Contents
The Many Lives of June Crandall 1
DEDICATION
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PART 1
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
PART II
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
PART III
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
EPILOGUE
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Life, Take Three (a novella)
Also by Suzanne Whitfield Vince
Copyright ©2014 Suzanne Whitfield Vince
The Many Lives of June Crandall
BY
Suzanne Whitfield Vince
DEDICATION
for sweet baby grace
and for my sister Debbie, whose courage and strength in the face of the unimaginable will inspire me forever
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PART 1
Chapter One
2004
Grace Adams paced the length of the small office of the bookstore. She closed her eyes and drew in a long, slow breath, trying without success to steady her nerves. She could still change her mind, she knew, but she was determined not to. She needed to do this. Needed to put the past behind her, once and for all. And just maybe, in the process, her words would help someone else who grew up lost and afraid to know that they are not alone. To know that their secrets do not define them.
No, she would not run from this moment. This was her moment. A defining moment. One that would make her who she'd always wanted to be. A survivor. All she had to do was walk through the door and embrace it. But something held her back.
Fear.
Being a survivor carried with it certain expectations. Being a survivor meant that she could no longer cling to the past for protection. The walls she'd built to protect herself from all that had happened had served her. But she didn't need them anymore. Writing the book had changed her. Had lessened the emotional scars. Had, in a way, healed her. At least as much as was possible without ever having known the love of her mother.
She took a sip of water, then held her hands out before her. Thank God she wasn't performing brain surgery today. Not that she ever performed brain surgery. But still. She stared at the door--just a few short steps away--and wondered how she was going to muster strength enough to get there.
As she took one step forward and then another, she realized that by writing her story she hadn't just broken down the walls, she had transcended them. She gathered a bolstering breath, pulled open the door, and strode purposefully to the podium. She took a moment to gather her thoughts, then gazed up at the eager audience, pleased to see that so many had come. ""Good afternoon," she began. "My name is Grace Elizabeth Adams, and I'm here to share the real story behind my book, The Many Lives of June Crandall."
1988
Grace Adams floated down the sidewalk toward home, bursting with excitement at having been chosen to care for the class turtles over the summer. At the beginning of the fourth grade--her first year at St. Andrews--she wasn't sure that Samson and Delilah would survive the year.
"You know we're going to dissect them, don't you?" a voice behind her had said on the first day of class.
Feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, Grace whipped around to face Billy Martin. She'd only met him a few times on the playground, but already she hated him. Who could like a boy who always smelled like he'd just passed gas?
"Billy Martin, you are such a creep. We are not going to dissect them," she said, sending up a silent prayer that she was right.
Billy grinned, shrugged and walked away, but not before adding, "You'll see."
Thankfully, Billy Martin had been wrong.
Grace bounded up the steps and blew through the front door of the orphanage, dumped her book bag, and ran straight to find Sister Maggie to share her good news.
"Sister Maggie!"
Strangely, nobody answered. Normally one of the Sisters was around. She knocked lightly on the door to the office, and when she received no answer, she opened it carefully and poked her head in. The entire staff of St. Andrews huddled together, whispering. Everyone, that is, except for Sister Maggie.
The room felt heavy. She didn't like it one bit. "Excuse me," she said, "where may I find Sister Margaret?"
"She's in her room," Sister Marie said, "but you can''t--"
Grace closed the door quietly and raced to the nun's quarters to find Maggie. She knew she shouldn't go down there, knew it was strictly forbidden, but she didn't care.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused and listened. She heard someone weeping and tore down the dark-paneled hallway.
Something's wrong. I just know it.
She continued down the long corridor, calling Maggie's name, and as she reached to turn the knob on the door at the end of the hall, the door pulled open. Grace stood in place, staring at the figure before her. It was Maggie, alright, except it didn't look like her Maggie. This one had swollen eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
Without a moment's thought, Grace launched herself into the arms of the Sister she'd come to love like a mother and cried before she even knew what they were crying about. Suddenly the news that she'd been chosen to care for Samson and Delilah over the summer seemed unimportant.
"Oh, Maggie, what's wrong?"
Maggie took her by the hand and led her into the room, closing the door behind them. Grace looked around the closet-sized room with its paste-colored walls and sparse furnishings. And for the first time, she looked at Maggie and saw a person. Not a nun, not a sort-of mother, but a woman who looked like a girl. A sad and frightened girl. In her eyes, she saw a reflection of herself.
Maggie patted the tiny metal-framed bed and Grace sat down, her stomach twisting into fist-sized knots.
Maggie stared at the blank wall in front of her for a long time. Finally she spoke.
"Grace, I'm afraid I have some...difficult news. I'm being transferred to a convent in Boston."
Grace blinked. "To another orphanage? I'll go with you, Maggie. We can go together." After all, they'd come here together, all the way from California. Suddenly she brightened. Why, this wasn't bad news at all, this would be an adventure!
Maggie's eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face in her hands.
Grace pulled them away.
"Maggie, tell me I can go with you. I must go with you," she said, hysteria rising in her voice.
"I'm afraid not, my dear. I'll be working in the community there, helping people in need."
"Did I...do something wrong? Is that why they're sending you away?" Her voice trembled as she spoke.
Maggie gripped Grace's shoulders. "Oh, sweetheart, this has nothing to do with you, I promise. The convent in Boston has lost two Sisters recently and they are in need of help."
Grace's chin quivered. "But...I need you. Please, tell them how much I need you. You''re my mother, and I can't live without you!"
Sister Maggie drew Grace into her arms and rocked her back and forth.
"It'll be okay, Grace. We can write to each other, and you have lots of friends here. You're going to be just fine."
Grace's mouth gaped open but no words would come. No, this isn't happening. She shook her head in denial. No, no, no. She would not be fine. She would not be fine at all. Ever since she and Maggie and some of the other kids had come to St. Andrews the year before, she'd been shunned by the other children. She never wanted to come here, never wanted to leave the St. Francis orphanage in Pasadena. Life there was good. Everyone there loved her, and she loved them--even the boys. They were her family. The only family she'd ever known.
St. Andrews, in Peekskill, New York, was cold and dreary and lonely. The kids here were hard and mean. She'd tried to make friends, but after they just ignored her long enough, she'd given up. She kept to herself, writing her stories and sketching.
Over the next several days, she moped around the residence, mad at everybody. She was even mad at God for what he was doing to her. She begged Mother Pascal to change her mind about sending Maggie away, but she wouldn't budge.
"You must be brave and strong and put your trust in God," Mother said. "He loves you and He will take care of you."
At night, Grace clung to Maggie as they curled on the mint-green velveteen sofa and watched television with the other children. And every time Maggie tucked her into bed and whispered, "Grace is a very special girl who can do anything she puts her mind to," Grace counted down the days until she would hear those words no more.
Only three left.
Who would tell her she was special then? Who would love her--really love her--the way Maggie loved her? Now she would be a real orphan, just like all the others.
Grace pulled the covers up to her chin and blinked into the inky darkness. When she thought about life without Maggie, her heart hurt so badly she thought she might die. Tears leaked from her eyes and plopped loudly onto her pillow. Clutching her raggedy old teddy bear, Theodore Izzle, she turned onto her side and sobbed into her pillow.
She tossed and turned, not falling asleep until just before dawn. The sound of a car door closing woke her. Flinging back the covers, she shot out of bed and raced to the window. She rubbed sleep from her eyes until she could see clearly in the dim light. Sister Maggie climbed into a white van, and Father Timothy closed the door behind her.
Oh, God, no!
She sprinted down the narrow staircase, her silky black hair billowing out behind her, and shot out the front door just as the van pulled out of the circular drive. She ran after it, flailing her arms frantically and yelling at the top of her lungs. "Maggie, wait! No, please don't go! Don't leave me! Maggie, please!"
At the edge of the driveway, she tripped and skidded on her hands and knees as the van drove off, taking Maggie away from her forever. She collapsed in a heap onto the brick-paved drive and sobbed.
She didn't notice the other children gathered outside. Nor did she feel the arms of Father Mike as he scooped her up and carried her upstairs, placing her gently in her own bed. She clung to the scruffy old bear and pulled the covers up over her head. Silence filled the room as she lay whimpering into the darkness. Eventually, her breathing slowed and she slipped into a dream. A dream unlike any she could remember.
Chapter Two
Grace stood in a small field, holding a hoe in blistered hands. She glanced at the other women and children, and at the man in the black uniform with a big gun who stood watch over them. She looked down at her clothes--a tattered, striped dress with a white apron, old black ankle-high boots laced tightly on her feet, and a white scarf over her shaved head. She couldn't tell her age from looking down at herself, but she looked older than ten--her age in...real life.
She watched the other women working and hoeing, but couldn't figure out what they were digging for. The uniformed man stomped toward her, shouting in a language she'd never heard before, but strangely, she understood him.
"Holen Sie sich wieder an die Arbeit machen!" Get back to work!
Fear shot through her. She started digging, and the man backed away. As she hoed, she glanced at the girl beside her, who looked to be about her age. Confusion swirled through her mind, making it difficult to stand upright. Where am I? Who am I? What am I doing here?
What seemed like days later, the man blew a whistle and the women arranged themselves into lines. Wearier than she'd ever been in her life, she dropped the hoe in the pile and took her place on line as the man marched them to what looked like a prison. When they arrived, they stepped through a gate, and when the last of them entered, the gate clanged shut behind them. A jolt of fear and a flicker of recognition shot through her, as if she'd been here before, but that was impossible. Wasn't it?
Shifting from one foot to the other, she glanced around at the other young women, searching their eyes for answers. Some smiled, some wore a vacant expression, but one by one, each of them was greeted by someone Grace assumed were their mothers. She stood alone, praying that someone would come for her. What if no one does? What will happen to me then? How will I explain that I have no idea who I am or why I'm here?
After everyone cleared out, a woman, dressed like her, approached. The woman threw her arms around her and hugged her. "Oh my darling Adrianka, how are you?"
Relief swept through her and, overcome by the strange events of the day, Grace collapsed in the woman's arms. "Mother?" she whispered into the woman''s ear, surprising herself by speaking the same foreign language the woman used to greet her.
"Yes my darling. Come, let's go home."
She led Grace to their barracks. They lived in a large room with hundreds of other women, bunks stacked four high with barely enough room to squeeze in beneath the bunk above. The mattresses, little more than flat bags of straw, contained one thin blanket neatly folded at the foot of each. And it smelled like a cross between the cafeteria on the days they boiled cabbage and the place in the schoolyard where the boys peed when they were too lazy to go inside to use the bathroom.
Resisting the urge to plug her nose, Grace whispered into her mother's ear. "Mother, where are we? What are we doing here?"
Her mother offered a weary smile and cradled her daughter's face in her hands. "My poor baby, I know, it was very hot today and you are very tired. Come, let's go have our meal and then I will tuck you into bed."
She let her mother lead her by the hand to a corner of the barracks where one of the women ladled soup out of a big, iron kettle. The nightly meal consisted of a tasteless, watery soup that contained only a single piece of potato, but Grace ate as if she were starving.
After dinner, they went outside in the yard for some fresh air. A foul odor hung in the air. It smelled like...fear, or death, or something equally as frightening. She took her mother's hand and imagined the smell of the fresh baked bread she''d enjoyed as a child, but that just made her hungry again.
When they returned to the barracks, she climbed into one of the bunks, surprised when her mother climbed into the narrow bunk beside her. But maybe she shouldn't be surprised. After all, far more women lived in the room than the stacked bunks could hold. The rest of the women slept on thin mats on the floor.
"Mother, I am so confused. Please tell me where we are. What are we doing here? What is my name, and yours?"
"Oh my silly girl," she said. "Alright
, I will humor you, though I can't for the life of me imagine why you would want to hear such a story. It is wartime, 1942, and we are in Germany, in a camp for women. Your name is Adrianka Crandall, and I am your mother, June Crandall. We are from Czechoslovakia, but were brought here by the Germans after your father was murdered by soldiers."
She studied her mother's face as she spoke. Her mother had the most beautiful blue eyes she'd ever seen--like the sky on a perfect, cloudless day----and a perfect mouth with full lips. She heard her mother's words but she still couldn't understand how she'd gotten here. This didn't seem like anything she would daydream about, and it seemed more real than an actual dream, but perhaps that's all it was--a dream. She hugged her mother and allowed herself to feel loved. Her mother held her close, then kissed her goodnight.
"Good night, milacku," she said to Grace. Good night, my darling.
So this is what it feels like to have a mother.
A warmth spread through her, filled her up. And despite the hard labor in the fields and the awful food, she felt happy, and loved.
She was jolted awake. "Wake up, Grace. You're going to be late for the last day of school."
Grace blinked several times, unsure at first about exactly where she was. She looked at the girl speaking to her--she knew it was Valerie Baxter, one of the girls in her dorm, but she looked like a stranger--and nodded. Then she rolled out of bed and hurried into her school uniform.
As she braided her long dark hair, she thought about the woman from her dream. She closed her eyes and remembered the feeling of her mother's body lying so close to hers--holding her, loving her--and she knew that she would never forget what it had felt like to have a real mother, even if just for a little while.
After school that day, Grace pulled out her sketchpad and colored pencils and drew a picture of her mother. She remembered every feature of her face, and while she had been bald like Adrianka, she gave her mother miles of beautiful black silky hair in the sketch.
The Many Lives of June Crandall Page 1