The Bottom of the Sea

Part 27: Family Shame

I bolted out of the office, snagging my purse and struggling into my jacket. "What's the rush, Sarah?" Jake yelled out from his office. "No time to explain," I yelled back, nearly knocking Margaret over who was coming through the front door. "Sorry!" I said, scooting past her and jumping into the car.

It hadn't been that long since I interviewed Barney Jenkins, and now from the sounds of it, he was moments from death. Even though I didn't know him well, tears welled in the corners of my eyes. The poor man had been through so much, and I upset him somehow when we last spoke. What did he want with me? My heart thumped in my chest and I realized that part of me didn't really want to find out.

I arrived moments later at the seniors' home and was ushered in by the nurse who called. "It was a heart attack," she explained without me having to ask. "There's not much we can do except make him comfortable. He doesn't have much family left but said his goodbyes to all of them. You're the last person he wanted to see. Go on in," she said, taking me to his door. She knocked softly and opened it. Unsure of what I was about to see, I made my legs move me forward into the dimly lit room.

It was dominated by a large hospital bed. Barney was propped up with pillows, looking like he had shrunk since the last time I'd seen him. His skin was pale and thin as crinkled paper and he looked up at me with watery brown eyes. There were deep mauve circles under them.

"Mr. Jenkins? Sarah is here to see you, just as you asked." I was so shocked at the sight of him, I forgot the nurse was still there. "Sit," she said softly to me, gesturing to a chair by the bed. She put a light hand on my shoulder and left the room.

In the quiet, I wasn't sure what to say or do. This was all wrong, he should have someone with him who loved him in his last moments, a child or at least a cousin. All he had was me. The tears that had pooled in my eyes slid down my cheeks.

I decided to go on instinct. If I was the last person he saw before he passed, I wanted to provide some comfort. I put a hand on his arm. "I'm so sorry," I whispered.

He let out a harsh cough, startling me. "What are you sorry for, girl?" he rasped. "I'm the one who's sorry." He put hand lightly over mine. "I scared you something awful the last time we spoke. I didn't mean that."

"Oh," I said. So that was why he wanted to see me, to ease his mind about our strange conversation. "It's really OK, Mr. Jenkins, I'm alright."

"I think at this stage you can call me Barney, what do you think?" I saw a hint of sparkle in his eyes, the same sparkle I saw when he told me funny stories during our interview. I smiled at him. "Sure, Barney. Don't you worry about anything. Do you need me to get you something?"

He let out another raspy cough. "A quart of rum and a package of cigarettes?" He winked and I laughed despite my tears. "There is something," he said, pointing a gnarled finger towards the wall. "In the top drawer of that dresser over there."

I went to the dresser and opened it. The only thing in it was a small, navy box. "Is this what you want?"

"Yes, bring it here," he said, struggling to sit up. "Don't tire yourself," I said, bringing it to him. He motioned for me to sit on the bed.

"What we talked about before — it didn't come out right. I tried to warn you about Elva."

"Elva Baxter, who lived in my house? I know about her, I researched the family at the archives," I said. He patted my hand. "She means us no harm. At least, I don't think so."

"A regular Lois Lane, you are — I could tell you were smart as a whip when we talked. You probably got some dates and figures from your research, but you really don't know about Elva. She was my mother's cousin." He gestured to me to open the box. Inside was a silver crucifix on a delicate chain.

"I don't have much time." He grasped my arm, gently this time. "Take it back to the house. It's Elva's and it never should have been taken from her. Take it back and hang it in the middle bedroom on the second floor overlooking the tides."

"That's my room," I said, a small shiver crawling across my shoulders.

"There's a nail sticking out of the wall just over your bed. Hang it there."

"I will," I reassured him and he nodded, closing his eyes. "We were wrong about her," he said softly. "All wrong."

"About what?"

"She told me what happened. To the children and to her. We were wrong." He had a pained expression on his face.

"Wrong about what?"

"Bring it back to her. Promise me you'll bring it back."

"I will, Barney. Tell me what you mean."

He sighed. "My mother was Acadian, and when we were kids, when she wanted to talk without us kids, she would go into the pantry with my aunts and they would speak French. Every time they talked about Elva, they would say the same to things: 'honte à la famille', and 'suicidée'."

The shame of the family. Suicide. "The poor woman. She lost two children to the Spanish Flu, even if she took her own life that was no reason for the family to turn on her; to bury her in Halifax instead of her own town. But she didn't die that way, Barney. She died of—"

"Kidney failure," he said, coughing and nodding. "I know, she told me."

"When?"

He sighed deeply and settled back into the pillows. The sudden energy burst that seemed to come from nowhere all seemed to drain away.

The door squeaked, and light spilled into the room. Barney turned his head to the wall.

"Mr. Jenkins should get some rest now."

"Okay, I'm leaving," I stood up, putting a hand on Barney's shoulder. "I'll come back tomorrow and we'll chat again if you like," I said quietly to him and he nodded. I was at the door before I heard him answer my question, so low I had to strain to hear it.

"Last night."