I’m not sure how long I was in there. Probably only minutes, but they stretched longer than a wad of Silly Putty.
I started to cry, and then I screamed, sure the trunk kept the sound of my voice to itself. A dizzy sensation swept through me and my stomach clenched. I swallowed the sour taste of my lunch—hot dogs and macaroni and cheese.
Then, miraculously, the lid opened and fresh air rushed in to revive me. Like an angelic being, Lydia stood over the trunk, pure natural light around her.
She reached for me. “Annie—oh my goodness, are you okay?” She hugged me to her in a rare show of affection, and I sobbed into her faded New Kids on the Block T-shirt.
Throughout our childhood, we’d had our ups and downs, but after that incident I knew one thing—Lydia would never let me down. She’d always be there for me, no matter how hard I was to find.
Or so I thought.
I sighed, stared at the many tabs lined up along my laptop’s browser. The New England Historic Genealogical Society, the Massachusetts Archives, a search on Liberty Gregory, and another search on flight times from Boston to the UK. Just in case.
Beside me, my phone vibrated on the table, and I scooped it up, welcoming the distraction.
Lydia.
My heart scuffled out a few extra beats, and I grew warm at the thought of speaking to my sister, at the intimate memories of our childhood I’d just been pondering. I untied my robe and allowed the cooler air to flow through a thin T-shirt I’d earned by running a 10K several years back.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Auntie Annie.”
“Grace! Hi.” The wheels of my mind stopped and backtracked, like the wheels of a train moving in reverse. “How are you, kiddo?”
Bad. Shouldn’t have used the nickname. We weren’t at that stage yet. And Grace wasn’t a kid anymore.
Lydia was right. I was expecting to step back into their life and presume everything could be the same.
“I’m good. I wanted to ask you something.”
“Of course. Anything.” Yes, desperate aunt was much better than overly familiar aunt.
I stood from the table and went to the window, where rivulets of rain streaked tears down the glass. I flexed my foot, allowed the pinch in the back of my calf to ground me.
“Well, my school is doing this run—a 5K. It’s, you know, a fund-raiser.” A shaky breath echoed over the line. “It’s on Patriots’ Day, and the idea is for a student to team with an adult to raise money for people who need prosthetics.”
I groped the nearby kitchen counter, dizzy from the information—information I didn’t want to dwell on.
Running.
Race.
Patriots’ Day.
People who need prosthetics.
Grace must have sensed my hesitation. “It’s an annual thing. They started it last year . . . to raise money for me to get my running prosthesis. Only this year I’ll be able to run it, and the money will, like, go to another teenager, someone who loves to run just as much as I do.”
I knew she didn’t mean to remind me of all that I had missed, but that’s just what her words did.
“Well, I was wondering if you’d partner with me . . . if we could, like, run together.”
I scrambled for words, for an excuse. I was bailing again. I didn’t want in on the reminders, the pain. And I didn’t want to run—maybe not even for Grace.
I massaged my forehead as the truth of this hit home. I was being presented with another choice—run, or run away. I’d told Lydia I was sorry for avoiding them in their time of need, but if I said no to Grace’s request, how was I proving my apology sincere? How was I changing the pattern of what I’d done every day for the past two years?
“Does your mom know you’re asking me?” Better to blame my inability to participate on Lydia. I wrapped my fingers around the sharp edges of the counter. A particularly hard edge of laminate poked into my hand. I clutched tighter. I was a rat. Worse than a rat. A flea on a rat.
“I did run it by her. She didn’t think you’d say yes, though.”
Trapped. And Lydia had flipped the spring.
All I really wanted to do was dig a private hole and hide. But wasn’t this why I had gotten back in touch? Lydia had cut me out, but now she was also giving me a way back in.
“Of course I will.” I said the words because I couldn’t disappoint my niece. I said the words to prove my sister wrong. I said them, knowing I’d regret them the second they left my mouth, yet knowing once they did leave there would be no turning back.
“Really? You’ll do it?”
“Sure I will. I’m a bit out of practice, but—”
“We could train together. If you wanted.”
If I wanted. Could I run by her side again? Move forward? Stuff the memories of the bombing deep in a place where they wouldn’t bury me alive when I tried to run again?
“Um, yeah. I think that would be okay once in a while.”
“Great.”
“Great.”
She rambled on for the next few minutes about sponsors and forms and websites and goals.
“Do you want to go for a run tomorrow afternoon? It’s three-quarters of a mile around my block. We can walk once, run once, you know, see how it goes.” Hope drenched her words. She amazed me, this girl I’d abandoned. I didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve her time. I didn’t deserve her desire to be with me.
I cleared my throat to hide my emotion. “Are you sure it’s okay with your mom? I don’t want to . . .” Step on her toes. Barge in where I didn’t belong. It all sounded too harsh. I didn’t want to pit Grace against her mother.
“Yeah, absolutely. See you at three?”
“Looking forward to it.”
I hung up, wondering if my last words were a lie. I did look forward to being with Grace again. In the context of running a race for prosthetics? Not so sure.
I rubbed my hands over my arms and trudged past my laptop to the couch, conscious of my heavy limbs, and sat down with a thump as I exhaled a loud breath and tossed my phone on the cushion beside me. I eased out of my slippers and perched my socked feet on the coffee table, leaned back and rubbed my forehead.
I tapped my head with one hand. I could do this. I could pump myself up. Just a little run around the block. No biggie.
But what if I couldn’t? What if I panicked tomorrow?
Again my phone vibrated beside me. I thought it might be Grace, calling to tell me a piece of information she’d forgotten. But at the sight of Brad’s name, my stomach gave a little leap.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself. What’s going on?”
“Oh, just sitting here trying to give myself a pep talk.”
“Is it working?”
I flopped my free hand onto my lap. “No.”
“Need someone to talk to?”
I scrunched up my face, shook my head. “How am I always the one spilling my guts to you?”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind. I’m on a break.”
Like I needed to bother him with my problems when he was at work. “It’s nothing. Grace—you know, my niece who was injured in the bombing—just called. She wants to run a 5K with me on Patriots’ Day.”
He let out a low whistle. “And you’re not good with that.”
“Not really. I haven’t run since the morning of the bombing, and with Grace . . .”
“I’m sorry.” His breaths traveled through the phone. “About the bombing. I—I know it doesn’t change anything, but I wish it hadn’t happened to you, or your family.”
I shrugged, though I knew he couldn’t see the gesture. “It’s not your fault I’m so screwed up I can’t bring myself to run anymore.”
“It’s a posttraumatic thing. Nothing’s wrong with you.”
I laughed. “You minor in psychology at Lincoln Tech?” I closed my eyes. Why did I do this—push people away when they started getting too close? “Sorry, that was rude.”
“Yeah, it was. Can’t blame that on traum
a.”
“Brad, wait. I’m sorry. Really, I wish I hadn’t said that.”
He sighed. “I get that you’re hurting, Annie. But you’re not alone. And maybe I’m not a psychologist, but you’re forgetting I was in a war. I know a thing or two about PTSD, and it comes in a lot of different forms.”
Silence ate up the next ten seconds.
“So what do you think I should do?”
“Go for a run.”
I almost choked on my next words. “What—now?”
“Don’t think. Just do it.”
“It’s raining.”
“Drizzling. You won’t melt.”
“I don’t even know if I could find my sneak—”
“You can do this, Annie. Just a short one. Hey—you’re right near the Old Belfry on the Green, right? Just make it to the top of that.”
“Sure, then I’ll raise my hands up and jump around like Rocky in front of that big building in Philadelphia.”
He chuckled. “Now you’re talking. Man, I love those movies.”
I smiled. “I used to watch them with my dad to get me pumped up for track meets.”
An air compressor went off in the background. “Hey, I gotta go. Meet you at one, right?”
“Yeah, looking forward to it.”
“And Anaya?” I didn’t miss the use of my full name.
“Yeah?”
“Today’s a new day. I want to hear about your run.”
I groaned after I hung up the phone. This guy sure had a way of getting to me. Yet I couldn’t imagine disappointing him. And I knew he was right. Like it or not, I was running with Grace tomorrow. Things would go smoother if I could prove to myself today what I had to do tomorrow.
I dug my sneakers from my closet, grabbed a sweatshirt and yoga pants. On top of my bureau, Brad’s ring lay beside my jewelry box. I picked it up, ran a thumbnail over the engraving, allowing it to catch on the tiny jewels that made up the anchor. I thought to hold it tight, to imagine some power hidden within its depths to strengthen me. But really, that had never worked before. Why would it now?
God, help me be strong.
I wasn’t sure where the thought of praying came from, but in that moment it appeared more naturally than ever. I repeated the plea as I laced up my neglected sneakers and walked quickly down the drive until I reached the road. The scent of wet pavement clung to the air. I pushed my legs forward, faster. They dragged heavy from lack of use.
Brad recognized my problems—posttraumatic. The shrink had told me as much. But I hadn’t been able to move past it, even with the help of a psychologist. I wondered what had happened to Brad in the war. I wondered if he still struggled with his past too.
I sucked in a breath and tried out a light jog—more like a bounce-skip. I felt places jiggling I hadn’t known were there. Yuck. That sure hadn’t happened when I trained for the marathon. I sped up, wishing I’d changed into a sports bra before heading out.
I lengthened my stride, forced my shoulders down, arms pumping. Memories of the last time I ran came pouring forth. I hadn’t felt great during the marathon. Cramps and nausea and an unplanned, but very needed, bathroom stop.
My goal had been three hours and twenty-five minutes, and I’d promised myself I’d make it—for Grace. Poor kid couldn’t wait to be old enough to run. With her training and encouragement, I’d surprised myself by qualifying the fall before. The girl was fast and she made me, a moderately good runner, faster when she was by my side. During the final four months, we’d run the longer workouts on Sunday afternoons together.
If I had pushed myself harder on race day, if for no other reason than to show Grace her training efforts weren’t for naught, I would have been across the finish line well before that first bomb went off. Grace and Lydia and I would have been on our way to a celebratory lunch instead of wading through broken glass and blood and terror.
The wind and rain whipped my face, melding with the tears on my cheeks. I held my breath tight to stifle the sob, but it came out anyway. I stopped running and walked, gasping for breaths between my emotions.
These last two silent years were lonely. Like I’d been stuck in that abandoned trunk in Pop’s barn for all that time, but instead of calling for help I’d allowed the loneliness—the desperation—to eat me alive. What kind of person was I to shut everyone out, to seek excessive solitude, to abandon those I loved?
I turned left at the wooden sign that read Old Belfry and started up the steep staircase at a jog. It was a short trip up, but my thighs burned at the abnormal strain I demanded of them. The pain in my calf pulsated with a dull throb. I tried not to think much beyond one jagged stone step at a time.
By the time I reached the top, my lungs were tight as a jar of unopened pickles, my legs the consistency of custard. A brown belfry stood proudly at the top, seemingly alone on this cold March morning.
Drawing in deep breaths, I placed my hands on my hips and walked toward the belfry, a small wave of triumph washing over me.
I’d done it. I might not raise my hands toward the heavens like Rocky, but my soul did. I couldn’t wait to tell Brad.
While I recovered, I read the sign posted on the side of the belfry.
This belfry was erected on this hill in 1761 and removed to the Common in 1768. In it was hung the bell which rung out the alarm on the 19th of April 1775.
Patriots’ Day.
A day when the Lexington minutemen had been pitifully defeated on the green just below me. And yet it had been the beginning of a glorious fight for our country’s freedom.
I gulped down another breath. Would Patriots’ Day forever haunt me with its taunting reminders of my weakness, of the world’s potential for evil? I kicked at the slab of rock I stood on and admired the view of the Common. In another month or so it would be hard to see past the leaves.
Today’s a new day.
I let Brad’s words roll around in my head. Perhaps I could choose to cling to hope, to not allow that tragic day to steal more from me than it had already taken. I had gone running again. I didn’t have to be defeated by reminders of a history that couldn’t be changed. Instead, I could choose to find hope in that history.
Patriots’ Day, after all, wasn’t meant to be a reminder of devastation; it was meant to be a celebration of freedom.
MAY 1770
At the Mortons’ supper table, I shifted slightly to the right, toward Mr. Dean, to allow for the nigra maid to pour water into my glass. On my other side, Mrs. Morton, in a teal silk taffeta dress fresh from the mantua maker, whispered to me, “Do you care for our seating arrangements this evening, dear?”
A breeze from the window at my back carried the scent of the sea, and I sucked it in, willing the simmering nausea I knew all too well of late to settle within my body. I forced a smile from my lips, though I couldn’t ponder being smitten with anyone, let alone a man whose closest friend, Mr. John Adams, would help defend the soldiers who had shot my brother, claiming all deserved a fair trial.
I settled for a safe reply. “I am most grateful for your invitation, Mrs. Morton.”
Since my brother’s passing two months earlier, Captain and Mrs. Morton made it a habit to invite me to dine at least once a fortnight. To my pleasure, I found that James had shared much about me with the Morton family. We enjoyed small conversations over dinner, and while they were perhaps the closest people to me in this rebellious town, they knew me little. They didn’t know of my recent employ, of course. Nor of how I had let my foolish heart fall for a soldier of the Crown. They were unaware of Captain Philips’s atrocities against me, of my act of thievery . . . of the tiny life growing within my womb.
More than once I contemplated leaving Boston. Fearful the captain and lieutenant would attempt to find me for my last brazen act, I watched my surroundings with care, turned an attentive ear to the talk of politics in the street. Yet no sign of British troops disrupted the peace of the town. No sign of the two men with whom I had lived. I fancied the lieutenan
t would not wish to press charges, and perhaps the captain feared to, given all that I could report of him. Never mind the fact that after the night of March fifth, none in Boston would heed a British officer’s complaint. The wounds were still too fresh, the hatred toward the Crown palpable, fed by the Sons and their propaganda, which included newspapers, pamphlets, and engravings such as Mr. Revere’s “The Bloody Massacre in King Street.”
For reasons I couldn’t completely comprehend, I did not wish to leave the heady clutch of Boston just yet. Never mind its unsettling memories and crowded confines, the thick air stinking of kitchen fires set too near one another, I could not bid farewell to it. The town gripped me with its bittersweet draw, with its promise to hold my brother in its depths forever.
And yet I knew, in time, I would have to leave. I would have to make a new beginning elsewhere. A new beginning couched in half-truths. A new beginning free of the heavy iron ball of my disgraceful past chained to my leg.
“And do you plan to attend the trial when it finally proceeds, Miss Caldwell?” Mr. Dean asked. His pleasant features hid shining eyes that bathed me in admiration. Mrs. Morton seemed to think us a perfect match, but then again, Mrs. Morton did not know my secrets.
“Yes, I think I shall.” Though I feared I might encounter the captain or the lieutenant at such an event, my fears would submit to my longing to see justice served. Two weeks after the bloody fray that the Sons had dubbed “the Massacre,” Mr. John Adams had requested that I call upon him, asking of the events of that night, of my brother’s patriotic fervor. Mr. Adams had listened to my testimony that day with rapt attention. I’d been relieved when I found Mr. Adams did not plan for me to testify. I did not think I could bear witness before a crowd of Americans while the offspring of an English officer grew within my womb.
“I should think it would be good for you to be present.” Mr. Dean said this so that only I could hear, and the conversation around us moved on to the indecency of the Townshend Acts. I wondered if any of the Liberty Boys had urged him to persuade me in this manner.
“Thank you, Mr. Dean. But I wonder, do you mean good for me, or good for the Cause?” I took a dainty sip of my oyster soup, concentrated my gaze on the elaborate wainscoting about the Mortons’ dining room walls. The trial had been pushed back, perhaps until the fall. By then I would not be able to hide my condition any longer.
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