What's Left Unsaid

by Emily Bleeker

  Hannah’s elevated feet dropped off the desk, sending up a cloud of dust. She blinked against the grit, rereading the last few lines again. Even though death stole Evelyn’s mother, she was left feeling abandoned, like the woman should’ve been strong enough to outmatch mortality. Hannah hadn’t ever admitted that out loud about her father, not to her mother or her therapist. But Evelyn knew.

  She swapped one article for the next, placing the typewritten pages in a manila folder labeled on the tab with the date listed on the article. So far, she had five folders, including the new pages she’d found that day while archiving. The materials, sent more or less monthly in 1935, were coming together into a focused story line, which looked to be the beginnings of a potentially tragic love story between Evelyn and an older boy she’d met at the fairgrounds in the summer of 1929.

  Hannah usually hated love stories, finding them too sugary and far-fetched. The way the boy fought through all odds to be with the girl, who was oftentimes artsy, flighty, and either a waitress at a coffee shop or the VP of a fashion magazine at the age of twenty-six. The pragmatic side of Hannah had always won out when faced with such implausible scenarios.

  But Evelyn’s naive little love story was different. It wasn’t even about the boy she found herself in love with at the young age of fourteen—it’s that she fell in love with him despite her stepmother’s disapproval. It was a flash of rebellion that Hannah identified in Evelyn’s “love” story. It showed an ownership for her own life that Mrs. Brown had tried to horsewhip out of her at a young age. Hannah was fascinated by that trait and was starting to wonder if this stubborn rebellion was one of the reasons Evelyn survived whatever assault led to the gunshot wound that took her mobility.

  August 7, 1935

  Mr. Martin,

  It is me again. I have not heard from your offices on my previous submissions, but I will continue to write them in case you find them useful as a true story.

  In May, the fair came to town. Myrtle and I were permitted to walk down to the fairgrounds with the youth group from Mother’s church. But when we got there, Myrtle and I ditched them and went off to explore on our own. The smells of popcorn and cotton candy made my mouth water, and I was dying to remember what they tasted like.

  Neither of us had much money, so when a teenage boy and his girl tossed their half-eaten bags of popcorn in the trash can right next to us, when no one was looking I took them for Myrtle and me without an ounce of shame, though Myrtle looked like she might die from embarrassment.

  And when the cotton candy man wasn’t looking, I snatched a stick of candy floss off a stand at the rear of his concession stand by slipping my hand through the flap at the back of the tent. I should be ashamed to admit these youthful follies, and I am a bit, but it has to be told.

  No one saw us, but our guilty conscience made us run through the field behind the fairgrounds and into the dark woods to enjoy our sweet, stolen treasure. As the sugar melted on our tongues and our fingers grew pink and sticky, we lost track of how deep we had wandered into the woods. We heard the river and settled on some rocks there to enjoy the last bit of sweetness we’d have for a long time. Moments later, Lucy from school and her crew broke through the brush.

  I’ll never forget pinch-faced Lucy in her spotless handkerchief-hemmed dress, wearing her hair in pin curls from the salon like she was a grown woman, standing on that muddy bank, staring me down.

  Behind her were three boys and two girls. Molly, a sweet, brainless little thing, was, as Mother liked to say, pretty enough to get a husband, though he’d have to be a dumb one. And then Gracie, a girl two grades older than me who still held on to some of her baby fat around her middle, even though Mother said that her momma made her drink ipecac syrup after dinner most nights.

  I used to feel bad for Gracie, but then I got a peek at her lunch one day when she was working with Mr. Clayton in the library and I was waiting for Myrtle to find the library book she wanted to bring home. She had cold chicken, rolls, fried potatoes, and a bottle of soda pop.

  I could smell it as I was standing at the checkout desk, and my stomach grumbled so loudly that the librarian gave me a slanted look as though I’d cursed. I’d gladly drink ipecac every night if I got to eat like Gracie. At that point in my life, standing by the swollen waters of the gap, seeing her dress pulling at her belly and the buttons straining to stay closed only made me feel envy, the stale, stolen garbage popcorn rumbling against the melted sugar in my mostly empty stomach.

  “What are you doing here?” Lucy asked, like Myrtle and I had no right to be anywhere Lucy wanted to be.

  “Cooling off,” I said. It was a hot night, sticky for more reasons than the sugar clinging to the corners of my mouth.

  “Well, cool off somewhere else,” she said, shooing me away with the flick of her wrist. Her fingernails were painted a bright red, I remember that, and they caught a bit of the moonlight through the trees.

  “Oh, Lucy, who cares? Let them stay,” Gracie said, and I felt a little guilty for not caring that her momma made her throw up her dinner every night.

  “Yeah, who cares?” said one of the boys.

  Two boys from the high school stood behind Lucy, blurry-eyed from beer. They were both less than handsome. One with a spotted complexion and the other with such a robust body odor that I could smell him six feet away. But there was one other boy there, one I hadn’t seen before. Unlike the local boys I’d seen grow into manlike figures from their days in knickers, this boy was new to town. He watched as we girls talked, and there was a brightness in his features that made me think he’d seen more in this world than I could ever imagine. I wanted that boy to notice me. I handed the last bit of the cotton candy to Myrtle and stood up from the rocks we’d been resting on together.

  “We came here to swing the gap,” I said, bluffing but wanting to sound adventurous to that handsome boy Lucy had roped into following her around in the woods. Myrtle let out a little gasp behind me.

  When we were little, swinging the gap over the West Ditch River was a rite of passage every year before the summer break. Before Mrs. Brown lived with us, Myrtle and I could come and go as we pleased as long as Daddy never found out. Daddy was far too sad and busy after Momma died to care where we were much of the time as long as we were quiet.

  One Sunday afternoon, when he was in Memphis still for a business trip, Myrtle and I met up at the gap with six or seven children from the primary school. Myrtle could never bring herself to swing over the water. She was always so timid and ladylike. But life without a mother had taught me to be strong, and even at nine years old, I was brave. It had long been known I was the youngest girl to swing the gap ever in the history of the school.

  But later that summer, another boy from my class drowned in the river. No one knew if he fell off the rope or had tried to swim by himself one night, but after he disappeared while playing they found him in the river, neck broken and drowned too. Some people whispered that his drunk daddy did it ’cause he used to whup Bobby and his momma when he was cork high and bottle deep, but all the same, Daddy forbade me from going near the river. It was getting cold anyway, and Mrs. Brown joined our family soon after as my new mother, and my life stopped being my own. But that night by the gap I felt more in charge of my life than I had in a long time.

  Hannah read the story hungrily. She hadn’t felt that overly alive buzz Evelyn was referring to for far too long. Everything in the past several months seemed more like she was simply going through the motions. Even burying her father felt like she was watching herself through a window or a TV show in slow motion. She welcomed the numbness that distance gave her, but she missed the highs that were eliminated when she started running away from the lows. Recently she was starting to feel something—a subtle sizzle that ignited each time she read Evelyn’s words and followed leads about her story.

  “I dare you,” Lucy said, her painted red lips just as pinchy as her face.

  “I can do it with one hand,” I said
back to Lucy, willing to do anything to show her up. Boys followed her like mad.

  I was prettier than Lucy; everyone knew it. I might not have been beautiful like Momma, but I saw the way boys watched me like they used to watch her, like sneaking a little peek of my figure was a sin. It probably was, but I didn’t care. My body was the one thing I owned that was mine and not Mother’s. She could beat it, and she could starve it, but she couldn’t take it away from me. And one day, if I stayed pretty enough and learned to be charming enough, I thought I’d find a boy who would take me away. I could take Myrtle and adopt baby William and bring back beautiful Vivian, and we could be a family again.

  “Ha, you skinny little thing? I doubt it. You’re bluffing. Now, stop making a fool of yourself. Come on, boys.” Lucy turned on the ball of her foot and started to walk as though she were leaving the woods. Gracie and Molly and the town boys followed her like they were playing Simon Says. She was probably going to kiss one of those boys. Maybe my boy.

  “I’m not bluffing,” I shouted, leaping over underbrush to the mossy rope hanging limply over the rushing river. I’d never swung the gap when it was that full, no one ever did that I knew of, but I wasn’t going to back down.

  “Evelyn, don’t,” Myrtle called out timidly. She had learned how to make herself small and forgettable over the years. Maybe to keep away from Mother’s horsewhip, but I think it was so Daddy wouldn’t send her away like he had everyone else.

  “You’d better listen to your sister,” Molly said sweetly. I didn’t stop.

  “You’re not gonna make it,” one of the boys, I think his name was Jimmy, slurred.

  I carefully removed my shoes and tucked my socks inside so they didn’t get muddy and then grasped the slimy rope with one hand and put one foot up on the knot tied at the bottom, beyond listening to any voice of reason.

  “It’s not safe, Evey!” Gracie used my childhood nickname and made me remember how we used to swing on the playground together when we were in primary school. She sounded like she was begging.

  I reeled back, and with a big hop and using both of my arms at first, I held myself up while my feet found their footing and jumped into the gap with my eyes closed tight. The rope creaked but held my weight. It was wet against my face and smelled of twine and mildew, but the mist of the rapids felt fresh against my skin, and I knew I was flying. Cheers echoed from the shore, and as I reached the highest point of my journey over the river, I opened my eyes and tossed up my hand in triumph.

  Then I heard a crack, and my perfect curve over the water faltered, shaking my already insecure grasp of the rope. Crack. Again. Suddenly it was all gone—the wind, the weightlessness, the fluttering in my stomach, and the feeling of triumph as I plummeted into the river along with ten feet of rope and the broken branch it was tied to.

  I’d like to say I remember struggling to the surface or swimming against the rushing rapids, but I don’t. When I was under that water, tangled in the rope and helpless to find the surface, I didn’t try to rescue myself. It was the closest to freedom I’d felt in a long time. No one would miss me, not really. Daddy would be sad, but he’d gotten over Momma and given away William and Vivy. Myrtle would be left alone, but maybe I was bad for her? Perhaps she could be the angel she was born to be without my negative influence. Besides, I didn’t want to do it anymore, life. It was too hard. I was too alone. I was too hungry and frightened.

  Stunned by Evelyn’s dreams of death, Hannah’s mouth was so dry, it hurt to try and swallow. She recognized those confused thoughts only too well. After Alex, but before her stay in the hospital, she would sometimes think, If I let go of the wheel, it would look like an accident, or Just one more step off the platform and it could all be over. Evelyn’s life was hard, harder than Hannah’s, so could she really blame the girl for wanting some relief? But still, it surprised her that even Evelyn’s strength had its limits. Hannah was unsure if it was comforting to once again be understood or if it was a hard way to see the figment of the past she was starting to look up to.

  Then a steady hand grabbed me and dragged me out of the water. I don’t remember it all. I spit and spattered as everyone surrounded me, and the world was as blurry outside of the water as it was in it. But once my lungs cleared and my eyes focused, I saw who was holding me in his arms. The boy, the one I’d never seen before. His rich brown eyes were kind and smiling at me. My chilled skin warmed at his touch.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” he said, as though we were the only two people there. I coughed, unsure if I’d be able to find my voice but wanting to say something.

  “I told you . . . I wasn’t . . . bluffing,” I said, in the quietest whisper. As he leaned in to listen and his breath touched my cheek, smiling at me as though I’d said something surprising, I felt like I was flying for the second time that day.

  And that is how I met Harry Westbrook at the fairgrounds and how he grasped me just in time to keep me from drowning.

  I loved Harry almost immediately, and I think maybe Myrtle did too.

  Mother and Daddy would not let Myrtle and me go with boys, so when Mother asked how we had liked the fair the next morning as Daddy sipped his coffee and we set the table for breakfast, we dared not tell either of them about him. But I couldn’t keep him a secret long. By the end of May, they knew his name almost as well as they knew my own.

  CHAPTER 9

  The number Hannah had written on a fluorescent Post-it and stuck to the side of her monitor stared back at her. It had a Memphis area code and ended with a 7233, which spelled out SAFE on a phone keypad. The Crippled Children’s Hospital and School was now a full-service inpatient mental health facility called the Pines Wellness Center. She’d found out that much information through her online research. And it was still run by the same organization that founded the home in 1919 called the Safe Place, which was run out of a Memphis office park.

  Who knew if the organization had any old files stored or kept historical information about the charity home that had occupied the building for the first sixty years of its existence? She gritted her teeth and grabbed the Post-it off the screen, yanking the phone off the hook and stabbing the phone number into the keypad before she could second-guess her decision.

  “What the hell am I doing?” Hannah muttered to herself as the phone started to ring. She was following a lead. She was tracking down a story. She was doing her goddamn job. But this was the kind of vulnerability she’d been skillfully avoiding. It was weird to start feeling things again, like the pins and needles that would spread through her legs when she stood up after sitting funny.

  “Hello, you’ve reached the Safe Place. How may I direct your call?” said a high-pitched, helpful-sounding voice on the other end of the line after one ring. Hannah took a breath to speak but found she didn’t know what to say.

  “Hi, I’m a reporter from . . .” She paused, not wanting to give the name of her small-town newspaper. If anyone called back and word reached Monty, her story would be ruined. “From the Chicago Tribune. I’m looking to get some information about a resident at the Crippled Children’s Hospital or maybe the Home for the Incurables, which is now the Pines Wellness Center.”

  “I’m sorry, all patient records are confidential,” the receptionist cut her off.

  “No, it’s not a current resident. This was a resident in the early 1930s. I only have a first name and the name of your facility. I was hoping—”

  “Oh, the old Crippled Children’s Home? I’m sorry, we don’t keep any records like that here at the Safe Place. If you’d like, I can connect you with the Pines. Or I could take a message for Ms. Dawson. She might know.” She said the name like everyone knew who Ms. Dawson was.

  “I’m sorry, who?”

  “Oh,” she tittered, “Ms. Dawson is our president. If they don’t have what you need down at the Pines, I bet she’d know better than anyone. Her family’s been in charge for, like, ever. What’s your name again? You said you work for the Chicago Times?” A
rustling of paper on the other end of the line made Hannah suddenly aware of the trail she was leaving behind.

  “You know what? I’m in town for some research. I think I’ll just stop by the Pines and ask them myself. No need to bother Ms. Dawson just yet. Thanks so much,” Hannah said in closing, wanting to hang up the phone like a kidnapper in a movie trying to avoid having their location tracked.

  “I know she won’t mind. She talks to reporters all the time—”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you so much!” Hannah said. She swore there was a little twang in her voice as she said her goodbye and hung up the phone, heart pounding. She crumpled up the sticky note and tossed it in the garbage can under her desk.

  Hannah closed all the tabs on her screen that had anything to do with the Safe Place or the Pines Wellness Center. What would Dolores or Monty think if they happened to see a screen full of mental health information? Who knows if Monty called her references from the Trib and got the lowdown on her final days there? All the botched assignments, showing up late if at all, and when she did show up, she was still so blitzed on meds that she could hardly function. And the final straw, being let go after she went missing for two weeks; she refused to let her father call in about her stay in the psych ward. It wasn’t technically legal to share that kind of information between former and future employers, but she wouldn’t put it past Monty to get nosy.

  At the last minute, she typed Facebook into the address bar. With her phone still dead, she’d avoided social media (and, as a result, Alex) for nearly twenty-four hours. Huh. She hadn’t even thought about stopping to check in on him till this very minute, which felt—odd.

  She still wanted to look, though. The desire hadn’t somehow disappeared overnight. When his profile popped up, her chest constricted. His picture was different. It wasn’t the one she took of him years ago in their apartment when life was normal and they’d planned to get married as soon as his residency was over.