A Changing Light Edith Maxwell (rainbow fish read aloud txt) 📖

to the device in the sitting room. I had told Alma this afternoon where I would be during the evening.

“I think you’d better come now, Rose,” she’d said in a low, somber tone.

I’d returned to the table and told the family. We all held Orpha in a moment of silent prayer before David drove me over to Orchard Street.

Now I kissed my husband. “I might be all night,” I said. “Don’t wait up for me.”

“I shall sleep near the telephone. Summon me whenever you’re ready to come home. I will hold Orpha in my prayers even as I slumber.”

I gazed fondly at him before stepping down and entering the house. Alma sat darning a stocking at Orpha’s bedside when I crept in. She raised a tearstained face.

“I knew this time was coming. But it’s hard, Rose.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

I touched her shoulder. “I know.” I’d accompanied my sister Harriet on her last journey. She’d been much younger than Orpha and had been felled by illness, not old age. Still, it was those who were left behind who felt the hurt of loss.

I gazed at my teacher and friend in the bed, this woman who had been an important part of my adult life in myriad ways. She lay on her back with her eyes shut. I stood with my own eyes closed for a moment, holding her soul in God’s Light that her passage might be easy.

“Alma, let me relieve thee. Has thee supped?”

“No.”

“Then go. Eat and go to bed. I’ll be here for the duration.”

“I’ll eat something.” Alma stood. “I doubt I could sleep, though. I did clean her up an hour ago. She’s not passing much water, but I fitted her out with extra rags.”

“Has she been in pain, that thee can tell?”

“I don’t think so. She’s not grimacing nor groaning, but she doesn’t seem conscious. It’s different than being asleep.”

“Yes, she’s in a comatose state, Alma.”

She kissed Orpha’s brow and whispered, “I love you, Nana,” before making her way quietly out of the room.

I smoothed Orpha’s hair back off her forehead before I sat, then took her hand in mine. My mentor’s life ending. My baby’s life beginning. So much change in the world—for good, for bad, for whatever we humans would make of it.

“Thy passage will be easy, dear Orpha,” I murmured. “Thee will glide away on a soft wave and leave this earthly shell behind. I love thee, and it’s all right to let go.” I kept talking until I ran out of soothing words. I didn’t know if she could hear me or, if she could, if she could make sense of my ramblings. But I had the notion my voice might bring her comfort. I began to sing and started with, “Lullaby, and good night, with roses bedight.”

Alma came back in after some time and pulled the rocker on the other side of the bed closer to it. She took Orpha’s other hand and joined me in a soft rendition of “Shenandoah,” harmonizing in a sweet soprano that fit well with my lower alto range.

“Has thee had voice lessons?” I asked her after we’d finished another tune.

She laughed quietly. “I did, for a time, before I married. Prudence Weed taught me. Once the babies came along, it seemed more practical to take up dressmaking than to pursue a career as a singer.”

I tilted my head. “Does Prudence have a son named Zeb?”

“Yes. Faith’s Zeb.”

“I forgot you know Faith. I guess I didn’t realize Zeb’s mother taught music.” I checked Orpha, but our chatting didn’t seem to have disturbed her.

“Mrs. Weed doesn’t teach anymore.” Alma raised her eyebrows and turned her mouth down a little. “She’s overly fond of the drink, that one. She would be late for lessons, and one morning she was clearly inebriated. My father threw her out of the house.”

Good heavens. I brought a hand to my mouth. “I had no idea.”

“It’s a pity. She has a beautiful voice and has performed onstage. Mrs. Weed was also a good teacher—when she wasn’t more soused than a sailor.”

Prudence was a Quaker as far as I knew, and we were cautioned not to imbibe. If she hadn’t been raised in the Religious Society of Friends, it was unlikely Zeb’s father would have married her. The strictures on Quakers marrying out were easing of late but they wouldn’t have been twenty-five or thirty years ago. Even I had been read out of Meeting after marrying Unitarian David, but I had appealed and been readmitted within two months’ time. What was Prudence doing becoming intoxicated—or drinking alcohol at all? Faith must know. She and Zeb had lived with his parents for a few months after they’d married. I would ask her next time we met.

Alma and I lapsed into silence. After a bit I glanced over to see her sleeping in the chair. Good. It might be a long night. In my midwifery practice, I was accustomed to sitting up all night with a woman bringing new life into the world. Helping her through her labor, assisting her to walk the floors, supporting her squats to help bring down the baby, or even simply sitting by her side as she snoozed between pains. I could easily manage an end-of-life sitting up, too. The full moon shone in above the half curtain, lighting Orpha’s way into the next world.

I slipped out for a moment to use the water closet. When I returned, my teacher’s breathing had become noisy. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes had cracked open, as well. She took in a breath, and when the next didn’t come, I wondered if it had been her last. Should I call Mary Chatigny? She’d asked to be notified. But I didn’t know what she could do. It was growing late, and despite Mary’s vow to her mother, I felt accompanying Orpha was my job, and Alma’s.

With a gasping inhale, Orpha finally took another breath. This continued for