Monarch Manor

by Maureen Leurck

  Earlier that morning, after school drop-off, I had sent an e-mail to the historical society in Port Washington, New York, Emily’s place of residence as a child. The response came less than an hour later: No, I’m sorry. We don’t have any documents for someone of that name.

  I then thought of the Geneva Lake Museum and how excited Gerry was when I mentioned Monarch Manor. He seemed to be one of the few people alive who understood the importance of the house and the Hoppe family, and all that they represented. I shot him an e-mail, telling him about my research and what I hoped to uncover, and his response, too, came an hour later. This time, very different:

  Wonderful! I’d love to help in any way. Let me do some digging. I adore a good scavenger hunt!

  The message, despite its brevity, lifted my spirits. He cared. We were on a team. We would do this together. I was in the middle of rereading the e-mail for the seventh time when the alarm on my phone went off—time to pick up Will at school and time to shift into mom mode.

  As I pulled up to the designated pickup area, on the side of the school away from the “regular” pickup area that was full of chaos, one of the aides from his class, Mrs. Cesare, opened the school door and gave me a perfunctory nod as she led Will by the hand to my car. I jumped out and opened the car door for him, a too-bright smile on my face.

  “Hi! How was school?” I called to him, yet he stared off into the distance. I crouched down, hands on my jeans as they approached. “Hi!” I said again, my voice rising. “Ready to go home?”

  Finally, he looked up at me, his expression seemingly looking right through me, to the open car door to my right.

  “He had a bit of a rough day,” she said as they walked down the sidewalk. Her hair either was permed or had naturally perfect spirals that ran down her back, and large, fluffy bangs like no one had bothered to tell her that the ’80s had ended. “He had a meltdown over his lunch.” A sympathetic look passed over her eyes as she dropped his hand while they kept walking.

  “Oh. I’m so sorry. I will make sure to get his usual applesauce pouches this evening,” I said. Two years ago, he developed a fixation on a certain brand of applesauce pouches, staring at the box on end, tracing his finger along the cartoon apple on the front. When I made the mistake of buying the generic brand, which was half the price, he first refused to eat it and then threw it against the wall, applesauce exploding all over Charlotte’s new dress on school picture day.

  Yet that was a year and a half ago. He had come so far in other things and hadn’t stared at the applesauce box in months, so I thought it might be a calculated risk. Clearly, a miscalculation.

  I was about to bend down and reach for his hand to help him into the car when he broke away from Mrs. Cesare and began to run full speed away from the car, toward the chaotic pickup area on the street.

  “Will, no!” I screamed as I lunged toward him, but his backpack was just out of my grasp while Mrs. Cesare stood frozen in place as she watched him race toward the area where the buses were filling. The one in front began to pull away from the curb.

  With everything I had, I ran toward him, waving my arms and yelling for him. Finally, I had reached him, pulling his backpack back roughly, out of the way of the bus. He jerked back in surprise and began to cry, not because he was scared, but because I had stopped him.

  Several aides and crossing guards, having seen what happened from afar, raced over to make sure Will and I were okay. I fought back tears as I hugged him and walked him back to the building.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Mrs. Cesare said, patting my arm in a way that made me believe she most definitely thought the opposite.

  I should have predicted that, my thoughts whispered. But how can I always expect the unexpected—it’s called unexpected for a reason.

  She saw my hands were shaking. “Do you want to come into the office and wait until things die down from pickup?”

  I nodded, as I saw out of the corner of my eye the same group of moms from the recital staring in my direction, Starbucks cups in hands, black lululemon leggings on. I followed Mrs. Cesare inside, where Will’s teacher, Miss Ball, was waiting. She put her hands on her head.

  “Oh my goodness! I saw what happened from my classroom window. Is he okay?” She bent down, the long gold vector charm around her neck swinging.

  “He’s fine, but I think it took about five years off my own life.” I managed a soft laugh, but it died as quickly as it escaped my lips.

  She frowned and nodded. “Poor guy. He had a tough day, and now this.” She crossed her arms in front of her pink knit sweater that she wore over gray leggings and black boots. I followed her into the principal’s office. The school secretary, with a nameplate that read TRACI SCHUESTER, stared at me before she slowly looked to Will and then back at me, her eyes softer and her lips pressed into a knowing smile.

  “Feel free to stay here as long as you need,” Miss Ball said. “Have a great night, buddy!”

  As she left, I saw the secretary roll her eyes before she turned to me. “I saw what happened. Are you guys okay?” She clasped her hands in front of her, and I saw that she wore sparkly hot pink nail polish.

  I nodded and sank down into a chair, Will next to me, as I finally exhaled.

  Traci gave me a sympathetic look. “I’ve been there. Believe me, I’ve been there.” With her index finger, she slowly turned around a picture frame on her desk. “My son, Chris. He’s on the spectrum. He’s nineteen now, but man, those early years were brutal. Bru-tal. Or whatever word comes after ‘brutal.’ ”

  I leaned forward, taking in the picture of her son, dressed in a Cubs jersey and jeans, standing in front of Wrigley Field with the marquee in the background. He was smiling but wore headphones, to mute the sounds of the ballpark. But he smiled. With his entire face, up to his eyes. My heart leapt as I looked at it. I could feel his happiness through the glass frame, across the office.

  Traci saw my face and nodded slowly, turning the picture back to her and glancing at it. “Believe me, it took years of therapy and blood, sweat, and tears to get to this point. And, honestly, this point wasn’t something I even thought we would have to hope for. I’m guessing you know what I mean.”

  I looked at Will and thought about how we were still pushing for mainstream, still pushing for him to overcome everything. Still pushing for everything we thought we wanted for him.

  When we didn’t even have a picture of him smiling and I hadn’t seen him look that happy in a long time. Maybe ever.

  “Look, it’s a tough road, and I remember thinking I wish someone got it. I wish someone understood,” she said. She grabbed a pad of pink Post-it notes, the same color as her nails, and wrote a phone number. She peeled it off and stuck it to the desk in front of me. “If you ever want to meet for a beer, or coffee, or anything, I’m game.”

  I looked at it and slowly pulled it off the desk. It had been so long since someone extended any offer of friendship, I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I said, “Thank you. I’d love that.”

  She nodded and I followed her gaze as it moved down to the picture of her son again. “I have to tell you something. If your son is having trouble with school, you should look at other options.”

  “Like what?” I said, thinking of homeschooling and how that might just kill all of us.

  “Private school. Therapeutic schools. My son went to Lakewood Academy for years, and it really made a big difference. Best, and hardest, decision we ever made. The tuition is . . .”—she raised her hand in the air and rolled her eyes—“but he did so great there that I would take out that second mortgage all over again.” She smiled. “And might need to—who knows?”

  I nodded slowly, remembering that Lakewood Academy was the school that Alicia Leeland had considered for Mark. The school that she considered to be “giving up” before her son progressed enough to join a regular class.

  Will started to hum in annoyance, so I quickly grabbed his hand and thanked Traci, carefully folding her phon
e number and placing it into the back pocket of my jeans. Later that night, I pulled it out before I took off my jeans, staring at the numbers. I thought of the picture, of her son smiling at the camera. Attending a baseball game. Stopping to pose. So many times, so many things seemed out of our grasp, even simple things like participating in a school recital. Maybe at this point of our lives, a picture was enough of a goal.

  Maybe that was what I should have been hoping for, despite the thoughts that whispered I was doing Will a disservice by setting the bar so low. But it was something that felt possible, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in a very long time. And that night, before I went to bed, I didn’t research therapies or read the blogs of moms whose kids had made progress overnight. Instead, I thought of Will, wearing a Cubs shirt, watching a baseball game in between Luke and me, smiling.

  CHAPTER 17

  AMELIA

  On the day of Amelia and Henry’s wedding, it rained all afternoon. Amelia had woken up that morning and peered out of the window of her parents’ home on Lake Shore Drive in Chicago, brushing aside the heavy velvet drapes and lifting a finger to the linen sheers. She looked out over the few automobiles on the road, to the warm glow of Lake Michigan. She had breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that the sun peeked out through a few white clouds over the horizon. It wasn’t that she was worried about herself as much as what all of the guests—and her parents—might say if it rained.

  Rain is never good luck for the bride.

  Rain means the couple will never have children.

  Rain nearly guarantees an unhappy marriage.

  She didn’t care so much what they all thought, but she knew her mother did, and she didn’t want to sentence her to months—years, maybe—of having to insist that her daughter and Henry were very happy together, thank you for asking, and had a house full of children. Her mother already had trouble keeping up with the social customs and norms. Really, Amelia couldn’t blame her, since they seemed to change every day. But it was important to Mary to portray the family in a certain way, likely because she had grown up outside of all of it. The daughter of an Irish immigrant, during a time when being Irish meant she would never belong. And that stigma still existed, an extra layer of judgment against the family that, it seemed, could never be overcome.

  “The Irish are well suited for cooking and cleaning. The good ones, anyway.”

  It was the first thing Amelia had heard Margaret say about her, after they met. She thought Amelia was out of earshot, after she left the Cartwrights’ parlor and excused herself to the water closet. At least at first, she had assumed Margaret thought she was out of earshot. After a few more meetings, she suspected Margaret knew exactly what she had done. It was a test. The first of many. And the query seemed to be a calculation on how many times Amelia could pretend not to hear.

  The skill served Amelia well, on the morning of her wedding. She had pretended not to notice when the coachman held his palm in the air and glanced at the sky. The rain had begun to lightly fall, but not nearly enough to form in puddles on the street. She held her head high as she stepped into the coach, her dress gathered by Eleanor and Jane, and rode to the church. The white horses and carriage arrived just as the rain picked up, a steady drizzle soaking the bottoms of the gowns and splashing mud on the men’s black oxford shoes. She could feel the annoyance of the guests as they filed into the pews, dabbing at themselves with handkerchiefs and stoles, as though she had personally spoken to Mother Nature and given her blessing for the weather.

  For Jane, there would be no such whispers. Despite the storm clouds looking ominous in the west, they stayed far away as the ceremony began. The bridesmaids went first, their pink dresses swishing down the aisle in a rhythmic pattern. Amelia held her breath the entire time she walked, until she reached the front, turned, and made eye contact with John, seated off to the side in between her mother and a nanny.

  When it was Jane’s turn to walk down the aisle, everyone stood. Jane waited a few moments, relishing everyone’s attention, until the anticipation grew. Then, she began to walk, her heavily beaded drop-waist gown kicking in front of her. Their father, Conrad, proudly walked beside her, a large smile on his face.

  “Do you think that’s pride or relief that he’s getting rid of the drain on his bank accounts?” Eleanor whispered to Amelia, who stifled a laugh with her gloved hand.

  Her smile faded as she thought of the lines on her father’s face and how they had increased tenfold in the years since he had to stop selling beer. She couldn’t imagine how much strain the wedding had put on his accounts, not that Jane would have adjusted her plans otherwise.

  In Jane’s hands she held an enormous bouquet of pink roses and lady’s breath accented with rhinestones sewn to ivory ribbons that trailed on the pale pink runner. Rows of gold chairs were set on either side of the runner, filled with guests blinding one another with diamonds and jewels. Finally, she reached the end, and the ceremony began.

  Thirty minutes later and it was done. Once Amelia saw that the nanny was leading John over to the punch table, she grabbed her skirt with one hand and headed straight for the champagne bar filled with cases of the alcohol that her parents had stockpiled right before the laws were enacted. Next to the champagne bar was a bar for the Hoppe Near Beer, although the waiter stood bored, his tablecloth pristine, without one drink on it, and would likely stay that way all evening. She grabbed a glass of champagne off a sterling silver tray and took a large gulp, before anyone could stop her. She started to put it down but then finished off the rest in one burning swallow.

  The bubbles made her eyes water, and she coughed, her throat on fire.

  “It’s champagne, not whiskey, Em,” said a voice to her right.

  Through tears, she saw Matthew holding out a sweating glass of water. She took it and let the cool liquid soothe her throat. “Thanks,” she said. “It’s been a while since I had any.”

  “Champagne? Or whiskey? Because if it’s the latter, I can probably sneak us some from that gentleman over there.” Matthew pointed to one of the groomsmen, Edward’s brother, who already looked very unsteady as he leaned against a waiter, his cheeks flushed, animatedly telling a story. “I don’t want to be within earshot if he falls over into the cake.”

  Amelia laughed. “That would never happen. Everything perfect on Jane’s perfect—” The word caught in her throat, her stomach dropping and her nose tingling. “Day,” she finished, not meeting Matthew’s eyes.

  He lightly touched her forearm, his eyes soft. “Is everything all right with you?”

  Pull yourself together, she thought. He knows you better than almost anyone. She forced a bright smile. “Of course. I’m just glad the rain seems to be holding off.”

  His expression of concern didn’t change. “It’s me, Em. I know when something is happening with you. What is it?”

  “Truly, it’s nothing. It’s been a very long day already, with all the preparations.” She couldn’t look at him again, for fear that he would see everything that she was thinking, and had thought, and she would tell him secrets he couldn’t understand, so instead she lifted a fresh champagne glass from his hand and took another sip, this time relishing the way the bubbles popped in her mouth. “How are your adventures? I heard you landed in Charleston earlier in the year.”

  He nodded, his eyes bright. “It’s a beautiful city, full of so much history, and right on the water. Before that, I was in Philadelphia for six months, and Washington, D.C., before that.”

  She gave him a small smile. “Always the explorer.” Even as a child, Matthew talked constantly about how he was going to travel the world, and see everything he could, and meet people who were interesting, and different. He would always ask her, “Are you going to come with me?” and she would shrug and say, “Maybe.” The idea of leaving her home and her family behind sounded lonely and scary, and not at all the great adventure Matthew believed it would be.

  He would always frown and tell her she would change
her mind.

  She never did.

  “Yes, well, Mrs. Crane again told me about her travels to Russia, back before the war. Each time she pauses to remember a detail, I’ve had to stop myself from finishing her sentence.” He laughed. The Cranes had traveled extensively throughout Russia, even purchasing a replica of a Russian peasant cottage from the St. Louis World’s Fair years ago and having it transported to their lake estate, where Mrs. Crane held afternoon teas.

  “Some things never change,” Amelia said, the words cutting through her heart like glass.

  Matthew gave her a questioning look, but when she didn’t meet his eyes he looked out into the crowd, scattered into various small groups, each stealing glances at one another, sizing up the gowns and the jewels and the hairstyles. “Then you are well? Your mother told my mother so, but it’s not like they ever tell each other the truth,” he said.

  “I am,” she said quickly.

  He paused, studying her face with his brows furrowed, his mouth soft. “You know,” he said quietly, “if you ever needed anything, you could ask me. I would be happy to help you in . . . any regard. With yourself, or for John. I would be happy to help both of you. Take care—”

  She swiped the champagne glass through the air, the liquid dancing inside. “Thank you. That’s very kind. How are you doing? Any marriage prospects? There are many beautiful women here. Let’s see.” She scanned the crowd, feeling the warmth from the champagne move up her face and loosen her limbs. “Oh! What about Dolores Silas? I’ve heard she is eagerly looking for someone to share her father’s fortune. I have heard she loves to travel, as well.”

  His mouth turned down and his cheeks sagged, and he studied her for an extra moment, imperceptible to anyone but her, before she turned in the direction of her slightly pointed index finger, toward Dolores, a petite blonde dressed in a gown covered in peacock feathers. A group of admirers were clustered around her, ready to offer a cigarette or another glass of champagne or just to simply breathe the air next to her.