by Karen White
Lillian leveled Piper with a stern gaze. “Yes, I was. I was in my seventh month then.”
Odella raised her eyebrows, but Lillian waved her hand and she left, closing the door behind her. Not that it mattered; Lillian knew Odella would have her ear pressed to the door the whole time. Lillian watched as Piper drew a chair close to the bed and seated Helen and then did the same for herself.
Helen spoke first. “We visited Alicia Jones today—Josie’s daughter.”
Lillian raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
Helen opened her purse and took out the envelope. “She gave me this. It’s from Josie. Alicia contacted you after Josie died to let you know that she had it, but you never wrote her back.”
Lillian looked down at the soft blankets covering the bed, wondering whose old hands were resting there.
“Do you want Piper to read it to you, or would you like to read it yourself?”
Lillian’s lips wouldn’t move even as she saw Piper take the envelope from Helen and begin to read. She kept her head down until Piper had finished, absently wondering where the wetness came from that spotted the blanket and the pale mottled skin stretched over arthritic knuckles.
“What did you name the baby, Malily?” Helen’s voice sounded removed, as if she didn’t want to be there anymore than Lillian wanted her to be.
“Samuel. I named him Samuel Frederick Montet. After his father.”
Piper stood, ready to ask another question, but Lillian managed to raise a hand, searching for a way to stall the inevitable, yet knowing it was like trying to stop a baby from crying. “You’re jumping ahead again. I’ve got one last entry in my scrapbook. Don’t you want to read that first?”
Piper hesitated before nodding, then reached over to plump one of the pillows behind Lillian’s head and to smooth the blanket over her knees. Just like Annabelle. Lillian reached out and touched Piper’s wrist. “Stop.”
Piper pulled back and sat down, wearing a wounded expression, misreading her actions. Lillian wanted to laugh, because of what she’d wanted to say. I don’t deserve your care and concern any more than I deserved Annabelle’s.
“Go ahead, Piper, and read. Even with my glasses on, I can’t seem to focus on the words anymore.”
Piper picked up the pages Lillian indicated, then began to read.
August 24, 1939
I’m not even sure why I’m writing in this book or collecting photographs and charms for Lola, except that Annabelle expects me to. She is our surrogate mother in the absence of our own, her quiet strength and determination in salvaging what is left of our futures a beacon for us but a burden for her, I fear.
I hate to disappoint her, so I write and collect. But I’m a woman now, and this scrapbook and charm necklace are childish to me. Annabelle seems to think that recording our lives now will help us share our stories with our daughters when the time comes, as if that’s the most important part of our lives. I don’t know about that. I’ve never known my mother or her stories; but again, maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so rootless. And I’m left with wondering if my mother had a story to tell after all. So I’ll write in this scrapbook and I’ll find a charm.
I’ve been living in the O’Hare household again and I’m sure my father doesn’t suspect the reason why. Dr. O’Hare is ailing, and without Justine to help, a great deal of the burden of caring for her father and the household falls on Annabelle.At least that’s what I’ve told my father. But if he knew Annabelle, he would know I was lying, because she seems to handle all of her responsibilities without batting an eye.This doesn’t make me feel less guilty for adding to her burdens, however, especially since she’s the one who has to keep my secret from my father. If he found out, I don’t know what he’d do. I don’t think he’d harm me, but I am too afraid to think what would happen to Freddie and his child.
So this is best, to live in a web of lies for now. It is the mattress I sleep on each night in the hidden room, but I think we all realize how easily it might break.
Justine sends letters to Josie every week asking her to come to Virginia, too. Justine can’t write, so she has to pay somebody to do it for her and mail the letters, so it’s no little hardship.That’s how badly she wants Josie to leave here. Annabelle and I agree that it’s probably for the best, so we’ve begun to save up money for a train ticket. All that knitting Annabelle has done will finally pay off. Since I’m convinced the baby will be a boy, Annabelle’s been selling off all the pink booties, sweaters, caps, and blankets she’s made in the past few months. She laughs and tells me that it will probably be a girl just to spite us!
Justine gave us interesting advice: to loosen everything in the room—from bows to window latches to shoelaces—as this will promise an easy delivery. I don’t have the heart to write back and tell her that it’s not the delivery we fear, but the part that comes after.
Annabelle watches me, waiting. I no longer question her relationship with Freddie if only because he’s shown his love for me in ways that have more to say about our feelings for each other than the ring I’m not allowed to wear on my left hand. I don’t doubt her loyalty, either, and know she will do whatever it takes to keep us safe. But her eyes are hungry, hungry for the life she’s always told us she’s wanted. This passion of hers is stronger than any of ours, and it makes me worry. If her dreams are unfulfilled, what will it do to her? Her soul is too tender for the harshness of reality, and she clings too tightly to regret, always worrying what she should have done.
We have that in common. But so much is at stake right now that I’ve promised myself that I will no longer believe in regret.That I will not look back at the past and wish I’d done things differently.What’s written cannot be erased. From this day forward, I will live in the present. If only I could get Annabelle to see it that way, too. Because she and I are so much alike in so many ways. And it frightens me. Maybe it’s because we were both raised without mothers that’s given us a perspective of us against the world. But my self-reliance seems selfish compared to her self-sacrifice, and I am ashamed.
Because we’ve sold my camera, I can’t take a picture of this room that has become like a prison to me these last few months. But I’m here, and I’ve got time, so I’m going to use my poor sketching skills to show what the room looks like now: the iron bed, the wicker bassinet that one of Dr. O’Hare’s patients gave him as payment years ago. I’ve even managed a plausible rendition of the chair and the window that remains covered day and night. Maybe someday, looking back, we will smile in remembrance, and say how brave we once were.
For the charm, I sent Annabelle out to Broughton Street to see what she could find. I told her what I was looking for and she brought back a charm of an unlaced boot. It’s only gold-plated since we can’t afford much, but it’s perfect. It’s my charm for an easy labor, but it also symbolizes our friendship—how we’ve loosened our hearts to make room for one another. It’s what joins us together to weather any storm.
September 3, 1939
My pains started this morning, right after breakfast.At first I thought it was the poached eggs. Annabelle is a much better gardener than a cook, so when I started feeling queasy right after I ate, it was easy to blame it on the eggs. Even the beautiful arrangement of spring blooms she’d placed on the breakfast tray did nothing to ease my discomfort.
Annabelle, who’s served as midwife for her father on more than one occasion, recognized what was happening and immediately set about boiling water and ripping sheets. She said she’d call her father when active labor started, but since that could be hours from now, we both decided not to bother him until necessary. He is still weak, but has promised to help with the birth.
We sent Josie to find her brother to let him know. He has been in hiding, so even she doesn’t know where to find him, but knows who to speak to in order to get word out.
Annabelle said this could take some time and to try and keep myself occupied. I’m writing now but I can see that as the pains gr
ow stronger and more frequent I will no longer be able.
I spent time reading over this scrapbook, and I’m glad that Annabelle has made us do this. It will be something we’ll cherish when we’re old. I read over my last entry, how I wrote about our friendship helping us weather any storm. How appropriate! Just as my pains started, the sky brought in thick gray clouds. A storm is coming, the thunder already on the horizon, the approaching sound sending waves of panic through me. I close my eyes, and lie back, and pray for the storm to be over soon.
Slowly, Piper lowered the page. “That’s the last page. But that’s not the end of the story, is it?”
The murmur of voices began again, the river of words that seemed to travel around Lillian and through her, too fast for her to understand them. But she thought she could hear Annabelle, telling her to breathe, that it would help take the pain away, and that one day the pain might be useful to her.
Lillian turned her head, the fine linen scratching her cheek, the bed now seeming to be a small, iron single bed instead of the mahogany rice poster. “No, it’s not,” she said, closing her eyes so she couldn’t see the ghosts anymore.
Helen’s voice came close to her ear. “What happened to the baby, Malily? Was it stillborn?”
“You need to leave,” Lillian whispered, hoping Helen would understand it was for her own good.
“Was he?” she repeated.
Lillian’s eyes fluttered open and rested on her granddaughter. “If I tell you, will you promise to leave?”
There was a brief pause while Helen considered this. She nodded. “And Piper?”
“She wouldn’t leave, even if I asked her.”
Helen nodded. “Tell us, then. Was the baby stillborn?”
She closed her eyes again, remembering. “No. He was born healthy and strong, with all ten fingers and toes. He was perfect.”
“Then tell us what happened, Malily. How did Samuel die?”
Lillian heard Josie’s voice now, from behind her, mixing with Annabelle’s like a chant. Tell her. She shook her head, trying to erase the voices. “Somebody turn on the radio. Please.”
Piper stood and moved to the nightstand and flipped on the radio, the volume loud and pulsing. Josie’s voice came through the radio, clear and sweet and full of all the hours lost between truth and regret. Time is a river, and it ain’t got no banks; I can’t go nowhere but down, down to the place the heart breaks.
Lillian jerked her arm from the blanket and slammed her hand down on the radio, shutting it off, the silence a solid presence in the room. “I need you to leave, Helen.”
Piper and Lillian watched as Helen made her way to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob. “Did you ever love Grandpa Charlie?”
“I did. He was good to me, and I grew to love him.”
“But Freddie was your true love. The one you really never got over.”
She didn’t want to answer, but she had no more time for secrets and lies. “Yes, he was.”
Helen nodded. “I love you, Malily. Nothing I’ve heard so far and nothing you can say will change that.” She rested her forehead against the door. “And I’m going to find out anyway. You were the one who used to tell me never to hesitate when it comes to what I want, remember?”
Lillian closed her eyes again. “You don’t want this.”
Helen opened the door and Lillian briefly glimpsed Odella standing and taking Helen’s arm before the door closed.
Piper stood at the window, peering out at the alley of oaks, her body rigid with tension.
“You’ll want to sit down.”
Piper shook her head. “No, I want to stand.”
The corner of Lillian’s mouth turned up. “Annabelle didn’t like being told what to do, either. Her only weakness was when she thought those she loved needed her. Always to her detriment, I’m afraid.”
Piper returned her gaze to the window. “So what happened? After Samuel was born.”
Lillian stared at the radio, still hearing Josie singing. Time is a river. . . . She didn’t turn away this time, knowing there was no escape from the voices anymore.
“I need a drink.”
Without pausing, Piper moved to the armoire and poured Lillian a sherry and brought it to her before returning to her position by the window. “Tell me.”
Lillian drank the sherry in one gulp, and she felt the heat seeping into her veins, calming her. But the numbness evaded her, as if she were intended to feel every last word. She placed the empty glass on the nightstand and it fell over, but neither of them moved to right it.
“Samuel was born healthy. I’d known it was a boy. And not just because Josie told me she could tell because of the way I carried him in my belly. I felt him in my bones, the way a mother does.” She smiled at the memory of her roundness, the swell of her belly and tenderness in her breasts. She’d been proud of the changes to her body. They’d made her feel older, more like a woman. Beloved.
“It was his body they found in the river, wasn’t it?”
The warmth of the sherry made her limbs feel weightless, like she was floating in water, carried downstream. Her eyelids drifted closed and she was once again in the attic room in the house on Monterey Square, the window closed, locked in the stale, sweltering heat of the Savannah night. Her sweat had drenched the clean sheets Annabelle had put on the bed, the warmth of the baby tucked up next to her burning her skin. She spoke as if in the middle of a dream, feeling the heat and the damp sheets, the terror that gripped them when they’d heard the footsteps on the stairs.
“The baby was fussy. My milk hadn’t come in yet, and I couldn’t feed him. He kept crying because he was hungry, but he wouldn’t suckle. Annabelle thought to let him suck water from a soaked rag, and that worked for a spell, but he’d get tired of that and start crying again.”
“Did Freddie make it back that night?”
Her voice seemed to come from far away. “No. And not the next night, either. Things were bad right then. Two of Freddie’s friends and a white man had been found shot to death in a car in a field over in Summerville. They’d been called agitators, going around to small towns and speaking out about their liberal views on the voting system and segregation. Views that back then could get a man killed.”
The late-afternoon sun had begun to drift down the horizon, its orange light peering through the blinds that Piper had opened. It outlined her profile against the window, making her appear as if she’d been etched in glass, so fragile to look at, but how deceiving.
“Annabelle was beautiful, too. But her beauty was different than yours. She seemed so strong on the outside, that people never guessed how vulnerable she really was. How easily broken.” She watched the younger woman for a moment, the delicate nose and cheekbones, the stubborn jut of her chin and the fisted hands that hid fingers permanently callused by holding a horse’s reins. “They never said that about you, did they? I’m sure it was a surprise to everyone that you stopped competing.”
Piper’s eyes were cold and unyielding. “Please don’t change the subject. When did Freddie finally arrive?”
Lillian threw the blankets off of her, the heat overwhelming. “Why do you need to know this now? Can’t you just leave it alone? Your grandmother is dead, and knowing the rest of her story isn’t going to change that.” Her words were slurred, her body trying to give up a fight her mind wasn’t yet ready to.
“When did Freddie finally arrive?”
So persistent. Annabelle had been that way, too. Up until the very last letter Lillian had returned. Lillian lay back on the pillow, and went back to the small attic room, remembering the first flash of lightning that permeated the room with light before dipping them all into darkness again.
“I stayed in the attic room for two days, while Josie and Annabelle took turns watching over me, and making sure I ate. Sometimes they’d take the baby to stop his crying or to give him fresh water in a rag. Dr. O’Hare came up once to let us know that someone had come to the house looking for
Freddie or for me, and he told them he hadn’t seen either one of us for over a month. But it scared him enough to come up to the attic to tell us none of us should come out. That we should close the window because of the baby’s cries. We’d already heard about the church fire, and the marriage records that were taken, so we figured if they were looking for me in Savannah, they’d probably already been to my daddy’s and told him what they knew. It was only a matter of time, and we knew we had to get word out to Freddie not to come, that they’d be waiting for him.”
“And then what?” Piper didn’t turn around.
Lillian tried to keep her eyes open, so she wouldn’t have to see it all again, but her lids fluttered closed, obliterating her comfortable bedroom at Asphodel and revealing the nightmare of a storm-ravaged night seventy years before.
“He came. We didn’t know it was him at first. Dr. O’Hare had gone to the store to get food. He somehow managed to put the armoire in front of the door in the attic just in case. We sat in the dark taking turns holding Samuel and trying to quiet him, daring to open the blinds only a little. A black shelf cloud lay over the city, and Josie said it was a bad omen, that we needed to prepare for the worst.”
“And did you?”
“What could we do? We had nowhere to go. We had to sit there and wait, and pray that Dr. O’Hare came back soon, and that Freddie knew not to come near.” She waved her hand over the upended sherry glass. “I need another drink.”
For a moment it looked like Piper would say no. Instead she pushed herself away from the window and retrieved the glass and refilled it, handing it to Lillian without a word. Then she returned to her post, watching the alley of oaks and the way the sun lay cupped in their branches as it began its lonely descent on a world that Lillian felt slipping away from her.
She upended the sherry like a shot glass, as she’d seen her father doing countless times without the tempering influence of a mother who would have ensured her daughter never had access to the vulgarities of men.
