The Woman in the Photo

by Mary Hogan

“NETTIE!” IVY AND I are pink-cheeked by the time we reach the cottage at the far end of the access road. I call out to the back of the house as we scurry up the stairs to my room.

  “Coming, miss!”

  Inside my room, Ivy rushes over to the window seat to marvel at the lake view. Only from this height can one see the full breadth of Lake Conemaugh. From up here, its beauty and serenity can’t help but melt other cares away. Nettie thumps up the stairway. In my open doorway, she dries her wet hands on her apron and says, “I didn’t expect to see you before it was time to dress for supper.”

  “Change of plans. Could you please help me out of these clothes and into something suitable for a row across the lake?”

  “Certainly, miss.”

  “And my young friend here would like to try on my Charles Worth.”

  Nettie stops. “The gown?”

  “Whatever else?” I stand before the vanity mirror and smooth the thick waves in my braided bun. “Plus we must do something about her ringlets. Can you do a quick French twist?”

  Ivy squeals and leaps up. “Might you frazzle my bangs, too, Nettie?”

  Upon hearing Ivy’s British accent, Nettie darts a knowing look at my reflection in the mirror. Perhaps I had mentioned that James Tottinger had a sister; perhaps Nettie had heard Mother speak of it from the other side of my closed bedroom door. “What hairstyles do proper ladies wear in England, then?” she asks.

  Frowning, Ivy says, “We are hopelessly behind you Americans. Absolutely everything in London is old, old, old. But I shall watch carefully, Nettie, so that I can teach my maid something new.”

  “Let’s get to it, then.” With expertise born from years of dressing and undressing me, Nettie quickly has me out of my lavender cotton and into a suitable white linen ensemble that will look splendid against the beryl backdrop of Lake Conemaugh. While I search for a matching sunbonnet, she bustles over to my wardrobe to gently remove my Charles Frederick Worth original from its linen covering. Upon first glimpse, Ivy gasps. “I only dreamed of feeling the softness of this satin!”

  “Yes,” I say, with a hint of superiority, “Mr. Worth dresses royalty.”

  With Nettie’s help, young Ivy steps out of her frilly girl’s dress and into the luxury I felt against my skin a mere day ago. When Nettie turns Ivy toward the pier glass, she squeals with delight at the sight of herself. Poor girl, she has yet to develop breasts worthy of such a gown. Still, in watching her swing left and right in front of the mirror, I feel a flush of pride at how lovely I must have looked with my powdered bosom rising up from that spiderweb of lace. What a thrill to feel everyone’s attention on me alone!

  “I doubt I’ll ever be as beautiful as you, Elizabeth.” Ivy sighs.

  I hug her in a sisterly way. “You’ll be your own kind of beauty. Which is the only kind of beauty to be.”

  In her grateful smile I feel a twinge of regret that Mother and Father never provided me with a sister to shape and school. I’m quite sure I would have been spectacular.

  “Nettie?” I say, quietly, as Ivy is still riveted by her reflection. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  We excuse ourselves and leave the room. As soon as we are beyond Ivy’s hearing, I say, “When it’s time to pack my things at the end of the summer, I want you to leave my Charles Worth gown here, at the cottage.”

  “Here? Whatever for? Won’t you be wearing it to the ball?”

  “That’s just it,” I whisper. “Now that everyone has seen it, and Miss Tottinger has worn it, I can’t possibly appear in it again. Father will squawk at the cost of a new gown, but what can I do? My Charles Worth was left at the cottage—during damp winter—it will be too ruined to properly present.”

  Nettie presses her lips together.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll make sure to tell Father that you left it here by accident. You won’t be blamed.”

  Swirling around, I sweep back into my bedroom and lightheartedly tell Ivy Tottinger, “Time to give me back my gown and let Nettie fix your hair. Our adventure awaits.”

  CHAPTER 23

  NORTH BEVERLY PARK

  Present

  Mom!” When Lee got home at dinnertime, with a Baja Fresh burrito for her mom and three soft corn tacos for her, she could barely contain herself. She’d found it. The field of rubble where her maternal ancestor had stood with Clara Barton. Disaster had struck a small town at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains. Clara’s Red Cross had swooped in to help. Lee’s great-great-great-grandmother had been there, too. At least, she was fairly certain of it. Though Lee hadn’t found the exact adoption file photo online, she’d seen many others like it. Same time, same place, same rubble, same hairstyle.

  “You won’t believe all the interesting things I found out,” she chirped while unpacking the takeout bags. The steamy aroma of cilantro and lime infused the air. “We’re talking holy days up the wazoo.”

  Of course, Lee had decided not to tell her mom about her birth-mother search. Valerie didn’t deserve another emotional blow. So Lee came home prepared. At the library, after she’d unearthed information about the disaster in Johnstown, she Googled something else: what it meant to be Jewish.

  “Talk to me,” Valerie said. Still dressed in her maid’s uniform, she poured herself a glass of wine and shimmied onto a stool in front of the kitchenette counter.

  “Tisha B’Av is coming up and I don’t have the faintest idea how to pronounce it.”

  IT HAD BEEN enlightening, to say the least. Lee’s brief research into Judaistic divinity had highlighted how lax her parents’ religious cherry picking had been. She faintly remembered attending a church of some kind (the vibration of the organ music in her chest was thrilling), but her mother told her they stopped going to services when the family decided to “replace organized religion with spirituality.”

  “Can you just do that?” young Lee had asked. “I mean, is God okay with that?”

  Valerie had replied, “God is everywhere, honey. It says so in the Bible.” Then she tucked an errant clump of hair behind her daughter’s ear and asked if she wanted pancakes.

  At the time, Lee had loved sleeping in on Sundays and eating pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse and hanging out with Shelby, whose parents were heathens, too. Now, with her life in upheaval, the thought of a loving father figure keeping his eyes on her eternal soul was a comfort. Living was hard when you had to do it by yourself. Even with a mom as caring as Valerie. She had her own issues.

  Lee was excited to try Judaism on for size. Not that it would be easy.

  First, there were all those unpronounceable holidays. Tu B’Shevat, Yom Ha-Atzma’ut, Shavuot. Even Hanukkah had thirteen different spellings. And, no matter what Hallmark would have you believe, Hanukkah was not a Jewish Christmas. As far as Lee could tell, that whole gifting thing was merely a way to make Jewish kids not feel left out at the end of December.

  Second, she was shocked to discover that the religious service was on Friday night. Which felt plain wrong. Friday night was movie night. No way could she stream movies with her mom on Sunday mornings. The sun blared through their wall of windows, for one thing.

  Lee decided to do more research to see if there was wiggle room on that rule. Like, the way midnight mass on Christmas Eve exempted you from church on Christmas morning. Perhaps she could swing by the synagogue after her late shift on Thursday?

  For now, Lee was busy wrapping her head around the weird food rituals. Vegetables dipped in salt water, hidden matzo, bitter herbs, a roasted egg. How, exactly, does one roast an egg? Particularly tricky since she only had a microwave. During a holiday called Sukkot, Lee was supposed to eat all her meals outside, beneath a thatched roof. Since Mrs. Adell would go berserk if Lee constructed a little hut by the pool, could she sneak a sandwich into the outside shower while wearing a straw hat?

  Lee had loads of questions.

  At some point she would have to schedule an appointment with a rabbi, tho
ugh she feared he would insist she have a Bat Mitzvah and she read that they cost as much as a wedding.

  “Any new info about your genes?” Valerie asked, lifting the wineglass to her lips.

  “Nothing we need to worry about.”

  “That’s a relief.” Valerie took a bite of her burrito, chewed, swallowed. Then she pasted a smile on her face and asked, “What about that woman in the photo? Did you search any archives in the library? Find a copy of the photo buried in the depths of the Internet?”

  Lee hopped off the stool and leaned over to circle both arms around her mother. Softly, she said, “You are the only mother I’ll ever need. Who cares about a woman in a photo who is long dead and gone?”

  Yom Kippur—the Jewish day of atonement—was a few weeks away. She’d confess her white lie then.

  CHAPTER 24

  Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

  SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

  Summer 1888

  It is nearly noon by the time we are dressed and coiffed and prancing to the end of our dock where Father has tethered the family’s skiff. Off-season, he stores it in the boathouse with the others. But now it’s bobbing gently on the surface of our stunning lake. The clear blue water is rippled with fish swimming below its surface. More than enough for the clubhouse men and the dining room chefs to catch and fry.

  Feeling mature with her perfectly frazzled bangs and stylish French twist, Ivy has immaturely refused to cover Nettie’s handiwork with a sunbonnet. In spite of my best efforts to warn her against the dangers of direct sunlight, she has refused to cover up. What can I do? In our few hours together, I have noticed that Ivy Tottinger has a fully formed will of her own. Perhaps it’s a family trait? One born of too much privilege?

  Gathering my skirt with one hand and gripping the dock with the other, I lower myself into the small boat first, admittedly not my most graceful effort. In an alarming fashion, the skiff rocks frighteningly from side to side, nearly spilling me into the drink. But I sit in the center of the plank seat and quickly regain my equilibrium and a modicum of dignity.

  “Hand me the picnic basket, will you?” I say to Ivy, smoothing my hair. Nettie hastily packed food for our journey. In the cottage, when she placed the basket in my hands, she whispered, “Shall I fetch one of the boys at the clubhouse to accompany you?”

  “Whatever for?” I’d asked, indignant. I’d watched Father and several male club friends propel me around the lake many times. How hard could it be to row a boat?

  “The basket, Ivy. Please.”

  Suddenly fearful, Ivy Tottinger stands on the dock like a pine tree. In spite of her grown-up hairstyle, she is every bit a child. Stubbornly, she refuses to move. It’s as if she just now realizes that boating requires being on unstable water. Lake Conemaugh is quite deep, indeed. I’m sure my clumsy entrance into the skiff did nothing to inspire her confidence. Still, I’m not about to clamber out now that I’ve regained my bearing. I look up at the girl. Having once been the same willful adolescent who now stands like a post on the pier, I know it’s best to say nothing and wait her out. Affixing a pleasant smile on my face, I do just that. I wait. Thank goodness it doesn’t take Ivy long to realize I’m not getting out. She must get in.

  Gingerly bending over the edge of the dock, Ivy hands me the picnic basket. After setting it on the floor of the skiff, I plow onward. “Good,” I state. “Now untie the mooring line and toss it to me.” My voice mimics an authority I don’t remotely feel. Again, Ivy imitates a tree.

  “That rope there, Ivy. See it? Looped over the piling. Could you please untie it and hand it to me?”

  With the utter incompetence of a pampered girl who has never even laced a boot—not that I have properly, of course, though I’m quite sure I could—she creeps over to the piling and fumbles with the line.

  “Loosen the knot. Yes. A bit looser. Good. Now pull the free end out through the knot. Yes, that’s the free end. Good girl.”

  My fingertips are white with the effort of steadying the swaying skiff against the weathered wood of our pier. The lake looked so still before I got in the boat! Why does the gentlest lap of water cause such undulation? It’s nearly impossible to neatly coil the freed line at the bottom of the boat with one hand. Yet I do. Rapidly losing my patience, I say, “Now step in and sit.”

  Only then do I realize I should have untied the boat side of the line and tossed the rope within reach on the pier. Oh, dear. How will we secure ourselves upon our return?

  I decide to worry about that later. At the moment, Ivy’s timid side has resurfaced and she shrinks into her fussy dress. I feel heat rise to my cheeks. Was it not Ivy herself who suggested our outing? With a deep inhalation, I calm myself.

  “I’ll hold the boat steady while you step in.” I enunciate the last two words distinctly. Step. In.

  At last, clutching the piling with her right hand, Ivy gingerly sets her left foot on the plank seat in the boat and, stunningly, leaves her other foot on our dock. Instantly, the skiff darts away. I feel the rough decking pop from my grip. Panic flares on Ivy’s face as her legs float apart. It’s only by divine miracle that I’m able to grab her forearm and snatch her into the boat before she tumbles into the water.

  “Did I need to instruct you to step both feet in?” In the heat of the moment, impatience flares.

  “I . . . I . . .” Tears begin to rise up.

  “No matter. We are under way now.” Inhaling deeply again, I gather my wits enough to reassure her. “Off we go,” I say cheerfully. In wobbly style, we set off. As I have seen Father—and other men—do, I clutch the grip end of the oars and dip both paddles into the lake. Then I pull them through the water. “Nothing to it,” I say, wincing slightly.

  While it’s true I underestimated the difficulty of rowing the vast girth of the lake, we soon settle into a gentle rhythm. The steady glide of the skiff soothes us both. From the clubhouse in the distance, faint sounds of music float on the air. Colonel Unger hired a band to entertain our overseas guests. Their horns send low notes on the breeze. The only other sound is the lapping of my oars as they loop in a lazy circle. From this vantage point—water level—Lake Conemaugh feels even larger. The trees on the far shore are tiny peaks on the horizon. We are but a speck in this vast tableau of nature.

  “I knew it would be lovely,” Ivy says, her previous fear vanished into the sunlight. She tilts her face up to the cloudless sky. “There is nothing like this in gray and rainy London.”

  Already, I note the pinkness of her nose. Freckles pop up before my eyes. I also feel an ache in my upper arms and shoulders. Our dock is a distant sliver of cedar behind us. In my head I hear Mother’s reprimand: “You took a child out in a boat without a hat?” Suddenly our trip across the lake feels impossibly foolhardy. My stomach is making all sorts of unhappy noises. My normal lunchtime passed while we were fussing with the line. In an attempt to change course, I lift one oar out of the water and row with the other as I have seen father do.

  “You’re not turning back, are you?” Ivy looks cross.

  “Certainly not,” I reply. “I’m heading for a cove so we can have our lunch.” My sensible maid had known how long a short outing could take.

  “A picnic in the woods!” Ivy again claps her hands like a child on Christmas morning. “How divine.” Reaching her pale dimpled hands to the back of her head, she pats the French twist to make sure that it is still secure. A sinking feeling descends upon me as I realize this is probably the first time this girl’s virginal neck has seen sunlight.

  Enduring my sore limbs, I row straight for the first shady cove.

  It’s rare for me—or anyone—to be on the other side of the lake. Wisely, the builders of our mountain retreat kept us all together. After crossing the dam, there are but a few cottages before the clubhouse. Then the rest are within walking distance beyond it. Our cottage, though last in the line, is still close enough to the clubhouse to take our
meals there if we so desire. As far as I know, the only person to live on the north side of the dam is the club’s caretaker, Colonel Unger. I suppose he wants to be far enough away from his employer to feel autonomy, yet near enough to maintain the South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club both off and on season.

  Come to think of it, whenever Father or Julian or Roderick took me out in the skiff, they were rowing us to the clubhouse—absolutely in the opposite direction. This side of the lake feels wild, untamed. Fallen branches and hollowed tree trunks litter the shoreline. Why, it’s almost as thick as the lake debris that gathers around the spillway by the dam. Our little boat bumps and scrapes into all manner of nature’s shedding as I try to maneuver our way to the darkened shore. It’s difficult to see exactly where the water ends and the land begins. Only when the skiff hits sand do I realize we’re onshore.

  “There,” I say, as if I meant to come aground. “Now, let me stand up fir—” Before I can finish my sentence, Ivy is on her feet and the boat is again wobbling horribly beneath us. The very action of her standing has pushed us out into the water.

  “Dear me.” Stupidly, I rise to steady the lurching back and forth. At that same moment, Ivy sits down hard and destabilizes us further. Once the boat starts rocking, it’s impossible to stop it. The more I try to balance us, the more violently we roll from side to side.

  “Elizabeth!” In her panic, Ivy rises again. She screeches and grabs my arm. The jolt of it tips us even more. Left, right, left, right. The two of us stand, clutching each other, as the boat threatens to capsize. My knees have turned to flummery. Water sloshes in; the skiff floats farther out. It’s inevitable—we are going to tip over into the lake.

  “Hold on to me,” I shout into the whites of Ivy’s terrified eyes. At that instant, the rocking stops short. Incredibly, the boat seems to be on land again. I’m so stunned I don’t feel the tight grip on my upper arm.

  Then I do.

  “Unhand me, sir.”

  Startled, I glare up at a man—a town boy—balanced on a large fallen log that is jutting into the lake. His left arm is looped across an overhanging branch; his right hand grips me tightly. We three are a chain, with me in the center. Ivy clutches my left arm as tightly as he clutches my right. “This is private property,” I state haughtily, my cheeks aflame.