HAPPY HALLOWEEN DEAR READERS!
Herein lies a story of wanting. Unable to escape the sadness of a recent tragedy, a woman struggles to keep her sanity when ghosts from the past refuse to leave.
"DAN THE FABULOUS"
by Maureen Power
I asked him to never leave me. He
has kept his promise. He sits on a rocking horse that catches the light
streaming in diagonally through lace curtains. The wooden pony is in my bedroom
now, gently rocking as if being nudged by an invisible hand. That and his
little sterling silver spoon are the only things we keep that belonged to him.
The rest of his material life lies in the attic of the Summer House under a
soft blanket woven of dust and sad memories.
Philip keeps urging me to go back
and make a fresh start but I find comfort in my roomy mahogany bed, the cool
percale sheets rustling as I move, and his cherubic smile greeting me each
morning from his perch on ‘Dan the Fabulous’, the absurdly expensive antique
rocking horse we purchased on a whim, two weeks before his fourth birthday.
We laughed so, when he declared his
steed’s name, little hands on hips that carried toy six shooters, a straw
cowboy hat angled in his white blond curls.
I long to touch those soft curls in
which the light falls through like liquid through a sieve, to trace the tiny
pink birthmark on his left cheek that is in the shape of a heart, but I must be
satisfied with the experience of sight alone. It is enough.
These days of remembrance pass
gently from late winter into Spring, and soon I offer one foot to be followed
by another, small steps, as his were, to the green carpet of our back garden,
Philip beside me. I lift my face to the sun, then turn my head back to the
house and see him through the window on Dan. His little hand goes up, and he
waves.
Philip shows me a robin’s nest in
the mulberry tree, the purple crocuses emerging from winter’s mulch, an early
forsythia. I know he does this to remind me of the continuing stream of life
but melancholy dulls my senses. I manage a smile for him, he has been so very
patient, then ask to be returned to my room and he indulges me.
As the days pass, my expeditions
outside become more frequent and I linger in the sun, its rays becoming stronger
with the coming summer season. My body is gaining back its strength from the
vicious intruder that weakened its defenses last year and Phillip insists that
a trip to the lake to open the Summerhouse is just what I need. I am hesitant but finally agree as long as we
can bring Dan and his rider, unseen to all but me. Philip thinks he understands
my attachment and we place Dan in the back of the Packard Convertible and start
the twenty mile drive to Lotus Lake.
At first, I am bothered by the wind
tugging at my bonnet, then teasing tendrils out, but when I look back to make
sure that Dan is secure, I see my darling Freddie’s curls bouncing in the
breeze, his face alight with laughter. I feel more confident that I can survive
the return to the place where we last parted.
We pull into the driveway, the
white pebbles crunching under the tires and I look up to the window of his
bedroom. Phillip helps me out, scoops me up in his arms and dashes up the
stairs with a surprising whoop of joy at the return to his beloved Summer
House. He has traveled with
time, not against it as I have.
I insist that he bring Dan in
before we do anything else, and he complies, carrying the horse up to the
second floor. We then remove the linens covering all the furniture and open the
French doors to the back porch, which overlooks the lake. The water’s surface
sparkles with a million diamonds of sunlight scattered over its calm surface.
I feel my heart open a bit, and as
if Phillip senses this slight shift in my emotions, he tilts my face upward to
his, and kisses me softly, then again with more urgency. He lays me on the
divan. It has been so long since we have shared such a moment of physical
intimacy and I thrill to it.
We wake and the sun is lower in the
sky, turning the waves to liquid tangerine. I care not to linger and start for
the kitchen to see if Agnes has set everything in order for our arrival. Phillip’s hand playfully tugs at my skirt and
it warms me to see him so happy.
We manage a small supper of cold
ham on brown bread slathered with Agnes’ famous mustard, and wash it down with
sweet cider. Agnes has also been so kind as to leave a honey cake, dripping
with apricot preserves in the icebox. A welcome back present, I would guess.
She knows it is my very favorite and she has always been the kindest and most
attentive of housekeepers.
Sleepy from the meal and the
excitement of our return, we make our way up the stairs to our bedroom at the back
of the house. As we pass by his room, I stand aghast and see Dan stock still, a
faded image of my boy astride him, sadness in the arms that reach out to me. I
swoon and Phillip catches me as I cry out. Dan must be in our room, not his.
The once happy nursery only holds
bitter memories for me, memories of late last summer in the year of 1918. It was then that we thought the world was
safe from the Spanish Flu, but a second, more virulent strain emerged and it
visited our household with death on its heels. Every third family suffered some
loss, this time taking the young and healthy.
Why I survived and my darling
Freddie did not…I leave that to God, but I no longer look to that God for
solace. I draw strength from Philip and his gentle assurances that this summer
will be something better.
After Phillip has retrieved the
rocking horse from its gloomy place and carries it to our bedroom, I lock the
nursery door. I will not enter that room again.
We spend the next month in a gauzy
happiness, each morning greeted by my Freddie on his horse and Agnes helping me
dress after Phillip has risen. There are picnics by the shore and walks through
the apple orchards, which have become quite a lucrative business for Phillip.
The weather has been a perfect mix of sun and rain, producing a fine crop on the
thirty acres we own. The cider and apple wine will be pressed and casked in the
fall in a flurry of activity that will be so different from the previous year
when we were preoccupied with a loss so heavy that it paralyzed us.
One morning I wake and feel a
flutter inside me, and looking towards the window, my Freddie is beaming with
joy as he mimics a gallop on old Dan. I realize that my time of the month has
come and gone and, could it be? I am not ready for this. I cannot stand the
thought that another child may be asserting itself into Freddie’s place. Agnes
hears me wail and runs in to ask what is the matter. She assures me that this
is a wondrous thing, a gift from God, knowing how long it took us to conceive
our only child. It is a gift from a God I no longer trust.
I convince myself that this will
only result in tragedy – a miscarriage or some deformity. God took my only
child from me in what must have been punishment for something known only to
him. Was I too selfish? Did I neglect my husband for the love of my child? Did
I love Freddie too much?
Surely I will be punished
again.
We stay on at the Summer
House until late August and then return to the Manor house for the rest of my
confinement. I spend the following months trying to avoid my vague feelings of
apprehension for the sake of Philip who is over the moon with joy. I am
suspicious of every twinge, and when reminded of how well I have been and how
radiant I look, I cringe inside, thinking this is the calm before the storm.
As my time to be delivered nears
and the white cover of winter melts away to reveal the tender blades of grass
beneath, I notice Freddie’s image beginning to fade, and panic sets in. Has
this mysterious thing inside of me pushed him away? Does he feel unwanted as if
I am replacing him? I can’t bear it and
tears flow out of me unstoppable. My water breaking mimics this gush of tears,
and I call to Agnes. She in turn rushes to Phillip, as he is leaving for Boston
for the day.
The doctor arrives and assures me
that everything is progressing smoothly, thinking that the tears I cry are from
physical pain. My pain is much deeper.
I labor for five hours, a short
time to bring a life into this world, and am presented with a baby boy, healthy
and vocal. I turn my head away and refuse him. The doctor calls in Phillip to
reassure me, and the doctor hands the child to him. Phillip sings softly and
rocks his newborn son in his arms, then pauses, a puzzled look on his smiling
face. He brings the boy to my bedside and pleads with me to take my hands from
my face. He has something remarkable to show me. He gently pulls my arm to my
side and places the infant there.
Then a familiar coo startles me, a
scent that has lingered in my memory for so long. I turn to the child’s face
and see the smallest strawberry colored heart upon his cheek. His blue eyes
meet mine and I can see eternity in them.
He has kept his promise and will
ride Dan the Fabulous once more.
