Michaela sensed that they had come to the second, and perhaps greater source of Sully's hidden pain.  She reached over and took his hand, offering in advance the emotional support he was going to need as he continued to probe the wounds of his past.  He looked at her gratefully, and with another deep breath he resumed speaking.

     "My ma was never the same after Will died.  It was like, with him gone, I kinda ceased to exist for her too.  I mean—it wasn't like she neglected me, or ignored me—not exactly, anyway.  She looked after me, mended my clothes, taught me my lessons, nursed me if I was sick.

     "But it was like she was just goin' through the motions—behavin' the way she figured a proper mother should.  Only there was no heart behind it.  It's kinda hard to put into words," he added apologetically, clearly troubled by his inability to explain what, to his child's perceptions, had been inexplicable.

     "I think I understand," Michaela said softly.  Indeed, her physician's mind was beginning to comprehend all too well.  Through Sully's tortured recollections, a picture was beginning to emerge of a woman suffering a severe form of melancholia—a mother whose soul was in torment.

     "Even as young as I was, I could tell she was just pretendin'," Sully went on.  "She put on a good act—good enough to fool most people—but I knew that things had changed.  Before, we all used to go for walks together in the park.  After, she almost always went alone.  She never read poetry to me again.  I remember seein' the book lyin' on her bureau month after month, gatherin' dust.

     "She had trouble sleepin'.  Night after night, her lamp would be burnin' till all hours.  I could see the light shinin' through the crack at the bottom of the door, and her shadow pacin' back and forth.

     "Sometimes, I'd wake up in the middle of the night to hear her cryin' real low.  I'd listen, wantin' to stop her cryin', but not knowin' how.  I would think about how bad it must be to lose your first-born—that it must be the worst thing of all.

     "And I'd lay awake and wish that it had been me who died, instead of Will—and then maybe my ma wouldn't be so sad."

     "Oh Sully," Michaela whispered brokenly.  Tears stung her eyes as she imagined his pain and isolation—too young and helpless to comprehend the depth and effects of his mother's grief.

     She had expected more tears from Sully as well, but through his entire recitation, he had remained dry-eyed, his voice curiously calm and detached.

     This lack of reaction from Sully disturbed her far more than his earlier outpouring of grief over William; for it seemed to suggest that the early wounds inflicted by his mother's rejection were too deep, too profound even for tears.

     "God, help me to help him," she prayed silently—hoping she would find the way to ease him through his pain, yet simultaneously afraid that all the medical skills and love for him that she possessed would not be enough to heal the scars of a lifetime.

     "Then one night, she went out for her walk and didn't come back," Sully said, his tone still devoid of emotion.  "The followin' night, the Edwards told me she was dead—drowned in the Hudson River.  They said they was sure it was an accident—tryin' to make me feel better.  But I knew different.  I think deep down I always knew that she was just countin' the days, markin' time till she could be with Will again.  And she finally got her wish."

     Michaela tightened her hands on his, looking searchingly into his eyes for some sign of grief, anger—anything to indicate a natural, healthy reaction to the bitter knowledge that his mother had willingly chosen death over life.  That her need to be reunited with her dead son had finally eclipsed her love for the son that had survived.  He returned her gaze, but she realized he wasn't really seeing her.  His eyes were fixed on a point far in the past—a past in which he had been a defenseless boy of ten, bereft of his mother's presence and love.

     "What happened then, Sully?" she prompted quietly.

     He shook his head slightly and focused on her.  "I lit out," he said simply.  "I took some clothes, a little money, an' a picture of her an' me that was taken a few months before.  It had been a family portrait—a Christmas present from the Edwards.

     "I decided to head out West, see the frontier.  But before I left the city, I went to the river, to the place where they said she died.  I took that picture, and I ripped it up in a dozen pieces—and I threw them into the water.  I decided that if she didn't love me enough to stay with me, then I was gonna forget I ever loved her.  Just cut her out of my life—like she never existed."

     A chill went through Michaela at his words.  Rosalind's comments about her father's and sister's estrangement echoed in her mind:  "My father had her portrait removed . . . he was determined that there be no reminder of her left anywhere in the house . . . she had never forgiven our father for . . . cutting her out of his life . . . "

     The similarities in the lives of mother and son reverberated in Michaela's mind, and she couldn't suppress a shudder.  Sully saw her shiver.

     "You're cold," he said, misunderstanding the reason for her trembling.

     "Perhaps a little," she whispered.

     Immediately he rose and fetched the Indian blanket that still lay on the floor.  Tenderly he wrapped it around her shoulders.

     "Better?" he asked.

     "Yes—if you'll join me," she replied softly.

     Sully smiled and kissed her forehead.  He rearranged the blanket so that they both were wrapped within its folds.  They pressed close, drawing warmth and comfort from one another.

     Michaela glanced over to where the cameo now lay revealed on the floor, half under a chair.  Sully still hadn't noticed it. She prayed that he wouldn't see and ask about it until she was ready to reveal its significance.

     "I've upset you, haven't I?" he asked, revealing that he was more sensitive to what she was feeling than she had realized.

     "Only in that I feel such sadness for what you went through," she told him.  "And I wonder if I've made a dreadful mistake, forcing you to bring up all these painful memories.  I'm worried about you, Sully.  Your reaction to the memory of Will's death was understandable, and healthy.  But this calm that's come over you as you talk about your mother—I'm afraid that you're suppressing even more powerful feelings of anger or grief—feelings that could do you great harm if you don't find a way to release them."

     He hugged her close, resting his chin on her head in the familiar way she loved.  "Thank you," he said softly. "Thank you for lovin' me so much, and for carin' so deeply.  But don't worry—I’m all right.  The feelins' you're describin' are there—but they're feelins' I dealt with a long time ago, after Abagail and Hannah died.

     "It wasn't till I lost them that I finally understood what my ma went through, and why she couldn't live with Will dyin'," he continued softly.  "Watchin' Abagail slip away, and not bein' able to stop it—seein' my first-born child taken from me before she could even draw her first breath—I thought I'd go mad with grief and guilt.  I almost did.  All I wanted was to follow them . . . nothin' else mattered.  *I* didn't matter.  But you know about that."

     "Yes," Michaela whispered, reaching up her hand to stroke his face, a silent tear trickling down her cheek.

     "But I was lucky—I found Cloud Dancin'.  He helped me deal with my grief, and guilt, and finally let 'em go.   And he helped me to understand my ma—to realize what happened to her wasn't her fault.  And that it wasn't my fault that I was too young to understand why she left.

     "When I said I was ashamed, I meant that I was ashamed for all the years I wasted bein' angry, 'cause I finally understood what she went through—what drove her to do what she did.  And that I forgave her, and I loved her.  And that I hoped she could forgive me."

     "God bless Could Dancing—he helped you in ways I never even knew," Michaela said in wonder.

     "Yeah, he did," Sully replied.  "I'll never be able to repay him completely for all the gifts he gave me—though I'll keep tryin' till my dyin' day.  It's why I had to do what I did at Palmer Creek, Michaela.  It was never a choice between the Indians or you and the family—it was me tryin' to save the life of the man who gave me my life back, helped me find my path again.   If I coulda  known how things would turn out,  I woulda found another way—a better way.  But I couldn't have stood by and done nothin'—no matter what the cost.  Can you understand, and forgive me for bringin' you so much worry and pain?"

     Michaela hugged him fiercely.  "There's nothing to forgive!" she said through her tears.  "Nothing!"

     The tears finally came to Sully's eyes then, and Michaela held him as their mingled tears helped to heal the pain, regrets and scars of the past.