Becoming Mrs. Smith Read online

  Copyright © 2017 Tanya E Williams

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Though inspired by real events, this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Published by Rippling Effects Writing & Photography

  Surrey, British Columbia, Canada

  [email protected]

  www.ripplingeffects.ca

  Visit the author's website at www.tanyaewilliams.com

  FIRST EDITION

  Cover Design by Ana Grigoriu

  ISBN: 978-1-7750706-3-4

  e-book formatting by bookow.com

  Dedication

  For Mom,

  Who taught me that courage, like love, often resides in the thread of daily life. Have the courage to choose who you want to be and begin the act of becoming it.

  Without you, none of this would have been possible.

  With utmost gratitude,

  Love,

  Tanya

  Acknowledgments

  A novel is merely a story extracted from an overactive imagination mixed with inspiration from real life events. It is in the weaving of a story that an author is applauded for their work. This task, however, is never an author's alone. I may sit down at my desk in solitude and uncertain, but through each step of the writing process, there is a force of individuals behind me who make me feel anything but alone.

  Many thanks to those who have supported me along the way. First to my beta readers. To Tammy, whose insight, creativity, patience, and friendship continues to inspire, challenge, and uplift me. To Stefanie, who knows no bounds when it comes to a willingness to help a friend. You are my beta reader extraordinaire (and friend) for life! To Jill, with an open mind and an open heart, you offered your time and thoughts to a less than polished work in progress. I do hope it wasn't too painful for you all.

  To my book launch team. You are amazing. I am filled with gratitude for each and every one of you who has so willingly given of your time and energy as I aim to send this book out into the world. I could not have done this without your support so thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

  To my editor, the incredible Victoria Griffin, without your keen intuition and editing expertise, I would still be bumbling my way through another draft, wondering how to improve the story. I am honoured to work with you and I look forward to tackling the next story with your guiding assistance. To my exceptionally talented cover designer, Ana Grigoriu, though we are continents apart, you took a vision from inside my brain and made it real. A magician you are, and I am excited to see what you create for the next story.

  To my parents, words cannot express the gratitude I have for both of you. Without your guidance, belief in me, insights, and love, I would not be who I am today. Thank you for continuing to give of yourself so that I may continue to grow. To my enormous extended family, though not listed by name, you are supremely important to me none-the-less. You have helped guide and shape my experiences over the years. Some I've known my entire life and enjoyed many a celebration with. Others I've come to know through marriage. Then there are those, I know only through black and white photographs and the memories of those you left behind. Each of you played a crucial role in my life and I am eternally grateful to call you my family. It is true, family really is everything.

  To Ginny, your belief in my writing ability is contagious and in times of self-doubt, even I believed you. Sadly, I gained much insight into the experience of loss through your eyes. I would give back that knowledge in a heart beat to have Uncle Greg here with us. Thank you for being open, brave, and honest. To Donna, thank you for always letting me ramble over tea. Your support and friendship in my life and in my writing continues to push me forward. I do hope you enjoy the story and sorry for having kept it from you for so long. To T2, your support, friendship, and encouragement were crucial to my taking the leap, literally and figuratively into this wonderful world of writing. To Kelly, you have a knack for knowing when I need to be on the water or in the forest. I look forward to many more days among nature with you, my dear friend. To Dee, though, I'm not certain if you regret saying those five little words to me over dinner one night, but you are absolutely right. I always have a choice and I will be forever grateful to you for reminding me to choose happiness for my own life.

  To Kari, the wind beneath my wings, my friend. You believed in me, even before I did. Without you, I would A) quite likely have failed a course or two in high school, and B) would miss you, even if I had never known you. You are a constant in my world, my thoughts, and my heart and I love you to the moon and back.

  To Justin, my first reader of almost anything I write. To have had the opportunity to watch you learn, grow, and become a kind and compassionate young man, has been the greatest gift of my life. Your sense of humour and your creativity bring me great joy and I wish only the best things for you in your future. I am truly honoured to be your mom.

  To Dave, my world is better because you are in it. Your love and support have sustained me in both challenging and joyous times. You are the first person I want to tell good news to. You are the last person I want to see before I fall asleep each night. You are both my rock and my soft place to land. It continues to amaze me that one person can be so many things to another. My best friend and the love of my life, I am the luckiest girl in the world. Thank you for continuing to believe in me. I love you.

  Also by Tanya E Williams

  Breathe

  Table of Contents

  Becoming Mrs. Smith

  Becoming Mrs. Smith

  ***

  February 1935

  The walls of the old farmhouse quiver. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound reverberates inside of me with each strike against our solid oak door. My insides shake like a ground tremor. Until now, I couldn’t have believed my body could shake any more brutally. This cruel and ruthless fever has vibrated inside of me since before yesterday’s sunrise. Doc Walton and his hammer, the cause of all the commotion, have traveled from Cedar Springs. He has since confirmed Mother’s fears. Scarlet fever has attacked our home and invaded my slight, now fragile body. The notice nailed to the front door is both a proclamation of quarantine and a warning. Those who enter or leave the Sanderson property will be reported and punished by South Dakota law.

  At eleven years old, I’m not keen to lift my nightdress for the doctor. Mother’s stern gaze, which bores through me from the corner of the bedroom I share with Iris, tells me refusing is not an option. My skin, warm to the touch, shivers as air whispers across the tiny red bumps. The doctor listens to my heart with his instrument, the round metal end cold from winter frost, before he lowers my bedclothes and tucks me into bed. He murmurs to himself as he pats my shoulder and smiles sadly, before the latch on his black bag snaps shut.

  Mother follows close behind him. He tosses into the fire the slender piece of smooth, pale wood he pressed against my tongue. Mother closes the bedroom door to their muffled voices.

  Exhaustio
n overwhelms me, and I sink deeper under the weighted quilts, seeking warmth and stillness for my unsettled body. Father’s deep voice, even at a whisper, echoes through my window. I hear him and the doctor speaking, despite the thick layer of fabric Mother has placed over the glass to shield the room from light and cold. Their hushed voices sound serious, and their words drift over the front porch to my red-hot ears.

  Without a doubt, I am ill. Even if I survive the fever, the doctor worries about the strain on my heart.

  I bury myself deeper in the heavy cocoon of blankets while my warm breath heats the darkened sanctuary. Tinges of despair overcome me. Fear, instead of fever, ushers in a fresh vibration that leaves my body in a tangled heap of shivers.

  I demand my body to heal. First I pray, and then I negotiate. If I could somehow put more love in my heart, perhaps it would grow strong again. I promise to do all my chores without complaint for the rest of my life. I will be patient with Iris, even when she makes me want to scream. I will never roll my eyes at Mother for as long as I live.

  Before sleep descends over me again, I plead with God to make me well. I promise to live a simple life. I will never wish for extravagance, if only He will save me from the fever.

  ***

  Perhaps the absence of everyday life makes my dreams so vivid, so real. Or maybe my mind is protecting me from the horrors of my illness, desperately attempting to experience life again. Mother says, with a sternness that makes all other explanations vanish, that the fever is the only cause of my hallucinations. Either way, I dream as if I am living in full color.

  The tall grassy fields sway in a gentle breeze. Stems rustle against one another as if sharing secrets. The springtime flowers tilt their petals toward the sky, and I feel warm sunshine kiss my face. John Smith, the kindest person I have ever known, sits before me with a gentle, lopsided smile.

  John and I sit on the front steps of our one-room school. A breeze brushes the hair away from my face. The spring air ignites a sense of comfort in my weary skin.

  As the two oldest students at school, the teacher sent us outside to talk through math problems that have stumped us all morning, while the others study for the upcoming spelling bee. I read the first problem aloud as John scribbles notes. Puzzled by the word problem, I reread it slowly. John, pencil readied at his paper, pauses and chuckles.

  “What is so funny?” I ask, brow furrowed in concentration.

  “You tucked your hair behind your ear.” He laughs, and his free hand slaps his thigh in mock hilarity.

  I hesitate before responding. “Okay?” I raise an eyebrow while he grins at me.

  “I know when you’re ready to get serious,” he says. “You tuck your hair behind your right ear, like a tell. You know, whenever you are about to focus on an important task, you always tuck your hair.”

  “No I don’t.” My voice conveys a weak annoyance and a slight embarrassment. I extract the swatch of hair from behind my ear and nervously smooth the strand against my scalp.

  John’s laughter transforms into a sweet smile. He reaches out a hand and slides a blond, wavy strand behind my ear. His hand touches my cheek for the briefest moment. He blushes. “Father was teaching me about tells is all, Vi. You know, like with animals. Making sure I could handle that mean old bull that wanders all over the county in case we stumble across his path. So I started to watch people, too, and I noticed you put your hair behind your ear every time we work on math problems.”

  I return his smile with a shy one of my own. I lower my eyes and feel my cheeks grow warm from his attention and his bold admission of watching me.

  “Violet. Violet. Wake up, dear.”

  The world moves backward and forward. Why is the world in motion? No, the world isn’t shaking. Through the fogginess of a rooted sleep, I recognize Mother’s voice. She pulls me from the depths of blackness with a jerk. I feel as if I have only slept a few moments before she cruelly wrenches me from the veil of my coma.

  “Violet. You must wake up.”

  I lift my eyelids a fraction. The act feels as arduous as when I attempted to lift that old yoke onto Bud, the tallest of Daddy’s horses. Light penetrates my eyes like a hot poker and I squeeze them shut.

  “Violet,” Mother pleads. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”

  “What?” I groan and roll away from the hands clenching my shoulders.

  Never one to dismiss a task she has set her mind to, Mother steps around my bed in three swift motions. She settles herself into the small space between my elbows and knees, while I lie in a fetal position.

  “Drink,” she commands. “Now, Violet.” She holds a small metal cup in front of me. Her determination is embodied in her stiff posture, but worry lays creased across her forehead.

  Her worry, not her determination, coerces me to prop myself onto my elbows. I tilt my head as she places the cup to my mouth. Warm milk cuts across my swollen, cracked lips before assaulting my throat and trickling down to the sharp knives that feel lodged there.

  “That’s better.” Mother runs her palm over my bed-ratted hair.

  “Two days?” Grogginess fills my voice, and I return my head to the pillow. The milk meanders down to my vacant stomach and gurgles.

  She nods quickly and turns her face away in an effort to hide her moist eyes.

  I manage a raspy response, my voice laced with fatigue. “How long have I been here? In bed, I mean.”

  “We’ve been quarantined for over three weeks now.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Nature’s way.” She shrugs. “You are better off not to remember.” She smiles tightly, a tinge of relief in her sunken eyes. I realize that, while I have been submerged in a deep sleep for weeks, Mother hasn’t slept at all.

  I tuck a damp, tangled strand of hair behind my ear. Her love ignites my desire to find the strength to survive this illness. I silently promise to follow Mother’s instructions, each and every one of them.

  ***

  April 1935

  Yesterday, Doc Walton lifted the quarantine from the farm. Father wasted no time. He pulled the warning sign off our front door with his bare hands before running toward the one posted on the fence. The doctor listens to my heart and confirms the existence of permanent damage. With a sullen face, I retreat to the comfort of my bed. Mother leads the doctor to the front room, pummeling him with questions about my life and future health.

  I lie with my back facing the open door and hug my chest. My lip quivers as I try to hold back hot tears. I feel damaged. I used to have a strong heart. A kind heart. A heart that was full of joy, spilling over with abundance. Will others see a spoiled heart? Father always says how natural I am with the horses. Will they sense a difference in me? Will I love as well as I used to? What if I have to live with Mother and Father forever? A spinster, like Miss Mabel, whom everyone tolerates at church gatherings. Perhaps she, too, has a weak heart. Blood thumps in my ears as I glimpse the life I might lead with this irreparable heart. Grief and sleep consume me as thoughts of my future life percolate in my overcrowded consciousness.

  I wake to the low vibration of the wooden rocking chair. The runners scuff the wood floor with each forward tilt. The room is dark except the flicker of the front room fire casting shadows on the bedroom wall. I remain still, not wanting to talk with Mother, who I know from experience is the occupant of the rocker.

  My stillness does not fool her. The rocker squeaks as she rises and positions herself at the foot of my bed.

  “Violet, I understand you are upset, and I won’t pretend to understand how you are feeling.” She rubs my foot. “It’s a miracle you survived at all, and for that, we need be grateful.”

  “Grateful! You want me to be grateful?” I spit out the words as I bolt up to face her. “I am never going to be well again. Don’t you see? I am ruined. My life is over. I should have died from the fever. I could have saved you all the trouble.”

  “What trouble?” Mother’s hand is firm around my foot, like an
anchor.

  “Nobody will love someone with half a heart. Why would they? I could die at any moment. Nobody wants to risk loving someone they are going to lose.” My shoulders shake as the rising panic forces out wails of despair.

  Mother moves closer and wraps her arms around me. We sit cradled together as my convulsions dwindle into weary hiccups.

  “You are not broken. Not like you think, Violet. You know, I don’t often speak about my father. He was a good man, a strong man. He used to sit me on his knee each night after dinner and tell me stories. Oh, how the man could coax a tale into life.” Mother laughs at the memory. She pulls away to look me in the eye. “I loved him more than I can say, and he left us far too early.” Her eyes are rimmed with moisture. “But I can tell you without a doubt that even if I had known he would leave us so soon, I wouldn’t have loved him less. I would have loved him even more. The state of your heart doesn’t change who you are. You are Violet, and you are worthy of being loved. I love you and, no matter what, I always will.”

  I want to ask questions. The desire to know more about Mother and her family burns inside me. I never met my grandparents or my mother’s brother. All I know is that Grandfather and Uncle Joe died in a barn fire, trying to save the livestock, and that Grandmother, rumor has it, died of a broken heart.

  After a long embrace and a kiss goodnight, Mother tucks me into bed. She sings a soft lullaby as she places the quilt from the rocker over my legs, and she closes the door behind her.

  Mother’s words rattle around in my head for what feels like an eternity. If I cannot repair my weakened heart, I will have to make myself more lovable. I can do that. I can be more caring, more considerate, more patient. I can be more responsible and hardworking. I may not be the storyteller my grandfather was, but I can be what others need me to be. Then they will have no choice but to love me. “Violet,” I tell myself, “time for you to grow up. No more childish games. You must be a responsible young woman.”