River

Samuel Duncan

I agree with my brother that keeping notes on patient charts is important, but my goodness it does add to the workload. I had managed to get through treating the huge line of patients that materialized yesterday the moment I returned to town, but I haven’t had the chance to take any notes. So I get up at first light and head downstairs to the office, planning to update the charts with everything I can remember.

I start with Marguerite Ellis. Honestly, I don’t know how necessary it is to keep a patient chart for her, because I realize that I am unlikely to need to treat her again. She was so frail and weak by the end of the week that I was honestly surprised to see her still clinging to life. She has some inner strength that is keeping her going. It occurs to me that she might be hoping to see her daughter Margaret one more time. I know that people can miraculously forestall death with sheer force of willpower if there is something that they want to accomplish first. I wonder if that is what it is.

I fill out a chart for her, listing her symptoms, my diagnosis, my treatments. I go to the cabinet to file it, then leaf through the other charts in the drawer to pull out the ones for each of the patients that I treated yesterday. I return to my desk with the stack, resolved to get this done before today’s line of patients shows up.

But then, far too early, I hear the door open. It is already starting? I stand from the desk and move out from my small office to the front, to see who has arrived.

It is Ben.

I am paralyzed with shock for a moment, and can do nothing but gaze at him, drinking in the sight that I have been missing so much.

His eyes are wild as he stares at me, then we both reach for each other. I pull him back into my office and close the door, blocking the view from the windows in front of anybody who might happen to pass by.

Our embrace is wonderful and ferocious, it encompasses us both, everything else disappears. There is nothing but his arms, his mouth, him. I revel in the feeling of his strong arms fiercely crushing me. I crush him back. I know I am letting my hands go everywhere.

After a few minutes, I pull back from him, to share the joy that I feel at being together again. But I am alarmed to see not joy on his face, but desperation, almost grief.

“What is it?” I whisper.

“My friend David is sick. Very sick. I’m sorry to lay this on you, right when you get home, but can you come with me?” His brow is furrowed, he is unknowingly wringing his hands.

He needs me, so much, I can see it on his face. He doesn’t need my love as much right now as he needs my expertise. I will do this for him, I will love him in this way. I begin questioning him, gathering the information I will need, as I move over to begin stocking my medical bag.

“Do you know what is wrong?” I ask him.

“Gregor says it is blood poisoning.”

Oh. I don’t know why Gregor is involved or how he would know that, but it helps me prepare. “Any idea what caused it?”

He grimaces oddly, and says, “He had cuts that festered.”

I nod, and begin collecting the supplies I believe I can use. “He has fever?”

“Yes, he’s so hot he’s practically on fire.” His voice is shaking. I know how much he cares for David. They have been best friends for most of their lives. I feel like there is something else going on too, some other reason Ben seems so shaky and upset, but now is not the time to interrogate him about that. I have to focus.

I check my bag one more time. “Okay, let’s go.” He nods, but he looks like he is barely holding himself together. Before I open the door, I take his hand, force him to look at me. “It will be all right, Ben. We’ll take care of him.”

He presses his lips together, clearly trying to get control of himself, takes a deep breath, and walks out the door.

Margaret

Dawn is breaking as we pull up the drive to Ellis Cliffs. The plantation is quiet, nobody is yet out and about. My heart is thumping, but Stephen is holding me, trying to keep me calm. I am about to find out whatever it is that is wrong. And I know something is wrong.

Despite how early it is, Nancy comes fully dressed out the front door when she hears the stagecoach. There is something about her face that is different. It’s been less than two weeks, why does she look older to me?

It is her expression. Somber. Mature.

I know from it immediately that I was right.

When we get out of the stagecoach, Nancy tells me, “She’s been waiting for you.”

It is only Stephen’s strong arm holding me that prevents me from stumbling and falling as we climb the stairs to the porch.

“It’s Mama, isn’t it?” I ask.

She nods. “How did you know to come back?”

“I don’t know, I just could tell something was wrong.”

Stephen quickly transitions into doctor mode. “Tell me what is happening, Nancy,” he says as we enter the house.

“Dr. Duncan said it is a blood disorder,” she says. “The other Dr. Duncan. He was here for a week after the wedding.”

Stephen and I look at each other. Clearly there is a whole story here, but we both want to get upstairs at once and see Mama. I just have to be with her. Stephen wants to help her, I know.

Nancy leads us up the stairs to Mama’s bedroom. When we enter, I see Papa sitting next to her bed, and she is lying very still on it. The room is dim, the curtains drawn, even though the sun is up. Papa looks haggard, his beard and hair unkempt, huge dark circles under his eyes.

Mama looks like she is barely here. She doesn’t make much of a lump under the covers, she seems so thin. Her skin looks delicate, almost transparent. Her dark circles are even worse than Papa’s, her cheekbones are sunken, and the skin around her lips is white. Her hands lie on top of the counterpane covering her, looking almost skeletal. I can’t believe how much she has changed since the wedding.

I involuntarily gasp, my hands coming up to cover my mouth. Nancy puts her hand on my shoulder. It seems that she has gotten used to this so it doesn’t seem shocking to her, but I am shocked. More than I ever have been.

Stephen moves to the other side of the bed, greets Papa quietly, and lifts one of Mama’s wrists to feel her pulse. Papa seems to just now realize that Stephen has arrived, and looks around the room like he is waking up from a trance. He turns his head and sees me, still standing in the doorway, my hands to my face.

“Margaret,” he whispers, and I am appalled to see tears start to slip down his cheeks, pooling in his beard. I never imagined seeing my powerful father, the mountain of a man that I have always seen as a fount of unending strength, looking so broken.

Then, again, I hear my name, the softest whisper, coming from the bed. “Margaret,” my mother rasps, and the fingers of her hand lift, clearly not even having the strength to raise her entire hand.

I rush to her, kneel on the side of her bed next to my father’s chair. Nancy comes along and stands behind me. In a moment I feel someone else next to me, and glance up to see my brother standing there as well, his young face filled with both emotion and an eerie calm.

Stephen is on the other side of the bed, conducting an examination, checking her breathing, her eyes, her temperature. He is all business, and I am all heart.

Mama’s sticklike fingers are fluttering over the covers, so I reach to take her hand in mine, and she relaxes. Her eyes close, and I think she has fallen to sleep.

I look up at Stephen, hoping to see encouragement in his eyes, but he only looks at me sadly, and very slightly shakes his head. I know then that this is what I was in such a rush to get home for. I had to be here to say goodbye.

We are all silent and still for a few minutes, the only sound Mama’s shallow breathing. Stephen isn’t doing anything else for her; I know he has concluded that nothing can be done except to simply be with her. I feel his eyes on my face, as mine rest on hers.

After a while, she takes a deeper breath, opens her eyes, and I feel her hand suddenly squeeze my fingers, with a strength I would never have guessed she still possessed. Her eyes run over us all, lined up here along the side of her bed.

“Margaret,” she says, softly, but her voice is stronger than a whisper this time. “I was just waiting to see you.”

“I’m here, Mama,” I choke out, trying to control my voice.

She nods slightly. “I’m glad to see my family all here again.” Her eyes look strangely shiny, like they are somehow lit from within. “Children,” she tells us, “be good to your father.”

A sob escapes from him.

“I love you,” she says, her voice once again barely a whisper, fading out even as the words are being spoken, until there is only silence.

I feel her fingers go limp in my hand.

Marguerite’s

It is time.

I am filled with grief at the ending of this lifetime, yet also with the ecstasy that comes with becoming whole once again.

I feel myself being pulled towards her, towards her failing body, as her soul moves towards me, merging, combining, becoming one again.

And we are complete. All of the fifty-three years of her life that we have shared are part of me, all of her pain, her joy, her grief, her delight, her toil, her concerns, and most of all her love. All of it is preserved forever within me. The soul contains her essence, her being, everything that made her uniquely Marguerite. And now it will live on, forever, carried lovingly by myself.

I swiftly leave our life behind, and rejoin the other Guardians, the ones waiting, the ones between Guarding.

Marguerite swirls within me, filling my memory. I will always love her, always treasure her, always keep her with me.

I have shared many lives, hold the memories of many souls. The past souls, my other beloved ones, surge again to my consciousness, after having been suppressed during Marguerite’s lifetime. We focus on our living Guarded, but between lives we are free to love each of our darling ones.

They welcome her, join with her, absorb her. We are all united. And I love them all.