Of all the heartless things Annie’s mother has done in twenty-six years, this might be the corker. She did it in a manner most unusual for her, did it without raising her chapped hand or equally chapped voice. Did it with silent duplicity undiscovered until this morning by her youngest child, who should know better than to allow it to shock her.

The unread letter sizzles in Annie’s fingers, as if it’s her fault she hasn’t read it yet. Her brother Cal intended it for her alone. Her name, Analiese Rushton, sprawls across the full width of the envelope, the ink-splotch dot of the i sailing high as a jackdaw over the scrawl. Cal’s rogue humor leers up at her from where he penned the address, Cherry Pit, Iowa, crossed out Pit, and block printed Hill.

She wouldn’t have found the letter had not she wanted to settle the doctor’s bill before he leaves, had she not had to lift the iron cashbox out of the drawer of Pa’s desk to jimmy the crotchety latch. The letter’s postmark, so bold she can hear the stamp striking the envelope: January 11, 1911. At least five months this letter has lain in dark limbo, hidden in the lowest reaches of a desk everyone still tiptoes around.

A single minute is all she would need to separate the message from its envelope and lay eyes upon news Ma found dire enough to keep from Annie in such a devious way. But Doc’s step descending the stairs melds with the scrape of the front door. Annie shoves the letter into her apron pocket and removes two bills from the cashbox . . . .

The doctor places his bag on the parlor table. “Hard to say how much longer. We know your ma can be tenacious as tar. ” He unhooks his tiny spectacles and folds them with an anemic click. “Just keep her as comfortable as you can. Her discomfort may increase,” he says, lifting from his bag a brown glass bottle. “Laudanum. Mix it with strong tea. This much to ease the pain, as needed.” He indicates with a fingertip. “This much if . . .” His finger moves up the bottle. He purses his lips.

Annie clutches the fabric inside her pockets. “You think I would do that?” 

That crazy Rushton girl. She doesn’t need special powers to read his thoughts or those of a town that loves to talk not-quite-under its breath.

“For pain.” The doctor drops his full weight on the word.

“I wouldn’t do that.” She hands the bills to the doctor. He places the brown bottle on the parlor table and folds the money into a vest pocket.

***

from The River by Starlight, Chapter One
by Ellen Notbohm (2018, She Writes Press) ellennotbohm.com
Gold Medal, 2018 Independent Book Publisher Awards, Best Regional Fiction, West-Mountain

“Magical storytelling. . . With intimate and poetic language reminiscent of Paulette Jiles and Marisa de los Santos, Notbohm demonstrates that loss and fragility often exist alongside strength and bliss.Read the full Booklist review.

“Captivating . . . exquisite . . . weaves heartache and redemption together to illuminate the power of love in life’s darkest moments.” Read the full Foreword Review here.

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