XI
Amelia Zimmerman knelt on the moist, spring grass, careful to keep her dress out of the area where the grave dirt lay naked. The very idea of one of her daughters’ grave dirt on her dress twisted the familiar knot in her stomach even tighter. She tucked a wisp of blonde hair—or was it one of the gray ones—behind one ear and ignored how thin her hands had become.
This morning the White Pine Gazette had come out with the fresh headline, “Dr. Zimmerman Declares Measles Outbreak Over: Urges Vigilance and Early Treatment.” There had been no new cases in roughly three weeks, but the town and surrounding countryside were as taut as the sinews keeping Amelia’s neck rod straight.
Charles had left this morning—again—without speaking to her, not one word. His utter indifference had become commonplace. If he hated her, that would be easier than behaving as if she did not exist at all. Indifference was so much crueler. Someday, perhaps, she would no longer care. But then, how could she blame him? She could hardly stand to look at herself in the mirror anymore; how could she expect him to want to look at her?
Her fingers traced the hard corners of the small, gold cross in one hand, while the other caressed the textured, leather cover of her family Bible. The corners of the Bible had grown more worn in recent weeks.
She took a deep breath and thought about what she should say in her prayers. These days, most of her thoughts and emotions were such a dark, pitiful chaos that she could hardly grasp individual feelings. It was all she could do to muster enough composure to teach school every day. The students all sensed that something was amiss with her, and they knew the reason, but she could not help it. This morning she had tried to walk the children through arithmetic and reading lessons, only to find herself at the end of the lesson having shambled through it all like a sleepwalker. How many times in the last month had this happened? Perhaps tomorrow would be better.
Another deep breath. Yes, she must get this over with, the daily prayers, a habit instilled in her by her father, a Lutheran minister back in Philadelphia.
“Dear Lord, I know you must have a reason for taking my babies. You killed Your own Son, so why should You hesitate to take mine? But You took Jesus home to save the world from Your own rules. I grew up believing in those rules, in Your Word. I swallowed everything Daddy taught me, terrified of fire and brimstone. But why would you send these angels to me and slaughter them? If you’re there at all, explain this to me.”
The Almighty would have to forgive her anger. Thus far, there had been no one to assuage her sorrow. No comfort. All she could think about was her two girls’ frail little bodies among the worms.
She gathered herself and stood, feeling like a spring that had been only slightly released. Without understanding why, she hung the cross on Eva’s grave marker.
Cupping her hand over her womb, where the bulge would soon begin to show, she said, “If you intend to take this one, too, you might as well send me to Hell now. I haven’t told Charles yet. If something happens to him now, I don’t know what I’ll do, so please keep him out of harm’s way.”
But that was a lie. She knew very well what she would do. The Almighty would have to forgive her for that too.