It was weeks later, as we whiled away the late November afternoon indoors, with the rain coursing down the windows and the sky hanging low and dark, that I first saw Emily do the same.
She was standing, looking out the window, out across the water to the space where the rain and Lake merged into one. Her hand traveled unbidden to rest on her belly. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye, and raised my head from my book to look at her. It took me a moment to register what it was that pulled at me, and then I remembered Maijlis. Realization crept up my spine; my skin became hot and my mouth dry. I looked at Mother. She returned my gaze, but did not follow it to Emily, instead holding my eye long enough to speak the truth before turning her attention back to peeling potatoes.
Emily felt my scrutiny and turned to me, her eyes the color of the sky, the color of the Lake. The light was back in them. She knew. Within days, she began to paint again.
Mother and I did not discuss it except one time, in the middle of February, when Emily began to swell so that we could no longer deny it. Emily was outside, wrapped warmly in a coat, standing in the great expanse of white that had embraced our world and quieted the Lake. Mother watched her through the window. Just watched, her hands unoccupied.
“There is a plant,” she said. “We could brew a tea.”
“It is too late,” I replied.
“The child will be a burden on all of us.” Her hands still idle.
“We’ve borne worse before.”
She picked up a rag, began to dust the barometer on the wall, wipe the kerosene lantern sitting on the desk. “This one is not ours to bear.”
She had never been an affectionate woman, never warm; it was not her way, and Pa’s death had further extinguished what little sentiment she managed to hold. But to hear her speak this way about Emily’s baby, no matter who the father was or how the child was conceived, saddened me, as much for her as for Emily. This was her grandchild.
“We will find a way,” I replied. “We always do.”
And we spoke of it no more.
We did not consider bringing Emily to town to see a doctor. At that time of year there wasn’t a way, except for a grueling journey by snowshoe across to Silver Islet and, from there, by dogsled to the city. Mother managed to find tasks to keep her busy and out of sight whenever anyone visited the island, which wasn’t often. I realized that she was concealing her from prying eyes and speculating tongues, especially those who knew your grandfather’s departure was shrouded in mystery. It was not acceptable in those days for girls to have babies before they were married, no matter the circumstance, and it appeared our family was no exception. We were protected by the isolation of winter, but spring would soon arrive, and with that, the child. And a child could not be kept secret, even where we were, removed from the world on our small island in the middle of a great Lake. I should have given that more thought. It was a dangerous threat, looming, and I did not see it.
I worried that Emily would be frightened by the child forming in her body, resentful of its existence, a reminder of the terror she had suffered. I needn’t have. One night, as we lay together in our bed, she took my hand and placed it on her belly, holding it against the warmth of her skin until the baby moved beneath. My heart quickened. There was a new life blooming inside my sister, and after all the hardships and all the death that had surrounded us, it was good, it was wonderful, and it filled me with hope.
I did not anticipate Charlie’s response.
He returned to the island in April, after the ice had loosened its grip enough to allow The Red Fox passage. We watched the vessel approach from the north, sails set to ease the tossing of the waves. I could picture my brother standing on the deck, the wind howling through the rigging, bracing against the heeling of the boat, spray flying into his face, already at home out on his beloved Lake. It was too rough for them to land near the light, and I noted that their course was set for the boat harbor. Restless with anticipation, we could not wait for him to walk the path to the light station, and hurried to meet them there. Mother and I even ventured out onto the wooden dock to catch the lines tossed from the boat and secure them to the cleats, so that he would reach us sooner. Charlie leaped off before they were fast, enfolding me in a strong embrace and kissing Mother happily on both cheeks. Emily, as was her way, held back on the shore, hovering inside the boathouse. He headed toward her, his grin fading as he noticed what he could not help but notice, his eyes seeking mine in question even as she endured his tentative hug.
We did not speak of it on the walk to the light.
At first our little party was animated, catching up on the years spent apart, hearing stories about his time in England and the other men he met there. When Charlie wrote to us, he had not spoken of an injury, but his arm was in a sling, his hand contorted awkwardly. When I questioned him, he shrugged it off. “It’s nothing. Really.” I learned later that the injury was not a wound carried from the front, but had been sustained only a few nights before, in a dark alley at the back of a tavern. It was a symptom of a new Charlie. As we neared the light, our conversation ceased. We were listening instead for the voices of Peter and Pa. Charlie had not been back since Pa died, and we allowed the silence, filling it with our memories.
That evening, Charlie cornered me down by the fuel shed, away from Emily, away from Mother.
“What the hell’s going on?” he asked. I was surprised to smell liquor on his breath. Pa rarely drank, and had kept brandy only for the times when a body needed to be warmed from the inside as much as the outside. Even then, it was never around Mother. She still maintained the strictness of her upbringing and would not allow any alcohol in her home. I had not expected Charlie to bring drink with him out to the island and consume it in such a casual manner. “Whose is it?”