How does one tell such a tale? I tried. I fumbled my words until I could put them into sentences and told him what I could. I told him about Everett, about finding Emily, beaten and bruised and bleeding. I did not tell him about the trapper, about David and shooting Grayson. I did not explain the assistant keeper’s sudden departure, and he didn’t ask.
“And where the hell were you?” he demanded when I had finished speaking, his eyes hot and accusing, his mouth working sluggishly to form the words. “Why in god’s name did you not keep that bastard away from her?” I had asked myself the same question a thousand times, but to hear it coming from him was unbearable. He leaned his face in close to mine. I closed my eyes, hiding from the scorn, feeling the spit landing on me as he spoke. “You allowed her . . . you allowed them to bring shame on us.” I lifted my face to his, feeling my own anger rise. How dare he lay any of the blame at Emily’s feet? I glared at him, but this didn’t stop the torrent of indignation that spilled unchecked. “Why the hell didn’t you get rid of it? Between the three of you, you could have figured out how.” He might as well have slapped me. He started to walk away, but stopped and turned back. “Look at you. Look at you, carrying on like nothing’s wrong, like nothing’s changed. Like Peter isn’t gone. Like Pa is going to arrive the next time The Red Fox pulls into harbor and sit back in his chair and light his pipe like the whole goddamn world was just waiting for him. It isn’t going to happen, Lizzie.” He shook his head. “And now this. How could you let this happen? What are you going to do now?”
At that he turned and walked a meandering path back to the light, and the door slammed shut behind him. I stood for a moment, watching where he had gone. As I was about to return to my work, he emerged again, struggling to carry Pa’s chair the short distance to the assistant keeper’s cottage, where he disappeared inside. He didn’t come out again until the next day. It was as though he had never come home, leaving Mother and I to complete the tasks at the light as we had done now for so long without him, and a deeply unsatisfied yearning in my soul for the man my brother had been.
I realized then that the Charlie who had left so long ago, not much more than a boy, bent on avenging his brother, had not come home. That Charlie had died. Instead, this new Charlie brought the hatred and prejudices that had festered in the trenches of Europe home with him, and placed them on his own doorstep. Something had changed between us, between him and Emily. Perhaps it was the war, or the drink. Perhaps he could simply no longer tolerate the differences that made her . . . her. And that is what made it so hard for both of us.
Within a few days he seemed to grudgingly accept our new reality, shouldering his share of work as best he could with his damaged arm, sharing meals in our room beneath the light, but creeping off in the evenings with a bottle of whiskey to sit alone in the drafty building that was there to house the assistant keeper. It lulled me into a false sense of comfort.
Emily’s pains began on a warm spring day in the middle of May. The season always arrived a little later out on the Lake. Some years, patches of white snow remained hidden in the shaded hollows in the woods while plants struggled to poke their way through the soil to reach the sunshine, and this year was no different. Emily and I were checking the wetlands for fiddleheads. She was moving slowly, her tiny frame weighted by the bulk of the child.
It caught me off guard. We were walking together along the path that runs from the light to the boat harbor, cutting through a bog, which was home to the sprouting fern plants. She stopped as a contraction gripped her, pausing to lean against the trunk of a tree while the spasm coursed through her body. She did not cry out, and I was a few yards down the path before I noticed she was no longer at my side. When I turned to look at her, to see why she lagged behind, I knew her time had come, but still I asked.
“Is it the baby, Emily?”
She nodded.
I came alongside her and took her by the arm, intending to support her as we walked back to the cottage. I was counting on Mother to know what to do. She had birthed before. She knew the miracles that brought new life into the world. She was efficient and practical. But Emily refused to go. The contraction passed, and she straightened, stepping forward on the path, heading away from the cottage and deeper into the dark woods. It occurred to me that the contractions had been coming for some time, that her restlessness throughout the night had stemmed from more than the usual discomfort she had been experiencing lately. Her labor was well established. I told her we needed to go back, that we needed to get her into bed, that we needed Mother. But she shook her head and continued walking.
Not knowing what else I could do, I followed.
She stayed on the path heading down to the boat harbor, stopping to lean against the wall of the boathouse as another contraction rippled through her. When it passed, she proceeded across to the beach on the east side of Porphyry, where she sat, looking out at Dreadnaught Island. We spent more than an hour there, the time punctuated by the rhythmic progress of her labor, barely discernible in a quick intake of breath and the clenching of her hands. A small breeze picked up, and while it was fresh and warm, with the promise of milder days to come, I began to feel the fingers of cold working themselves through my coat and prickling my skin. Emily seemed content, but I was restless and again encouraged her to return to the warmth of our home and the skills of Mother.
When she stood, her waters broke, spilling onto the shore and disappearing into the coarse black sand. She turned to me then, turned to me with those dark gray eyes, pleading, begging, but I did not know what she was asking. It was far to the light, too far for me to leave her, to run in search of Charlie or Mother. I was torn, trying to decide how to get her back, how quickly I could get help, when she collapsed onto the beach, deep moans escaping from her as she clutched at the fabric of her clothing.
I knelt beside her. The black sand had captured some of the sun, but this was no place for a child to come into the world. I wanted the woodstove. I wanted the bed, and towels and water and Mother. I worried for Emily. I worried for our baby.
“Look, Emily. If you can make it back to the boathouse, I can push you in the cart up to the light. We need to get back. We need to—”