Page 48 of When the Sky Breaks

Neal sat down on the wobbly couch. He eyed the upholstery with skepticism and meticulously pulled me closer so that none of my bare skin made contact with the stained, faded fabric. Then he searched through his pack—yarrow and creosote. It was becoming routine now. Ansel and the reverend stood in the doorway, talking quietly, and an older woman in a faded silk dress, presumably the reverend’s wife, poured tea into cracked china cups on the desk. I tugged on Neal’s sleeve as nausea churned in my gut.

“Neal, the smoke,” I choked out. “That smell.”

“You’re okay,” Neal soothed, but I just shook my head, leaned away from him, and was sick on the floor.

“Oh heavens!” the preacher’s wife exclaimed as she turned around, teacup in hand. “I’ll just fetch something. Why don’t you take this to settle your stomach, dear?”

She passed me the teacup with shaking hands, but Neal took it immediately and dumped it out.

“Won’t help,” he said, handing the startled woman a bundle of yarrow and creosote. “Steep this instead.”

“Will it h-help with the n-nausea?” Mrs. Whittaker stammered.

“It’s for fever,” Neal said brusquely. “Her nausea is from the smoke. You’re not supposed to burn cottonwood. You know that, right?”

“I’ll j-just . . .” the woman stammered, “be right back.”

The reverend’s wife poured steaming water over the herbs and set the cup down on the desk to steep.

“Oh goodness, you’re expecting, aren’t you?” she said, turning back to us and noting my arms wrapped protectively around my belly. “Such a delicate time. And to be out here traveling! That’s of course not how I’d go about it but different customs.”

“And do you have children, Mrs. Whittaker?” Neal asked bluntly. I wanted to be offended but found myself stifling a laugh instead.

“Well no,” she replied. “We preferred to focus on our flock, but all these modern young women. Falling pregnant and then taking to the trail heading west. Causes an awful lot of fuss for everyone.”

“Do you think we are traveling across the Texas desert for pleasure?” Neal asked.

“Well I don’t . . . I only mean . . . I try to stay close to home is all,” Mrs. Whittaker blustered. “Let the reverend guide us. Be a good, quiet woman.”

“I’m fairly certain we’d all be dead by now if I’d tried to be a good, quiet woman,” I muttered into Neal’s chest.

“And is that how you ended up in a charred silk dress in a mud-walled hut in the middle of nowhere?” Neal replied.

“I’ll just go fetch that tea,” was all Mrs. Whittaker said in response.

She returned a few minutes later, still eyeing us skeptically. I could feel my fever was getting worse, and I’d unconsciously curled up tighter in Neal’s arms. He’d pulled up one sleeve to rub a pressure point on my arm in some feeble attempt to offset any additional nausea.

“Here’s your tea,” Mrs. Whittaker said, setting the chipped china cup on the floor at our feet. “Ah, poor dear. And you doting on her like that. Very modern. Very unconventional.”

“She’s my wife,” Neal said bluntly. “Do you expect me to leave her sick?”

“Just in my day we didn’t coddle women when they got sick,” Mrs. Whittaker replied. “Bit of cold water, a strong back, a willingness to endure. That’s what makes for a good wife.”

I almost spat out my tea. I’d slept rough almost every night since I’d conceived. I’d thrown up in the dirt dozens of times a day for months. But clearly it was a willingness to endure that I was missing.

“I’ll certainly consider that next time she’s unconscious from fever and dehydration,” Neal said. “However, given my primary concern right now is making sure she stays alive long enough to actually have this baby . . .”

“I’m sure you know best.” Mrs. Whittaker clucked her tongue. “It’s just, you know what they say. A bitter remedy is often most effective.”

“I can assure you, ma’am, that this is very bitter,” I said, sipping the yarrow and creosote. I held the cup out to her, fighting back a smirk. “You’re welcome to try it if you like.”

“Very modern,” Mrs. Whittaker said again, bustling back to her acrid-smelling fire, “very unconventional.”

Ansel sat in the doorway, fully intending to keep watch all night. Reverend and Mrs. Whittaker had long since gone to bed. After a closer examination of the sofa, Neal had concluded he’d rather sleep in the dirt again than on the grimy, disintegrating fabric and pulled our bedrolls out to sleep on the ground. We leaned against the mud wall of the cabin as I nursed another cup of yarrow and creosote, fiddling absently with the crucifix I’d fished out from beneath the neckline of my shift. Milkweed hopped out into the scrub and settled in for the night, fleeing the still-present reek of the cottonwood smoke.

“How do you still believe?” Neal asked, eyes lingering on my crucifix as his fingers traced absently along my arm. “You spend your life surrounded by the supernatural. You watch demons emerge through rifts in reality, see a cult sacrifice someone to a giant screaming hell-beetle, and yet you still trust in . . . all that.”

“I’d argue it’s precisely because I spent my life surrounded by stories of supernatural abominations that I still want to go to Mass,” I replied. “That the fact I’m aware of all the awful things that go bump in the night is a compelling reason to believe there’s something good out there. Maybe it’s childish. Maybe it’s selfish. But I want to trust that if there can be slugs that belch hellfire and demon goats that drink blood, there must necessarily also be someone good, even bigger, even more powerful, keeping the world from just collapsing beneath the weight of it all.”