by Norah Wilson
And now I’ve heard my baby’s voice too.
That’s right, Dear Diary. My baby girl was born just two days ago.
She came early in the morning. I didn’t cast out the night before because I knew she was so near to being born. The pain had started in my lower back, just a nagging ache. Nothing new with my big belly. But as the evening progressed, it moved to my stomach, my pelvis, my legs. Bands of pain tightening down on me, then mercifully loosened. Then started again. My labor had begun.
When Billy came up the stairs with my six o’clock meal, he found me kneeling on the floor, my face flushed with pain and a pool of water beneath me. He dropped the tray. Dropped it and ran screaming for his father. “It’s time, it’s time, it’s time!” Mother came then too, up the narrow stairway. But she followed several paces behind my stepfather and stood at the back of the room by the closet.
She didn’t look up at me. She wouldn’t meet my eyes—not even once. I wondered if she was ashamed of me or ashamed of herself.
But my stepfather—that monster—met my eyes. He bellowed about the pain that God himself was giving me for being such a whore. And he demanded again that I tell him who was the father of my bastard baby.
Billy stood still. Still and threatening behind his father. Smirking. So very sure that I wouldn’t tell. He was right. But it wasn’t in fear of him hurting me. What more could he do? It was a different fear that kept me silent. If my stepfather knew the child was his own bloodline—his own grandchild—he might lay claim to her.
I couldn’t condemn my baby to that fate. Never. I needed to be able to imagine it in the arms of loving parents who’d waited for the miracle of a child. The baby wouldn’t be long in my arms. I’ve known that for quite some time. I’d heard the story in the fall—of what had become of me.
In my loneliness when I’d first cast out through the glass, I crept to windows or screened-in porch doors and listened as I hid in the dark shadows. Sometimes all there was to hear was a television. Or a radio. Sometimes all I heard was snoring, but I didn’t mind. It was such a human sound. But often I’d hear talking. And I’d listen so carefully. This was how I found out long ago what everyone in Mansbridge thought had become of me.
I’d gone to Toronto, so the story went. That’s what I heard way back in September when I hovered outside a bedroom window at the Dufty house. Gone to stay with my late father’s widowed sister—but only for a bit.
No one said a thing about a baby—and oh, they would have! So no one knew of the pregnancy outside of Harvell House.
It was Billy himself who’d told me what would happen to my baby when it finally arrived. “You can’t keep it,” he taunted, wanting to hurt me all the more—any way he could. “Father said so and he’s the boss here now. He knows people in Montreal. They’re coming for the baby as soon as you have it. Coming to take it from you, Connie—you’ll never see it again!”
“You won’t either, Billy!” I thought this, but I didn’t dare say it. I didn’t want for a moment to put that thought in his head!
It was clear that my stepfather’s plan was for me to ‘come back home’ once my baby was adopted and I’d recovered my girlish form. No doubt he’d say that Toronto was just too big and cold and lonely for a small town girl like me, and I would be allowed to leave this attic at last.
Then, two days ago, my baby pushed from me, tearing my sanity until I screamed. When my stepfather stood over me, demanding one more time to know who had fathered my bastard, I bit my lip until it bled rather than tell him it was Billy’s.
I wanted her for my own—of course I did! Despite the circumstances, I’d come to love her more and more as my belly had grown. On lonely nights, I would sing to the bulge of baby inside me, and sometimes when I passed my hand over my belly, a little foot or elbow seemed to follow along underneath. It was heartbreaking, knowing I couldn’t possibly keep my child. But oh, how much worse it would be if that evil man decided to keep it!
Then my baby arrived. A girl—a beautiful little girl.
How wonderful and small. And her perfect name was Lily Michelle—if only for a moment, and only in my mind.
She came out quiet, but cried and screamed when the cold of the attic hit her. I gathered her up in my arms. Amazingly, she actually went completely contently silent as I held her to my breast. Her little hand grabbed my pinkie finger. And I knew there was a bond there already—between this mother and this child.
Not ten minutes later—because I smiled at Lily Michelle, because he saw that I loved her already—my stepfather took the baby from me. I reached and I cried, but what could I do? Billy walked behind him as he took her down the stairs.
He let my mother stay with me to wash me, and put me back to bed. And she whispered to me little things—of bonnets for babies, and booties for dolls. And our eyes met then, as the sun was slowly rising through the stained glass window. And as it rose, it shone through the lady’s eyes and she joined us in the sadness. And the madness.
I asked my mother if I’d ever see my baby again.
She looked behind her to the attic stairs. Then she shook her head.
When I asked about the people who were supposed to come from Montreal to take the baby, she didn’t answer me. Her eyes filled with tears and took on a distant look as she sat there beside me on the bed.
Finally, I fell asleep.
When I awoke, my mother was gone. And the house was silent. Frighteningly silent. I was weak and in pain, but I climbed down the stairs and began pounding on the attic door. Pounding and screaming like I had not done since they first locked me up here. I heard footsteps and thought it was Billy. But when the door yanked open, it was my stepfather who stood there.
I begged him to let me see my daughter, to feed her. I told him that my milk had come in.
He glanced at my heavy breasts.
At that reminder of my whore body, he backhanded me so hard, my ears rang. But something snapped in me then. I picked myself up and flew at him. I clawed and scratched and screamed at him. I screamed—You won’t get away with this! You locked me up and stole my baby! I’ll tell! I swear to God I’ll tell the whole town. Then all of them will know what a ‘holy’ man you are!
His face changed—he looked like a storm. And I realized my mistake.
By threatening to reveal what he’d done, I’d sealed my fate. And dear God, my little Lily Michelle’s too! If there really had been a plan to give my baby up to a private adoption, my stepfather would never go through with it now. He wouldn’t risk it coming back to haunt him.
I fell to the floor and repented. I groveled at his feet. I swore I didn’t mean anything I’d said. I wasn’t concerned for myself, but I’d have done anything—said anything—to spare my baby. He kicked me away, closed the door, and locked it again.
That was two days ago. No one has climbed these stairs since.
And now... now I haven’t got much time.
I haven’t heard the baby cry from down below. I’ve heard no one at the door or in the hallways.
Last night, I went out to look for my Lily. I tapped on the glass and told the lady “I want out” and she let me have my escape. I slipped back into the house. I’d never dared do that before, but I needed to find my precious baby. Needed to see her! There was no evidence of her anywhere. No bassinette. No diapers. No rooms prepared for guests from Montreal.
There is a heaviness in my heart for little Lily Michelle. A heaviness for me, as well.
After searching every room I could, I slipped out into the night and went to listen again at the Dufty house. The windows were closed because of the February cold, so I slipped in through a wall and stood in a shadowed hallway.
I listened to whispers—they were about me.
Everyone thinks I’m already dead. Connie Harvell is dead. Died in a house fire in Toronto. No body to bring back home. No need for a funeral. Her poor mother’s an awful wreck—she’ll never be the same.
Dear Diary, I know they’re going
to kill me. I’m so scared. The fear is like an acid churning in my stomach and turning my limbs to water.
But I know something else.
I know why the Madonna bleeds. It’s not because of her thorn-pricked feet. But because of her breaking heart.
Alex closed the book. Her throat ached from talking and ached with tears she would not shed. Not in front of the other girls. Not here in this place. Not onto the precious pages of Connie’s book.
“Is that... are those Connie’s last words?” Maryanne asked.
Alex nodded.
“Holy crap!” Brooke shuddered. She rubbed her arms as if just then feeling the cold chill in the room. She looked at every corner. “They murdered her. God, they murdered her right here!”
“I think I’m going to be sick!”
“Oh, God, Maryanne, do not hurl up here,” Brooke said. “We’d have to raid the janitor’s closet and haul buckets of water up and down stairs, and we’d be sure to get caught.”
“Very supportive, Brooke.”
Brooke glared at Alex. “What? It’s true.”
“Just put your head down for a few minutes.” Alex put a hand on Maryanne’s back to urge her forward. “Good. Now take a few deep breaths.”
After a moment, Maryanne sat up again. “I’m okay,” she said.
“I wonder how they killed her?” This from Brooke, not surprisingly.
“Does it matter?” Alex sighed. “It wouldn’t have been hard, two grown men against a postpartum mother. She was probably dehydrated and dizzy with hunger, too, since they left her up here for days after the baby came.”
“Strangulation,” Brooke said. “That’s my guess. Or maybe they smothered her. You know, like with a pillow or something.”
“Oh, God!” Maryanne cried. “They killed the baby too, didn’t they? Just like Connie feared.”
“I think so,” Alex said.
“Or maybe it just died,” Brooke suggested. “You know, of a birth defect or something. Or maybe it got a chill in the attic. Connie wrote that it was cold. Maybe it got hypothermia and just died.”
“Babies shouldn’t die!” Maryanne’s voice shook. Come to that, it looked like her whole body was shaking. “Whether they killed it or just let it die, it’s still their fault!”
Brooke raised both hands in the air, palms forward. “Hey, I’m not defending them. The stepfather was a hypocritical church-going tyrant who ruled with his fists. Billy was a bully and a rapist, if not an outright psychopath. And her mother was a useless doormat who didn’t lift a finger to help her own daughter.” Now it was Brooke who was practically trembling. “They were all a bunch of douches, if you ask me.”
“Well, the stepfather and Billy for sure,” Alex allowed. “But her mother was likely battered herself. And remember, this was decades ago. Domestic abuse used to be swept under the rug a lot more back then, I’m pretty sure.”
They were all silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.
Finally, Alex stood. As if a signal, even to herself, she blew out the candle. She had to get out of there. Quickly. “That’s it. Now you know,” she said, but not without a tremor in her voice. She moved toward the stairs.
“Wait a minute,” Maryanne said, rising to her feet. “Aren’t we going to cast out?”
“No,” Alex said. “We can’t tonight. It’s too late.”
“So what?” Brooke countered, already placing her candle on the dresser and moving toward the window. “The later the better. I vote we cast. Maryanne?”
Alex stared at Maryanne, silently reminding her of their conversation of earlier today. Silently seeing if she could trust her—really.
With a shaky voice, Maryanne said, “Alex is right, Brooke. We’ve had enough for tonight. Too much to think about.” She looked pointedly to Alex now. “We’ll cast out tomorrow night instead.”
“But tomorrow’s the Halloween dance,” Brooke pointed out. “And thanks to me having to get you off the hook with Ty, we’re all going together, remember? Which reminds me, we’re supposed to have some kind of joint costume... ”
“Okay,” Alex agreed. “We’ll go to the dance, then we’ll cast out afterward.”
Brooke’s eyes narrowed in the moonlight. “Promise?”
“Promise,” Alex and Maryanne simultaneously answered.
Reluctantly, Brooke moved with them down the stairs. Maryanne stopped them before they exited the door. “Thank you, Alex. For reading that tonight. For telling us everything.”
Alex hesitated before muttering, “No problem.” Then she pushed past Maryanne and Brooke onto the silent floor. Back in their room, she lay in bed staring up at the ceiling thinking of the words she’d spoken, and the lie she’d told.
There was more in Connie’s diary.
So much more.
Oh, not a lot more writing. Not reams of paragraphs or pages. Just a few more words. But holy crap, what those words had revealed!
Alex didn’t sleep at all that night. Not until she saw the sun.
Chapter 19
Trick or Treat
Brooke
Brooke smiled at the wolf whistles that followed her as she crossed the cafeteria with three plastic cups of punch—unspiked, sorry to say—to join Maryanne and Alex.
“Wow, who knew Dorothy would be so popular?” she said, as the girls relieved her of two of the precariously balanced cups.
“Are you kidding?” Maryanne said, laughing. “L. Frank Baum is rolling over in his grave right now.”
Alex snorted. “Forget about Baum. Judy Garland will be spinning like a top in hers.”
“What?” Brooke glanced down at her costume. “White blouse, blue gingham dress, red shoes... ” She twirled one of her messy schoolgirl pigtail braids. “I just updated her a bit, is all.”
That, of course, was an understatement. She’d given Dorothy a super-sexy makeover. The gingham dress was courtesy of the local public school’s drama club’s costume department; she’d paid one of the student actors there to ‘borrow’ it for her. Then she’d basted the skirt’s hem to the inside of its own waistband, shortening it to micro-mini length, and taken the bodice in until it hugged her curves like a glove. Brooke’s Dorothy had ditched the ruby slippers for four-inch red stiletto pumps, and traded her sedate knee socks for white lace-topped thigh-highs. Dorothy definitely wasn’t in Kansas anymore. And the effect was—if she had to say so herself—pretty damned fabulous. She couldn’t wait for Seth to see her. Except he and Melissa hadn’t shown yet.
“Well, you’ve got the body for it, anyway,” Maryanne said.
“You do too, if you’d ever stop cloaking yourself in those baggy clothes.”
“Hey, I like my baggy clothes.”
Brooke rolled her eyes. Maryanne certainly did like her sweats. Tonight, though, she actually looked great. Unlike Brooke, she didn’t have an inch of skin on display beneath her pristine white Princess Leia gown, but at least it was somewhat form-fitting, and the wide belt nipped in nicely at the waist. She’d bought some of those cheap hair extensions and fashioned a pair of distinctive Princess Leia side buns. It was quite impressive, really.
“Leave the girl alone, Brooke,” Alex said.
Brooke turned to Alex. Compared to Maryanne’s costume, Alex’s was lame. Probably because she hadn’t planned to wear a costume at all. But Maryanne had nagged her into it, offering to help her make one. They wound up scrounging some tiny boxes of cereal, gluing them to an oversized shirt and embedding plastic knives in the boxes. And now poor Alex had to endure people coming up to her in puzzlement and asking what she was supposed to be. After the third query, she glared at anyone who approached and growled, “Cereal killer, dammit!”
Brooke shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”
They were silent a moment as they watched the dancers. There were a ton of them, the event attended by students from both Streep and the public high school. Come Christmas, the public school would host the Christmas dance. The cafeteria tables had been moved u
p against the walls to leave the center of the tiled floor open, and the kids were currently dancing to a heinous dance remix.
“Why are there grapes floating in my punch?” Alex asked.
“Beats me,” Brooke said.
“I think they’re supposed to be eyeballs,” Maryanne said.
A guy clothed from head to toe in a tight, black... something... dashed by.
“What the hell?” Alex said.
Maryanne gazed after him. “Was that a wetsuit?”
Brooke grinned. “Wetsuit? God, Maryanne, where did you grow up? That’s your basic Lycra/PVC fetish catsuit.”
“Omigod, really?” Maryanne’s face was two shades of red. “But why would someone wear that here?”
“Maybe he’s trolling for a date.”
“C’mon, Brooke. Look at him,” Alex ground out. “He’s the Mansbridge Heller.”
Brooke looked closer, and holy shit, she was right! If Brooke herself had cast out and walked in here in her cast form, she probably wouldn’t look much different than that, except for the exposed face. He’d blackened it, she saw, but it was still nowhere near as dark as the rest of him. And a cast’s face, of course, would not show with the same 3D detail as this guy’s darkened skin. A cast’s face was just... empty and black. At least to non-caster eyes.
And hadn’t there been someone else dressed all in black? Yes, two juniors. But their outfits weren’t nearly as effective. A black unitard and face-blacking. They hadn’t even covered their heads, like this guy had.
“Geez, it must be the costume of choice,” Maryanne said. “Look over there, on the other side of the mummy.”
“Is that another one?” Alex asked, gesturing toward her left.
Brooke whipped her head around. “Where?”
“At ten o’clock, between Barack Obama and the trampy vampire. With her back to us.”
Brooke squinted. “Could be. But what the hell is she wearing over her costume?”
“Looks like a fishnet,” Maryanne said. “A fishnet with... what is that? Pennies? Why would she have pennies glued to it?”
