In the front yard of our snug house on Union Street, I examine the tight green buds on the almond tree and try to ignore the letter in my hand. Soon spring will leaf out the tree, and blossoms will burst forth to hide the new green. Every year, the tree’s exuberance of new life cheers me. The letter in my hand, however, has weighted my soul. I don’t need to read the words again. Their pain is imprinted on my heart.
Oh, Ellen, I am bereft. My dear George has been taken from me, mere months from the birth of our child.
My little sister should not have to mimic my own past pain. How then does L’Amie lose the love of her life while pregnant with his child?
I know you will want me to come to you in California, and maybe I will once the babe is born. Rest assured my doctor friends will see to my health and well-being.
“No, I need you here, dear sister,” I whisper to the wind. “If only for my own peace of mind.” For a year and a half, L’Amie’s letters have been full of happy pride as she and her doctor husband practiced medicine together in Minnesota, a state unknown to me.
“Mama? Is everything all right?”
Marion has come to find me. At eleven, she has a precocious sense of when something is amiss. I was never so sensitive to those around me, and I don’t want to burden her with my problems. I force a smile. “Just some sad news, darling. Your Uncle George passed away in December.”
“Uncle George?” she frowns.
“My sister L’Amie’s husband,” I remind her. They are just names to Marion. L’Amie left for medical school in New York when Marion was a toddler and Ellie just a baby. “And guess what? Aunt L’Amie is going to have a baby.” I try to infuse pleasure into my voice, but I should know better. Her face is still frowning, and her eyebrow arches.
“How can she do that with no husband?”
“Oh, Mary,” I chide her gently. “Your brother was born after Papa died, remember?”
She nods, but I can see behind her eyes the gears of her brain working. In an hour, or two, she will ask another question. I hope I’ll be able to answer it.
A roughly dressed man comes up the walk, whistling. He waves a cheery greeting. Richard, who works as a laborer in an apple orchard, has boarded at our house for a couple of years now. The income is necessary, and the company not unpleasant. He tips his hat to me and continues into the house, calling back to me, “I’ll check on Mrs. Perkins.”
I nod agreement with a sigh. The leaf buds on the tree and valiant sun trying to warm away the cold breeze of winter have conspired with L’Amie’s letter to distract me from Mama’s illness. I put my arm around Marion, who crinkles her nose but doesn’t pull away. It won’t be long before she thinks she’s too grown up for a mother’s hug. “Let’s go see what the children are doing, shall we?”
All smiles now that I have elevated her above her eight-year-old sister and five-year-old brother, Marion skips ahead.
I continue upstairs to Mama’s bedroom, where the curtains are closed tight against the day’s brilliance. The room is dim and smells of age. Mama is 61, and certainly that is not as old as I once thought, even though at forty years old I sometimes feel like Methuselah. I don’t know what ails her because I cannot conceive of anything strong enough to strike her down. I enter the room quietly so as not to disturb her, but she turns toward me at once.
Her brown hair lays in a tangle around her face with its sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. She smiles, though, and I smile back. “Hello, Mama. It’s a pretty spring day. May I open the curtains a bit?”
“Not too far, Ellen. The sun hurts my eyes.” I can barely hear her response, and that makes my heart skip a beat.
I open the draperies so that a slice of golden sun angles across the room, and I return to sit in the chair beside the bed. She reaches for me, and our hands lay clasped on the coverlet. Hers is covered in paper-thin skin too big for its bones, while mine is work-roughened and coarse.
L’Amie’s letter is in my mind, but I mustn’t share bad news with Mama. In her current state of mind, she would dwell on George’s death until she achieved her own. I must answer L’Amie and tell her of Mama’s illness. I hardly know what to say. Maybe Mama will be feeling better tomorrow and I can share that with my sister.
“Mama, I’ve had a letter from L’Amie. She’s expecting a child.”
“Oh? How nice.” Mama perks up a bit, but closes her eyes.
“It will be born in August, I think,” I say, counting up the months in my head. “Maybe she’ll bring the little one out here for a visit.”
“That would be nice.” Her voice trails off and I disengage my hand, patting it as I pull away. She doesn’t respond.
I close her bedroom door softly and go down to the kitchen to see if there’s any more broth for her supper.
By the time the almond tree is carpeted in white blossoms with deep pink throats, Mama is well enough to sit on the porch with a blanket over her legs. Her papery skin hangs over bones that are too visible, but she smiles at Henry, who is chasing Ellie with a stick around the yard. Both are screaming.
“I think he is trying to rescue her,” I say, laughing.
“He’s a pretty scary knight. I think she’d rather not be rescued at all.” Mama’s voice is too soft, but her chuckle warms my heart.
“He’ll be six in September, Mama. It’s past time for him to start school.”
She frowns. “Already? Can’t he stay home a bit longer?”
“No. The best public school in the county is right here on Mission Hill.” I gave in to her desire to keep her grandson close last year, but this year I must send him. I want the girls to go, too, but I am afraid Mama’s health won’t stand it. I don’t know why she is against public school. It’s the most modern way to achieve an education, and she has always supported education. My oldest sister, Coelia, graduated from Rutgers Female Institute in 1841, and L’Amie, of course, is a doctor. My brother Joseph and I have no formal college, but both of us went to school for our basic education. Mama’s mind changes as she ages. Today, she sees no value in school.
“Most children don’t go to school,” she says.
“Actually, Mama, most do attend now.The superintendent of county schools teaches at Mission Hill, and the school is funded mostly by public subscription.” I am warming to my topic, but my audience has fallen asleep.
In a decision that will haunt me forever, I allow her to nap in the too-chilly spring sunshine. She awakes hours later with a cough that persists even after I tuck her back into bed and draw the curtains, returning her to dimness. She refuses broth. She refuses company as her lungs fill with fluid.
Three days later I pause outside her door and realize I hear no rasping breath, no cough. I grip the doorknob, hoping for improvement but fearing decline. The sun leaks in around the curtains, lighting the room enough to silhouette my mother in her bed. Impossibly, she has shrunken further, as if collapsing in upon herself. I am certain, before I place my hand on her chest, that she is gone. I clasp her cold hand in my warm one.
“Oh, Mama, I shall miss you so,” I whisper as my tears fall. Guilt over that afternoon in the yard strangles my breath, but I will treasure our last shared pleasure for all my days.
April showers water the earth as we prepare to bury my mother. Some of the society ladies arrive with casseroles and condolences, chattering and over-enthusiastic. Their children race about the garden with Ellie and Henry. I am detached emotionally, watching it all and doing what is expected. Nothing touches my heart but Marion, hovering in the shadows, watching me with worried eyes.
In the days that follow, I walk along Cliff Drive to Point Santa Cruz, where the city plans to build a lighthouse. The breakers far below me crash against the rocks, causing the foaming spray to spatter the cliffs. The tumult of the sea echoes in my heart. Once again, though, I must go on.
With a pang of guilt, I enroll all three children at Mission Hill School, and they start immediately. Marion will be in the upper grade, in the main room. Ellie and Henry will be with the younger children in the side room of the school. Only a month or so remains in the school term, but I want them to accustom themselves before beginning the new term in the fall. On their first day, the bright sun has overcome the fog and lingering winter chill. I walk them along Mission Street, chatting lightly to cover my own nervous butterflies.
Marion’s eyes gleam with new zeal. I have taught her to read, but more than simple mathematics is beyond me. “Mama, what do you think I will learn today?”
“Today you will learn where to hang your hat and when to have lunch.” I smile at her. “You do not have to conquer the world on your first day, Mary.”
“Tomorrow, then?” she asks me, and we laugh together.
She walks on ahead, and I am so proud of her independence. Ellie walks next to me, clutching her satchel instead of my hand. I tried to take her hand as we left home, but she shook it off, wanting to be independent like her sister. Her forehead crinkles with anxiety, though, and I want to hug her.
“The school will have lots of new stories to read, Ellie.” She loves to read, and luring her with books has been the only way she’s come willingly. I hope her fear of the unknown doesn’t keep her inside the walls of her own home forever.
“I know, Mama.” She takes a deep breath and stands a little straighter. She still clutches her bag, but she’s looking more determined than terrified.
Henry holds my hand, as befits the baby of the family. He scuffles his feet in the dirt to make dust clouds. “Henry, you must be clean for school. Pick up your feet, sweetheart,” I tell him. He regards me with eyes that are deep brown like his father’s. The girls are a blend of both of us, but I’m sure if I could see pictures of his father at five, he and his son would be alike.
Before I know it we have arrived outside the white-painted single-story building that will open my children’s world. The bell in the tower calls the children to class, echoing the tolling of the bell at the mission up the street. I kiss Henry and Ellie, putting Henry’s hand in Ellie’s and giving them a gentle push toward the door. I have to catch hold of Marion’s hand to hold her back so I can place a quick kiss on her cheek. “Watch out for them,” I beg her. She rolls her eyes and hurries after her younger siblings.
One of the reasons I chose to start them today is that some of the mothers are gathering this morning to discuss school needs. Mrs. James Manor happened to be in the school office when I enrolled my three, and she invited me on the spot to today’s affair. Her house is across from an apple orchard near the school. I am admitted quickly, and find half a dozen women already there. Mrs. Manor introduces me, and I realize this is the cream of Santa Cruz society.
Mrs. Hihn’s husband is the county’s first millionaire. Mrs. Blackburn’s husband is an apple orchardist. My business sense did not die with the paper mill. I know the apple business is suffering now. A box of apples that once cost $2.50 is now worth only a quarter. Mrs. Waters is present, too. Her husband lost a thousand trees to a flood a few years back. We all are facing hard times financially although no one, of course, says so.
Mrs. Blackburn leans forward with a smile. “Welcome, Mrs. VanValkenburgh.”
I take a seat in the elegantly furnished parlor and sip tea from a porcelain cup as fragile as an almond blossom. Mrs. Manor takes her place near the piano and turns to me. “Mrs. VanValkenburgh, currently we see three areas where our school can improve.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “First, the school needs a library on campus for the use of the students. Secondly, the students need uniform textbooks. Most importantly, we must compel attendance.”
Assuming my agreement, she turns to the group. They begin discussing ongoing efforts and quickly lose me. I’m not sure what they mean by uniform textbooks, but I agree that attendance should be required. I will catch on quickly. In the meantime, I bask in once more having a cause to rally around.
* * *
Summer fog rolls across the coastal towns, making July the dreariest month of the year. When the Fourteenth Amendment is ratified, though, I call on Mrs. Manor. It’s been over a month since our last school meeting, and I am avidly writing letters to support compulsory attendance. Today, though, I want to discuss something else.
“Why, Mrs. VanValkenburgh, what a pleasant surprise!”
“Mrs. Manor, may we talk briefly? I am sorry to come by unannounced.”
“Nonsense! Please come in.”
Once settled in the parlor, I refuse her offer of tea. “Oh, no, I won’t be here long. I just want to ask you to think about something. You’ve heard of the new amendment?”
Her face darkens. “Citizenship for freed slaves? Of course.”
“It’s more than that. It gives citizenship to all persons born in the United States.”
She looks at me, brow furrowed, not making the connection.
“Weren’t you and I born in the United States?” I ask softly. “And citizens can vote.”
Her mouth rounds to an O. “Men believe that women are so different from them that they should never be considered in the same political discussions.”
She is repeating common knowledge, not speaking gospel truth, so I say, “And we both know that is rubbish.”
The consternation leaves her face and she laughs. “So true! We must discuss this further.”
I take my leave, knowing that I have begun a conversation among the women of Santa Cruz that will not be soon quenched.
The rest of the summer passes in a flurry of days at the beach with the children, letters to the city and county about textbooks and school attendance, and meetings. At this point we are merely discussing the idea of a suffrage society, but I am content that something is happening.
A letter arrives late in August that L’Amie has successfully delivered a son. I cry over the letter.
I rejoice and sorrow at the same time, as I know you will understand, she writes. I can hardly wait to bring him West for a visit. I may very well relocate to Santa Cruz. I know it will please us both to be together again.
“Oh yes, dear sister, I have missed you so,” I tell the words on the page. “It would be wonderful to have you here. Santa Cruz needs a woman doctor, and I need my sister!”
School starts again in the fall, and all three of my children set off eagerly without me. Even Henry says, “Mama, I am too big to hold hands.” My heart breaks with sorrow and pride.
In November, though, news strikes fear into every mother’s heart. Smallpox has broken out in San Juan Bautista. It’s far enough away that my children are not in immediate danger, but close enough to worry. Stagecoaches cancel their runs into the nearby town and the roads are barricaded to try and localize the outbreak. I read the paper every morning with increasing trepidation, but continue sending my children to school for now.
At one of our meetings, the women decide to collect money to assist the afflicted.
“We can protect our own children by inoculating theirs,” Mrs. Blackburn says. We solemnly agree.
The town of Santa Cruz raises two hundred dollars that weekend. Two young Irishmen volunteer to brave the disease to deliver the serum. I hold Henry tight in my arms, as if a mother’s love can battle smallpox, until we hear that they are safely returned.
Our prayers and our money do no good. In two days the plague has spread to Watsonville. Mr. Blackburn heads a group who rides along the Watsonville Road to demolish the bridge into town. I keep my children safe within the walls of our home. The rest of the school term is cancelled, probably because no one dares venture out. The Sentinel publishes daily remedies for preventing the spread of smallpox as well as treating it should that become necessary.
In November, it becomes difficult to put a dinner on the table. I have been unable to get to the market since the smallpox has reached Santa Cruz and the only thing barricading us from disaster is the front door. Henry is fussy and irritable, and I am tired with worry. I place our last chicken, roasted in onion gravy, on a platter.
“Ellen, you’d better look at this.” Richard, our boarder, calls from the dining room. He stands beside Henry, who is slumped in his chair at the table. Richard waves at the boy’s flushed face. I put down the platter of chicken and peer closer. Three red bumps glare from Henry’s cheek.
The power of disease is truly amazing. It wipes from your mind any passion over school issues or voting in an election. All seems trivial compared to the illness of a child. I don’t know whether to clutch him tightly or turn to check on my daughters, also seated at the table. My roasted chicken sits forgotten on its platter. I will always associate the smell of onion gravy and chicken with gut-wrenching fear.
“Ohhhh, Henry. Are you sick, sweetheart?” I feel his forehead. It’s warm, but what is too warm for an active boy?
Richard, meanwhile, has examined the faces of my girls. “No spots here, Ellen.”
“Take them into the parlor, please.” My focus is all on Henry. I gather him in my arms and take him to his room. He twists and struggles to be free, but I have to hold him.
The next day, I peruse the Sentinel looking for remedies and symptoms and the list of those dead. I have not left Henry’s room, where the curtains are closed against sunlight and pestilence both. The dimness reminds me of Mama’s room just before she died. Henry tosses and turns in his bed. Only time will appease his discomfort and my anxiety, but waiting is torture. I make him curdled milk with lemon juice and pray it will work as the Sentinel promises.
Once a day I emerge from Henry’s room to make sure Marion and Ellie are spot free. I am so proud of Marion as she helps Richard with meals for us all. Henry’s spots linger, but do not fill with pus. Is it possible that this is not smallpox? I allow myself a speck of hope.
By the first week in December, the Sentinel reports fewer new cases and more recoveries. It also lists all four of the Blackburn children among the dead. Marion and Ellie both cry at the loss of school friends. I ache for their mother, but nothing can contain my own joy. Henry’s spots are gone and he is demanding to get out of bed.
“Mama, I’m hungry and I don’t want to be in bed any more.” He kicks his feet under the covers for emphasis.
I throw back curtains and sunshine floods the room. “Darling, how about I make you a vanilla almond cake?”