The Great Plains by Nicole Alexander Page B

especially when she’d made such little progress since her arrival in Dallas. She was not some kind of side-show freak. Indeed, he had a grudging respect for the woman who now inhabited his niece’s body. She was proud and beautiful. She had learnt to adapt in a strange world and had found an inner strength to do so. Yet the great tragedy was that his brother’s daughter, Ginny’s girl, had been lost in the process. Sometimes, in the moments when Philomena and he were alone, usually just before he left the asylum, she would look at him and he would be reminded of Ginny and a youth lost. His regret and guilt were of equal proportion when he remembered Ginny and realised with some shock that his feelings for Ginny were morphing into her daughter. He didn’t want to let Philomena go.
    Now here he was acting the part of the great-great-uncle standing in for the great-grandparents who couldn’t be present for the birth of the newest addition to the Wade family. It was preposterous. There was no need for him to bear witness to Philomena’s disastrous legacy. Annie had told him the very same thing and yet he felt obliged to be present for the child’s birth, believing it his duty to both support Philomena and to do what Ginny would have expected of him.
    There was a single electric lamp burning on the table and he realised sleep had overtaken him. Some hours had passed. His limbs were chilled and his patience eroded. Hunger verged on nausea. A thumping noise from across the hallway jolted him as a rush of words in the Indian tongue sounded loudly. It was Philomena. His niece’s yells became more desperate and were joined by other inmates, then suddenly there was silence.
    In the stillness that followed, mewling, much like a cat, carried from the bedroom. Harry Fitzgerald appeared at the bedroom door to advise that the baby was a girl and seemed to be quite normal.
    â€˜Normal?’ Aloysius repeated, staring at the dark blood splattering the doctor’s white gown.
    â€˜Providence is indeed with us, Mr Wade, for the child is not Indian in appearance at all. This is a boon for one and all, and worth consideration.’
    Aloysius failed to grasp what the doctor alluded to. ‘I don’t understand, Harry.’
    â€˜The child is white. There is no sign, indeed no trace of an Indian heritage.’
    Aloysius’s brow creased.
    The doctor gave a brief nod of understanding. ‘I know this is difficult to comprehend. I know this is unexpected, but it would seem that the Wade likeness, the Wade breeding, has come to the fore. You have a healthy baby girl, Mr Wade. The nurse will bring her out directly.’ Myriad thoughts rushed through Aloysius’s mind. He walked cautiously to the bedroom, aware of the time already passed. There was a stink of blood in the freezing room and, although a clean sheet covered the new mother, messy rags were piled on a table. The doctor, bloodied to the elbows, was washing in a basin, the nurse fussing with the crying child. It was then Aloysius realised that the girl was dead. A stain of blood seeped through the sheet covering the girl’s body. Her wrists were tied to the bedpost and a gag shoved in her mouth. Through the walls Aloysius believed he could hear Philomena wail. He watched as the baby was swaddled and then stood awkwardly, arms outstretched, as the bony-fingered nurse handed the child to him. With trepidation, he grasped the warm bundle to his chest and looked down at Philomena’s grandchild. The baby was indeed quite ‘normal’ in appearance. Pulling away the swaddling material, he admired the snow-white of the baby’s skin, counted the perfectly formed fingers and toes and finally a smile crossed his features. His brother’s great-granddaughter had china-blue eyes and wispy, silver-blonde hair. She was simply exquisite. Here, then, was his dead brother’s legacy, here was Joseph’s blood, his as