In today's passage, Amy awakens freed from her ordeal at the Dew Drop Inn.
The scent of dust and oil makes me nauseous. It’s all that I can smell mixed in with the doctor’s smelling salts when I come to. Mama is looking down at me and the blue sky blooms out from her hair. Her hair has so many wisps it is half down. There is dried blood on her cheek and her right eye is half-closed and swollen. There is a halo of shadow glowing around her face. “Amy, Amy we here honey. We are here.” She says over and over.
A man is standing next to her. Not my Pa. I look around me. I’m lying on grass next to a white washed building that looks like a church. The sun is so bright it makes everything around me seem dark.
“I don’t think she can see.” The man says.
“No, no I can’t.” I say, but the sound that escapes my lips doesn’t form the words I intended. Instead, I hear a low moan. I look around to see what animal has made this terrible sound before I realize it has come from me. The noise has arisen from my own throat.
How can it be? I think. How can that silly letter I wrote, how can that dumb hope have gotten all the way to New York. It seems like an impossible journey. What hands had to pick it up off the ground. What person had to have had the sense to pick it up, take it to the post office and pay the postage, and mail it off to my Mama? Who would have done such a thing? It seems impossible. But here she is looking down into my face like I’m her newborn child.
“Water.” I rasp. And it’s clear that they understand me because the man stops his gaze to lean back and dip a tin cup in a wooden bucket.
“Here,” he says, handing me the cool, dripping cup. “Drink this!”
And I take a sip. And then sink back into another darkness. But not before I let out a deep breath. Not before I let the worry wash out of my face as my mother strokes my cheek. “It’s alright Amy,” she says as I slide back into the dark. “Everything is going to be okay.”