He shrugged.
She stared at the gravestone, dizzy and light-headed. “How did she die?”
“Mr. Blackwood said it was pneumonia.”
“Did you believe him?”
“I had no reason not to.”
“How old was I?”
“I’m not sure. Just a baby.”
“But how . . . ?” She paused, suddenly nauseous. All those stories “Mother” had told about being on bed rest while pregnant, about how happy they were when she was born healthy. They were lies. Nothing but lies. And what about her memories? What about “Mother” singing lullabies and tucking her in at night? Were they real or just a figment of her imagination?
“So my parents . . . I mean, my grandparents . . . told everyone I was theirs?”
He nodded.
“How did they explain that?”
“There wasn’t much need to explain anything. After Mrs. Blackwood sold your mother to the circus and Mr. Blackwood started drinking, things got pretty bad. The farm was prospering, but their lives were a mess. They stopped seeing friends, turned down invitations to social events, and the only people who came by the barn were clients. It was easy for them to tell everyone the doctor put Mrs. Blackwood on bed rest while she was ‘expecting’ and she wasn’t up to visitors, especially after the story about your ‘sister’ being stillborn. And after you were ‘born,’ they said you were too fragile to come out of the house and no one was allowed to come by until you got stronger. They put a sign on the front door telling people to go to the barn and ask for me. I was ordered to call the house and let them know who it was, and they turned nearly everyone away, or your grandfather came over to the barn. I believe you were a toddler the first time I saw you outside.”
She buried her face in her hands. Of course her grandparents had to lie, otherwise they would have been forced to admit what they’d done to their daughter. All this time, she had been blamed for her “father’s” drinking and death. All this time, she wondered why she was unworthy of her “parents’” love. With a strange mixture of shock and relief, she realized everything she’d believed about herself and her “parents” was a lie. On one hand, she was thankful to know the truth. On the other, between burning down Blackwood Manor and the bombshell that Lilly was her mother, it was almost more than she could bear.
She took slow, deep breaths and tried to pull herself together. She scrubbed the tears from her face and touched the grave marker, the dead cold of stone biting through her skin. This was her mother. The mother she never knew. A woman—an albino—who had been locked in an attic as a child and sold to the circus. It was incredible and wretched and heartbreaking all at the same time. And yet it answered so many questions. Except one. How could her parents—her grandparents—have been so cruel? Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered what her life would have been like if her biological mother hadn’t died. But trying to imagine a woman she’d never met as her mother was too overwhelming for her muddled brain right now. And trying to imagine growing up in a circus was impossible. She wouldn’t even know where to start.
“So her name was Lilly?” she said.
“Yes.”
“And my father?”
“Mr. Blackwood said he was dead, killed in some type of accident.”
Julia pushed herself up on shaking legs. “And you helped bury my mother?”
“Yes.”
“You helped take the body into the woods?”
“Yes.”
“Where was she?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where was Lilly when she died?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, then looked at her with tortured eyes. “In the attic.”
CHAPTER 33
LILLY
A yellow shaft of morning light penetrated the darkness, waking Lilly from a fitful sleep. She blinked and opened her eyes. A headache pounded at the back of her skull and her mind was slow and foggy. She felt like she’d been in a fight, every muscle aching and sore. She had no idea where she was, but she was lying on a bed. The sheet beneath her was cold and wet, and the was air filled with the stench of urine and the metallic odor of blood. A square of sunshine landed on a brick wall across the way, forming a silhouette of what looked like a narrow window covered with curly branches. She squinted, trying to figure out what she was seeing. Then a feathery shadow trembled at the bottom of the silhouette, like leaves on a branch. It was a bird. On a sill.
She drew in a sharp breath. It all seemed so familiar and strange at the same time, like something she had seen in a recurring dream. She looked up. Flowered wallpaper covered the arched ceiling above the bed—the same wallpaper her father had hung in her nook a hundred years ago. Her heart skipped a beat, then pounded hard in her chest. She turned her head and glanced around the room.
There was her dollhouse and her bookshelf full of books.
There was her tea set, complete with a lace doily, silver serving tray, and china cups.
There were her model farm animals, lined up on a shelf above her bookcase, all facing the same way.
She pressed the heels of her palms against her flooding eyes.
Was it all a dream? Had seeing the circus out her dormer window given her nightmares?
No. It was real. Merrick, Glory, the elephants, Cole.
Phoebe.
She put her hands to her chest. I’m a woman now. A mother. It was real. All of it. Panic exploded in her mind. Where is my baby? And how did I get back in this room? Then she realized she was wearing a hospital gown and could feel tight bandages around her middle. She remembered trying to save Pepper, being knocked by the crane to the ground, and someone saying they were taking her to a hospital. The image of Pepper hanging from the derrick cable flashed in her mind and a hot rush of grief ripped through her insides.
Pepper was dead.
She had to get out of here. She had to find Cole and Phoebe. She had to make Mr. Barlow pay for what he had done. She tried to sit up but couldn’t. Her stomach and back screamed in pain, and her lungs rattled and wheezed. She opened her mouth to scream for help but started coughing instead. She covered her mouth and tried to stop, but couldn’t. Every bark sent a jolt of agony through her middle and she felt like she was being ripped in half. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. When she could finally take a breath without hacking, dark blotches of blood splattered the palm of her hand, and a warm, coppery taste filled her mouth. She touched her forehead with shaking fingers. She was burning with fever.
A key rattled in the door lock, the handle turned, and a woman entered the room.
It was Momma.
Using every ounce of strength she had, Lilly pushed herself up on her elbows, her heart thundering in her chest. Momma looked exactly the same, except for a sprinkle of gray hairs throughout her perfectly coiffed head and the crepey, pinched skin around her eyes and mouth. She was tanned and slender, with rosy cheeks and shining eyes, with the self-assured poise of a woman who had lived a happy and guilt-free life. The sight of her burned like acid in Lilly’s gut. Momma approached with the familiar key ring attached to her apron, her face void of emotion.
“You’re awake,” she said.
“Where’s my daughter?” Lilly said. Her voice was raspy and weak, and her throat felt like she had swallowed shredded glass. She started coughing again and had to force words out. “What . . . am I . . . doing here?”
“Your daughter is safe,” Momma said.
Lilly clenched her jaw and tried to catch her breath. “Where is she?”
“Downstairs with her father.”
Lilly gasped. “Cole?”
Momma shook her head. “No, she’s downstairs with your father. Your husband, or whatever he was, is dead.”
For a terrifying second, Lilly thought her heart stopped. A sudden falling sensation swept over her and she shook her head. “No,” she said. “You’re lying.”
Momma frowned. “I never lie. Mr. Barlow said your husband was a thief and a
coward, and instead of facing the consequences of his actions, he jumped from the train and died at the bottom of a river trestle.”
“No!” she cried. “That’s not true. Cole would never do that! If he’s dead, Mr. Barlow had him thrown him off the train!”
Momma shrugged. “Who knows. I don’t believe a word you circus people say anyway.”
Lilly fell back on the pillow and buried her face in her hands, her mouth twisting in anguish. No. Not Cole. I need him. Phoebe needs him! An image of his face flashed in her mind, and the black manacle of grief tightened around her heart and locked eternally into place with a solid, final thud. She sobbed and started coughing again, her shoulders convulsing. What was she going to do without her husband and best friend? How would she and Phoebe ever get out of here without him? She felt like she was going to die right there and then.
No. She had to pull herself together, for Phoebe’s sake. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to breathe normally, then turned to look at Momma, her mind and body quaking with sorrow and fear.
“How did I get here?” she said. “How long have I been—”
“Since yesterday morning. Your father and I drove all the way to Nashville to get you. The doctors weren’t sure you’d make the trip back.”
“But why—”
“Mr. Barlow called us. Didn’t surprise me when he said you’d been nothing but trouble since the day he met you. Don’t try denying it. He told me everything. He’s done with you and didn’t want to get stuck with your hospital bills and taking care of your daughter. Your father insisted the least we could do was bring you back here. And once I realized the little girl was normal, I knew somebody had to look after her.”
The icy fingers of fear clutched Lilly’s throat. She glared at Momma. “Bring her to me.”
Momma shook her head. “It’s for the best.”
Lilly pushed herself up on trembling arms. There was no way in hell she was going to let Momma raise Phoebe. She’d kill her before she’d let that happen. She had to get out of this room. She had to get her baby girl and leave this house. She struggled to get out of bed, but her legs wouldn’t move. With growing horror, she realized she couldn’t feel them. She squeezed her knees and pounded on her thighs, but they were lifeless and limp. She couldn’t feel a thing. Tears blurred her vision and panic tore at her chest.
“You’re paralyzed from the waist down,” Momma said. “The doctors said it’d likely be the case if you survived.”
Lilly sagged back on the pillow, trying to maintain her last shreds of sanity. If she couldn’t get out of bed, she’d never get out of this room. She’d never get Phoebe back. How could this be happening? “Please,” she cried. “I’m begging you. I have to see my little girl.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“What are you talking about? She’s my daughter! She needs me!”
“You’re in no shape to be a mother. I always say God works in mysterious ways and everything happens for a reason. And finally, after everything you put us through, your father and I are getting the daughter we deserve. She’s taken to us like a fish to water, as she should. We’re her grandparents, after all.”
Terror and rage burned beneath Lilly’s ribcage. “You’re nothing to her!” she cried. “She’s mine!” She coughed again, and a sharp pain ripped through her middle, like a thousand daggers stabbing her sinew and muscle and veins. She sobbed and retched, growing weaker and dizzier with every passing second. “I won’t let you have her. Please. You have to bring her to me!”
“I’m sorry, but what’s done is done.” Momma went to the door, her keys clanking on her hip. Then she turned to look at Lilly, her fingers on the door handle. “If I were you, I’d stop begging for things you can’t have and start making peace with God. Lord knows you’ve committed your fair share of sins.” Then she walked out and locked the door.
* * *
Lilly wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she woke up to find herself back in the attic of Blackwood Manor, but the window silhouette slowly made its way along the brick wall as morning turned to afternoon, then evening, night, and morning again. A deep but fragile sleep kept her mind from further torture, but it only protected her for short periods. Every few hours, she startled awake, coughing and instantly assaulted with the knowledge that Cole was dead, Momma had taken Phoebe, and she was trapped in the attic again. Every time she opened her eyes and remembered where she was and why, a sudden avalanche of grief and anger threatened to crush her. But she had to hold on for her daughter.
In between periods of exhausted oblivion, she used every ounce of strength she had left to try moving her legs, willing her brain to make them work. If she could get out of bed, she could hit Momma over the head, escape, and get Phoebe back. She tried lifting her thighs with her hands and a brutal twist of pain ripped through her middle. Beads of sweat dripped from her face. After every attempt, she fell back on the bed, drained and delirious with despair. She was still burning with fever, her lips were parched, her sheets were soiled and rank, and she was growing weaker by the hour.
“Please, God,” she whispered. “Please. If you’re there, I need you now more than ever.”
But it was no use. Her legs were dead and lifeless.
No one brought her water or food, and she was beginning to think Momma was going to let her starve. How it was possible that her lungs still drew in air and her shattered heart was still beating? Agony nearly swallowed her.
A few hours after the sun came up, a key rattled in the lock and the door opened. Phoebe toddled into the room, one finger in her cupid-bow mouth, her tiny brow creased with uncertainty. Lilly cried out and reached for her with trembling hands.
“Come here, baby girl,” she said, tears flooding her eyes.
When Phoebe saw Lilly, her face lit up and she waddled over to the bed on chubby legs. Using what little strength she had left, Lilly lifted her up, ignoring the horrific pain in her stomach and back, and settled her on a clean section of blanket between her and the wall. She kissed her forehead and cheeks and mouth, drinking in the warm, sweet smell of baby skin and wispy hair. Phoebe looked healthy, clean, and well-fed. At least her parents were taking good care of her.
“I missed you so much,” Lilly said to her. “And I love you more than anything in the world. Did you miss me, sweet pea?”
Phoebe grinned and Lilly pushed a stray lock of hair behind her small pink ear. Without looking, she knew her father was watching from the doorway.
“Aren’t you worried about getting caught?” she said.
“Your mother is taking a nap.”
“She’s not my mother,” Lilly said. She looked over at him. “And you’re not my father.”
He was carrying a tray, with food and a jug of water. Gray hair covered his head, and his tanned face resembled cracked leather. He looked like he had aged ten years since the day he came into The Albino Medium tent. Still, the remnants of a younger, handsomer man lingered in his strong jawline and rainwater blue eyes. He moved closer and set the tray on her bedside table.
“I’m sorry,” he said in a miserable voice. “For everything.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“I still need to say it.”
He poured water into a mug and held it out to her. She struggled to sit up and he held the mug to her lips. She took a sip and nearly choked, sputtering and holding a hand to her mouth. Phoebe watched with worried eyes. When she stopped coughing, Lilly took a few more sips, then lay back down again, too weak to hold herself up any longer. Her father picked up half a sandwich from the tray and held it out to her.
She shook her head. “Not now.” Phoebe snuggled in the crook of Lilly’s arm and put her head on her shoulder. Lilly stroked her soft cheek and, keeping her eyes on her daughter, said to her father, “I just want to know one thing. Why did you let her do it?”
“I was out of town, remember? I didn’t know you were gone until I came back. By then, it was too
late.”
“I’m not talking about selling me to the circus. I want to know why you let her lock me up in the first place. There was nothing wrong with me. My skin was different, that’s all.” She turned to see his reaction.
He leaned against the wall near the foot of her bed, pain and something that looked like shame lining his face. “I had no choice.”
“Everyone has a choice.”
“You don’t understand. Your mother and I had been praying for you for years.”
Tears blurred her vision. “Stop lying to me. I want the truth. You owe me that.”
“It is the truth. Coralline was desperate to be a mother. And after her eighth miscarriage, she said she would have sold her soul to the devil to have a baby. We both know how hard it was for her to say that. When she found out she was four months along with you, she knew her prayers had finally been answered.”
“Until she saw me.”
He took a deep breath and sighed, his shoulders sagging as if telling the truth was the hardest thing he had ever done. It crossed her mind to point out that his suffering was nothing compared to what she had been through, was still going through, but she kept quiet. She was too exhausted to have that discussion. The only thing she needed to know was why. She gazed at Phoebe, who had fallen asleep next to her.
“It wasn’t that simple,” he said. “Your mother went into labor in the middle of a terrible storm. Roads were flooded, bridges had been washed out, and she was beside herself because we couldn’t get to the hospital and the doctor couldn’t come to us. She gave birth alone in our bedroom, refusing any help from me. Her labor went on all day and into the night, and when she stopped screaming I thought I’d lost her. All I could hear was you, wailing on the other side of the locked door. I was getting ready to break it down when she finally let me in and collapsed on the bed next to your bassinet. Her nightgown and the sheets were covered in blood, and she was white as a ghost. I thought she was dying. Then she looked at me with bloodshot eyes and said, “We have to get rid of it.”
The Life She Was Given Page 35
