“I want to be a good daughter,” I sign.
“You are,” Mama signs. She nods as her eyes fill with tears, and she takes my hands.
I look out the window. The snow and ice will thaw in a few months. Will the horrors I experienced melt away too?
Mama signs, “Sleep close by. No one can harm you.” Did she sense my thoughts?
I hug her for a long time before I kneel on the red braided rug next to my bed. I give thanks to Our Lord and Ezra Brewer for bringing me safely home, and to Mama and Papa for seeing the best in me. I add Mr. Squints, Dr. Minot, Nora, and the man in the Monmouth cap to the list of people I name in my prayers.
I also remember Andrew. “For it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.”
I place George’s map of memories safely on the desk before I slip into bed.
I want to stay awake to feel the vibrations of Mama and Papa in the bedroom next door. But I drop into a sound sleep.
When I rise, I put on the dress Mama made for my Christmas present. It is still folded and tied with a velvet bow. It has a floral pattern with pink and green roses embroidered on a cream-colored wool gown. A gold coin is sewn into the hem for luck.
There are two roses on my new petticoat, which no one will see but me. They are like a secret between Mama and me. I put on new woven stockings and an old pair of brown shoes.
Mama is in the kitchen. Her face lights like the sun when she sees me. She rushes about as if I am a special guest.
After a scrumptious breakfast of johnnycakes with syrup, Mama signs, “Get your cloak,” and smiles. Happy little wrinkles beside her eyes appear, something I have not seen in a long time.
When I am tucked into my cloak and hat, she takes my hand and leads me outside along the high road through the remnants of snow. I wonder where we are going.
We see Mrs. Tilton and Carrie in the lane. Carrie embraces me. Mama pauses to speak with Mrs. Tilton. She is being sociable, and it makes my heart glad.
As we pass the parsonage, Mr. Lee is chipping the ice from his porch. He stops and waves to us, a gesture Mama returns warmly. We follow a wrought-iron fence farther on.
The grave markers are crooked gray landmarks among the patchy snow. She takes me to George’s, which is not yet worn from the passing of time. From her cloak, she removes a Christmas wreath and hands it to me.
“You, place,” she signs.
I kneel and carefully lay the wreath over his resting place while I sign the Lord’s Prayer.
Then I sign, “My dear brother, I will grow up. You will always stay fifteen. Mama tells me that mockingbirds change their tune, but you cannot change your song. Is it fine to follow my own dream, if I honor all that was you and the time we spent together? We must move ahead, never forgetting, but embracing the tangible world. And loving each other more than ever.”
Mama offers me her hand and helps me stand. As we walk toward home, we are at peace together for the first time in a long time.
Back in the kitchen, I smile at Mama and get to work. Without being asked, I sweep and dust. I go out to the well and carry in water to boil. I cut up the “three sisters” without complaint. I add some dried herbs to the stock in the kettle. I even clean Mama and Papa’s chamber pots. Mama could not look more surprised if there were a buffalo running wild through the kitchen!
I like working side by side with Mama. The quiet rhythm of these chores feels newly satisfying. In a few months, it will be time for our big spring cleaning. I intend to help Mama with the heavy work—scrubbing, washing, and beating the rugs.
Mama taps me on the shoulder. I turn around and she signs, “Go out for your walk. I appreciate your help. You wouldn’t be you if you stayed inside with me all day.”
I promise Mama I will be back in a couple of hours, to help her prepare for dinner, and I don’t cross my fingers behind my back.
I pick up a fallen birch stick and walk toward the farm. I trace the tracks from a recently shod horse. I poke at an empty silver-blue mussel shell. I draw a cross on the ground where George passed on. It will always be a sacred patch of road, but his spirit has flown to Heaven.
I spot Papa and Eamon talking in the distant pastures and find Thomas in the barn. He is wrapping his possessions in a calico cloth. Is he returning home at midday? Perhaps there is an urgency in Aquinnah.
“Good morrow,” I sign.
“Good to see you,” he signs, with a simple gesture.
“Sally here?” I sign.
He turns around and calls to her.
To my happy surprise, she walks toward us with her mama. They must all be riding home together. Perhaps there is a Wampanoag ceremony. Papa does not prevent Thomas from observing his traditions. But I am surprised that the Skiffes let Helen and Sally off early.
“We’re glad to have you back, Mary,” Helen signs warmly. She takes my hands in hers. When we let go, she has placed a necklace in my hand. I recognize the white wampum beads made from whelk shells and the carved green serpentine found in rocks and named for its snakelike hue. Both of these are
