Coal River Read Online Free PDF Page A

violets had hung from every door, crepe had covered all the mirrors, and the hands on the clocks had been stilled. Emma had said nothing when her aunt insisted she pose next to her brother for a mourning portrait. Then she stayed in the darkened room, refusing to sleep, eat, or leave his side until her parents came back from Manhattan. Instead, she waited in a wingback chair in the corner, watching tiny droplets of river water fall from Albert’s thawing body and darken the Persian rug beneath the bier.
    When she finally saw her parents coming through the parlor door, she held her breath, unable to move, certain they would never speak to her again. Then they approached Albert, her mother with trembling fingers over her mouth, her father’s face twisting in grief, and Emma finally stood.
    “Mama,” she said, and her legs collapsed beneath her.
    Her mother ran across the parlor and caught her, dropping to her knees and hugging Emma to her chest. When Emma started to shake and howl, shedding tears for the first time since her brother drowned, her mother held on tight, telling her over and over that everything was going to be all right. Her father ran his hand over her cheeks, begging her to be strong, because they couldn’t bear it if something happened to her too.
    Emma had no idea it was possible to cry so hard you could barely breathe, your sobs bursting from your throat as if they were coming from the bottom of your soul. She remembered wondering briefly if it was possible to lose your mind at ten years old. Then her parents died in the fire and she’d fallen apart all over again, certain the sheer agony of losing them would kill her. That time, she’d been in a white hospital room with a stone-faced doctor and a glassy-eyed nurse standing at her bedside, with no one to hold her, no one to tell her everything would be all right, no one to kiss her sweaty brow. Thinking about it now, a fresh wave of grief nearly brought her to her knees.
    “Emma?” Aunt Ida said, bringing her back to the here and now.
    She blinked. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
    “I was wondering what you thought of the new drapes,” Aunt Ida said proudly, as if she had made them herself. “The old ones were so old and faded, I just had to get rid of them!”
    “They’re very nice,” Emma said, trying to sound like she cared. As far as she could tell, the curtains looked exactly the same as they did nine years ago.
    Aunt Ida led her through the white-tiled kitchen toward the rear of the house, their footsteps echoing on the floorboards. They moved through a door into a short hall, then started up the steep, narrow stairway toward the servants’ quarters.
    “I do hope you’ll forgive me,” Aunt Ida said. “But the room you and . . .” She hesitated, pausing on the steps. “Oh, mercy me. I can barely say his name without feeling faint.”
    “Albert?”
    “Yes, your poor brother, Albert. God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and continued up the stairs. “Such a shame. And with his whole life ahead him. Now my poor sister is gone too.” She shook her head, her face crumpling in on itself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just . . . It’s all too painful for me. I never imagined my life would turn out so sad.”
    Emma gripped the banister tighter. “I know what you mean.”
    “There’s just so much wretchedness in this world,” Aunt Ida said, sniffing. “It can be terribly hard on a sensitive person like me. I wish I didn’t have to see or hear about people suffering. That’s why I try to focus on happy things, for my own sake.”
    If only it were that easy, Emma thought. Then she remembered the boy slumped next to the telephone pole, and Albert’s twin with the missing leg. “Speaking of suffering,” she said. “May I ask you something?”
    “Of course, dear,” Aunt Ida said. “Anything.”
    “On the way here, I saw two young boys in the village,” she said. “One was missing a limb, and another had a