Page 35 of The Lost Hours
She heard her grandmother swallow. “There are many reasons why your mother left, Helen—and none of them have anything to do with you or Tucker. I think mostly it was because she couldn’t live with someone who’d never confused guilt with regret.”
Helen smiled softly, turning her face toward her grandmother. “Like that story you used to tell us as children—about the boy who gets caught stealing candy and feels guilt over breaking the law but doesn’t regret trying. I always got the impression that you didn’t think the little boy was all bad. That he learned his lesson and wasn’t going to do it again, but that he should have been proud to have had the courage to at least try.”
Lillian’s voice held the hint of a smile. “You and Tucker both understood that, but your mother couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. We all know that stealing is bad. But what if the little boy was stealing to feed his starving family? Does that make him bad? Or just his actions? And does the end justify the means? Your mother’s been traipsing all over the world ever since, trying to find the right answer. The one truth.”
Helen cupped her chin in her palms as she leaned forward, her elbows braced on her legs. “But there isn’t just one.”
“And there you go,” said Lillian triumphantly. “But some people live their lives as if there could only be one right answer. Life would be easier that way, I imagine. But it wouldn’t be better.”
Helen closed her eyes and tried to picture her mother, but found she no longer could. “Then tell me. Tell me your story.” She reached her hand behind her where the loose pages lay on the sofa. “Read these to me so I can understand. And maybe one day I’ll be able to explain it to my mother. Or my daughters.”
Lillian was quiet for a long time, her breathing slow and steady. Helen didn’t move, knowing she hadn’t fallen asleep but was searching for an answer. But it brought back memories of the first time her mother had gone away, when her mother was packing her clothes into a suitcase. Despite her mother’s insisting that her leaving had nothing to do with Helen, Helen hadn’t been convinced. Her answer had haunted Helen for a very long time.Some things are best kept tucked inside yellowed newspapers in the attic of our memories.And then her mother had gone back to her packing, promising to be back soon, and that next time she would take Helen and her brother with them. But the next time Helen had been blind and Tucker wouldn’t leave her.
Lillian’s voice brought Helen back to the present. “I suppose it’s time, then.” Helen felt her grandmother take the paper from her lap. Then she took a deep breath, and after a brief pause, she began to tell her story.
“There were three of us: Josephine Montet, Annabelle O’Hare, and me. We weren’t friends at first. Josie and Annabelle were—Josie’s mother worked for Dr. O’Hare and Josie lived in the housekeeper’s room with her mother and they’d known each other since they were small—and they were only two years apart in age. I was a year younger than Josie—three years younger than Annabelle—but I was allowed to tag along most of the time when my father and Dr. O’Hare had business together and they pretty much ignored me. Until we bought the necklace.”
She explained to Helen how they’d seen the necklace in the store window and had purchased it together, making a pact to share it and record in a scrapbook what they did while they had the necklace. And then they would add a charm to the necklace that they had named Lola.
Helen sat up. “That’s where your angel charm comes from—the one you used to always wear around your neck on a chain.”
“And still do.” Malily’s voice was tired. “This is the only charm with a duplicate because we all bought one when we started. It’s all I have left of the necklace.”
Helen opened her mouth, ready to tell Malily about the necklace Odella had seen in Earlene’s cottage, but stopped. It had become obvious to her that Malily wasn’t the only one hiding secrets. But Helen needed to find out more, and she knew that neither woman would be forthcoming if they suspected Helen knew more than they were willing to tell her.
Malily continued. “We each had the book for four months during the year, then passed it on to the next person. That meant we had to chronicle the most important part of our lives for the past year. We kept it for ten years—and we were supposed to have one entry for each of those years. But I hated to write—so I didn’t always do it, which made Annabelle mad. But I always added a charm—sometimes more than one, which also made Annabelle mad. She was always about following the rules.” She was silent for a moment. “When we had our . . . falling-out, we destroyed the scrapbook, each taking our own pages. Josie took hers up to NewYork with her,Annabelle kept hers, and then mine are here. I’ve somehow misplaced my earliest pages, so mine don’t start until nineteen thirty-two when I was thirteen. But that’s really where my story starts, anyway.”
Lillian paused and Helen waited, afraid to move or say anything in case her grandmother changed her mind. Finally, Malily said, “Would you please get me a glass of water? The pitcher and a glass are on the table by my bed. While you do that, I’ll gather up the pages and decide on the best place to start.”
Helen moved with methodic slowness, not wanting to spill the water or trip and make her task take longer than she wanted. She crossed the room, counting her footsteps as she’d done since childhood and stopped in front of the chaise. After her grandmother took the glass from her, Helen sat back on the sofa and made herself comfortable, prepared to listen for as long as her grandmother was willing to talk. And then Malily began to read.
May 10, 1932
I’ve been sick for two weeks. My head aches and my stomach aches and even my teeth ache. I pretty much hurt all over and I’ve got a bad fever. I heard the doctor say the word influenza and my papa took him out of the room so fast I could almost think that he hadn’t even been here! But I am feeling a little better today, so I thought I’d write in this scrapbook if only because I know Annabelle will check to see if I did it when it’s her turn.
It’s boring lying up here in my room by myself. Nobody’s allowed to visit me and I can’t even think about riding. Papa said if he caught me near the stables he’d sell my mare, Cimarron. I know he’s not serious, of course, but I won’t go near Cimarron. I feel too weak to even think about climbing up on her back again.
May 15, 1932
I feel much better now but Papa refuses to let me leave my bed. All of this lying about has made me so weak I can barely stand. I miss my horse so much—I’m wondering if she’ll even recognize me when we’re finally together again.
I’m still not allowed to have visitors, but Annabelle came today with her father. Dr. O’Hare convinced Papa that I needed a companion to help me convalesce and that I was no longer contagious. Of course I knew it was Annabelle’s idea—she always has big ideas—and when her father left her for a long stay, I thought we’d spend the time together in my room with her fetching water for me and fluffing my pillows as I got better.
My excitement didn’t last long because as soon as her father left, she yanked me out of my bed and forced me down to the English boxwood garden that my mother had installed. Annabelle said it was uninspired and that she was going to teach me how to garden. She actually gave me a little shovel and made me dig holes in the dirt. I told her I was too weak from being sick, so she said I could sit while I dug.
I think the garden now looks the same—but now the ground cover is gone and there’re just holes with seeds all over the place. Annabelle says that’s part of the garden’s secret: that with love and patience we’ll be rewarded with a little piece of heaven here on earth. To give me some encouragement, she’s going to bring cuttings (whatever that is!) with her the next time she comes.
We worked the entire time and maybe it was spending time outdoors or the actual physical work, but I did feel better by the time Annabelle left. She said that there are no troubles in life that can’t be sorted out or solved by spending time in a garden. I didn’t admit this to her, but I think I’m looking forward to finding out if this is true.
Lillian stopped reading and Helen smiled. “That was nineteen thirty-two so you were thirteen years old. That’s the same age I was when you first dragged me kicking and screaming into the garden shed and gave me a trowel.” She leaned forward. “I guess that means you found out that what Annabelle told you was true.”
“Yes, I guess I did. And I tried to teach your mother, too, but she wasn’t as good a pupil as you were. You were both unwilling in the beginning, but you seemed to understand very early on the magic of it all. I don’t believe your mother ever did.”
Helen closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the flowers of her first garden, the thrill she’d felt at creating such beautiful life from seed, dirt, and water. She opened them again. “Can you read more?”
She listened as Lillian rustled pages. “I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t write anything for a while—my next entry doesn’t happen until four years later when I was seventeen. I don’t suppose I thought those other years were worthy of recording, and I still think I was right. The awkward adolescent years were difficult to live with while I was going through them. I can’t imagine that I’d want to relive them in the pages of a scrapbook.”
“I wish you had. I’d like to hear them.”
