As Bright as Heaven(38)

“She just needs to get out of the house for a bit,” Mama had answered. “She is only coming along to keep me company. That’s all.”

I would have liked to get away from the funeral home for a stretch of hours. I would have liked to keep Mama company on her errand. I would have asked to accompany her if I had known she was of a mind to let one of us go.

I am ruminating on all this when Willa says she doesn’t want to look at books anymore.

I pull myself out of my irritated reverie. “Shall I get us something from the kitchen?” I say to her. I toss my book onto her bed behind me. We’ve been sitting on the rug in her room with books all around. Morning sunshine is slanting in on us and it is almost like we’re sitting outside on a day before the flu. Almost.

Willa peers up at me. Her eyes are glassy. “I don’t feel good,” she says.

A tiny arrow of alarm slices through me as I move to her and put my palm on her forehead. She is hot with fever.

She coughs and makes a face. “I want Mama,” she whimpers. “I don’t feel good.”

“Where do you feel bad, Willa?” I ask.

“All over. I want Mama.”

I stand and fold back the coverlet on her bed, tamping down the temptation to assume the worst. It is just a fever, I tell myself. A bit of a cold. The kind people used to get all the time. Willa can’t have the flu. We’ve taken every precaution with her. “Let’s get you into bed, and I’ll make you toast and cocoa.” I turn back around to help her to her feet.

“I don’t want toast,” she grumbles. I expect her to fight me on getting into her bed, too. But she goes to it willingly and climbs in.

“How about just the cocoa, then?” I say, faking a cheery tone as I pull off her shoes.

She shakes her head. “I’m cold.”

I pull up the coverlet around her, and my thoughts are all aflutter with what I’m supposed to do next. I dare not go ask Uncle Fred for advice. Not only would he not know what to do; he has been with the dead all morning, touching them, lifting them, moving them.

“I want Mama,” Willa murmurs.

“She’ll be home soon,” I say reassuringly. But Mama and Maggie have been gone less than an hour. They were going to walk all the way to South Street and likely have only just arrived. Mama hasn’t yet served up the soup and sympathy, and they aren’t on their way back home. It will be several hours before they return. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Willa.

I go downstairs to get a basin of cool water and a rag for a compress. I open the pantry to get the bottle of aspirin, figuring I can crush one into some warm water if Willa refuses to swallow it, but the Bayer bottle is gone. Mama took it with her.

Maybe a warm drink will soothe Willa. I warm a little apple cider, pour it into a cup, and then take the basin and drink to Willa’s room. She is already asleep and breathing heavily, as though being chased in a dream. I put the cup down and sit down on the side of her bed. I plunge the rag into the basin, wring out the excess, and place it over her forehead. The cloth is warm under my hand in an instant. The speed with which the cool cloth becomes hot scares me. I take it away and soak it again in the water. And then again.

Should I call for someone? I wonder. Should I go tell Uncle Fred? Should I run across the street to Mrs. Sutcliff? Will she have aspirin? But that would mean leaving Willa alone. Should I go? Should I stay? Is it just an ordinary fever Willa has? Or has the invader swept down on us like it has on everyone else? I refuse to admit that of course it has.

But I can’t leave her to go across the street to the Sutcliffs’. What if Willa wakes and gets out of bed disoriented and feverish and falls down the stairs? What if she wakes and calls out and there is no one here?

I can’t leave her. All I can do is plunge, squeeze, press—over and over and over—as I pray to God that Mama won’t stay on the south side for as long as she said she would.

The Almighty surely must be looking down on me with pity, because in just a little while I hear the front door open and Mama’s voice. She and Maggie have come back.

I practically fly down the stairs.

Maggie is holding the basket Mama had prepared that morning and Mama holds something else. They both turn toward me and I see that Mama holds an infant in her arms, wrapped up in Maggie’s coat. It’s whimpering, and the little voice is hoarse, like this child has been crying for a very long time and no one has cared. For just a second I forget what sent me careening down to them.

“What is it, Evie?” Mama says, and I realize I must have fear in my eyes.

And then I remember. “It’s Willa.”





CHAPTER 25



Maggie


For a couple seconds Mama just stands there frozen with the baby in her arms. It’s as if she hasn’t heard Evie say that Willa is running a fever and we had the aspirin with us, and that she tried to bring the fever down with a cool rag but it’s not working.

But then the moment passes, and something big and fierce rises within Mama. She turns to me. “Put that basket down.”

When I do, she hands me the baby.

“Don’t bring this child near Willa,” Mama continues, speaking to Evie and me like we are soldiers getting our marching orders. “Warm some milk in a pan and see if you can get him to take any. Squeeze it into his mouth with a dropper if you must. Then wash the filth off him. Maggie, you run over to the church when he’s fed and cleaned up and ask for Mrs. Arnold. Tell her what’s happened. And tell Uncle Fred he needs to go to the police and tell them we have this baby in our care. I don’t want us all getting arrested for kidnapping. See if he can get one of his doctor friends to come look at him. And don’t forget what I said. Don’t bring him anywhere near Willa’s room.”