Where the Lost Wander_ A Novel - Amy Harmon Page 0,49

the reasons he wants to go to California. He was born in Massachusetts, but his family moved to New York when he was ten and then to Pennsylvania when he was thirteen, trying to find work on lands that had to be cleared and farms that didn’t produce enough to make a good living. When Pa was eighteen, his father moved the family to Illinois, where Pa met Ma. Pa says in Massachusetts there are great lighthouses that sit in the bays, signaling to the ships on the water.

There are no lighthouses on the prairie and no ships in sight. No Wyatt, no John, no loose mules or horses either.

“Make enough stew for the Caldwells too, Naomi,” Ma says, moving up behind me. Her voice is soft, but I hear her strain. She’s been watching the waves too.

“What happened to Lawrence Caldwell reaping what he sows?” I mutter.

“Only God decides when and how the reaping comes. That has nothing to do with us. We worry about what we’re sowing.”

“I can live with that . . . just as long as the reaping is slow and painful and I get to watch,” I say.

“Naomi,” Ma scolds, but I don’t apologize. Ma is a better woman than I am. Or maybe she doesn’t want to invite God’s wrath with her thoughts of vengeance while Wyatt is in need of His blessing.

“Jeb and Adam and Elmeda could use some looking after,” Ma adds softly, “whether you think Lawrence is deserving or not.”

“I’ll make enough, Ma,” I relent, but when she moves away, I whisper, “Are you watching, Lord? I’m doing a good deed, so I’d like one in return.”

Adam and Jeb are grateful for the stew and thank me kindly, eating with fervor, their eyes on their bowls and their hands filled with bread. I know Mr. Caldwell is hungry too, but he turns his back to me and folds his arms, as if I am invisible to him. I don’t bother to make myself seen. I simply climb in the back of his wagon to check on Elmeda, prepared to spoon the supper into her mouth if I have to. Her eyes are open this time, but her hands are folded in the same position, and she won’t take the spoon I offer. Her hair is matted and in need of a wash, and she hasn’t changed her dress since Lucy’s burial.

“You’re going to eat, Elmeda,” I say, folding myself beside her on Lucy’s little wooden chest. It is filled with all her favorite things.

“I don’t want to eat,” Elmeda whispers, and I am encouraged that she is talking at all.

“I know you don’t. But Jeb wants you to eat. He’s lost his brother and his sister, and now his mama is carrying on. So you can do it for him if you don’t want to do it for me.”

Mention of Jeb makes tears rise in her eyes. Elmeda loves her children, all of them, but she still won’t raise her gaze to mine.

“I’ll help you. And then I’m going to brush your hair. You’ll feel better when I’m done.” I prop her up, pulling the pillows beneath her head so I can feed her without choking her. She lolls against me like a rag doll, but I hear her stomach gurgle and know she is hungry.

“I’m not asking you to talk. I’m not asking you to look at me. I’m asking you to eat.”

She still doesn’t look at me, but she opens her mouth when I hold the spoon to her lips, letting me shovel little bites onto her tongue. When the bowl is empty, I help her drink a little water, and then I brush her hair and rebraid it, talking to her softly as I do, telling her what a beautiful evening it is and how full the moon is going to be. When I’m done, Elmeda rolls over, turning her back to me.

“I brought you something, Elmeda. I thought you could put it in Lucy’s chest with her things. When we get to California, you can put it in a frame and hang it on the wall of your new house. That way Lucy can be there with you . . . and you can look at her every day.”

Elmeda doesn’t respond or roll back toward me. I set the drawing of Lucy, the one I made on her wedding day, on the blanket she has pulled over herself.

I leave her like that, hiding beneath the covers from