Borderline
By the time Francine got a moment to herself the night following the funeral, it was nearly midnight and she was feeling completely smothered under the emotions of the day. She had gone to the bedside of each of the children, speaking in soft tones about the loss of Shane, and reaffirming to them that she'd always watch over them. Their grief manifested itself in many ways, from the stoicism of John-Eric to the mask of calm strength which Nance wore over her pain. The younger ones seemed more confused than anything, the absence of Shane's strong presence leaving them listless.
After she pulled a worn nightdress over her head, she sat at her dressing table with a soft sigh, still stunned at the unreality of it all. She began automatically removing the pins from her hair, the everyday ordinariness of her grooming routine soothing her wounded soul.
She paused in the midst of pulling the brush through her hair, catching her own eyes in the mirror. She raised cold fingers to touch her cheek, almost not recognizing the woman before her from the girl she had been. Still pretty, yes, but a very different beauty from the girl who'd once danced in the finest ballrooms in Philadelphia, flirting with handsome young men from behind a delicate, hand-painted fan. There were lines etched into her face now, lines she was proud of, put there by the sun and hard work.
"God, Shane," she whispered softly. "We worked so hard, and now that we're finally almost where we want to be..." Her eyes caught the sight of the large, empty bed behind her and, for the first time since her collapse when she realized that Shane was really gone, pain pierced her tight shell of protective numbness. Doubt began it's slow and relentless crawl into her mind, but she shoved it down with the thought of Shane. He'd had faith that she'd be able to carry on, and he'd not been a man to give that sort of emotion lightly.
She closed her eyes against the sudden well of tears, determined not to show weakness even when she was the only one watching. If she could just get through this, she promised herself, she'd never hurt this way again. She picked her hairbrush back up, attacking the day's accumulated tangles and knots with renewed vigor. Blocking out her pain again, she was unaware of the slow process of the hardening of her heart.
Hair brushed out and shining, Francine rose from her seat, determinedly not meeting her own gaze in the mirror. She moved across the room to the bed, threw back the covers and found herself confronted by an expanse of linen that seemed endless. Things like this had been hitting her out of the blue all day, things like the thought of sleeping alone again. She bit her lip and started to turn, to go down to the sitting room and the small but soft couch there.
"No," she said softly in the stillness of the room. "I have to face it sometime." Onto the small bedside table went the lamp, appropriately turned low, and she crawled into her side of the now-huge bed. She pulled the soft warmth of the quilt about her thin shoulders like a shield of sorts, unconsciously seeking protection from the dreams that she feared would haunt her.
Sleep was elusive, and fitful that long night. Finally, when she heard the clock strike three, Francine gave up with a sigh. "No sense in lying here sleepless," she said, throwing the quilt back and sitting up, planting her feet on the wooden floor. Lamp in hand, she left her room and slipped, wraithlike, past each of the children's rooms, ear to the doors for any sounds of disquiet. Satisfied that her charges rested, Francine moved for the stairs, heading down to the kitchen, her place of solace.
Halfway across the living room, some small sound, something out of the ordinary, gave her pause. Head cocked, she stood there for long moments, trying to hear it again. Wait... there! A low moaning, almost that of an animal in pain, and it seemed to be coming from just outside the front door.
Indecision held her briefly, as she contemplated going for John-Eric. "No," she said, resolute. "If I'm going to take care of things here, I have to start now."
She walked across the floor, to the front door, setting her lamp on the table just beside the door. As she reached for the knob, the sound cut again through the silence, and she contemplated again going back upstairs. But she was nothing if not strong-willed, and it was her hand that drew open the door.
She needed no lamp to see the figure huddled on her front steps, under the mellow light of the full moon. A man, obviously injured... all thoughts of threat to herself faded and she moved quickly to the bottom of the stairs, placed her hand on his shoulder, a shoulder that she now noticed was clothed in the gray uniform of a Confederate soldier.
"Please help me," he whispered.
Something about him, about his eyes, tugged at her. Hardly ever reckless, yet she didn't hesitate in her answer to him. "I will."