Margaret
Margaret
Margaret
Yesterday afternoon, I was lying in bed with Margaret on my chest, she and I both drifting in and out of sleep. This is how we spend our time—bound together, drifting. I bury my nose in her hair, stroke her back, run my fingers over her shoulder blades, sure I can feel the beginnings of wings there.
I keep her by my side both day and night, my little sparrow child.
If she is to die, it will be in my arms.
Our bed became a boat and we were floating, tossed on a turbulent sea. There was a knock at the door, and Myrtle calling, “Ethel?”
She’s still thinner than she should be, but she’s doing much better now. There is color in her cheeks, and she has been so good to me and Will. In truth, I think the tragedy of our situation has given her new purpose. Helping us seems to allow her to forget the loss of her beloved husband. She cooks us dinner. Cleans the house. Comes over every day to check on us. She holds little Margaret so I can eat and bathe without leaving her alone.
“I’ve been to Brandenburg,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
I sat up, holding the baby tight against my chest.
“I didn’t make it to the springs, couldn’t find my way, but I went to the General Store and asked the shopkeeper if I could pay someone to go get me some water. It just so happened he had one jar of spring water left.” She showed it to me. “So I bought it. I bought the last jar.” She unscrewed the lid, dabbed a little of the water on her fingers, and touched Margaret’s china-white cheek. “Turn her so I can put some on her lips. A little on her tongue.”
“But Will, he’ll think me mad—”
“Will doesn’t need to know,” Myrtle said, voice firm and sure. “It was the water that brought her to you. Perhaps the water can keep her here. What harm can it do to try, Ethel?”
I lifted the baby from my chest, turned her face out. Her eyes were open. She was looking at Myrtle, eyes wide and expectant.
“There’s a good girl,” Myrtle said, dipping her fingers in the water once again, bringing them to the baby’s lips. “Such a precious girl.” Again and again, she dipped in her fingers, parted Margaret’s lips, placed drops of water in her mouth. The baby made a contented little cooing sound, like a dove. “It would be easier with a dropper,” Myrtle said.
“There’s one in the medicine cabinet,” I told her.
Myrtle left the jar and dropper for me. I hid them in the drawer of my nightstand. I gave Margaret another dose before Will got home. Then a third later in the evening, when Will was smoking his pipe in the living room.
When I was changing Margaret before bed, I called for Will. He hurried into the bedroom, sure our daughter had stopped breathing, that this was it, we’d reached the end. He saw her wiggling on the table, the soft rise and fall of her chest. Her hands and feet were a healthy shade of pink. In fact, she was pink all over. Her breathing seemed easier. Shemade a delighted little squeaking sound when he touched her cheek. She nursed for a long time before falling asleep, then slept through the night for the first time.
“I don’t understand,” Will said, shaking his head, examining and re-examining her, listening to her chest with his stethoscope.
“Perhaps it’s not for us to understand,” I said. “Perhaps it’s a miracle.”
“A miracle,” Will repeated slowly, as if trying the word out, seeing how it felt.
I nodded, smiling.I am Mrs. Monroe. I now believe in miracles.
chaptertwenty-three
June 20, 2019
Lexie called this place ‘the geezer farm,’?” Ryan told me as we pulled up to Edgewood. It was a single-story building tucked up against the woods, sheathed with dark siding so that it blended into the landscape.
I could imagine her using the term, even when she went to see Shirley.
“I don’t think she meant it in a mean way; she liked it here. She came once a week to visit my grandmother, and got involved in hot games of hearts or Scrabble. The residents all loved her. One day, when the regular music guy didn’t show up, Lexie sat at the piano,” Ryan told me. “She had them singing old rock and roll. When I came in, they were doing ‘Blueberry Hill.’?”
I pictured Lexie holding forth, banging away at the piano, directing the chorus of seniors singing about finding their thrill. Must have been quite a scene. “Now that, I would love to have seen!”
“I’ve gotta warn you,” Ryan said as he pulled into a parking space and turned off the car. “My gran, she’s got some strange ideas about things. She’s in good shape overall, but she’s nearly ninety and she’s definitely got a little… confusion. Says things that don’t make a whole lot of sense. Loses sense of what time period she’s in, I think. She talks about her mother, who’s been dead for ages, like she’s just seen her. So just… keep in mind that not everything she says is based in reality.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
