A World Beyond the Horizon

We rode in an early 1900’s model truck with an open bed lined with wooden slats. The excitement was almost too much for me to bear. We drove on a bumpy but beautifully wooded path. The man driving was quiet, but he was gentle with me and teased me a little, so I felt good about him. I was seven years old and before this, I had nowhere to go. Now I was going somewhere.

It seemed like an endless trek to our destination, but we finally stopped in front of a small wooden cabin with a wrap‐around porch. A fire lit up everything inside—a quiet light. The man helped me down from the truck and took my hand. A roundish woman with a blue dress and apron met us as we entered. Yet, she didn’t greet me or him.

No, she just stood there. Emotion took me from his side to hugging her skirts. Almost immediately, she began peeling my fingers open, releasing the wad of apron I was holding so tightly.

I don’t remember the words exactly, but I could feel their tone. I would not be sleeping in the house. And I most assuredly was not to be made a part of this family. I wailed unashamed, or perhaps because I was ashamed. Either way, the sobs wouldn’t stop as I processed my misunderstanding. I felt foolish, as foolish as a seven-year-old could feel. By this time, he had gathered a pillow and blanket and took my hand again. We headed back to the truck. He made me a bed there and seemed sad and obviously conflicted with the arrangement. It was a chilly night, but not bitter. The blanket was enough to warm me. Physically, I felt comfortable on the front seat of the truck. I tried to be grateful for that small comfort, but the sobs returned and eventually I fell into an exhausted sleep.

I was awakened by the scent of the mountain morning. It had a presence strong enough to tap me on the shoulder, and so it did. There was dew on the truck windows—or was it inside steam from my morning breath? No, it was dew, I discovered, as a little hand on the outside of the truck wiped a circle away just big enough for her face to peer in and get a look at me. I had thought we were alone in the house last night, just me and him and her. I was startled at first by the appearance of this new little person, but happy, too, I think.

She smiled and waved her fingers at me. Just her fingers, not her whole hand. She was little, four years old, I would later discover. Her straight blonde hair was thin and a little stringy. It looked as though it could use a good washing and a combing to pull the tangles out. We examined one another just like two puppies meeting for the first time— feeling excited and cautious all at the same time.

I put my nose up against hers from the inside of the truck window and hesitation was transformed into uncontrollable little girl giggles. Then, the door of the truck start to open. The little girl immediately grabbed my hand and wordlessly encouraged me out of the truck. She yanked me out, really. I went with her, stumbling a bit on one of the two wooden steps. The steps and the porch needed attention. I felt the neglect as the wood gave a little too much underneath my weight. I allowed her to walk me through that front door, and back into the house. I didn’t expect either one of them, him or her, to like this very much.

The inside of the cabin was warm—the kind of warm that only a wood fire provides. The place smelled of wood and sweat and oats on the stove. On a square wooden table sat small dishes of brown sugar and raisins and nuts, along with a glass bottle of milk with the cream floating on top. The little girl, who was still holding my hand, introduced me to him and her, as if they had never met me before—as if I were someone other than the me, they had brought home last night. And from that moment on, I was someone else. I was her new sister, she had proclaimed, with more confidence than you might expect from a four- year- old. I would be having breakfast with her, she went on, and I would be sleeping with her in her bed from now on.

I felt myself half squint in anticipation of their reaction—him and especially her. There was none. My new little sister, Elizabeth, (Lizzie, they called her) walked me over to one of the long benches at the wooden table. I remember thinking that I was glad she was on my side. I sensed she could be a little tyrant if she put her mind to it. Over the next year, I would discover that I was right about that.

Lizzie climbed into what appeared to be a makeshift wooden highchair. She seemed a little old for it, but she her slight body fit and seemed to be comfortable there. The mother brought two bowls, set them on the table, though not in front of us, and slopped a good‐sized pile of the pasty oatmeal into each. She set a spoon beside each bowl and walked away. At first, the offering didn’t appear especially appetizing. I dared to assume that the bowls of oatmeal were for Lizzie and me.

Lizzie watched and smiled, leaning her chin onto her open little hand. She just looked at me. So, I took her lead and decorated each glop of oatmeal with some sugar, nuts, and raisins. I took my time, enjoying the moment, and Lizzie seemed to approve. From that point on, I would always seek her approval.

I poured a small trough of milk just around the edges so as not to mess up my fancy creation in the middle. Then, not quite knowing why, I picked up a spoon, dipped it full of oatmeal, the brown sugar now liquid and melty. I offered the spoonful to Lizzie and she accepted it, laughing, and covering her full mouth, giggling behind her hand. She was certainly capable of feeding herself. I had to assume that she had eaten many a meal before this, without any help from me. Still, she waited for the next bite, and I provided it. Then, I dug in myself, from the same bowl and spoon.

After we had eaten our fill, Lizzie ran off and I watched her with curiosity, kind of excited to discover what she might be up to next. She appeared from a little room in the corner, what I assumed was her bedroom, with two stuffed bunny rabbits. One seemed practically new— store bought. It was white with some black mixed in, eyes sewn in tight and a white ribbon around its neck. The other was clearly handmade out of a dirty brown cloth. Its eyes were made from buttons that had come a bit loose, with a nose sewn on haphazardly with black thread.

Lizzie clung to the new, white rabbit and made me an offering of the overused handmade one. Outwardly, I accepted the tattered stuffed toy with a smile. I thanked her. But deep inside I felt envy and longed for the new, clean, soft fuzzy toy that she had kept for herself. A long time would pass before I would discover how hard it was for Lizzie to give up that old worn-out bunny. I had been the one that she had loved and treasured the most.

The woods provided a perfect playground for two energetic little girls. I was the adventurous one. Lizzie was a bit more reserved, and often, quite fearful. I coaxed her and prodded her into doing things that she would never have considered otherwise. I guess she wanted my approval, too. We crossed the creek when it was too high and skipped across rocks that were too slippery. We crossed a footbridge that was far too rickety and climbed way too high up into an old oak tree.

Some days, we would play her way, too. Playing house and dressing up in the mother’s clothes was what she liked best. We combed each other’s hair and pretended to be fine madams from another place and time. We worked hard, too. She less than me. Lizzie was allowed books and study. She went to school every day. But since I was initially brought there mostly for working, many days, I was held behind to finish chores and ended up at school late or not at all.

But how I loved school on the days when I could go. I was especially excited when I was called up to the blackboard by the teacher to cipher in front of the whole class. Somehow, I think I enjoyed the writing just so I could look forward to the erasing when I was done with the work at hand. There was something about being able to start over again as many times as I wanted, to get it exactly right, to erase the old and begin again, that gave me a special sort of delight.

Lizzie had an extensive collection of books—her favorite a was a glorious picture book—on the cover, the photo of a ship on the horizon, tilting in the wind with billowing sails. Lizzie and I would make up stories about who might be on that ship and what sort of mystical place might exist, just over the horizon, where it appeared at first glance that the whole world dropped off into nowhere. Together, our imaginations would create wonderful somewhere places beyond that horizon. We talked about how we would go there together some day.

Quite honestly, on days that I remained home from school to work instead, it really wasn’t so bad. Rolling the sweet doughy smelling pie crust, picking and pitting cherries, kneading bread, hauling water from the creek, and even brushing and feeding the horses and mucking their stalls, made me feel joyful inside. I liked being useful. There was something in me that knew that as long as I was useful to him and her, they would keep me. I could stay with my Lizzie. And I would stay—for one year.

It was winter, and early in the morning. The cold mixed with the smell of smoke. Lizzie and I both sat up in bed, sensing the danger. Lizzie began to cry. Smoke poured in and wrapped around us like a grayish down quilt. I wasn’t cold anymore. My throat burned. I don’t know where they were—him and her.

I found Lizzie’s hand and promised not to let go. I could see the flames, but I could also see a way out. I tugged at her arm, but Lizzie wouldn’t budge. I promised her we would be OK. We just had to run through it, and we had to go now. But Lizzie froze. I couldn’t see her face, but I could feel her body, paralyzed. I couldn’t blame her—nor could I leave her. I had promised not to let go of her hand. So, I wouldn’t let go.

Lizzie held on tight as we huddled together. And in that moment, I began to whisper in her ear. As I did, she stopped crying and I could feel her body relax against mine. I spoke softly of that familiar tale of a ship with billowing sails. And of how beautiful a world lay on the other side of that horizon, and how we would go there someday. Together, just Lizzie and me.