What do the abandoned hold on to?
For Bethany and me, God is seeing us through. For Edie, I pray she will feel the same.
Nights still fall when I think of how I could take Bethany away from this place. We have just enough to make it to San Francisco, and she and I would have family to lean on. She would meet her grandparents for the first time. Lord knows we could use the refuge. But I haven’t yet had the grit to write to them of John’s disappearance, nor do I have the ability to leave this place.
I lack the strength to go where he won’t know to follow. I could leave word, yes, but at risk of it turning to an empty echo we remain here. I will remain here until it is impossible to do so, or until it puts my daughter at too great a risk. For now, John is still alive in a corner of my heart. I will continue to drink thin tea and sprouted potatoes for sake of the impossible.
And for now, and these coming days and weeks, preparing the cookhouse will be our purpose, the exhaustion of cleaning it from top to bottom and stocking it with fresh supplies more than a task or a chore. It has already become a sanctuary. A place where we will do so much more than prepare meals and scrub dishes. The men we will serve will not be our husbands, but we can serve with the same fire of purpose and prayer, even as I pray that if John is still alive, someone—even a stranger—is able to show him a kindness. This will be a place warm and safe and dry. A place for our broken hearts to find a mending and for the weary to be welcomed home.
Chapter 16
Johnny
March
“You’re doing great, Micaela!” I call from below her. “Be sure to keep your feet in front of you. Thatta girl.”
She’s maybe twelve feet up the boulder, leaning into the harness buckled securely around her hips and thighs. Her pink beanie covers her shoulder-length hair, which sways with each inch she lowers. I’ve turned my ball cap around backward so as to see her clearly overhead.
Being able to rappel properly is one of the biggest keys to canyoneering. I won’t take the kids out on beginning trips until they’re older, so now is the perfect time to teach Micaela how to rappel down a rock face. That way she can get comfortable with trusting the ropes, bolts, and harness. Since this boulder is just a hundred yards or so from the cabin and already set up with bolts, it’s the perfect spot to practice.
Micaela’s tennis shoes slip against the rough granite. Grit flakes and falls. I give the rope some slack, helping her lower farther. She takes small steps down, feet out in front of her, and she’s trusting the gear like a seasoned pro. Finally, her feet hit ground again and I ease up the slack on the rope so she can get her balance.
I step around a low cactus to give her a high five. “You did amazing!”
“That was so fun,” she cries. “Can I do it again!”
“Absolutely. We just gotta get you back up to the top.”
From the flat surface of rock beside me, Cameron is busy with a PB&J and juice box. Rye slumbers at his side.
Keeping tension in the rope, I show Micaela how to get back up the easy route we discovered. When she’s higher than my head again, we practice her rappel once more. She’s loving every minute, so we do it several more times before we’ve got to get back to meet up with the Realtor. He’s coming out today to grab a few more items from the lockboxes. Turns out the family is wanting more than the journal. They want the letters as well. The letters I have yet to explore.
Micaela helps pack up both of our harnesses while I get the rope coiled up and put away. She carefully zips my hiking pack closed and makes sure that the side pouch is secure.
“Thatta girl,” I say proudly. The tasks we do together aren’t all that complicated, but I know each one matters. Whether it’s gathering kindling or emptying out the ashes in the stove, each chore is teaching them valuable skills that develop purpose and confidence. I hope the lessons we’re learning out here together will stretch a lifetime.
The hike back home is only about five minutes, but between the heavy pack of gear and Cam on my shoulders, it’s a solid workout. Rye paces beside Micaela, who tows along our jug of water. We get back to the farm just in time to see a silver SUV in front of the barn. The Realtor has already climbed out and is peering through the barn window. Beside him stands an elderly woman who looks strangely familiar. I call a hello, and they both turn. The woman waves, and suddenly I recognize her from the historical society up in town when the kids did the coloring pages and I bought the book that is now dog-eared on the nightstand.
The historian’s smile reaches us. “Hi, Mr. Sutherland. Hi, kids!”
The Realtor opens the back door of his SUV, retrieving a file folder. “I hear you’ve met Mrs. Hollister,” he begins. “The Cohens suggested we get some help with moving the other artifacts. Never hurts to have a professional around.”
“I agree.” My response, while warm, lacks energy. Why?
Because I haven’t yet had the gall to rifle through the letters in the barn. I’ve not yet broken the seal on the privacy of the past, since it’s never been my right. Now the stories stemming from this place are about to slip from my grasp.
“Lemme grab my keys and we’ll get inside.” I take the kids to the cabin and settle them in front of a TV show with two containers of vanilla pudding. I leave the dog with them then grab my keys and head back out.
The historian pulls a box of latex gloves from the back seat. This is getting real. “Thank you both for allowing me to help with this,” she says as we cross to the barn. “It’s a real honor. When you came in the museum, I had no idea you were the new owner of this farm.”
It makes the way she treated us with such kind consideration even more meaningful. We were just strangers, and that was enough. Somehow her involvement is making it a little easier to let go of these letters. A little . . .
“And, oh . . .” She slides off a glove to dig inside her vest pocket. Retrieving a folded flyer, she offers it over. “We’re passing these out at the museum. The historical society is hosting an event with the Cahuilla tribe down in Palm Springs in late April. If you’re able to make it, you might find it interesting.”
“Thanks.”
We slow just beside the lockboxes. The window overhead is cracked open, letting in fresh air and light. I wonder who might have been the one to open it a thousand times and as many seasons before.
“Have you seen them?” the historian asks. “The letters?”
“I’ve glimpsed them, but that’s it. I’m pretty sure they were the ones written by Juniper Cohen.”
“Yes. Wife to John who wrote the journal.”
“Exactly.” In the dim light, I kneel in front of the lockbox that I’ve nearly opened again twice now. But both times I decided not to for the simple fact that the boxes aren’t mine. These letters—these memories—belong to others. I’m just a caretaker, and I’ve done my job in keeping them safe. These pieces of the past have stayed safe. Now they’ll venture on to wherever it is they’re meant to be.
That just won’t be in my hands, even though I’ve longed to discover more.
There’s nothing I can do or say that would justify any different outcome than unlocking the box for her and stepping aside as she pulls out the plastic-packaged letters. She reaches in next for the photograph of Juniper Cohen. I glimpse the young woman’s face as the historian places each item inside a thick, padded envelope that is already postmarked to the family in Wyoming. Beneath that photograph is another. Mrs. Hollister studies this one, and I lean nearer to better glimpse it.
This shot is of a small girl—perhaps three or four. She’s seated indoors on a stone hearth, and it’s definitely the cabin interior. Her composure is still, ladylike, but her face is blurred. It’s just possible to glimpse the smooth curve of her cheek and her pert little nose, but the rest of her face is hazed. A split second captured in time.
“It’s as though the child turned her head the moment the shutter went off,” Mrs. Hollister muses. “It took some time to sit still for one’s
photograph in these days. Images like this aren’t uncommon among children. This is likely the Cohens’ daughter.” When she turns it over, we glimpse Miss Bethany Cohen written in slanted cursive across the aged paper.
I squint at the image again, intrigued by what look like feathers tied in the end of the girl’s braid. It still astounds me that this was taken in my own home. That this child sat in the very place where I still build a fire each and every morning.
“I’m curious as to who was the photographer,” Mrs. Hollister muses. She moves a few items aside with care as she checks to make sure there is nothing else the family has requested. One of these items is a thick binder that she sets on the lid of the box. She opens it, flipping through plastic pages protecting a dozen or so brochures from the museum in its heyday. Following that section are several pages’ worth of old newspaper clippings as well as more black-and-white photographs that I’ve yet to see.
Leaning against a broken refrigerator, the Realtor talks as the historian continues her careful search. “Say, I got an email from that kid again who is doing a history project on this property. The one who needed a few pictures of the cabin exterior. Okay for me to let her know she’ll be hearing from you? I’ll forward the info along again if you want.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that.” I completely spaced. Has that poor kid been waiting for the pictures of the house all this while?
The historian sifts farther into the thick binder, past more memorabilia. That’s when she reaches a section near the back that resembles the original letters. These ones are photocopied, three-hole punched, and protected in more plastic. There are dozens of them. All written in the handwriting I’ve only glimpsed. I just watch, having grown a little numb, but something sparks inside me.
Closing the binder, she examines the back.
Property of Kenworthy Heritage Museum. 52647 Ridgecrest Rd. Mountain Center, CA.
“Hmm.” She offers it to the Realtor.
“This thing’ll be a ton to ship,” he says as he gives it a quick perusal.
“Additionally, it doesn’t belong to the family. Not technically.” Mrs. Hollister rises and peels off a latex glove. “This was part of the museum organization itself.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Well, it was part of their property—the museum, which was run by a third party, not the family. Some of these items are technically a part of that, like the soap dispensers or old banners, et cetera. Probably even this popcorn machine. The family only owns the original artifacts themselves, and of course the property, prior to selling it to you. This”—she nods toward the binder again—“probably ended up in the box when the museum organization was dissolved, workers and volunteers going their separate ways, and everything packed up.” She motions for the Realtor to hand me the book.
It’s solid and heavy in my hands. It feels as though a copy of every letter Juniper Cohen left behind resides within it. I open it up to the very first letter. The exact same one that has been printed in the history book.
July 7, 1902
Dearest John,
Crickets are chirping this evening, stirring up a ruckus. Do you remember the sounds of this land, or have . . .
“So, wait. What happens with this binder?” I lift my gaze.
Mrs. Hollister indicates the address printed on the back of it as dust motes swirl around us. “The museum is no longer a corporation, so ownership may as well be 52647 Ridgecrest.”
The Realtor thumbs toward the address sign staked into the ground at the front of the driveway. Then nods to the book I now hold. “I guess that means you.”
John Cohen
January 1898
She’s due on the stage tomorrow. Her name is Juniper. It’s an awful pretty name, and I’ve said it to myself each day that I’ve been awaiting her arrival. I don’t know what she looks like, but I like the way she writes to me. What is she going to think when she sees me? What am I even going to do? I’ve never been close to a woman before, so I’ve observed the couples around me of late. The way men make sure and open doors or offer their arm. These things I can learn to do, but could I ever really make her happy? Can I truly give her a good life?
The shanty’s clean. I’ve swept and cleared every inch of it to be ready for her. Even washed and folded a quilt that I purchased at the mercantile. The colors are like fall. She said, in her last letter, that it’s her favorite time of year.
Still no gold in the mine, but there never will be. Sometimes I wonder that if I dig harder and farther than any man here, I will find some. When I do, my soul will be free. But until then, it burns with shame. I don’t want to think about shame tonight. Not with Juniper coming tomorrow. I will return to the mine soon and keep digging and scraping for the sign of promise the town desperately needs, and will do so with each day that follows. I don’t know if it gives me assurance or fear that Juniper will be by my side in this life, when that means that she, too, will know the outcome. She, too, will eventually know my crime.
John
Chapter 17
Juniper
March 1903
“Do you remember the next step now that we’ve unfastened the clip?” Mrs. Parson asks Bethany.
Standing on a kitchen chair, Bethany unlatches the shiny brass brackets on Mrs. Parson’s fancy camera and slides it open. The wooden face rises to horizontal, and the black bellows accordion up like a swan’s neck.
Scrubbing the dinner dishes, I watch, imagining during this stage that the camera is being awakened.
“Well done.” Mrs. Parson tightens a knob. “And then . . . ?”
“Then this?” Bethany points to the lower portion of the device that Mrs. Parson taught her how to adjust.
A pair of feathers, one blue and one amber-gold, is tied into the ends of Bethany’s braid, something she urged me to help her do after we found them in the barn loft the other day.
A storm rages outside, pelting snow against the windowpanes, but in here with the glow of the fire and lantern, and Mrs. Parson’s added cheer—all is cozy.
“Correct.” With skill, Mrs. Parson slides the back plane toward her. “That keeps the folds from being worn out, or risking holes.”
Bethany touches the bellows, and her face is soft in the light.
The teacher smiles at Bethany’s joy with the camera. “We’re almost ready to take our picture. Who should be our subject?”
“Mama!” Bethany cries, momentarily drowning out the howl of the storm outside.
“Oh, no.” I fold the wet dishcloth over itself and reach into the tub for another pot to scrub. Thanks to an offering from Mr. Conrad, we had fresh game for supper. I insisted on sending him home with the last of our bread, and while he tried to decline, he finally tucked the muslin-wrapped loaf under his arm for the trek home. “I’m not so good at sitting still. How about a picture of you?”
Beaming, she turns to her instructor, who nods agreement.
“I think that’s a fine idea,” Mrs. Parson says. “Why don’t you settle over by the hearth, and I’ll get the shot set up?”
These lessons have been a welcome distraction during a frosty week. Over the last days, and with school closed for the storm, we have kept busy tidying, but the house is so neat with three females in it that there is nothing left to sweep or straighten. That’s when Mrs. Parson offered to tutor Bethany in photography, and the two have been engaged with these lessons each evening. While I have kept to the outskirts, I’ve listened to it all, soaking up the knowledge. The idea that a photograph can link two worlds and even two different times is beyond my imagining. To think that decades from now a picture could remain is a phenomenon I can hardly reckon with.
Perching on the edge of the hearth, Bethany straightens her calico skirt of brown and white, then crosses her ankles in their dark, woolen stockings. She pulls her small braid to the edge of her shoulder, letting the feathers tied there catch the light. Behind her, a fire crackles in the woodstove. Mrs. Parson angles the cam
era and adjusts another knob. She lowers her head to the viewing pane and moves the knob another half turn.
With the kettle nearly hot, I pull teacups from the cupboard and sprinkle a tablespoon of black tea into the bottom of the pot. The addition of boiling water sends up a comforting aroma. Outside, evening is settling in, casting a blue tint to the soft snowdrifts gathered over the land like a blanket. Though we keep the fire stoked around the clock, a chill still seeps in from around the windowsills. We’ve stuffed rags beneath the door where gusts howl past cold and lonely.
Mrs. Parson instructs Bethany to tip her chin up and to balance her hands just so on her knees. My daughter’s spine is straight, neck turned elegantly toward the camera. She looks so grown up. Mrs. Parson drapes a black velvet cloth over the back of the camera and slips it over her head, blocking out the light. Gears squeak as she adjusts the focus and tightens the planes. From how she’s explained it, the view she’s peering upon is upside down within the camera. I looked in it just the other day and was astounded by the phenomenon.
Mrs. Parson closes the lens and slips out from beneath the dark cloth. Next, she inserts the film holder. “Now hold good and still.”
I hear Bethany inhale. Mrs. Parson is just releasing the shutter when something slams onto the porch outside. Bethany’s head whips that way. I, too, startle.
A loud thunk hits the porch again. A horse whinnies.
I unholster my pistol. “You two get upstairs,” I whisper, and Mrs. Parson hoists Bethany up from the hearth.
I’m just to the door when something pounds against it. Bethany shrieks.
The gun, cocked now, feels too light in my hand for whoever might be on the other side. “Who’s there?” I demand.
The voice that presses through the thick slab is strangely familiar, emboldened by the wind and cold. “Mrs. Juniper. Open the door.”
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