by Randi Pink
Sue could vaguely remember a time when she liked her father. He’d always been obsessively competitive about everything. Blindly competitive. So much so, in fact, while playing board games, he couldn’t see the hatred emitting from the person across from him. He cared only for the win. Never for the person he was playing with, even his seven-year-old daughter.
Sue once played a four-hour game of Monopoly with him. Not only did he kick her butt, he also rubbed it in by spending the final hour explaining why she’d lost. To seven-year-old Sue, it’d been equally infuriating and endearing. She viewed him as a misguided teacher. And loved him in spite of his flaws.
The moment she began to hate him was the same moment she realized there was no point to the war he supported. The two things converged on her like a supernova. Her beloved father was playing a competitive game of Monopoly with people’s lives. Desperate to win, win, win, and then tell broken children’s parents why he had the right to break them. But there he was. Safe and sound on a cot in his office or in his Washington apartment. Or with some secret family in the suburbs of DC. The pits.
She hurried to open another letter to take her mind off him.
Dear Susan,
One summer in Chappaquiddick, I slept with a young man named Harry. He lived in Boston and had no money to speak of. He finagled his way into the Vineyard crowd with personality and usefulness. He’d been accepted into Harvard Law and likely knew more than any of the professors there. Harry was brilliant. Not handsome, not rich, but brilliant. His mind set him apart.
I loved him.
My sisters did not. They were relentless with their disdain. They told me that if I married him, I’d live in a small condominium in South Boston and raise ten Catholic children in rags. At first when they told me this, I fantasized about it. Besides, I never liked sanitary rooms in large houses. As a very young child, all those rooms scared me. But at some point, their words crept into my consciousness.
I left him for your father. On our wedding day, my sisters were grinning bridesmaids, and we moved into an enormous home with no soul. He sat cross-legged at the knee and sipped tea.
I tell you this, darling, because I see my life repeating in you. Your young Malcolm reminds me of my young Harry. I liked Malcolm very much. I never told you. I am so very sorry I didn’t tell you. I should have formed my lips to say the words as I write them now.
I cannot tell you what the future holds for you, darling. I wish I had a crystal ball. But I needed to let you know about this.
I hope all is well with you. Again, please do not hesitate to call if you would like to talk. Anytime day or night.
Your mother,
Margaret Claire Laura Hurley-Day
P.S. Harry teaches law at Harvard today. Isn’t that something?
Sue’s initial instinct was anger. Such valuable information shared six months too late. One more letter, she thought.
Dear Susan,
I spoke with Michael’s parents today. The three of them came by to sit for tea this afternoon. I would like to begin by saying, with full candor, that I do not like them in the least. They are snobs who wear fur wraps in the summer.
Having said that, they came with a proposition. They began by laying out their plans for their son, if you care. He will take over his grandfather’s business, which comes with what they referred to as a fair amount of international notoriety. Therefore, they would like you to consider adoption. His father insisted they pay for the best adoption attorney in the country. And his mother insisted they pay for the best medical care in the country. All in all, they would like to whisk you away to an oceanfront facility to give birth and give the baby to, as they called it, the best family in the country.
Apparently, they have access to the best of the best of everything available in the country. However, I told them, with as much kindness as I could muster, to fuck off. Then they pulled an ace, darling. Well, young Michael did. He’s threatened to call your father.
Again, I must reiterate that I do not like this family in the least.
I wanted very much to keep this from you, darling. But I fear my secrecy has contributed to our current predicament. Please know that I am working every moment of every day to figure this out, and I will keep you abreast of everything as it happens.
Your mother,
Margaret Claire Laura Hurley-Day
As Sue went to open the next letter, she heard Sippi whisper for her. “Sue?”
She was turning in her sleep again. Sippi had never slept a full night without the nightmares, and lately, she’d been calling out to Sue like a child would her mother. Sue jumped to take a seat at her side if she fully woke up.
She went for her guitar to play something small and soothing. Without thinking, her fingers picked where they wanted until a song formed—
I look at you all, see the love there that’s sleeping
While my guitar gently weeps
The Beatles had never been her favorite. Not even in her top ten actually, but that song was Sue’s perfect foe. A trick song that sounds like a lullaby, but it made her want to break her favorite guitar. Even the pieces in the middle were faultlessly placed in the offbeat. “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” could test the best artists in its complicated simplicity. By the fourth line, she forgot the lyrics and started to cry.
“What’s wrong, best friend Sue?” Only Missippi’s large eyes peeked from under the covers. Her stomach seemed to grow larger every time Sue looked at her.
Sue’s body filled with every possible emotion. Hatred for Missippi’s uncle for raping an innocent, and her father for going away on such long trips, and her mother for dying, and Michael for being the entitled, poser father of the baby inside Sue’s own body. Sadness for her mother’s lost words, and best friend Sippi, and all those kids in Vietnam. Regret for Malcolm. But mostly, in that moment, she felt pity for the unborn children in that room. Where would they all end up?
She’d never given herself permission to think of that before. But Michael’s entitled family was determining where hers was going while sipping tea. So many babies with no destination. How many babies must there be like this in the world? Abortion was very much illegal. Girls had to have their babies and put them somewhere. But where?
Four girls in an apartment. Waiting to bring life into the world. Waiting like clueless cattle chewing blades of grass as they looped around the conveyor belt. Knowing better than to question what comes next. She looked at the three of them, all awake now. All with concerned eyes.
Mary. In love with a boy back home. At least she had hope for something beautiful. A little family with someone who might just step up.
Lillian. Strong-willed and pretending to be more sure of herself than she actually was.
Best friend Sippi. Innocent. Only innocent.
And herself.
She looked at them, one after another. “What will happen to us? After?”
They all reached for their respective stomachs like a chorus of floating hands. Even Sue lifted her guitar to rub at hers. It was there, no doubt about it. Small but there. And as if on cue, the thing inside her kicked her hand for the first time. She must’ve jumped, because three brown hands also lunged for her front as well.
“Whoa, mama.” Lillian softly rubbed Sue’s flipping belly. “You’ve got a strong one in there.”
* * *
Sue woke to the smell of coffee. At first she was excited to breathe it in. But then she remembered that Ms. Pearline only ever brewed decaffeinated.
Everyone else was awake and standing around Ms. Pearline, painting in the corner. From her vantage point, Sue couldn’t see the picture. She could only see the expressions on their faces. It must have been magical. Sippi was bouncing on her heels like she did when something truly spectacular was happening. And both Mary’s and Lillian’s mouths were so cavernous, an entire Oreo could fit. Though Sue made noise, no one noticed she was awake. They were watching the painting.
Ms. Pearline looked like
she was in a trance. That was familiar to Sue. She’d seen the same look when she went to see the Carpenters live. A spell came over the stage from the moment they stepped on until they left. That level of artistry was only achieved by the best among us. Sue longed for it. When she walked over to see the painting, she understood.
A colorless canvas. Only tiny gray stripes making up the whole. Four girls with eyes too large to fit on their faces. All full term. All holding on tight to one another. All looking straight ahead. The landscape behind them exploding. Trees stripped of their leaves, wood floating up into ash, clouds of gray smoke billowing at their heels. But they stared ahead, strong and determined to keep moving.
“It’s … us.”
Ms. Pearline did not reply; she instead kept frantically drawing, as if she’d lose the vision if she paused to explain it. Her hands moved back and forth, up and down so quickly. Sue glued her lips together, intuitively knowing that she was witnessing pure brilliance happening feet in front of her.
How could such a woman exist? Sue thought. She could be famous. An Eleanor Roosevelt. An institution of a woman. An inspiration to so many. Sue had attended galas for lesser women. Ms. Pearline could be anything she wanted in the world, and she chose to hide away with pregnant girls in her small apartment. For some reason, Sue became angry at her wasted potential. A painter. A nurse. A midwife. A doula. A teacher. A rare beauty. All hidden.
Ms. Pearline’s wrist slowed and finally came to a stop. The picture was done and powerful. Unlike anything else Sue had seen in her life.
When Ms. Pearline spoke, she sounded tired and scared. Nervous, like she got from time to time. “I heard you all last night. I tried not to, but I did.”
Sippi placed her small hand overtop Ms. Pearline’s. “That’s okay. We eavesdrop on you all the time.”
Everyone in the room laughed at that except Ms. Pearline. Instead, she moved over to sit on the side of the unmade bed. “I would like to tell you girls what will ultimately happen to your babies, but I have no idea. It’s what I’m most afraid of. Some of my girls have gone with adoption. While others have raised their little ones.”
“How many girls have you had in here?” Sue asked before sitting next to her.
“Thirty-three before you four,” she replied, and pointed to Lillian. “You’re thirty-four.” Then Mary. “Thirty-five.” Then best friend Sippi. “Thirty-six.” And finally Sue. “Thirty-seven. All successful pregnancies and births. Most of my girls write afterward. You become my family, you see?”
“The ones who raise they babies,” Sippi started. “They’re happy they did that?”
“It depends,” Ms. Pearline answered honestly. “On resources and family support. I have one girl who decided to keep her baby boy on her daddy’s farm, and now he’s plowing and harvesting right along with everyone else. Then, there are others who struggle.”
Ms. Pearline didn’t want to elaborate, that much was obvious to Sue. “What’s the best ending you’ve heard from one of your girls?” Sue asked to take the pressure off.
Ms. Pearline smiled gratefully. “One of my girls graduated recently and went on to community college. I wasn’t at all surprised. She was smart as a whip. She and her mother took shifts with the baby, and she’s studying to be a nurse. In her last letter, she said she wants to be like me.”
“That’s nice,” said Sippi with a pat on the back. “You’re a good one to want to be like.”
“I suppose.” Ms. Pearline hunched her shoulders. “But I didn’t choose the easiest life for myself, did I?”
“Come on, Ms. Pearline.” Mary grabbed her by the hand and led her toward the kitchen sink. “Let’s get this dark paint off.”
Lillian dragged a chair behind them and shoved it under Ms. Pearline while Sippi wet a thick yellow sponge with warm water and Dial soap. Lillian then peeled Ms. Pearline’s large sweater off, and Mary crouched down to take off her shoes. Sue stood motionless, watching Ms. Pearline allow them to remove one article of clothing after the other until she was in her slip.
Sippi had been correct. Ms. Pearline looked like a woman who belonged on the front of a magazine. Or reigning as Miss America. She could sit right next to her mother, Margaret, in Chappaquiddick and fit in like a white lace glove.
Ms. Pearline closed her eyes and cried as three pregnant girls carefully sponged the paint from underneath what was left of her bitten fingernails. And Mary, after filling a small tub with warm, soapy water, massaged circles into the bottoms of her feet.
“My mama says there’s a soul living under the sole of every walking woman’s feet. Needs to be washed and rubbed every now and then to keep her going.” Mary looked up at Sue. “Play.”
And Sue did.
Her nemesis, “While My Guitar Gently Weeps,” flowed from her crying lips like caramel. The four of them waded through the song together in the apartment, showering this wonderful woman with so much less than she deserved. She deserved Carnegie Hall. The Met. She deserved the whole world for what she’d done to improve it. But this would have to do. Sue, Mary, Lillian, and best friend Sippi would have to be enough that day.
* * *
Later that night, after everyone had fallen asleep, Sue went back to her letters. The last one she’d read was about Michael. Fucking poser Michael. Liar Michael. Snob-running-behind-his-grandmama Michael. Sue hoped this one would be about her mother, not him. She’d been itching to know her mother more ever since she’d opened the first letter the night before.
Dear Susan,
I’ve just realized that I may have left you on a bit of a cliffhanger. In the very first letter, I included a hundred-dollar bill. This must have come as quite a shock, seeing that you cannot get out to purchase anything. In order to adequately explain this, I need to tell you a shocking bit from my childhood.
When I was seventeen, I gave birth to a son. My mother, your grandmother of course, sent me to a beautiful plantation in Adelaide. I received the best possible care there in Australia. Surrounded by roses, we took walking field trips to museums and central markets. The nurses wore bonnets and ironed dresses. It cost a fortune. I know this for certain, because I roomed with two of the wealthiest young women I’ve met in my life to date. One, daughter of an English aristocrat, and the other, a cousin within the royal family. We were tucked away; you see? Hidden from the ever-prying eyes of the wealthy.
We became close. Actually, I loved them more than I’ve ever loved any man. Almost as much as I love you, darling. They were my soul mates in life. But alas, after we gave birth, our trio disbanded and scattered across the world.
A few years ago, when I found out about Ms. Pearline’s mission, I reached out to her in earnest. She reminded me very much of the most beautiful piece of life in Adelaide, because she was a young apprentice there while I was a patient. We’ve been meeting on the third Tuesday of every month for years. I support her cause because I believe in it. I sent you to her, not to Adelaide, because I believe in Ms. Pearline. I ask you, darling, do not mention this to anyone.
Now, the hundred-dollar bill is for a man called Timothy Reese. She has told me of him. If, by some chance, he catches sight of you, give him the money and get home as soon as you can. Keep it with you, at the ready if he makes a scene. This is especially important, darling.
Now, as for the boy I birthed. To answer the inevitable question, I do not know where he ended up. Back then, a young girl’s singular option was blind adoption. I held him to my chest for mere minutes before the nurses whisked him away. Ms. Pearline stayed with me. Held me as I cried a flood. Please do not ask any more about this chapter of my life, darling. It is truly quite painful.
Your mother,
Margaret Claire Laura Hurley-Day
P.S. I named him Harry, after his father. Though, alas, I doubt they kept his name.
Sue went blank. My mother had another child, Sue thought. A boy in Adelaide. Ms. Pearline had been there with her. Loving her. Caring for her. There was so much she did not unders
tand about her mother. She was an enigma.
Something clicked in her mind. The summer they vacationed in Adelaide. The beaches were so beautiful, they looked like they were blanketed with diamonds. And the people were sugary sweet to them, waving and smiling as they passed. Sue remembered being treated like royalty there. She wanted to see the kangaroos, so her mother told the tour guide to take her to a place called Kangaroo Island, where the open woodlands were littered with them. It had been one of Sue’s favorite places to visit in the world. But she always wondered why her mother hadn’t gone with her to see the kangaroos.
She’d probably gone to the place she’d given birth to her first child. How was her pregnancy? How many hours was she in labor? Did she regret deciding on adoption? Did she wish she’d kept her son? Had she gone looking for him afterward? Had she looked for the other two girls? If they were from such prominent families, they’d likely have been easy enough to track down.
It was as if her mother had been waiting for her to become pregnant and be sent away so she could confess her life to her. The more she wrote, the more Sue realized just how alive her mother was on the inside. Unable to speak with confidence, but utterly alive anyway.
How horrible it must be for her, Sue thought. Not being able to vocalize her words when she needed them. Her letters, though, were brilliant, succinct, and powerful. She should write everything down and hand out letters to everyone she knows, Sue thought. Or, better yet, write a book as an outlet. Tell her truths and change all the names.
Still, there were so many questions Sue wanted to ask. Not only of her mother but of Ms. Pearline, too. She folded her arms, knowing how hard it had been for her mother to write that letter. Sue carefully tucked it into her pocket. She’d planned to read another that night, but that was all she could take.
