A Place Called Bliss (30 page)

“You’ll have to think of a sensible story to tell Mam,” Cameron said. “It certainly doesn’t sound very sensible to me. Truth be told, it doesn’t make sense at all. Frankly, I’m not a bit sure Mam can survive it. Have you thought of that?”

“I’m sure she thinks it’s best . . . all the way around.”

“You’re not making a bit of sense again.” Cameron, now, sounded angry, and he jerked the reins unnecessarily so that the horse jumped, sidled, and settled into a fast trot, taking up the attention of both of the ancient buggy’s occupants.

There was no use putting off the fateful moment; every day, every hour, every minute made the farewell harder.

“Granny,” Margo said, settling herself beside Kezzie’s couch, “I’m going away. I’m going somewhere away from all this terrible situation.”

“Oh, my angel,” Kezzie moaned. “Just when I’ve found y’ again. How can I bear it? First my Mr. Hugh, now you. Couldna y’ linger a wee while? I’ll no be here forever, y’ know, lassie.”

“Don’t, Granny, don’t. I can’t, I just can’t stay. Don’t you see? That . . . that man—Angus Morrison! I can’t bear to look him in the face!”

“Ah, lassie,” Kezzie’s voice was distressed, “y’re wrong, sae wrong! Angus is a guid mon, a . . . a Christian mon—”

“Christian! To let his family believe him to be such a fine, upstanding man, when all the while . . . oh, it’s too wicked to mention!”

“Lassie, lassie, y’re wrong! You mustn’t think such things! Oh, God in heaven, what have I done?” Kezzie’s cry was pitiful.

“I despise him! He’s ripped away every true, dear thought of the man I always knew as my father and left in its place himself, a creature who sins and runs away and leaves the consequences for others to suffer! I despise him, I tell you!”

Kezzie, pale and shaken, was silent for so long that Margo said anxiously, “You see, Gran, why I’ve got to go. I couldn’t hide feelings like that. I’m afraid if I see him again, I’ll spew out all this misery, and then everyone—Mary, Molly, Cameron—will be as miserable as I am. I’ve got to get away and get away soon.”

When Kezzie could speak, she said clearly, “Call Cameron. I’ve got to talk to Cameron.”

“You won’t tell him!”

“Nae, I willna’ tell him.”

Cameron came from Kezzie’s presence to say simply, “She wants me to bring my mother over here.”

“Mary? Why, Cameron? Did she say why?”

“She says,” and the young man’s face was touched with a quiet wonder, “she’s ready to make peace with God. You don’t know, lass, how we’ve prayed for this time to come. It seemed there was an unbreakable barrier holding her back from the love God offers her. Oh, to think she’s ready to accept His great gift at last!” There was a spring in his step as he left.

Margo peeked in on Kezzie; her eyes were closed, perhaps she was asleep. Certainly she looked worn, growing more frail almost daily.
I suppose,
Margo thought,
if one needed to make peace with God, one shouldn’t wait
.

Peace! Did one need to die to obtain it? How about the living? Wasn’t there some balm for hearts like hers? Knowing the Morrisons, Margo could only conclude that yes, such peace was possible. A phrase from the Bible came to her from the days when a governess had religiously set a portion of Margo’s day for the reading of a Bible passage; Margo had been struck then by the scene it painted, and she recalled it now: “All thy waves and thy billows are gone over me.”
That’s me
, Margo cried,
that’s me!

But wait! Dimly she remembered a fascinating story about how Jesus, in just such an overwhelming situation, had stood up in a little, tossing boat and commanded, “Peace, be still.” As a child Margo had thrilled to the glorious “Then He arose, and rebuked the wind and the raging of the water; and they ceased, and there was a calm.”

Opening drawers and removing her effects and placing them in her trunk, Margo felt the troubled waves surging over and around. And true, the pressing greenery of the bush, in some respects, resembled the tossing sea. But where was Jesus when He was needed? And would Granny Kezzie, in what were possibly her final moments, come to experience His peace for herself?

The dog barked its welcome, and Margo heard the rattle of the buggy and the jingle of harness as Cameron and his mother drew up to the door. Believing this was a private, personal matter between a mother and her daughter, Margo continued her sorting and packing, though it was with reluctance and despair that each garment was readied for departure.

There was a tap at the door. “Margo,” Mary called, “Mam has asked that you join us.”

“Are you sure, Granny,” Margo asked, kneeling at the side of the bed, Mary on the other, “that I should be here? This praying . . . I don’t know much about it.”

“Perhaps y’ should, lass. Perhaps if I’d prayed wi’ y’ earlier . . . well, I didn’t, and I had my reasons.” Kezzie was propped into a half sitting position. Her white hair floated freely around the white face; the blue eyes, though fading, were set with determination.

“Mary, my own bairn, I’ve somethin’ to say to you. It must be said . . . though I had hoped to live and die withoot sayin’ it.”

“Must you, Mam? Must you?” Mary asked with entreaty in her voice. “I can see it’s all been too much for you. You know I love you . . . nothing can change that.”

“I must say it,” Kezzie continued, with a half sob in her old, quavery voice. “I must ask your forgiveness . . . and then, maybe . . . God’s.”

“Oh, Mam!” Mary couldn’t watch, couldn’t listen, without feeling her mother’s distress and weeping, too.

“I never thought to tell it,” Kezzie went on. “But now, if I don’t, wee Margo will go awa’ by hersel’—no Mam, no father, no mither, no one . . . and I canna bear it.”

Don’t tell
, Margo felt the silent scream rising in her throat. “Don’t tell! Don’t ever tell her . . . about her husband . . . and my mother! I’ll go away! I’ll never breathe a word of it—”

Kezzie seemed to rally, to gain strength as she proceeded. The Scots seemed to fade from her speech, and her words were clear.

“I’ve done a terrible thing, an unforgivable thing, though I didn’t intend it to be a bad thing. At the time, I didn’t have time to think . . . I just acted automatically. It was on board ship . . . comin’ over.”

At the reminder Mary’s eyes darkened. “Ah, Mam—must you?”

Kezzie plowed on steadily as though she hadn’t been interrupted. “You, Mary, were in labor, terrible labor. You don’t remember all about it . . . you faded in and out of consciousness. The hours went on and on, down there in that crowded, foul place, ’til I was near to faintin’ from it all. At the same time, Mrs. Hugh went into labor too soon, having fallen down the
ladder. Mr. Hugh wanted me with her; I needed to be with you. So I went back and forth.”

Mary’s head was bowed onto the hand she held as she kneeled at the bedside. Her tears flowed freely. Margo couldn’t help it; her own eyes teared up with sympathy and with love for the two women obviously living through a dreadful ordeal. The ordeal that had left her alive and taken Mary’s baby.

“Mr. Hugh sent the doctor down, insisted that he go. But he was ruthless . . . diggin’ into you with his dirty hands, haulin’ your poor wee bairn out regardless of life or death for either of you. I was there. I saw it all. You never knew any of it; you were as good as dead. In fact he pronounced you dead, wiped his hands on the bedding, and left. Angus and the bairns were kissin’ your hands and face, Angus was near to faintin’, and all the folks in the hold were silent, some weepin’ with us.”

“I know, Mam. I know all this; I’ve been told time and again. Please, let’s not live it all over again—the burial . . .”

“Hush, lass.” Kezzie’s voice was growing weaker, her face whiter, if that were possible. “You don’t know it all . . . you haven’t heard all of it. No one has, though Mr. Hugh knew the rest of the story. The only one to know the rest of the story.”

At the mention of her father’s name, Margo lifted her head and fixed her puzzled gaze on Kezzie’s face.

“Yes, Mr. Hugh knew, though he never mentioned it and no word of it ever passed between us. Still, he knew.”

“Knew?” Mary’s voice expressed bewilderment. “Mr. Hugh . . . knew?”

“I took your newborn bairn, wrapped it in something or other, and took it with me. I had to get back to Mrs. Hugh. And, Mary,” for the first time Kezzie’s eyes filled with tears, “remember—I thought you were dead. You had been pronounced dead. There was nothing more, at the moment, that I could do. And Mr. Hugh,” Kezzie’s slavish obedience to her Mr. Hugh had shaped her decision, “needed me, and expected me. He was stayin’ with his wife. I just had time to lay the bairn down when Mrs. Hugh began bearin’ down. Within minutes her bairn was
born. Mr. Hugh was at her head, comfortin’ her, strokin’ her hair, and I took his wee one, wrapped it quickly, and laid it alongside the other babe. But not before Mr. Hugh saw it. Oh yes, he took a quick and smilin’ look at his first and only child. But oh, Mary—” Kezzie’s story broke on a sob, and it seemed she might not be able to continue. Margo reached to console her, but Mary—Mary was sitting back on her heels, still holding her mother’s hand, her eyes drying as she looked, startled, at her mother’s twisted face.

“The bairn—Mr. Hugh’s bairn—” Kezzie whispered, “was dead.”

“What . . . what are you saying?” Mary asked, tense now.

“I had a split moment to think, Mary. You were dead, your babe lived. Mr. Hugh lived, his babe was dead. Loving him as I did . . . and loving the babe—”

In a flash Margo saw it all: Kezzie’s love could no more have been denied her than a fish could live out of water. She, Margo, was born to Kezzie’s love.

“Loving your bairn, Mary. Even then, loving your bairn.”

Yes, Margo thought, and loving her Mr. Hugh.

Mary’s face was dead white . . . sick white. “Mam . . . Mam,” she managed, “what have you done . . . to us all?”

“I did,” Kezzie said thickly, “the only thing I could think to do. And the only thing that would have made any sense, if you had indeed been dead. Can you see that, Mary?”

“My baby,” Mary was whispering, “buried at sea—”

“Nae, love. Living . . . alive.” Kezzie’s hand, holding Margo’s, pulled her closer, and her eyes were fixed lovingly on Margo’s face.

“Your Angel, Mary.”

F
rom one side of the bed, Mary raised incredulous eyes to the girl kneeling across from her, eyes in which understanding was dawning, eyes that were brimming with love, so long buried and so newly born, that Margo’s own breath was, quite truly, taken away.

With a cry not far different from the first wail of a newborn, Margo reached across the bed, her curly-fingered hands outstretched. For a moment the two pairs of eyes—blue and, like her father’s, brown—gazed into depths never seen or imagined before.

Across the body of the grandmother who had separated them, thinking she had done the best, hands were not enough. Mary and Margo, somehow, were wrapped in each other’s arms. The sounds, mewing, cooing, broken, told what words could never say. Only Kezzie’s eventual shifting drew mother and daughter apart, and then it was so that Margo could slip around the end of the bed and into her mother’s arms again.