off a barrel and landed poorly, but that didn't fit the injury. The angle of her leg looked as if it'd been intentionally yanked and twisted. It was hard to think-surrounded as I was by the cries of my boy and too many goats-but the leg was clearly in bad shape. The animal was not worth the effort of trying to mend her. Her pain was great, so I decided to put her down.
I explained this to my boy, keeping my voice calm and confident. He said nothing, his tears silently sliding down his cheeks.
"Do you understand?" I finished.
He nodded once.
I picked up the goat, and as I rose to my feet my boy asked, "Can I say goodbye to Elizabeth?" He'd spoken scarcely louder than a whisper.
I lowered the goat to his height. He sniffled once, then used two fingers to pet Elizabeth's head. His pressure was light as a feather. With her pain, the goat probably didn't even notice his touch. He leaned forward to kiss her, but the animal writhed in my arms.
"Careful, boy."
He stopped short, and petted her once more instead.
"Goodbye, Elizabeth," he said softly.
I sent him home while I took care of the unpleasant task. I sold the meat; there was no way we could consume Elizabeth.
My poor boy was morose. He was still in a mood the next day, but he cheered slightly when we received a gift from a visitor. A neighbor, Mrs. Hutchins, had been sick for days, unable to keep any food down. Apparently my wife had given her a tonic the previous afternoon and she'd recovered the same evening. Her husband stopped by to deliver three loaves of their special nut bread as thanks. They sold it in town at a high price, so it was a real treat for the three of us.
These past few days, I've wondered if the two events-Elizabeth's injury and Mrs. Hutchins' recovery-were related. I think it likely they were.
It's hard for me to continue writing this, but I shall persevere.
I know you're aware of the fever that spread through our community. I heard you lost some of your staff to the illness. Well, my wife caught it. It was a shock to see my tall, vigorous wife leveled by the wasting disease. She was livid, spitting and cursing her fate. She often called our son to her side and had long, quiet conversations with him. I was excluded from these, and neither he nor she revealed what they discussed. It wasn't easy to talk to them, as she was quick to anger-her cheeks pink with both disease and fury-and my boy was withdrawn, avoiding me as well as his friends.
At the time, it seemed like the darkest moments of my life, to have such separation from them. Both wife and son rejected my comfort, although I needed their comfort just as much. I had no idea how much worse it could get.
My wife spoke in her native tongue when she was ill. Delirious with fever, she addressed phantoms I couldn't see in a language I didn't understand. She had taught our son some of it, but he couldn't, or perhaps wouldn't, translate for me. Unlike the incident with the goat, he didn't cry when his mother fell ill. Instead, he sat or stood very still, with none of the fidgeting typical of nine-year-old boys. His mouth was a sharp, unbroken line and his eyes were wide and unblinking.
When my wife finally passed, I wept and held my boy to my chest. He still didn't cry, although his body shook and he clung to me tightly. I buried her in the yard near the oleander bush she loved and burned her sheets and clothes.
I put my boy to bed and sat at the kitchen table until exhaustion took me. Some time later, I woke to the sound of moaning. I thought it was my wife at first, but then I remembered she was gone. When I realized it was my son, I rushed to his room. He was covered in sweat, and his skin was warm as rocks in the sun. This wasn't how my wife's illness began, but I know symptoms can differ from one person to the next. I despaired at the thought of losing both wife and son.
Eyes open, staring at nothing, he cried, "No! I don't want to-" He shook his head.
I tried to give him water, but he trembled violently and locked his teeth. It was such a sudden sickness! My wife's symptoms had progressed gradually, whereas my son was completely fine the day before. Could grief hasten an illness?
I wanted to fetch the physician, but I couldn't leave my son. I considered carrying him, but he started spasming-like an epileptic fit-when I tried to lift him. Shortly after sunrise, he fell unconscious. He breathed steadily, so I judged it to be sleep. I stayed by the bed, hoping rest would help. Eventually I fell asleep, gripping his hand in mine.
The movement of his hand woke me. I became alert instantly. He was no longer sweating and his skin had cooled. From his position on the bed, he surveyed the room with analytical eyes. He wore a distant expression that didn't change when I called his name.
When he faced me, he seemed older. More thoughtful. He was quiet. I asked him how he felt, but he didn't answer. He understood me, yet chose not to speak. Happy to see him without fever, I accepted it without question. I rose to get water and food, assuring him I'd return shortly.
I grabbed bread and water, then rushed back to him. I tore a small chunk from the loaf and softened it in the water, then held it to his lips. My son sat up and took it from me with a steady hand. He fed himself. He was well! That was all that mattered to me.
When he finished eating, I tried helping him from the bed, but he shook his head at my offer of assistance. I let him rest while I completed the day's chores with the enthusiasm of a man granted a second chance. It wasn't until supper that I suspected something was wrong. My boy had always been more quiet and mild-mannered than other youth, particularly other boys. We often passed the time in companionable silence together. Like I said, his disposition took after mine. What struck me that evening was how erect he held himself while we ate. He was like a man of authority, with his chin high and his gaze direct.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
He nodded.
I tried to draw him out, to get him to speak. "You fell sick so fast. Do you remember the first moment you felt ill?"
He shook his head.
"And how do you feel now?"
"Better."
Something wasn't right. I couldn't pinpoint it, but it made me uneasy.
After supper, we sat by the hearth. I asked him to read to me while I repaired a bit of tack, a common evening activity for us. He looked at me, emotionless, as if considering whether to indulge me. He stood and walked across the room, picked up our well-worn book of children's tales, sat by the fire, and began to read.
Not two sentences in, I realized what was different. His voice was not his voice. Well, it was his voice, but only in sound. The intonation and pauses were all wrong.
It reminded me of his mother.
The change in my boy bothered me, but I didn't know what to make of it. The most sensible explanation, and the simplest, was that his brief illness had affected his throat. Perhaps a lingering lethargy was also affecting him. I said nothing-what was there to say?-but I observed him more carefully the next few days.
Well, he had no lingering lethargy. In fact, he showed more spirit and energy than previously. He pushed his body to the limit, like he wanted to take full advantage of his youth. Once I caught him up in a tree, crawling from its branches to those of the tree next to it. I envied his boyish stunts, but I remained concerned. His voice continued to sound different.
He showed less interest in the animals and more interest in our herb garden. He carried out his chores, though I sometimes caught him making a face of derision, as if his chores were beneath him. But he would finish them without complaint, then run off to the Milwood Forest to play.
Without my wife to help, my daily tasks became burdensome. I was still mired in grief, and it was made worse by having less time with my boy. One day, I limited myself to only the most essential tasks so I could finish early. Satisfied with my work, I wandered off to the Milwood Forest in hopes of playing a game with my son.
I heard him singing, and his carefree joy heartened me. He sang in his mother's native tongue, which was not unusual. They'd shared many songs together. I called out to him as I approached.
H
e spun around with wide eyes, startled. He held his palm to his heaving chest and said, "Silly man! You scared me."
Now it was my turn to be startled. He'd addressed me as his mother had.
His back straightened with purpose. "Is something wrong, Papa?"
"I-No. Nothing is wrong. I just finished my work early and thought we might play a game together."
"Can we play hoop and stick?"
"Yes."
It was my son's favorite game. He cheered and ran to my side. He took my hand in his and pulled me back toward home. "Come on, Papa."
I was dazed and slow to respond. He behaved like himself now, but his earlier words had evoked a specter of his mother. My eyes saw my son. Obviously, it was him standing next to me. But it felt like my wife was present.
As we walked back home, I recalled his behavior these past three days. Now that I thought about it, he had acted more like his mother than himself. Was this how he expressed his grief? Did imitating his mother lessen the pain of her absence?
I paid close attention to his mannerisms over the next week. His face and hair had always resembled his mother's, and now his demeanor was like hers as well. However, I continued interpreting it as a child coping with loss.
Until the incident with the goat.
I was chopping wood while my boy milked one of our goats. She was a temperamental creature, and she was not having a good day. Perhaps my boy tugged on her too roughly, for she bleated and snapped in his