Drowning Ruth - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

A former teacher, Christina Schwarz gave up her job to concentrate on a full-time writing career.

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Chapter Two

Ruth Aunt Mandy told me to be quiet, but I didn't be quiet. And then my mother went away. Amanda 'My sister's gone,' I told the sheriff. He yawned and rubbed his face. When there wasn't any lawbreaking, which was most of the time, the sheriff was just Mr Kuhtz, a farmer. I'd gotten him out of bed. 'What's that?' 'I can't find Mathilda.' I shifted Ruth, bundled in a feather quilt against the cruel November night, to my other hip. My arms were nearly limp with weariness, and she was heavy, but I couldn't let her go. I'd been home less than a year, and I had lost my sister. 'Well, how long has she been gone?' 'Hours. I don't know how many. We all went to bed and then something woke Ruth. That's when I saw that Mattie wasn't in her room. Wasn't in the house at all.' 'You still out on the island?' He frowned, and I knew Mathilda had been right. People had been wondering about us. 'You come over on the ice already?' Just then Mrs Kuhtz appeared behind him. 'Why are they standing out in the cold, Cyrus?' she scolded. 'Come in. Sit down, and I'll get you something hot to drink.' She had a very good face for trouble - she looked stricken, full of concern. 'Here, give me the little girl. Ain't you just frozen, sweetheart?' She held her arms out for Ruth. 'No!' I said. I pulled Ruth against me so hard that she yelped. 'We have to get home. In case Mattie comes back.' 'Cy'll find her,' Mrs Kuhtz said soothingly. The sheriff had already gone to put on his clothes. 'He'll bring her back.' I turned then, and went off across the frozen grass. When Ruth shivered, I opened my coat so she could share its warmth. Under the quilt she had nothing on. Where were we going? I wasn't certain, despite what I'd told Mrs Kuhtz. Not back to the island - that was unthinkable. With no plan, I staggered along the same road I'd traveled eight months before, this time with Ruth, heavy as an anchor, clutched to my chest. Although we were moving away from the water, the lake itself seemed to be beneath my skin, for I leaked and dripped with every painful step. My wet hair had frozen on my head. The front of my dress was sodden under my coat; my vision was blurred. But my feet knew the way, just as they had in March. Back I went to the dark, cold farmhouse, the place we never should have left, where we'd all have been safe, if not for me. Ruth was asleep by the time we reached home, her head drooping along my arm. Her nightgown was back on the island, so I wrapped her as well as I could in one of my father's old shirts and my mother's shawl. I lit the stove and rocked her in my lap, while I waited for water to heat. Then I filled the hot water bottle and tucked it beside her in bed under the eiderdown. For a moment, her deep breaths paused and I held my own breath, waiting for the worst, but she only sighed and slept on. Satisfied that she was warm and safe, I went down to the kitchen and removed my mittens. My hand wasn't as bad as I'd feared. Most of the blood had dried and the punctures were small in circumference. Many of them were deep, however. There would be scars, a ring in the meat at the base of my thumb. Who could have imagined such a little thing would have such strength? Who would have thought she would struggle so fiercely? I found my father's whiskey and dabbed a little on my wounds. Then I drank a glass. People said it made you forget.

When Ruth awoke the next morning in a room she hadn't slept in for months, she called for her mama. I was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for the night to be over. My body had striven against me for sleep, for escape from the sores and bruises and the paining muscles, but whenever I closed my eyes what I saw behind them was unbearable. In the daylight, I'd promised myself, everything would be different. They would find Mathilda at a neighbor's house, somewhere along the lake, or maybe even in the woods around the bay. She would be wet, maybe, and freezing. She might even have caught a chill. Her dress would certainly be ruined, but that would be the worst of it. I would heat a bath for her and make a strong soup and bundle her into her bed. We wouldn't talk about what had happened. We'd only be glad that it was over and that we could go on as we had before. I had only to make it through the darkness, and then she would come home. I promised myself that. Or maybe nothing had happened. I hid my hand in my lap and told myself it had all been a nightmare. When the sun rose Mathilda would come down to the kitchen, and we would laugh about the craziness of dreams and how real they can seem so that you wake up hardly able to breathe for the speed of your heart. She would say how silly I'd been not to slide into her bed for comfort and how I would be no good to anyone without a night's sleep. She would tease me about being afraid of my own shadow, and we would make pancakes together for Ruth. Yes, that was how it would be when the sun came up. As long as I didn't check - that was important - as long as I didn't check to see that Mathilda was in her bed, but simply waited faithfully through the night, in the daylight things would be different.