The Life She Was Given

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  The cold, green-enameled restroom smelled like rotten food and old socks. Grime and black mold colored the grout between the broken, mismatched floor tiles, and a jagged yellow crack ran across the toilet seat. Julia washed her hands in the silver-legged sink, dried them with brown paper towels, then ate the apple as fast as she could, trying to ignore the stench of old urine. When she was finished, she stripped down to her underwear and bra, folded her cranberry-colored waitress uniform on top of her coat, and put them on the toilet tank lid—the only place that looked halfway clean. Shivering, she scrubbed her face and armpits with paper towels and Lava soap, then washed her hair in the sink, trying not to get soaked. The water was ice cold and the gritty lather made her hair feel like straw, but at least it would be clean. When the last of the soap was out of her hair, she used paper towels to squeeze out the excess water, then got dressed again, combed the tangles out of her hair, put it in a bun, and studied her reflection in the tarnished mirror.

  The stealthy progress of time since she ran away from home three years ago showed in her pronounced cheekbones and the rings under her eyes. Her tanned, smooth skin had turned pale and chalky from too little sleep and too little sun. Even her blond hair, which was once the white-blond of angel wings, seemed darker and thinner. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick, and her shoulders pointed sharply through the fabric of her uniform. She leaned closer to the mirror to examine the yellow remnants of a bruise around her left eye. Thankfully it was almost gone. How did you end up in a place like this, stealing food from an express mart and washing your hair in a public bathroom? You could have waited another year and gone to college, far away from Blackwood Manor. Mother would have paid for everything. Instead, you traded nine o’clock curfews and Sunday confessions for double shifts and a controlling boyfriend who hits you and spends money faster than either of you can make it. Maybe Mother was right. You aren’t going to amount to anything. So what’s the point of trying?

  Mother—with her spite and bony fists—was a rule maker and a rule follower. And she expected the same from everyone around her. Among the countless rules of Blackwood Manor—where certain rooms were kept locked and entire floors were off limits—Julia was to pray three times a day, keep her room spotless, do her chores, get perfect grades, and follow the guidelines at school. She could watch her parents’ horses from a distance but wasn’t allowed in the barn because it was a business, not a playground. Makeup, poodle skirts, pedal pushers, and tight sweaters were forbidden, and dresses had to be a modest length. Most importantly of all, she had to remember that bad things would happen if she didn’t behave.

  After spending the majority of her life wondering why her parents had her, running away seemed like the solution to everything. Yes, she had been clothed, fed, and had everything of monetary value she needed. But Mother was too busy praying, cleaning, cooking, and making rules to give her any guidance or affection. And her father, who she considered the demonstrative one, only hugged her on Christmas and birthdays. Most of the time he was in the barn with the horses, or drinking behind the locked doors of his den with the same scratchy gramophone record—“Little White Lies”—playing over and over and over.

  For years, she wondered what it meant when her father went on vacation “to recover” or “get help.” It was a strained time, more than usual, a time of keeping going and pretending, of being “normal” and not fussing. The Blackwoods never bared their souls, or poured out their hearts. Then, when Julia turned twelve, Mother explained her husband’s alcoholism and said it was Julia’s fault for being such a difficult child.

  Julia thought back to the day her father was killed. The sky was clear and blue. The breeze was gentle and scented with pine. Who would have expected someone to die on a beautiful day like that?

  She had skipped church to go to the lake. It was the last day of summer, a hot, humid day, perfect for swimming, and one of the popular girls had finally invited her to hang out with her and her friends at the isthmus. When it came time to leave for church, Julia locked the door to the bathroom and pretended to be sick. As long as she made it back before Mother returned, everything would be fine.

  But when Julia came home, there was a police car in the driveway, the early-afternoon sun glinting off the chrome and the windshield. Then she saw Mother on the front steps, one hand gripping the balustrade, and her heart sank. Had Julia gotten the time wrong? Had Mother come home early and called the police because she wasn’t in her room? Either way, she was in deep trouble. When Mother saw her coming up the driveway, she rushed down the steps and marched toward her, her face contorted in anger, her long skirt twisting around her legs.

  “Where have you been?” Mother shrieked.

  “I . . . I . . .” Julia said.

  “Speak up, girl!”

  “I went swimming with some friends. It’s the last day before school starts and they never invited me before. I knew you wouldn’t let me go so—”

  Mother slapped her, hard across the face. Julia’s head whipped to the side and her damp hair flew in her eyes and stuck to her skin.

  “I told you something bad would happen if you didn’t follow the rules!” Mother cried.

  Julia put a hand over her cheek, her eyes burning. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

  Mother reached blindly for the porch railing, her face suddenly gray. “Your father was . . .”

  Julia started trembling. She had never seen Mother like this. “My father was what?” she said. “Tell me.”

  “He was in a car crash.”

  Julia’s breath caught. “Is he okay?”

  Mother gaped at her, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “No, he’s not okay. He’s dead.”

  The ground tilted beneath Julia’s feet and her knees nearly buckled. It seemed, for an instant, that she was falling. But then she realized, somehow, she had remained upright. In what sounded like slow motion, she heard herself say again, “What happened?”

  “He was looking for you,” Mother said. Then her face contorted and changed. The grief in her eyes turned to anger and hate, and her mouth twisted into a sneer. She raised her arms and pounded on Julia’s head and shoulders with bony fists. “It’s your fault!” she screamed. “It’s your fault! It’s your fault!”

  Julia put her arms up to protect herself, but Mother’s blows slammed into her head and chest and face, even after she knocked her to the ground. The police pulled Mother off, but not before she split Julia’s lip and bruised her cheek and shoulders.

  That night, Julia stole the tithe money from the canister inside the spice cupboard, ignoring the gaze of Jesus on the decorative tin, then packed a bag and left Blackwood Manor, vowing never to return. There would be no more early curfews and strict rules, no more nightly prayers and weekly confessions, no more locked rooms, no more blame for her father’s drinking. From that day on, she’d be free to do as she pleased. She’d take her future into her own hands. And she’d never let anyone blame her for anything again.

  Except things hadn’t turned out the way she planned. Sure, freedom was fun at first, taking the bus to Long Island and making friends on the boardwalk, pawning her jewelry and moving into an apartment a mile from the beach with Kelly, a cocktail waitress, and Tom, a veteran from the Korean War. The first few months were lost in a haze of music, parties, beer, and marijuana. Then Kelly moved back home, winter came, the boardwalk closed, and the money ran out. Julia wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, but she and Tom moved to a cheap room in the city, and things stopped being fun a long time ago. Tom had trouble keeping a job, and he warned her over and over that something bad would happen if she didn’t keep hers.

  Now she came out of the supermarket bathroom, gave the key on the rabbit foot back to the pimple-faced kid at the cash register, and left the store. Earlier, when she went in, it was snowing, but now it had stopped.

  The new snow brightened the street. The neighborhood was still seedy, grimy, and li
tter-strewn, but it didn’t look half as bad as it did yesterday, without the snow. Big Al’s Diner sat near the corner, flanked by a liquor store with bars over the windows and a pawnshop with a soggy, ripped carpet in front of the door.

  Julia buttoned her coat, hunched her shoulders against the cold and, trying to ignore the slush seeping through her Keds, made her way toward the diner. She touched the can of Spam in her pocket to make sure it was still there, wishing she’d grabbed something else to go with it. When she got out of work ten hours from now, Spam on white bread would be her and Tom’s supper, like it had been every night for the past four days. Today was payday, but her entire check had to go toward rent. Otherwise, they’d be out on the street by the end of the week.

  When she reached Big Al’s diner, she passed the front entrance, went around the corner, and entered the alley behind it. For some reason, Big Al had a thing about the help coming and going through the front door, as if the diner were a fine restaurant instead of a greasy spoon. The smell of bacon and fried potatoes filled the cold air in the alley and, despite the apple she’d eaten earlier, Julia’s stomach growled with hunger. A boy in ripped jeans and a white T-shirt dug through the Dumpster next to the diner’s back steps. Beside him, a thin brown dog sniffed the air, waiting patiently for his owner to find something good. When the dog saw Julia, it wagged its tail and ambled toward her, all feet and ears and fur. Julia bent down to scratch the dog’s scruffy head.

  “Hey, buddy,” she said to the dog. Then she straightened and called out to the boy. “You know what Big Al will do if he catches you out here again, Danny?”

  The boy spun around, his eyes wide. “Oh,” he breathed. “It’s you.”

  He was nine years old, with hazel eyes and shaggy hair the color of coffee. Julia met him last year when he and his dog were begging for change in front of the pawnshop.

  “Where’s your coat?” she said.

  Danny shrugged. “My brother needed it.”

  “Your dad out of work again?”

  Danny nodded. “And Mom’s sick.”

  Julia took the Spam out of her pocket. “Here, take this. After my shift, I’ll try to stop by with something else.”

  Danny took the Spam, immediately pried off the lid, shook the pressed meat into his hand, and took a big bite. “Thanks.” He broke off a hunk and gave it to the dog, who swallowed it whole.

  “You’re welcome,” Julia said. “Now get out of here.”

  Danny smiled and ran down the alley, the thin dog at his heels.

  Julia went up the back steps of the diner, knocked on the entrance, and stepped back to wait. On the other side of the door, footsteps tramped across a tile floor. Someone fumbled with the doorknob and the door swung open. It was Sheila, one of the other waitresses.

  “Where have you been?” she whispered. “Your shift started two hours ago. Big Al is about ready to fire you!”

  Julia frowned. “What do you mean? I don’t work until ten on Wednesdays.” She entered the diner, already taking off her coat.

  “It’s Tuesday!” Sheila said.

  “Shit,” Julia said. She hung her coat on a hook, took an apron from the basket outside the walk-in cooler, slipped it over her head, and hurried into the kitchen, tying the apron strings behind her back. Sheila followed.

  Big Al came through the swinging doors between the kitchen and dining area, his forehead covered in sweat, his greasy salt and pepper hair hanging in his eyes. As his name implied, he was a big man, over six feet tall with wide shoulders and thick legs. But it was his enormous belly that earned him the nickname Big Al. Covered in a greasy white apron, it hung over his pants like a beluga whale.

  “Look who decided to show up for work today,” he snarled.

  “Sorry,” Julia said. “I thought it was Wednesday.”

  “And I thought it was my birthday,” Big Al said. “That’s why I got to wait tables and cook at the same time.”

  “I’m sorry,” Julia said. “I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  Big Al grunted. “Damn right it won’t. I’m holding your paycheck until next week. Maybe by then you’ll figure out if you want this job or not.”

  “But I . . .” Julia said. “Please, Al. I need it for rent.”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before coming in late,” Big Al said. “Now shut up and get your ass to work.”

  Julia gritted her teeth and pushed through the swinging doors into the dining area. The counter and nearly every booth were packed. Sheila came out of the kitchen behind her, two plates of eggs and a plate of pancakes balanced in one hand, a plate of French toast in the other.

  “Can you cover the counter, hon?” she said to Julia. “Just ’til the breakfast rush is over.”

  “Sure,” Julia said. She grabbed a pad and pen and scanned the counter for the next customer. A man in a black jacket and fedora sat at the far end, the menu closed in front of him. She started toward him.

  “Can I get a refill on my coffee,” someone said as she went by.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She put her pen and pad in her apron, grabbed the coffee urn, refilled the man’s coffee, then went to wait on the man in the fedora. She turned over a white mug in front of him.

  “Coffee?” she said.

  “Yup,” the man said.

  Julia filled his cup, set the urn on the counter, and dug her pen and pad out of her apron.

  “Miss?” someone shouted from the other end of the counter. “Where’s my pancakes?”

  Julia forced a smile. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Just then, the bell over the entrance jingled and a man in a pin-striped suit and shiny shoes held the door for a woman and a young girl in matching blue coats. The little girl held the woman’s hand and they both smiled as they took a seat in one of the booths. Cold air reddened the identical tips of their noses and the round apples of their cheeks. Julia stared at them, her pen poised above the pad in her hand. Mother and daughter, she thought. The mother took off her gloves, then smiled and reached across the table to help the girl take off her mittens. The daughter laughed when the mother rubbed her hands between hers to warm them. I wonder if it’s the little girl’s birthday, Julia wondered. Or maybe they’re on a shopping trip. Then the mother kissed the little girl’s fingertips and Julia’s eyes grew moist. She looked for the man in the pin-striped suit, assuming he was the little girl’s father. But he stood in the center of the room, skimming the diner as if looking for someone. Maybe he was lost. He didn’t look like he belonged in this neighborhood.

  “I’ll have two eggs over easy,” the man at the counter in front of her said. “With toast and butter.”

  Julia blinked and looked down at him, as if she’d forgotten where she was. She shook her head to clear it. “Um, okay. Sorry. Coming right up.”

  She headed toward the kitchen to place the order, berating herself for getting distracted. She had to stop daydreaming. If Big Al caught her staring off into the distance, she’d be fired for sure. But sometimes she just couldn’t help it. She was drawn to watching people who clearly loved each other, especially parents and their children. She loved seeing their faces light up with affection and recognition of their unconditional love, and the fact that they knew how important they were to each other without ever saying a word. She wondered what it felt like.

  “I asked for ketchup ten minutes ago,” a woman said to Julia as she hurried by.

  Julia grabbed a squeeze bottle of ketchup and put it in front of her.

  “Where’s my bill?” another woman said.

  “I’ll find it,” Julia said. She placed the order on the kitchen turnstile, rang the bell, and asked about the missing pancakes. Big Al pushed a pile of pancakes through the window and wiped his forehead on the back of his arm, glowering at her. Julia took the hot plate and delivered it to the customer. When she went back to the other end of counter, the man in the pin-striped suit was there, standing behind the stools. She dropped off the woman’s bill
and went over to see what he wanted.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “I’m looking for Julia Coralline Blackwood,” he said.

  Julia’s mouth went dry. Is this guy a cop? Is he here to arrest me for stealing from the supermarket? With a knot in her chest, she smiled. “She’s not working today. Can I can give her a message for you?”

  The man reached into the breast pocket inside his suit, pulled out a photograph, and turned it around so she could see it. Julia felt the blood drain from her face. It was her high school picture, taken the year she left home. How did he get it? And what did he want?

  “I’m a private investigator, Miss Blackwood,” the man said. “Hired by your parents’ attorney.” He reached into his pocket again and pulled out an envelope. “I’ve been searching for you for nearly a year. This is for you.” He handed her the envelope. “Have a good day.” He tipped his hat and left the diner.

  Julia stared at the envelope in her shaking hands. Mother had found her.

  CHAPTER 3

  LILLY

  Lilly stepped out of her attic bedroom, her teeth chattering and her breath wheezing in her chest. She didn’t want to go to the circus, especially without Daddy, but she had to do what she was told. Momma followed her out the door, then closed it behind them and started across the room. The light from Momma’s oil lamp flickered off an empty bookcase, three broken chairs, and the high walls of the other part of the attic, where Daddy sometimes let Lilly play when Momma went to church.

  Lilly wrapped her arms around herself and followed Momma, counting every step, then waited while Momma unlocked another door. Momma opened the door and held it, frowning and glaring at her as if to say “move it along.” Lilly stepped into a part of the attic she had never seen before and hunched her shoulders to make herself smaller. The room felt gigantic—at least four times bigger than the other side—but too close at the same time, as if she were inside a whale with a belly full of fish and boats and rocks, waiting to be crushed and swallowed. She stood trembling in a walkway between piles of dusty boxes and books and trunks. Momma locked the door behind her, then led the way through a rug-lined maze of cobweb-covered dressers, wooden chests, empty picture frames, and broken lamps. A set of rusty bicycles leaned up against a crooked wardrobe, and dirty dishes and books lined grimy stands and shelves. The rugs felt crumbly beneath Lilly’s shoes.