All for a Sister

by Allison Pittman

  As she spoke, Werner stepped closer, finally resting his hand on her shoulder, and she seemed to grow stronger with every word. So, too, did Celeste stay connected to Graciela.

  “We need to know, Mamá. This isn’t your burden to bear.”

  That seemed to break her resolve. After all, they’d both seen the tragic effects of a life dedicated to keeping secrets.

  “Go back outside,” she said. “I’ll bring them to you.”

  Like children, faces downcast with shuffling steps, they obeyed. The fire had burned down, and Werner tossed in a few thick sticks of wood, and the crackle and scent of cedar drew them in. Celeste picked up her coffee, not quite cool, and took a sip, looking out over the yard.

  “I think I want to get rid of the playhouse,” she mused aloud. Then, remembering, “Is that all right with you, Dana?”

  Dana looked both surprised and slightly amused to be consulted. “I suppose. Why?”

  “To put in a swimming pool. Let’s redo the whole house, in fact. Top to bottom. Fresh start.”

  “Whatever you like. It’s your house.”

  “It’s yours, too.”

  It was nothing more than small talk. An idle distraction from what awaited, and then Graciela arrived, holding a bundle of papers folded and tied with a pink ribbon. With a long match, she lit the torches along the patio, bathing them in a soft light, but enough to see the words.

  “God have mercy,” she said as Werner took them from her. She pulled up a chair and sat, taking Celeste’s hand. And together, they stared into the flames.

  THE WRITTEN CONFESSION OF MARGUERITE DUFRANE, PAGES 59–66

  I STUFFED MYSELF with food while sending hundreds of dollars to those starving in China, and I knew immediately my prayers had been answered when your father came home one day and said he’d been invited to be a guest lecturer at Stanford University. He made it immediately clear that I was not to go along. It was a limited budget; he’d be sharing a house with several other engineers, all of them bachelors for the term.

  I asked him how long he thought he’d be gone. Two weeks? Three?

  “Twelve,” he said.

  Three months. He wouldn’t be here for the birth of the baby.

  When I said as much out loud, he looked—how can I describe it? Relieved? Resigned? If nothing else, there was the inescapable feeling that we both were keeping the same secret. Telling the same lie, and we would for the rest of our lives together. In some ways, my darling, though we both loved you dearly, you were what grew between us. The light of his life, and the light of mine, but our lights never touched each other again.

  He asked, “Will you be all right without me?”

  What if I’d said no? If I’d been the wife I’d been before, needful and clinging? A bride willing to sacrifice whatever necessary to keep our lives together? I could go with him, share his bed as he shared the house, insisting that he not resume a bachelor’s life for three months. Or fall at his feet and beg him not to leave me here in such a vulnerable state.

  But I did neither. Instead, I masked my heaving relief as an unfounded fear and forced him to take me in his arms to give me comfort.

  I said I supposed I could call him on the telephone when it was time for the baby to come, and he could pace the floors in California and hand out cigars to his fellow housemates. He promised he would do just that.

  Three days later he was gone and I felt myself off of the tightrope and safely on the platform. But the solid ground was still miles and miles away.

  I began once again to make social calls and receive visitors, and through careful conversation, I learned of a private academy in Lake Forest that allowed students in Calvin’s grade to board. I explained to him that it would be best, as I couldn’t take care of him the way I should while I was waiting for the baby. I’d be weak and tired, and with his father gone, there might not be anybody here to take care of him when I went into the hospital.

  He looked terrified, poor boy. He said, “You didn’t go to the hospital when you had Mary.”

  I said, that’s because Daddy was here. And he had been, right outside the door, and by my side before she was an hour old. As disinterested as Arthur was in being a husband, he was a wonderful, attentive, and affectionate father.

  I packed up my little boy and delivered him to a formal headmaster, who confiscated his toy soldiers and forbade me to visit for at least two weeks.

  That left just the two of us, at least in the evenings after Mrs. Gibbons left for the day.

  I suppose it will sound irrational to say that I count this as a special time, but I did. I’ve never had many close friends. We resumed our games of gin, and Mrs. Lundgren told me all about her daughter. No doubt trying to convince me of her goodness, and I listened as politely as I could. When I asked her what plans she had for the two of them after the baby was born, she said she hoped to find a position as a domestic. Perhaps a live-in situation, where the girl could work also, and they could save up to find a little place of their own.

  I asked if she would tell her about the baby, and she said, “No.”

  And that ended the conversation.

  Arthur wrote letters regularly, and once, having come across me reading one by the firelight, she asked, casually, if I would share whatever little quip had caused me to smile. For the life of me, I cannot remember what it was. Something about one of his housemates, an irascible old man who regularly derided his own research. But I shared it, and we laughed, and I went back through some of his other letters and read those, too. Even the few sweet lines he meant just for me, or his thoughts about the baby. Once, he sent a photograph of the ocean, and a tiny, delicate pink shell. He said it made him think of our Mary. I read this to Mrs. Lundgren, unable to continue through my tears, and she took it from my hand and read my husband’s words to me.

  That’s when I knew. When I heard her voice read his words, everything I’d been afraid to suspect came to light. The two of them, melded together. She and I, too, shared a secret and a lie. But not from each other.

  Right in that moment, I asked her if Arthur knew she was carrying his child.

  She didn’t flinch, and she appeared untouched by shame when she said, simply, “No.” Then, in the next breath, “Are you going to tell him?”

  And I, in the same spirit, gave the same answer. No.

  We were, in that moment, simply two mothers, willing to sacrifice bits of ourselves for the sake of our children. Odd as it may seem, I took some comfort in knowing that your father would truly be your father, in every sense. Even more, I admit, it came as a relief to know the source of your paternity wasn’t in any way undesirable.

  “Perhaps,” she said, no doubt bolstered by my calm demeanor, “you could send me a picture from time to time?”

  I came close to reassuring her, for as much as she could trust my promise.

  I knew it would be far too dangerous to allow Mrs. Lundgren to ever go into labor here at the house, as the unpredictability of babies could mean its arrival right as Mrs. Gibbons was in the middle of cleaning the silver or washing up the breakfast dishes.

  So when we knew the time was close, I took Mrs. Lundgren to the Mary Thompson Hospital for Women and Children, which my family has supported with charitable contributions since just after the War between the States, when a Union soldier’s widow hemorrhaged to death in the street just in front of our church. I took one of my older satchels from the attic and packed it with a comfortable robe and gown, as well as two dresses I thought might fit well after the baby was born. As a more sentimental gesture, I included a pack of cards, in case she found another woman to play a round with, and in the not-quite dead of night, I called for a taxi to take us straight to the front door.

  If I know one thing about the Mary Thompson Hospital, it is that I was hardly the first wealthy woman to arrive with a house servant in tow, and a good number of those would bear children with a strong resemblance to the master. So when I made our introductions, I was met with nar
y a sideways glance. The prominence of my name at the top of the check assured their discretion, and they were left with the understanding that I, and only I, was to be telephoned when the baby arrived.

  I’d arranged for Mrs. Lundgren to have a private room, and believe it or not, we embraced each other before my parting. She actually thanked me for my kindness, and I felt a pang of guilt thinking how cruel her life must have been for her to think me kind and generous in this moment. Still, I reassured her that, once the child was born, and in my home, I would go straightaway to the judge, an old family friend, and I would convince him that my Mary’s death had been an inevitable tragedy. She would have her daughter, and I would have, well, whatever God would desire, though I prayed beyond prayer to be given another little girl. A second chance.

  That night was the first night in memory for me to be in my home entirely alone. The ghosts were everywhere. My husband’s in my bed, my Mary’s in her crib with that horrible lace pillow, my Calvin’s in his room amid his soldiers, and even my prisoner’s from behind the linen closet at the end of the hall. I roamed the night, putting them all to rest, assuring myself that all would soon be set right, this house brought back to life with the cooing of lullabies and the laughter of children. It became my ritual each night, making promises to the house before drifting off to endless, peaceful sleep.

  It was just before dawn, one week later, when the telephone in the hallway rang, and I fell upon it, too sleep-addled and dream-ridden to realize, at first, who could possibly be on the other end of the line. It wasn’t until I heard the words “Healthy baby girl.”

  I held the phone as I fell to my knees, so thankful to God for answering my prayers with such perfect precision. But the voice on the other end of the line still spoke.

  “Profuse hemorrhaging. Eclampsia. Seizures, shock, and nothing to be done.”

  I was still giving thanks even as she spoke, until her words overcame my prayers.

  In the next few hours, Mrs. Gibbons arrived, and I met her with train fare and a letter to the headmaster of the academy to which I’d sent Calvin, stating that my son was to be released into the custody of Mrs. Gibbons and returned home at the week’s end. I also sent funds to allow her to find a place to board during that time, telling her to be sure to enjoy herself and relax, knowing the baby would be here soon after her return, and there’d be no rest for the weary then.

  During that day, I went over every inch of Mary’s room with a dust rag and pulled the smaller cradle into my bedroom and lined it with fresh, clean linen. The grocer’s was an easy walk, and so I went to buy the ingredients needed to mix the baby’s formula, which I learned having been unable to nurse either of my children. I also picked up some bread and cheese for the sort of simple meals I would prepare in Mrs. Gibbons’s absence.

  Then I waited. First for darkness. Then for ten o’clock. Then for just half past for a cab to come and drive me to the hospital, where I saw the same helpful nurse on duty as had been there when I first arrived with Mrs. Lundgren. When she asked if I cared to see the body, I declined, though I assured her that I was to be contacted for all details of the burial. She then produced the satchel, and I urged her to donate the contents to charity but added surreptitiously that she should keep the bag for herself. A woman always needs a good bag.

  Having dispatched those details, I was led into a hallway, where I looked through a window and saw rows upon rows of babies. Even if they hadn’t pinned a card with your name—DuFrane—to the overhang, I would have known you. You looked like my dream. And miracle of miracles, somebody put you in my arms, and I walked out into the night.

  When I got into that cab, I felt as if I rode a white horse. It occurred to me, the divine nature of my plan. You were meant to be mine all along. To be raised by your father openly, and without shame. To be abandoned by the mother who would so willingly give you up. Who would hand over this precious, innocent babe in exchange for freedom of one who had no regard for life?

  You didn’t make a sound, only looked at me with eyes that seemed to understand it all.

  DANA FINDS A FAMILY

  1925

  “‘. . . ONLY LOOKED AT ME with eyes that seemed to understand it all.’”

  Werner finished the final line and looked up at Celeste, as did they all. Dana hadn’t been able to keep her eyes off the young girl, sharing with her the final days of their own mother. Somehow, she had to admit to herself, she had always known her mother’s fate. When faced with an alternative truth, that Mama had simply abandoned her daughter to whatever fate awaited, the confirmation of her death came as a comforting relief. For Dana, these missing pages from Marguerite DuFrane’s final missive served to answer a single, looming question. For Celeste, it was more likely a rapid-fire sequence of unwanted revelation. Her mother was not her mother. The source of her life was dead. Her father, perhaps, nowhere near the man she’d thought him to be.

  “Did you know?” Celeste asked, her eyes showing no hint of the understanding Marguerite had ascribed. “Did you know that your mother was pregnant?”

  Dana’s mind went back to those final days with her mother, when she had no idea that they would be final at all. “No. I remember her being tired, but she was always tired. She worked very hard, you know. And I didn’t know anything at all about . . . your father.”

  Celeste looked to Graciela, who in turn studied the pink flagstones in the firelight. “My father,” she said, carrying an indefinable fusion of admiration and contempt. “Apparently there was a lot about my father that nobody knew.”

  “Celita,” Graciela cautioned, “your father was a good—”

  Celeste burst from her chair. “Don’t tell me he was a good man! If anyone should know just how horrible a man he was, it’s you! You might be the only person he truly knew and truly loved.”

  “He loved you, mija.”

  “But he didn’t know me. He didn’t know who I . . . who my—” She stopped, bit her bottom lip, and dropped her hands limply to her sides. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

  Dana stood and embraced the girl’s lifeless body. “You’re my sister.”

  Celeste stepped away. “I’m sorry. But that doesn’t help me at all.”

  She turned and ran into the house, leaving Dana to feel emptier than she had before the revelation.

  “Forgive her,” Graciela said, “and go to her. You are both feeling the same loss.”

  Dana turned to Werner, who had remained quiet all this time. He still sat, the sheaf of papers rolled loosely in his hands. Now he stood, dropped them on the glass-topped table, and wrapped Dana in an embrace strong enough to fill in all that she lost while his voice read Marguerite’s words.

  “Go to her.” He kissed the words to her temple.

  She leaned back to look at him, his face a warm glow in the torchlight. “Will you stay here?”

  “As long as you want me to.”

  Fortified, Dana went inside, looking first in the kitchen, then the front and back parlors, and even poked her head into the room that had been Arthur DuFrane’s office, though Celeste had been turning it into her own, feminine and white and pure. In here, she’d said, not long after Dana’s arrival, they would watch every movie containing even a single frame of Celeste DuFrane, one after the other, drinking cold bottles of Coca-Cola and eating box after box of Cracker Jack.

  But the room was empty, so Dana ascended the stairs, wondering what Mama would say if she knew her daughter—her daughters—lived in such a place. She might well have expected such a home for the secret baby she carried, given the snare of promises she wove. But to think that her Dana, who had never known anything other than a one-room flat with a bathroom down the hall, called such a place as this home. Not as a servant, not as caretaker, but as a daughter of inheritance.

  She paused halfway up and looked at the richness of the display below. Not crowded and dark like the old, grand houses back home. But clean and light, like Mr. Lundi had said that day. A place of new
beginnings.

  “What would you think, Mama?” Though she spoke softly, her words echoed, and she could hear her mother’s answer deep within her bones.

  It’s too much. Her dreams had always been so small. A good position. A live-in, where you can work beside me.

  Was that why she shared Arthur DuFrane’s bed? Hoping to be brought into the house?

  More questions that would have no answers, and it was fruitless at this point to wonder what her mother would think. “This is mine,” she said aloud, stating the fact for the first time. And it wasn’t too much. It was exactly enough. Half, shared with her sister. Half sister, to be exact, and that was enough too.

  She resumed her ascent and went directly to the master bedroom—Celeste’s bedroom—expecting to see her collapsed dramatically on the bed, perhaps draped against the bedpost. But no, the room was empty.

  Then she heard her name being called softly from her own room. Celeste was sitting on the window seat, luminescent in moonlight.

  “There you are,” Dana said, feeling a strong sense of comfort that she’d chosen to come here for refuge.

  “This used to be my room,” Celeste said, as if Dana had asked for an explanation. “You should have seen it. Everything pink and ruffles and silk and lace. That wall was a mural, and I had tea sets and dolls, and everything you could imagine.”

  “I’m sure it was beautiful.”

  “I made Mother get rid of all of it when I was twelve. Right after Calvin died. I didn’t want to be a little girl anymore. You know she kept Calvin’s room just the same.”

  “Yes.” And by tacit agreement, the sisters kept the door closed.

  “I had this horrible feeling,” Celeste went on, “that I would die too. My life would come to an end at twelve years old, and she would keep this room forever like it was when I was five, and nobody would know that I ever grew up at all.”