My Hands Hold My Story (Rough Draft)

Chapter Three

All too soon, though, Father released me and stepped back. He cupped my cheek with his left hand and stared at me like he wanted to remember every detail of my face. Pulling his hand back, he turned from me to face the counter. He pulled a pad of paper from somewhere and began to write. His immediate desire to communicate with me warmed my heart.

I took the opportunity to study him. His appearance hadn't changed much. He was still tall, though not as tall as I remember since my six year old mind had considered him next to a giant. There were more lines around his face, and there was an air of seriousness around him that made me sad. He'd smiled so much before the war.

He'd also gained some weight. I remembered how frail he'd been when he was discharged from the army. An infection had taken its toll on him, although it hadn't necessitated the removal of his arm. He was dressed in a suit and vest, appropriate attire for a storekeeper

As I waited to read whatever he was writing, I glanced over my shoulder. Simon was deep in conversation with the young woman, who was looking more and more upset. A hand on my arm made me refocus on my father, who handed me the paper.

Ivy, what are you doing here? Is Ruth with you?

He didn't know about Aunt Ruth's death. That distracted me from how bad his handwriting was. He'd been right handed before the injury during battle made his right arm useless. Oh, why hadn't Uncle Richard sent word? Father was Aunt Ruth's only brother. He should have sent a telegram.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped to the counter and set down the books and my reticule. Picking up the pen, I began to write. The memories made my eyes fill with tears and blurred the words.

I remembered knowing that I was too late to help Aunt Ruth, but desperation had pushed me to press my fingers against her still warm skin and to shake her shoulder. My actions had no effect and I felt no heartbeat.

That was when I thought of the doctor. Dr. Babson was just down the street. He had to be able to help her!

A sob was in my throat as I forced myself to my feet. I'd tripped over my own skirt when I rushed to the door but I caught myself against the wall. Brushing tears from my face, I pulled the front door open and just ran.

In the years since Father and Simon left Springfield, Aunt Ruth had been my protector and comforter. What would I do without her? How could I endure Uncle Richard if she were not there to shield me from him?

There was only two people sitting in the small sitting room when I entered the house Dr. Babson used as both his home and office and I paid them only enough attention to take notice of them. Mrs. Babson, who acted as nurse for her husband, rose to greet me. Through my tears I read her lips: "Ivy. What is wrong?"

My hands moved faster than ever as I tried to explain in the language that had become second nature to me and I couldn't stop crying. Mrs. Babson caught my hands and held them still. "Ivy. I don't understand," she said. Her brow was furrowed with concern as she gestured to her desk where there was paper and writing implements.

The pen she pressed into my right hand shook as I put it to paper. My aunt fell down the stairs. I think she's....

That was all I could bring myself to write but it was enough to send Mrs. Babson running to the doctor's office. I collapsed onto one of the chairs and wrapped my arms around myself in an attempt to control my trembling.

How could this have happened?

Dr. Babson, who had always looked after my family, had been quick to follow me back to the house, and, with a grave expression, covered Aunt Ruth's body with a blanket after I showed him where it had happened. I sat on the bottom step and continued to cry. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't seem to do anything else.