The Lost Hours

by Karen White

  Her hands found the stack of read pages and she began to absently thumb through them, pausing when she reached the blank pages in between which I’d placed the newspaper clipping. I watched as her hands touched it, the long, manicured fingers lighting briefly on the clipping before moving to the edge of the page, and then hesitating. She returned to it, then looked up at me expectantly. “What’s this?”

  I paused only briefly before answering. “Pandora’s box,” I said. “It’s the newspaper clipping about the baby found in the river.”

  She was silent for a moment, and we both turned as Emily reentered the cottage, her arms filled with more bags. “Does Tucker know?” Helen asked.

  “Yes, I told him yesterday when I came clean about everything.”

  “And you’re still thinking your grandmother might have had something to do with this story.”

  “Yes. There had to be a reason why it was in her scrapbook.”

  Helen frowned. “Or maybe Josie was involved; she and the infant are of the same race, after all. Have you had any luck researching this?”

  I shook my head. “I haven’t had a chance to. I was planning on going to the historical archives this week. You can come along, if you like. I can read to you whatever I find, and maybe you can help me put something together. Or we could just ask your grandmother. I think that’s the real reason why I haven’t gotten further with my research. She knows the answer to every question raised in these pages.”

  She picked up the newspaper clipping, holding it as gingerly as a newborn. “I’m going to show her this, and ask if she knows why it was with your grandmother’s pages. I’ll let you know what she says—if she agrees to tell me anything.” Helen stood. “I can’t help but wonder if Susan found out about this, and maybe the truth behind it affected her deeply—deeply enough to start using again.” She shook her head. “I’m not going to tell Tucker that. Not yet. He feels guilty about enough things that I don’t want to burden him with anything more.”

  “But what could he feel guilty about? Susan’s unhappy childhood and drug-abuse started long before he even met her.”

  She looked startled. “I wasn’t referring to Susan. I was actually referring to myself.”

  She started to move away, but I touched her gently on the arm, holding her back. “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes darkened. “I caught measles from Tucker, and that’s what made me blind.”

  “Measles?”

  Helen shrugged. “My parents didn’t believe in vaccinating us. They brought measles back with them from Africa and Tucker got it first. He was in isolation—our dad’s a doctor, too, which is why Tucker was cared for at home—and everything was fine until we had a bad thunderstorm. He came to my room, scared, and I let him crawl into bed with me as we always did. And when I got sick, I tried to hide my symptoms because I didn’t want to get Tucker in trouble. That’s why I got so much sicker, because it was so far along before I got treated.”

  “But it wasn’t his fault.” I shook my head, remembering the look on Tucker’s face when I told him that I knew he’d been afraid of thunderstorms as a child.

  “Yes, well, you know that and I know that, but guilt is a funny thing. So let’s just wait a bit, see what else we can find out. But first, I’m going to go lie down on the sofa and watch my soaps while you and Emily work. And then I’m going to go find Malily and see if she can save us some research time.”

  I helped her to the couch and placed the TV remote in her hands, admiring her silk knit dress and also the way this blind woman seemed to be the least handicapped person I knew.

  Lillian fingered a rose bloom as she sat on her favorite bench in Helen’s garden. She’d retrieved the full-bloomed head from the ground, as if it had been so full of its own passion and beauty that it had burst from the stem. The edges had started to brown and furl, and as she stared at it, she wondered if she should give it another day or two of life by bringing it in and sticking it in a glass of water. In the old days, she would have scattered the petals on the ground to enrich the earth; but life seemed so much more fragile to her now. She contemplated the rose in its final, glorious bloom before dying, and wondered what form her own death would take, and if she’d have a chance for one final burst of understanding.

  “Malily?”

  Lillian turned to see Helen hovering at the gate.

  “I’m in here. On the bench.”

  Using her cane, Helen tapped her way on the slate path, knowing to turn right when the path turned to brick. Lillian had designed the walkway for just that reason for the granddaughter she loved as a daughter.

  Without offering assistance, knowing it would offend Helen, Lillian waited for the cane to strike the line of rocks in the path to indicate she’d reached the bench. She slowly lowered herself onto the bench next to Lillian, then rested her cane on her knees.

  “I smell dirt,” Helen said, tilting her nose into the air, her creamy skin glowing in the late afternoon sun.

  Lillian eyed the bags of topsoil propped against the garden wall and the pile of it spilled onto the path. “Piper’s been busy. The pansies were getting too leggy, so we decided they needed to go. She’s coming up with a redesign of that section with new flowers.”

  She felt Helen looking at her. “I can’t believe you’re trusting somebody else to redesign part of your garden.”

  “She was taught by a master—the same woman who taught me everything I know about gardening. Her grandmother, Annabelle O’Hare.”

  Helen nodded, not saying anything because she didn’t have to. It had always seemed to Lillian that to make up for Helen’s lack of sight, she was given an extra sound track inside her head, to hear everything that wasn’t said out loud.

  Eventually, Helen said, “Piper spoke with Tucker last night. He hasn’t decided yet if she should leave or not.”

  Lillian let out an inelegant snort. “He knows what he wants. He’s just afraid to say it. Susan taught him to doubt his own feelings and to hesitate when it comes to getting what he wants. But he’s learning. And I have no doubt that Piper will stay, regardless of whether or not I think she should.”

  “And you don’t think she should?”

  Lillian looked down at the crimson bloom in her hand, the redness of it making everything else around it pale. “It’s not up to me, is it?” She twisted the bloom, feeling a sense of inevitability, of Annabelle’s part in sending Piper into Lillian’s life to tidy up an unfinished past.

  After a few moments, Helen spoke. “Piper gave me pages of her grandmother’s scrapbook to read, and I gave her your pages—the ones we’ve already read. Once we’re caught up, we’re coming to you so we can read the rest of yours. Please don’t be angry. But I think you’ll agree that it has to be this way. You’ve been silent for so long, Malily. And it’s my story, too.”

  Lillian raised an eyebrow, remembering too late that the movement would be lost on Helen. With a long sigh, she said softly, “I suppose you’re right. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it for you.”

  Helen reached for her hand and held it, and they were silent for a long time. Eventually, Helen turned to her. “Out of curiosity, Malily, when do your pages end?”

  Lillian stilled, trying to think of why Helen would be asking, and trying not to imagine the worst. She didn’t pretend to think about it; she remembered the date as if it were yesterday. “September third, nineteen thirty-nine.”

  Helen was silent for a moment, and Lillian tensed. “Something else I’ve been thinking about, Malily. You were married the following year, which makes me think that you’d have a lot to write about. But instead you stopped—and so did Lillian—within months of each other. Surely there was a lot more to be said about your lives.”

  Lillian lowered her head, shading her face in the shadow of her hat brim. “It was a busy time. I felt that I’d become a woman, and the scrapbook and Lola were childish things to me. I didn’t need them anymore.”

  Helen nodded, then reached into th
e pocket of her knit dress. “Piper found this with her grandmother’s pages. It’s dated September eighth, nineteen thirty-nine.”

  The sun dipped lower in the sky, and the evening breeze from the river rushed over them, tossing the rose bloom from her hands and making the ancient oaks in the alley begin a faint, whistling cry. Lillian knew what it was before she touched it, although she’d seen it only once before. She grasped it with shaking fingers, glad Helen couldn’t see. “This was with Annabelle’s things?”

  “Yes. Piper told me it was stuck between two scrapbook pages, as if it were hidden on purpose.”

  “How odd,” Lillian managed, her fingers shaking so hard that the words were now a blur. She’d always imagined this moment differently; despite the hours and the years of silence that separated them, she’d always thought that it would be Annabelle she’d unburden her sins to. Annabelle in her self-imposed role of martyr would have understood, and chased the demons away. But Annabelle was gone, leaving only Lillian with the truth.

  She took her time finding her voice. “Was there anything written on the pages? Any words of explanation?” Her hands ached, nearly masking the ache that pressed against her heart.

  “Nothing. And Annabelle’s scrapbook ends in July of the same year.” Helen faced her, the breeze lifting her hair, reminding Lillian of when Helen was a little girl and had become Lillian’s hope that she’d been given another chance.

  Helen continued. “I think Piper believes that her grandmother might have known something, or might even have been involved. That’s the reason why she’s been dragging her feet in reading the scrapbook and researching further. She’s afraid of what she’ll discover.”

  Lillian fought to control her voice. “What about you, Helen? Are you afraid of the story you don’t know?”

  The whistling in the trees became louder, saturating the air with discordant notes and an unease that seeped into Lillian’s skin, shrinking it tightly against her bones.

  “No, Malily.” Helen’s green eyes widened, reminding Lillian again of an innocent child. “Because I know you. More than my own mother, I know you in my heart. You saved me, remember? When I was so sick and burning up with fever, you picked me up and put me in your car and drove me to the hospital. And then you slept in my room until the fever was gone, and you held my hand when I woke up and it was dark. You saved me then, too. Do you remember that? Do you remember what you told me?”

  Slowly, Lillian nodded. “ ‘Where there is life, there is hope.’ ”

  “It gave me hope; it helped me not be scared of a darkened world. So no, Malily. I’m not afraid of the story I don’t know. Nothing you could ever tell me would make me not love you or think less of you. You’re who you are today because of what you did in the past. I can only feel proud to be your granddaughter.”

  A cicada whirred in the magnolia tree, its last song to the fading sun. Lillian had been waiting for this moment for so long, felt as if each hour leading to it had been counted. But now that it was here, the words were as lost to her as Helen would be if she spoke the truth. She’d not anticipated this—only a letting go and a freedom from the burden she’d carried for seventy years.

  A small line appeared between Helen’s brows. “So who was the baby, and what connection did he have to Annabelle O’Hare?”

  Lillian felt the charm, cold and heavy against her skin. Be patient and strong; someday this pain will be useful to you. The words she’d lived by for so long felt meaningless now as the lie fit itself to her tongue, flattened by the threat of facing death alone. A story untold seemed suddenly like a small price to pay.

  “A girl in trouble is a temporary thing, they used to say. Perhaps a young girl saw no other alternative than to end her shame.”

  “Was it Josie’s baby?”

  Lillian stared at Helen for a long time, trying to find the right answer. Instead, all she said was, “I don’t know. She could have kept it hidden from me; I didn’t see much of her that last year before she went to live up north.”

  Helen nodded, thinking. “Did you know about the secret attic room in Annabelle’s house?”

  Lillian weighed her words, each heavier than the last. “Yes. She showed it to me once. She wasn’t sure why it was there or what it was used for. Why?”

  Without answering her directly, Helen said, “Piper and I are driving into Savannah tomorrow. We’re going to see the house and the attic room and then do research at the library. I’ll let you know what we find.”

  “Yes. Please do.”

  “And when we get back, we’ll come see you and we can read more of your scrapbook. Because that’s the real story, isn’t it?”

  Lillian nodded, feeling weak. Because I know you. More than my own mother, I know you in my heart. “Does Piper have Lola—the necklace—with her? I’d like to see it again.”

  “I’ll tell her to bring it.”

  They sat for a moment, immersed in the night sounds and the sighing oaks, breathing in the heady scent of the blooms that surrounded them.

  Helen sighed. “I love the way it smells in here. I think it will always be my favorite place in the world.”

  “Mine, too,” said Lillian as she stood, her bones screaming in protest. She picked up the small garden shears that had been next to her on the bench and approached the rosebush, its crimson blooms glowing softly in the last light of day. She searched for stems holding buds without color, wanting ones that weren’t expending energy required to sustain a vibrant bloom, then neatly clipped them off at the bottom.

  After removing the thorns, she returned to Helen and opened her hand, placing the clippings gently inside. “Keep these wet with damp paper towels and give these to Piper, if you would. They’re for her grandmother’s garden. I’d always meant to give these to Annabelle and never had the chance.”

  Helen closed her fist around them, then tilted her face up to her grandmother. “Why not? Why didn’t you have the chance?”

  Because I didn’t have the courage to tell the truth, she wanted to say. She shifted her gaze to the moonflowers, which had begun to unfurl their petals, opening up to the growing darkness. “Because I saw too much of myself in Annabelle. I needed to separate myself from her. So we parted ways.”

  Helen was silent for a while. “But what was she asking forgiveness for in her letters—the ones you returned unopened?”

  Night edged its way into the garden, falling softly over the roses and sweet autumn clematis, bleaching the colors from the flowers and replacing them with shadows. “I don’t know,” Lillian said, her answer fortified by the first lie, making it easier. “I suppose I never will. She must have thought that she’d done something to sever our friendship, but there’s no way of knowing. Poor Annabelle.”

  Helen stood, too. “Is it dark yet?”

  “Yes. The moonflowers have bloomed.”

  Helen stepped forward and Lillian guided her hand to the milky white petals, the same way she’d guided her through her first months of blindness and every pivotal moment in her life since then. The daughter of my heart.

  Helen smiled. “I can still see them, you know. I haven’t forgotten.”

  Lillian looked at her but didn’t smile back. “There are some things that should never be forgotten.” Like the worth of an old friendship, and a secret to take to the grave.

  Lillian took Helen’s hand and tucked it into the crook of her arm, then led them both out of the garden guided by the glow of the distant moon and the sound of the old oaks crying for old friends and to a river that flowed over a bed of silt and secrets.

  CHAPTER 18

  I awoke early, eager to head downtown. I hadn’t heard from Tucker, and I was using the reprieve to do as much research as possible. Because I had another hour before I had to pick up Helen, I reached for my grandmother’s scrapbook pages, impatient now to get through them. I had a sense of urgency that had eluded me before, and I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was Lillian’s increasing frailness, or maybe it was the sense I’d ha
d ever since pulling Sara from the pond that I still had the potential to be more than ordinary.

  I’d left the scrapbook pages and my grandmother’s box out on the table, since I didn’t need to hide them anymore, and turned to the page where I’d last stopped. I looked at the photo that had been stuck at the bottom that I’d barely glanced at before if only because I assumed I wouldn’t know anybody pictured in it. But as I sat down to resume reading, something about it caught my eye again and I lifted the page closer to see it better.

  The photo was of a small group of men. I recognized Freddie immediately as the tall, handsome man in the back row. The rest of the men were black except for one white man, and all were dressed in three-piece suits and hats, a few of them sporting pocket watches. I scanned the anonymous faces, and my gaze paused on the white man, wondering why he looked familiar to me.

  He was very young, the shade of his hair in the black-and-white photo hidden by his dark fedora. But then my gaze fanned down to his clothing and my eyes caught on his watch chain and the golden key fob that dangled from it. I squinted my eyes to see it closer, trying to recall where I’d seen it before. And then I remembered. On his last visit, I’d seen Mr. Morton pulling out his old watch, and had seen the key fob. I smiled to myself, recalling what I’d read in my grandmother’s scrapbook, about how he’d been sweet on her. I tapped my finger against the photograph, thinking. He knew a lot more about my grandmother than he’d let on, and he fully expected me to figure it all out on my own.

  Shaking my head, I leaned forward and began to read.

  December 30, 1938

  It’s been nearly two years since I last wrote in this book. I haven’t had the heart to. So much has happened, and most of it nothing I wanted to record, so I left the book under my bed, hoping to forget about it. Even Josie and Lily seem to have forgotten about it. But I feel as if this last vestige of our youth must not disappear, and so I pulled it out this morning, and dusted it off so that I can continue with our story.