In the middle of the night, a warm wetness on my side pulled me from my sleep. As I breathed in, the pungent scent of urine filled my nostrils and it took all my willpower not to gag. Beside me, little Katie slept on, blissfully unaware that she had wet the bed.
Feeling more than a little sorry for myself, I stared up at the dark ceiling. I'd never before had to share a bed with anyone, let alone a three year old with no bladder control. This is not what I had expected life would be like with my family.
Dinner had, predictably, been awkward for us all. Simon didn't make eye contact with me through the whole meal, and neither had Anna. My stepsister had talked the whole time, though, her head turned away just enough so that I couldn't read her lips.
And I'd thought meals with Uncle Richard had been unbearable.
Father had, as often as he could, tried to at least address a statement to me every few minutes. He had ensured I sat next to him, which had miffed the rest of the family. Every now and then, he would reach over to squeeze my hand.
The food, a stew and the bread I had smelled as soon as I entered the house, was excellent. If nothing else, I enjoyed that part of the experience.
It was after the meal that the real awkwardness began. Ordering her daughter to do the dishes, Cordelia sat next to Father on the delicate settee that was the absolute opposite of anything a man would have chosen for his home. My step mother must have brought it with her when she married Father. The question I had been waiting was finally asked.
"Why aren't you at school?"
The beginning of my explanation, both with miming and writing, that the money had not been available for another year sent Father into a rage. I gathered from the words he exchanged with his wife that while money was tight and he'd written to say there would be a slight delay before the funds for my tuition and board. He hadn't said anything of a change in my education.
Why had Aunt Ruth said there was no money for me to continue at school? Had there been some kind of miscommunication?
If that was true, would I be able to return? I tried in vain to rein in my excitement at the idea. It had been a small fortune for me to travel all the way to Montana, but I was certainly not a welcome addition to the family.
Cordelia pursed her lips, and I wondered if she'd been aware of the money Father had spent on my education. It was hard to believe that she hadn't noticed, but if she wasn't aware of me, what excuse had Father given her about the money?
"Who sent you here? Richard?" was the next question put to me.
I put aside my speculations as I thought back to that terrible day. My hands had stopped shaking as I moved around the kitchen to prepare some refreshment for the hard working men who had been brought in. When it was ready, I was able to carry the tray with a reasonable amount of steadiness.
Everyone was still in the hallway at the foot of the stairs accepted the coffee when I brought it to them, and some even nodded their thanks. Uncle Richard ignored me even as he took a cup. I stayed against the wall in an attempt to know what they all were talking about.
However, they all stood with their backs to me, except for the bearded policeman.
Dr. Babson was the first to leave as he had patients who needed his attention. Within an hour, the policemen also left. That left me alone with Uncle Richard, which was not what I would describe as a desirable situation.
As quickly as possible, I took the dirty cups back to the kitchen and set about putting everything right. I couldn't bring myself to look at the meat on the counter, even though I knew Uncle Richard would expect me to have something for the evening meal.
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.
And she had. All of the arrangements for what Aunt Ruth would be buried in, the meal after the funeral, and even small details I didn't even know about. Without her, I don't know what I would have done.
She was long gone though when Uncle Richard walked in. I didn't know what to expect as I saw the slip of paper in his hand. He slammed it down on the table, and I could see the piece of furniture vibrate from the force. He stepped back and gestured for me to read what was written.
Cautiously, I stepped closer to see the words better.
Ivy, you will leave this house.
Dumbfounded, I stared at the statement. The black ink stood out sharply against the white slip of paper. I knew the words; understood what they meant individually. Together, though —with my name included at the beginning of the sentence— I just could not comprehend how they applied to me.
Aunt Ruth had just died and he was already telling me to leave?
As I lifted my gaze to Uncle Richard, my hands came up out of habit to query him further. Just in time, though, I caught myself. He wouldn't have understood me, and my attempt to communicate in a way he didn't know would have only angered him. Instead, I chose to contort my face with the confusion that filled me and mouthed a single word, "What?"
That, at least, he couldn't pretend he didn't understand. Uncle Richard stabbed his finger at the paper as if to emphasize what was written there. The corners of his mouth twitched as though he was fighting a smirk, and his eyes held a pleased glint.
I understood I had to leave, but where was I to go? This house was the only place I knew at all, besides my room at school. Maybe...was that it? Had Aunt Ruth, somehow, found a way to pull off the impossible? Was I going back to school?
The pen Aunt Ruth had always kept on hand for writing me notes was still on the table and I picked it up. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him shake his head and cross his arms as I wrote out: Back to school?
Anxious to know more, I faced Uncle Richard and gestured to it. His reaction was not what I expected.
He tipped his head back and laughed. Even though I couldn't hear what had to be a note of mocking in the laughter, it still stung. My cheeks burned with embarrassment and confusion, but I kept my eyes on Uncle Richard. When he finally contained his mirth, his expression became serious and he began talking. Thankfully, he enunciates well and I was able to read most of the words on his lips.
"Why...think you...go...to school? ....father...no money...and I refuse...put...more of my...money to educating...ungrateful girl...you." As he spoke, his lip curled up and the corner of his mouth quirked up at the same time, his expression twisting with a mixture of disgust and contempt.
It made me take a step back, anxious to put as much space between him and me. My mind immediately went back to when I was seven years old and he had entered my room late one night when I had been in the middle of getting changing into my nightgown. He'd grabbed my arm and, though I couldn't hear it myself, I had let out a cry.
Immediately, Uncle Richard had brought his other hand up and slapped me. My head had turned to the side as pain sliced through my cheek from the force. He took the opportunity to pull me closer and I didn't know what he was going to do to me.
Aunt Ruth had entered then and she separated us. It was before I had been taught how to read lips and I didn't know what they said to each other as I cowered against my bed. All I knew was that I was never alone with my uncle after that and it wasn't long before I was sent to school.
Now, though, there was apparently no money from Father. Which left me still in the dark. Where was I to go, if not to school? Where else was there for me to go to?
He walked to the sideboard where he kept his alcohol. I watched him pour a large measure of amber liquid into a glass and then drink it down in one go. Knowing just how unpleasant he could be when he drank, I took another step back.
If I had to, I could make a run for my room and lock myself in.
Before I could ask where he thought I would go, he turned his head as though he'd something. Then, Uncle Richard focused on me again and pointed towards the front door. "Answer...."
Oh. Someone must have rung the bell. I edged around him and then rushed to the door. Though I wondered who would be visit at that time of day, I was immensely grateful for the interruption.
Unsure whether my opinion of my uncle would be understood or not, I kept it to myself as I explained how I had been sent on my own. Within a week of Aunt Ruth being buried, I had been on a train leaving Springfield and then made my way across the country.
My stepmother's horror at how I was unchaperoned for most of that time surprised me. She covered her mouth as she said something to Father. The dismay and horror that appeared in his expression confused me. What had she said?
Color crept his neck and he tugged at the collar of his shirt. He was slow to write his next question and scratched out several words after he wrote them. Then, he refused to look at me when he handed it over.
Were you unmolested on your journey?
Appalled by the question, I felt a blush spread across my cheeks. I wrote an emphatic: Yes! Why would Cordelia have suggested such a thing? Was she searching for a reason to turn me out? I'd seen such things happen when a young lady was less than completely respectable.
Relief filled Father's face as he read my answer, and he nodded. Cordelia, though, looked unconvinced and again, she covered her mouth to speak to my father. She'd picked up on that method of keeping her words from me far too quickly for my comfort.
You would tell me, wouldn't you?
That he'd even had to ask made me sigh as I remembered it. It had been a relief to retreat to bed and escape Cordelia's scrutiny. I'd been shocked when Anna made it clear that I'd have to share with the already sleeping Katie, but feeling exhausted and with no other options, I'd crawled onto the bed.
Why didn't Anna sleep with the sister she'd known from birth? Or why hadn't she and I shared a bed while the younger Susan, thirteen years old if I'd understood my father correctly, shared with Katie? It would have made more sense than to put the toddler with me.
Moving as close to the edge as possible, I tried to go back to sleep. By the time dawn broke, though, I didn't feel rested at all. Besides wetting the bed, Katie was kicker and several times, just as I was drifting to sleep, I would be startled awake by a foot connecting with my ribs.
At least I didn't have the complaint of snores keeping me awake.
It was Sunday, which I realized when Father had reminded everyone the night before that he would not wait to leave for the church if there were any sluggards in the morning. Maybe he'd said it for my benefit so that I would know the family routine.
The smell of urine followed me as I stood up and pulled my nightgown off. It was difficult to move around the small attic space, and I tried to tread softly so I wouldn't waken the others. Thus, it took longer for me to get dressed. My trunk had been left downstairs, so I was left with the travel wrinkled gowns I'd kept in my bag. I felt fortunate that I did have one, a gray cotton with pale pink flowers embroidered, that would be serviceable for church.
I climbed down the ladder and headed out to the outhouse in the back. Quick to finish my business, I stepped out into the growing light. Perhaps after I had been in the territory I would get used to the pine scent or the magnificent mountains that touched the sky but not just yet.
There was a slight chill in the air and I shivered, rubbing my arms to warm them, as I hurried back to the house. The kitchen was lit from within and I guessed that Cordelia was at work.
The woman was stirring the contents of a bowl near the stove. In order not to startle her, I rapped my knuckles against the doorframe. She glanced over her shoulder and the corners of her mouth turned downward immediately. I tried to be understanding. After all, she hadn't expected a step daughter to arrive from the east.
"Can I help?" I signed. I had no desire to be treated as a guest and could pull my own weight. Too late did I realize that she wouldn't understand me.
"What?" she asked, a frowning forming on her face.
Moving forward, I held out my hands to take the bowl from her. She stepped back, her hands tightening on it. Startled, I stared at her, struggling to understand why she would be so defensive. I only wanted to help, not take over her kitchen.
"What do...want?" she asked.
I fisted my left hand, placed it on top of my right palm, and raised them. "To help you," I said at the same time. I'd managed to teach Aunt Ruth signs in a similar manner. Hopefully, Cordelia and the rest of my family would eventually pick up on what I meant.
She shook her head and turned her back on me. Unsure what to do, I watched as she spooned the batter onto the griddle. The scent of pancakes filled the air a few moments later and Cordelia continued to ignore my presence in the kitchen.
Frustrated, I took a step back, resisting the urge to retreat completely. It was like being back in Springfield and being under Uncle Richard's criticism again, only now I was in a strange home with no idea the routine. Maybe...maybe I could set the table.
Cordelia had the plates stacked on the edge of the counter. I took a deep breath and went to the counter. I picked them up, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Cordelia turn towards me. In an instant she was next to me, her hand curling around my left wrist. She jerked me around to face her.
"What are you doing?" Her vehemence in her expression took me even more aback.
"Helping," I said, aloud as my hands were full of plates. At least by now she'd stopped flinching whenever I used my voice.
"Get out."
For a moment, I wondered if I'd read her lips right. Why was she so offended by my offer to help? Was it because her own daughter was still asleep and was not there to help her? Or a hostile frame of mind because I was her husband's daughter, a reminder that he'd had a love before her? But, as far as I could tell, she'd not shown any antagonism towards Simon. Was it because I was new? Did she not like strangers?
Firmly, Cordelia pulled the plates away from me as these questions ran through my mind. She slammed them down on the counter and returned to her cooking. This time, I did retreat, trying desperately not to cry. Father was in the parlor, an open book in his left hand. He looked up as I came in and a frown appeared on his face. Something of my emotions must have been in my face.
"What...wrong?" he asked.
Would telling him only create further conflict? I had the feeling that it would, so I shrugged my shoulders, He held his hand out to me and I went to him. I sat on the arm of the chair and he put his good arm around me. It was comforting to be beside him and I tried to read the book he was reading.
Though it was not one I had seen before, several of the boys at school had made mention of it: Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. He was in the middle of the book, so I had little idea what the plot was. However I wondered if I would be allowed to read it when he finished.
It was something of a surprise that he even had it. I'd been given to understand that Father had little money from his general store, but here he was with a book, which was not cheap. Why had Aunt Ruth said there was no money? Had Uncle Richard been party to a deliberate lie, or had my aunt been as deceived as any one?
We remained like that until Simon came down, blurry eyed and scruffy faced. He vanished outside, and I hoped he would come back in looking more presentable. It wasn't many minutes later until Anna jumped down. She sent a scowl in my direction before rushing to the kitchen. A moment later, she was back and going up to the attic.
Father closed his book and stood up. He went to the table, which was laden with food, and took his seat at the head. I surmised that Cordelia had called out that breakfast was ready, for my siblings came rushing to the table not a minute later. Susan was barely dressed and Katie was still in her nightgown. Simon had, while he was outside, shaved and looked more awake than before.
Breakfast was no less awkward than the even meal had been. Cordelia again covered her mouth as she spoke to my Father. This time Father merely shook his head at her and made some comment about how the weather would be fine. Whatever complaint she had against me, whether for trying to help or something else, would have to wait.
There were seven of us around the table, and the baby sat on Cordelia's knee. As soon as the last scrap of food was eaten, Susan and Anna began collecting the dishes. I jumped up to help them, but they both snatched up every plate I reached for. They couldn't enjoy washing dishes so much they didn't want my help, could they?
In the corner, I could see Father and Cordelia having an intense discussion. Simon sent a glance at them and sent a glance in my direction. It was a conversation about me, apparently. That wasn't a surprise at all.
With nothing to do, and some time until it was time to leave for church, I went up to the attic. What was I supposed to do with the urine soaked sheets and blankets? There wouldn't be time to wash them before church. Still, I stripped the bed and made a pile at the foot of the bed. Maybe after we get back I could take care of it.
The scent of urine still clung to the air as I sat on the edge of the bed. I pulled my brush from carpet bag and set about arranging my hair into something more than a quick braid. The bath I'd been hoping for once I arrived in Colorado City hadn't happened yet.
Before long, Anna and Susan came up to change. The young woman, who I thought was close to my age, stepped up to me and poked me with her finger. "You think you...special... you...from the East?" she said, her face close to mine.
"What?" My hands moved out of habit. I had been in Colorado City for less than twenty four hours. How could she jump to that preposterous conclusion in so short a time.
She wrinkled her nose as she stepped back. She made a gesture with her right hand. "That is just weird. Stop it."
My signing was weird? Annoyance surged past my confusion. Deliberately, I lifted my hands and began to sign. "This is how I communicate with the world and I'm not going to stop because you don't like it."
Her scowl returning, Anna spun and went to the other side of the attic, which wasn't far. Susan stared at me with brown eyes wide with curiosity. When she realized her sister had turned away, she did so as well, though she would glance over her shoulder every few seconds to see what I was doing.
I focused on smoothing and twisting my hair into a low knot at the base of my neck. In my travels, I'd gotten skilled at doing it without the benefit of a mirror. I slid the hairpins into place, securing the chignon into place. It would take a force of nature, like a strong wind, to dislodge it.
Leaving my two stepsisters to finish dressing, I went downstairs. As I walked around the small house, avoiding the closed door that led to Father and Cordelia's bedroom, I marveled at how few furnishings and decorations there were.Beyond the curtains, there were no obvious signs that a woman lived there.
Either they had not been there long, or they were in the process of leaving.
As I ran my finger along the fireplace mantel, Simon entered. He tugged on the tie around his neck as he glanced at his reflection in the window. Apparently satisfied with how he looked, he turned and raised his eyebrow at me.
I lifted my hand in greeting. Without saying a word, he left the parlor and went outside. Every hope I'd had of a bond with my only brother shattered right then. Why did he treat me...as though I were a complete stranger?
Yes, ten years was a long time but we'd had six, almost seven, years growing up together. We'd played together, studied together, and grieved together. It had broken my heart when Father took Simon with him, and the expression on my brother's face when he looked back at me from the carriage that had taken him away had been filled with sadness.
Father, adjusting his collar, came into the room. He barely glanced at me as he called out for everyone to hurry up. It was time to walk to the church.