by Mary Hogan
“Can I use the car today?” It was Lee’s first full day off since she’d turned eighteen. Unbelievably, she was awake and alert by nine.
“Sure, honey. What’s up?” Ready for work, Val was spot-cleaning a smudge on her uniform. Esther Adell hated her maid to look mussed while she cleaned the toilets.
“I want to research more about the Ashkenazi genetics. You know, make sure I know all I need to know, medically. So, I thought I’d go to the library.”
Like any good lie, Lee’s story skirted the edges of truth. As a point of fact, the medical genetics of her newly uncovered DNA barely made a dent in her consciousness. Yeah, she’d feel for lumps in the shower, have her baseline mammogram at forty, a Pap smear at twenty-one. Blah, blah, blah. At eighteen, however, another matter was on her mind: Identifying her dead birth mother without upsetting her living mom. And Clara Barton—the woman who founded the American Red Cross—was going to help.
“Library?” Val said. “How retro.”
“I hear they have these rectangular objects inside them? I think they’re called buks?”
Valerie laughed. “Don’t forget to sunscreen the backs of your hands.” She followed Lee out the pool-house door. After seeing the mottled claws of the yellow jackets each time they dabbed linen napkins at the corners of their scrunchie lips, Valerie slathered sunscreen on her hands—and neck and face—365 days a year.
“Already done.” Car keys in hand, Lee waggled her fingers midair. “I’ll be home for dinner.”
“Dinner? Good heavens. How much is there to know?”
She had no idea.
“Maybe I’ll pick up Baja Fresh?”
Yesterday was payday. Things were looking up.
MULHOLLAND DRIVE SNAKED over the Santa Monica Mountains. It squiggled along thirsty brown cliffs and crispy ravines spiked with olive-green succulents. Even with the air conditioner on full blast—Lee had filled the tank—heat baked the windshield and sent waves of warmth onto her chest. She held the steering wheel at its base. On top of it, her hands would have been fried like two bugs beneath a magnifying glass. Sunscreen or not.
Driving her tatty car past the mottled gray trunks of eucalyptus trees, hills polka-dotted with pine scrub, overgrown hippie houses, and millionaires’ curved driveways, Lee deliberately shut her mind off from all thoughts of her friend Shelby, her dad, her brother burrowed into the Idaho woods. It was time to let them go. Especially since they were already gone. Beneath the solar blast of the Southern Californian sun, she focused on the road ahead. Everything else was a sad rearview.
After crossing Sunset Boulevard at the light, Lee steered into a residential neighborhood. Down palm-lined streets. Past old-money Spanish mansions and new-money cubic fortresses of glass and white stucco. Straight through the heart of Beverly Hills. Today, Lee Parker would mingle with the one percent.
The landmark library was gorgeous. Tucked into the historic City Hall complex—with its robin’s-egg-blue-and-yellow Castilian tiled dome and Gothic arches—it was everything a research structure should be. Quiet, imposing, illuminated by natural light, and both modern and reeking of history. Merely standing inside it made Lee feel like she could accomplish anything. The very air in Beverly Hills was scented with success. Its sunlight was more golden than the Valley’s harsh white-hot glare.
Beneath one of the high arched windows, Lee sat at a vacant computer. Across from her, a middle-aged woman with carp lips smiled fakely. Why would a woman inject stuff into her lips? Lee wondered. Who wants to look like a fish? Lee had never understood Southern California’s obsession with plastic surgery, the way so many women chose to erase all individuality from their faces. Crazy.
Wearing Levi’s and an Old Navy T-shirt, Lee knotted her bushel of hair atop her head. Unlike most girls her age, she steadfastly refused to succumb to fashion’s whims. All that fuss over frills. Didn’t women know they were pawns? Manipulated to change styles each season only to enrich designers and keep money flowing into stores. Wasn’t there a better use of funds? Like, what Shelby told her in her last text: “A single pair of Balmain jeans can feed and house a Malawian for more than two years.”
It made you think. Particularly if you didn’t have enough money to buy jeans at Target.
Lee’s one concession to bling was the vintage Hollycraft bracelet her grandmother gave her before she died. Lee never took it off. Its pastel rhinestones twirled around her wrist in tiny daisies. She loved the way the rock crystals caught the light, flickering freckles of color into the air.
Setting her backpack on the floor at her feet, Lee got busy. She wiggled the mouse to wake the computer and typed “Clara Barton” into the search engine. The screen filled with links. As she had frustratingly attempted on her iPhone, Lee rolled the cursor up to the “images” icon to—hopefully—find the photo from her adoption file. Wasn’t everything online if you dug deeply enough? Down she scrolled. Down, down, down. Pages of black-and-white portrait photos appeared. Young Clara Barton and old. Round, smooth cheeks and lined eyes. Serene smiles. Crinoline dresses buttoned up the neck. Red Cross brooches. Battlefield illustrations. Images of wounded soldiers. On and on and on. But no woman with dark hair standing with Clara Barton in rubble.
Bending down, Lee reached into her pack for the thermos of green tea she’d brought with her. A Starbucks Trenta Teavana was more than five bucks! Absurd. After pouring herself a cup of tea and taking a sip, she returned her long fingers to the keyboard and left the images link to launch a Web search. If she couldn’t find the photo, she was determined to figure out where it was taken. And when. Even if it took all day, she would unearth what she needed to know about the one person who could lead her to her roots. Clara Barton, the founder of the American Red Cross, had somehow met her great-great-great-grandmother, at some time, in the aftermath of some calamity. Before the day was done, Lee was going to find out what it was.
Again, she fortified herself with a sip of tea and a deep inhalation. Judging by the vast amount of links on the screen before her, digging into Clara Barton’s life would be an excavation.
“Here we go,” Lee whispered under her breath.
Click.
Right away, Lee Parker learned that Clara Barton was not only a woman of her time, but one ahead of her time, too. Both lonely places for a nineteenth-century woman to be.
CHAPTER 17
Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association
SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB
Summer 1888
The thumping of Mother’s footfalls up the stairs rattles the entire cottage. Nettie is rattled, too; her hands quiver as she rushes to remove my gown.
“Leave us, please,” Mother says when she sweeps into my room without so much as a tap on the door. Tucking her chin, Nettie pivots and silently disappears, turning the knob all the way to the right to soundlessly give us privacy. With the back of my dress only half unbuttoned, I nonetheless take a deep breath and turn to face my punishment with my head held high. “I acted purposefully, Mother,” I say, attempting to camouflage my nerves in haughtiness. “My sanity, and my reputation, are intact.”
Mother says, “Here.” Brusquely, she spins me around to continue what Nettie had started. “You mustn’t soil your gown. Whatever possessed you to bring it to the lake?”
Truthfully, I haven’t a proper answer. The honest reply would be a single word: love.
On my last trip to New York, traveling with Father, I’d seen the gown on a mannequin in a dressmaker’s shop window along Sixth Avenue. At first sight, I lost my breath. Such fine detailing. What exquisite color combinations. Cream, blush, butter. The pleating, the rosettes. Perfection. Quite simply, it called to me.
“Father, I must loo—”
“Go,” he’d said. As the fates would have it, there was a cigar shop a few doors down with its own smoking room. Father had regarded it covetously as we strolled past. Brilliant location on the Ladies’ Mile. How many other fash
ionable women had deposited their fathers and husbands there? My father was all too happy to escort me into the dress shop with the promise that he would return in half an hour or so. Smelling, no doubt, of Brazilian tobacco—his favorite.
Oh, what a joy that dress shop was. Running my hand over the silks was like stroking the belly of a kitten. The gown in the window was French (of course), from the House of Worth. Charles Frederick Worth was expanding his ready-to-wear line beyond Paris. No stylish American lady could boast a proper wardrobe without at least one of his creations. Not that the dress in the window was factory-made. Heavens no. It was a Charles Worth original, intended to do exactly what it did: entice women into the shop.
“I see you in bisque,” one of the gentlemen on the sales floor cooed in my ear as he draped a swatch of sinfully luxurious lace over my shoulder. “See how it complements your raven hair?”
Clearly he believed I was older than my seventeen years. A fact that flattered me no end. I smiled regally as I noted the elegant way he wore his foppishly billowing ascot. Was that clear varnish on his nails?
“The proportions of your figure are exquisite, my dear,” he went on. “Mr. Worth would be honored to personally design a gown for you that would be the talk of New York.”
“I live in Pittsburgh,” I said, adding, “Upper St. Clair.”
“Even better. Have you any special events upcoming?”
Disclosing my debut the following year would reveal my youth. Plus, the gentleman would most certainly conclude that Father couldn’t afford such a splendid couture dress if he believed I would purchase a debut gown a full year before the ball—one that wouldn’t be the very latest style.
“Wouldn’t wearing a Charles Worth original make any event special?” I asked with a twinkle in my voice, pleased at my quick wit.
Throwing his head back in a hearty laugh, the salesman steered me over to the pier glass and said, “Let me fetch Miss Callaghan to take your measurements.”
I asked, “Might the dress in the window fit me?”
One brow cocked like a pixie’s. “Let’s see.”
How could I say no?
I could not. Though Father could. After Miss Callaghan took me into the dressing room to assist me into the gown, Father returned to the store to find that his daughter was passionately in love.
“It’s divine,” I said, swooning, twirling so that the lace overlay fluttered like a butterfly’s wings. “The only alterations needed are minor. The cuffs and the hem and perhaps the tiniest tuck in the waist.”
“Do you have any idea of the cost, Elizabeth?” he said quietly in my ear. It wasn’t a question seeking an answer. More, it was a statement that I’d gone mad.
“Priceless, I should think,” I whispered in return. “I’ll wear it at my debut. You’ll have the most beautiful daughter in all of Pittsburgh.”
At that moment, it wasn’t a complete untruth. In my mind I told myself that I would wear that stunning gown if I were able to resist showing it off before my coming-out ball. If. Dizzy amid so many fine textiles, how could I be blamed for lacking the clarity I needed to tell the absolute truth? Besides, Father would never remember what I promised a full year earlier. He wouldn’t even remember Mother’s birthday if our butler didn’t prod him with the gift he bought for her. Using household funds, of course.
“I already have the most beautiful daughter in Pittsburgh,” Father said.
Extending my neck to kiss his cheek, I told him quite honestly, “I shall expire at this very moment if I cannot call a Charles Worth original my own.”
Silently, the salesman appeared behind us. Almost to himself he said, “Nothing makes a woman feel more prized than a touch of glimmer to bounce the light.”
How extraordinarily true.
How could Father say no?
He did not.
When we returned home to Pittsburgh on the evening train, with a large tissue-wrapped package, Father told Mother he’d been unable to resist. Mother sighed. “I knew it was dangerous leaving you alone with her.”
It took a few weeks for my grandfather’s talented apprentice to fine-tune the alterations. By the time he was done, we were nearly set to summer at Lake Conemaugh. The mere thought of leaving such a masterpiece alone in an Upper St. Clair cupboard for three months was unbearable. I had to have it with me. To stroke it and admire it and try it on from time to time. So I brought an extra trunk.
Who knew I might need it so soon?
In my cottage bedroom, with Mother’s help, I step out of the glorious gown. She also unfastens my petticoat and releases my rib cage from its corseted vise, carefully laying the items flat on my bed for Nettie. Then she turns to me—still in my underclothes—and says, “Sit.”
I sit. My earlier confidence has all but drained away. I feel tears approaching. My head dangles forward on my neck. A purple snapdragon tumbles onto my lap.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Mother says.
Lips trembling, I nod. “Discretion and propriety are as important to Father’s practice as a proper diagnosis.” I echo Mother’s frequent admonition. She sits beside me and takes my hands in her soft grip.
“My brilliant daughter,” she says.
“But, I—pardon?” Looking up, I can do little else but blink.
“Unless you do something irreversible in the coming year, you’ll have your pick of Pittsburgh’s best after your debut. Even the handsome Mr. Tottinger, if you want him. I saw the telltale expression in his eyes.”
“Expression?”
“Awe, my darling. That very rarest of emotions.”
Rising, Mother catches her reflection in my dressing-table mirror. She reaches her hands up to smooth her hair into shape. Before leaving me alone to my thoughts, she says, “We have much work to do. You are not to leave the cottage today. But tomorrow, wear the lavender cotton.”
CHAPTER 18
OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS
Christmas Day
December 25, 1821
Christmas morning in eastern Massachusetts is stunning. Pristine snowfall blankets the fields like cake frosting; ice sheets slide down the French River. The morning Clara Barton came into the world was no different. Except, perhaps, for the scandal of her birth.
“Whatever was Sarah thinking?”
“Clearly there was no thought at all.” The ladies of the village snickered behind their gloved hands as they descended the church steps. Word had spread quickly that forty-year-old Sarah Barton had delivered a daughter that morning. But the women in town had been gossiping about it for months.
“I, for one, feel sorry for the poor dear. To be married to a husband with such an appetite. No wonder Sarah spends so much time cleaning her home. It’s her only rest.”
After an eruption of laughter, the ladies of Oxford hurried into the warmth of the nearest home to resume the more decorous discussion of the proper baby gift for a child who was so clearly an accident.
Honestly, few women in town were close to Sarah Barton. All those eccentricities! Her family was well off, but she had been seen rummaging through produce bins in search of spoiling fruits and vegetables. It was said she preferred to buy unfresh goods only to cut away the darkened bits. Good heavens. And there was that furious housekeeping. Often, she scrubbed the stairs in her home so vigorously her knuckles bled. Once, she dismantled—piece by piece—the iron stove her husband gave her and threw it in the pond on their property. Its function was subpar, she exclaimed, her cheeks ruddy with fury. Her old fireplace oven worked more efficiently. How could she run an immaculate household with an inferior cookstove?
“It’s not as if baby Clara can wear her sister’s infant clothes or play with her baby toys,” one of the townswomen said. “Dorothea is seventeen.”
At the mention of Clara’s troubled eldest sister, the women fell silent. Dorothea Barton was well known in town. A wild child from the start, she had grown more unmanageable as the years passed. At the most inopportune times, she would
chatter nonstop. Other days, her mood was as dark as a thundercloud. Rousing her from bed was not for the faint of heart. Rebellious and disobedient as she was, it was feared Dorothea would never entice a suitable husband. Who would take on such a handful? The best the family could do was lock her in her room in an attempt to alter her nature. With solitary reflection, they prayed she would remember that she was a lady and act accordingly: passive, compliant, dutiful, beholden to men.
No such blessing. When confined, Dorothea only went mad. So furiously did she pitch back and forth in her rocking chair her father was eventually forced to saw off its legs.
“Did you hear?” One bleak morning, whispers circulated around the village square like wasps over the honeypot. “Dorothea Barton got out.”
“Out?”
“Climbed through her bedroom window.”
“Dear me, no.”
“Her father found her in the backwoods at midnight. Muddy, incoherent. Her hair untended and full of brambles.”
“Is she bound for the asylum?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Mr. Barton has now installed bars on her window. They are at their wits’ end.”
Such was the chaos into which Clara Barton was born. A bipolar sister, obsessive-compulsive mother, and, later, a suicidal brother who scandalized the family by succeeding in taking his own life. Clara, herself, would battle bouts of melancholy, occasionally suffering so severely she found it impossible to pull herself out of bed.
From childhood, Clara Barton learned to navigate the bedlam in her family by steering clear of her tempestuous mother, attempting to calm Dorothea’s manic tirades, and doing her best to fit into a family of adults. All the while fighting a crippling shyness that often rendered her unable to speak.
As Lee Parker discovered that afternoon in the tawny sunlight of the Beverly Hills Library, Clara Barton spent much of her childhood feeling lost and lonely. As if her mere presence were an inconvenience. As though she were always in the way.