Waiting for the Moon

"Are all of the women trapped here?"

  Lucy brushed a tear away. "Oh, no. For many of them it's a wonderful place to be. Bertha and Theresa think it's heaven. Most of the women do. There is no want here, no beatings, no hunger, and they are respected. Our founder, Mother Anna Lee, was a woman."

  Selena ran the hot iron over her thumb. With a yelp, she dropped the iron and shoved her aching thumb in the lavender water. "Did ... did I like it here?"

  Lucy shook her head. "The rules always bothered you, but before you left, you'd started talking about babies. You wanted one so badly. You scared me with how badly you wanted it. You used to say that death was the only way out for you, but you didn't want to hurt Elliot. Otherwise, I think you might have killed yourself right in your room. And then you disappeared." A smile breezed across her face. "I was so proud of you, Agnes. I thought ... I thought you were free."

  "I was," she answered quietly. Bending, she retrieved the heavy iron and awkwardly lifted it back to the table, setting it down on the apron.

  "Where did you go? What did you do?"

  "I do not know. One day I simply woke up at a very special place up by the sea. I was hurt badly and my memory for almost all things was gone."

  "How did you get hurt?"

  Selena shrugged. "No one knows."

  "What was it like up there?"

  Pictures sprang to mind, all of them painful in their beauty. Her fingers curled tentatively around the iron's wooden handle. "There was a man. . . ." Her throat closed. She couldn't say any more.

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  "You loved him."

  Selena looked away, unable even to nod.

  "You shouldn't have come back."

  "What choice did I have, Lucy? I was a married woman and my husband came back for me."

  A silence fell between them, swollen and poignant.

  In that moment, Selena understood that this was all there was for her. Friendship with a few women, perhaps, and a life of rigid control. No hunger, no beatings, no deprivation, but also no freedom. No real family, no laughter.

  "Agnes?" Lucy stared at her. "Are you all right?"

  "No," Selena said quietly. She definitely was not all right now that she'd glimpsed her future. Her life stretched out before her, long and lonely and governed by the ringing of the bells.

  The breakfast bell rang at precisely 6:00, and by then Selena was tired and sweaty and her hands were creased with dozens of tiny burn marks. Her thumb throbbed with pain. She and Lucy finished with the shirts they were pressing and returned the irons to the stove.

  Together, silently, they walked back to the dwelling house. People were everywhere, marching^ in orderly, noiseless lines up through their segregated doors, into their silent dining rooms.

  Selena wanted to scream, to jump up and down and wave her hands and screech like a seagull. But she was too tired to do anything but follow the crowd.

  It wasn't just the ironing that had exhausted her- although her motor skills were not good enough for such a complicated physical task. It was everything; every silence, every closed door, every rule that had to be followed. She wanted to pass by the kitchen and go to her room, such as it was; she wanted to crawl into her old worldly clothes and climb into bed, pull the covers up to her chin and sleep. Sleep and sleep and sleep and never wake up again. She could feel herself sinking into

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  despair, and she couldn't find a way out, couldn't make herself smile. She looked around this sterile place and saw nothing of value, nothing to care about

  She knew that she was being unreasonable, that this place was filled with loving, caring people, but they weren't the right people. She didn't want to be welcomed or loved by them. She wanted her family back, the only family she'd ever known. She wanted forests instead of fields, shorelines instead of riverbeds. Ian instead of Elliot.

  Oh, Ian ...

  Lucy slipped her hand in Selena's and squeezed. "Don't do it, Agnes," she whispered.

  "Do what?" Selena asked, but she didn't care, not really.

  "You're getting that desperate look again."

  Selena bit back a sharp laugh. "Do not worry about me, Lucy. I am sure I shall be fine. I am simply tired. My head aches."

  Another lie, she thought sadly. And it came so easily.

  The brethren and sisters moved through the house in two quiet streams, entering the dining room through separate side-by-side doors. The men sat at tables on the east side of the room; women at tables on the west.

  Lucy led Selena to a table. Across the room, Elliot stood at another table. Their gazes met. He glanced quickly from side to side, then mouthed Are you well?

  She had no answer for him. He looked so concerned that she wanted simply to nod, but the action wouldn't come.

  A bell rang, and the Believers all dropped to their knees, murmuring prayers.

  Selena was just realizing that she should kneel when everyone stood up again. Lucy grabbed her around the waist and guided her to. her seat. The stark wooden plank table groaned beneath the weight of the food. Boiled potatoes, fried sausage with onions and turnips, wheat bread with freshly turned butter and raspberry

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  jam, stewed applesauce that smelled of cinnamon, and pitchers of creamy milk.

  The family ate in silence, the only words spoken an occasional, whispered "thank you" as food was passed from one hand to another. Selena tried not to think of the meals she'd eaten with the family at Lethe House, of the laughter and the teasing and the camaraderie. Of food that had sometimes been thrown to make a point, or the silly little prayers they'd offered to a fun-loving God. Over the gullet, past the tongue, look out stomach, here it comes.

  She would have smiled at the memory if it didn't hurt

  so much.

  Selena had barely laden her plate with food when the bell rang again. All around her, forks clanged on the china as the plates were pushed to the center of the table. The men stood all at once, then dropped to their knees for silent prayers.

  And then they were gone.

  Selena took a last bite of tasteless, greasy sausage and pushed her plate away from her. She didn't bother to kneel and offer a silent prayer to a God whom she didn't understand, but no one seemed to notice. Lucy took her by the hand and led her back down the women's hallway, through the women's door and across the yard.

  The ironing house was hot and humid.

  Selena glanced around, saw the dozens of perfectly pressed shirts and aprons and sheets that she and Lucy had folded and piled. Then she saw the host of heaped baskets that remained to be done.

  They would never be done; she understood that finally. This was not a job that ended, it was a job that went on. Day after day, month after month, year after year. It had never occurred to her before. At Lethe House her clothes seemed to magically appear, but now she realized that someone, somewhere, had washed and dried and ironed her clothes. And she and Lucy were

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  expected to do all of the ironing for one hundred people. Just as the women outside did all of the washing, and the women in the kitchen did all of the cooking.

  Hard, backbreaking work and it never ended.

  "Is this my life?" The question slipped from her mouth, sounded pathetically weak.

  Lucy looked up from the shirt she was ironing. Very slowly, she set down the iron. "Our tasks rotate. Next, you and I are baking pies-one hundred and sixty a week for supper alone. Then there's the fancywork. We sell it to people in the world."

  Selena thought about how badly her hands worked, how poorly she did things like embroidery and baking and ironing. "I do not know if I can survive here, Lucy," Selena whispered. "I am afraid."

  Lucy gave her a sad, tired look. "You always were, Agnes. And I was afraid for you."

  Ian stood in his bedroom, sipping tepid water from a cut-crystal glass, staring through his window. Outside, a full moon hung in the velvet sky.

  "Selena." He breathed her name, trying to feel her presence, trying to read her mind ac
ross the miles.

  But nothing came to him.

  He turned away from the window and walked from his room, down the darkened stairway, across the entry-way and into the starlit night. For a second, he imagined he saw candles around the lawn, thought he smelled smoke. He closed his eyes and remembered it all. The clank of a mallet against a wooden ball, the throaty purr of her laugh, the silky feel of her skin as she touched his face.

  Kiss me, Ian.

  He sank to his knees and stared up at the starlit sky. He wondered if she was outside right now, staring up at the same full moon and remembering him.

  Where was she? What was she doing now?

  They were the first questions he asked himself every

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  morning when he woke up, and the last ones he asked before bed. He was sick with the need to know, to see her one more time. Constantly he thought of her, worried about her. Could she deal with loneliness? Had he taught her that?

  He couldn't remember now if she'd ever been alone here. He'd taught her philosophy and religion and how to think, but had he taught her how to survive?

  God, he wanted to go to her, follow her and sneak through the bushes like a criminal, watching her, just making sure that she still smiled. Still laughed. Still saw the sun behind every cloud.

  But he couldn't go to her, he knew that, told himself the same thing every night and every morning. Honor demanded that he stay, just as it demanded that she go. And what would he say when he got there, anyway? Good-bye again? All he could give her now was the gift of his discipline. The gift of his absence. I shall be honorable always. Always ... God, how he'd come to hate those words in the two months she'd been gone.

  She had, as always, demanded the very best from him, the ultimate proof of his honor and his decency. Now he supposed he was as good a man as he'd ever been or ever would be. He'd done the things that would have made her happy-he'd begun building a true asylum on the property, one that would easily house fifteen patients. He'd contacted all of his old colleagues and told them that Lethe House was open for a very select group of disturbed patients; neither financial nor social considerations were relevant. He'd corresponded with Drs. Freud and Wellsby, and several prominent alienists. Slowly Ian was learning the basis for this new profession of his.

  Strangely enough, he found that what he did to make her happy made him, if not happy, then at least content. Pleased with himself for the first time in years. Andrew was making great strides, and in truth, Ian had never

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  been so proud of anything or anyone as he was of the boy.

  And Lara. Sweet, guileless Lara was more of a comfort to him than he would have thought possible. For hours they sat together, sometimes reading, sometimes drawing, sometimes saying nothing at all.

  On the outside, Ian's life looked to be improving. But everyone in Lethe House knew the truth.

  They understood his moods, his depression, his overwhelming sense of loss. His need for Selena was a riving, burning, growing thing inside him. It brought him out into the darkness every night, too weak to stand, too lonely to cry. Missing her. Oh, God, missing her ...

  'Take care of her," he prayed to the God who'd given him so much and taken even more away. 'Take care of her."

  Autumn came to the settlement on a cold, soughing wind.

  Elliot glanced at the washhouse. Again.

  The squat white building rose up from the already dying grass, its white walls a stark contrast to the searing blue sky. Multicolored leaves lay scattered across the lawn, in airy heaps at the bases of the trees. Soon they would be gone, swept into big wooden baskets and carried away.

  Through the clear windows, he could see Sister Lucy's back. As always, she was hunched over the trestle table, ironing.

  He strained to catch a glimpse of his wife-just a look, Lord, just a look. Tomorrow, he knew, Agnes and Lucy would begin their rotation in the kitchen, baking pies, and he would be denied even the simple pleasure of seeing her during the day.

  He clutched the wooden ax handle in sweaty hands and repositioned the piece of wood on the chopping block. In a single swift, sure motion he swung the ax and split the wood in quarters.

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  He tossed it onto the growing stack of firewood and paused, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his bandanna.

  God help him, he glanced at the washhouse again.

  He tried not to think of Agnes, knew it was a sin to dwell on memories of her so often, but he couldn't help himself. She had changed so completely since her return. Each day she seemed a paler and paler imitation of the woman he'd seen at Lethe House.

  She was trying to fit in. She walked straight and tall and had learned to speak quietly, if at all. She carried herself with an elegant grace and seemed to be serene.

  But Elliot knew her too well to be fooled. She was failing. The grace and serenity were a fragile cover. A layer of glittering ice on a dark, turbulent pond. When she'd first returned, her moods had been childlike and obvious, from giddy laughter at a raindrop's beauty to a teary-eyed sadness at the death of a turkey. No more. Now her moods were flat and even, unvaried by anything, unleavened by curiosity. Nothing here intrigued her or captivated her. She sat at the family meetings like a colorless ghost, almost smiling, making eye contact, but never really seeing anything. She never complained, never argued, never disagreed.

  And never laughed.

  Bending,'he grabbed another thick, round log from the pile. When he picked it up, he saw a single white flower, struggling to grow wild and free in the shadow of the matted, broken grass behind the woodpile.

  It reminded him so sharply of Agnes. He remembered last week's union meeting, when he'd stolen a few precious moments with her, speaking softly while the others watched.

  I want flowers in my room, Elliot. I miss the flowers. .. .

  He'd been so devastated by the wistful sadness in her voice that he couldn't think. He'd answered by rote, mumbling that flowers were not to be grown for their

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  beauty. Such an ornamental use would be 'contrary to order.' Roses were grown only to be used in making rose water, not for their scent or their beauty. Oh, she'd said with a half sigh. How sad. And it was, he realized suddenly. Sad not to enjoy the beauty of a flower. Sad that God would demand such a thing when He had created the beauty in the first place. He bent and plucked up the flower. It looked delicate and impossibly fragile in his big, rough fingers.

  Across the street, he heard Lucy say, "I'll be right back, Agnes. We need more lavender water." Elliot's gaze shot to the washhouse, to the open door. He didn't think, just moved. With a quick sideways glance each way, he hurried across the street and ducked inside the building, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Agnes looked up from her ironing. There was a moment's surprise on her face, and then it was gone, replaced by a dull acceptance. "Hello, Elliot."

  Lord, how she had changed. He remembered in a flash how she'd looked at Lethe House, coming down the stairs in the worldly dress, her pale shoulders so creamy and soft-looking, her eyes sparkling with happiness. For the first time, he wondered how she'd been injured. How desperate had she been to leave this place? Desperate enough to run into a moving carriage?

  He brought the flower up, handed it to her. "I don't want you to miss the flowers."

  She stared down at it, and the dull, glassy look in her eyes melted away. "It's white," she whispered.

  For a second, just a second, she was the woman he'd seen at Lethe House, breathtakingly beautiful and filled with emotion. She took the flower, brought it to her nose and inhaled deeply. A slow, hesitant smile curved her lips.

  "Thank you," she said.

  He stared at her in silence, not knowing what to say, what to do.

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  She looked up at him. "Do you ever think of leaving this place?"

  For a second, he almost said yes. Then reality rushed in, pulverized the feeble hope. He
remembered what it was like out there, how people treated a huge man with a disfigured face. "I ... I have a tough time in the world."

  "Johann told me that the world was a cold, cruel place. It must be true if a gentle man like you is treated badly."

  "You were the only one," he said softly, surprised to hear himself speak. He hadn't meant to voice the thought. Heat crawled up his cheeks.

  "The only one what?"

  "The only one who never ran from me. Never held this face against me."

  She gave him a sad smile. "Then you knew the wrong people. No one at Lethe House would have cared."

  He sighed. Lethe House again. "Maybe."

  Her gaze dropped to the flower in her hand. "Did you ever want children?"

  He drew in a sharp breath. Children. So many nights, as he lay in his lonely single bed, he'd thought about the children he'd never have, the grandchildren he'd never raise. Long ago he'd named the invisible children, dreamed of them, but those visions had finally collapsed in on themselves, devastated by the weight of their own impossibility.

  And now, as he looked down at Agnes, he dreamed of them again. He'd give anything, even his immortal soul, to hold a child of hers. He'd always yearned for a child, one whom he could hold and kiss and shower with all the love he'd hoarded for a lifetime.

  It hurt to think of it, so he stopped, pushed the memories away. "It was not God's will."

  She snorted and looked up. "It is always God's will to bring babies into this world. God did not force you

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  to choose celibacy." She moved closer. "You should have made a baby with me, and if I would not, then you should have found a woman who would." He stumbled for a response. "But my face-" "Your face is not who you are, Elliot." She leaned toward him, tilted her chin up. "A child cares more about his father's heart than his face."

  Elliot stared down at her, feeling oddly out of place, as if his whole world had suddenly tilted to the right and left him scrambling for balance. "You've changed, Agnes."

  He'd said the wrong thing, he knew it instantly, though he couldn't imagine what the right thing would have been. She drew back. "Have I?" She sounded tired again.

  A silence descended. He looked at her. She looked at the flower in her hand.

  In the distance, the supper bell rang.

  She sighed and set down the flower. "Like cattle, we go now to eat."

  Before he could respond, Lucy rushed into the room. She skidded to a stop at the sight of him and bobbed her head. "Brother Elliot."

  He nodded curtly-the proper thing to do. "Sister Lucy."

  Agnes lifted her head and gave him a wan, lackluster smile. "Good-bye, Elliot."

  Once again he thought of Lethe House and how vibrant and alive she'd been there.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The whole family was gathered in the meetinghouse for the weekly union meeting. Outside, the October night was coated in darkness and drenched in rain. Occasional cracks of thunder rumbled through the bloated gray clouds, spit out bolts of lightning,