Page 34 - Fever 1793

be a release, a rest for the weary.
A slight breeze waltzed through the room. Silas strolled in and jumped onto the bed. He settled
himself so gently by her feet that she did not stir. No mice would disturb her, that was understood. Mother wrinkled her brow and moaned. I smoothed her hair.
“I’m here, Mother,” I whispered. “Be still.”
She shook her head from side to side on the pillow.
Tears threatened again. I sniffed and tried to control my face. No one could ever tell what Mother thought or felt by looking at her. This was a useful trait. I needed to learn how to do it. There were so many things she had tried to teach me, but I didn’t listen. I leaned over to kiss her forehead. A tear slipped out before I could stop it.
I quietly sat beside her and opened my Psalm book, praying for deliverance, or at least the dawn.
I must have dozed off. One moment, the room was still, the next, Mother flew off the pillows and was violently ill, vomiting blood all over the bed and floor. Her eyes rolled back in her head.
I jumped up from the stool.
“Eliza!” I screamed. “Help!”
There was no answer. Eliza was gone. I was alone.
I forced myself back to the bed. Mother panted heavily.
“Everything will be fine,” I said as I sponged her face clean. “Just lay still.”
Her eyes opened and I smiled at her. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She
opened her cracked lips.
“Go . . . away,” she whispered. “Leave me.”
I recoiled as she leaned over the bed and retched a foul-smelling black fluid onto the floor.
“Oh, stop, please stop,” I begged.
“Leave me!” Mother shouted in a ragged voice. “Leave me, go!”
I tried to help her back onto her pillows, but she pushed me away and shook her head.
“Go away!” she repeated.
I ran sobbing to the window. Breathing in the fresh air helped calm my stomach. The houses along the
street were shuttered tight and dark. I had to help her. She was depending on me.
“Let me clean you up,” I began as I turned away from the window. “You’ll feel better in a clean shift.
Maybe a bath. Would you like a bath again?”
She was breathing as fast and heavy as a runaway horse. Her hand fumbled along the mucky sheet until
it found the small book of Psalms I had dropped.
“I’ll put some water on to boil.”
Mother threw the book weakly at my head.
“Out,” she croaked. “Don’t want you sick. Go away!”