Coldwater Revival: A Novel by Nancy Jo Jenkins

part of my body or mind that wasn’t in dire need of shoring up. But I swayed my stubborn will from seeking even a morsel of God’s strength and courage. He had chosen not to spare Micah—the most prized of his beloved. I felt certain he wouldn’t bother to bend an ear to the likes of me. In that sharp moment of acuity, I understood I was turning my back on God. Perhaps out of anger, for failing Micah—for failing me. Perhaps because I no longer believed in his love. The thought was so disheartening, so foreign to all I had believed since infancy that I knelt on the floor and bawled.
    “Come here, Emma Grace.”
    I shook my head, not allowing Papa’s storehouse of love to ooze even a mite of warmth onto my ice-packed heart. However, I hadn’t reckoned that Papa’s stubbornness might be as weighty as my own, for suddenly I was in the air, swung into his burly arms as though I bore the weight of a newspaper. For a while we just sat in his chair. As he cradled me against his chest like the baby I wished I were, the pungency of freshly hewn cedar and Mama’s tallow candles joined force, stamping a memory scent on my heart I knew I would never forget. After a time of coddling, Papa set my feet on the floor, retrieving my crutch as he gripped my hand with firmness.
    The awful finality of Micah’s death struck me anew when I leaned over the coffin to tell him good-bye. This is the last time I’ll ever see you, sweet Micah. I’m so sorry, little brother. So very, very sorry. A gully wash of sadness and guilt flooded my eyes. If only my tears could wash away the suffering in my heart. The suffering of my family.
    How could I live in a world that no longer claimed Micah’s bare feet on its paths? His bright gaze darting to nature’s wonders? His silly, snuffling laugh that put me in mind of a snorting piglet? I wanted to shake him awake. Tell him to be up and about the business of following after his brother. A beautiful world awaited his exploration and a pile of mischief lay neatly stacked, ready for him to claim.
    Not a scratch marred Micah’s perfection. Nor did a bruise fade purple into his skin. Yet, he was dead. Why, God? I wanted to scream. But God and I no longer acknowledged each other. The thought mangled my heart even more. Micah wore his Sunday best: the muslin shirt with buttons from the tinker-man’s wagon; the shirt that bore the embroidery stitches of Molly’s pearl-white buttonholes. Micah had been scrubbed speckless, the faint scent of Mama’s lavender soap tarrying on his pale skin. And his unruly locks now lay in shiny array, for they’d been plastered down with Papa’s hair balm. His appearance gave me pause, for I’d never before seen his free-flying curls subdued in such manner. I could almost imagine it was someone else’s little brother lying in the casket.
    I stood close to Micah, even after Papa returned to his chair. It discomfited me to no end that his body felt cold. And it troubled me that he slept alone. He’d never slept alone in his life, even in the womb. I turned, watching Papa through bleary vision. When I determined that he dozed, I did what needed doing.

    “Roan … come look at this.”
    I awoke at the sound of Mama’s voice, but stayed my lids from opening, though they betrayed me with a bit of fluttering as the moments passed. A quick peek revealed the night’s persistent darkness. Its slow passage had frittered away a portion of candle near the head of the coffin, puddling it into a saucer of melted wax.
    “What in the world?” Papa whispered.
    Mama and Papa circled the table, Papa hefting me from my nesting spot beside Micah’s casket. I had tried to cram myself into his burying box, but hadn’t fit. At least I’d gotten an arm inside, to comfort him and let him know he wasn’t alone. And I’d pleated the yards of my nightgown over his chilled body, warming him best I could.
    “We know you’re awake, Emma Grace. Come on, child, open up and talk to us.”