allow my negligence addressed in our home. But over the course of time, would my carelessness eat its way into his secret thoughts? Would it gnaw away his love for me?
Mama stood straight, her chin maintaining a high tilt, perhaps to contain the flow of tears. Papa clenched his arm around Mama’s shoulder, keeping her vertical. Flynn had enveloped Holly in his arms, and Polly and Molly embraced each other like twins joined at the hip. Nathan stood hunched beneath a tree, standing brave against the pain while gentle breezes set his overlong hair adrift. Elo had distanced himself from the crowd, his solitary gaze fastened on the ground, but then rising to the clouds. Did he think to spy Micah amidst the snow-white pillows of heaven? I wished Elo and I could share our sorrow, as we’d shared the woods and creek in our youth. But it seemed Elo was inclined to fight his battle alone.
Overnight my proud family had turned into a stoop-shouldered bunch, wide Falin shoulders not squaring the air this day. Nor did our laughter fill the void with an Irish flair. We had shrunk and aged in a day’s time. Would we ever walk tall again? Would the sparkle in Papa’s eye ever reappear?
Friends withdrew, granting us privacy while we said good-bye to Micah. As Papa wedged a sturdy wooden cross in the mound of earth, Elo dug a second burial hole, this one near the foot of Micah’s grave. Nathan placed Whisper’s body in the narrow pit and covered him with rich, crumbly soil. The puppy had saved Caleb’s life, buffering his fall against a caved-in foundation of deadly stones. I thought my family had no more tears to cry, but I was wrong. Joining hands, we formed a circle of broken hearts around the two graves.
“Show us your mercy, Lord. We’re broken and afraid. We can’t bear this sorrow alone,” Papa whispered. “Spare Caleb. Heal him, Father. And please, Lord … hold our beloved Micah in your arms … until we can all be together again.”
“Oh, Roan … I want my baby … I just want to hold my baby again,” Mama wailed, her despair collapsing her to a near faint.
Papa lifted Mama off her feet, sheltering her in his able arms. He carried her down the rolling hill that cradled Micah within its folds, his flock following his lead like dull-witted sheep. Our descent to the valley floor was as silent as a deerstalker, words meaningless in sight of our loss.
Fourteen
“She’s wasting away before our eyes, Doctor … grieving herself to death, and we can’t do a thing to stop it.”
Mama’s weepiness plucked a mournful chord in my heart, joining the dirge that had echoed across my days and nights for most of a month. I shifted my stance in the hall, leaning against the wall as tears plopped from my chin to my nightgown. A fitting baptism, it seemed, for my new life of constant sorrow.
“I want her well, Doc! She’s been on this downhill slide too long … you hear me?” Papa’s words sounded fierce, demanding. I welcomed them as though they were the bells of Christmas morn. I, too, wanted healing, though I merited nothing of the sort.
I sneaked a peek into the kitchen from my vantage point in the hallway. Mama and Papa sat across the table from Doctor Landers, who drank from a mug as though in a weary daze. Elbows resting on the table, his haggard appearance suggested he wasn’t immune to the high toll imposed upon our family. A satchel rested on the floor by his feet, old leather collapsing into the cavity like a canister vacuumed of air. A man of middle years, Doc Landers looked as crumpled and worn out as his ancient medical bag.
I had halted my steps to the bathroom minutes ago when I heard Mama’s voice. Wary of being detected, I listened now with ears that had been useless of late, except for eavesdropping.
“Depression is sometimes difficult to diagnose, Mr. Falin. But not in Emma Grace’s case. Based on studies I’ve read, she exhibits all the classic symptoms: pervasive sadness, lethargy,
Mama stood straight, her chin maintaining a high tilt, perhaps to contain the flow of tears. Papa clenched his arm around Mama’s shoulder, keeping her vertical. Flynn had enveloped Holly in his arms, and Polly and Molly embraced each other like twins joined at the hip. Nathan stood hunched beneath a tree, standing brave against the pain while gentle breezes set his overlong hair adrift. Elo had distanced himself from the crowd, his solitary gaze fastened on the ground, but then rising to the clouds. Did he think to spy Micah amidst the snow-white pillows of heaven? I wished Elo and I could share our sorrow, as we’d shared the woods and creek in our youth. But it seemed Elo was inclined to fight his battle alone.
Overnight my proud family had turned into a stoop-shouldered bunch, wide Falin shoulders not squaring the air this day. Nor did our laughter fill the void with an Irish flair. We had shrunk and aged in a day’s time. Would we ever walk tall again? Would the sparkle in Papa’s eye ever reappear?
Friends withdrew, granting us privacy while we said good-bye to Micah. As Papa wedged a sturdy wooden cross in the mound of earth, Elo dug a second burial hole, this one near the foot of Micah’s grave. Nathan placed Whisper’s body in the narrow pit and covered him with rich, crumbly soil. The puppy had saved Caleb’s life, buffering his fall against a caved-in foundation of deadly stones. I thought my family had no more tears to cry, but I was wrong. Joining hands, we formed a circle of broken hearts around the two graves.
“Show us your mercy, Lord. We’re broken and afraid. We can’t bear this sorrow alone,” Papa whispered. “Spare Caleb. Heal him, Father. And please, Lord … hold our beloved Micah in your arms … until we can all be together again.”
“Oh, Roan … I want my baby … I just want to hold my baby again,” Mama wailed, her despair collapsing her to a near faint.
Papa lifted Mama off her feet, sheltering her in his able arms. He carried her down the rolling hill that cradled Micah within its folds, his flock following his lead like dull-witted sheep. Our descent to the valley floor was as silent as a deerstalker, words meaningless in sight of our loss.
Fourteen
“She’s wasting away before our eyes, Doctor … grieving herself to death, and we can’t do a thing to stop it.”
Mama’s weepiness plucked a mournful chord in my heart, joining the dirge that had echoed across my days and nights for most of a month. I shifted my stance in the hall, leaning against the wall as tears plopped from my chin to my nightgown. A fitting baptism, it seemed, for my new life of constant sorrow.
“I want her well, Doc! She’s been on this downhill slide too long … you hear me?” Papa’s words sounded fierce, demanding. I welcomed them as though they were the bells of Christmas morn. I, too, wanted healing, though I merited nothing of the sort.
I sneaked a peek into the kitchen from my vantage point in the hallway. Mama and Papa sat across the table from Doctor Landers, who drank from a mug as though in a weary daze. Elbows resting on the table, his haggard appearance suggested he wasn’t immune to the high toll imposed upon our family. A satchel rested on the floor by his feet, old leather collapsing into the cavity like a canister vacuumed of air. A man of middle years, Doc Landers looked as crumpled and worn out as his ancient medical bag.
I had halted my steps to the bathroom minutes ago when I heard Mama’s voice. Wary of being detected, I listened now with ears that had been useless of late, except for eavesdropping.
“Depression is sometimes difficult to diagnose, Mr. Falin. But not in Emma Grace’s case. Based on studies I’ve read, she exhibits all the classic symptoms: pervasive sadness, lethargy,
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