Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

to my needs.
    "Vera will bring up your food and help you with your necessities," she declared. "But Papa wants you up and about in short order. Vera's got enough to do without looking after the likes of you, too.
    "You'll not discuss or mention the birth of the baby with Vera. No one's to bring it up or even hint about it in this house. Papa's made that perfectly clear so everyone knows better."
    "How is my baby?" I asked her, and she flared up instantly.
    "Never, never, never refer to her as your baby. She's Mamma's baby, Mamma's," she pounded.
    I closed my eyes, swallowed, and then asked her again.
    "How is Mamma's baby?"
    "Charlotte's doing fine," she told me.
    "Charlotte? That's her name?"
    "Yes. Papa thought naming her Charlotte was something Mamma would want. Charlotte was Mamma's grandmother's name," she told me. "Everyone will understand and it will help them believe the baby is Mamma's."
    "And how is Mamma?"
    Her eyes darkened.
    "Mamma is not doing well," she said. "We have to pray, Lillian. We have to pray as much and as long as we can."
    Her serious tone frightened me.
    "Why doesn't Papa send for the doctor now? He has no reason not to anymore. The baby's been born," I cried.
    "I expect he will . . . shortly," she said. "So you see . . . there are plenty of serious and hard things ahead of us without your lying around like some spoiled invalid."
    "I'm not a spoiled invalid. I'm not doing this deliberately, Emily. I've gone through a horrible time. Even Mrs. Coons said so. You were here; you saw it. How can you be so unfeeling, so uncompassionate and still pretend to be so religious?" I snapped.
    "Pretend?" she gasped. "You, of all people, accuse me of pretending?"
    "Somewhere in that Bible you carry there are words about loving and caring and ministering to the needy," I replied firmly. All these years of forced Biblical training didn't go for naught. I knew of what I spoke. But Emily knew, too.
    "And somewhere there are words about evil in our hearts and the sins of man and what we must do to overcome our weaknesses. Only when the devil is driven off can we enjoy the pleasure of loving each other," she said. That was her philosophy, that was her credo, and I pitied her for it. I shook my head.
    "You'll always be alone, Emily. You'll never have anyone but yourself."
    She whipped her head back and pulled herself up to her full height.
    "I am not alone. I walk with the angel Michael who has the sword of retribution in his hand," she bragged. I simply shook my head at her. Now that my ordeal had ended, I had only pity for her. She sensed it and couldn't tolerate my gazing at her that way. She spun on her heavy heels quickly and rushed from my room.
    The first time Vera brought me something to eat, I asked her how Mamma was doing.
    "I can't tell you for sure, Lillian. The Captain and Emily have been looking after her for the past few days."
    "Papa and Emily? But why?"
    "It's the way the Captain wants it," Vera replied, but I could see she was very disturbed about it.
    Worry over Mamma got me up and out of my bed faster than I had expected. As the beginning of the third day after Charlotte's birth, I rose. At first, I moved about like an old lady, as bent over and as achy as Mrs. Coons, but as I walked the kinks out of my body, I took deep breaths and straightened up. Then I left my room and went to see Mamma.
    "Mamma?" I said, after I had knocked gently on the doorway. There was no response, but she didn't look like she was sleeping. After I closed the door behind me, I turned and saw she had her eyes open.
    "Mamma," I said, starting toward her. "It's me, Lillian. How are you today?"
    I paused before I reached her bedside. To me, Mamma looked like she had lost another twenty pounds since I had last visited. Her once magnolia-white complexion was now sickly yellow. Her beautiful flaxen hair, unwashed, unbrushed, unpampered for days, maybe even weeks, looked dry and dull. Age, riding the back of her illness, had crept into her body, even making the skin on her fingers wrinkle. There were lines in her face where I had never seen lines. Her cheek and jawbones were prominently outlined under her dry and scaly skin. Even though her lavender scent had been sprayed over her abundantly, making the whole room reek of the scent, Mamma looked unwashed, uncared for, as deserted and neglected as some impoverished woman left to rot in a public hospital ward for poor people.
    But what frightened me the most was the way Mamma