The Life She Was Given

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  In the menagerie, Cole laid Lilly on a clean blanket inside Pepper’s stall, then went to get the salve. Pepper lowered her trunk and snuffled the length of Lilly’s body, as if trying to figure out what was wrong. She made a low, quiet moaning noise that sounded almost like crying. JoJo was in the stall next door, having grown too big to share a spot with his mother. He stuck his trunk around the front of his stall and sniffed the air.

  Lilly sat up and petted Pepper’s trunk. “I’ll be okay,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  Cole returned with the healing salve and knelt beside her. She lowered her bathrobe from her shoulders and slid her arms from the sleeves. Working slowly and gently, he smoothed the cream over the red marks on her arms and hands. She gritted her teeth and tried not to cry out.

  “Thankfully the skin isn’t broken,” he said, checking her face and neck for injuries.

  Then she remembered she was naked beneath her nightgown and heat crawled up her cheeks. She thought about him carrying her across the midway and wondered if her breasts had jiggled against his chest. Cole moved behind her to put salve on her shoulders and back, his hand sliding beneath her thin straps. He slid his fingers into the low back of her nightgown and lifted it away from her skin.

  She pulled away. “Hey.”

  “What?” he said.

  “I’m . . . I’m not wearing any . . .”

  “I’m looking for whip marks,” he said. “Not trying to see your ass. We’re practically brother and sister, for Christ’s sake.”

  She sighed and let him look, her face burning as she thought about him looking farther down than necessary. Not only was the thought of him seeing her rear end embarrassing, but the fact that she said something about it made her feel like a fool. He held the material away from her skin and reached in to apply the salve. Despite the pain and her embarrassment, his warm hands felt good on her back.

  “I think that’s it,” he said. “Unless you can feel any I didn’t reach.”

  She shook her head, pulled up her bathrobe, and pushed her arms into the sleeves. The salve stuck to the material, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to sit there half naked any longer than necessary. “Thank you,” she said. “It feels better already.”

  Cole put the lid on the ointment and wiped his hands on the blanket. “You’re welcome. But I wish you had stayed in my car last night. Then he never would have had the chance to hurt you.”

  “I know,” she said. “You’re right.”

  He gave her a weak smile. “Of course I’m right. I’m always right. In case you have figured it out yet, I’m the smartest person you know.”

  She grinned. As usual, he knew how to make her smile.

  Then his face grew serious again. “What do you think will happen now?”

  She shrugged. “Things will probably go back to normal. Merrick’s not going to shut down his biggest draw.”

  “Yeah, well, we need to figure out a way to get you away from that bastard.”

  “Good idea,” she said. “And since you’re the smartest person I know, why don’t you come up with a plan?” She was trying to make a joke, but Cole stared at her, somber and thinking.

  CHAPTER 14

  JULIA

  The morning after Bonnie Blue delivered her new foal, Julia woke with a start. She opened her eyes but lay motionless, trying to figure out what had woken her from a deep sleep. For a dizzying second, she thought she was back in her room above the liquor store. Then she recognized the red brocade curtains and the mullioned windows of Blackwood Manor and remembered she was home. Her dreams had been filled with rats and secret rooms and headless women. But something else had startled her awake.

  The world outside the window looked gray, and the air in the room felt cold on her face. She studied the early-morning light and tried to read what was different about it. The tree branches outside looked hazy and the house seemed quieter than normal. Too quiet. Then she realized the furnace wasn’t humming. The tips of her fingers and toes felt chilled, and the end of her nose too. She could see her breath. She sat up and immediately drew the covers up around her neck. The room was freezing.

  She jumped out of bed, wrapped the goose-down comforter around her shoulders, and went over to the window. The floor was like frost against her feet and a thick layer of ice covered the window glass. Outside, the world was a blur—the trees and buildings like dark smudges on a white blanket.

  Shivering, she threw the comforter back on the bed, got dressed as quickly as possible, and hurried into the dark hallway. The house felt like an icebox. She flicked a switch. Nothing happened.

  “Shit,” she said.

  The power was out. Which meant the furnace had quit working. Squinting in the semidarkness, she made her way down to the living room and built a fire in the fireplace. In the kitchen, she lit the burners on the gas stove, then opened the back door to look out toward the barn.

  A thick layer of ice encrusted everything—the snow-covered lawn, the trees, the fences, the telephone poles and wires, the barn and outbuildings. Broken limbs and splintered branches littered the ice-covered yard, and electric wires swayed toward the earth as if pulled by a magnetic current. In the woods across the fields, tree branches snapped and crashed to the ground, as if a thousand hunters were randomly shooting off guns. Julia had never seen or heard anything like it. She leaned out farther to look around, and the grapevine arbor above the doorway suddenly snapped and cracked, then fell at her feet with an ice-shattering crash.

  She gasped and shut the door, then went to the kitchen and tried the phone. The line was dead. What was she supposed to do now? And what about the horses? Were they okay? Would Claude show up to take care of them? Most of the horses would be fine without food and water for a few hours, but what about Blue and her baby? Could they take this cold?

  She went into the living room, sat on the couch in front of the fireplace with an afghan around her shoulders, and tried to think. If Claude or Fletcher didn’t show up in the next few hours, she’d have to go over to the barn herself. That was all there was to it. She couldn’t let the horses, especially Blue and her filly, whom she had named Samantha Blue, fend for themselves. They were her responsibility now, and if anything happened to them, she’d never forgive herself.

  Unable to stop shivering, whether from cold or nerves she wasn’t sure, she went upstairs and put on an extra sweater, then went down to the kitchen, made tea and eggs on the gas stove, and ate them at the table with the afghan around her shoulders. Afterward, she curled up on the couch and waited, getting up every ten minutes or so to look out the mudroom door and check the barn driveway for Claude’s truck. It was never there.

  By noon, the crash of branches outside had lessened, but neither Claude nor Fletcher had shown up to check on the horses. She found a flashlight in a kitchen drawer and went upstairs to her parents’ bedroom to search for warmer clothes. Hopefully, she’d find a pair of her father’s flannel-lined trousers and his heavy barn coat, unless Mother had gotten rid of them.

  Her parents’ bedroom was on the list of rooms she wasn’t allowed to enter as a child, so she’d only seen the inside twice: once when she knocked on their door crying after getting sick in bed, and again during a thunderstorm that shook the entire house. Both times, Mother ushered her back to her own bedroom, refusing to let her inside. Now, she couldn’t help wondering if she was about to find out why.

  After two tries, she found the right key, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Like the rest of the furniture in Blackwood Manor, the bed, dressers, and armoire were mahogany carved with scrolls, leaves, floral swags, and lions’ heads. The posts of the four-poster bed were as big around as trees, with marble finials and fluted columns. Matching brocade lamps with tasseled fringe sat on the bedside tables, and religious paintings and crucifixes adorned every flocked wall. Julia remembered the night of the thunderstorm; Mother opening the door and lightning flashing on a portrait behind her shoulder—Jesus on the cross, his eyes rolle
d back in his head, blood running from an open gash in his ribcage. Afterward, Julia had nightmares for weeks. And she never went to her parents’ bedroom again, no matter how sick or scared she was.

  Oddly, the rest of the rooms in the house—the ones Julia used to be allowed to enter anyway—were free of religious images and crosses. Even stranger, Mother agreed with Father that the common areas, where they occasionally entertained clients, were no place for them. Father said he didn’t want the house filled with spiritual things because he didn’t want to push religion on others. But Julia always sensed his impatience—bordering on resentment—with Mother’s beliefs, especially when she insisted on turning every serious conversation into a Bible lesson and praying on the rare occasion they went out to dinner. He’d go along with it for a while; then he’d roll his eyes and change the subject. For reasons Julia never understood, it was the only time he stood up to Mother, and the only time Mother conceded.

  Now, Julia couldn’t decide if the bedroom looked like it belonged to a religious fanatic, or someone who made her living in a brothel. Everything was red except the furniture—the flocked wallpaper, the curtains, the rugs, the shams, the bed skirt and duvet. Maybe it was decorated that way to match the blood of Jesus. Maybe red was Mother’s favorite color. If she had a favorite anything.

  Julia shook her head to clear it and made her way over to an armoire. Who cared why the bedroom was decorated in red? As soon as she could, she was getting rid of all of it. Besides, there was no time for reflection now. The horses needed her. Thankfully, the armoire was unlocked. She shined the flashlight inside. Dresses and minks and trousers and jackets hung in a neat row, as if their owners had put them there yesterday. Surprised to find more of her father’s things, she pushed the clothes along the hanging pole until she found his heavy barn jacket. She took it out, threw it on the bed, and opened the drawers of the gentlemen’s dresser to search for trousers and a heavy sweater. Traces of her father’s aftershave drifted out from neatly folded undershirts and monogrammed handkerchiefs.

  She could still picture her father coming in from the barn, hanging his cap and coat in the mudroom, taking off his boots, and stretching his tired feet. She used to watch him in silence, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. How she had longed for him to ask about her day, or tell her something about his. But every night it was the same. First he washed his hands in the water closet next to the mudroom; then he patted her head and trudged into the dining room to pour himself a whiskey or brandy. No “Hi, how was school?” or “What did you do today?” Right up until the day he died, he never took the time to find out who she was and what she cared about. And it broke her heart.

  She could see him sitting at the table, waiting for Mother to appear with dinner and her steely glare. She remembered the time Mother told him to go back outside and park the old tractor behind the barn so passersby would only see the new one. The time she found out he had sold a colt five hundred dollars below the asking price to one of his friends. The time she wanted to press charges against one of those “wretched wandering bums” for stealing water from a horse trough. “They spread disease,” she said. Without a word, Father got up and refilled his glass, listening to Mother go on and on while Julia ate dinner in silence. Sometimes she wondered if she were invisible.

  In the second to the last bottom drawer of the gentlemen’s dresser, she found a stack of wool sweaters. She chose the thickest one, tossed it on the bed with the jacket, then opened the deep bottom drawer. Inside were the flannel-lined trousers Father wore out to the barn in winter. She pulled them out and held them up one by one, trying to figure out which pair would fit over her pants without falling off. When she took out the last pair, a yellowed newspaper page came out with them. It fluttered to the floor and slipped beneath the dresser as if blown by an unseen breeze. She got down on her knees and reached for it, dust and cobwebs sticking to her hand, then gently pulled it out and sat up to read it.

  Then she saw the book at the bottom of the trouser drawer.

  It had a plain leather cover and a brass clasp to keep it closed, like a logbook or diary. Julia dropped the newspaper, lifted the book from the drawer, and touched the dry leather. A shiver ran like a current down her spine. What was it? And why had her father hidden it in his dresser?

  She took a deep breath and opened the book to the first page. In her father’s handwriting, the first words read:

  We have buried our firstborn. May she rest in peace. God speed her soul to heaven. And may God help us for what we have done.

  Julia gasped. Our firstborn? God help us for what we have done? Who was her father talking about? Her parents never mentioned a sister. And what on earth had they done?

  She quickly turned the page and read the next entry.

  I can’t bring myself to write the words. It’s too difficult. The only thing I can do right now is ask God for forgiveness.

  “Forgiveness?” Julia said into the silent room. “Forgiveness for what? What did you do?” She flipped to the next page, desperate to read more.

  Someday, I’ll record the truth. But not now. Not today. It’s too raw, too soon, too painful.

  She looked through the rest of the book. The pages were blank. She reread the first entries, then groaned and put the book back in the drawer. With confusion spinning in her head, she got up and looked around, suddenly overcome by the feeling that she was in a bad B movie. She had a sister. A sister who died. And her father blamed himself and Mother for something to do with her death. It seemed impossible. Unbelievable. And yet. And yet. Maybe that was why her parents were so unhappy. Maybe that was why Mother prayed and Father drank. Maybe that was why they acted like she didn’t exist unless she was getting into trouble. Maybe they didn’t want to look at her because she reminded them of her dead sister.

  She scrubbed her hands across her face. My God, what other secrets did Blackwood Manor hold? What other lies had she been told? She picked up her father’s clothes and left the bedroom. Whatever sins had been committed in the past would have to wait. Right now, the horses—her horses—needed her.

  CHAPTER 15

  LILLY

  A week after Lilly’s father showed up in The Albino Medium’s tent and Merrick beat her with a riding crop, The Barlow Brothers’ Circus set up near a farming town outside of Des Moines. Word among the performers was that it was the hottest week on record in Iowa’s capital city, and the air was breathless. When Lilly passed the menagerie on her way to the dressing tent before her first opening of the day, she noticed the sidewalls were rolled up and Cole and his father were carrying water buckets around to the animal cages. Rivers of sweat slicked their red faces and plastered their shirts to their chests.

  Watering the animals was the roustabouts’ job, along with circling the lot with the water wagon to fill the performers’ wash buckets, spray the ground to keep the dust down, refill the drinking barrels, and hose off the elephants. She went inside to see what was going on. The big cats were panting harder and faster than usual, and flies swarmed around the horses, chimpanzees, and bears.

  “What’s happening?” she asked Cole.

  “Mr. Barlow refuses to bring in extra water,” he said. “So we’re hauling in as much as we can from a nearby pond.”

  Lilly wanted to hug him. One of the things she loved about him was that he cared about the animals as much as she did. “I’ll help you after the show’s over.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He mopped his brow on his shirtsleeve and refilled the water trough in the bear’s den. “But between me, my father, Dante, and Leon, I think we’ve got it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. “You’re going to be exhausted after spending all day in that hot tent. I’ll make sure you’ve got an extra water bucket in the dressing tent when you shut down for your break.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “And I’m coming over here later anyway, so I’ll help if you still need it.”

  A half hour later, she sat at a v
anity inside the women’s dressing tent, fanning herself and holding up her hair while Dolly the World’s Most Beautiful Fat Woman fastened the clasps of her six-stranded pearl choker. The choker and pearl earrings were costume jewelry, designed to match the pearl barrettes in her hair, but Merrick reminded her every chance he got not to break or lose them. Dolly finished fastening the necklace, then collapsed in a chair and wiped a chubby forearm over her dripping face.

  “God Almighty, I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church,” she said.

  Merrick pulled aside the tent flap and stuck in his head. “Move it, Lilly, the rubes are gettin’ restless. We’ve got to open the doors!”

  Lilly sighed. “I’ll be right there.” She looked in the mirror to check her hair and jewelry. As usual, Glory had outdone herself. Lilly’s hair was coiffed high and smooth on top and pulled back on the sides, with fine white wisps curling at her temples and ears, the rest hanging in perfect ringlets down her back. Her white chiffon and satin dress enhanced the illusion of an ethereal creature not of this earth. She dabbed the sweat from her brow with a handkerchief, stood, and started toward the exit.

  “Thanks for the help, Dolly,” she said.

  Dolly waved her away. “Anytime. Go get ’em, hon.”

  From the dressing tent, Lilly followed Merrick across the back lot to The Albino Medium’s tent. When they passed the end of the midway near the freak-show marquee, she caught sight of a figure dressed in black, sitting on the platform out front with a sack over its head.