Madeline

“Maddy!” Papa cries out. I hate that name. It is so childish and I’m not a child anymore. I wish he would use my given name, Madeline.

Papa told me not to go out in the storm, but I showed him. I’d be fine, just the slightest cough. I could barely feel the fever, a little rest and I would be fine.

When I was young, I would sneak away from my chores and wander the fields, collecting flowers the sheep had overlooked. Sometimes I might slip off to the pond and dangle my feet in the icy water and let the minnows nibble at my toes. Life was easier when I was young.

From the front porch you can see clear across the valley. Neat paddocks of green hemmed in by walls of stone, stacked by hands long forgotten. You can watch the storms as they tumble over the distant peaks and drag their black curtain of rain across the lush summer green.

The storm was typical for summer. The day started crisp, a bright warm sun and happy blue sky. By afternoon, the air was heavy with humidity and the leaves of the maples had flipped, showing their silvery underside. Towering black clouds grew in the west and drifted across the valley. A storm was coming.

The rain started with fat drops that splattered on the ground. I smelled it before it reached the house. That earthy musk carried just ahead of the veil of rain by the stiff, warm breeze. Papa rushed out the door to secure the animals in the lower fields with the other men. This was no weather for children. I waited until the men disappeared into the misty shroud of falling water and slipped into the trees behind the house. No one would miss me there.

I made my way up the hill, the dark mulch oozing between my bare toes as I flitted across the forest floor. My soaked dress hampered my movement. The fabric clung to me and chilled my skin. My breath escaped in small icy clouds that added to the heavy mist hanging in the trees and pooling between the rocks.

The fading light made it easy to sneak back into my bedroom. I buried my soaked dress deep inside my closet so Papa would never know what I did. The expanding puddle under my dress was the only evidence of my excursion. I suppressed a shiver and finished drying my hair.

The warm smell of freshly baked bread drew me from my room. Papa waited at the dining table; his eyes softened by the warm yellow glow above the table. I slipped into my seat, suppressing the shudder of the chill that prickled my skin.

“What did you do Maddy?” The sadness in his voice fills me with guilt. I don’t like it when Papa is mad at me.

I poke at the potato on my plate, the weight of his stare forcing me deeper into my seat. Instead of answering, I stifle a cough. I hide the tickle in my throat with a small gulp of water. I give a sheepish smile and vanish from the room.

After dinner, I lay in bed, weighed down by my thick blanket. The sweet smell of tobacco announces a visitor to my room. There was only one neighbor it could be. He lived nearby just up the hill, and it was no bother for him to check in. Dr. Rice’s gentle smile danced across his face in the dim candlelight. His calloused hands scrape across my forehead like tree bark. He grazes my cheek and whispers something I can’t hear. 

The muted voices of two men speak in hushed tones outside my room. In the past I would creep across the floor to the door, deftly avoiding the occasional squeaky plank to listen to their conversation. Today I just lay in bed. You learn so much from eavesdropping on adults. But my blanket is so heavy, and my bed is so soft. I just need to rest my eyes. Tomorrow I’ll ask Papa what they talked about.

The candle is nothing more than a puddle of wax when I hear Papa’s muffled sob. I reach out for his hand, but I think he’s still angry at me for going out into the storm against his will. He ignores my attempt to comfort him, not even looking up when I say I’m sorry.

Morning replaces night.

Papa leaves me alone to go answer a knock at the door. I hear footsteps on the floorboards and soft voices drifting through the halls, but no one comes to see me. It is midmorning when Papa finally my room again. Silent, he hesitates. Dark, heavy circles hang under his eyes. He doesn’t say a word as he scoops me up and brings me downstairs. Is he still angry about the storm?

Papa lays me gently in the middle of the room so I can see everyone. All our neighbors are here. I don’t know what the celebration is, but I’m happy to see everyone. Everyone is so formal, so stiff. No one will meet my eyes. It is as if they are purposefully avoiding me, even though everyone is comforting Papa. Is everyone upset with me?

Darkness encases me. After all the excitement, I am too weary to walk back to my room. Papa must be tired too; he left me without saying goodnight. Alone in the black, I have nothing but my guilt. The burden drives me into action. Once I apologize to Papa, he will wrap me in a warm embrace and all will be forgiven.

I emerge from the fog of gloom. Willing my wooden limbs towards Papa’s bed. It seems such a long distance and my eyes are heavy with sleep. I’ll rest here for now, just until my strength returns. I lay my head on a soft pillow of green and drifted away.

“Maddy!” His scream jolts me back into the moment. Papa’s face is haggard. Terror dances across his eyes. I want to soothe him, but my words have no effect. Cold and unmoved. He refuses to meet my eyes. I want to scream at him, but the exhaustion is overwhelming. I rest rigidly in his arms. He squeezes me to his chest as we walk under the canopy of leaves.

I lie still, suffocating in darkness. The heaviness of dead air closes in around me. I want my bed; I want my Papa. Blackness gives way to light as the fresh night air dances through the fabric of my dress. It is only a short walk back home from here. I’d best hurry before Papa gets worried.

My wide grin shows him I’m not upset at being forgotten outside overnight, but Papa doesn’t return my smile. I’ve only seen that expression once before. When Mamma died, sadness crossed with grim acceptance. We sit together for a long time. We don’t look at each other, but I can hear him weeping beside me.

“Oh, Maddy.” He scoops me up and carries me into the dappled sunlight of the afternoon.

Papa places me in the soft white bed. Night settles quickly, but I have no candle to pierce the darkness. The air is still. I claw my way through the blackness, ready to beg Papa for forgiveness. Why is Papa so far away? No matter how I struggle, I can’t reach him. He doesn’t hear me cry out.

Papa’s face is as pale as a ghost, and he says nothing as he gathers me in his comforting arms. Gently, he lays me in the long grass. The morning dew dampens my Sunday dress. Freshly carved words on a tall stone fill my vision.

Madeline Shaw

My beautiful explorer

Born May 12^th, 1848, Died July 16^th, 1859

Papa works diligently beside me, digging deep into the ground. A heavy stone waits near the deep hole.

Darkness shrouds me. I am trapped. My ears ring with silence, crushed by the weight of guilt. No goodbyes, no apologies. The coffin closed; I have died…