It was four o’clock in the morning.
I stood there for a long, long time, staring at the clock. It felt as if time stood still, yet I watched the second hand tick-tick-tick away the minutes.
I was in Whitby for good. It was the first time in my life that I’d been in the same path for two consecutive days, and it meantthat I was now like everyone else. I would go to sleep and wake up without crossing over again for the rest of my life. It was final. Complete.
Yet—
I raced to the side table and grabbed the book, then went back to the fireplace and knelt to stoke the flames, letting light pour forth. I frantically opened the book to Henry’s name and looked down at the words one more time, hoping and praying they had changed.
But they hadn’t.
Henry had still gone to Boston, things had still happened as God ordained, and I had given up my last three weeks with my family for nothing.
The book slipped from my fingers, landing on the rug near my feet.
“Why?” I cried out to God as the tears came. “I don’t understand.” My heart felt like it was being torn in two, breaking in ways it had never broken before. “Why would you allow such a thing to happen? Didn’t his life mean anything to you?”
Silence echoed in the void of my chest.
Henry’s life meant something to me.
I wrapped my arms around my knees, though the growing child made it difficult, and laid my head on them. Nothing about my life had been fair. Nothing about it felt like a gift, as Mama had always told me. How would I teach my own child that her life was a gift, especially if she was a time-crosser? How could I look her in the eyes and promise her that God had it all under control when it felt like everything was chaos and He had abandoned me?
This didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like a burden, one I wasn’t strong enough to bear. It proved to me, in a taunting, mocking voice, that I was weak and inadequate, and now it reminded me that I was all alone in the world. No one in 1915 cared for me like they did in 1775. There was no one I could lean on for supportand encouragement, no one who loved me so completely that it felt as if I was whole.
The ache in my heart soon turned to anger, and I railed against God for the unfairness of it all. Weren’t my hopes and dreams pleasing to Him? Then why did He tear them away from me and keep them out of my reach? Was I being punished for something? Was it all a big joke at my expense?
Slowly, Mama’s voice filled my heart and mind. She had begged me not to grow angry and bitter.
If she had come through this, couldn’t I? Where would I be if she had allowed herself to become resentful? I wouldn’t know the joy and love I had always felt from her, and I wouldn’t be the person I was today. Mama had left me with a legacy of grace and love—wasn’t I obligated to pass along that legacy? Didn’t I owe the same to my child?
And what about my faith? Hadn’t Mama taught me that God was a good and faithful father, that He knew the plans He had for me, and they were plans to prosper me and not to harm me? If she had lived through the grief and despair I was feeling and had clung to her faith, living by the very things she’d taught me, then couldn’t I trust that Godwasfaithful and loving and that He knew what was best for me even when I couldn’t see it for myself?
It was hard to comprehend, but perhaps all of this did have a purpose, even if I couldn’t see it now. Even if I didn’t feel like being positive and hopeful. Even when my heart longed to be angry and upset.
I had a choice to make, and I had a feeling I would be called to make it over and over again, day after day. I had before me life and death, blessings and curses. I would need to choose life. If I couldn’t do it for myself, then perhaps I could do it for my baby.
My hand found my stomach again. “I will not become bitter or angry, and I will choose to trust God. I will live to see His goodness.”
I slowly pulled myself off the floor and picked up the book. It no longer felt like a friend, and it no longer brought comfort to my lonely heart. But perhaps one day I could open it again and find joy in the memories of those I had once known.
That day was not today. From now on, I would focus only on that which brought healing and joy to my life. I would mourn and long for everyone I had left behind, but I wouldn’t torture myself by purposely focusing on the past.
I had a life to live—a new life, in many ways—and I would see it as the gift it was. For me and for my unborn child.
It was the only way I knew how to honor Mama’s and Henry’s memories.
And it was the only way I knew how to survive.
27
WHITBY, NORTH YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 17, 1915
The pains began while Edith and I were walking on the moors. A carpet of purple heather filled the dips and valleys of the magnificent landscape, and I had come here every day for the past month to bask in the beauty. It was here that I felt most at peace with the path I had followed.
My entire abdomen tightened, and the pain radiated from my back, wrapping around to my front. I stopped to take a deep breath as wind played with the folds of my gown and the tendrils of hair at my cheeks.
