As he carries me to the beach, I see that a small crowd has gathered. But where is Mama?
I see her running! Wiping her shining blue eyes with a handkerchief. And reaching—reaching for me, arms outstretched. Then she is enfolding me in her embrace. When she touches the side of my head, I wince. Mama’s hands rise to her throat, shaking. Her lips tremble, but she manages a smile.
“Really you?” she signs. “Are you okay?”
“Me,” I sign. “I am better now.”
Papa puts me down on the sand, retrieves a blanket from the oxcart, and returns Ezra Brewer’s sealskin coat—his only coat.
Mama’s embrace is soft as velvet. I never noticed her scent before I was taken off the island. It’s a combination of rose water, clean wool, and cinnamon. I run my fingers over the fine features of her face and touch her hair. I feel a gentle peal of laughter.
Mr. Pye and Miss Hammond approach us and sign, “Welcome home.” It’s reassuring to see their friendly faces. I smile and tell them it is good to be back.
Mama and I walk the beach to the high road, with the blanket covering my storm-beaten garments. Nancy races to greet me. She looks me up and down, the way a dog might sniff a familiar bone that went missing. She looks into my eyes.
I sign to her, “I just want to say—”
“Oh, forget it, Mary,” she signs. “I have been thinking about all the ways I could have been a better friend. Don’t you dare outshine me and apologize first!”
“I have a lot to tell you one day,” I sign.
“I have something to tell you too,” she signs as we walk.
Reverend Lee greets me at the high road. “My child,” he signs, overcome with emotion and struggling to find the right words in his hands. “May we be able to distinguish between the angels and demons. And may you stay safe, in the bosom of your family and community for all your days.”
I take the hand he offers me and smile up at him.
As Mama, Papa, and I climb on the oxcart, I look back at the ocean receding under a burnt orange sunset. It is good to be back on my island.
As we near the farm, I see Thomas and Eamon fixing the stone wall. The frozen groundswell must have upended the stones. When we pass, they stop working, take off their caps, and wave at me. I wave back and smile.
Walking through our front door, I am overcome and my knees nearly buckle. Here there are no locked doors. No labor until my hands and knees are raw. No eating from discarded plates. No being poked and prodded. This is the place where we loved and laughed. And where we grieved and fought. This is a home.
Papa lifts me and carries me to the kitchen. I feel big in his arms. Have I grown that much during my captivity? Or have I just become more conscious of my size and age?
Papa sets me down in his chair by the fire. Mama touches my fine dress, now dirty and ripped. What does she imagine?
“Bath, then tea,” she signs.
While Papa drags out the wooden tub and Mama heats water in the kettle, I look toward George’s bedroom. The door is open, and from a distance, it looks just as he left it.
Papa exits while I bathe. I feel no shyness stepping out of my clothes in front of Mama, though I wish to shield her eyes from my injuries and gaunt ribs. I use whale oil soap scented with lavender while Mama gently works out the knots in my hair with a baleen brush. She puts a soothing balm on my ears and hands.
At the table, I sip strong English tea with cream. Images from my time in Boston flash through my mind. It’s hard to shoo them away. They are part of me now as well.
Papa opens and closes the front door. Sam comes running toward me and jumps into my lap, his paws leaving marks on my shawl and clean shift. But I don’t mind. He licks my face and sneezes. I ease him onto the floor and sit beside him. Grabbing hold of his scruff, I bury my face in his softness and cry.
Mama sits beside me and rubs my back. Papa taps his pipe. After a time, I climb into my chair.
“Thank the Lord for bringing our Mary home,” Mama signs.
“And thank our dear friend who twice braved the icy, perilous Cape and brought our daughter safely home to us,” Papa adds.
“Amen,” Mama signs.
I never thought I’d see the day when Mama said “amen” for Ezra Brewer.
She serves my favorite cranberry muffins. I take a large bite, savoring the tartness of the fruit. But my stomach grumbles and aches. Too much grog, not to mention the contents of Ezra Brewer’s larder, has temporarily stifled my appetite.
“Bed,” Papa signs, putting his hands beneath his tilted head. He winks at Mama.
As I walk out of the kitchen toward the stairs, Mama places her hands on my shoulders. She turns me around and leads me to George’s bedroom. His bedstead and bureau have been polished. New curtains drape the windows, and a new blanket covers the bed. The small desk where he worked has been cleared of his books and papers and replaced with blank rag paper, a quill pen, and an inkwell.
“For me?” I ask, disbelieving.
“Miss Hammond says you have a rare talent and the makings of a fine schoolteacher,” Mama signs. “I expect you will find an excellent use for her generous gifts.”
My heart swells.
Still, I cannot rest easy in this bed until we clear the air.
“The things I saw you say my last night at home,” I blurt out.
“I never should have said,” she replies. “Honestly, Mary. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t
