Free Fields Of Gold by Marie Bostwick Page A

bit farther off every time I reached for him. Now, when I wanted him more than ever, he was just a stretched fingertip beyond my grasp. It wasn’t forgetting or distance of time that set him back; it was fear. The pull of memory was more compelling than he could bear, and so he had wiped it away in a full, absolute sweep that sometimes haunted him, an amazed observer of his own self-absorption. I could see him, though, in that strange new compartment of my mind that hadn’t seemed to exist before I knew Slim. I saw him there like a reflection in a glass, clear and sharp in one untouchable dimension. He crouched, shivering in the cold night under the wing of a plane, staring at the stars, too thickly engulfed and tortured by ungratified ambition to remember the sound of my voice because that’s how he had decided it had to be. The choice to burn brightly was a straight, seldom used path that left no room for regret or divergent routes.
    Looking back on it, I wonder that I didn’t feel angry, deserted, betrayed. I suppose I’d have hated him if I’d been able to convince myself he had deceived me. As it was, I remember only a deep sense of regret, more for him than for me. He was going to have so much and miss so much. The things we want have to be paid for. The price he’d paid was peace. Mine? My price was to stand on the dark side of the one-way mirror, seeing, anticipating, suffering, and knowing, but invisible and ineffectual—like a witness to a car accident shouting warnings that can’t be heard over the roar of the motor and the sound of wheels skidding on gravel. It was too painful a scene to return to daily.
    Mama had said, “You go on, and you live your life,” so I did. I dropped a gauzy curtain over the glass to obscure the view, though I knew that nothing in my lifetime would make the reflection go black. Forgetting was not to be one of my gifts. That would have been too easy and too hard.
    â€œWe’re all together, baby,” I whispered to my unborn son. “You won’t see him, but he’ll be there, a part of you, the part that longs for and believes in something golden beyond the horizon. That’s the thing we share. It makes us a family, connected, you see? You and me and him, now and for always.” I pulled the quilt high over my nose and mouth and pulled in gulps of cold, silent air and gave it back again, my breath an incubating warmth in the cocoon of blankets covering us.
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    â€œThere now,” Mama crooned, “he’s all clean and dry and ready to meet his mother.” Gently, as though the slightest tap would shatter him, she handed me a soft nest of flannel that protected my son.
    I pulled back the blanket to see his face. Two dark blue jewel eyes stared solemnly up at mine, searching, as though he were as curious about me as I was about him. Looking at him warmed me straight through. Suddenly, a place in my heart I’d never known existed opened, filled, and spilled over, soothing all the sharp points of my life and answering, for that moment at least, all the questions I’d never even known to ask.
    â€œOh!” I whispered in wonder, “Look at you! You’re perfect!”
    â€œHe is that.” Dr. Townsend snapped his black bag shut with a flourish that spoke of a job well done. “He’s big and strong and about as alert as any newborn I’ve ever seen. You won’t need to make up any tonics for this boy, Miss Eva. If every child in town were as healthy as this, I’d probably be out of business.” He leaned down to take another look at the baby before turning to me with a wink. “Not bad for homemade, young lady. Not bad at all. Almost as pretty a baby as you were when I delivered you.”
    Mama stood at the end of the bed and beamed. “You did fine, Eva, just fine. Never saw such a beautiful baby, and you were so brave. You’ll see, he’ll be a good baby because