Drawn Away

by Holly Bennett

  It’s good that she was a girl. I’m not sure Henricksen could have swallowed giving his name to Donal’s boy, whatever he promised. But he softened at the sight of the tiny girl baby, and whatever his faults, he never spoke of her father.

  Klara was just starting to walk, a bright, babbling little thing with the widest blue eyes. She was my only joy, but I worried after her as well. Though Henricksen had never threatened any harm to her while she was a helpless infant in a cradle, now that she was on her feet it would be harder to keep her out of his way. If she, clumsy and heedless as little ones are, ever fell against his legs when he was full of whiskey…I could not bear to picture it.

  Wrapped in these gloomy thoughts, I didn’t hear the knocking at the door until it grew sharp and insistent.

  My legs almost gave way when I recognized him. How could I not be laid low at the sight and by the mad welter of feelings he triggered? Impossible to hold all those feelings at once, and so what they distilled into was a kind of rage—against the world, against God himself, I suppose, for letting this cruelty happen. For, you understand, I had slowly come to accept that my parents had been right, that Donal would not come. And now, pain on top of pain, here he was, and I trapped.

  “They said you are married.” The voice flat, accusing. Now I took in the expression on Donal’s face and saw that I was not the only angry one.

  “You took too long.” I flung it back at him. “My parents sold me off like old stock.”

  “I couldn’t help it. There was a storm, a shipwreck. We were blown far into the Caribbea—” His features twisted; he too carried pain inside the anger. “Ah, Sigrid, I—” He stepped inside the threshold and carefully shut the door. “Will you not come here to me?”

  He opened his arms, and, married woman though I was, I held my breath and stepped into them. And it all came back—the sweetness of our time together, the happiness I’d almost grasped. I was crying, and he smoothed back my hair and whispered, “Do you love him?”

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “Then come away with me. I have a ticket for passage on my ship in my pocket. There is a room in Boston waiting for us, a start until we can plant our feet. There is no need for us to change our plans.”

  Klara’s shrill cry came from the back room. We both stiffened.

  “There’s a baby?” Donal’s face was a mask I couldn’t read. It wasn’t joy I saw there though—that was certain. I fled to the back room and stood with the baby, freshly wakened from her nap, as my mind and heart raced. I was afraid he would be gone when I returned. I was afraid he would not want her.

  But when I stood before him, holding her on my hip, and said softly, “This is Klara,” his eyes widened.

  “But she is…how old is she?”

  “She is not quite a year. Donal, she is yours. She is the reason my parents made me marry.”

  It is a marvelous thing to watch a man fall in love with a child. It made me fall in love with him all over again.

  He stayed over an hour, as long we dared, and when he left our plans were set. I had money for coach hire and a ticket tucked into my petticoats, and had promised to board the Liberty two days hence.

  “Be strong, Sigrid,” he said before he left. “You are my wife, and Klara is my child. Whatever the law says, we have the right of it.”

  And who in America could say I was not Mrs. Sullivan? No one, that’s who.

  TWENTY-ONE

  KLARA

  Something else is happening, something I don’t like. For the longest time I had no feelings at all, and then I had feelings for Jack, and that was like a beautiful bright flower in a gray room. But now I have so many other feelings, bad feelings. It happened last night—one minute I was just standing there, as usual, and the next I was weeping, overcome with fear and grief. It passed, eventually, but the memory stays with me, and sometimes shadows of sadness shudder through me, and a kind of longing.

  It must be longing for Jack. I am sick and sad without him. He must come to me.

  I’ve had the most brilliant idea—I am quite beside myself with excitement. I was bent over Little Jack, saying my spell. I get tired of saying the same words over and over, and discouraged when he doesn’t come, but I keep trying. What else is there for me to do? At least when I am working with Little Jack, it keeps away those gusts of desolation.

  So, as I said, I was repeating my spell when the idea came to me. I could strengthen its power by actually tying Little Jack to me. I reached up and pulled out three strands of my own hair, wrapped them round and round Little Jack’s neck and body, and carefully tied them. Oh, I felt powerful then; I could feel the strength surge up within me and wrap around Little Jack as snug and tight as the coils of hair!

  I am in my spot with my matches now, but I can hardly keep still for excitement. The tingly power is still in me, making me restless and fidgety. I feel as though I truly have a body. Oh, it is a wondrous feeling, almost like being alive.

  TWENTY-TWO

  JACK

  The Turtle Trauma Centre had been great; it reminded me of why I was taking all these science courses in the first place. I’m not entirely sure what I want to do with them. I think probably environmental studies rather than straight biology, like my dad, but I’ve also wondered about veterinary college. Now I wondered about that again, though I guess nobody really makes a living doing wildlife rehab. They made it pretty clear at the center that they were always desperately short of money.

  On the way home on the bus, Ms. Chung handed out our assignments. “Due on Wednesday, people. Get it in on time, or it will count as zero on your midterm report.”

  Midterm? That caught my attention. I wasn’t used to Ontario’s semester system, and I’d been acting like I had the whole year to complete my courses. Now I realized they were more than half over—and I was starting to get behind on almost everything. I had a chem lab overdue, an upcoming math test I hadn’t studied for, my research project on the evidence linking neonicotinoids and other pesticides to the collapse of bee colonies barely started… I was really only caught up in drama, and that only because we were doing group work that I felt compelled to show up for.

  Plus, university applications would be coming up soon. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to go straight on to university, but I thought I’d better apply anyway. So it would be my first-semester marks they’d be looking at, and especially the science and math.

  The Sunday marathon D&D game Rafe had been recruiting for went up in a wistful puff of smoke. But the prospect of spending the weekend up to my ears in schoolwork wasn’t as depressing as you might think—honestly, it would be a relief to put the mystery of the Match Girl aside and wrestle with something more concrete. I didn’t think there was much more I could learn from HCA and his annoying diaries and letters anyway.

  It was just as well Lucy was away—she would be a far preferable distraction. I felt a little flash of guilt. She was probably in the same boat, thanks to me, and with less chance to catch up.

  Sunday afternoon. I was well into my bee-colony report, really focusing, for a change, when out of nowhere I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I missed Lucy. I felt restless and anxious and like I needed to see and hold her right now. I checked my phone—a little past two. Her grandfather’s funeral would just be starting. A phrase came to me from Lord of the Rings, how Bilbo says he feels “thin and stretched”—and for the first time I really got what that meant. Then I imagined the Match Girl as Gollum, and all hope of finishing the report went out the window.

  I thought of taking Snowball for a walk to try to shake off my antsy feeling and creepy thoughts. But then I decided something more extreme was required, so I left the crestfallen dog behind and went for a run. I ran till I was sweaty and out of breath and too tired to be jittery. Then I came home, chugged half a Coke to prevent a post-run low, and headed to the shower. I closed my eyes under the hottest spray I could stand and focused on Lucy. I pictured every detail I could conjure, ima
gined the strong feeling of her hand holding on to mine when we’d done that dopey spell-breaking thing.

  By the time I stepped out of the shower, I’d lost an hour and a half out of the afternoon. But I had gotten myself steady enough to go back to the bees.

  LUCY

  The weekend went by in a blur. My mom rousted me up on Saturday morning so I could help her navigate across town and over the canal to the train station. Uncle Stephen arrived with a beat-up backpack and a heavy stubble of beard. On the ride back to Grampa’s, and all through lunch, he talked nonstop about the Syrian refugee camp he was working in (in Lebanon, it turned out, not Syria) and the terrible conditions they faced. Finally, my mom couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Stephen.” She waited for her tone to sink in, and finally he wound down and blinked at her.

  “Sorry. What?”

  “We need to talk about your father. I’ve done what I can, but you’re his son, and there are some things you need to deal with. The priest wants to talk with you this afternoon, for one, so he can give a proper eulogy.”

  Stephen sighed and rubbed his hand back and forth across the top of his head, a gesture so like my dad’s, I was sure my mom’s heart gave the same little lurch as mine did. “I’m sorry, Alice. Jet lag and denial—it’s a bad combination.” He looked around the grimy little kitchen. “Is there decent coffee to be had in this hovel? Caffeine me up, and I’ll be ready to get to work.”

  Mom caught my eye as she put the kettle on, and we shared an internal smirk. It was a family joke how Uncle Stephen would happily live for months on end in a tent when he was on assignment, but insisted on high-end everything when he was home. It was almost worth sleeping on that gross couch to witness his horror when he realized we’d been camping at Grampa’s. “You’re not telling me you’re staying here! You mean overnight? Good God. I’ll call my hotel right away and book an extra room. On me.”

  We checked in en route to the cathedral, and while the two beds piled high with white duvets looked wonderful, I found I was sad to leave Grampa’s. It seemed like the real goodbye, yet we’d just rushed off without a thought.

  “Do you want to stay here and get some work done, Lucy?” Mom and Stephen were heading right out again.

  Work. I’d barely touched it since we’d left town, and I was behind to start with. But I knew if I stayed, I wouldn’t get anything done anyway, not with Sigrid’s notebook waiting for me. And there was something else on my mind.

  “Um, Mom…do you think I could get something to wear to the funeral? If there’s anywhere nearby to shop, that is.” I found it surprisingly hard to say, as if I were admitting or surrendering to something. So then I felt compelled to explain, “I just want to wear something Grampa would like.”

  The next day was the funeral, and we were all fried by the time we said good night to Uncle Steve and headed back to our hotel room. He’d been pretty intense over dinner, trying to sort out enough details that he could head back to Montreal the next morning and catch a night flight to Lebanon. Mom flopped onto her bed, kicked off her shoes and groaned in relief.

  “Bath and bed for me. Though I bet I won’t be able to sleep.”

  I glanced around the room, wondering how I could read, or do anything, without disturbing her. Then I noticed the little built-in lights in the tall headboard—almost like those airplane spotlights. With them on, there’d be very little light reaching the other bed.

  I should never have stopped. I should have gotten into the coach and not looked back until I was on the ship.

  But to disappear with no explanation and no farewell—how could I be so heartless? And so I pulled the coach over and knocked on my mother’s door.

  Her face softened at the sight of Klara. Her little Peder, never strong, had not survived the winter, and she had taken it hard. But I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I’ve come to say goodbye. I am sailing for America with Donal.”

  Mama opened her mouth in protest, but before a sound came out closed it again. I could almost see her calculating, and whether she simply accepted that there was no stopping me this time or concluded that I was better off away, in the end she simply nodded. Then her eyes fell on Klara, and the dismay returned.

  “But you can’t be thinking of taking her?”

  “Of course I am taking her. She is my child—and Donal’s.”

  “But the crossing! It’s terrible hard on the little ones. You’ve no idea! Many don’t survive it. Oh, Sigrid, what if she should sicken and perish?” Her hand clutched at my arm, and I saw how bony and worn it had become. Losing her own baby, I thought, had left her unnaturally fearful.

  I shook her off. “Don’t be silly, Mama. We will both be fine.” I said the words bravely, though I was suddenly filled with worry. I knew nothing about conditions on a ship.

  She wrung her hands, her eyes locked on Klara, mouth working as though she would protest more. But it seemed she found no more words to say.

  “Well then. God keep you, Mama.” I turned my back on my childhood home.

  “Wait. You’ll need help at the docks.”

  With bewildering speed, my mother had changed tack and was pulling on her cloak, giving orders over her shoulder to Greta and climbing into my coach.

  It was true—I did need help. I had our clothes and the worn linens I had brought to my marriage in the old carpetbag I had left my parents’ house with, and what few household items I had dared take tied in a bundle with the nappies. I was wearing my winter coat despite the warm weather, had Klara tied into a shawl on my hip, and the ticket and a handful of precious coins slung in a carryall around my neck. An extra pair of hands would be very welcome.

  It was loud and chaotic at the docks, and I was glad to have Mama at my side helping me figure out where to go. There was a long jostling line of passengers waiting to board the American ship SS Liberty. Donal had told me what the ship’s name meant, and it seemed to me a promise of a better life ahead. We took our place in the line, and as we shuffled slowly forward with our burdens, Klara began to squirm and complain in the tight shawl. Soon she was struggling and crying, and I was having a hard time hanging on to her.

  “I’ll take the baby and walk her about while you wait,” Mama offered, putting the carpetbag down at my side.

  I never thought twice, but handed her over gratefully. The line surged forward, I dragged my bundles and bags along, and Mama hovered nearby, dandling Klara or holding on to her little fists while she toddled about. When, sweating in my coat and gripping my ticket, I finally had my turn, I was glad Mama was not at hand to hear me give my name as Sigrid Sullivan. My ticket was stamped, and then I was sent on farther to the ship’s surgeon, who looked in my throat and felt my forehead and then shooed me on to the gangplank.

  “Wait, I just have to get my baby.” I looked back to call to my mother and could not find her in the crowd.

  “Mama!” I tried to find a higher place where I could see more easily, but I was hemmed in by the people before and behind me and the ropes funneling us toward the ship.

  A man in uniform motioned me along to the ship. I shook my head. “I have to go back. My mother’s holding the baby.”

  He looked annoyed. “Be quick,” he cautioned. “They won’t hold the ship.”

  I craned my neck, hoping against hope Mama would appear at my side. More passengers were coming up behind—how could I push my way past them with all my things? “Can I leave my things here?”

  Not waiting for an answer, I dumped them at his feet and struggled back, calling loudly for my mother.

  She was gone. I ran through the crowds, becoming more and more frantic, but there was no sight of her.

  She’s taken Klara. As soon as the thought came to me, I knew it was true. It was not just the fear she had expressed for the baby’s safety; it was the look on her face when she took Klara in her arms. I pictured it once more in my memory, and what I saw made me sick and weak. I had been so distracted, I had only seen a fond grandmother.
But there was a kind of greed—or need—in the way she’d reached for my baby. It was common for weak infants to die, as her Peder had, but common can still be cruel. Perhaps even after five children, he had left an empty place in my mother’s heart.

  When the ticket master came to tell me my belongings had been taken aboard and it was my last chance to embark, I began weeping so hard I could hardly make myself understood. He was sympathetic enough, but the choice before me was plain: if I wanted to sail, it had to be now.

  “No, I can’t! I have to get my baby! Just bring my things back.”

  He looked dubious. “They’ll be stowed belowdecks now. You’ll likely have to fill out a claim form to have them sent back on the next crossing.”

  I stared at him, disbelieving. How could this be happening? “I have to talk to my husband. He’s working on board.”

  He became hard. “Listen, girl. Do you see them casting off the ropes? The ship is leaving. The only question is, will you be on it or not?”

  I squeezed shut my eyes and tried to think. How could I go back to Henricksen, with all my clothes and the baby’s things missing? The bedding I had taken, some cookware…if I survived the beating, he would very likely cast me out.

  But to leave my Klara—it was unthinkable. Then I pictured my mother, beaming down at her granddaughter, and knew that at least she would not give her to Henricksen’s care. She would raise Klara herself, and he would be content to let her. Klara would be safe. But she was mine—mine and Donal’s!

  A firm hand fell on my arm. “You must run, if you are to board.”

  I sucked in a breath. I thought of Donal and America and the plans we had made. I thought of Henricksen, and the grim, dark future Klara and I both faced with him.