“Mother! No!” Mary threw herself across the quilt her mother was under. The navy blue and red patches swirled together as tears filled her eyes. This couldn’t be. Not her mother. She already lost her father to the war. Now she was an orphan. No, it’s not true. Desperately, she grabbed a rag, dipped it in the dish of cool water, started to wipe her mother’s face, and patted her curly caramel hair, so much like her own.
“Come on, Mother. You can break this fever. It’s only a small illness. You said so yourself,” she pleaded without avail as a coldness crept into her mother’s once-warm face. Utterly defeated she lay down next to her mother and whispered, “No. No. You’re okay. You’re okay. Wake up! Wake Up!” She screamed the last part, coveredm her face with her hands and mentally decided that she would never move again.
“Mistress Mary! She’s in God’s hand now! There ain’t nothin’ you can do! Ain’t nothin’ you can do! ” A lean, Negro woman pulled the hysterical kicking 9-year old off of the bed and put her next to her 3 other siblings none-too-gently. Tired from administering to her sick Mistress all night, the Negro woman walked slowly towards a beaten-up, wooden stool at the side of the bed and sat down.
She sighed and brought her hands to her cocoa brown face. Sure, she was sad for these children left behind, but that’s not why she sighed. It was out of helplessness. There was nothing she could do. After all, she was only a slave. Rosemarie the slave. Now that her owners had both died, the children would just go to a relative. That would be her last job as the slave of the Heather family: the transport of their children. After that she and the other slaves would be given to a different family or sold. Simple as that.
Wait. Not that simple. Where would the children go to? Obviously that was out of her hands, but still, the question bothered her. There wasn’t much family for them to go to. Mr. Heather, her Master, had one sister in Europe who died in childbirth, or so the rumor was among the slaves’ Quarters, and no cousins. His wife, Mrs. Heather, had a brother who died in the Civil War, like Mr. Heather himself, and a sister who resented everything to do with the Heather family. Like Mr. Heather, she too had no cousins that were known of. The children could go to her sister, but she was a Yankee. Mr. and Mrs. Heather would be appalled if a Yank raised their children. It all seemed so hopeless.
At a loss, she lifted her head to face the children. The four of them stood stiffly across from her on the other side of the bed, except for the youngest, Alice, who was being held by her older sister. They all had tight lips and hard eyes, as if trying not to cry and give satisfaction to Death that they were weak. The only one who didn’t have composure was Mary. She was wiping her runny nose on her arm and looking at her mother with her puffy, cried-out eyes.
Suddenly, the boy stepped forward, “Come on. It’s late,” his weary voice broke the stony silence and gave away his true emotions under his icy gaze. “There’s no use in staying up now. We need to go to bed so we can face what comes tomorrow.” He started for the door and all the siblings followed except Mary, who knelt down and held her mother’s hand.
“Come on, Mary,” the boy said.
“No, Sully. You can’t make me go.” She was shaking, partly from anger and partly from sadness, and this caused her fawn brown ringlets to tremble.
Frustrated, Sully grabbed his sister’s arm to urge her forward. As they struggled, the oldest girl stepped up, still holding Alice.
“Sullivan Heather, you let go of your sister this instant or I’ll-I’ll-“
“You’ll what, Lydia?” Sullivan was standing now, still holding Mary’s arm, and facing his older sister. “You’re not Mother, and you surely can’t replace her! You can’t make me do anything!”
With that, he threw Mary down, stormed out of his mother’s bedroom, and slammed the door, making Alice cry. Bewildered, Rosemarie watched as Lydia tried to help the situation.
“Shh. Shh. Shh. Alice, don’t cry. We’re going to be okay.”
Lydia stroked her baby sister’s silky brown hair and kissed her between her big blind, clear blue eyes. Alice’s crying settled to a snivel.
“That’a girl. See, we’re going to be okay.”
Mary turned around and was suddenly furious, “No we’re not! We won’t be okay! We won’t be fine! We won’t be anything! We’re orphans! Just orphans! Does that sound okay to you?” She ran out of the room, fresh tears blurring her vision.
`
“Mary! Wait!” Lydia, still carrying Alice, ran out after her. The breeze from her run blew out the candle at her mother’s bedside. Rosemarie remained in the room, sitting on her stool in the dark. All she could do was wonder.
“Come on, Mother. You can break this fever. It’s only a small illness. You said so yourself,” she pleaded without avail as a coldness crept into her mother’s once-warm face. Utterly defeated she lay down next to her mother and whispered, “No. No. You’re okay. You’re okay. Wake up! Wake Up!” She screamed the last part, coveredm her face with her hands and mentally decided that she would never move again.
“Mistress Mary! She’s in God’s hand now! There ain’t nothin’ you can do! Ain’t nothin’ you can do! ” A lean, Negro woman pulled the hysterical kicking 9-year old off of the bed and put her next to her 3 other siblings none-too-gently. Tired from administering to her sick Mistress all night, the Negro woman walked slowly towards a beaten-up, wooden stool at the side of the bed and sat down.
She sighed and brought her hands to her cocoa brown face. Sure, she was sad for these children left behind, but that’s not why she sighed. It was out of helplessness. There was nothing she could do. After all, she was only a slave. Rosemarie the slave. Now that her owners had both died, the children would just go to a relative. That would be her last job as the slave of the Heather family: the transport of their children. After that she and the other slaves would be given to a different family or sold. Simple as that.
Wait. Not that simple. Where would the children go to? Obviously that was out of her hands, but still, the question bothered her. There wasn’t much family for them to go to. Mr. Heather, her Master, had one sister in Europe who died in childbirth, or so the rumor was among the slaves’ Quarters, and no cousins. His wife, Mrs. Heather, had a brother who died in the Civil War, like Mr. Heather himself, and a sister who resented everything to do with the Heather family. Like Mr. Heather, she too had no cousins that were known of. The children could go to her sister, but she was a Yankee. Mr. and Mrs. Heather would be appalled if a Yank raised their children. It all seemed so hopeless.
At a loss, she lifted her head to face the children. The four of them stood stiffly across from her on the other side of the bed, except for the youngest, Alice, who was being held by her older sister. They all had tight lips and hard eyes, as if trying not to cry and give satisfaction to Death that they were weak. The only one who didn’t have composure was Mary. She was wiping her runny nose on her arm and looking at her mother with her puffy, cried-out eyes.
Suddenly, the boy stepped forward, “Come on. It’s late,” his weary voice broke the stony silence and gave away his true emotions under his icy gaze. “There’s no use in staying up now. We need to go to bed so we can face what comes tomorrow.” He started for the door and all the siblings followed except Mary, who knelt down and held her mother’s hand.
“Come on, Mary,” the boy said.
“No, Sully. You can’t make me go.” She was shaking, partly from anger and partly from sadness, and this caused her fawn brown ringlets to tremble.
Frustrated, Sully grabbed his sister’s arm to urge her forward. As they struggled, the oldest girl stepped up, still holding Alice.
“Sullivan Heather, you let go of your sister this instant or I’ll-I’ll-“
“You’ll what, Lydia?” Sullivan was standing now, still holding Mary’s arm, and facing his older sister. “You’re not Mother, and you surely can’t replace her! You can’t make me do anything!”
With that, he threw Mary down, stormed out of his mother’s bedroom, and slammed the door, making Alice cry. Bewildered, Rosemarie watched as Lydia tried to help the situation.
“Shh. Shh. Shh. Alice, don’t cry. We’re going to be okay.”
Lydia stroked her baby sister’s silky brown hair and kissed her between her big blind, clear blue eyes. Alice’s crying settled to a snivel.
“That’a girl. See, we’re going to be okay.”
Mary turned around and was suddenly furious, “No we’re not! We won’t be okay! We won’t be fine! We won’t be anything! We’re orphans! Just orphans! Does that sound okay to you?” She ran out of the room, fresh tears blurring her vision.
`
“Mary! Wait!” Lydia, still carrying Alice, ran out after her. The breeze from her run blew out the candle at her mother’s bedside. Rosemarie remained in the room, sitting on her stool in the dark. All she could do was wonder.
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