Of Love, Loss and Life

Part I

April 21, 1920. A Spring storm swept over the Cove. Torrential rains and 
gusting winds pounded against the windows, but all was calm and quiet 
inside the MacNeill home. As a blaze roared in the fireplace, Christy 
busied herself grading papers, I scoured over endless new medical 
journals, and our precocious daughter, Anna, who would turn five years 
old in just a few days, slept soundly upstairs. Until, that is, a bolt 
of lightning cracked through an old oak tree just yards from our house. 
The boom was enough to jar Christy from her seat next to the window, and 
instantly sent Anna from her bed to the top of the stairs, where she 
clutched her tattered teddy bear and called out for me.

"Papa," she whimpered, rubbing her sleepy blue eyes with her chubby 
little hand, "Ah'm scared. Read me ah story."

It wasn't unusual for Anna to want me near when she was scared or hurt. 
"Mama" was good for cookies and games but "Papa" was the one who healed 
the scrapes and bruises, and calmed a frightened soul. 

I set my medical journals on the couch and took one last puff from my 
pipe, "Pick out a book, Anna-bug. I'll be up in a minute."

I tapped my pipe out in the ashtray, then walked to behind Christy, who 
was now settled into the soft high-back wing chair. I gave her a quick 
peck on the cheek, allowing my face to linger near hers, an excuse to 
smell the subtle scent of her gardenia perfume.

She reached up and placed her hand softly to my cheek, "You know she has 
you wrapped around her little finger." It was more a statement than a 
question.

I squeezed her shoulders and had to smile as I teasingly responded, "Not 
unlike her mother." Then I quickly walked away. Christy smiled at me 
until I faded up the stairs out of her sight.

I found Anna sitting up in her bed, snug under her comforter. Looking at 
her bookcase, I could see each book in it's place. "You didn't pick out 
a book?" I asked.

"They're boring. We aw-ready read 'em all." She responded, throwing the 
palms of her hands up in the air as children do when they are perplexed 
as what to do next.

"How will we ever get you back to sleep?" I folded my arms across my 
chest as if I, too, didn't know what to do about this dilemma.

Anna inched herself across the bed and patted her hand on the spot she 
had just relinquished, "Tell me ah story, Papa. I like yur stories 
better inyways."

How could I resist such a cherubic face, and such innocent flattery!? I 
carefully sat myself on her tiny bed and got comfortable. Anna nestled 
herself under my arm and straightened the comforter over my legs, taking 
care to make sure Papa was warm.

"So, little one, what would you like to know."

Anna's head popped up and her eyes lit as a stream of questions flowed 
from her lips, "Tell me agin why yu wanted to be a doctor." Then she 
casually added, almost as if it was something that she thought I had 
heard or known before, "Becuz I want to be ah doctor jest like yu." She 
continued immediately, "An' tell me about Mammaw an' Pappaw MacNeill. 
And tell me about Aunt Hattie. An' tell me..."

"Wait, wait." I chuckled at her curiosity, "One story at a time." 

She nestled herself under my arm once again and pressed her ear to my 
chest. The constant murmur of my baritone voice soothed her. I looked 
down at her and asked, "Are you ready?" Her eyes closed, she nodded. 
That's when I drifted back, back to 1895, the year that changed my life 
forever. Painful memories surged forth. Most would have to wait to be 
shared with Anna when she was older. But I would always remember.

Part II

Although it was twenty-five years later, I could see the events of my 
sixteenth year of life unfold in my mind just as if it had happened 
months ago....

Ma sat across from me at the kitchen table. She was wrapped in a brown, 
crocheted shawl that hung loosely from her drooping shoulders. For a 
woman in her mid-thirties, she looked aged. Dark circles formed under 
her hazel eyes. Her usually rosy cheeks were pale, almost ashen. Her 
sneezing and sniffling of the past month was now replaced with a 
rattling cough. Her wavy red hair, which she took such pride in, hung in 
wet strands from the loose bun atop her head. Two weeks ago, I begged 
her to let me fetch Granny Barclay, but she would have none of it. She 
was a stubborn woman who insisted on taking care of herself and her 
loved ones, without help.

The sun seemed to set earlier this crisp, rainy March evening. "Yu 
wantin' me to start fixin' supper, Ma?" I asked, knowing she had been 
too weak these past few days to even tend to most of her chores.

"That'd sure be nice, Neil." She reached her shaky hand across the table 
and with a smile, patted mine. Hers was warm and moist, too warm.

I gathered a few potatoes and carrots from the vegetable bin, and laid 
them across the table. Ma hadn't been one for conversation lately, so I 
began, "Pa sure has bin gone along time this time."

Ma smiled softly but I could see the anxiety in her eyes, "I'm sure yur 
Pa's aw-right. Yu know how him an' Joe Spencer get when they're out 
a-huntin. Weeks go by an' they don't even reckon it. I bet they got a 
passle load of fox and bear skins for them city folks down Asheville 
way." An uncontrollable cough interrupted her. As it subsided, she 
continued, "Don't yu be frettin' none. Yur Pa'll be back soon, an' then 
we kin start makin' plans fer yu and Allie's weddin'."

Allie. The thought of her warmed my insides. How could I have never 
really noticed her all those years, that is until last September at Jeb 
and Fairlight's wedding? At fifteen, she seemed to blossom overnight. I 
always knew her just as Jeb's younger sister, with a figure as straight 
as a scarecrow. But that September, I noticed the way her skirt swayed 
from her hips, the way her lips pursed together in the shape of a 
rosebud, and the way the sun highlighted the auburn streaks in her dark 
honey hair. This wasn't the same girl who would pull on the curls in the 
back of my hair as Jeb and I fished along the bank of a nearby stream. 
She was a full grown woman, and others there, such as the likes of 
Nathan O'Teale, noticed, too.

Like all wedding celebrations, the moonshine flowed freely. As the sun 
set and the party continued, Nathan O'Teale set his eyes on Allie. It 
didn't matter that his pregnant wife, Swannie, and their two young 
children, waited at home. From across the yard, I could see he had Allie 
cornered against a tree, far from the partying crowd. He was smiling, 
leaning into her until his body was inches from hers.  Allie was shaking 
her head no and trying to back away from him. Suddenly, Nathan put his 
arms around her waist and pulled her into him. She struggled against 
him, pressing the palms of her delicate hands into his lanky frame, to 
no avail. Her frantic eyes searched the crowd, but all were too busy in 
their merriment and dancing to notice what was happening. Everyone but 
me. Allie's eyes locked on mine. I had only seen that look of fear and 
desperation once before; on a small grey rabbit cornered by a coyote, 
the rabbit having no hopes of any escape. Without thinking, I sprung 
from my chair and leapt over a makeshift table scattered with half-eaten 
pies. My heart raced as I darted across the yard, making a beeline for 
Nathan. Just as he was about to place an unwanted kiss upon Allie's 
lips, I grabbed his belt with one hand and the back of his neck with the 
other, and threw him yards from where we stood. After hitting the ground 
with a thud, Nathan slowly staggered to his feet, clutched his shoulder, 
and considered confronting me but thought better of it, knowing I was 
the bigger of the two of us. I stood in front of Allie until I was sure 
Nathan was well on his way. I finally turned to Allie, who was visibly 
shaken by this encounter. She quietly and politely thanked me for coming 
to her aid. From her timid demeanor, I sensed she was somewhat 
embarrassed. That's when I took her hand and promised her she'd never 
have to worry about anything like that happening to her again. I stayed 
by her side for the rest of the celebration and walked her home under 
the full harvest moon. The rest, as they say, is history. On February 
14, 1895, I asked for her hand in marriage.

Part III

Soon after our dinner of squirrel and vegetables, Ma retired to bed. I 
sat in my father's favorite chair next to the window and watched the fog 
cover the mountain top, blanketing it like the fluffy white icing Ma 
used when decorating the carrot cakes she would give to neighbors every 
Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

"We have more than some," she would say as we made our rounds from one 
cabin to the next, Pa accompanying us, dropping off a load of firewood 
at the cabins of the families whose fathers were gone looking for work 
for the Winter, "These are our people, Neil, an' we need to take care of 
'em best we can."

We delivered cakes and firewood from sunrise to sunset each Thanksgiving 
and Christmas for as long as I could remember. After returning home, Pa 
and I would help Ma throw a simple meal together. Then, we would sit 
around the kitchen table, join hands, give thanks to our Lord for our 
blessings, and pray for the other families in the Cove. Each Christmas 
saw the same, except for a simple exchange of  homemade gifts. No matter 
what the holiday, giving, not receiving, was emphasized in the MacNeill 
home.

It took years before I understood what Ma meant by "our people".

I must have fallen asleep in Pa's chair. One minute, I was watching the 
rain, the next, I heard a rapping at our door. Glancing at the ornate 
mantle clock, I noticed it was after midnight, an unusual hour for 
visitors. Immediately, I felt a gnawing in my gut. It could only be bad 
news. I opened the door to find a soaked Joe Spencer standing on the 
porch. He stepped inside and inquired about Ma. Sensing it was bad news, 
I told him I would be the one to tell Ma. That's when he reached into 
his satchel, pulled out my Pa's bloody hat, and began to tell the story 
of how they had traveled up to Rose Hill, Virginia, while hunting black 
bears. They staked out a stream, made camp, and were attacked while they 
slept. Joe was able to get away but Pa had been mauled to near death 
before Joe could get his gun and kill the bear. 

My chest puffed out as Joe placed his strong hand on my shoulder and 
recalled Pa's dying words; "Tell Adaline how much I loved her an' to git 
on with her life. Don't be mournin' over me too long. And, Neil, my boy, 
tell 'im how proud I've been of 'im. Tell 'im to follow his dreams, no 
matter how big."

Ma's pale, thin figure slowly descended the stairs. Wearing her white 
flannel nightgown, she looked almost ghostly. As she reached the bottom 
of the stairs, I rushed to her side. Solemn and weak, she leaned heavily 
on me until she was face-to-face with Joe Spencer. Without a word, she 
slowly took Pa's hat from Joe, clutched it against her chest, then 
returned up the stairs. Joe hung his head, trying to hide the tears 
welling up from inside. He rushed from the cabin, leaving me standing 
alone in the living room. Seconds later, I heard a thud at the door, 
looked out the window and saw Joe ride off towards his cabin. Curious 
about the odd noise, I opened the door and found the bundled up pelt of 
the bear that killed my father.

The death of her beloved Samuel MacNeill, coupled with her declining 
health, was more than my mother could shoulder. For three weeks after 
his death, Ma remained in bed. It was as if her life had ended that 
fateful March night. On May 2, 1895, her broken heart, weakened by 
pneumonia, stopped beating. Although at sixteen I was considered a man, 
I felt like an orphan. Without the strength of my father, and the love 
and gentle guidance of my mother, my life would never be the same.

Part IV

Upon the passing of both my parents, my Aunt Hattie, my father's baby 
sister, insisted I live with her. But I was stubborn and couldn't 
imagine living anywhere other than the cabin where four generations of 
MacNeill's lived. It was home; my home.

I learned to take care of myself but it wasn't easy. I became angry with 
God and turned away from the church. This upset Allie but at the time, I 
didn't care. We slowly began to grow apart. My heart was hardening to 
everyone around me. She reached out to me more times than I deserved, 
but I wouldn't listen. A month after my mother's death, I discovered the 
soothing effects of moonshine. And soon after that, I found a dance hall 
in Lufty Branch, where I could drink and dance with pretty girls for 
less than a dime. It was my great escape. Jeb and I started going every 
Saturday night. Fairlight, who was eight months pregnant with their 
first child, was furious about this. But Jeb was young and 
impressionable, and considered himself the "man" of the family, who had 
every right to do what he chose, and no woman was going to tell him 
differently.

It was on one of these rowdy Saturday nights that Fairlight's baby 
decided to come early. Jeb and I returned to his cabin around midnight. 
We were so drunk from the moonshine, we could barely walk. Cutting up 
and being loud, we burst through the front door, expecting to find 
Fairlight asleep on the couch, waiting for Jeb, as she did every 
Saturday night. But this night she was on their bare, dirty floor, as if 
she had tried, in vain, to crawl out the front door. She was pale, and 
wet from perspiration and tears; her bloody newborn baby lie in her arms 
with his imbilical cord still attached. There was a large puddle of 
blood formed under the entire length of her legs, and she was still 
bleeding. 

Jeb dropped to his knees beside her. There was no anger in the eyes of 
his fifteen year old wife; just fear. Fairlight stared into Jeb's 
bloodshot eyes, squeezed his hand, and pleaded, "Git Granny Barclay."

Without thinking, Jeb darted out the front door, leaving me standing 
there, alone with his dying wife and child. A strength inside of me took 
over. I rushed around the cabin, gathering rags, alcohol, scissors, 
blankets and a pillow, and boiling a pot of water. I tucked the pillow 
beneath Fairlight's head and wrapped her and the baby in the blanket. I 
then held her clammy hand in mine and spoke to her calmly but solemnly, 
"I hafta cut the cord, Fairlight, an' see what I kin do ta stop the 
bleedin'." It was my way of asking for permission to try something so 
intimate in nature. She closed her eyes and nodded.

>From my position, I could see that the afterbirth was still inside, and 
the blood was spewing from a large tear in the cord. I cut the cord and 
tied it off with a strip of rag. I then explained to Fairlight that she 
would have to push the rest of it out. Being a woman, she had seen 
enough babies birthed to understand what I meant. She was weak from the 
loss of so much blood, so I had to gently press against her belly to 
help it along. With the cord and afterbirth displaced, there was now 
just a tiny flow of blood, not unusual after childbirth, so after 
cleaning the area with water and alcohol, I gently placed a few of the 
rags between her legs.

Just as I was finishing up on Fairlight, Jeb and Granny Barclay burst 
through the door. Seeing me in such a delicate position, Jeb grabbed me 
by the collar and pulled me to my feet. His eyes were that of a madman 
as he yelled, "Git away from her! Yu don't know what yur doin'! Yu could 
kill her!"

I was speechless. Jeb was right; I didn't know what I was doing. I had 
never seen a human child born, just foals and calves. Birthing babies 
was woman's work. But I knew I couldn't just stand there and watch her 
die. At the time, I was her only hope.

Fairlight shouted out, "I'm awright, Jeb! I'm awright. Neil done good."

Granny Barclay quickly pushed us out the door. Anxiously, we waited on 
the front porch. Over and over again, I apologized to Jeb for getting 
him in such a mess. I never should have urged him, all these times, to 
go to the tea house with me. Jeb said he would never forgive himself if 
anything happened to Fairlight or his newborn son, but I knew the blame 
rested entirely on my shoulders.

Thirty minutes later, Granny Barclay gave us the news. Fairlight would 
be weak for some time, but she would recover. The baby, who was born a 
month premature, would probably not survive the tramatic birth. Jeb and 
Fairlight named the baby Jeter. True to Granny's word, Jeter died three 
days later. I never touched another drop of liquor until fourteen years 
later, after the death of my first wife and newborn son.

Part V

Jeter's death and the possibility of losing Fairlight, who I had known 
since we were still in diapers, was my rock bottom. Wanting to turn my 
life around, I took Aunt Hattie up on her offer, and moved in with her, 
Uncle Timothy, and their three children. Uncle Timothy kept me busy; 
clearing fields, harvesting crops, hunting, and fishing. I was grateful 
for the fresh start. I began attending church with them again, every 
Sunday, and eventually, Allie took me back, although she put our wedding 
plans on hold.

The thought of that night with Fairlight haunted my dreams. Almost 
instinctually, I was able to help her. Since then, an urgency gnawed 
away at me, as if it was my calling in life to help my people in this 
sort of way. But what hope had I of ever becoming what I longed to be, a 
physician. I was a poor boy from a far removed Cove in the hills of 
Tennessee. I was bright and eager, but my only education had been the 
schooling my mother gave me. By the age of eleven, I had soaked up all 
she had to offer; reading, writing, and arithmetic. After that, I was on 
my own, reading any books that made their way to Cutter Gap.

October of this same year, five physician friends made their way down 
from New York and arrived in El Pano, inquiring about a guide to lead 
them on their vacation hunting trip. As luck would have it, Uncle 
Timothy and I were in El Pano this day. Uncle Timothy agreed to be their 
guide and I volunteered to carry their camping gear.

For two weeks, we hunted through the Great Smoky Mountains. On the fifth 
night, one of the physicians noticed how intently I would listen to 
their medical stories. That's when I confessed that I had dreams of 
becoming a physician, and related the events of the night of Jeter's 
birth. 

After seeing the hardships of everyday life in these mountains, and 
after days of secret talks, the physicians announced to Uncle Timothy 
and I that they wanted to send me to college and medical school. Uncle 
Timothy thanked them for their generous offer, but said we would have to 
decline. Uncle Timothy could not afford to pay my living expenses. The 
physicians chuckled amongst themselves. Dr. Kinnigan stepped forward, 
smiled, and placed his hand on Uncle Timothy's shoulder, "All...," he 
stressed the word, "expenses paid. Please, let us do this. Living in 
such a city as New York, we've forgotten conditions as this exist in 
1895 America. This is our opportunity to give something back to the 
medical community. And who knows, Neil may want to come back here, to 
Tennessee, to practice his craft."

Uncle Timothy saw the eagerness in my eyes and immediately agreed. Two 
weeks later, we received word that arrangements had been made for me to 
receive my schooling in Scotland, the home of my ancestors. I leaped at 
the opportunity to travel abroad. But my heart sank at the thought of 
leaving Allie.

On November 1, 1895, I said goodbye to Uncle Timothy, Aunt Hattie, my 
three young cousins; Lily, Robby, and Tim Jr., and my love, Allie. It 
was the last time I would see them. Five years after my departure, a 
telegram, from Aunt Hattie, arrived in Glasgow. Typhus struck the Cove. 
Among its victims, Uncle Timothy, my three cousins, Joe and Amelia 
Spencer; Jeb and Fairlight's daughter, Ceclie; and my dear, sweet Allie. 
I clutched the letter in my tight fist and then and there, pledged to 
return to Cutter Gap, where I vowed to fight death until my last breath.

THE END

by Betty