The Seary Line by Nicole Lundrigan Page B

dead Great Aunt Enid reaching for her, and Percy swore he would never touch her again. He relented, of course, though only after much badgering, a handful of shaky assurances.
    And then came Stella. Delia welcomed her with an open heart, even though the child was born from peculiar circumstances, to say the least. Delia hadn’t questioned a thing, never asked Uncle for a single detail, just loved the child as though she were her own. Then, as if her handsweren’t already full, within two months of Stella’s arrival, she got word that her younger sister had passed away. The husband, who was the cook on a boat that carted loads of salt fish to Boston, was unable to take care of their three-year-old boy. The news came by way of a concise letter, something hinting at Delia’s childless state, and the boy arrived shortly thereafter. A skinny child, he seemed lost in Sunday clothes, a brown wool sailor suit trimmed with pumpkin-coloured cord. Eyes of clear blue, and his nose and hollow cheeks were decorated with a smattering of freckles. His name was Amos Flood, and in the time it took her to take him by his sweaty hand, she had fallen in love once again.
    As soon as Percy walked in for his lunch on the day Amos came to them, Delia said in a hush, “He idn’t budged an inch. Been in the porch this last hour, staring at me. I don’t want to force him.”
    Percy walked straight up to the child, bent slightly, hands to his knees. “Now, you don’t look familiar. Not from around here, I’d say.”
    No response.
    â€œAny chance you works over to the mill?”
    He shook his head slightly.
    â€œDidn’t think so. I knows most men that works to the mill. Do you fish then?”
    A slight nod.
    Delia started to walk towards the child, but Percy jigged his hand for her to stay put.
    â€œWell, now. A fisherman. I guess that means you’re looking for a job. No self-respecting feller goes too long without a job. You idn’t nothing if you idn’t got work. Isn’t that right?”
    The child stuck his toe in the rug, wiggled his heel.
    â€œI’ll take that as a yes. You’re after a bit of work, I’m betting. Well, wouldn’t you know it, you’re in luck.”
    The boy glanced at Percy now, and there was a faint twinkle of curiosity in his eyes.
    â€œI’m betting too that you’re a strong feller, with shoulders like that. And I needs a strong feller. But you got to eat a good meal. Keep up your strength and all that.”
    Amos toddled over, sat down in Delia’s chair at the table. Then he spoke, his voice like a bird’s chirp. “I’s strong. My mommy says.”
    Said
, Delia silently corrected, and the tense pinched her heart. It was difficult to reconcile her sister and the presence of this child. Delia had left home when Grace was only six weeks old, and in her mind, her sister was still only a newborn. She could hear her mother’s warnings,
watch where you seats yourself
, as her sister was always tucked into the corner of the sofa or the back of a chair. Somehow it was easier for Delia to believe her sister was lost when she was an infant, perhaps someone did the unthinkable and plunked themselves down without consideration for the plump white pillow beneath them. This way, Grace had never lived a full life. She’d never skinned her knees or braided her hair, never felt her soul ache with love, the awe of conception, the bittersweet joy of severing the cord.
    Yes, her sister Grace was long gone. But what to do with Amos? How could she squeeze him into this picture? Resolve his existence? There would never be any mention of her. Of Grace. A child his age would have the memory of a sieve, everything slipping through.
    That evening, Delia was nearly reduced to tears as she sifted through the trunk – clothes hastily piled up, a book of nursery rhymes, embroidered handkerchiefs, a pair of shoes, a lot of empty