Home for Erring and Outcast Girls

by Julie Kibler

  “Not much of anything,” she says.

  We continue up Main toward Sundance Square, with the courthouse in view on the other side. A few years ago, they demolished an ugly 1950s addition that hid much of the original exterior. Now it looks generally like it would have in the early 1900s. “Isn’t it crazy to think that Mattie and Lizzie might have stood right here, looking at these buildings?” I say.

  We know the Upchurches took at least some of the girls to the old Methodist church nearby, where they sang and talked about their pasts. Mattie and Lizzie had surely been here at some point.

  Down the bricked street, in the fading afternoon light, the regal old courthouse is flanked by buildings already lit for the holidays. A clock tower glows at the top. “It’s so pretty,” Laurel says. “Probably prettier than it would have seemed back then with everything going on.”

  She gets it. She feels the way I do. Wistful, in a way. Nostalgic for another time. But aware things were likely worse. We’ve glamorized the story of the girls to a point. I hate to think of what they went through to get to a better place—and even then they were still barely scraping by. The journals are full of pleas for food, linens, and clothing. Laurel and I may have histories that prevent us from personal peace, but we have modern, comfortable beds, plenty to eat, and so much more. Compared to the Home girls, we’re rich.

  It doesn’t help the heartache.

  Suddenly, I know I have to ask her what happened. I don’t know how she’ll react, but I feel as though I have no choice. Right here. Right now. If she doesn’t want to talk, fine. If she does, and I don’t take the risk, I could be sorry later.

  “Laurel, what happened to your family?”

  She goes quiet. Then says she’s cold. But when we’re settled at a sidewalk cafe on Sundance Square, our hands hugging mugs of cocoa still too hot to drink, she talks.

  “My mom got pregnant and my father wasn’t in the picture. I don’t even know who he is. She waited tables. We managed. I had what I needed. My little brother came along, same story. We moved constantly. She couldn’t pay the rent. We got kicked out. Sometimes we stayed with my grandparents, but they didn’t like her choices. It was always a fight. My brother and I dreamed about my mom finding someone and getting married so we could have a stepdad and be more settled, but the guys she found in bars were scum. She never let them meet us.”

  She sips her cocoa, cooled down now, and becomes tentative with her words, as if speaking them aloud makes her less sure of the story. It’s a familiar feeling.

  “She met someone online and everything moved fast. One weekend, we went to Six Flags, like a family with a dad on trial.” She scoffs. “I had a weird vibe from him, but she was totally sucked in. He had a good job, a good car. And she was so happy…” She gazes onto the plaza, where families wait to see Santa, fathers with kids on their shoulders or holding their hands. “He kept saying, ‘You’re so cute,’ and running his fingers down my hair.” She shivers, still haunted by the ghost of that unwelcome touch.

  After a quiet moment, I ask, “Did your mom notice?”

  “I think she was just relieved someone wanted her, who could take care of her—and us—after doing it alone so long. I have a hard time judging her for that.”

  Laurel judges her for something, though. I know by her tone. And I dread what I’m about to hear, even though I’ve invited this. “But…?” I say.

  “I wonder what might have happened if I’d been brave enough to say something to her then…but I doubt she would have listened.” Laurel looks up at me, her eyes naked in their grief. “Cate? You know Lizzie’s story in that one journal? Where her mother didn’t do anything when her stepbrother molested her? How she actually punished her? And then her stepdad did it too?”

  My stomach aches. I’d suspected ordinary teen angst. But this? I hate this.

  “Don’t worry,” Laurel says. “He didn’t get a chance to do anything. I didn’t let him.”

  I’m relieved, but there’s more to her story. Maybe it’s the worst part.

  “So I woke up with him in my room one night, sitting on the edge of my bed. He said I was so pretty, and he’d realized he wanted me, not my mother. I felt sick. And scared. I said I’d scream if he didn’t leave.” She pauses. “The next day, I told my mom…but she didn’t believe me.” Her voice breaks with the weight of it. “She blamed me.” Laurel goes terribly silent. Her shoulders shake, as though she fights to keep sobs from emerging and they fight to break out.

  Finally she says, “I’ve never told anyone that. It’s embarrassing.”

  I place my hand over hers, hoping she won’t be startled or angry, but I can’t leave her alone with misplaced guilt. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.” I know she’s not speaking of her tears. “That wasn’t your fault. A grown man knows better. And your mom…”

  I shake my head, nervous about laying this blame: a mother who knew and did nothing.

  But it happens.

  “She told me to get out. I was freaking seventeen!” Laurel’s words are gasps now, as if they’re physically painful. “She said I’d always been needy, always wanting more than my brother—from everyone. And that I’d probably done it on purpose, trying to steal him from her.”

  My face gets hot and prickly. How could a mother say that to her own child? I rage at this woman I’ve never met, as if this is my own history. How could she take another side when she’d promised, by virtue of giving birth, to guard her child’s well-being above anyone else’s?

  How could she live with herself? How could any mother live with herself…

  We’ve seen, together, the multitude of ways parents failed their children, in the archive’s journals, in the ledgers, in that lonely Berachah cemetery, but hearing it from the mouth of another heartbroken girl makes it new all over again.

  Each story is unique. Each story is devastating.

  And I know it firsthand. My parents failed me too.

  On the way back to Arlington, Laurel tells me she stayed with various friends until graduation, and how she’s still trying to declare independent status for financial aid. I nod. I understand the difficulty of the process. Her academic scholarships cover tuition, fees, and books—but only if she can keep her grades high enough. It’s a lot of pressure.

  I pull into my driveway. It’s been a fun couple of days, even with this emotional ending. We’ve both enjoyed the company, nearly like a normal holiday for the first time in a while.

  Laurel thanks me for Thanksgiving dinner, for letting her stay and hang out—and for listening without judging. All she ever told her friends was that she and her mom had a falling-out. She worried that if their parents knew, they’d believe she was more trouble than they were willing to take on. Her brother is the only family member she’s spoken to since her mom threw her out. He’ll graduate in a year and plans to enlist. She hopes they can have a real relationship again—but not while he’s at home. She never told him either.

  Laurel hesitates before she leaves my car. “Cate? What happened to your family?”

  My insides knot. She’s kept her secret more than a year. She has no idea how hard it is to talk about what you’ve bottled up for nearly twenty. I gaze toward my front door. For two decades, a glowing porch light has been the only thing to greet me when I go in from the dark.

  Finally I say, “Oh, honey, it’s late. It’s a long story.”

  “I don’t mind. You listened to me.”

  I sigh. It seems like a simple transaction to her. I’m just not sure I can do it. “Look. What happened is so far in the past, I hardly think about it anymore. Bringing it up again isn’t healthy for me. I’ve moved on.”

  Laurel looks at me with disbelief. Her heat rolls across the car in waves, even on this cold November night. And before I can do anything to temper her fury, she grabs the door handle and nearly leaps from the car.
Before she turns to go, though, she stops and leans inside. “I actually get that,” she says, “but it seems a little hypocritical. I mean, you asked me to tell you—”

  I interrupt. “Wait—!” I never wanted her to feel coerced. That word scares me, and I’ve tried hard not to push her.

  But she speaks over my protest. “Nobody trusts an eighteen-year-old on her own. They believe whatever happened must be my fault—just like my mom did. But I thought you were different. I thought you trusted me.” Her look sears me. “You’re just like everyone else.”

  She slams the door and I’m alone again, stung by her anger.

  She’s right, though. I’m a hypocrite. Worse, I know exactly how she feels. And now, I’m forced to admit I’ve been telling a lie a long time. When I tell myself that people leave me, that there’s something about me that makes them walk away, it’s not exactly true. I always—always—run first, before they have the chance. And though I haven’t physically run, not this time, I’ve pushed Laurel away, right when she needed the reciprocity of trust.

  LIZZIE

  Arlington, Texas

  1910

  Miss Hallie had raised a ruckus about Mattie going off to OKC, but in the next breath she disappeared herself. She’d agreed last minute to accompany Brother JT and some of the girls on a campaign. Over three days, the girls would sing and testify in small-town churches.

  Sister Maggie Mae had been geared up to go with her husband when Miss Ruth Upchurch, now thirteen, reminded them of her piano recital on the weekend. Ruth had nearly fallen into a tantrum when she realized her mother might miss it.

  Sister Maggie Mae always tried to ensure that her children never felt overlooked in favor of “the girls.” She suggested Miss Hallie go in her place. Miss Hallie had attended enough rallies and knew the procedures. Birdie Cagle, the music leader, could act as backup chaperone. They trusted Birdie implicitly.

  If Brother JT worried about traveling with that many single women, he didn’t show it. The vice districts were booming, and fund-raising was more critical than ever. He never took a break. He was so engrossed in the matter of fallen women, Lizzie wondered if he sometimes forgot the unwavering one under his nose. Sister Maggie Mae was just as devoted to the cause, but Lizzie reckoned it was hard to share.

  The long-time Home girls had all observed the mounting tension between the couple. Minnie, who had cooked and cleaned in the Upchurch home since their youngest daughter’s birth, whispered to Lizzie that she’d seen Sister Maggie Mae look right through Brother JT recently when he returned from a monthlong journey out west. Instead of immediately embracing his wife, he’d gone straight for his slippers and a sweater. In the hallway later, Brother JT halfheartedly pecked Sister Maggie Mae’s dutifully offered cheek.

  Sister Maggie Mae nearly singlehandedly ran a household of five children while Brother JT spent most of his hours elsewhere, focused on other women and their children. Being housekeeper, head tutor, and disciplinarian while her husband pursued his higher calling must have been exhausting. Lizzie wondered why they kept having kids. There were things now to curb that—something to consider when you’d married a man with two passions—though she doubted Sister Maggie Mae had much say over her relationship with JT, at least in the romantic sense. Maybe romance was overrated. Lizzie wouldn’t know.

  Brother JT returned from the journey without Miss Hallie, but with renewed devotion toward his wife. There was the official story, but Lizzie had overheard Birdie telling Sister Susie another.

  On their journey, Brother JT had been seated across the aisle and up a row from Birdie and Miss Hallie on the train. While writing in his leather notebook, he’d reached to rub his neck. Miss Hallie tensed in the seat beside Birdie, then physically leaned, as if she wanted to stretch across the aisle to aid him. Her face reddened when she noticed Birdie watching. She closed her eyes and leaned against the headrest.

  “Are you all right?” Birdie said.

  “Oh…yes. Why do you ask?”

  Birdie shrugged. “You’re flushed, and the grippe’s going around again.”

  “This car is simply stuffy. Perhaps I’ll take some air.”

  Birdie averted her eyes and opened her Bible to prepare for the service that evening as Miss Hallie rushed to the space between their car and the next and clasped the railing. The train rocked along, and Birdie’s eyes drooped closed, but when she opened them again, Brother JT stood on the platform too. She sat higher to watch. Brother JT harped on the girls about being alone with men. He wouldn’t even counsel one in his office without another woman nearby. Perhaps the platform, in view of the car, didn’t seem private.

  Their conversation, however, certainly was.

  He smiled, obviously teasing Miss Hallie. Miss Hallie bristled at humor from anyone else, but all she did now was grin. Birdie followed Miss Hallie’s gaze to where Brother JT’s hair caught the afternoon light snaking between the cars and gleamed like a handful of gold and silver coins. Birdie jumped up and hurried to the door, yanking it open to join the two at the railing.

  “It is hot in that car,” she said. “No wonder you were flushed, Miss Hallie.”

  Miss Hallie turned. She seemed half-surprised, half-annoyed.

  “You were saying?” Brother JT’s tone indicated he’d repeated himself.

  “Next month’s article,” Miss Hallie stammered. “It’s on…temptation.” As the word escaped her mouth, she blanched.

  Brother JT simply seemed puzzled. “I don’t recall discussing it, but that’s a perennial topic. You feel qualified to undertake a full essay?”

  Miss Hallie blundered on. “Well, yes, seeing as we are all tempted, being human. Naturally, I’d consult the commentaries. Perhaps”—she paused—“your own thoughts might help. Have you not dealt with temptation yourself?”

  Brother JT’s eyes suddenly went guarded, but Miss Hallie threw off restraint and carried on breathlessly. “We are not gods, even with our callings. We are, first, men and women.”

  Birdie’s jaw fell.

  Miss Hallie stepped toward the door of the car, and Brother JT lurched to hold it for her. He didn’t follow the women in. Birdie imagined that Miss Hallie’s artless words required deciphering. But Miss Hallie didn’t appear to regret them, not when Birdie squeezed past her to reclaim her own seat, and not later, when Miss Hallie lugged her own suitcase from the overhead rail and held her nose higher than ever.

  Miss Hallie didn’t continue on when the group departed Hamlin. A member of that church joined them for the remainder of the journey without explaining why Miss Hallie remained in the tiny West Texas town.

  When they returned to the Home, Sister Maggie Mae announced that Miss Hallie had accepted a position at Hamlin’s small Holiness University. They’d needed her so desperately, she’d immediately sent for her things.

  CATE

  Grissom, Texas

  1998

  The Monday after my ill-fated exploration of the Hotel Zagosa with River, I came home from school to a freshly made bed. “I washed and changed your sheets,” my mom called as my backpack sagged against my door frame. “You have so much to do right now. I thought it might help.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I answered casually—while my heart did a flip. Had she discovered my journal as she tucked in the clean sheet? Washing my sheets wasn’t unusual, but she always left it up to me to remake the bed. I replayed her voice in my head, trying to ascertain her mood.

  I’d continued to process my feelings on paper. There were a lot. I left most of the details intentionally vague, never even writing River’s name. I didn’t want anyone accidentally reading about or prematurely judging our relationship—not when I was unsure where it was headed myself. But I needed to put the feelings somewhere. And after things had taken a physical turn that weekend, I’d written in greater detail and then hidden the journal. Even without names and places, these wer
e things you wouldn’t want a mother to read.

  Soon, I’d have to be honest with my parents, but I wasn’t ready. At dinner, I studied Mom’s face and her attitude toward me. She seemed her usual self, if somewhat tired and distant. She didn’t bring up prom at all. I almost congratulated her. Instead, I relaxed. She always wore her feelings on her sleeve. If she’d read the journal, she would never have been so calm—upset or elated, depending on her assumptions, but not calm.

  The previous Saturday afternoon at the park, sitting on the picnic table with our hands entwined after I told River about prom with Seth, we’d fallen silent, me stroking my other thumb along a tiny tattooed sun on River’s wrist bone, both of us leaning more into each other as the silence deepened.

  Out of the blue, River asked, “Why did you quit track, really?”

  Startled, and not quite ready to leave the quiet moment, I’d shrugged. “Not enough time.”

  “Because of church?”

  I thought about it reluctantly. The simple answer was yes. “I wasn’t that good anyway.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  My head snapped up. “You don’t?” I said, though I already wanted to change the subject. I wasn’t particularly proud now of the real reason I’d quit.

  “No. I don’t.”

  River’s facial expression was new to me—not ridicule, though. The opposite.

  It said, I believe in you.

  “Fine.” I jumped off the table and leaned forward “Race me.”

  River laughed, but clambered down to copy my stance. “On your mark…”

  “Get set…”

  “Go!” we shouted in unison, and off we went, leaving our drink cups behind on the picnic table, no better than the vandals in the old hotel. That was the last thing on my mind.

  River didn’t catch me for twenty yards or so, not until I slowed slightly to catch my breath—and maybe for other reasons. “Where’s the finish line?” I said, panting, though I hadn’t even broken a sweat.