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OUT OF THE BLACK CAVE she fought her way. Surely daylight was ahead? But it kept moving away. Every time she thought she was at the cave’s opening, it was farther beyond.
Tired, so tired of trying.
Sleep instead.
—
IT HURT TO MOVE. HER whole body was on fire, her head too heavy to lift. No, not fire, ice. Ice! No, no, no, they were falling in the river, freezing, numb . . . How can it be so hot in the river? Is the water burning? No, no . . . so cold.
She was in her room. Yes, this was her bed. No . . . Yes! But it was her room at home, that is, at Mother’s where she grew up . . .
Silly. You’re not grown up; you’re just a girl. You had a bad dream. A dream about James and being married and . . . falling? So tired still.
“Mrs. Brownlee. Mrs. Brownlee, do you hear me? It’s Doctor Cray. Please try to open your eyes for me, Mrs. Brownlee?”
Murmurs, and then, “I am sorry, Mrs. Blake, not yet, I am afraid. But we will know soon at any rate. If the fever has done . . . damage . . . well, we will just hope for the best, shall we?”
“Rosie, don’t leave us! Please try to come back! You don’t know how much we love you . . . I love you, Sis . . . oh, Rose, it’s Tom. Do you hear me?”
Tom? So tired, so heavy. Rest. Rest in the darkness.
—
ROSE FORCED OPEN HER eyes. The light in the room was dim, either early morning or twilight, she couldn’t tell. No one was in the room with her, it seemed. No, someone’s regular breathing was coming from . . . the chair by the fireplace? She tried to turn to see but was too weak to do more than raise a few inches and fall back exhausted. All around her chest ached horridly.
“Mother?” she whispered.
Too weak. Well, later maybe.
—
THE NEXT TIME SHE AWOKE it was daylight. She lifted a hand feebly and groaned.
“Ma’am, she’s awake. Ma’am!”
Several sets of footsteps hurried to the bed. Anxious faces peered down at her. Mother. Tom. Who was that man? Dr. Somebody she thought she remembered, and someone else standing away from the bed.
“Mother?”
“Yes. Yes dear, I am right here.”
“Rosie, I am here too—it’s Tom, y’know.”
“Oh. . . . What? I am sorry . . . I do not understand.”
“Mrs. Blake, Mr. Blake, be so kind as to move back and let me examine our patient. Yes, madam, do not be alarmed. I believe you are going to be all right, but see here, you have been ill. Do you understand what I am saying?”
Rose nodded, and the doctor went on.
“You have been ill, and you have had a great shock. We must be quite careful of you right now or bear the consequences. Now, I am Doctor Cray—do you remember me?”
“Yes.”
“Very good. Your mother and brother and a nurse are here with you also. It is enough that they are here—do not talk to them today for you must rest. I will come again this evening, and then we will see how you fare. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” she answered again, because “no” was too heavy, and she was so tired.
“That is good; now sleep again. You are safe, and in time will be sound also, thank God.”
“Yes, thank God,” Rose’s mother added. Tom sat by Rose’s bed and held her hand until sleep overcame her again.
Four days later they judged it wise to speak the truth to her. Her waking periods were closer to normal now, but reality was still a faint dream just beyond her grasp, a truth that needed to be confronted. Mrs. Blake called Pastor Greenstreet to be with them. Tom and Dr. Cray completed the group, and together they stood around the bed. Tom felt it his duty to do the speaking, to help her the best he could through this ordeal.
“Sis? Rose, we want . . . need to tell you about your illness.”
“Yes, Tom,” she replied softly. “I cannot seem to get it right in my mind. I am so confused—tell me, what am I so afraid of?”
Tom began cautiously. “They found you, Sis, lying on the rocks at the bottom of the levee.”
Rose was bewildered.
“Well, you’d fallen there, see, and, well, Dr. Cray says you’d broken your ribs and hit your head mostly. You were unconscious and then, see, you’d been lying half in, half out of the cold water and all, so you became ill with fever. We thought we were losing you, Rose. But you have gotten better, bit by bit. You will be able to get up soon.”
A small frown puckered her forehead. “How long have I been sick, Tommy?” Her voice was almost childlike in its dreamy confusion.
Tom glanced at Dr. Cray for guidance. He nodded.
“It has been about three weeks, Sis. Since January 6?”
Puzzlement replaced the frown. Something nagged at the back of her mind. What?
“Rocks, Tommy? I do not understand where.”
He took a deep breath and his voice quavered, “The rocks on the levee. By the river. By the . . . by the bridge. Close to your house?”
“My house? Bridge?”
Tom rushed on, looking down at the counterpane. “You see, Vincent crawled up to the road, and some folks saw him. He was nearly frozen because he was soaking wet, but we would never have found you in time if he hadn’t gotten out. Of the river. Rose, do you remember falling in the river?”
Tears were streaming down his honest face, and Rose stared at him bewildered.
River? What would anyone be doing in a river in January? January 6. Oh! James’ birthday, of course. His birthday party and . . . the river . . .
Tom held her through the storm. Over again and again she saw the carriage sliding and falling, sliding and falling, James throwing her out.
Sliding . . . falling . . . Clara! Glory! Oh, God! My little boy! Oh, mercy, please God!
Oh, James. Please don’t be dead.
~~**~~
