God Puts Desires In Our Hearts
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When I returned to my lodgings with the new candle, I saw that my father was looking at me. I had never thought of what Father might think about this—but it seemed he was more shocked than I had thought. He looked down and shook his head in disapproval. “What’s wrong?” I asked him when we reached home.
“No doubt,” he said softly, “the young man will have to go on living with her.”
I could not tell how he felt about this. He must have seen something in my face because he spoke quickly to Mrs. Barrow as they started back for the house; he stopped me before I went up. “Do you know, I think you’re right, child! It is time she came to see us.” He turned suddenly to me and smiled sadly. “It won’t be easy for me to say no to your mother, but I’ll do it if I can.”
He looked so earnestly at me, I was convinced there was something wrong with me. He gave a little sigh and then laughed out loud. “You are a good girl!” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “But now, I’m going to bed, my dear, and if you please, you can stay here and look after Mrs. Barrow’s tea.”
He had been right about one thing: I did not care much for being called ‘my dear.’ It was an odd feeling that made me blush to think of the possibility that I would always bear such marks. That evening, as he lay down and closed his eyes, I sat in the parlor, waiting till my father would go into his room.
“How are you getting along?” Father asked. “Are you ready to come home tomorrow? Shall I send for the carriage now?”
The idea pleased me very much. My father seemed to want me to ask it. I nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, I thank you. Please get the carriage.”
“Oh, it was all I could do to persuade him to let you live here!”
This remark puzzled me somewhat. “Why should it matter?” I asked, thinking there might be some mistake about the date. It seemed strange that he was so surprised by my coming. “Was it a day early or late?” I said.
He looked surprised himself. “I don’t know why I thought it was later.”
“Is Mother still sick?”
He shook his head and smiled. “I’m afraid not. But I’ve been worrying over nothing.”
My heart beat faster. “Didn’t she like being at home?”
Father shook his head and sighed. “She likes it well enough,” he answered. Then he put his hand on mine and looked at me. “Now I really am going to sleep.” He yawned, and closing his eyes again, he murmured, “I hope you will come soon.”
When we got to my father’s bedside, Mrs. Barrow looked as though she wanted to cry, but there was a certain satisfaction in her air. She held on to the rail and looked up at me with a smile. “He’s just like a little boy in his way,” she said. “And you are a very good girl, Caroline.”
I thanked her and then turned my attention to my father. He seemed so peaceful lying there. I wondered how I would feel if he were dying. Would I not wish myself elsewhere? I knew what it meant when people talked of dying without prayer, and I had never wished this for my life. If I could pray to God, I’d rather die at peace, in His own arms, than in a strange place alone.
He was asleep, and although I had expected him to be awake, he seemed quite comfortable.
Mother was in the chair, leaning forward to watch the door. As I came nearer, I heard her voice. “I am sure Miss Lucy looks so well that no one would suspect anything.”
Then my mother looked away. Father was sleeping so peacefully, I could hardly believe he had ever been ill. Perhaps Mrs. Barrow had said something that made Mother anxious.
“You must come upstairs and sit with your parents for a while,” my father said in a hushed tone. “They need someone who knows them.”
I looked toward him; he was gazing down at my mother.
I had a feeling that Mother was not happy about something. “Yes,” I replied. “I’ll come up and keep you company.”
I found the bedroom a little cold. The room was small, and it smelled faintly of incense. My father’s bed had two sides. One of these was occupied by my father, but another, facing the window, was empty. Mrs. Barrow had told me she had given up on the idea of putting up curtains in the room.
Mrs. Barrow’s presence gave us a certain security—we felt reassured that there was always someone near, who could step in if anything were wrong. There was comfort in having someone beside you; it made you feel safe in your weakness.
I knelt by the bedside of my father, feeling the warmth of his breath on my cheek, and watched him as he breathed steadily. He seemed peaceful. I was so grateful. And yet, I felt a bit uneasy, too. My mind kept returning to Mrs. Barrow’s words.
I couldn’t help asking myself: Did my father want me here? Or did he only want to please Mrs. Barrow? Had they decided together that I should come and look after Mother because they both knew what would happen if she was left to herself?
It was dark outside, and the candles cast shadows in which I could see nothing clearly. Mrs. Barrow was looking over the bed, and my mother sat back in the chair, watching me. We were alone with our thoughts. I took the pillow from his hand and placed it against his chest; it was still warm.
I felt very awkward. What should I say? How could I help? I could hardly think of any conversation that needed saying. I stood up. The moment seemed full of silence; it was difficult to know where to begin. Mrs. Barrow leaned over to whisper in my ear, “Don’t let him die before I can get to him!” Then she went quietly downstairs, leaving me alone with my mother and father.
My mother looked up at me, and for a long time, I could not speak. Then I began to talk, telling them everything that had happened since I saw him last night. At first, I spoke in monosyllables, and then I grew more confident. When I paused for a breath, I felt my father’s hand on my arm; he squeezed it softly.
The darkness outside had deepened, and a faint light was stealing in through the window glass. The moonlight shone into the room, making everything bright enough that I could have read aloud from my Bible.
There was a calmness all around us, a sense that all was well, that everything was as it should be. I thought how easy it would be to lose sight of this. A moment of restlessness, an instant’s hesitation—it might be over before I realized it was happening. That is why it pleased me to know that my parents were there by his side, and I was glad to be there beside them.
We talked quietly, as though we had known each other for a lifetime. I told them of all the things that had happened, and they repeated some of what I had told them, as though there were certain points that they would like me to elaborate upon.
At length, my mother put her hand to her forehead and murmured, “I’m tired.”
She yawned and closed her eyes; it was as if she had suddenly fallen asleep. “I’ll go down now,” I said quietly. It was so quiet in the room; I didn’t want to disturb the peace by speaking too loudly.
When I reached the landing, I stopped at the top of the stairs. I turned, staring at my father, who lay there looking so beautiful and peaceful. I wondered how it was possible that someone who seemed so strong could be so vulnerable inside.
I went back to my parent’s room; I lit a candle and set it on the windowsill. Then I walked down the corridor to my own bedroom. I opened the door a crack and peered out into the hall. Everything was silent. The servants had gone, and it was late in the evening. The night air brought a breeze through the open window.
I heard my Mother’s breathing, slow and regular, and the sound of my father’s breathing. They slept as one person in that bed. I wanted to be near them, as close as their breaths. I thought: This is why they are here beside each other. To protect each other; to watch over each other, as though they were guarding against something that threatened them both.
I felt a sudden impulse to kneel at their bedside. But I didn’t do it. Instead, I sat down in the chair near the bed. And in that chair, I spent the night with Mother and Father.
I woke to find Mr. Barrow standing over me. His hands were on my shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” I asked in alarm, sitting up. He had never touched me before. He shook his head but did not answer. Then he pulled me back into the bed, and I fell asleep again.
Afterward, I could not understand how I was able to sleep in his arms while my mother lay beside him.
***
There was no need for me to make up an excuse for staying away from home that weekend. My father had been so grateful when he received my letter informing him of Mother’s illness and requesting him to come immediately, that there was little point in asking me to return home.
And my mother had said only good things about my decision to stay with them until they had recovered. It was hard to leave them, but I knew it was better not to prolong my absence; they would want to see me as soon as possible after their return home.
I returned home early the next morning. I left the house before anyone else came down from upstairs; it was still dark outside and everyone was asleep. As soon as my father awoke, we would take our leave of Mother.
She was resting easily enough, although she had complained of being hungry, so Father had given her some broth. We could go straight to the hospital afterward, where Mother could be taken care of.
The sun was beginning to rise when we left the house. Father was walking slowly. Perhaps he was thinking about my mother’s condition, or perhaps he was still in shock, but whatever the reason, I could tell from his face that he was troubled.
When we reached home, we found the front door open. Someone had tried to break into the house.
A small pile of dirt and twigs was scattered along the floorboards near the door, as though someone had tried to kick it down. There was also a broken glass beside the door handle. I wondered how anyone had entered without waking us, as we always kept the doors locked.
I looked at the windows, then glanced up at my father. He had noticed the mess, too, and was gazing at me with concern.
He picked up the broom lying beside the door and started sweeping it into a corner. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked the front door, and held it aside for me. I hurried into the parlor. It was empty except for a few items strewn around—a pair of shoes, a book, some clothes—but there was no sign of anyone having been inside.
I was glad that whoever had entered the house hadn’t stolen anything; the most valuable thing we owned was our moneybox, which was in my mother’s room. Father had said it would be safer there than with us since we often left the house unattended for long periods of time.
My father went to the kitchen and opened the pantry door, but when he stepped inside I saw a figure behind him. “What is it?” I asked, and he replied with a curt nod. I followed him inside, but he made no effort to get out of my way. I closed the pantry door firmly behind me.
The light shone through the glass of the china cabinet. I stared at the cabinet, trying to make sense of what I saw, then turned and hurried toward the hallway. I heard Mother’s voice calling out to us from the room beyond. Father followed me into her room, shutting the door quietly behind us.
I was afraid for her. The doctor had warned us that Mother might experience hallucinations. Her health had weakened significantly after I had run away. She couldn’t move about like she used to. If something happened to her now . . . I didn’t know how to put this into words.
But I wasn’t sure that Father did either because when we got to Mother’s room, he stopped suddenly and drew me closer to him.
“You’re going to sit by her,” he said.
Mother was sitting on her bed, looking drowsy. She was talking to herself, saying something about the rain falling outside, as though she’d been listening to some music, and her eyes were closed.
But when she realized that Father and I were entering the room, she turned around and smiled at us both. Her expression reminded me of a child: happy, contented, and completely unaware of the troubles surrounding her.
We waited until Mother became aware of us before speaking to her. After she recognized us, her eyes widened, and then she began to laugh aloud. She spoke to us, but her words made no sense. Father tried to calm her, but she seemed oblivious to what he was saying.
When we told her Father had brought me back home, she seemed to recognize him. Then she looked at me, and I saw a look of surprise pass over her face, followed by relief. Finally, she stopped laughing but instead began whispering something.
Father leaned forward and listened carefully; then he shook his head, gave me an encouraging smile, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him. My mother continued to speak quietly to herself, then fell silent.
My father sat on the bed beside Mother’s legs. I knelt down beside him. She was shivering, and her skin was clammy. Father lifted her feet onto the mattress and wrapped blankets around her ankles so they wouldn’t fall off.
Her body felt heavy. I wondered if she was getting weaker every day. I wanted to help, but I didn’t think I could do anything for her. Father said that it was important for Mother to rest for a while. I thought it was best if we let her lie down. We would leave her alone in the room, and go into another part of the house to talk.
“Are you coming with me?”
Father asked this question without opening his eyes.
“Of course,” I answered, though I knew very well that my father was not asking me. I stood up slowly and began walking past him, but he reached out with a hand and grabbed my arm. His grip was firm, but there was a strange quality to his fingers that made it impossible to pull away.
I tugged gently and managed to escape his hold, then moved back toward the window. I didn’t want Father to see the tears in my eyes.
“You should stay here,” he said. “You can watch the windows from there.”
As though I were an infant, Father pulled me closer to him, wrapping his arms tightly around me. He kissed the top of my head. Then he released me and took hold of the handles of the china cabinet. As soon as we walked into the hall, Mother opened her eyes, and Father turned to look at me.
I glanced toward the door, but I knew that Father was right; I shouldn’t have come. I should have stayed by Mother’s side.
“Do you understand?” Father asked me in a low voice. I nodded.
“If something happens to me—”
I started to say, “I won’t tell anyone.” But he interrupted me.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” he said. He sounded impatient with me. “You have to keep your mouth shut about the things that happen when we aren’t together—or else I’ll lose control of myself and hurt you. That’s what this means—that we are never apart again. Don’t forget.”
His arms tightened around me as though he were afraid I would disappear. I didn’t know if he meant his words or what they meant, and I didn’t have time to ask him.
After we said goodbye to Mother, I returned to my room and went straight to bed. When I woke up the following morning, Mother still slept soundly, and the smell of incense tickled my nose. I looked toward the door, wondering why the light was coming through it.
There was something odd about the color of the glass panels. Was Father looking at them? It wasn’t until he called out to me that I realized that Mother’s bedroom was illuminated by the sun shining through a hole in the roof.
When I entered the room, my first impression was that everything was in disarray. Mother’s bedding had been tossed across the floor, and the curtains on her dresser were torn. A book lay open in her lap.
She must have been reading in her sleep and disturbed her bookshelf somehow. The window above her bed had fallen open, and the sunlight streamed through it, illuminating everything brightly.
Father was standing next to Mother’s nightstand. He held my diary in one hand and placed the other over his chest, hiding his mouth behind his hand. He seemed to be praying. He didn’t look upset. He was wearing a dark blue suit. Perhaps he was just going out somewhere.
My mother’s lips were parted, and she appeared peaceful, even as she breathed her last breath.
The End