Detroit, Michigan Autumn 1885 "Brava! Brava! Brava!" The audience was on its feet, chanting and cheering, wild with excitement. Never before had Crawford's Opera House been shaken in such a manner. Flushed with success, trembling, and exhilarated, Elena Breen joined hands with her handsome leading man, Jesse Golden, and took a bow. With even greater volume, the crowd erupted with cries for an encore. From the wings, manager Stephen Villard looked on, a pleased smile curving his lips. Catching Elena's eye, he nodded with satisfaction, his expression fading into something sharp and unpleasant as his gaze shifted to Jesse Golden. Though she told herself she hadn't really seen what she thought she had, anxiety curled in the pit of Elena's stomach nonetheless. "You were magnificent," came Jesse's voice as they took another bow, his words meant for her ears alone. How her heart thrilled at his touch, at the warmth of his fingers laced through her own. Though they had met only months earlier, having been cast together in the musical production If Not for You, she felt as if she had known him forever. As often as possible, they stole away and spent whatever moments together they could. Once upon a time she thought she had been in love, but since meeting Jesse, she knew her previous experience was only a shadow of what could exist between a man and a woman. Affection, tenderness, friendship, ardor. With Jesse, she had known all these things to a measure which she'd never reckoned. Suddenly a loud wail split the air, followed by wretched moaning. More such sounds ensued, drowning out the cries of the theater patrons with a dissonance of whimpering, sobbing, and mutterings of madness. Where had the crowd gone? The orchestra? What had happened to the curtains? Where was Jesse? No longer did her beloved have hold of her hand. With fingers of ice, Stephen Villard had snatched Elena's wrist and pulled her away. Hopelessness filled her as she realized she would never escape, never be free. How she longed for a void of blackness to swallow her whole, to put an end to the misery her life had become. But from her left came another shriek, making it impossible for her dark wish to be fulfilled. The woman's name Beth came to Elena's mind, though she did not want it to. Covered with putrefying sores, Beth had been admitted to the Hospital of the Benevolent Sisters of Mercy a few days previously and been placed in the cot next to Elena's. Before Screeching Beth, a shriveled old woman had lain in the same berth and silently submitted to her mortality. Poverty, sickness, pain, and death: the sureties of life. "Sister Therese, Sister Antonia," called the short sister with the musical voice. "Help me turn our friend; then let us call upon the Lord for mercy." Pulling the scratchy wool blanket more closely over her shoulder took all the strength Elena possessed, but she did so, unwilling to open her eyes and view the dismal surroundings that swathed her like a burial shroud. Certainly she had no wish to view the grotesque spectacle beside her. Skirts swishing, the tireless sisters converged at the cot next to her own, efficiently caring for the agonized woman. In the split-second pauses between Beth's cries, Elena heard snatches of the graceful notes Sister Evangeline hummed, which caused her far more wretched feelings than did the screams of her neighbor. Listening to such a lovely voice was akin to having spirits poured into an open wound. "That's better now, isn't it?" came Sister Evangeline's gentle entreaty as Beth gradually quieted. "Most holy Lord Jesus," she began, and Elena stopped listening. How could they do this, day after day? Never had she heard a cross or impatient word pass from the sisters' lips, and all the time they prayed. If they weren't interceding aloud for one of the twenty-some inhabitants of their small, one-room hospital, they were engaged in wordless prayer with a pitiless higher power who never responded to their pleas. They were fools. Wasting their lives in a disease-ridden hovel, they poured themselves out upon the sick as rare oil from a priceless decanter. Didn't they know their vessels would one day empty once and for all? That they might succumb to the same dread illnesses which they now tended? With all that was in her, Elena would never understand how anyone could choose to spend her life in such a manner. Beth was now quiet, and the sisters continued praying calmly but fervently for her healing, her comfort, and the salvation of her soul. Over the past several days, such prayers had been uttered over Elena's cot as well, for naught. She was going to die she wanted to die and no one or nothing could change that fact. How long ago had it been since she'd pilfered that bottle of opiates from a pharmacy? The days ran together in an endless smudge of gray. For so long she'd had no food, no shelter, no money. Her life lay in ruins behind her, and there was no reason to go on. Anything of value had been stripped from her ... she had been cast aside like so much debris. You'd best take to your knees, Elena. With the clarity of a tinkling bell, a voice she hadn't heard in more than a decade rang through the recesses of her memory. Accompanying the admonishment was a vivid picture in her mind's eye, causing her to recall the remarkable woman to whom the voice belonged. Adeline Esmond had been a talented country healer as well as grandmother to one of her two best girlhood friends. After sustaining the loss of her daughter and son-in-law, the God- fearing widow had consequently raised their daughter, Olivia Plummer, near Elena's home in the outskirts of St. Louis. Gentle, kindly Olivia, together with dark-haired Romy Schmitt, had been Elena's comrades from her earliest recollections. The three girls had been inseparable, passing many hours under Granny Esmond's watchful eye. Elena recalled that the older woman had done as much talking about Jesus and praying as these wimpled, gray-skirted sisters. It had been much the same at the Schmitts'. She remembered Romy's mother as a nearly permanent fixture of her generous-sized farm kitchen, turning out hearty stews, mouthwatering pies, and golden brown biscuits. Whether family, guest, or hired hand, anyone who sat at Johanna Schmitt's table was fed well. Often lengthy prayers preceded mealtimes, filled with thanks for God's blessings, God's provision, and God's generosity. The Schmitts' reverence for the Lord seemed to penetrate every area of their lives. It was hard to say which of the two homes was her favorite, Olivia's or Romy's. Both were warm and welcoming, a far cry from the dreary house Elena shared with her father and brothers. Her mother's death had changed the cheerless Breen dwelling into one in which Elena could hardly bear to live. Though neither Olivia nor Romy were ever so impolite to say so aloud, she knew they vastly preferred their own homes to hers. Elena's father and three older brothers were unpleasant men. When her younger brother Gene, who had for much of her childhood been her friend and confidant, began following the example set forth by his older siblings, she viewed it the final familial betrayal, the justification that had propelled her out the door to seek a future of her own making. A racking pain in her stomach caused her to draw her knees up to her chest and stifle a moan. Her arms and legs were cold, her movements weak, and her heart thudded slowly in her ears. She recognized she was thirsty, but she would not ask for water. It would only prolong the inevitable. "You suffer so greatly, little one, and yet you do not have to." Sister Evangeline's words preceded the gentle sweep of her fingers across Elena's temple. "A few spoonfuls of soup would ease your distress and make your body ready to take more nourishment." "No," Elena croaked, with a slight shake of her head. "I do not even know your name, yet I worry for the state of your soul. I wonder if you would believe how much I have been praying for you. I see you try so hard not to look or listen, but I know there is a spark of life inside you still." "My soul is dead." And soon I will be too. A soft sigh soughed across Sister Evangeline's lips. Kneeling at the bedside, she reached beneath the blanket and took Elena's hands in her own. "Your flesh is as cold as winter itself. You are starving, you know." Powerless to stop herself from opening her eyes, Elena was taken aback by the depth of feeling in her caregiver's dark gaze. It at once drew and held her, not allowing her to turn away. "Would that I could rescue you from the fate you seem to be intent on accomplishing. But I must leave that to our almighty Father in heaven ... and to the choices you must make." "Why ... do you care?" A curse upon the person or persons who had found her after she'd drunk the entire bottle of painkiller and brought her to the Benevolent Sisters of Mercy. Why hadn't she been allowed to die as she had wanted? "I care because you are created in God's image, little one, and because he loves you most dearly. It grieves him to watch you destroy yourself." "If God exists, he doesn't care about me." Acrimony dripped from Elena's words, which were surprisingly forceful despite her diminished physical state. "Oh, but he does." Matching passion blazed in the sister's bottomless gaze. "I assure you he exists and that he wants you every bit of you for he loves you in a way you do not understand." Drawing Elena's hands forward, she pressed a kiss upon her icy knuckles. "Tell me your name. Tell me how you came to be here, and perhaps I can help you." Seeing, talking, feeling these were things Elena had denied herself for so long now. Life didn't hold the same clout, she had learned, if one refused to engage these senses. But what was it about Sister Evangeline's eyes that held her? How did the middle- aged sister's voice have the power to cause such torture inside her? "My name is Elena," she whispered despite her desire to die a nameless death. At this point, did it really matter? "And if you knew anything else about me, you wouldn't want to be holding my hand." "Oh?" Sister Evangeline's eyebrows rose like the wings of a graceful bird. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to permit me to be the judge of that. Tell me, Elena, what has made your life so difficult?" Though Elena had thought it impossible that she should cry ever again, moisture grew in her eyes, and a lump formed in her throat. And still she could not look away from the gaze that held her with an invisible potency. "May I begin?" spoke the older woman. "I know you have borne a child. When I bathed you, I saw your mother's marks." At that, a keening cry left Elena, and she was overcome by a wave of grief so intense she could scarcely bear its onslaught. When, some minutes later, she ascended from her anguish just enough to realize the small sister still held her hands, she tried pulling them away. "No, no, dearest one," chided Sister Evangeline, her modest strength more than a match for Elena's weakened state. "Let me be your companion as you think of these things that hurt you so. You have lost your child, I take it?" With a barely perceptible movement, Elena shook her head. Memories of little Bobby swam in her head ... his head full of tousled blond curls, the sweet smell of his neck, the feel of his baby-soft cheek against hers. He was a year old the last time she'd seen him, toddling about on sturdy little legs. Four long years ago. How foolish she had been to travel to Detroit in the vain hope of seeing him one last time. "I had no choice," she somehow uttered though her chest was so hollow it felt as if it might cave in. A subtle sadness fell across the sister's countenance, yet it seemed as though the dark eyes regarded her with an increased measure of compassion. "Did you procure an abortion?" "No, Sister." Elena's words were barely audible. "I gave him to his father." There was more much, much more that would never be told but for some reason, Elena needed her benevolent caregiver to know that she could not harm a child of her own flesh. "Ah, his father," Sister Evangeline repeated in an assessing manner. "I suppose you will not tell me his name." "No." Elena's voice gained strength in her refusal. "It's better this way." "Well, then tell me more about your life. Were you engaged in an occupation?" "I sang." Elena could not help the bitterness that escaped with her words. "A singer!" "My voice was my curse," Elena interjected acridly, knowing the damage that had been done. "How could a beautiful voice be a curse?" "Because of it, I lost everything." "Your son?" "More than my son; I lost everyone and everything I ever cared about. And in the end, I lost my voice too. I can't sing anymore." She gave a short, humorless laugh. "Bobby's gone, and so is Jesse, and I no longer have any means to support myself. So please tell me, Sister, if you will, what reason I have to live." "You live to display the glory of God." Shocked by Sister Evangeline's bold, unhesitating words, Elena felt a flash of anger course through her, and she spat out an unclean phrase. Sister Evangeline did not so much as flinch, not even when Elena snatched back her hands from the warm, comforting grasp. How could this religious woman dare to preach such nonsense when she had no idea what it was like to make her own way in the world? No doubt she had grown up in a stable, loving home, and from there gone straight to the shelter of the convent. Sister Evangeline didn't wonder where she would be sleeping any given night, nor where her next meal might come from. It's not as if you didn't have choices, Elena, a dissenting voice spoke from inside her. What about Olivia and Romy? You just stopped answering their letters. Why didn't you look them up and seek their help? You know either of them would have opened her door to you. And then there was Jesse. For just one second, though she had made repeated, regretful, sobbing promises to herself that she would never do so again, she permitted herself to think of him. In the next instant, as her heart was impaled by pain, she realized what an unwise decision she had once again made. As she lay here in these abject surroundings, it seemed impossible to believe that she had ever been happy. In love. Beloved. Oh, how she had loved Jesse, and loved him still. She knew it would never be possible for him to understand why she'd had to leave him, but she hoped he might one day forgive her for doing so. Though Jesse Golden had been a relative newcomer to the stage when she had met him, he possessed a natural theatrical presence and a well-trained tenor range. In just a short time, he went from being an unknown talent to one very Continue... Excerpted from Elena's Song by Peggy Stoks Copyright © 2002 by Peggy Stoks Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
