Page 78 of The Lost Hours
Startled, she looked at the doorway where Odella stood behind Piper and Helen. She’d known better than to ask Odella to prevent entry. The Annabelle she’d once known wouldn’t have been deterred, and neither would her granddaughter.
Lillian leveled Piper with a stern gaze. “Yes, I was. I was in my seventh month then.”
Odella raised her eyebrows, but Lillian waved her hand and she left, closing the door behind her. Not that it mattered; Lillian knew Odella would have her ear pressed to the door the whole time. Lillian watched as Piper drew a chair close to the bed and seated Helen and then did the same for herself.
Helen spoke first. “We visited Alicia Jones today—Josie’s daughter.”
Lillian raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
Helen opened her purse and took out the envelope. “She gave me this. It’s from Josie. Alicia contacted you after Josie died to let you know that she had it, but you never wrote her back.”
Lillian looked down at the soft blankets covering the bed, wondering whose old hands were resting there.
“Do you want Piper to read it to you, or would you like to read it yourself?”
Lillian’s lips wouldn’t move even as she saw Piper take the envelope from Helen and begin to read. She kept her head down until Piper had finished, absently wondering where the wetness came from that spotted the blanket and the pale mottled skin stretched over arthritic knuckles.
“What did you name the baby, Malily?” Helen’s voice sounded removed, as if she didn’t want to be there anymore than Lillian wanted her to be.
“Samuel. I named him Samuel Frederick Montet. After his father.”
Piper stood, ready to ask another question, but Lillian managed to raise a hand, searching for a way to stall the inevitable, yet knowing it was like trying to stop a baby from crying. “You’re jumping ahead again. I’ve got one last entry in my scrapbook. Don’t you want to read that first?”
Piper hesitated before nodding, then reached over to plump one of the pillows behind Lillian’s head and to smooth the blanket over her knees.Just like Annabelle.Lillian reached out and touched Piper’s wrist. “Stop.”
Piper pulled back and sat down, wearing a wounded expression, misreading her actions. Lillian wanted to laugh, because of what she’d wanted to say.I don’t deserve your care and concern any more than I deserved Annabelle’s.
“Go ahead, Piper, and read. Even with my glasses on, I can’t seem to focus on the words anymore.”
Piper picked up the pages Lillian indicated, then began to read.
August 24, 1939
I’m not even sure why I’m writing in this book or collecting photographs and charms for Lola, except that Annabelle expects me to. She is our surrogate mother in the absence of our own, her quiet strength and determination in salvaging what is left of our futures a beacon for us but a burden for her, I fear.
I hate to disappoint her, so I write and collect. But I’m a woman now, and this scrapbook and charm necklace are childish to me. Annabelle seems to think that recording our lives now will help us share our stories with our daughters when the time comes, as if that’s the most important part of our lives. I don’t know about that. I’ve never known my mother or her stories; but again, maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so rootless. And I’m left with wondering if my mother had a story to tell after all. So I’ll write in this scrapbook and I’ll find a charm.
I’ve been living in the O’Hare household again and I’m sure my father doesn’t suspect the reason why. Dr. O’Hare is ailing, and without Justine to help, a great deal of the burden of caring for her father and the household falls on Annabelle.At least that’s what I’ve told my father. But if he knew Annabelle, he would know I was lying, because she seems to handle all of her responsibilities without batting an eye.This doesn’t make me feel less guilty for adding to her burdens, however, especially since she’s the one who has to keep my secret from my father. If he found out, I don’t know what he’d do. I don’t think he’d harm me, but I am too afraid to think what would happen to Freddie and his child.
So this is best, to live in a web of lies for now. It is the mattress I sleep on each night in the hidden room, but I think we all realize how easily it might break.
Justine sends letters to Josie every week asking her to come to Virginia, too. Justine can’t write, so she has to pay somebody to do it for her and mail the letters, so it’s no little hardship.That’s how badly she wants Josie to leave here. Annabelle and I agree that it’s probably for the best, so we’ve begun to save up money for a train ticket. All that knitting Annabelle has done will finally pay off. Since I’m convinced the baby will be a boy, Annabelle’s been selling off all the pink booties, sweaters, caps, and blankets she’s made in the past few months. She laughs and tells me that it will probably be a girl just to spite us!
Justine gave us interesting advice: to loosen everything in the room—from bows to window latches to shoelaces—as this will promise an easy delivery. I don’t have the heart to write back and tell her that it’s not the delivery we fear, but the part that comes after.
Annabelle watches me, waiting. I no longer question her relationship with Freddie if only because he’s shown his love for me in ways that have more to say about our feelings for each other than the ring I’m not allowed to wear on my left hand. I don’t doubt her loyalty, either, and know she will do whatever it takes to keep us safe. But her eyes are hungry, hungry for the life she’s always told us she’s wanted. This passion of hers is stronger than any of ours, and it makes me worry. If her dreams are unfulfilled, what will it do to her? Her soul is too tender for the harshness of reality, and she clings too tightly to regret, always worrying what she should have done.
We have that in common. But so much is at stake right now that I’ve promised myself that I will no longer believe in regret.That I will not look back at the past and wish I’d done things differently.What’s written cannot be erased. From this day forward, I will live in the present. If only I could get Annabelle to see it that way, too. Because she and I are so much alike in so many ways. And it frightens me. Maybe it’s because we were both raised without mothers that’s given us a perspective of us against the world. But my self-reliance seems selfish compared to her self-sacrifice, and I am ashamed.
Because we’ve sold my camera, I can’t take a picture of this room that has become like a prison to me these last few months. But I’m here, and I’ve got time, so I’m going to use my poor sketching skills to show what the room looks like now: the iron bed, the wicker bassinet that one of Dr. O’Hare’s patients gave him as payment years ago. I’ve even managed a plausible rendition of the chair and the window that remains covered day and night. Maybe someday, looking back, we will smile in remembrance, and say how brave we once were.
For the charm, I sent Annabelle out to Broughton Street to see what she could find. I told her what I was looking for and she brought back a charm of an unlaced boot. It’s only gold-plated since we can’t afford much, but it’s perfect. It’s my charm for an easy labor, but it also symbolizes our friendship—how we’ve loosened our hearts to make room for one another. It’s what joins us together to weather any storm.
September 3, 1939
My pains started this morning, right after breakfast.At first I thought it was the poached eggs. Annabelle is a much better gardener than a cook, so when I started feeling queasy right after I ate, it was easy to blame it on the eggs. Even the beautiful arrangement of spring blooms she’d placed on the breakfast tray did nothing to ease my discomfort.
Annabelle, who’s served as midwife for her father on more than one occasion, recognized what was happening and immediately set about boiling water and ripping sheets. She said she’d call her father when active labor started, but since that could be hours from now, we both decided not to bother him until necessary. He is still weak, but has promised to help with the birth.
