More Than Sorrow Read online

  “An older woman?” said my mother dubiously. No doubt thinking, as I did, that if she was treating kids who’d fallen out of trees, car accident victims, and people who waited to go to the doctor until a cold turned into pneumonia, she wasn’t likely to be a top neurosurgeon any longer.

  “I don’t know her personally, but she was recommended to me as a good choice for you, Hannah. I’ve spoken to her on the phone. She’s interested in your case and will be expecting your call.” Dr. Singh scribbled on a pad of paper and handed it to my mother. I grabbed it. “I can use a phone, you know.”

  Mom and Doctor Singh exchanged glances. I tucked the slip of paper into my bag.

  Chapter Eight

  Unaccustomed to much use, the springs in the overstuffed attic chair creaked under my weight. I picked up a huge old book with blue binding, settled it onto my lap, and opened it carefully. A column for words, another for figures and one for dates. The farm accounts, presumably. The first date was April 22, 1877. It meant nothing to me, but I enjoyed turning the stiff pages, crackling with age. The type of ink changed as the pages turned and the handwriting changed as the years passed. Some of it was totally incomprehensible, some barely readable, and some in elegant script. An entry for what looked like the purchase of a blk hse: I wondered if this was shorthand or if the writer wasn’t literate. In all the pages, the words were crammed close together, a time when paper was precious and books expensive. The last entry was from 1924.

  I put the accounts book aside and took up a bundle of letters I’d found near the top of one of the boxes. After the family had retired, I’d lain in bed listening to the dark, and found myself thinking about the people who’d first lived here, what life had been like down on the farm so long ago. I thought it dark out here, in the countryside, but lights were left on over the barn and greenhouse all night, and a nightlight was in the bathroom and another outside the master bedroom in case one of the kids had to get up. Every now and again headlights swept the blinds as a car passed. There were flashlights in all the bedrooms, plugged into the wall, a red light indicating its location in case the electricity went out, which it was known to do on occasion. A set of heavy iron candlesticks sat on a table at the top of the stairs, lighter in the drawer.

  What must it have been like in the days before electricity, when the flickering light of candles was extinguished at bedtime?

  It could be dark in Afghanistan, in the countryside, but even there lights shone from villages, and cities cast a haze on the horizon, and cars travelled the roads.

  On impulse I got up, found dressing-gown and slippers, grabbed the flashlight, and made my way in the blue glow of the nightlight to the attic stairs. I placed one hand on the bannister, flicked on the flashlight, and slowly, carefully ascended. I was not afraid of the dark, nothing had ever come out of the dark to bother me. My fingers found the door, and I was inside the attic room. The shadows in the corners were very deep. In the walls something rustled. I turned on the tabletop light and switched off my flashlight. The light wasn’t strong, which was good. It was enough to read by, so I’d opened the top of the first box, pulled out a heavy ledger and settled into the chair.

  The air in the room was fusty; full of dust, full of memory. A trace of lavender lingered, a sachet placed long ago to keep drawers fresh. The scent of rotting paper, damp in the roof, slightest trace of death and decay. A dead mouse in the walls? Rain pounded against the roof.

  Finished with the accounts book, I went back to the boxes and found a pile of envelopes, tied with a faded red ribbon. I took them out, untied the ribbon and to my delight found that I could read and understand the words on the paper.

  I read about babies born and old folks dying, about the harvest being brought in and the crops failing. I read with half a mind, as I wondered what our descendants would discover about us. Precious little of any value. The letter I had in my hands was written in 1912. It came from Demorestville, about a half-hour drive from where I was sitting. The main piece of news seemed to be that the writer had bought a green coat. She wasn’t sure if green was her best color, but it was on sale and much less expensive than the black one with the lovely collar which she much preferred. So she bought the green. The letter writer added that it would be nice if ‘you’ discovered the treasure and we could all buy fur coats. Ha. Ha.

  We didn’t write letters to Demorestville these days. If we had something to say we phoned. We didn’t even write letters to the other side of the world—we Skyped or Facebooked or Tweeted or texted. One hundred and forty characters and we were done. The purchase of a green coat, chosen because of price not desire, was not something we’d be likely to think significant enough to tell anyone about.

  I read more letters. Lives lived. Lives full of pain and death. The death of a precious daughter in infancy, a son crushed beneath a wagon, crops failing, valuable animals falling ill.

  Sorrow, always sorrow.

  I pulled myself up short. I was projecting onto these people. These letters were also about the price of bread and a visit from Aunt Martha.

  Life was more than sorrow.

  It had to be more than sorrow.

  I ran my fingers across the papers, yellow and cracked with age. Dust mites rose into the air. They danced in front of my nose, and I sneezed. I sneezed again.

  In the end, did it matter? Sorrow, joy. All ended in dust.

  Simon.

  Our unknown baby.

  Dust.

  Unknown unloved unwanted.

  Unmourned. No, not entirely unmourned. There was a place in my heart, rarely visited, never discussed, where Simon and the child that might have been lived on.

  I sat in the dark, the old letters on my lap, and felt the tears flow.

  Then I tied the letters back up, put them away, and took myself back to bed.

  ***

  Friday morning, I returned to the root cellar.

  Jake woke with a sore throat and a mild temperature and Joanne ordered him to stay in bed. Which meant she’d have to do the deliveries this morning.

  Before heading out to the greenhouse to start packing up the boxes, she asked me to get Lily and Charlie up, fed, and ready for school. Feeling quite important at being given the responsibility of cooking breakfast, I offered the kids sausages and eggs rather than the usual schoolday fare of granola and yogurt or cold cereal.

  “Great,” Charlie said.

  “Do you have enough time, Aunt Hannah?” Lily looked dubious.

  I pulled out the big frying pan and tossed in frozen sausages. “Sure.”

  I didn’t have enough time and the kids ran for the bus clutching their barely-cooked sausages quickly wrapped in slices of bread. Oh, well. Plenty of scrambled eggs to take upstairs to Jake.

  The phone rang. I picked it up, stirring eggs.

  “Hey.” It was Joanne, calling from her cell. “I’ve just remembered I need some of the fingerling potatoes for a special order. I guess Jake forgot to get them ready last night. They’re in the root cellar. Have Connor or the girls arrived yet?”

  “No. I’ll get the potatoes for you.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks. I need them right away.” She hung up. She sounded frazzled, not at all like the usual calm, Earth-mother Joanne.

  I turned off the stove and went to put on my boots.

  It had rained heavily throughout the night. Mud squelched beneath my feet and rainwater dripped from the trees onto my head and shoulders. Joanne had let the chickens out and a couple ran up to see if I had anything interesting to eat.

  I pushed aside a branch and headed down the ramp. I opened the door and stepped inside. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but as I stood in the blackness I realized Joanne knew exactly where the light was. I didn’t.

  The bulb hung from the ceiling in the center of the room and was turned on by pulling at
a dangling string. Outside it was overcast, and the dim light that seeped in didn’t help much. I stepped forward slowly, placing each foot with care. I reached up and swung my arm around, trying to locate the string.

  A wave of bad air washed over me. The scent of rotting meat I’d smelled the last time I’d been in here. Ice swirled around my feet and my bare fingers turned numb with cold. Omar began to move.

  “You really shouldn’t come down here by yourself, you know.”

  I swung around, heart pounding. The dim light was enough to see that no one had followed me. The shadows in the corners were very dark. Could someone be hiding there?

  “It’s not safe.” It was a man talking. The voice was deep, raspy. A smoker’s voice, full of confidence and authority and, perhaps, a hint of lazy aggression.

  “Who’s there?” My own voice wobbled as I edged for the door.

  “Safe?” A woman replied. “Safer than up above? Safer than in the sun and the fresh air?” I heard fabric rustle. I smelled the heavy scent of woodsmoke. Her voice quivered slightly. Trying, I thought, to stay strong. “Is any place safe?”

  I felt Omar behind my eyes. But he brought no pain.

  Slowly I became accustomed to the light. A shadow broke away from the darker shadows behind.

  For some reason I did not run.

  “Come upstairs,” the man said. “The child is needing you.”

  “The child,” she replied. “Ah, yes. The child.”

  “Hannah! Hannah!”

  As though surfacing after a deep dive, I heard my sister’s voice. My head felt like a balloon, flying high and free at the end of an exceedingly long string. It was a nice feeling. After months of constant pain or the threat of pain, to be without sensation was absolutely delightful.

  The cold wind had gone, taking the foul smell with it.

  The only voice I could hear was my very panicked sister.

  “I’m here,” I called. “Is something the matter?”

  The wooden plank creaked and Joanne’s head popped into the doorway. “Is something the matter? Of course something’s the matter. Where the heck have you been?”

  “You asked me to get the potatoes. I’m getting the potatoes.”

  “Hannah,” she said. “That was ages ago.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t find the light switch.”

  I felt her hand on my arm. She drew me toward her and led me outside. Above, the sky was thick with clouds.

  Her eyes examined my face.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry I sent you in there.”

  “Not a problem. I’m fine. Just couldn’t find the light switch for a minute there.” I was fine. Omar was gone. I felt light-headed but I knew where I was. Strange daydream, though.

  “Hannah. I got busy with the orders. I forgot about the potatoes until I had the truck packed.”

  I looked around the yard. Connor’s car was parked beside the chicken coop. I hadn’t heard it arrive.

  “When did you go in there?”

  “Soon as you asked me to. Joanne, what are you making such a fuss about?”

  “I phoned you over an hour ago.”

  Chapter Nine

  I’d never before fallen asleep while standing up. I didn’t know humans could even do that.

  But then again I was doing a lot of things I’d never done before these past three months.

  My sister marched me into the kitchen and almost forced me into a chair. When she plugged the kettle in, I said, “Don’t you have deliveries to do?”

  “You need a cup of tea. Then I’m calling Mom.”

  “No.”

  She turned to look at me. “You disappeared for an hour, Hannah. You don’t know where you were or what you were doing.”

  “I was napping.”

  “You were not napping. Not in that root cellar, for heaven’s sake. And even if it was a nice comfy warm place for a little snooze, you weren’t lying down. You’ve no dirt on your clothes.”

  “I was napping standing up.” I knew how ridiculous that sounded. “Daydreaming maybe. I read some of those old letters last night. I guess I was still thinking about them. Wondering what it was like here in the old days. Don’t call Mom.” Joanne’s eyes opened wide. Even I was surprised at the steel in my voice. “I don’t want her rushing down here to make a fuss.”

  The kettle began to boil, and Joanne poured hot water over a tea bag in a sturdy white and red mug. Without another word she added a hefty spoonful of sugar and a splash of milk. She put the mug in front of me.

  I kept my eyes on her as I lifted it to my lips. The steam was warm and fragrant on my face.

  “Okay,” she said. “I won’t tell Mom if you don’t want me to. But you have to make an appointment to see that new doctor in Picton.”

  “How do you know about her?”

  “Mom told me, of course. She phoned Tuesday afternoon, right after she put you on the train.”

  Put me on the train. As if I were a parcel that had to be delivered from Point A to Point B. When I’d been seven and Joanne five, we’d been sent to visit our grandparents in Florida for March break. Mom handed us to the airline attendants, who put us on the plane, with big signs around our necks saying UM. Unaccompanied Minors. Did they still do that, I wondered? I didn’t remember having seen any UMs for a long time. Maybe in this day and age they didn’t want the kids to stand out.

  “Hannah!” Joanne said. “Are you even listening to me?”

  My brief moment of defiance passed. “Yes,” I said, “I’ll call the doctor.”

  “This morning.”

  “This morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so she probably won’t see you. Make an appointment for Monday. Jake should be fine by Monday, and he can take you. Speaking of which, I’m really late. You want to come for the drive?”

  I cradled my tea. The warmth spread through my hands. I hadn’t realized how cold they’d been. “No thanks.”

  “Finish that tea, make that phone call, and then go and lie down,” Joanne ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” I saluted.

  The porch door opened and footsteps sounded on the floorboards. Jake’s mother came in. She had not bothered to knock. She looked from Joanne to me and back again. “Must be nice. To have time to sit around and enjoy a cup of tea on a working day.”

  “What do you want?” Joanne said.

  Marlene blinked at the unnatural rudeness. “I called earlier and Jake answered. He’s sick. I thought I’d pop over and make sure he’s all right.” She held up a shopping bag. “I brought some of my chicken soup. Nothing better for what ails you than a mother’s chicken soup.”

  “Whatever. I have deliveries to make. Hannah, do what I said.” Joanne didn’t smile as she headed out the door.

  Marlene smirked. She emptied her plastic container into a pot and put it on the stove. “Nothing to do today, Hannah? It must be difficult for you, being so…useless.”

  “I’m managing, thanks,” I replied.

  “Not much longer before you’re well enough to go back to work, I hope.” She stirred soup and smiled at me. She had a nose like the beak of a hawk. “A farm family has a lot of responsibilities. Hard work, not much money coming in until the crops are ready. But we believe in the value of hard work and in paying our way. That’s what built our country, isn’t it? Hard work. Not charity.”

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I need to go and lie down on my fainting couch. I feel a headache coming on.”

  I took my mug to the French doors. Connor crossed the yard, pushing a wheelbarrow full of tomato seedlings. His arms were brown and muscular in a sleeveless T-shirt. A single chicken bobbed along beside him, no doubt wondering if something tasty would fall out of the plants. Marlene rummaged in the cupboards for a
bowl, poured hot soup, and took it upstairs. It did smell nice: rich broth, chicken, and vegetables

  The grass in my sister’s scruffy weed-filled lawn was turning green in the soft rain, and it seemed as though overnight the maple in the yard had burst into full leaf.

  New life, all around me.

  I rubbed my hand across my empty belly. I’d not told either Joanne or Mom that I’d been pregnant. Dr. Singh knew, from the hospital records, but he wouldn’t breach confidentiality and tell Mom.

  Simon. Aside than the other night in the attic, I’d scarcely given a thought to Simon since waking up in the hospital. It was all too much sometimes. Omar lurking at the back of my mind, the pain, the lethargy, the confusion. My sister and mother, so much wanting me to get better and become my old self again.

  Simon had parents and a big pack of brothers and sisters. They lived somewhere in the south of England. Surrey perhaps. Simon had spoken with a cut-glass accent, indicating generations of good breeding. He didn’t talk about his family. I didn’t talk about mine. We were lovers, that was all. Not partners. We went our separate ways and got together once in a while for sex. We’d had a nice break in Dubai just before…. We’d never talked about taking the other to meet our family or see our real lives. Our lives away from the job and the battle-zones.

  His paper would be able to put me in touch with his family. I’d write to them. Tell them I knew him. Maybe share some stories that put him in a good light.

  A drop of moisture landed on my hand. Then another. I realized I was crying.

  Crying for what I had lost. For what I had never known I had.

  I put the cup of tea down. I walked through the kitchen and the office to the porch, where I put on my walking shoes. I headed out the door, up the long driveway and then west down the road. Rain fell in a light drizzle and mixed with my tears. My feet moved steadily, but I was in no hurry. Mist drifted off the roadway and through the trees. The view of the lake was hidden by foliage and cloud.

  I approached the house. The door opened and Hila stood there. Her scarf was again black but this time shot with red thread, not blue. Her ravaged face studied me openly, and she made no effort to hide the burned and crippled hand. She stretched out her arms as I approached. I fell into them and felt the soft black cloth envelop me. Words I did not understand whispered in my ear.