BLUE GATE, 1859
GRADY’S COVERED IN BILE. HIS mother heaves again and this time nothing comes up. She gasps and he lays her head back on the pillow. Please hurry, he thinks. Please.
Jacob runs into the bedroom, his face streaked with tears. “They’re here!” he shouts, and a moment later Pearl and Hanna are in the doorway. Pearl takes one look at his mother and swoops to her side. Grady lets himself glance at Hanna and he’s pulled into her dark eyes, that tint of amber in them. Her skin looks even paler inside the house, paler than the sheets his mother lies on. Her red scarf is tied around her hair, and she’s wearing a loose cloak over her dress to hide what they’ve done.
“Can you help her?” Grady asks, his voice raw.
There’s a whispering sound and Hanna moves to the other side of the bed. It’s his mother, trying to talk. Hanna leans over to listen and then straightens.
“Can’t save someone who doesn’t want saving,” she says softly.
“What do you mean?” Grady asks, but he knows, deep down, and it feels like a blow. His mother’s headaches have gotten so much worse. She can hardly speak and never leaves the house, complains that her chest hurts too. Would he wish her a life like this? Shut away at Blue Gate forever?
His mother’s eyes flutter open. “My boys,” she says. There are rivers of sweat on her forehead and her skin is shiny like the lantern beside her. “I hope you understand,” she whispers, “why I wanted them here.”
“To help you!” Jacob shouts, and presses his head against her shoulder.
“Here,” Hanna says softly, offering a cloth to Grady. She’s not wearing the ring he gave her—not in this house, not yet—and her fingertips are stained with ink. As her hand touches his, he feels a lightning bolt of warmth. He holds the cloth to his mother’s face, wipes her mouth as gently as he can.
“Last time it was morning for her and now it’s the night.” Pearl runs her palms over the air above the bed, tracing his mother’s body without touching her. “The mornings always pass.”
His mother’s eyes open again. Her eyes are blue, like his, but a darker blue, the color of the bay. “I’m ready,” she says. “I’m going to Amelia.”
Jacob cries out and Grady doesn’t know it, but he is shaking his head no. Amelia died the day she was born, the day his mother was dying too, until he fetched Pearl from the woods. Now his mother needs to live—she needs to get well again. He reaches up with his free hand and pulls off his hat because his scalp is hurting; everything hurts when he looks at her, especially his heart.
Beside him, Hanna’s eyes are watering. Little dark pools that the light catches. She strikes a match and then the smell of sage is thick in the air.
Help her, he begs silently. Help her, I know you can, and Hanna looks away. For a moment her hand is on the roundness of her stomach. But he can’t think about the baby now. It’s all gone wrong. He was going to tell his father and mother, he was going to ask for their blessing, but not now. Not like this.
“I love you both,” his mother says.
Grady tries to repeat it back like Jacob does, but it feels like there’s a stone lodged in his throat. A door slams somewhere in the house, followed by loud footsteps up the stairs. Grady’s heart lurches as his father bursts through the doorway. When he sees Pearl, his bag drops to his feet, his stethoscope clattering to the floorboards.
“What’s this?” he shouts, turning to Grady. Then he whirls on Jacob, who looks like he’s about to cry. “Out!”
“Yes, Papa,” Jacob says.
Grady knows his brother won’t argue, no matter how much he wants to stay. As he rushes from the room, Grady tries to explain. “I thought…,” he starts. “It’s just—”
“I told you never again!” His father is shaking he’s so angry. “How dare you invite them inside this house?” His blue eyes narrow on Grady as he steps forward.
“I—” Grady tries again, and now he can tell Hanna is staring at him, waiting for him to defend himself, and Pearl is staring too, her arms folded across her chest, her dark gaze assessing him.
“It’s fine.” His mother lifts her hand. “It’s me who asked them to come.”
Grady’s father picks up his bag from the floor. “I’ll help you, Rose,” he says. “Not these…” He waves a hand at Pearl and Hanna. “They’re unnatural,” he hisses.
Grady wants to protest, but a floorboard creaks and suddenly Hanna’s brother is in the doorway. The ax is in his hands and his eyes are like two bits of coal. Grady doesn’t know who to be more scared of—his father or this witch boy in front of him.
“There’s no problem, is there, Doctor?” Pearl asks.
Grady’s father looks like he’s about to yell when there’s a sputtering noise and his mother sits straight up in bed. “Please,” she begs, and they all turn toward her.
“Rose?” his father says, and now he sounds worried.
“Please listen.” His mother drops back down on the pillows. Her eyes are open, but they don’t seem to focus on anyone. No, she is staring at the ceiling, the same way an animal sometimes stares at nothing at all. Grady follows her gaze. He sees only whiteness, unlike the ceiling in his room, which is painted the color of the sky. That was his mother’s idea, so that no walls would ever bind his thoughts.
“I’m ready to go,” she says. “I’m ready, Pearl.”
Grady wants to protest. Pearl is supposed to heal his mother, like she did before. He looks at Hanna, who nods so slightly he might have imagined it. This is her way of asking if he’s ready too, because last time he was not. Because last time, when his mother was dying in labor, he ran into the woods and found the witch’s cabin, even though he wasn’t supposed to. He begged Pearl to help his mother live after his father said there was nothing more he could do—that she was dead and so was the baby. And Pearl had come to the house and she’d shut the bedroom door and then, hours and hours later, it opened again and his mother was standing, her blue eyes blinking. His father had been horrified.
Hanna is still looking at him but Grady doesn’t give her an answer. He can’t, because every answer will be the wrong one. So he holds the cloth over his mother’s forehead and dabs at her skin. He wants to bear what she’s feeling; he wants to take her pain and carry it so she doesn’t have to. Look how thin she is, all bone. How could she carry anything at all?
“I’m ready,” his mother says again.
Pearl stares Grady’s father down as if daring him to speak. Then she strides to the bed with Hanna, each with a rosary dangling from one hand, a muslin sack in the other, their lips moving but no sound coming out.
“Rose,” his father says, desperate now. “Can’t you hear me?”
Her eyes finally settle on him. “It’s you,” she says. She grits her teeth in what must be a smile. “Take care of our boys,” she tells him, and Grady’s heart tightens. “Be kind to each other.” Her head falls to the side but her lace dress is rising near her ribs—she’s only asleep.
And then she opens her eyes, and her gaze is on Hanna’s stomach, and then Grady. “Listen,” she whispers.
“Rose,” his father tells her, “I’m right here, Rose.”
Grady touches her hand, but she’s staring at the ceiling again. He can’t see what she’s fixated on, he doesn’t see us here like she does; he doesn’t know that we’re all around her, trying to make her passing easier, just like Hanna, who’s whispering for her to let go, let go. And just as Rose reaches out to us, right as she slips into our arms, she tries to warn Grady; she tries to say “Be careful,” but it’s already too late.