by Sarah Jio
I turned around to see Charles approaching. “Quick,” I said, “help me hide.”
Gwen shrugged and led me down a hallway, where we both jumped inside a maid’s closet. I pushed a mop aside to make more room. “All right,” she said once the door was safely closed behind us. “Why is it that you’re hiding from Seattle’s most eligible bachelor?”
“Charles?”
“Yes, dummy,” she said with a sigh. “His father owns half of Seattle. This hotel, too.”
“Well,” I said, “then I’ll save him the disappointment when he finds out I’m not a society girl.”
“Honey,” Gwen snorted, “I’m sorry to put it so bluntly—I’m sure he already knows you’re not a society girl.”
The unforgiving light in the closet did nothing to conceal the hole beginning to form on the toe of my right shoe. “Oh.”
“He clearly doesn’t care,” she continued. “Maybe he likes you for…you.”
“Gwen,” I said, “you’re very sweet, but I think you’re out of your mind.” I squeezed her hand. “I’m going home. Is there a back entrance I can use?”
“Yes,” she said, opening the door and pointing down the hall. “Right that way.”
“Thanks. And if you see Caroline, can you let her know? Discreetly?”
“I will,” she replied. “I’ll pass her a note in the caviar.” She snickered.
I walked down the hallway and opened the door, which deposited me in the alley. I took two steps, then jumped when I heard shuffling behind me. I turned around to see Charles leaning against the building with a shy smile.
“There you are,” he said. “I thought you were running away from me.”
“I was,” I said honestly.
He took a step closer. “I have to know,” he said. “What did I say that has you so spooked? Did I do something to upset you?”
“Listen,” I replied, “you have the wrong idea about me. I’m not a debutante. I didn’t go to finishing school. And I wasn’t even invited to this event.”
Charles shrugged. “And you think I care about all that?”
I paused, studying his face—honest, kind. “You don’t?”
“I can’t stand those kinds of girls,” he said, gesturing toward the party. “They’re all the same. If you’ll let me, I’d love to get to know you. Can we start over?”
I smiled, extending my hand. “I’m Vera Ray; so nice to meet you.”
Chapter 8
CLAIRE
The cab pulled in front of the apartment building and skidded for a moment on the icy streets until it came to a jarring stop. The streetlights made the sequins on my dress shimmer. I sighed, longing to be in sweats and a T-shirt.
“He’s a lucky man,” the driver quipped, eyeing my dress.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your date tonight,” he continued.
“Oh,” I said. I guess he didn’t notice my red eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Yes.” I shrugged and handed him a twenty before stepping out onto the sidewalk. “He doesn’t know I exist anymore,” I whispered to myself after the cab drove away.
Gene opened the door for me, and I gathered the hem of my dress before it caught on the hinge. “Home early tonight? I thought you and Ethan were at the—”
“You know I don’t like all that glitz and glamour,” I said, before he could press further. “Besides, this dress is itchy.”
Gene looked at me for a long moment. “Claire, how are you doing?” he asked, his eyes big and kind and filled with so much goodness. “Since the accident,” he said, faltering, “you haven’t been the same.”
I nodded. “You’re right,” I said. “I haven’t.”
He wrapped his strong arm around my shoulder, and it gave me permission, somehow, to feel the feelings that hovered inside, the ones I’d tried so hard to keep hidden, to not feel. “Today’s the anniversary, isn’t it?”
“Oh, Gene,” I cried. “Sometimes I feel as if my heart is going to burst.”
“Then let it,” he said, stroking my hair the way my father used to when I was a little girl. “You’ve been carrying this burden too long. Let it out. Let it all out, dear.”
I closed my eyes, letting the memories pour out like a mudslide, destroying the stiff little world I’d created for myself, the emotional armor that protected me from feeling the pain of the past. I closed my eyes. And I remembered.
One year ago
“Pink or blue?” Ethan asked, nuzzling my neck from behind.
I turned to face him, and he held in each hand a tiny outfit—one, a dusty blue sweater with light blue leggings; the other, a pink dress with white tights and ruffles on the bottom. My heart melted. “Either way, this baby is going to be well dressed.”
Ethan eyed the pink outfit, smiling to himself. “I think she’s going to be a girl.”
I shook my head. “A boy.”
He pulled me close, rubbing his hand lovingly across my enormous belly. We’d decided to be surprised by the baby’s gender, despite considerable protest from our families, most notably Ethan’s. “Do you know how much I love you?” he whispered into my ear.
I grinned, planting a firm kiss on his cheek, noticing my running shoes by the door. “I’m going to sneak out for a quick jog before dinner.”
Ethan frowned. “Claire, I wish you wouldn’t. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
I admit, the sight of me in all my eight-months-pregnant enormity jogging down the streets of Seattle had elicited some shocked stares, but I’d researched running during pregnancy, and everything I’d read on the topic indicated that it was generally safe. And while my doctor wasn’t thrilled with the idea of me continuing my four-mile jogs into my third trimester, she didn’t forbid them either. I stopped when I was overly winded and stayed adequately hydrated. Besides, as a lifelong runner, for me, giving up jogging would have been like giving up breathing.
“Ethan,” I protested, “you know that Dr. Jensen says running is perfectly fine during pregnancy.”
“Yeah, maybe in early pregnancy,” he said. “But it can’t be a good idea now.”
“The baby’s not going to fall out,” I said, laughing. I rubbed his arm. “Honey, everything’s going to be fine.”
I reached for my iPod, pushing the earbuds into my ears. “I’ll be back in a half hour,” I said before he could say another word.
I waved to Gene as I made my way out to the sidewalk. The May sun beamed down. The mild air hit my cheeks as I turned the volume up and began to pick up my pace. I felt the baby kick inside as I bounded past James Street, and I wondered what it would be like to push a jogger stroller. Like anything else, I knew I’d get used to it. I imagined my mornings with my baby in tow. I’d tuck him into his seat and we’d go jogging together.
Him.
My little boy. Or maybe little girl, as Ethan had predicted. My heart raced, too fast now, so I slowed my pace and took in a long breath of the sea air wafting up from Elliott Bay, salty and crisp. I turned the music up louder, then regained my pace, just as something appeared in my peripheral vision. A car. Red. Coming close. Too close. The music blasted in my ears as I lunged left, my left shoe catching on a large crack in the sidewalk. For a moment, it felt as if I was flying, gliding weightlessly through the air, until the fender hit my body. I didn’t feel the impact, not really. My body’s shock response blunted the pain. There was only pressure and what felt like a pop deep inside. And then everything went black.
I opened my eyes and squinted. The overhead light, piercingly bright, made my weak eyes flutter. Ethan hovered to my right; Mother to my left. Both wore blue surgical gowns and caps. The room blurred, and I closed my eyes tightly, opening them a moment later with greater focus. Why can’t I feel my legs?
“Ethan,” I whispered, “what happened? My legs—they’re numb. What’s going on? I was running…” The memory came slowly at first, and then it hit just as vividly as the moment the car had struck. “A—a car,” I stammered. “A car hit me. Etha
n…the baby!” I glanced down at my belly. It appeared smaller. I panicked, placing my hands on my stomach. It felt soft, mushy, empty. I screamed. “Where’s my baby? Where’s my baby? Where did they take the baby? Bring him to me!” I sat up, and even though my legs lay lifeless and numb, I lunged toward the edge of the bed, determined to get up, to find my child.
Ethan jumped forward, pulling my arms gently back to the bed. “No, Claire,” he said softly. I detected defeat in his voice, grief. “The baby—”
“Stop!” my mother cried. I turned to face her, but she looked only at Ethan. “She’s not ready yet. Give her more time.”
Ethan shook his head. “She should know.” He turned back to me and looked at me with a face that broke my heart. He didn’t have to tell me. I already knew. I stared at the wall as the words passed his lips, the words that would change my life forever. “The baby didn’t make it.”
The room began to spin.
He sat down in a chair by my bed. “I held—”
“No!” I screamed. “Don’t. Don’t tell me.”
Ethan looked at me through tear-flooded eyes. “Why? Don’t you want to know whether we had a boy or a girl? Don’t you want to know that I held our child in my arms for a brief moment before—”
“Don’t,” I sobbed, burying my face in the pillow to my right.
“They brought the baby to you,” Ethan said, wiping a tear from his cheeks. “You were unconscious, but you—”
“Stop,” I cried. “I can’t bear it.”
I looked down at the bloodstain on my chest, and I began to tremble so violently that a nurse rushed over and injected a needle into my arm, letting the cool contents of the syringe seep into my vein. As my body went limp, I lay trapped inside my mind, haunted by the baby I would never know and the husband who I feared blamed me for it.
Chapter 9
VERA
It had been six days since he’d vanished, six days since the heavens had draped the city in a veil of white and changed my world forever. I searched the streets by day and held vigil in Caroline’s tiny apartment by night, praying, hoping.
“Eva!” Caroline barked as she walked through the door shortly before seven a.m. She looked tired, ashen. Twelve-hour night shifts in the factory without a single break. “Go get Mama a wedge of cheese from the icebox,” she said, setting her purse down before slumping onto the floor by the fireplace. I inched my legs up to make room for her on the sofa, but she didn’t notice, or maybe she was simply too fatigued to pick herself up again.
“But Mama.” Eva looked at me nervously, and then back at her mother.
“Eva, what did I say? Bring me the cheese.” Caroline turned to me and extended her right hand. It trembled so violently I shuddered. “Payday’s not till tomorrow. I haven’t eaten since yesterday.” She pointed to the window. “If that damn snow would just stop, already.”
“But Mama,” Eva squeaked. “Aunt Vera…ate the cheese.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said to Caroline before she could respond. “There wasn’t anything left. I gave Eva most of it. There was only a bite, and I…”
Caroline tucked her knees to her chest and buried her face in her hands. “It’s OK. It’s OK.” A dry, lonely sob seeped through the cracks in her fingers. “I don’t know how much longer we can go on like this. The rent. The food. I’ll have to go knocking on Mrs. Harris’s door again. You should have seen the way she looked at me last week when I asked to borrow a few slices of bread. I haven’t been able to get milk for months. Eva deserves milk.” She looked up suddenly, and wiped her tears with her sleeve. “Look at me, blubbering on like this when you’ve lost…”
I knelt down by my old friend. She was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and a distant gaze—such a contrast to the woman I’d known just four years prior, the woman who’d had the world in the palm of her hand. No, I couldn’t stay. Not any longer. The last thing Caroline needed was another mouth to feed.
“It’s time I go,” I said, reaching for my sweater hanging on a rusty nail in the wall.
“No!” Caroline cried, standing up quickly. She grabbed my arm, urging me back to the couch. “I won’t hear of it. You have nowhere else to go. You’re staying put.”
I shook my head. “Listen, you can barely feed Eva, let alone me. Besides, I need to go back.”
“What about your landlord?”
“I’ll figure something out,” I said vaguely. “I need to be there for Daniel when he comes home.” My heart lightened when I said the words. Of course he’ll come home. I imagined my little boy walking through the door, smiling in the way that revealed the tiny dimple on his chin. He’d run to me, and I’d press my nose against his forehead, his soft blond curls soaking up my tears. It was all a big mix-up, he’d explain. He’d seen the snow, he’d tell me, and gotten lost. A kind family had taken him in until the storm passed. They’d been good to him, given him a warm bed. And hot chocolate. I smiled to myself.
“Oh, honey,” Caroline cried. “I want to believe that Daniel is coming home; Lord knows I do. But at some point you’re going to have to—”
“No!” I snapped, closing my eyes tightly. I took a deep, calming breath. “He will come home. I know it.”
I walked to the door and grasped the doorknob. Just before I stepped outside, I felt a soft tug at my dress.
“Aunt Vera?” Eva whispered, her eyes big and cautious.
I knelt down to her. “Yes, honey?”
She handed me a piece of paper. “I made this for you.”
A bold tear rolled down my cheek and nestled into the crease of my mouth, salty and bitter. “Why, it’s just…beautiful, dear,” I said, looking over the drawing she’d made for me.
“That’s Daniel, there,” she said, pointing to a stick figure holding a stuffed bear. “And that’s me,” she added.
A third figure hovered over the crudely drawn children. A woman, perhaps? The elaborate hat she wore resembled a peacock. “Who’s that, Eva?”
The girl scrunched her nose. “No one.”
“She must be someone,” I said. “You drew her here behind you and Daniel. Who is she, honey?”
“Just a lady, that’s all.”
I nodded. “Well,” I said, standing up again, “I love it. Thank you. I shall treasure it, always.”
“You know you can come back,” Caroline said before I turned to leave. “You’re always welcome here.”
I answered with an air of finality I could no longer repress. “Thank you, dear friend, for everything.”
I walked the familiar route back to the apartment, but I didn’t feel my feet touch the ground. I merely floated. Like a ghost, invisible in my grief. People passed, but no one looked at me. Do they see me?
I pushed past a crowd of angry men lingering near the saloon. The air reeked of ale, skunky tobacco, and sweaty skin from the night before. “Excuse me,” I said to a reasonable-looking man near the doorway. “Have you seen Mr. Ivanoff?” He’d been working in the saloon the morning of the storm. Maybe he’d seen something, someone.
The man’s smile morphed into a sneer, and I regretted the question immediately. “Ivanoff, the mason?”
“Yes,” I said, inching toward the stairs.
The man rubbed the stubble on his chin and took a step closer. “What do you want with him?”
“I want to speak to him,” I said.
“Well, then you’ll need to go down to the jail,” he said with an amused look on his face. “He was arrested last night.”
“Arrested?”
“That’s right,” he said. “Slapped around his missus. Hurt her pretty bad. Doc had to stitch her up.”
My heart raced. I remembered how gentle Mr. Ivanoff had been with Daniel, how softly he’d spoken to him. Like a father. I shivered. How did I not see that he had a violent streak?
The man edged closer. “If you’re looking for someone else to show you a good time, I—”
“Good day,” I said, pushing past him.
I pick
ed up my skirt and ran to the stairs, nearly tripping on an old bearded man passed out on the landing as I made my way up to the second floor. I pulled the key from my pocket, and a vein in my hand pulsed as I jammed it into the lock.
My heart swelled. Maybe Daniel is here. Maybe he climbed the cherry tree and pushed through the little window. Maybe he’s waiting inside.
I turned the key, but it stuck. I tried again, turning it right and left, with no luck. My God. Mr. Garrison. He must have changed the lock.
“No!” I cried, pressing my cheek against the door. I heard footsteps inside. “Hello?” I pounded on the door. “Hello? Who’s in there?”
I jumped back when the doorknob began to turn. The confused face of a girl, no older than eleven, appeared in the doorway. “Can I help you?” she asked.
I pushed past her. “What are you doing here, in my home? Where is Daniel?” I ran to the stairs. “Daniel! It’s Mama. Mama is home.”
A man in a wrinkled white shirt, yellowed and stained around the collar, walked out of the kitchen, suspenders dangling from his pants. “Jane, who is this?”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t know, Papa. She says it’s her apartment.”
“It—it is my apartment,” I stammered. “Why are you here? Where is my son? Daniel!”
“There must be some mistake,” the man said. “We moved in three days ago. The landlord said the previous owner died. Told us she had no kin, so he sold us the furniture for five dollars.”
“Died?”
The man shrugged.
“Do I appear dead to you?”
I looked at the remnants of my home, my life—the little coffee table with its carved oak flowers at the edges. My father had made it, before he died. The two chairs, threadbare but comfortable. The white vase on the table where I’d display the wildflowers Daniel picked for me on walks along Fourth Avenue. My things. My life. Taken.
Disinterested, the girl reached for her doll on the sofa and climbed the stairs. “Wait right there,” the man said to me, clearly annoyed. “Dinner’s boiling over on the stove.”
