Spirit of Gettysburg: Soulmates Across Time

Chapter 11

She, a clean freak and germ phobic, loved waging war on dirt. One speck of dust with its implication of filth and disease compelled her to clean like a caffeine-addicted madwoman.

Grunting and groaning, she unpacked her few things and cleaned until her muscles burned and ached, until she annihilated every dust bunny unfortunate enough to catch her eye, until mirrors sparkled and furniture shone. Only the upstairs locked back wing remained untouched. The door between the second and third floor bedrooms was locked and there wasn't any key around to open it. She had explored every inch of Cavalry Manor except that area. She would scour the house for the key tomorrow.

Finished, she surveyed her gleaming home. There wasn't a cockroach, spider or rat in sight. She thanked God because they terrified her along with black vultures. Yeah, crazy thought black vultures, but she feared the flesh-eating birds. The fear was a deep-seated phobia.

She tore off her cleaning gloves and smoothed down her bangs. Her stomach gurgled with hunger. The ice-cream she ate hours ago was a fond memory, the sugar infused energy depleted in the house cleaning.

Minutes later she sat at the butcher-block kitchen table wolfing down peanut butter sandwiches smothered with dill pickles and drinking Dr. Peppers. She savored the odd mixture. Her mother often mocked the peculiar combination she loved, but then again her mother often mocked everything she loved.

Mom was always a problem and their tumultuous relationship was complicated. She was a hedonistic drunk, immature and narcissistic. She lived to party, thrived on drama and twisting things around so that you were wrong, especially if you were right. Unhappy with her own life, she intentionally made Maureen's life miserable. Her first priority was herself, her numerous lovers and as an afterthought, her daughter, but Maureen loved her as one loved a naughty child because she was her blood. Tears stung her eyes. She bottled her emotions. Crying never solved anything. She learned in childhood to ask only God's help, to suck it up and move forward. Change was the one surety about life, both good and bad change.

Maureen finished eating and yawned. She craved a hot bath and a restful sleep. Thirty minutes later, clean and relaxed, she crawled into bed.

She glanced at the small statue of Jesus Christ on the nightstand with the words "With God All Things Are Possible" written on it. This was her spiritual treasure. She bought it as a teenager.

She stroked the gold cross hanging around her neck, her spiritual protection. Her mother and later Vincent ridiculed her for constantly wearing it, but she wasn't bullied by them. She kept it on. She smiled. She was in safe hands and loved. 

Her eyelids fluttered with exhaustion and she murmured her nightly prayers. "Thank you Jesus thank you for my blessings. The Lord is our Light; Jesus Christ is our Savior and the Light of the World. You are the way, the truth and the life, amen. Please bring my darling sweetheart to me and guide me in this endeavor to save him."

One last thing she needed before she slept was fresh air in the bedroom. It helped her sleep and even in winter she slept with a window cracked open. The cold air cleared her complexion and cooled her body.

She opened the window and gazed at the night sky. The full moon hung low and the tapestry of wickedly brilliant stars sparkled from Heaven. A low, cooing sound broke the tranquil air. What was it?

She listened closely. It repeated itself. A mourning dove cooed for its mate, the bird's loneliness palpable. Her heart melted. Where was her spirit husband?

She yearned for him. Whenever he appeared, a mourning dove sang its heart out. Perhaps tonight?

She returned to bed and snuggled under the blankets. She willed sleep's release but it denied her request. The locked door bothered her. She jumped out of bed, rushed to the landing's door and rattled the doorknob.

"Open!" Her foot tapped a beat on the wooden floor for a minute or two before she gave up and scurried back to bed, tossing and turning until the pale white blankets resembled lumpy potatoes and the fluffy pillows were tire flat.

She punched the pillows into shape, folded her arms behind her head and listened to the mourning dove cooing outside the open window. "Quiet! He isn't coming tonight."

It cooed louder.

Of course, go figure. She slapped her hands over her ears. It cooed louder. She placed pillows over her ears. Success! She slept. Her Confederate soldier consumed her dreams with smiles, kisses and hugs.

Author's Note:  Next Chapters Tuesday!