“What’s this?”
I smile at the choir teacher, Miss Edwards. Likely, she’s paid more than my three thousand dollars a year despite teaching just one hour per day. “We are extending our day to two p.m. so the children can take the same buses as their peers.”
“But why are they here?”
“For choir, of course!” I relish presenting the words as if they are obvious.
She blinks. “Principal Gardner must have forgotten to notify me of this change,” she says stiffly.
Judy catches my eye and smirks. “He must have.”
“Well!” Miss Edwards claps her hands. “Let’s get started, then. Ah—” She leans over to me and whispers, “Can they read?”
“James and Stanley can.” I point. “Judy and Patricia can read when they want to. Nancy will know the song as soon as you start; she’s got quite the ear for music. Four of them won’t be singing; that’s what the instruments are for. Which just leaves John, who’s not discouraged easily. He’ll figure it out.” I flash him a thumbs-up, and he responds in kind.
Miss Edwards hands James a copy of the music, dropping her own in the process. “Oh, dear.” She bends to pick it up. “I don’t know why I’m so flustered.”
I do. Faced with the actual humanity of my students, looking into their eyes, she’s suddenly unsure how to treat them. No longer can they be ignored or patted on the head like good little dogs. Not after she sees Judy smirk or James’s face crack open in delight. Not now that she sees they are human.
* * *
—
I get home just after three forty-five p.m., and supper is ready by the time Jack comes home with my name on his lips. “Stella. You have mail. Two letters, one from Dr. Morrison.”
I forget dinner immediately, grabbing the letter and seeing the return address: Charles Morrison, Bellevue Hospital, New York, New York.
I tear the envelope open and four sheets spill out—more than just a friendly hello.
The first paper I pick up isn’t part of the letter. It’s a certificate printed on thick paper. I unfold it and read.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
We do Certify that, according to the ordinances of Christ Himself, we did administer to
STELLA ANDERSON the Sacrament of Holy Baptism, thereby initiating STELLA ANDERSON fully by water and the Holy Spirit into Christ’s Body the Church: on this second day of December in the Year of our Lord 1926 in the Church of the Transfiguration, in this Diocese of New York. Signed: Reverend Paul Grover. Parents: ALTHEA ANDERSON. Sponsors or Witnesses: Mrs. MOLLY WALLACE and Dr. CHARLES MORRISON. Date of Birth: July 5, 1926. Place of Birth: Manhattan, NY.
I am so fixated on the names—Molly Wallace, Charles Morrison—that I nearly miss the birthdate. July 5, 1926. Not my birthday, but Margaret’s.
I think I know what Dr. Morrison’s letter is going to say.
Dear Stella,
I trust you have made it home safely. Please give my regards to your husband.
I write you today because I fear I was not entirely honest when we met. I held back some truths because I thought I was protecting Althea and you, whom I still see as an infant learning to crawl. But you are no longer a child, and you have dealt with enough lies.
After my failed proposal, I did see your mother one more time. I did not know how to tell you the nature of our visit, so I didn’t try. I suppose even doctors can be cowards.
It was July 1946. You had just turned twenty years old and had finished your first year at Vassar. You were still in Poughkeepsie with a young man and his mother—Jack’s, I suppose. Your mother showed me pictures of you, which is how I recognized you in my office, and told countless stories of the girl you had grown up to be. I must confess I laughed aloud, Stella, when she told me of the engineering class you had taken simply to spite the boy who told you you would not. I had last seen you at nine months old, but I could so easily reconcile the two versions of you. A fighter, feisty at nine months and at twenty years. And today, too. Your mother was so proud of you, and I know she would be still.
That day was the first time I had seen her in nineteen years. I told you I had not seen her since the day I proposed in 1927, and I hadn’t. Not until that July night in 1946. It was a Tuesday, a strange day to appear out of the blue. But still your mother showed up at my door late at night, eyes raw from crying.
She wore a wedding ring, Stella. She did not try to deceive me. But I had loved this woman for twenty years, and though she talked endlessly about you, she did not mention a husband. I thought perhaps he had passed away. I stopped just short of hoping it. Instead, I chose not to wonder.
Your mother was a loyal, moral woman. I would later learn that your father had indeed passed away before that night; I don’t think Althea would have come had he not.
And so, Stella, I am not writing to further tarnish your view of the woman who raised you. If you truly love your husband, I hope you understand. Love makes us do things we would not otherwise consider.
I write you because I am a doctor. I am familiar with the human form, Stella; I have delivered babies and treated new mothers. And it was evident to me even twenty years after your birth that Althea Anderson had never had a child. Childbirth was a brutal surgery in hospitals in the 1920s, and women carried its scars for life. Your mother, who claimed to have delivered you at Bellevue itself, did not bear those telltale markings. Her husband was not a doctor and would never have noticed. But I am certain.
Your mother never bore a child.
I did not ask her about it. It was a night we had waited two decades for, and I dared not spoil it or drive her away. As I told you in New York, I knew your mother to be an ethical young woman and nurse. I knew that, whatever her secrets, she had good reason for them. But I also believe that you have the right to know. Your mother did not give birth to you; she was not your biological mother.
I never saw her again after that day. That is the honest truth. But I wondered constantly whether her secrets were part of the reason she had left me, somehow.
Now that you have come to me with what you know, I believe I finally understand. I had just told your mother of Dr. Hess and my plans when she left me. I had just told your mother I would be at Dr. Couney’s every day. If she did not want me to learn your story, or what we can now surmise your story was, she could not be there alongside me.
Your mother picked you above all else, Stella. Above her work. Above me. Above her oath as a nurse. And even above the law. I do not tell you this to make you feel guilty. I tell you this because I have just told you your mother is not your mother. But I want you to know she still is. She loved you enough to give you everything, Stella, and that will never change.
With love,
Dr. Charlie Morrison
I turn to Jack. The letter confirmed everything I’ve learned; I was Hattie and Michael’s natural-born daughter. I was Hattie’s, and though she gave me up once, she found a way to save me twenty-four years after that original sin.
Hattie. “Who is the other letter from?”
“It’s unmarked.”
I take it from my husband and open it carefully.
Dear Stella, it reads.
A doctor gave me your address. I hope you don’t mind my writing. But I wanted to let you know I got a P.O. box. I think I did it because I wanted you to be proud of me.
I have so much to say, and no idea how to say any of it. Please write me if you’d like me to try.
With love
Hattie Perkins
I trace the address of Hattie’s P.O. box. Three simple numbers, but they’re a brave step toward freedom.
“She did it for me,” I whisper.
“They’ve all done so much for you.”
The nurses and Dr. Couney. Dr. Morrison. Hattie.<
br />
And Althea, who saved me from the beginning. She raised me as her own, and she loved me. She loved me more than anything or anyone else.
I throw my arms around Jack. To think that my mother ran to the man she loved twenty years after she’d last seen him—to think of the love she had to give up to keep me safe. The love she gave up to give me a chance at finding that kind of love myself.
“I love you, Jack. I love you so much.”
“Forever, Stella. I love you, forever.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Althea Anderson Johnson, July 1946
The door swings open and sends me back two decades. Charlie’s hair is speckled with gray, and fine lines radiate from his eyes like dendrites. But those small changes disappear as I stare at him with the same breathless anticipation I felt at twenty-four.
His firm jaw and deep gray eyes center me, help dissolve the guilt that’s plagued me since receiving Hattie’s letter this afternoon. For the first time in twenty years, I am not just a mother. This man remembers me as more than that: as a nurse and as a woman.
I feel my spine straighten as I regain some of that old sense of competence.
“Althea?” Charlie’s voice is low and hoarse, and a thrill runs through me like I’m still twenty-four.
I feel myself blushing as I say his name, surprised my body remembers what it is to react to a man. “Charlie.”
He steps back wordlessly, inviting me inside. I step across the threshold into the apartment and immediately gasp to see a picture of Charlie and Dr. Couney sitting on the sideboard.
Charlie sees me looking. “He shut down the place at Luna Park three years ago. You probably heard.”
I nod.
“It wasn’t necessary anymore. Cornell opened their own dedicated incubator ward first, and other hospitals are following suit. Believe it or not”—he smiles—“I’m at Bellevue myself now.”
I steady myself with a palm against the wall. My entire history is coalescing before me now: Hattie’s letter, Dr. Couney’s photograph, Charlie at Bellevue.
Charlie in front of me, in the flesh.
“You’ve done such good,” I whisper. It’s all I can think of to say. “Saving babies like Stella.”
Charlie’s face breaks into a sad smile. “Stella. I’ve thought of you both so often.” He looks at me in question. “How is she?”
A rare note of pride is evident in my voice. “She’s studying education at Vassar.”
“She’s healthy?”
“Completely.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Happy?”
I let myself smile. “Yes. She loves school, and she’s met a boy. She’s at his family’s place in Poughkeepsie now for the holiday weekend.”
“And you?”
“Me?”
“Are you happy?”
I’d forgotten how penetrating Charlie’s eyes can be, how deeply they swim with emotion.
I lift one shoulder slightly. “I’m a mother, Charlie. If Stella’s happy, I’m happy.”
“That’s not what I mean,” he says.
I exhale. “I know.”
And then he’s kissing me. His hands are on my shoulders, his lips are on mine, and I want to tell him that happiness is not so simple. That even though I chose this life without him and without nursing, even though I had countless moments of perfection with Stella, that I never stopped thinking about what—and who—I lost.
But in this moment, happiness is simple. I forget everything else as my back hits the wall. His hands are on me, fewer layers of fabric between his skin and mine in this decade than there used to be. I am bold and wrap my own arms around Charlie’s upper back, run my fingers through his hair. It’s still thick and soft despite its gray, and I pull Charlie closer.
“Wait.” He pulls back, breathing ragged, and his gaze darts to my wedding ring and then back to my face. “Is this all right? Is this what you want?”
It’s not why I came. I needed to run from the guilt that Hattie’s letter opened in me like a sinkhole, and despite the years, my mind turned immediately to Charlie—a man who always understood me, made me feel safe. My thoughts have turned to him more and more since Stella left for college, and with Horace gone a year, with Stella away—happy and finding love—I did something I haven’t done in twenty years. I acted on impulse.
My eyes meet his. This wasn’t why I came, but I’ve been waiting for this for two decades. And it seems that he has, too.
“Yes,” I say as I reach for him again. “This is what I want.”
* * *
—
I open my eyes at five a.m. Mom hours are similar to nurse hours, and I can’t break the early wake-up habit even with Stella away at school. I usually take the time to go on a walk, but not today. Today, I’m content exactly where I am.
I shift carefully to look at Charlie. His hair is tousled, and thin strands of silver glint in the early-morning light. I resist the urge to run my fingers through his hair and straighten it, not wanting to wake him.
I snuggle up against him, and his eyes open. Slate gray, same as they were the day I met him. Our bodies may have changed, but our eyes are still our own.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” I feel momentarily ridiculous peeping up through my eyelashes, like I’m playing at being twenty-four again. But then Charlie kisses me, taking his time, and I’m no one but myself.
“Are you hungry?” He pulls back.
I don’t want him to go out of his way. “Only if you are.”
Charlie throws the blanket off and stands. I watch as he gets dressed, the muscles in his back moving like waves. It’s hard to believe that I didn’t know about the freckle on his left shoulder until last night, or that he has a scar on his calf from a childhood fall out of a tree.
I sit up in bed. “Do you want me to help?”
Charlie shakes his head. “I’m okay. But no promises you’ll enjoy my cooking.”
I smile. “You could make Jell-O salad, and I’d still be thrilled to not be the one doing the cooking for once.” I feel immediately guilty. It’s not as if I’ve ever asked Stella to cook, and it never occurred to me that Horace might have. “Not that I mind cooking,” I say. And it’s true. I like taking care of people. If I can’t bind their wounds and deliver their babies, at least I can fill their bellies.
I hear Charlie fiddling around in his tiny kitchen, and then he returns to sit on the edge of the bed. “Does Stella have a favorite food?”
I laugh. “She’s usually too busy talking to taste much.”
“I can imagine that.” He chuckles as he puts a hand over mine. “What’s she like? Now that she’s all grown up.”
“Oh, Charlie. She’s wonderful.” I’m so proud of my Stella: her confidence, her determination, her kindness. With bravery and strength, perhaps she’ll have the fulfilling future I robbed myself of. I want her to have it all—the man she loves, the job that inspires her.
I look at Charlie. “You never had kids?”
His lips flatten. “No.” His gray eyes are dark. “But I never stopped feeling like Stella was mine.”
To keep from telling him she should have been, I kiss him. I press my lips to his and wonder at how clearly the touch evokes those kisses in Mrs. Wallace’s kitchen so many years ago. I can almost feel the edge of the counter, as if an entire lifetime hasn’t passed between those days and this one.
But an entire lifetime has passed. So many years have gone by without this man by my side.
I pull back and gaze at Charlie. In a perfect world, he’d have been mine. The longing for that reality is so strong it hurts, and I squeeze Charlie’s hand without having realized I’d grabbed it in the first place.
“What’s wrong, Althea?”
I shake my head, the pain intensifying as he says my name. It’s not that this mo
ment isn’t perfect; I’m just mourning all that could have been, all that wasn’t. All the years I missed with Charlie. All the moments I wanted to clap with him over Stella’s accomplishments, all the times I pulled out his pressed flower and tried to find any remaining hint of its scent. The nights I woke up drenched in sweat after dreaming of Michael stealing Stella away, the nights Charlie could have held me and whispered into my hair. The days that stretch so long now that I am home alone, without purpose or companionship. My hours could be filled with discussions and debates: about the female biochemist who identified the active agent in tuberculin, the men who used a moldy cantaloupe to develop penicillin. So much has happened in the world since Charlie and I last met, and I wish we could have shared it all.
“Althea? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I exhale, eternally adept at keeping my thoughts to myself. But because Charlie deserves the truth, I give him as much of it as I’m able. “I’ve just missed you.”
“And I, you. Every day.” He pauses, and his face suddenly looks like an older man’s. “Can I ask you why you left?” He rubs his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I tried to find you, Althea. I didn’t know if it was what you wanted, but I needed to know where you’d gone. Why you’d gone. But I never could figure it out.” He dropped his hand to his lap, his gray eyes beseeching.
Why.
All my visions come crashing down. There was a reason my life and Charlie’s had diverged. There was a reason he couldn’t be the one to give Stella piggyback rides or kiss me late at night.
The Light of Luna Park Page 26
