Where the Lost Wander: A Novel(13)

In some ways, life is simpler. All our duties and chores have been narrowed to the path before us, the steps we take each day, the rumble of wagons, and the plodding of weary travelers with nothing to do but move forward. Sometimes, when I’m not walking with Ma, I ride Trick, one of the mules Pa bought from Mr. Lowry, my sketchbook propped against the saddle horn while I draw. Pa is keeping a diary on our journey, but I’ve always been better at pictures than words. Ma says I made pictures in the mud before I could even say my own name. Drawing is the only time I have to myself. Every other waking moment is spent walking or working.

We all have responsibilities. Pa and Warren see to the animals and pitch the tents; Webb, Will, and Wyatt are kept busy gathering wood for the fire, hauling water, and unloading the wagon; and Ma and I do most everything else. Warren’s wife, Abigail, tries to help me and Ma, but she is weak and pale, and the smells of camp make her retch and feel faint. I suspect she’s in a family way too, though not far along. Warren seems to think so as well and tries to make life as easy as possible for his wife, but there is no easy to be found. Ma and Abigail aren’t the only pregnant women in the train. A young couple by the name of Bingham pulls their wagon just ahead of ours the first few days. Elsie Bingham isn’t as big as Ma, but her swollen abdomen is well defined beneath her dress. She seems cheerful enough, her husband too, and isn’t bothered by the bumping and bouncing of riding in the wagon like the rest of us.

Cleanliness is impossible, and the boys don’t seem to mind so much, but I can’t abide the filth. I see folks getting their water from the banks and the shallow pools created after a hard rain, even when there’s a dead animal carcass abandoned nearby. John Lowry insists the boys haul it from the waters upstream of camp each night, and he often helps them, but even then, I worry. It seems to me if everyone tried a little harder to keep clean, fewer people would be sick. Rumors of cholera on the trail are already starting to spread.

The fourth day out, we start seeing graves by the roadside, most of them marked only with a bit of wood with a lettered inscription burned in. I remark on it the first few times, my arm linked through Ma’s as we walk past, but Ma refuses to acknowledge any of them after we see the fresh grave of a two-month-old baby girl.

“I don’t have to see death to know it exists, Naomi,” Ma says. “I gotta keep my mind right. I don’t have any strength for fear or sadness right now, so I’m just gonna walk on by, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell me what you see.”

I tighten my arm in hers, and she pats my hand.

“Are you afraid, Ma?” My voice is low, and what I’m really telling her is that I’m afraid. Ma might be keeping her mind right, but my mind is full of awful scenarios.

“Not for myself. I know what to do. But I don’t want to lose another child, and I don’t want to think of that poor mother who had to bury her baby back there.”

Ma has given birth to five healthy children, but she’s lost a few too—babies that didn’t make it more than a day or two and a baby girl that was born as still as a china doll. I can’t help but think she might be better off without a newborn to care for on the trail, but I know better than to say as much.

“You’re scowling, Naomi.”

“It’s what I’m best at. Scowling and drawing. My two greatest gifts.”

Ma laughs, just like I knew she would, but my anger billows like the dust that moves with the cluster of wagons, mingling with the muggy skies that continually threaten rain.

“You’re not very good at hiding your feelings,” Ma says.

“No. Scowling and drawing. That’s all I’m good for. Remember?”

Ma doesn’t laugh this time. “Tell me why you’re upset.”

“I hate being a woman.”

“You do?” Her voice squeaks in astonishment.

“I hate how hard it is.”

“Would you rather be a man?” she challenges, as if I have lost my wits completely.

I think about that for a moment. I am not so blind as to think being a man would be much better. Easier, maybe. Or not. I’m not sure. Every path is likely just a different version of hard. But I’m still angry.

“I’m mad at Pa. At Daniel. At Mr. Caldwell. At Warren. I’m mad at Mr. John Lowry too, if you want to know the truth. I’m just angry today.”

“Anger feels a whole lot better than fear,” Ma concedes.

I nod, and she squeezes my arm again.

“But anger is useless,” she insists. “Useless and futile.”

“I don’t know about that.” It isn’t useless if it keeps the fear away.

“Are you angry with the bird because he can fly, or angry with the horse for her beauty, or angry with the bear because he has fearsome teeth and claws? Because he’s bigger than you are? Stronger too? Destroying all the things you hate won’t change any of that. You still won’t be a bear or a bird or a horse. Hating men won’t make you a man. Hating your womb or your breasts or your own weakness won’t make those things go away. You’ll still be a woman. Hating never fixed anything. It seems simple, but most things are. We just complicate them. We spend our lives complicating what we would do better to accept. Because in acceptance, we put our energies into transcendence.”

“Transcendence?”