The Innocence of Wonder

“Mother,” the little one quavered, leaning as far back on the pillow as her feverish head allowed her, burrowing her little face deep under the covers so that scarcely her nose was visible. Big, swollen blue eyes were turned tearfully—yet not sadly—up to her mother, peering beyond the border of the blanket.

The sorrowful young Edith turned, starting from her chair, where she had nearly fallen asleep, leaning against the bureau. Her unkept blonde hair she carelessly brushed away from her troubled brow, staggering from her chair toward the little one in the bed, instinctively grabbing the wet rag in its basin that stood beside the bed in the sick room. She paused, on seeing the little one hardly stirred, but was staring peacefully at her…

With a weary smile, Edith softly approached the bedside and stooped to kneel beside the child. Her elbows sank gently down onto the covers around the feverish form, her warm hand stroking the chilled head of her little girl. “What is it, darling?” She asked, in a hushed voice, nearly moved to tears. Her eyes fell across the cold, trembling form that lay between the thick blankets. The little chest rose and fell laboriously, rising slowly as the girl drew in her breath—hovering as the little one gasped, with a little cough—then deflating like a burst balloon. The dear face of the little sufferer was pale and wasted, not holding any of the usual childish glow that was a mother’s joy. The color had gone, at the warm season’s end, replaced by the tainted hue of of that whisperer that beckoned for all the tenderness of youth. It would not be long, now, before the illness should choke the red blossom, before it could ever bloom, ever come into the beauty of womanhood. No more would the happy one romp in the garden with the gardener, Mr. Mendel, by her side, nor drink in the fragrance of the roses as they drank in the morning sunshine. She would never rise from her bed where the gentle old man had laid her—after the fever had taken her.

The little girl, half smiling, lay still, between the covers, staring with eyes full upon her mother. Those bold blue eyes, full of curiosity and childish fancy, seemed mystified, now—as though they saw something far beyond the reality of her little room…It troubled her mother to see her so, and yet—made her wonder at the little one’s strange manner. Her child had always been full of imagination. Perhaps, this was her last time to dream…before the end.

“Mother,” the pale one continued. She continued to stare at her mother with that strange expression of wonder. “Mother, where’s Father?”

The words made Edith’s smile fade. Her eyes began to fill with tears. She turned to daub the wet rag she still held—over her daughter’s forehead and eyes, so that she would not see those tears—but they still fell…After a moment, she had regained herself enough to breathe a heavy sigh, and smile again, as she replaced the rag back in the basin, and stared fondly down at her daughter once more. “Father’s—in the drawing room,” she said gently, tracing a design in the bedsheets with her slender fingers.

The little suffering one nodded slowly, those big, dreamy eyes closing a moment, as though sinking into sleep. Edith started, at this, her brows knit fearfully some moments as she watched the sleeper in dread…but in another moment, the little one’s eyes opened, her smile spreading across her usually cheery face, now drawn and thin…and pale. “I’d like to see him,” she said, her voice sounding as sweet as an angel’s.

Edith’s eyes strayed toward her slender fingers, where they still traced a design in the bedsheets, a troubled frown crossing her face. It only stayed there as long as her eyes were turned down. Presently, she lifted her head, masking any trepidation she had held before with the placid smile she was sure to give her loving daughter. The little girl would not see her weak—not now. She must see her strong to the last. She should close her eyes with the happy thought that she should sleep in the presence of one who loved her with all her soul. “Father’s not—not doing so well,” Edith said slowly. She caressed the little head once more, trying to drive away all disturbing thoughts from the little one, now. She should rest. Now was not a time to be fretting.

“I’d like to see him,” the girl repeated, in the same sweet voice as before. Her eyes grew wider, now, as she stared up at her mother’s troubled face. They were a full sky blue, twinkling like little stars in the heavens. “I have to, Mother. He’s supposed to see me. I need to tell him something important.” The childish earnestness, in the tiny, tremulous voice of the invalid was almost enough to make her mother cry again.

Again, Edith hesitated to answer the plead of her little child. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to answer the request. But there were other things that made the matter a hard one. The piteous eyes of the sufferer started to close once more, as another laborious breath rasped through her fluid-filled lungs. She coughed violently a moment, her whole body visibly racked with the pain this caused her. Edith hovered closer to her side, patting her little shoulder, and whispering soothing words to ease the girl’s pain. This lasted only a few moments, much to the relief of Edith. Soon, her dear one was quiet once more, and seemed content to sink further back on her pillow. Edith had just begun to think the little one had forgotten her request when suddenly, she sat up in bed, her pale lips parted. The look of wonder seemed to envelop the whole of her being, now so that Edith feared this was the moment she had waited for with dread. “Mother,” the little girl said, gently, but firmly, “I have to see Father, now. I need him to know something about the garden. There’s something I’ve seen there. It wasn’t with Mr. Mendel…Oh, I wish he could have seen it! It was so beautiful I could hardly believe it was real—and to think, I had never noticed it before.”

The marveling of her daughter made Edith’s smile fade again, as she supposed this were the last fancies of a fading mind. The fever had done its work too well. If only this were not the end—not the time when she should have to say the last good-bye! She struggled, amid her falling tears, to draw the covers more closely around the shivering form. “Yes,” she said, half to herself, half as a feeble hope of silencing the little one’s anxiousness. “Yes, I will call Father in.” She struggled up from her knees, leaning heavily on the bureau to brace herself for what she must do, then slowly, crept toward the door. One last smile she cast on her golden treasure—then with a sigh, she passed through the door, gently closing it on her way out.

Once in the hallway, Edith paused, shaking her head sadly. John was not ready. He would not take this well. Since the beginning of the end, he had denied that anything was the matter with their little Jewel. She had been the image of life and vigor, a sunbeam in every step she took, a billow of love in every kiss she fondly gave to her loving parents. She simply couldn’t be ill. John would never hear of it. This was just from oversleeping, from—an upset stomach, or too little exercise. Given some time outdoors, she should soon be on the mend. Everyone was treating her too tenderly for her own good. If they would just let her be, she would soon realize there was no point in pretending to be ill, and make a swift recovery. Since the little one was born, John had always been sure to take her out to rove within the woods with him, or brought her on business trips to London, or let her sit in his lap at his desk, “-counting,” as Jewel called “accounting,” writing entries in his ledger. Her smiles brought him joy, her happiness meant more to him than anything else in the world. No, she was not ill. To make her ill was to commit the unpardonable sin.

With an effort, Edith rounded the railing, and padded down the steps to the entry below, and from there, into the drawing room. There, in a great wing-backed chair that faced the fireplace sat John. He was propped up with cushions, one long leg stretched out in front of him, the other crossed over his knee. Both his legs were crossed in such a manner as to create a striking resemblance to the number “four.” Edith smiled, on seeing this, for it reminded her of when Jewel would come in—those happy days before the illness—and weave her little body between her father’s legs, just as though she were a little worm tunneling her way through a garden hole. John would pretend not to notice her, as he read his morning paper. Often, he would turn to the longest column, and meticulously read down the page, not looking up till it was utterly necessary to turn the article over. Then, with a look of feigned surprise, he would draw back his head, and squint down at the little intruder, exclaiming, “What? I say, I thought I was alone in here!” Little Jewel would squeal with laughter, scampering a little dance she liked to do when she had been found out, making her father’s face glow with merriment…Those days were over, now.

Upon Edith’s entrance, John presently started in his chair, aroused from his reading by the light step of his wife. He half-turned in his chair to fix a mute expression of interrupted revelry on Edith. A thick volume of Sherlock Holmes was in his hand, which he had apparently been engrossed in for most of the night, ever since Edith had sat to watch their daughter. Whether it were for his own amusement, or perhaps to distract himself from what went on upstairs, she couldn’t know—but it seemed odd that he could not understand the seriousness of Jewel’s illness. It would only be another night, now—perhaps sooner—and their little treasure should be forever lost.

John, after realizing it was Edith, smiled broadly, setting his book down on the floor, as he uncrossed his legs and started up from his chair. “Ah, Edith,” he said briskly, stretching out his arms casually while he twisted his back and cocked his head to the side, “I’ve been sitting there nearly four hours,” he laughed, his own blue eyes dancing—not unlike Jewel’s, Edith thought. He seemed to contemplate the soreness of his muscles some moments, for he studied his arms with the utmost care, and fell to rubbing his back, where it must ache—but presently, he seemed to recall that something was the matter, and said, “ah, how goes our little one? Is she to be up, one of these days? I should think a bit of fresh air would do her good. What do you think? My father was always of the mind that good exercise and a bit of fresh air can do more for a body than a world of tonic and feather-brained doctors ever could.”

Edith said nothing. Her eyes were fixed upon the fireplace, where the flickering of the flames reminded her of how frail their daughter’s little life was now. It wasn’t her seventh birthday yet. She should be gone far too soon.

As his wife did not reply, John seemed to think perhaps he had not been heard. “I say, Edith, when can Jewel be out of that stuffy old room? I’d like to take her out with me one of these days—maybe to the ice cream shop, or maybe for a walk in the garden, at the least.”

At the word “garden,” Edith was aroused from her stupor. She stared at her husband a moment, repeating the word to herself to recall its meaning…then aloud, she said gravely, “That’s what I’ve come to tell you about, John—it’s the garden.”

John raised his brows in scrutiny, taking a step back to muse on this. “The garden? What about the garden?” He questioned, turning an end of his mustache between his rough fingers.

Edith’s warn face lengthened at this lack of understanding, seeming to think it reflected the general ignorance of her husband on the entire matter. She stifled a belabored sigh, biting her tongue to keep down her rising passions. This was not the time to lose her temper. She did not wish her daughter to hear anything that would trouble her now. Let her rest. All would be well. “The garden—“ Edith said, slowly, “she said there was something she saw there—something she wanted to tell you about. I don’t know what it was, for she wouldn’t tell me.”

“Oh,” John sounded relieved. He settled his hands comfortably into his pockets, taking a turn about the room. “I had thought maybe she—but never mind. The garden, you say? Well, I suppose she wanted to ask if I would take her there…Yes, I suppose that’s what it was. She wants some fresh air, just as I would want, if I had to be kept cooped up there all day every day for—how long has she been in bed anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Edith said shortly, struggling to not be cross now. She bit her lip, shaking her head. “I don’t know, John,” she closed her eyes, trying not to remember that day when this had all started. “Regardless, you’d better go talk to her. I tried to tell her not to bother you, but she insisted on you coming up to hear whatever she wanted to tell you.”

“Well, than, come I shall,” John smiled, planting a kiss on Edith’s warn cheek, as he reached her at the end of his turn. “I’ll cheer her up, you’ll see. Just wait, and one of these days, we’ll be out in the garden again.”

Edith smiled faintly, at this, but it was more to satiate John’s fancy of better days ahead than because she believed Jewel would be better soon. Silently, she stole to the fireplace to stare into its flames once more, and perhaps pass a dreary hour in solitude, alone with her own thoughts.

Up the steps, John bounded, seeming so childlike, utterly ignorant to the sickness that resided above. Into the dark hall, he sauntered, pausing before the door to the sick room. He rapped it with his knuckles. Not a noise could he hear within. “Oh, dear me, she must be asleep!” He exclaimed, suddenly rising on tip-toe, as he realized he may have awakened the invalid. He was just turning to leave when a faint, trembling voice called, “Father, is that you?”

John sprang forward in another instant, turning the knob with a grin. “Yes, indeed, my treasure!” He sang out gaily. Into the room he strode, reaching the little bed in another moment, and was soon down on one knee before it. “My, now, what have we hear?” He asked, rather taken aback, on seeing the shadows under his little sunshine’s eyes, her pale, wasted face, the shivering body that vibrated beneath the thick blankets, the shallow rising and falling of her chest. Puzzled, he stared at her for some time, unable to reconcile the “picture of health” he had imagined her to be with the apparent invalid he saw lying before him. “This cannot be,” he said, frowning. He shook his head with feigned disapproval, listening for the scream of delight, as it always came, when he played this sort of game—but it never did. Instead, a rasping cough ensued, seeming to echo through the room. The little sufferer fell to rasping in her breath, her whole face drawn by the violence of the coughing fit. John watched in wonder, thinking this the more strange…” Well, what was it my little treasure wished to tell me?” He said, when at length, his daughter had settled herself again.

The little one smiled, at this, her eyes twinkling with delight—though not as freely as they used to. There was a weary look to them that John had not seen before. His own eyes widened, at this, as he heard the cautious breath the little one took. His own lips parted, now. He said nothing, captivated by this sudden change in his daughter.

“I saw something wonderful in the garden yesterday, Father!” Jewel exclaimed, her eyes staring about the room, as though they saw the garden now. “It was something so beautiful, so wonderful, I can’t even describe it to you. Oh, I wish you could have been there to see it with me!”

“You were in the garden yesterday?” John started. “How? You were in bed.”

“I must have been in bed—but—I was in the garden somehow, all the same,” Jewel continued, brushing aside her father’s confusion with this explanation. “I was smelling the roses, like I always do, and had just reached the great oak tree when I saw it.”

“What did you see, my darling?” John asked curiously, deciding he should play along with this make-believe trip from bed to the garden.

Jewel fixed her eyes upon the highest part of the ceiling, staring as though beyond it. “I saw the strangest thing. Where the edge of the garden should be, there was a door—a door I had never seen before then, only—it seemed it had been there forever. It stood open, and there was a light shining through it to the other side. I couldn’t see what was beyond it, the light was so bright. It was so beautiful! I think there was anything there I could have ever wanted—but I couldn’t quite see it. It was just beyond the light. I wanted to see what was there, but—I wasn’t sure if I should go by myself….that’s why I wanted you to come with me. Oh Father, if you could have seen it, I know you would have wanted to go, too. It was so bright and beautiful, and I could hear voices—“

“Voices?” John echoed, his own voice sounding far away, now, as he continued to stare at the wasted form of his darling one. During her little story, she had been trembling so that she could scarcely speak. Every word was a struggle, every breath seemed to bring so much pain. John grew silent. The playful attitude he had assumed was cast aside in a moment, replaced by the mystified one of a man who had believed a lie. With a sudden thought, he leaned forward and laid his big, rough hand on the tender forehead. He drew it back the next moment, a deep frown overshadowing his face. He lifted one corner of the top blanket and felt of his daughter’s hand. It was cold as ice. He stared hard, in disbelief, at the bed—the blankets were trembling over the little one’s form. He wanted to stop it. It shouldn’t be moving like that. He laid his long arm across the bed, over his child’s form, to keep it from trembling. His troubled eyes he fixed on her shining ones, starting to see the reality of the moment, all too late.

“Father, I wish so much that you would go with me,” Jewel continued, smiling, as before—but now, that smile looked too tender for her. John wished he did not have to see it. That smile was reserved for her death, not for now. “You wanted me to go with you—where?” He asked, feeling under the blanket for the little cold hand again. He wrapped it in his big one, lifting it up to his lips to kiss it.

“I wanted you to go with me to the garden to see the door, and the light—and whatever is beyond it—to the place where I heard the voices. They sounded like angels’ voices. They were singing something I couldn’t remember the words to. I wanted to remember it so I could sing it back to you, but I couldn’t…Father, won’t you go there with me? I’d like so much for you to see it.”

John choked. He thought he had swallowed wrong—but no, it was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t go down. He struggled to focus on that wasted little face again. He didn’t want to, but somehow, he felt he had to. “Jewel, you’re not going back to the garden,” he said decisively. “It’s obviously become too magical a place for you. You need somewhere that you can be free to run and play, and do like I and my father did—more sports to be in and woods to roam through. The garden’s a place for flowers, not spartans like us,” he scoffed, puffing his chest in mimicry of an ancient Greek.

Jewel laughed then—but it was a piteous one, more like a note played out of tune. She had hardly strength to breathe, much less laugh, now. Her chest rose once more—it hovered—it expanded—John started forward, jerking his arm off the little form in fear. Jewel’s chest began to sink down now—then rose up again—just barely enough for a half a breath—down it went again. John’s brows raised in alarm now. “Edith!” He cried, running for the door—but as he turned, Edith ran into his arms, already having ascended the staircase, roused by the fear that their daughter was nearing the end. Still in denial, John tried to extricate himself from his wife’s grasp, stumbling back toward the sick bed one last time. He cleared his throat, forcing the lump back, now. “Jewel,” he said, coaxingly, reaching down to stroke her forehead—it was hot as a furnace. “I—I’ll go to the garden with you if you promise me something.”

At this, the little head rose a moment, bobbing, as it seemed the little one was growing delirious now. Her eyes struggled to focus on the direction the voice of her father had come from—but at last, they did—and then, the little one smiled. “What, Father?” Her rasping, trembling voice croaked hoarsely.

“Promise me you’ll stay with me—when we go,” John said solemnly, “that you won’t go on without me. We’ll just look there—you won’t go in.”

The eyes started to close again—but—suddenly they opened. “Oh, Father, I’m in the garden!” Jewel cried, starting up in her bed. As soon as she did, she sank back down again, too weak to support herself. “I’m—I’m in the garden. Oh, Father, I can’t promise I won’t go. They’re calling me now. The voices—can’t you hear them? They’re calling me. Come with me, Father. We’ll go together, you and I!”

“No, Jewel,” John said firmly, shaking his head. “No, you can’t go, Jewel. You must promise me you won’t, on your solemn word. You won’t leave me, Jewel.”

The little girl nodded, her eyes rolling up to gaze at the top of the ceiling once more. Her chest heaved—it rose again, just enough for barely a breath—it hovered there. “Father, I—I’m standing outside the door. I’m just—just looking in,” Jewel gasped, her eyes closing quickly now. “I’m just—outside—“

John knelt down one final time, getting as close to his daughter as he could. He took her cold hand in his, putting his other arm across her tiny form. He fervently kissed her forehead, that last kiss that cost him so greatly. He knew now he could do nothing to stop her. Slowly, his arm sank down, the little chest never to lift it again, as the blue eyes closed.