The Life She Was Given

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  Flames engulfed a set of curtains in an open window.

  Father’s den.

  For a second, horror paralyzed her. Then she came to her senses and ran into the house. She grabbed the braided rug in front of the kitchen sink and raced toward the den. The fire had already destroyed the curtains and was crawling across the ceiling, the dry wood bursting into orange and yellow flames. Smoke filled the room and piles of old papers and books blackened and curled and burned next to the fiery window. She held her breath and beat the rug against the books and papers, but no sooner had she put one blaze out, when another started. Smoke burned her eyes and bits and pieces of burning ceiling fell on her pants and jacket. Coughing and squinting, she tried beating back the flames with the rug, but they were spreading too fast.

  Claude suddenly appeared beside her, a fire extinguisher in his hands. “Get out of the way!” he yelled.

  She backed up, hacking and gagging, the back of her hand over her mouth. Claude pulled the fire extinguisher pin and aimed the hose at the flames. For a brief moment, Julia thought the fire was going out. Then the extinguisher quit working. Claude frantically turned the knob, shook the cylinder, and hit it with his hand, but it didn’t help. The wall above the window buckled, the frame caved in, and burning timbers dropped to the floor. With more air to feed it, the fire flared higher. More papers caught fire and a section of burning ceiling fell to the floor in a thunderous crash, throwing up more flames and sparks. Claude grabbed Julia’s arm and steered her toward the door.

  “We need to get out of here!” he shouted.

  In the hall, smoke filled the ceiling and slithered toward the other rooms. Claude and Julia hurried into the kitchen and out the back door. When they were far enough away, she stopped to look back, her face covered in soot and sweat, one trembling hand over her mouth. Fire and smoke poured out of the den windows, and flames licked up the siding toward the second story. Julia’s legs went weak. What had she done?

  * * *

  The ruins of Blackwood Manor lay in a smoking pile of black timbers and smoldering ashes, two charred chimneys and numerous sections of burnt walls standing amongst the rubble. By the time the fire trucks had arrived, the flames had fully engulfed half the house. There was nothing Julia and Claude could do but watch.

  When the roof caved in, Julia fell to her knees on the ground. Claude stood silently beside her, his face a curious mixture of shock and relief. The firemen rushed toward the burning building with their hoses, and the second and third floors collapsed in a thunderous, fiery heap. Julia trembled and stared as they struggled to put out the flames, tears streaming down her soot-covered face. She felt disconnected; as if it were happening to someone else, or it would end soon, like a nightmare or practical joke. Someone or something would wake her and she’d find out it was all a dream, she was sure of it.

  Then a fireman brought over two blankets and wrapped one around her shoulders, and she realized that, indeed, this was happening to her. Somehow, she had started a fire in Blackwood Manor and now it was being destroyed, along with its horrible, hidden secrets. The fireman offered a blanket to Claude, but he shook his head.

  The fireman knelt next to Julia and said, “Are you all right, miss?”

  She managed a nod.

  “Were you inside when the fire started?” the fireman said.

  She shook her head.

  He looked at Claude. “What about you?”

  “I was in the barn,” he said.

  The fireman put a hand under Julia’s arm. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you off this wet ground. It’s cold out here.”

  Julia let him help her up and stood on shaky legs.

  “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” the fireman said. “The ambulance is on its way. Maybe someone should take a look at you.”

  She swallowed and tried to find her voice. When she did, it was raspy and weak. “I’m fine.”

  “All right,” the fireman said. “If you say so. But don’t hesitate to ask for help if you need it.” He gave her a quick nod and went back to the trucks to help the others.

  After a few minutes, Fletcher sped into the barn driveway and barreled over the lawn toward Julia and Claude. When he reached them, he slammed on his brakes and jumped out of his truck, his face pale, his eyes wide.

  “What happened?” he said. “Are you guys okay?”

  “We’re all right,” Claude said. He nodded once at Julia. “But she needs to sit down in your truck.”

  “Come on,” Fletcher said to Julia. “You’re white as a sheet.” He took her arm and led her over to his truck. Claude followed and opened the passenger side door.

  In what felt like a trance, she climbed in and sat with the blanket around her shoulders, her teeth chattering. Fletcher got in the driver’s side and turned on the heater while Claude stood in the open passenger door.

  “What the hell happened?” Fletcher said again.

  “It’s my fault,” Julia and Claude said at the same time.

  She turned and gaped at Claude. Why was he taking the blame? She was the one who opened the house windows and started a fire in the side yard. She was the one who hadn’t been paying attention and let the flames get out of hand. Then another thought crossed her mind. Maybe she had been hoping it would happen. Maybe the horrible truth about her parents and the cruelty committed inside Blackwood Manor was too much to face. No, it didn’t make sense. She needed answers and now she might never find them. And she wanted justice, for herself and her sister. Now she had no proof her sister ever existed. Everything was gone.

  “It’s my fault,” Claude said with more conviction.

  Julia shook her head. “What are you talking about? I was the one who left the windows open. I was the one burning branches and not—”

  “I knew about your sister,” Claude said.

  “I know,” she said. “You told me that.”

  Claude straightened his shoulders and stared at her, as if steeling himself for what he had to say next. Julia bit down on her lip and waited, her knees quivering with apprehension.

  “There’s more,” he said.

  “I know that too,” she said.

  He blew out a hard breath. “You positive you want to know the truth?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay. Then if you’re feeling up to it, I want to show you something.”

  She started climbing out of the truck.

  Fletcher put a gentle hand on her arm. “What are you doing?” he said. “I don’t think you should leave. You might be going into shock, and the police will have questions about the fire.”

  She gave him a weak smile and got out of the truck. “I’ll be fine. This is something I need to do.”

  Fletcher frowned. “What the hell is going on around here? Can’t this wait?”

  “We’re not going far,” Claude said to him. “When the police arrive tell them the fire was an accident and we’ll be right back. Do you have a flashlight?”

  Fletcher sighed loudly and shook his head, clearly frustrated and confused. There was no arguing with Claude and he knew it. He swore under his breath, got out, and rummaged around behind his seat. He pulled out a flashlight, came around the front of the truck, and handed it to Julia, worry written on his face. “Julia, please,” he said. “You can do this later.”

  “No,” she said. “I can’t. I have to do it now. I’ll explain everything when we come back.” She took off the blanket and looked at Claude, gripping the flashlight with both hands. “Lead the way.”

  Claude turned and started toward the woods.

  * * *

  In the backyard behind the still-burning remains of Blackwood Manor, Julia followed Claude to the far edge of the lawn, through a narrow space between clipped hedges. Together they crossed a swath of dead weeds and icy puddles, then entered the woods and ducked between gangly saplings and pine trees. There was no need for the flashlight yet, but Julia was glad they had it just in case. When they followed what looked like an anima
l path deeper into the forest, a memory played around the edges of her mind.

  As a child, she wasn’t allowed to leave the yard or go into the woods. But at age fourteen, she had ventured into the dark interior to smoke her first cigarette, curious why the kids in school and her father found them so appealing. After the first puffs made her cough and nearly throw up, she put the cigarette out, waited for the dizziness to pass, and started back the way she came. The sun was setting, the sky between the overhead foliage had turned purple, and within minutes she was lost, imagining her father finding her body, her arms and face gnawed by wild animals. She stumbled through the brush in a panic, Mother’s warning that bad things would happen when you misbehaved playing over and over in her mind. When, at last, she found her way out, she burst through the hedgerow into the yard, her face covered in scratches and tears, and vowed never to go into the woods again.

  And yet, as she followed Claude on the winding path between tree roots and boulders, it seemed as though there was something else she should remember, something more than sneaking a cigarette, more than disobeying her parents, more than the fear of getting lost and eaten by wild animals.

  High-skirted evergreens and branches rustled overhead, and the charred smell of the burning house filtered in through the woods. Where sunlight barely broke through to the musty forest floor, patches of snow and ice remained here and there among the scrubs and bushes. Damage from the ice storm disfigured the larger trees, their high limbs splintered and hanging, or broken and scattered on the ground. Claude cleared debris from the trail several times, and they had to climb over an old fallen oak in their path. The farther into the woods she and Claude went, the more the old fear of getting lost returned. The shattered trees and the death-like stink of smoke reminded her of a war zone or postapocalyptic wasteland, mirroring her frame of mind. Her entire world had been turned upside down and destroyed, and she had no idea where she was going.

  But there was no turning back now. She had to know the truth. Besides, Claude seemed to know the way. Near what looked like the end of the path, he pushed aside the boughs of a tall spruce, held them back, and waited while she stepped through. On the other side of the spruce, hawthorn and juniper encircled a clearing full of tussocky, snow-covered grass, leaves and brambles, and moldering logs encased in ice.

  In the center of the clearing, an iron fence surrounded a single headstone.

  Julia stopped in her tracks and another memory came to her, vague and blurry—her father carrying her into the woods, the two of them planting flowers inside a fence, then picking dandelions and laying them beside a square, gray stone. A hollow draft of dread moved through her bones.

  “Who is this?” she said.

  Claude said nothing and continued over to the fence. He kicked aside wet leaves and broken branches in front of the gate, lifted the clasp and opened it. The metal hinges screeched in the quiet forest and a rustle sounded nearby as some small creature scurried away. Claude gazed at her, waiting, his eyes tired, his face worn. She swallowed, stepped warily through the gate, and read the simple stone. Above a carved cross, it read:

  BELOVED DAUGHTER

  Julia blinked back tears and moved closer, trembling fingers over her mouth. Claude followed and stood beside her.

  “How did you know she was here?” Julia said.

  “I helped your father bury her.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. A million questions raced through her mind, but she had to be careful and not push too hard. She needed Claude to tell her everything. “What happened to her?”

  “I’ve never told anyone about this. And I’ve had to live with it all these years.”

  “Live with what?”

  “I was working late that night because a buyer was coming early the next morning and I had to get the horses ready.”

  She looked at him. “What night?”

  “The night I saw your mother, I mean Mrs. Blackwood, take the girl out of the house.”

  The hairs on the back of Julia’s neck stood up. The girl. The feeling that she was about to learn a horrible truth fell over her like an icy shroud. “So my sister got out of the attic. And you knew about her all along. How long was she up there?”

  He held up a hand. “Please. Just hear me out. I need to get through this.”

  She clenched her jaw and waited.

  “It was nearly midnight,” he said. “Mr. Blackwood was out of town, and I was having a quick smoke out on the other side of the barn. Next thing I know, I see Mrs. Blackwood leading the girl across the north pasture into the woods.” He paused to brush a tangle of dead leaves from the top of the gravestone.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I had no idea what they were up to and I didn’t know what to do. Of course, looking back, I should have done something. But at the time . . .” He scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “After a while, I saw Mrs. Blackwood come out of the woods alone.”

  Goose bumps broke out on Julia’s arms. What on earth had Mother done?

  “The next day Mr. Blackwood told me his daughter passed,” he continued. “I swear that was the first time he mentioned her to me. Up until then, I thought she was stillborn like they said.” His eyes grew glassy.

  “Oh my God,” Julia breathed. She gaped at the tombstone and ground. Was this where her sister died after being locked up in the attic? Were they standing on the very spot she was murdered? She put a hand on her chest. It felt like the air was being pulled from her lungs.

  “After he told me she was dead, I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking I should have done something, anything to stop Mrs. Blackwood from doing whatever she’d done. I called in sick for two days because I couldn’t face them. I didn’t know if I should call the police or . . .” He hesitated as if searching for the right words, then looked at her with desperate eyes. “You have to understand, I had a wife and son to take care of and jobs were scarce back then. And God help me, I told myself there was nothing I could do at that point. What was done was done. Losing my job wasn’t going to bring that little girl back. So I went back to work and kept my mouth shut. That’s when Mr. Blackstone started drinking.”

  The ground seemed to tilt beneath Julia’s feet. “Are you saying my mother . . . my mother . . .” She couldn’t finish.

  He shook his head. “No, no. That’s not what I’m saying. I’ve had a lot of years to mull this over, and I think I figured out what happened. A circus was leasing land on the other side of the tree line, over past the north pasture. After they pulled out the next day, that’s when Mr. Blackstone told me his daughter was gone.”

  She gaped at Claude, a confusing mixture of relief and disgust and adrenaline rushing through her. Relief because Mother wasn’t a murderer, disgust and adrenaline because she knew what was coming next. “Are you saying my mother gave my sister to the circus?”

  He shook his head again. “No, I think she sold her to the circus.”

  Julia’s heartbeat picked up speed. She was right. Lilly was her sister, not her father’s mistress. That was why he saved the circus posters and tickets. That was why he clipped those articles. Still, she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Questions popped into her head faster than she could process them.

  “But why? To get rid of her? It’s not like they needed the money.”

  “I’m not entirely sure. But you have to remember it was the early thirties, during the Depression. The Blackwoods were struggling like everyone else, not horribly by any means, but they were still struggling.”

  “I don’t care! That’s no excuse for—”

  “Just hear me out, will you?”

  She bit her lip, sorrow and anger like a growing mass inside her chest. No wonder her father and mother needed God’s forgiveness. She thought she might scream before Claude told her the rest.

  “About a week after the girl disappeared,” he said, “the Blackwoods bought Blue Venture, the horse that came in second at that year’s Belmont Stakes and Kentucky Derby. After that,
this farm really started raking in money. The Blackwoods hired a trainer, won a few races, then put Blue Venture up for stud. That horse saved Blackwood Farm. And buying him was Mrs. Blackwood’s idea.”

  “Are you telling me my mother used the money to buy a horse?”

  “I believe so.”

  Julia closed her eyes for a moment to let it sink in. How could anyone be so heartless? Keeping your daughter locked in the attic was horrific enough, but selling her to the circus was disgusting and sick. She looked at Claude.

  “How old was my sister when Mother sold her?”

  “Must have been about nine or ten, I’m not completely sure.”

  “Jesus,” she said. “She locked her daughter in the attic for ten years, then sold her to a circus? What kind of monster was my mother anyway?”

  Claude looked away, a dark shadow passing over his face. He scrubbed a hand over his forehead again and sighed loudly, as if he wanted to be anywhere but there. Then he gazed at her with troubled eyes. “There’s something else.”

  She steeled herself. She wasn’t sure she could take much more. “What?”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Mrs. Blackwood wasn’t your mother. This is your mother, right here in this grave.”

  Julia’s knees went weak. “What . . . what do you mean?” She shook her head. “No, that’s . . . that’s not possible. You must be confused.”

  “I’m not confused. Somehow, your mother ended up back on the farm with your grandparents. And you were with her.”

  “My grandparents?” At first, Julia didn’t know who he was talking about, then it hit her and she dropped the flashlight and sank to the ground. My God. The people she thought were her parents were really her grandparents. And Lilly was her mother, not her sister. Her mind reeled with a thousand questions, but she could barely string two thoughts together. “But how . . . why . . .” She struggled to find the right words. “Why on earth would she ever come back here?”