Page 147 of The Only One Left

So I chose to continue to appear hopeless, even though I was capable of so much. Shockingly, not a single person noticed, including the many nurses I had before you arrived. So many that I’ve forgotten most of their names and faces. I suspect I was just as forgettable to them, for very few ever paid me much mind. Yes, they performed the basic job of keeping me alive. But only a handful treated me like I was an actual human being. Someone with thoughts and feelings and curiosity. I suppose my silence played a small part in that. One can be easily ignored when one doesn’t speak. And so I was.

Of course, nearly all of those nurses were terrified of me. I can’t blame them, really. I’d be scared, too, based on all the rumors that have swirled around me. None of those previous nurses were interested in the truth. Even the ones who deemed me worthy of a little kindness or a bit of conversation.

That all changed when Mary came along. Poor, sweet Mary. She’s another person who saw me. Like you, she was curious. So much so that she bought that typewriter in the hope I’d learn how to use it and eventually write my story.

I did, as you well know.

I only wish I’d been able to do the same with you, Kit. You deserved to know the truth. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint you with the news about your father. So I stalled, evaded, and misled, knowing it was inevitable that you’d one day find out.

I truly regret the way you did eventually learn the truth--and all the events that came after it. You didn’t deserve that. The fact that you’ve handled it so well speaks highly of your character.

Around the same time Mary was teaching me how to type, something else extraordinary occurred.

I was given an amazing device called a Walkman. With it was a cassette featuring a book read aloud by Jessie, the new maid at Hope’s End. Although I did read in secret at night, it was nice to be able to enjoy a book out in the open, so to speak. I didn’t care what the story was about. I just liked being told a good tale.

Imagine my surprise when, halfway through that first cassette, the book stopped. One minute, I was listening toNorth and Southby John Jakes. The next, Jessie’s narration ended and regular talking began.

“Listen, I know you’re not Lenora Hope, but her sister, Virginia. I know a lot about you. More than anyone else, I think.”

And so it continued, a one-sided conversation between me and Jessie, conducted via the messages she slipped in between chapters.

“I don’t think you killed your parents. And even if you did, from what I’ve been told, they kind of had it coming. At least your father did.”

“I haven’t told Mary, but I’m pretty sure you can move and possibly talk. I’m curious to hear what your voice sounds like.”

Finally, the most important message came.

“By the way, I’m your granddaughter.”

Jessie told me all about her father, who was named Marcel. He grew up in a loving home with Miss Baker and her husband. He played hockey, loved to read, and excelled at painting. After university, he got a job as a commercial artist in Toronto. He didn’t get married until his thirties, when he met and fell in love with a fellow artist. They had one child, Jessie, and lived a happy life together, savoring every moment until Marcel passed away from illness in 1982.

After his death, Jessie was told the truth about Marcel’s parents by Miss Baker, a woman she had always known as Grandma. Undertaking a bit of detective work, Jessie found out Hope’s End needed a maid and applied for the job. Her intention was to try to dig up information about who I was and if I’d really killed my parents like everyone said.

What she ended up finding was me.

While I’m sad to never have gotten the chance to meet my son, I know that life doesn’t always grant you your greatest wish. But happiness can still sneak in, and now I am overjoyed to be able to know my granddaughter. The noises I’m certain you heard during the night were Jessie, who would come to my room in the wee hours so we could whisper the ways in which we planned to escape. Plans that were derailed by Mary’s murder, your arrival, and the eventual collapse of Hope’s End. (Good riddance to that place, by the way!)

Jessie also had to return to Canada when Miss Baker passed away. Another disappointment. I wish I had been able to thank Miss Baker for taking care of my son, even though he ended up being her child much more than he was ever mine.

The day I disappeared from your house was the day Jessie came to my window. I let her inside and she quickly told me the new plan--leave immediately.

So we left, hurrying to Jessie’s car parked at the curb. Once we were inside, she handed me a forged passport with my real name on it.

“Where do you want to go, Grandma?” she said.

I looked through the windshield, gazing at this great big world I had never been able to experience until now.

“Everywhere,” I said.

By the time we reached the airport, I had narrowed it down to Paris. That’s where I now type this letter, from a top-floor apartment with a view of the Eiffel Tower.

Please don’t be angry at me for leaving you the way I did. I beg you. The way life has treated us, you and I have enough to be angry about. Let’s not be that way with each other.

I wanted to tell you, my dear. I didn’t because I feared you wouldn’t let me leave or be angry that I hid so much from you the whole time you were caring for me. And, yes, I selfishly wanted some time alone with my granddaughter.

Who, don’t forget, also happens to be your niece.

You also deserve time with her.

---