Love, Alice

by Barbara Davis

  I kept you a secret for as long as I could, not because I was ashamed, but because with Johnny gone my heart was too broken to think about what came next. But soon the time came when I couldn’t hide you anymore, and it was time to tell Mam how things stood, though by then I think she had guessed. More than once, I’d felt her gaze lingering, a question in those shrewd grey eyes of hers. She’d be angry, I knew, and disappointed that after all her lecturing I’d gone and gotten myself in trouble, but I never expected the things she said to me that day, or knew she could be so cruel.

  We were washing up after supper when I finally found the nerve to utter the words I’d been rehearsing all week. I saw her stiffen, hands braced on the edge of the sink, then watched her round in my direction. I didn’t see the slap coming until my head snapped back, and there were tiny lights dancing behind my eyes.

  She stood there a moment, staring at the tiny bulge beneath Johnny’s oversize jumper, as if she could see straight through to my backbone. “It was that boy, I suppose. That fisherman’s son.”

  I nodded, still dizzy from her slap. “Johnny,” I whispered. “You know his name is Johnny.”

  “Well, fancy that!” Her eyes were wild as she fixed them on me, her knuckles wet and white as bone as she fisted them on her hips. “After all my talk, all my warnings about what boys want and what they do once they get it, what has my stupid girl done but got herself pregnant—and by a boy who’s gotten himself dead!”

  The words were worse than any slap she could have dealt me, like a knife twisted in a fresh wound. And her eyes—I’ll never forget the look in them—like all of a sudden I was something to be stepped over in the gutter. I felt my mouth working, but no sound would come. And what was the point? There were no words to make this right, nothing I could say that would undo the fact of it. I was going to have a baby, Johnny’s baby, and no amount of railing, or shaming, or pleading, would change it.

  And I didn’t want to change it.

  There was never any talk of . . . getting rid of you. It was too late for that sort of remedy, at any rate. But I knew the moment the words were out of my mouth that Mam was never going to let me keep you. I tried. God knows I did. But when I finally found my tongue she wouldn’t listen to a word I said.

  “How could you?” she hurled at me as she prowled our tiny kitchen. “How could you be so foolish, so thoughtless? After all I’ve done, all I’ve sacrificed, to make sure you didn’t end up like me, buried here in Sennen Cove and dying just a little every day. I worked like a slave to afford the best schools, two jobs, sometimes three, pinching pennies so you could go to university one day, and all on my bloody own! Why? So you’d make something of yourself, not wind up a fisherman’s wife with a houseful of brats! And this is what I get for my trouble, a silly girl who throws her life away on a boy too stupid to keep himself alive!”

  I hated her at that moment.

  That she could say such a thing to me, when she knew my heart was still so raw, was unforgivable. It didn’t matter to her that I never wanted to leave Sennen Cove, or that I wanted to be a fisherman’s wife—to be Johnny’s wife. That I wanted to keep and raise our child. Nothing I said, no amount of tears or pleading would sway her. And just like that, the decision was made, as if she’d had a plan tucked away in her apron pocket all along. And maybe she had. Maybe that’s what she’d been thinking about all those times I felt her eyes on me.

  I would go to Blackhurst when the time came, have the child and give it up, then return home and finish school like I was meant to. We’d tell people I’d spent the winter in Truro, nursing a sick aunt, which no one would believe, but everyone would pretend to. It was an old story, after all, but then so was mine. If I defied Mam she would wash her hands of me, sling me out, and leave me to fend for myself.

  And so here I am, shut away from the world in this terrible place, counting the days until they take you from me. Please understand, little one, and try to forgive. I had no money and no place to go, no way to keep myself, or you. It isn’t the way I wanted things to be. I wanted you with me always. Please believe that, and know that no matter where you end up in the world, you will always, always, belong to me.

  All my love,

  Mam

  Blackhurst Asylum for Unwed Mothers

  Cornwall, England

  May 9, 1962

  My dear little one,

  I vowed when I passed through the gates of Blackhurst that for as long as I was here I would not shed another tear, but I find I cannot keep my promise. There was another empty place at breakfast this morning, a girl called Kathleen who’d been here less than a week, a poor sad girl who spoke to no one and kept her eyes on the floor. I’ve been crying all day, for her, and for the child who died with her.

  No one had to say what happened. We all knew. She wasn’t the first, nor will she be the last. Still, it was hard not to let my eyes slide to that empty place, to think that it could have been any of us. We’re all just one hard day away from stealing out onto those cliffs, from flinging ourselves and our mistakes out into the nothingness. A sin, the sisters remind us, lest we be tempted to follow Kathleen’s example. And maybe it is, but to hear them tell it we’re all doomed here anyway, so where’s the harm? And then I think of you, my angel, and know I could never venture out onto those cliffs. It’s not my place to speak for the others, or to judge what’s in their hearts. We each have our crosses to bear in this world, and must all make our own choices. I only know I could never do myself harm if it meant hurting you.

  And so I do what I can to take care of myself—for your sake. Still, there’s a new weariness I can’t seem to shake, and a racking cough that has settled in my chest. I can’t say I’m surprised. We’re none of us fed enough, and the damp here is terrible, the walls and floors forever clammy, our bedsheets never quite dry. At least they’ve moved me out of the laundry. They’ve put me onto sewing now, which at least keeps me off my feet. They say it’s because my belly is getting too large to bend over the vats, but I’m not sure that’s it.

  There are girls here who work in the laundry right up until their time. I think the real reason is my cough—in case it’s catching. It wouldn’t do for all the girls to get sick at once. There’d be no one left to wash the clothes then, and no way for the sisters to collect their money. Only now it seems there are others who have been culled from the herd, given a needle to wield instead of the heavy wooden paddles in the laundry.

  The word “tuberculosis” is whispered down the supper tables when Sister Mary Agnes isn’t around to silence us, as if not saying the word aloud will keep the thing from being true. I don’t worry for myself, but for you, my angel. They give us medicine twice a day now—great big pills the colour of cow dung—but I don’t swallow mine. I’ve heard what those pills can do, babies born with stunted limbs or other deformities. There are stories about what happens to those children—the damaged ones no one comes for. They’re shut away, it’s said, forgotten, or worse, their fates unknown beyond the iron gates of Blackhurst. There’s talk, terrible talk, of newborn souls wrapped in plain cloth shrouds, thrown into large pits, their tiny bones forgotten as they sink into the cold dark soil—lost. Not you, little one. I won’t let that happen to you, no matter what they do to me.

  Our time together grows short. Only three weeks now if I’ve counted properly, maybe four, and then you’ll be gone. And I’ll be back in Sennen Cove. I can’t fathom the emptiness of it, of knowing that somewhere in the world your tiny heart will go on beating without mine—that you’ll be the apple of some other mother’s eye. I tell myself all I want is to know that you’re happy and loved, but it isn’t true. I want so much more than that. I want to be a part of your life, and for you to be a part of mine. I want to see your father’s eyes shining back at me when I hold you in my arms. I want to press my cheek to yours, to hear you laugh. But that can’t ever be, as I am reminded daily by the vacant eyes and
empty arms of the girls whose babies have already come.

  I must close now and hide this. The dinner bell will ring soon and Sister Mary Agnes will be cross if my sewing basket isn’t empty when she comes. Please know that you are always in my heart, and that my every thought is for you.

  All my love,

  Mam

  SEVEN

  MAGNOLIA GROVE CEMETERY

  CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

  OCTOBER 4, 2005

  Dovie experienced an uneasy pang of déjà vu as she folded up the letters and slipped them back into her tote. It was the third day in a row she’d spent her lunch hour rereading Alice’s letters, and the third day in a row she sat staring at an enormous stone angel because it made her feel more connected to the woman who’d written them. And yet it felt right, somehow, as if she’d been drawn here.

  Or maybe she was just trading one obsession for another.

  God knew, it was starting to have all the earmarks of an obsession. For starters, she was spending far too much time grappling with images she’d just as soon forget. But once you knew a thing, you knew it. It stayed with you, taking up space in your head. And now Blackhurst was in her head. Young mothers shut up, never to be heard from again. Dead babies tossed into pits. Girls throwing themselves from cliffs. How had she never heard of such atrocities? And more important, how had they been allowed to happen?

  She supposed it might all be exaggeration, the invention of a young woman abandoned and distraught, but that didn’t seem likely. Alice had been writing to her unborn child, letters written in secret that no one was ever meant to read. What would she have gained by lying?

  Dovie sighed as she stared up at the woeful stone angel. For days now, she’d been scouring the letters, hoping for some sign that things might still end well. So far, she hadn’t found any, and wasn’t sure she was ready to know what the rest of the letters contained. It was all just too terrible. And yet Alice had managed to make it all the way to Charleston. Was it possible that, against all odds, she had actually managed to reunite with her child?

  Dovie closed her eyes, rolling her neck from side to side, tired of her head swimming with the same questions over and over again. She needed to let it go. She had enough grief. She didn’t need to borrow someone else’s. At any rate, it was none of her business, and certainly nothing that could be remedied with poor Alice in the ground. But there was a part of her that longed to know the rest of the story, a part that hungered for understanding, and closure. The hardest good-byes were the ones that were never said—William’s suicide taught her that. It seemed Alice’s mother had learned it, too.

  Sighing, she reached for her tote. It was time to get back. She had a two o’clock budget meeting, and the proposal she promised to have ready was still sitting on her desk, waiting for final figures. Jack was already watching her like a hawk; the last thing she needed to do was show up for the meeting empty-handed.

  She was just preparing to stand when a bit of movement caught her eye. She had to squint against the sun, but the old black lace-ups and patent leather bag were all she needed to see. Her stomach did a little flip as the woman came into view, like a ghost conjured by her thoughts.

  She was wearing the same skirt and jacket as last time, even the same hat, but somehow the clothes fit her differently, as if she had withered substantially in only a few days. Her approach was plodding and labored, though whether her trouble had to do with weakness or pain, Dovie couldn’t say. Finally, she halted before her daughter’s grave, her grizzled head bowed. There was the sound of muffled weeping, and then a choked sob as the woman stumbled forward.

  Dovie was on her feet in an instant, scurrying across the path to place a steadying hand beneath the woman’s elbow. “Can I help you? You seem . . . unwell.”

  The woman’s head came up with a look of blank surprise, her eyes the color of the sky on a cloudy day. “I was only . . .” Her voice trailed away as she glanced about, trying to get her bearings. “No, thank you. I’m . . . I’m quite well.”

  She had delivered the words with something like dismissal, but Dovie wasn’t convinced. She was far too pale, and her lips had a slightly bluish cast. “Is there someone I can call? You really don’t look well.”

  “I’m only a bit knackered from the walk,” she answered testily. “I’ll be quite right in a moment.” Her voice was thready and gruff, thick with the West Country vowels Dovie recognized from the summer she’d spent in the U.K. studying neoclassical art.

  “I’m Dovie. I saw you here the other day.”

  The woman nodded, dabbing her eyes with the crumpled remains of a tissue. “I’m Dora Tandy.” She raised a hand, pointing to the stone angel. “My girl’s there. Her name was Alice.”

  “Yes, I know.” The words were out before Dovie could stop them. “What I meant is that everyone knows that statue. People come from all over to see it.”

  Dora’s gray eyes lit with something like astonishment. “They come to see my Alice?”

  “Her monument, yes.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Dovie glanced up at the statue, at its sorrowful, tearstained beauty, and knew she needed to tread lightly. No need to bring the Tates into it. Or the speculation about her daughter’s inexplicable presence in the burial plot of one of the richest families in town. “I suppose it’s because she’s so beautiful. It’s the tears, I think, that make her so compelling. Does it . . . look like her? The angel, I mean. Does she look like your daughter?”

  Dora studied the stone face for a moment, then turned away, wandering to the nearby bench. “No,” she said wearily. “It isn’t her. The tears, though—the tears look like her.” Her voice broke, and she reached for her handbag, fumbling a moment until she produced a wallet-sized photograph. “That’s her. It was taken on her birthday, not long before she left. I’m ashamed to say I’ve lost track of how old she’d be now. For me, she’s still the girl who left home all those years ago.”

  Dovie felt a queer, almost inexplicable connection as she studied the photo—not recognition, exactly, but something close to it, like a stranger you’d almost swear you’ve met but know you haven’t. This, she thought with an anguished pang, this was what Alice Tandy looked like the day she entered Blackhurst—young and pretty, with a head of thick blond hair and large soft eyes like a doe’s. There was a boy in the photo, a handsome boy with dark curls and mischief in his eye. He had an arm hooked around Alice’s shoulder. It was Johnny, of course, lost at sea before he could marry Alice and give their child his name.

  “It’s my fault she’s here,” Dora said dully. “I drove her away. Because I cared more about what folks might think than I did for my own girl, and this”—she paused, nodding toward the angel—“this is what happened.”

  Dovie had no idea how to respond. It wasn’t her place to judge, especially without knowing all the facts, but it was hard to deny Dora’s culpability in Alice’s misfortunes. And yet there was no way to know the extent of those misfortunes, or to know for certain that Alice’s life after Blackhurst, brief though it was, hadn’t at least been modestly happy.

  “Dovie—is that English?”

  Dovie was both relieved and surprised by the abrupt change of subject. “I don’t think it’s anything. My mother likes birds. She paints them—used to paint them.”

  “She’s gone?”

  “No. She’s alive. She just doesn’t paint anymore.”

  Dora fell silent for a time, eyes fixed on her hands, studying the ropy map of dark blue veins there. “Have you little ones, Dovie?”

  Dovie shifted uneasily, sensing that they were heading back toward prickly ground. “No, I’m not married. I was almost married once, but . . .” She let the words trail, wondering why she’d said them at all.

  “That’s why you’re here, then? Because of your young man?”

  Dovie nodded, not quite meeting Dora’s e
yes.

  “How long now?”

  “A little more than a year.”

  Dora’s head came up, as if Dovie’s answer had surprised her. “And you still come?”

  “Every day. He . . . killed himself just before our wedding, and I can’t seem to get past it.”

  “Because you blame yourself?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. There was no note, nothing to explain why he did what he did. He just swallowed a handful of pills and that was it.” Dovie pressed a hand to her lips, embarrassed to be rambling about William when the woman had her own grief to tend. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I blurted all that out.”

  It wasn’t true, though. She knew exactly why she’d brought William into the conversation. It was her way of evening the score. Dovie knew things about Dora’s loss, things she’d learned in a less than forthright manner. It only seemed fair that she share something about her own grief. Tit for tat.

  Dora drew a long shuddering breath, then released it slowly, her rounded shoulders drooping like a deflated balloon. “It’s the not knowing,” she said quietly. “The reason we can’t get past it. And so we just keep bleeding, because we don’t know, and we’ll never know. If we could have one more chance, have that last moment back, maybe we’d do it differently. But we’ll never have that chance.”

  There were tears in her eyes. She closed them, letting the tears spill over. “My daughter left home almost forty years ago. I drove her away. There was a boy, you see, and there was going to be a baby. And then the boy went and got himself killed before they could get married. All I could think of was what folk would say, how they’d look at my girl like she was some bit of trash—the way they looked at me when I was pregnant with her—and I couldn’t bear it. I’d worked so hard to give her a better life than I had. She didn’t understand, of course. No way she could have. But I had my reasons. She deserved better—so much better. She was smart, good with words and a pen. A gift, her teachers said, enough of one to make something of herself. But not with a baby to raise on her own. And so I . . .” Her voice broke. She pressed a hand to her lips, shook her head. “I sent her away.”