Fillmore, Utah
July 1860
My boys were picking apples in our orchard, exclaiming over the branches full of fruit the size of melons. All three of my boys. Almon, Albert, and Proctor.
“You must be proud to be their mama,” the woman with the dark curls said, her voice sincere and soft.
“I am,” I said, watching my boys, heart swelling up the same as it did on Sundays during the hymns.
Then a feeling rushed me, like the floor dropping out beneath my feet. Something wasn’t right. At eleven and thirteen years old, Almon and Albert were nearly men, tall and lanky. Proctor looked the same as he always had. Fourteen years old.
Because he’s dead, my mind whispered. Because you never got to see him grow up. Because this is a dream.
The awful thought tried to wake me, but the woman’s voice called me back. “They’re good boys,” she said, reaching for my hand. “Kind boys, and handsome.”
I looked at her, and she smiled. She wore a simple brown dress, high at the collar, with buttons down the front. Finer than anything my neighbors wore.
“Thank you,” I said, staring at her in puzzlement. “Do I know you?” I asked, suddenly not sure.
“Of course,” she said, “We’re all sisters, aren’t we?” Then she laughed softly, twining her fingers in mine. “Look, Lucy, there are my children.”
I turned my head, peering through the sun-dappled orchard to see another group of children—two girls and two boys, sitting in the grass. They sat close to each other, heads ducked shyly.
“They’re beautiful,” I told her. “Your children are just lovely.”
“I know now how Jesus could liken the Kingdom of God to a child,” the woman whispered, eyes shining.
She said the words like a quote, so I asked, “Is that scripture?”
She shook her head. “Charles Dickens. He’s one of my very favorite writers.”
We sat in silence a few minutes longer, moving our gazes between my boys picking apples and her children sitting in the grass. “Are your children hungry?” I asked, suddenly ashamed I hadn’t thought to ask earlier.
She nodded sadly.
Then her children began to cry softly, a mewling sound that made my stomach ache. I tried to move to go to them, but my body was immobile. Proctor heard them and turned around, shirt untucked and filled with red fruit.
“Look, my son will bring them apples right now,” I insisted, desperate to stop the children’s cries.
She shook her head, eyes filling with tears as the mewling sound got louder. “You know he is dead. Just like my children.”
I awoke with a start to hear Amina crying beside me in bed.
“It’s all right, it’s all right.” I pulled her to my chest and she clung to me, trembling all over. I couldn’t tell whether the wetness on my cheeks was from her tears or my own.