateful to notice the difference.

    She pulled the covers away and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had walked only twice in the six weeks since Rose had been born and both times with Ahcho holding her up to keep her from falling. She put her bare feet onto the cool floorboards now and felt grateful that her body didn't crumple under her weight. In the corner, Mai Lin snored in her cot with Baby Rose asleep on a low mattress beside her.

    Grace didn't bother with her silk robe, which lay on the chaise longue. She inched forward, trying not to concentrate too hard on each step for fear of jinxing herself. She thought only of the crying that continued from beyond her door.

    She made her way across the room without stumbling and held tightly to the handle as she tried to regain her strength. Her legs felt as heavy as bags of desert sand. She could feel her blood coursing slowly through her veins. It was a strange sensation to notice something that normally went unnoticed. A steady pumping and whirring sound had replaced the nervous humming vibrations that she had grown accustomed to for so long.

    Grace had overheard Doc Hemingway explaining her condition to the Reverend. After the birth, she remained in grave danger still of dying from blood loss. It would take months for her body to fully recover. Slowly, and with the help of iron-rich foods, she would make enough new red blood to be strong again, although finding decent food was nearly impossible now.

    Without the proper amount of blood in her body, Grace was prone to coldness and to an annoying swishing sound in her ears that threatened to take over her entire self. She felt surrounded by the sensation of blood as it propelled itself through her. She thought it odd that she now noticed the coursing of blood precisely because of a lack of it. There wasn't enough life in her veins, so she throbbed all over with what little was left.

    She opened the door and waited for her light-headedness to subside. Then she commenced to inch forward again, holding on to the banister at the top of the stairs. The crying seemed to be coming from Daisy's bedroom at the end of the hall. Grace stopped before the slightly opened door and paused before entering.

    As she stood, she looked down at her pale bare feet and flimsy gown. A shaft of light coursing through the moon window at the end of the hallway shone on her full figure under the thin, white cotton. She should have put on her robe, she realized, but it was too late now that she had come this far. Her body looked foreign to her— plump and bent and sagging under the weight of all she had been through. Her breasts hung like overripe fruit, and she could not imagine anyone seeing her and feeling anything but sorry. Like a much older woman, she had nothing to hide anymore. Decorum or custom or female vanity was lost on a body that had endured too much. She was no longer the girl whose primary concern had been to appear appropriate and bright in the face of the future. The Martins would have to forgive her. The crying was what mattered. Grace understood that now. Everything else was immaterial.

    She pushed open the door and slipped into the room. Mildred Martin sat in a straight-backed chair beside her daughter's bed, her head of prematurely silver hair bowed. Normally, Mildred wore it up in a tight bun, but now it cascaded down her back in a shimmering river. She wept softly into a handkerchief.

    Grace went to Mildred and put a hand ever so lightly on her shoulder. The seated woman didn't flinch or in any way acknowledge in words that another body had entered the room. She merely reached up her own pale hand and placed it over Grace's. They both kept their eyes on the now sleeping child. Grace didn't see anything wrong with dear Daisy, who normally filled the house with her rather demanding voice and busy antics. She was a handful— robust and not sickly, so Grace wasn't sure why her mother sat and seemed to worry over her now.

    Then Mildred, as if guessing Grace's thoughts, reached forward and lifted Daisy's sleeping wrist into the air. The child's arm, thinner than Grace had remembered it, sagged like a catenary. It swung slightly as if a breeze had caused it to sway. The bowed bones appeared made of rubber. They curved unnaturally, and Grace felt a pain rise up in her chest. Her ears filled suddenly with the sound of her own throbbing blood, as if she might drown in it.

    "Dear God," she whispered.

    "Rickets," Mildred said as she delicately set her daughter's arm back on the covers. "The poor child isn't getting enough milk or green vegetables or meat. Her body is leaching away calcium and vitamin D until the bones can no longer remain solid. She is starving, Grace."

    Mildred turned suddenly in her seat and flung her arms around Grace's waist. She pressed her head against her friend's loose stomach, and quickly her tears soaked through the thin material of her nightgown. "I can't stand it any longer," Mildred said. "We must get out of here."

    Grace's fingers gently stroked Mildred's long hair from the top all the way down her waist. Then her hand softly settled upon her back.

    "It may already be too late," Mildred added, her shoulders shaking with tears. "The trip back home could kill her."

    "Don't think that way. But you're right. You must go."

    Mildred pulled away from Grace and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. She studied her friend with deep fondness and curiosity. "But what about you? I didn't think you'd make it, dear Grace, but you are stronger than anyone I know. How have you managed with such loss and with a husband who is forever gone from your side?"

    Grace pulled herself free from her friend. "Don't think about me now. It's Daisy and you that we must consider."

    Mildred leaned forward and asked, "But what about your precious girl, your baby?"

    Grace stepped close again and placed a palm on Mildred's cheek. "My baby," she echoed.

    Her friend flinched at Grace's touch. "My heavens, your hands are icy cold. We must get you back into bed. That Mai Lin should watch over you better. You're not well."

    Grace realized she was trembling all over, her teeth chattering silently. It was true, she wasn't well. She let Mildred take her arm.

    "You must leave for America with us," Mildred whispered. "You and the baby can't possibly stay here a moment longer. My Reverend is trying to book us passage on a boat out of Shanghai. We'll get you a berth, and you will join us." She turned Grace toward her and spoke sternly. "Even if that husband of yours refuses to go, you must not stay. For the baby's sake, please, Grace, say you'll consider it?"

    Grace nodded, but now she needed to concentrate on every step. The whooshing of blood in her veins was growing unbearably loud again, and she feared she might collapse. It was time for Mai Lin to administer to her. She longed to drift into sleep again and imagined the relief of her soft bed. Another chill passed through her body, and she shook violently. She shut her eyes and willed herself to be transported to rest. But with her body so cold, she understood she would have to cross a vast and snowy tundra to find peace again. Grace allowed herself to be carried back to the fields at home on a wintry morning. She tried to remember the fun she'd had as a girl in newly fallen snow.

T
he steady bang of a hammer, the wail of a saw on wood, and the intermittent whispers that drifted up from down below: Grace had listened all day, and although no one had told her what was taking place around her in the Martins' household, she sensed it. Earlier in the afternoon, she had left her bed briefly to glance over the banister. She had seen planks of wood being carried in by Chinese carpenters. And now Mai Lin was here and brushing her hair as the last streaks of day crossed the pink desert and sliced her in two. Grace's image in the mirror showed her half in deathly shadow, half in radiant light. She knew that both sides were accurate reflections.

    Mai Lin had not returned from the Watson home across the courtyard with the black dress that Grace had requested. Instead, in the Chinese custom, she had brought Grace's white wedding dress and now had put her into it and tied the bow at the back. The simple lace dress that fell to her ankles belonged on a girl, Grace could see now, a carefree ingenue. But within it now stooped the body of a woman, her chest ravaged by consumption— another thing she had had to figure out for herself— and a belly that would never again carry a child. Her body had made that latter point clear, although Doc Hemingway was too much of a coward to share with her the diagnosis.

    Mai Lin would have kept fighting on her behalf forever, keeping her alive and as strong as she could, but Grace hated to think how the effort had aged her dear amah. When Grace had first married and moved into the finest house in the compound, Mai Lin had stood by the front door to welcome her, her chin high, her arms crossed over her chest, her sturdy back divided in two by thick braids over each shoulder. Now she was shriveled to an impossibly small size. Her face had lost its broad strength and was hatched by a thousand lines. Grace worried that she alone had inflicted great trials upon her maid. In the mirror, she looked into her own gray eyes and then at Mai Lin's ancient face and felt ashamed of the false optimism the old one attempted on her behalf.

    "Mistress is ready?" Mai Lin asked.

    Grace rose from the dressing table and went to the door of the room without help, although Mai Lin hobbled along beside her, nervously touching her elbow. "I believe I am stronger today," Grace said. "Please don't worry about me so."

    Mai Lin bowed a little and stepped aside. As Grace proceeded cautiously down the stairs, she was aware of the ladies gathered below: Mrs. Jenkins, Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Carson, and even some of the unmarried women— Lucy, Gertrude, and Priscilla— with whom Grace had enjoyed sweet and simple good times. They were all in black, of course. Grace should have worn her black dress as well, but she hadn't wished to offend Mai Lin, who believed white was the proper color of mourning. In any case, Grace knew that the precious child wouldn't mind either way. What was in one's heart was all that mattered.

    She dared not look at the ladies too closely, for she needed to concentrate on each careful step until she reached the first floor. And then, when she could have gone to them, she did not. She had nothing to say, and they must have sensed it, for they didn't step forward to greet her, either. It had been a long time, she realized, since she had enjoyed convivial company. Her Wesley boy had been stolen almost a full year before, and ever since, she had been on such a strange journey. In the past many months, she had become lost in a netherworld as she sought her children. She now fully inhabited a place of waiting, a purgatory, a desert all her own that suited her more than the society of these good people. She knew that they meant her well, but she suspected that the sight of her ghostly pallor frightened them and made them wary.

    She allowed Mai Lin to steady her as she stepped into the parlor. There before the empty hearth stood the men. Reverend Charles Martin's fine bald head was bowed, and the others, in respect, stood in a circle with him, their faces long and expressionless. Their black suits created severe silhouettes, and Grace admired their stern, handsome profiles. She remembered when the Reverend had looked as upright and sure as these gentlemen.

    She leaned toward Mai Lin and whispered, "Has anyone informed the Reverend?"

    Mai Lin shook her head and made that sorry tsking sound. The poor woman was worn out. She took Mai Lin's hand in her own and held on tight.

    "Not to worry," Grace said. "We will manage without him."

    She went toward the one person in the place who mattered at this time: the child's mother. Mildred sat by herself beside the small coffin, her hand up to her mouth, a handkerchief gripped in white knuckles. The coffin had been made here in the parlor, and fresh sawdust dotted her black lace-up shoes.

    Grace did not pause but knelt down before her friend, although it made her dizzy to do so. "Dear one," Grace began, and she studied Mildred's sorrowful countenance and saw that it was a mirror of her own after losing her son, "the untimely departure of a child is the greatest trial God sets before us. We are so sorry for your loss."

    Mildred's gaze drifted away from the coffin and landed on Grace's face. Her brow tightened and became furrowed, and a look of confused amazement passed over her, as if perhaps she didn't recognize her friend. In her own grief, Grace remembered, she had mistaken people for apparitions. It was understandable that Mildred might do so now.

    But Mildred didn't speak with a dazed or confused voice. Instead, she asked quite firmly, "Whom do you mean by 'we'?"

    Grace squeezed Mai Lin's hand. "Why, Mai Lin and I."

    Mildred looked at Grace with a cold stare and asked, "Where is your husband, Mrs. Watson?"

    Grace stood unsteadily, and heat rose up from her collar. She looked about the room and noticed the others watching and waiting for a reply. And yet she had none. "I'm afraid," she said after a long moment, "I don't know."

    "Of course you don't know," Mildred said with no kindness in her voice. "For many months now, you haven't known a thing, have you? You have no idea what we have gone through without anyone steering us or leading us forward. Those of us who have survived have done so with no help from your errant husband."

    Grace could feel herself beginning to sway and was grateful when Mai Lin steadied her. She wished to be back in bed. Mai Lin's potion had worn off, and the swishing of her blood in her ears was like a rising tide that might soon drown her.