“And I have a name that could be a boy or a girl.” I turned to my mom. “Remember senile Mrs. Steadman in fourth grade kept spelling my name ‘A-a-r-o-n’?”
She didn’t answer and stared down at the binder in front of her.
“Mom?”
Her eyes were wide, and I leaned over and peered down. It looked like the same handwritten scrawl of admission records until my mother tapped the page. About three quarters of the way down, there was a name: John Cartwright. A jolt ran through my body and I lunged closer to my mom, my own binder spilling out onto the floor. Gerry yelped, but I ignored him.
“John Cartwright, age five, admission date July 1, 1923, discharge date . . .” My voice shook. I slowly looked up and met my mother’s wide eyes.
“When? What does it say?” Gerry said. He stood up and walked over. When neither of us moved or spoke, he took the binder out of my mom’s hands. “Discharge date is: blank.” He slowly lowered the binder, placing it back onto my mom’s lap.
My mom’s expression turned from shock to sympathy as she looked down at the binder and back to me. “I’m sorry, hon.”
“That can’t be true,” I said. “So this means he was really here, and he . . . died here?” My words cracked and bumped together.
Neither Gerry nor my mother said anything in response. I stared down at the page, trying to will a discharge date to appear or for the name to come into focus and for us to realize it said something other than John Cartwright. But, of course, it didn’t.
“If that’s true, then why do the reports say that both of them drowned? That he was never seen again?” I said. My voice came out in desperate gasps, as I hoped to land on anything that would say it wasn’t true.
Gerry cleared his throat. “Historical reports are, unfortunately, only ever as good as the people who write them down. Things like this, word-of-mouth incidents, can be notoriously unreliable. Maybe the boy—”
“John,” I interrupted with an edge to my voice.
He gave me a sympathetic look. “Of course, maybe John wasn’t seen after he was rescued, maybe the other guests on the yacht had too much to drink, or it was too dark, and they never saw him be rescued later. Remember, it was dark, it was after a long party, and it was raining. Not to mention, the family might not have wanted anyone to know that John had been sent away.”
I slowly closed the binder in my lap. I couldn’t turn the pages, looking for John anymore, knowing he lived his whole life at the school. Sleeping in the sterile beds, sitting on the floor of the classrooms.
And I knew if he was sent there, Amelia must have died in the water, John slipping from her grasp as she went under, lost forever. She died just as most people had assumed: that night, in the water. If she did jump, in the hopes that they would die together, she delivered him to such a fate. She was the one who doomed him to a life of living there. Accident or not, the register meant that there was no happy ending, no hidden wonderful secrets.
In the office, on the sagging brown corduroy couch, I put my head in my hands and pressed my fists into my eyes, desperately wishing I had never seen the register.
CHAPTER 27
AMELIA
A month after Henry had died, Amelia spent the afternoon with her mother and sisters, in wedding preparation. Mary and Jane had spent most of the time arguing over the exact shape of the floral arrangements.
“They should be ovals, reaching toward the heavens, like a prayer for your marriage,” Mary said, her hand fluttering in the air.
“Mother”—Jane’s face darkened, and her eyebrows hooded her lids—“no one has floral arrangements like that anymore. They need to be cascading down, like waterfalls, against each vase. Things are different from when you got married.”
“Really,” Mary had said dryly. “Then why were all the centerpieces at the Thomas wedding last season as tall as can be? They nearly reached the chandeliers of the ballroom in the Palmer House hotel.”
The florist’s head snapped back and forth like the pendulum on the large grandfather clock in the foyer, shipped all the way from Ireland, as he listened to their conversation.
“If I may—” he had tried to say several times, to no avail.
All Amelia could think was that Jane needed to finish up and choose—for the Lord’s sake, choose—the flower arrangements so she could talk to their mother in private. She hadn’t been able to speak to her alone since their conversation in her father’s study after Henry’s funeral luncheon.
The conversation between them continued on the ride home and as they walked into the large glass and oak doors to the house. Amelia walked into the parlor, only half-listening to the conversation.
On the opposite side of the parlor sat Eleanor, who stared out of the window overlooking Lake Shore Drive, not even pretending to pay attention to the conversation. Amelia could see her looking out below, at the children following their nannies like ducklings up and down the street, bundled in hats and gloves and heavy wool coats. On the trees outside, Christmas lights were strung, twinkling in the light snow that had begun to fall. The city came alive each holiday, with the smells of roasted meats and candied chestnuts permeating the air. From every pub, the cheers were a little brighter, a little louder, a little more joyful.
But this year was different. It would be Amelia and John’s first Christmas without Henry. She had the staff put up the Christmas tree and hang the evergreen garlands on the staircase as they always did, but it felt impossibly empty, and the air held a chill even with the brightest of lights or the most roaring of fires. In fact, two nights before, she sat in front of the fireplace, on the marble carved hearth, staring into the flames, putting her palms as close to the fire as she dared, wondering how much it would hurt if she just touched them for a moment. Certainly, nothing could hurt more than Henry’s death and the threat of John being sent away.
“Is this almost finished? I have an appointment for tea with Emily,” Eleanor said as she snapped her head back toward the room.
Jane and Mary looked at her in surprise. Jane looked from her mother to Eleanor. “Sorry to inconvenience you. I know how busy you are.”
Eleanor sighed wearily as she stood, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. “Oh, Jane. No need for that. I am happy to visit and see your plans.” She stepped forward and pulled her youngest sister toward her. “It’s going to be the most beautiful wedding in the world.”
Jane smiled and allowed the hug. “It is, isn’t it?”
Eleanor turned to Amelia. “Care to join me for some tea at The Drake?”
Amelia looked back at her mother, who didn’t meet her gaze, and a pang of fear rose in her stomach. What if she has decided against helping me? After all, shortly after her mother made the promise her father had walked back in and the conversation had ended. Neither of them had spoken of it since.
“Yes,” she finally said, and turned to Eleanor. She would have to find another time. But there might not be much time, a voice whispered in her head. Who knows how long until Margaret tries to take him away?
“Is everything all right? You look a little pale,” Eleanor said as they walked through the foyer, stopping to put on their mink and wool coats handed to them by the maid.
Amelia opened her mouth and wished she could tell her sister everything. She wished she could unyoke the burden of her secrets, the thoughts that kept her up at night, and let her sister share in her pain. But she couldn’t. She glanced at the no fewer than five servants within earshot trying to blend into the surroundings. Although she trusted Eleanor, it was too risky to mention anything that went against Margaret. She seemed to have eyes and ears all over the city and could be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
“A story for another time,” she finally said with a weak smile. “I forgot I have a stop to make, so I should go straight home.”
Eleanor frowned slightly, and Amelia started toward the waiting motorcar. Eleanor put a hand on her arm. “After the wedding is over, please come visit me in New York. I miss you
, and I miss our summers together. Please, it would mean everything.”
Amelia gave her a slight nod and then turned and hurried outside.
When she arrived home, she saw a large white envelope on the railing next to the front door. On the front was her name, Mrs. Amelia Cartwright, scrawled in a pointy, sharp penmanship.
“What is this? Where is this from?” she demanded, her voice echoing through the foyer. No one responded, and she realized she had dismissed all but John’s nanny for the evening to save on cost. The allowances from Margaret had been severely cut after their confrontation, and she could no longer afford to have full-time help. She had even sold some of her jewelry to keep on Eloise, John’s nanny.
She tore open the package, her heart racing. When she read the first few lines, her knees buckled and she fell to the floor, her legs hitting the marble with a crack. She scanned the letter, her entire body aching in pain and shock.
Mrs. Cartwright, it read, we are pleased to announce the admission of your son, John Cartwright, into the Bloomfield School for the Deaf and the Dumb. His stay will formally begin on June 15th, 1923. We will be in touch soon to schedule an orientation visit, and to go over what he will need for his housing here.
Margaret had finally won.
She let out a scream, crumpling the paper up in her hands and throwing it as far as she could. It floated to the floor, not even giving her the satisfaction of so much as a thump. She put her head down on the marble floor as sobs racked through her body. Just the thought of him leaving made her feel like her soul was being torn out of her body. Without him, there was nothing. Without him, she was an empty shell.
“Mrs. Cartwright!” Eloise called from upstairs, and Amelia heard her rush down the stairs. She weakly lifted her head, her face slick, and saw John following behind her.
“What happened? Did you fall?” Eloise said, and she hurriedly knelt beside her.
Amelia shook her head and shakily pushed up to a seated position. She saw John standing at the base of the staircase, wearing his green woolen jumper that she had picked out last year. The light from outside illuminated his blond hair and made him look like an angel. Her face crumpled again and she held out her arms weakly, beckoning him to come.
He slowly walked forward and knelt down, touching her face with one finger, tracing a line on her cheek through the tears. Then he leaned into her, his tiny body fitting against her. She grasped him so tightly, she nearly felt his breath stop. She closed her eyes and rocked him, humming, the tears never stopping.
* * *
Now, six months after she received the letter, with John’s hand in hers on the yacht, she thought of that place, that school, with the antiseptic smells permeating the air, and the children in one room together, with one single white cot each. Wearing matching uniforms, like in prison. Some of the children couldn’t walk, some couldn’t hear, and some didn’t even know their own names. But it was all the same: They were there because either no one knew how to care for them or they didn’t want to.
This is a place for unwanted children, she kept thinking when she visited. She wanted to cry out and hold each of them, tell them that surely, someone wanted them, but she couldn’t. And with each child, she saw John’s face, and his terror once he would realize that he was meant to stay there. Meant to be forgotten.
CHAPTER 28
ERIN
It was a bit of a rough day....
I sat at my computer in the corner of our cluttered bedroom and read the latest e-mail from Will’s teacher again. He had grabbed another kid on the playground, seemingly wanting to play with him, but wound up pulling the kid’s hair and looked like he was going to bite him to get a response. Thankfully, an aide saw and was able to redirect him, but everyone was concerned for his and the other children’s safety.
I slumped back in the old office chair that I had bought off someone on craigslist that still kind of smelled like cat urine. I heard the front door open, and I sat up straighter in my chair. I hadn’t broached the subject of Lakewood with Luke since our dinner a few days before, mostly because I didn’t know how to apologize and not apologize all at the same time without sounding like a jerk.
I’m sorry we had a fight, but I’m not sorry for what I said.
I turned slowly as I heard Luke walk up the stairs, through the bathroom, and into our bedroom. He had worked late, again, and gone to some networking event at a local sushi restaurant. His tie was askew and I could smell beer as he kissed me hello on the cheek. He walked over to the bed and sat down, his body slumped forward.
“Long day?” I said as I tucked a foot up on the chair and wrapped my arms around my leg. I tried to keep my voice light, but my shoulders were rigid as I waited for whatever bad news he had in his pocket.
“You could say that,” he said as he splayed his arms across the bed, crucifixion-style.
“Sorry. Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not really,” he said.
I swallowed hard. I knew it likely was something having to do with an account not sold or something related to his commission, which would mean another lean month of grocery shopping and watching our pennies. I looked back at my computer screen. “I got another e-mail from school. Another day, another e-mail,” I said quietly. I waited for him to say something, even the weakest of platitudes, but he remained silent, staring up at the ceiling fan.
He took a long breath and then slowly sat up, balling his fists under him and then crossing his arms over his chest. “So what do we do?”
I turned away from the computer screen. He wanted me to say it. “Lakewood,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
After a long pause in which the only sound was the thud of my heart, he said, “I guess it’s something we really have to consider.” He shook his head and a pained expression moved across his face. A look of failure. He lifted his chin and looked around our bedroom, at the beadboard ceiling that I loved, at the sky blue walls that I painted not long after we moved in, at the wood floors with the tongue-and-groove boards. “We would have to sell the house.”
My eyes widened, and I looked down at my hands. “But we love this house. Sell it? I was thinking a loan of some sort.”
He stood up and walked over to me and put a hand on my arm. “I love this house, too.” He didn’t say anything else, and what he left unsaid hung in the air like a half-deflated balloon. “But even if we could take another mortgage out on the house, then what? It would barely cover a year of tuition.”
He was right; we didn’t have enough equity. Selling the house would be a solution. When we bought the house, we got a great deal due to the fact that the previous owners had retired and were moving to Florida. They had no interest in maintaining two houses, or in the upkeep required in such an old place. The price was still close to the top end of our budget, but I justified it by saying that I loved the house enough to sacrifice other things. Of course, that was before things changed at Luke’s job and before we really knew what was going on with Will and how much money we would need to funnel toward his therapies.
But it was a house that when I pulled into the driveway I still couldn’t believe was mine. A house where I could swear I felt the whispers of the people who had lived here before. A house that would protect us, like it had protected others for over a hundred years.
“I understand.” My voice cracked and I swallowed hard. I turned back toward my computer, scanning the e-mail from Will’s teacher again, as I felt tears begin to form. “I’m okay,” I said to the computer. “You’re right. I just need to think through and process everything.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. I leaned into him, closing my eyes. There were so many firsts with twins, but this was something different.
It was the last moment in which I believed things would work out the way I so desperately wanted them to. And it was the first moment in which I truly understood what I would have to let go in order to take the next step. It meant releasing everything I had clung to,
so my arms would now be free to embrace the future.
Luke stood next to me for a few more moments, before he squeezed my shoulder and walked out into the hallway, to kiss the kids good night.
I knew selling the house would be the right thing to do, but oh, how it hurt. I thought of packing up the kids’ playroom, and all of their toys, of saying good-bye to the built-in cabinets in the dining room, of running my hand along the wood trim, with its thick grain and soft grooves, before walking away. Of saying good-bye to my crooked front porch and to the swing where I used to sit with Will when he was two and refusing to nap, when he would only be calmed by motion. Of closing the three-over-one original windows in the family room for the last time and pulling the heavy front door shut.
I felt the tears begin to fall, and before I allowed them to pull me to an even darker place I stood up and wiped at my cheeks. I went downstairs, the stairs creaking at every shift, and poured myself the largest glass of red wine I could stand from a bottle that was left over from a month ago. My mother-in-law had brought it when we had her and my father-in-law over for dinner. It was a red apple spiced wine, and at the time I had taken one sniff of it and recoiled in terror.
But now beggars couldn’t be choosers, so I took two quick gulps of the too-sweet red wine, the liquid burning my throat and the alcohol filling my mouth. I ignored the aching in my molars, like the sugar was boring straight into the enamel. I walked back upstairs and read the e-mail from Will’s teacher again, before I minimized the screen.
I spun in my chair a couple of times, feeling the wine kick in, softening the edges. I clicked around on social media, looking at the latest pictures Katie had posted of a bachelorette party weekend in Austin, Texas. She and five other friends wore short skirts and wedge heels and dangly earrings, their highlighted hair cascading in waves down their backs. Best night ever, read one of the captions. I zoomed in and studied Katie’s face, unlined and unblemished. A quick glance in the mirror above my dresser told me that even though we were only three years apart, I looked at least a decade older.
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