Restless Hope

Chapter 5

Beth

It is late. My father, sister, niece and nephew have already gone to bed. I should be in bed, but I want to get a head start on the packing. Besides, after the way the day has unfolded, I'm not likely to fall asleep anytime soon.

Some say that ghosts haunt our home. I know all their stories; I have heard them many times.

I'll share one. In 1775, war came to this house during the battle of Lexington and Concord. An irate rebel tore down the door and attacked Thomas Malcolm's son Robert for his loyalty to the King. My father is still proud of Robert's conviction in the face of pressure, and he will regularly show visitors the bullet holes in the stairs where his ancestor was wounded but survived. My father is named after Robert, which he finds enormously gratifying

My bedroom, the Blue Room, is mostly boxed up, but it is where young John Malcolm, at the age of 14, snuck out of a window and climbed down an apple tree to defy his father and brother and join the war, only to have his body brought back to his mother in a hastily nailed rough-hewn pine box, his chest torn open by musket shells and one eye missing, having been run through by a bayonet.

It's the same window Isaac used to speak to me through after he was banned from the house.

I am packing up the dining room. It is my favorite room, not because it is as large or grand as the others, but because my mother's presence is here. Years ago when Father and my sister, Mariah, redecorated the house, I refused to let them change this room. Taken aback by my emphatic insistence, they shrugged and let me keep it as is.

The walls are a deep burgundy accented by gold fleur de lis. The floors are made of wide planked mahogany, and are still well preserved. The trim and coffers are also made of mahogany.

One of my favorite things about this space is the large walnut table that spans the room. I'm not even sure how many generations it has been in the family. It was at this table I tutored Isaac. Sometimes I suspect he was bright enough to figure his studies out on his own, but he just wanted to spend time with me. I still remember the first time we held hands.

Isaac claimed to have learned how to read palms, and he insisted on reading mine. Laughing, I handed over my palm.

"You know I don't believe in this stuff," I said.

"Just wait," he grinned. "I'll make a believer out of you."

He traced the lines of my hand.

"So?" I challenged him. "What do you see?"

He traced my hand and sent a shiver up my spine.

"Well?"

"According to this line, you love cheese pizza and you think mushrooms are gross," he said.

"Faker!" I laughed, trying to pull my hand away. "You already knew that."

"Nope. I'm not finished yet," Isaac held on.

"Fine. What's that line mean?" I ask, pointing to the one that curved around my thumb.

"I'll tell you after we finish my homework."

Sly dog. Still, my hand felt comfortable in his, and when he brushed his thumb over a knuckle, I caught my breath. I was in no hurry to pull away.

So we sat there, my right hand in his left, as he finished his assignment.

He never did finish reading my palm.

Oftentimes we talked about my mother, a subject no one else in the house were willing to speak of.