My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter Four

I washed the cups and put them away. Steeling myself, I again left the kitchen. I had no doubt that there would be something my uncle required of me, though I had no idea what went happened after someone died.

Mother and the baby were both gone and buried by the time I had woken from the fever that had taken my hearing.

To my surprise, Uncle Richard wasn't in the front of the house. I searched every room, forcing myself to walk around where I had found Aunt Ruth's body to go upstairs. He'd left without telling me and I didn't have the faintest idea what I was supposed to do.

Grief again washed over me and I sat back down on the steps. As I buried my face my hands, I allowed the sobs to break forth. A hand on my shoulder made me jerk back and lift my head. I didn't know how long I had allowed my emotions to take control but it hadn't been long. What I did know was that I was drained on both a physical and emotional level.

Uncle Richard would have had a fit if he'd seen me.

Fortunately, it wasn't my uncle who leaned toward me but the reverend's wife, Mrs. Weston. Her kind blue eyes were sad and glistened with tears as she said, "Doctor...sent me."

That was all she said and then she sat beside me, putting her arm around me. I couldn't help but to lean against her. She had been Aunt Ruth's closest friend and I was grateful Dr. Babson had had the foresight to send for her.

If anyone knew what was to be done, it was Mrs. Weston and I was more than happy to turn it all over to her. Straightening up, I faced her to work out some way of conveying this to her. She was the only person, save for Aunt Ruth, to ever learn a few basic signs to communicate with me.

She cut me off with a gentle shake of her head. "I know," she said. She stood up and held her hand to me as though I were a small child. "Come. I will make tea."

When I had made coffee for everyone else, I had neglected to pour myself a cup, mostly out of fear that Uncle Richard would see it as me slacking from my work. The thought of a cup of tea, though, appealed to me. In an attempt not to seek too eager, I gave a short nod.

Smiling, Mrs. Weston led the way into the kitchen. She gave me a gentle push towards the table and then began to move around the room as if it were her own. Her lips moved, but as she didn't face me for any of it, I could only assume she was talking to fill the silence.

Before I knew it, she placed a steaming teacup in front of me and also one of the blueberry muffins I had baked the day before. I breathed in the soothing scent of chamomile before I took a seat. As I did so, I saw Mrs. Weston collect the pen and paper my aunt had kept on hand in the kitchen to communicate with me.

I waited with apprehension as she wrote. Would she ask the same questions? Why hadn't I thought to retrieve the notes I had exchanged with the police so that I would have to repeat myself? He probably would not have allowed me to have them if he needed them for a report or something of that nature.

The one downside to communicating by writing was the strain it put on my wrist and fingers. Time had built up my strength but I ached whenever I wrote when I was tense.

Instead of questions about what had happened, though, Mrs. Weston expressed her regret that her friend hadn't mentioned she was ill, that my uncle had told her everything. She promised to make sure everything was taken care of and that I shouldn't worry about meals and such. The ladies in the congregation would provide.

It was like a weight was lifted from my shoulders, and I felt guilty for thinking it. After all, I had intended to ask for help, but here she was taking it all without my having to say a word.