Barbara got up from the easy chair and walked to him. “It’s so nice to have you home.”
He wiped his feet on the entryway carpet. “How are you?”
“Fine. Let me take that for you.” She carried his suitcase to the bedroom, set it down, and drifted back to the living room. “Cold out?”
He hung his coat and slipped off his galoshes. “About thirty, and the wind’s picking up.”
Barbara had little patience for this small talk. She’d bought a French Chablis—not too expensive but with a pretty label—and prepared a plate of Camembert slices. Yes, she was splurging, but it was the beginning of the holiday season. “Why don’t you unpack. Then we can have a glass of wine, and I’ll take us out for dinner.”
“Uh, well,” he said, smoothing a hand over his cheek, “I guess that’d be all right. I’ll go change.”
He passed within a foot of her on his way to the bedroom. No kiss, no pat on the arm, nothing. Not that he’d shown her much affection lately. She’d just hoped for some gesture, anything to signal a change. But maybe he felt as shy and reserved around her as she felt with him.
She slid the plate of cheese out of the refrigerator and arranged the bread slices around the edge. Yes, it looked lovely, with bits of curly parsley here and there. She put the plate on the tray with napkins, wine glasses, and the Chablis. She carried it to the coffee table and sat down on the sofa.
She could hear Nick in the bedroom, shuffling about, probably emptying his suitcase and changing his clothes. Such a one for routine. He walked to the bathroom. She heard his water streaming into the toilet, the toilet flushing, and faucets running as he washed his hands. It used to aggravate her—how clean and tidy he was—but now she was grateful to be able to please him by keeping the apartment neat and sparkling.
“Well,” he said, his eyes glancing over the hors d’oeuvres as he walked into the living room.
She asked, “Would you like to open the wine?”
“I believe I’ll have some water first. Can I get you some?”
“Okay.”
He brought two glasses of water from the kitchen, handed one to her, and sat down a few feet from her on the sofa. He sipped some water and eased the glass onto the coffee table. He made no move to indulge in her offerings.
A vague dread seized her. She felt the blood drain from her face.
Nick planted his hands on his knees and twisted toward her. His expression hardened as his eyes fixed on her. “I need to talk to you.”
Her mouth turned cottony. Her heart hammered.
“I can’t go on like this,” he said. “It’s simply not working. The marriage feels dead.”
She clutched the arm of the sofa, trying to quell the tremors of panic rolling over her. It was as if he’d hurled a spear straight into her heart. “You can’t mean that. I know we can make it work.”
“I’m sorry, Barbara.” Nick turned away and stared at the wall. “I hate hurting you like this. But I don’t love you anymore.”
“It’s not true. You do love me. Look how patient you’ve been. And how hard I’ve tried. I’ll be the wife you deserve. I’ll give you a child. Can’t you see that’s all I care about now?”
He cupped a hand over his mouth, blinked hard, then dropped his hand and turned to her. “None of that matters anymore. It’s over.”
“No,” she wailed, falling to her knees and bumping the coffee table. Glasses jangled. She crumpled onto his lap. “You can’t leave me. Don’t do this to me.”
He pushed the coffee table away. Gripping her by the armpits, he pulled her back onto the sofa. “You’re better off without me. I’m not the husband you want.”
“But you are. You’re just who I want.”
“These last months have been torture.”
She reached for his shoulder and tried to tug him toward her. “Just hold me, like before. Let yourself love me.”
He stiffened under her touch. “I can’t do it anymore.”
Her insides seized up as if gripped by a huge hand. Hot tears erupted. She clenched her arms over her chest, trying to contain her shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she heard Nick say. “I’d like a divorce.”
No, this isn’t happening. She beat her fists against the sofa’s hard-stuffed roughness. Sharp pain shot up her arms. She lurched about, flailing her limbs. She’d suffocate if she couldn’t cast off this net of doom. She shook her head in violent jerks. “No, no, no.”
Nick wrestled her into his arms, enfolding her in a tight grip. “Don’t, Barbara. Be sensible.”
She writhed against his hold. “Stay with me.”
He was so strong. She could barely budge. Tears streamed from her eyes. She buried her face in his shoulder. He was holding her so tight. “You’re hurting me.”
“Will you stop this madness?”
She quit struggling and squelched her sobs. “Please don’t leave me.”
He released her slowly as if testing her.
She slumped over. Congestion throbbed at her nose, beneath her cheeks, through her head. “Please, Nick, anything but this.”
“You sit still. I’m getting some whiskey for you.”
This can’t be happening, she thought. I don’t know what to do. I can’t bear to lose him. I can’t live without him.
He clunked a glass down on the coffee table and poured an inch of whiskey into it. “Here.”
She tipped the glass to her lips, belted the liquid into her mouth, and gulped it. It burned her throat, sending a shudder through her. She hated whiskey.
He poured another shot. “Again.”
She cringed. His solution was to force whiskey on her? Why placate him? He was the enemy, betraying her like this, piercing her to the core. She’d not allow him to feed her whiskey to calm her down—for his sake.
“No.” She batted the glass away. The whiskey sloshed onto the floor. “I hate you. I hate what you’ve done to me.”
He muttered, “I don’t blame you.”
“You say I’m like my father—flighty and irresponsible. It turns out that’s what you are. And selfish and cheating, too.”
He looked up at her, as resigned as some put-upon creature.
“You sicken me,” she said. “You’re nothing to me. Do you hear? Nothing.”
He nodded, like an imbecile pretending to understand what was beyond him.
“You can’t even defend yourself. Because you know what you’re doing is despicable.”
Barbara ran to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
BARBARA AT TWENTY-FIVE
Boston to Points Beyond, December 1939
“Damn him.” All the time that she’d been dredging up hope, never challenging him, always trying to please him, he’d been living a lie. She’d surrendered to him. For what? Fleeting and undependable love.
She said she’d be the wife he wanted. But no, he’d betrayed her. And, like her cowardly father, he’d first told her in a letter—knowing that was exactly how her father had abandoned her.
She’d always been honest about what she wanted out of life. He was the pretender. He’d led her to believe that he, like her, loved wandering unknown wilds and living the life of an adventurer. How many times had he told her he enjoyed hiking beside her on the rugged trail, the two of them getting by only on their wiles and wherewithal? He was the one who’d changed.
He wanted a divorce. He didn’t love her anymore. A marriage couldn’t work without love, could it?
She needed to escape this horror.
Why should he get his divorce? Why should his betrayal be rewarded? No, she’d never release him.
He’d ruined everything. It was just what her father had done: told her he’d always be there for her and then, after sneaking around and cheating, cast her aside like rubbish. She had to get away from his treachery. She needed to go somewhere else, someplace far from this painful battlefield.
He’d never really given her a chance. T
he coward. He’d pretended at hope, all the while plotting to leave her. For months he’d probably kept up his affair with that woman.
How could he turn his back on her like this? She thought she knew him. But he wasn't who she’d imagined he was. He was selfish, thinking only of himself. Just like her father. How could she ever trust him—or anyone else—again?
A fierce thirst overtook her. She turned on the bathroom faucet and drank, gulping at the airy stream.
She looked at herself in the mirror, grabbed the towel, and wiped the tracks of tears away. She stared into her eyes and asked herself: What do you want?
And then it struck her: There was a way out. She would leave him. She’d disappear. She’d run away—to a place where no one could ever find her.
He had deserted her. She owed him nothing. Nor did she owe an explanation to her inconstant father. Saddest of all would be leaving her mother, Sabra, and her friend Alice. But there was no point in vanishing by degrees. Invisibility had to be complete and permanent.
She grabbed the bottle of sleeping pills from her bedside table and plunged it into her pocket. I won’t be cast aside, she thought. You won’t drag me through the agonies of divorce.
A strange comfort settled on her, as if, after being flung about by a hurricane, she’d arrived safely in its eye.
She grabbed her thickest sweater, the one Grandma Ding had knit for her, wriggled into it, and put on her wool coat. She checked her coat pockets. Yes, she had gloves. She took her purse off the dresser.
Opening the bedroom door, she looked for Nick. He wasn’t in the living room. She marched to the kitchen. He stood over the counter, gobbling some cheese and bread. My God, he’s eating, like there’s nothing wrong.
She glared at him. “I don’t ever want to see you again. You disgust me.”
He stared at her, wide-eyed.
She turned and stormed out the door. Tears erupted, clouding her vision. The cold wind chilled her face. She stumbled down the dark, deserted street, swiping a sleeve over her wet cheeks and nose.
As she picked her way through the quiet neighborhood, the wind whipped around buildings and whooshed down streets. She clutched her purse close to her side and leaned into the gusts, her steps ragged and unsteady. In the night’s clear skies, stars peeked out, flickering faintly. The occasional car whizzed by, indifferent and impersonal.
She remembered that time she’d wandered Boston’s streets after walking out on Nick. He’d come begging her to marry him. It was daytime then, and she’d harbored some hope. But this was night, and Nick had killed all hope—after he’d told her he could never love anyone else.
She boarded the streetcar, avoiding the eyes of the passengers hunkered in their seats. Only a smattering of others climbed aboard during the trip to Boston’s North Station.
She scanned the schedule board at the station. Yes, there was a B&M train leaving in the hour. She ambled to the ticket box and muttered, keeping her head down, “A ticket to Plymouth, please.”
She boarded as soon as the doors opened and took a window seat. As the train jerked out of the station and gained speed, swaying as it rounded curves, she surrendered to its movements. Months earlier, in the stifling heat of August, she’d traveled across the whole country, hardly able to endure the painfully long journey back to Nick. Now, with the bite of winter in the air, all she needed was a few hours to get away from him forever.
It was just past midnight when the train pulled into Plymouth.
She turned up the collar of her coat. She’d forgotten her wool beret. Well, she’d not need worldly comforts much longer. She walked along the deserted Holderness Road, crossing the Pemigewasset River and heading northeast. She knew these roads well. She and Nick had camped and hiked the Squam Lake area.
In the distance, she spied headlights. She tromped over the snowbank along the road’s edge and ducked down, waiting for the car—no, it was a truck—to pass. Then she continued on her way, through wisps of swirling snow, for about four miles, until she reached the Mt. Prospect trail and its sheltering trees. She tacked along the trail, deep into stands of pine. Leaping off the path to avoid leaving any sign of footsteps, she elbowed her way through the dense firs. She stumbled onto a meandering brook bed and followed it farther into the woods. Ah, there was a nook for resting. She sat down in the hollow and looked around. Nick would never find her here. Perhaps no one would.
She looked up at the sky, dark as the deepest ocean. Come to me, sweet oblivion. That’s all I want.
She reached into her pocket and took out the bottle of pills. She shook three pills into her hand and threw them into her mouth.
They stuck in her throat. She scooped up a handful of snow and swished it around her mouth, making enough moisture to swallow—three more pills, then four more pills, then the last nine.
Here I go, without a word. And you'll never know where I've gone. May you wonder about me for the rest of your years.
She inhaled the crisp night air and lay down in the hollow. Ah, escape—as silent and slight as a butterfly’s flight. She was free now. Around and above her, the wind swirled.
✭
Her memory reached back to a glossy green field, an emerald sea rippling up a rise. Butterflies flitted from blossom to bloom, beautiful butterflies of all the rainbow’s hues: some with gold wings and teardrop designs; a few as blue as kittens’ eyes; others bright as clouds or black as night and flecked or streaked in sherbet or white; everywhere tiny fairies with tissue-thin wings, bouncing lithely on the floral-scented wind.
Barbara gathered a handful of daisies and buttercups and stuck the stems in her thick chestnut hair. Standing still, she circled her arms over her floral-wreathed head. “Look, Daddy, I’m all flowers, and now the bees and butterflies are my friends.”
Her father laughed at that.
She skipped through the tall grass, and her arms sprayed dewdrops in sparkling arrays. Stopping, she craned her head back, looked up into the shimmering aquamarine sky, and watched the swallows soar and dip in daring flight.
Like a diver, she drew her arms overhead and plunged into the meadow’s waves, inhaling their hay-like scents and running her fingers over striped stems.
Her father called, “Barbara, where are you?”
She scurried ahead on all fours to hide from him. When she came upon a hollow, she hunkered down in it. It’s just me and the creatures of the sky and earth and all the plants that live on it, she thought. A black beetle scurried around towering stalks and over blisters of earth. Poor, scared beetle—a monster was chasing it. “Run fast, little beetle, hide if you can,” she whispered.
Then her father bounded up to her—“Here’s my little butterfly.” He lifted her by the arms and twirled her around until her ears buzzed with rushing air.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
HELEN
New York, December 1943
It’s been four long years since Barbara disappeared. Countless mornings, I’ve awakened crying, yearning to see my beautiful daughter. I refuse to believe she’s dead. A spirit as buoyant as hers couldn’t just be snuffed out, not without some trace. I hope she escaped to some personal paradise.
But when I look back on the sadness of Barbara’s life, I cannot escape the conclusion that I am complicit: guilty of putting myself first; guilty of living through Barbara’s prodigious talent; guilty of using her to help me through my own miseries.
I’ve asked myself: How did it happen? Her unbounded curiosity and uncommon intelligence emerged early, before she could walk. We were so proud of her. But when her father pushed her to succeed for selfish reasons, reasons that fed his appetite for fame and glory, I failed to stand up to him. The upbringing we chose for her nurtured the child who loved liberty, butterflies, and the thrill of sailing—but not the youngster who needed to realize the world quickly destroys such ephemera.
Certainly, it’s difficult to judge one’s decisions in retrospect—let alone understand the impact of those decisions. But he
r father wrote, when Barbara was only five, “Fostering a child’s natural sense of order and beauty may be, for all we can say, a sorry preparation for life in a world of prevalent dullness and ugliness; giving such guidance as we have given may lead only to a more painful disillusionment in a scheme of things in which everyone is ultimately left to flounder undirected.” How prescient his words were. But did we heed them when it might have mattered? No.
Many people have asked me about Barbara. My first inclination has been to turn away from them. But Barbara doesn’t belong only to me. She lives through her books. I understand others are curious about her fate. The fact is, I don’t know what happened to her. I’ve searched every imaginable avenue to gather any lead about her whereabouts. Not a single clue has surfaced. I hold out hope she’ll return someday, even as I struggle to accept the reality that this becomes less likely as time passes.
So, I try to live with things as they are—and envision her happy and free, in a place where warm winds embrace her.
EPILOGUE
On December 21, 1939, two weeks after Barbara’s disappearance, her husband Nickerson Rogers reported her absence to the police in Brookline, Massachusetts. He said he didn’t want any publicity as it might deter Barbara from returning. The police were not able to locate her.
Four months later, Rogers filed a missing person report with the Brookline police and requested a public announcement. On April 22, 1940, the police disbursed a teletype to an eight-state area: “Missing from Brookline since Dec. 7, 1939, Barbara Rogers, married, age 26, 5-7, 125, fair complexion, black eyebrows, brown eyes, dark auburn hair worn in a long bob, left shoulder slightly higher than right. Occasionally, wears horn-rimmed glasses.”
No reports of her whereabouts came in, and apparently no serious investigation was launched.
One year after her disappearance, Barbara’s father, Wilson Follett, anonymously published an open letter to her in The Atlantic, entitled “To a Daughter, One Year Lost”: “A year! It is very strange to reflect that two Christmases have come and gone, that the entire annus terribilis 1940 has been born and written its fearsome record and died, since any one of us who love you has clasped your hand or received a syllable written by it or unearthed the smallest clue to where you are, even to whether you are living or dead.”
The Point of Vanishing Page 28
