member. To do better. And then I could see the pictures when
I read the letters. See her, so beautiful with the belly. I painted
the letters so I could see the beautiful curve.” A new thought
seems to strike him, and he brightens for a moment. “The ring.
Did you see the ring?”
“I saw it, Dad,” I say softly. “It’s a beautiful ring, and the
painting is beautiful.”
“I can’t remember the word,” Dad says, and he points to his
head, visibly frustrated. “The colors. In my head.”His voice
has dropped to a hoarse whisper, and then he looks around and
starts to cry.
“Right! That’s enough,” Tim exclaims, and he pushes him-
self to his feet then kneels beside Dad. He adjusts the cannula
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in Dad’s nose, fiddles with the oxygen tank, then scowls at the
rest of us. “I don’t know what any of this shit is, but he’s sick
and everyone needs to back the hell off! ” He turns to Dad and
softens his tone just a little as he adds, “You need to rest now,
Dad. I think we should take you back.”
“No.” Dad wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand and
then he points at me. “You…” He licks his lips, swallows and
then clears his throat. “You…”
“She’s Beth, Dad,” Ruth gently prompts him. My gaze drops
to the table.
“Beth. I wanted to…what’s the word? I was going to…with
the trash can.”
“Throw away?” Ruth guesses.
“Throw away the letters. Paint the colors, throw away the
letters and clean up the trash. But I lost the time and now it’s
too late.”
“I’ll throw them away for you, Daddy,” I promise unevenly,
forcing myself to raise my eyes to his again. “And if you don’t
want me to read them, I won’t.”
“What’s this about letters?” Jeremy frowns, but Dad’s gaze is
locked with mine, and now I’m only vaguely aware of the au-
dience. Everything disappears but my wonderful, fragile father.
“I took her away. She would have helped you,” Dad whis-
pers. Another tear slips onto his cheek. “Write them.” He shakes
his head, then clenches his jaw. “Read them. Read them.” He
chokes on a sob, and he stares right into my eyes as he whispers,
“Beth, loneliness is worse than sadness.”
That’s when I know he did hear and understand my conver-
sation with Ruth earlier. I rush toward him and nudge Tim out
of the way so I can take Dad’s hands in mine.
“I’ll be okay, Dad. You don’t need to worry about me, I prom-
ise. But how did she die, Dad? If you can just tell me that—just
that.” He shakes his head, and then his distress mounts as he
stares at me. His breathing is harsh now, labored breaths between
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that awful, tortured cough. I’m crying as I squeeze his hands.
“ Please, Dad. Can you tell me anything?”
“I’m sorry.” Cough. Wheeze. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”
Wheeze. Cough. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Beth, this isn’t helping anyone.” Tim’s trying to nudge me
back out of the way, but I stay stubbornly in place.
“Dad,” I whisper. “Was it suicide?”
There’s a chorus of gasps and confused questions behind me,
but I’m staring hard at Dad, and I barely even register the sounds.
“Beth,” Tim says flatly, resting his hand on my shoulder. “For
God’s sake. Stop this.”
Dad releases my hand and reaches forward to gently push a
lock of my hair behind my ear. He’s wheezing and coughing,
but he offers me a gentle, calm smile.
There’s chaos all around me—family members trying to dis-
tract Dad and even me, trying to defuse the oddly intense mo-
ment we’re sharing. But Dad and I ignore them—and we stay
right there, staring at one another. He won’t let go of my gaze,
and I can’t make myself look away.
“You’re a good girl, Beth.”
I choke on a sob.
“I know, Dad.”
“A good mom,” he whispers. “Like she was.”
It’s just too late.
He can’t explain, and I can’t keep asking. All I have are the
notes.
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14
Maryanne
1959
I stopped at a pay phone on the way to Grace’s house the next
day and dialed the number my friend provided. The call was
short and simple—all of three minutes from start to finish. I
gave him a false name and pretended to be seeking the proce-
dure for myself. He didn’t give a name at all—only instructions.
I had to wait for him alone on a road downtown at noon on
Friday. I was to come alone and bring cash, sanitary pads and
a large bottle of disinfectant. The procedure would take two
ours, and he would return “me” back to the same spot. I asked
him what his training was, and he explained to me, in a thick
accent I couldn’t place, that he’d been a doctor back in Europe
and he’d done thousands of these procedures.
“Why aren’t you registered to practice medicine here?”
“English not good enough yet. I learning.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Is very safe,” he told me, his tone curt and dismissive.
“But where will you take me?”
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“Police watch all the time. Clinic location is secret.”
“Will it hurt—?”
“You want abortion, you come to the city on Friday. Is no
skin off my nose if you don’t.”
Then he hung up. I scrawled the address down on the paper
and continued to Grace’s house.
“We still need one hundred and twenty dollars,” I told Grace
miserably when I was finished explaining. “Do you have any
money?”
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I could ask Pat-
rick to ask his boss for an advance.”
“Could he do that?”
“We’ve done it before. We just finished paying the last one
off, actually, a few months back. I would have to explain to Pat-
rick why I need the money, though.”
“Gracie, can you real y not just tell him the truth?” I asked her hesitantly. “It’s so unfair that you have to deal with this alone.
He’s the one who got you pregnant.”
“I didn’t have to go back to his bed,” she said weakly. “It
wasn’t like he forced me.” She straightened, then pursed her lips.
“He won’t like it. I know he won’t. He wouldn’t even agree to
use rubbers. I know he’s not going to agree to this . But it’s me
who has to pay the cost if I follow through with this pregnancy,
so it should be up to me what happens next, right?”
“I’m right with you there. I just think that he should help you
deal with the situation he created.”
We sat in silence for a moment. In the backyard I could hear
Ruth bossing Jeremy around, Jeremy getting angry and Tim
playing mediator. Grace glanced toward the window a few times
but didn’t rise from her chair.
“I can’t think of any other way,” I admitted eventually. “I do
think you need to ask Patrick for the money.”
“It’ll be so hard to convince him to ask Ewan for money
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again,” Grace said, rubbing her forehead. “It was such a strug-
gle for us to pay the loan back last time. I just don’t know…”
“I’ll pay it back for you,” I said, brightening. “I could send you
what I have left over for the next few months. That’ll sort it out.”
Grace gave me a sad look.
“I can’t let you do that. You’ve done enough already.”
“If that’s the way we get the money, Grace, then tell him you
need the money to help me, and tell him I’ll pay you back. At
least think about it. You don’t have a lot of time.”
I was already feeling jittery when I pulled into Grace’s street
on Friday morning. I couldn’t stand the thought of breakfast,
commended me on my decision to eat less, predictably noting
that it might be easier for me to find a husband if I lost a little
weight. Of all the days for her to make such a comment. I was so
angry with Patrick Walsh that just bringing his image to mind
was enough to make me shake, and by the minute, my resolve
to avoid marriage was only growing stronger.
The children were in the yard again that day. Jeremy was
throwing a ball at the other children, in a version of dodgeball
that was slightly too mean to be innocent. There was no sign of
Grace, so I parked the car at the curb and walked up the path
toward the front door. The children noticed me as I reached
the porch.
“You’re back again,” Tim stated helpfully. “Mom isn’t in the
laundry today. She’s in her bedroom.”
“Thank you,” I said stiffly, and I waved the children away
and made my way to the porch. The front door was open just
a crack, so I knocked then let myself inside.
“Grace?” I called as I let myself into the house.
“I’m in here!” she called back. I followed the sound of her
voice and found her sitting at a dresser in one of the small bed-
rooms. She looked so much better than the previous day, her
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hair styled into a low bouffant, with the ends curled upward.
She was even wearing a little makeup, and a pair of costume
earrings I remembered Mother gave her for her birthday one
year. Her swing dress was navy with big white polka dots and
a matching white belt, and although her shoes were worn, they
were pretty—navy pumps with a big buckle on the side.
Grace looked beautiful, but it wasn’t just her outfit—when she
met my eyes in the mirror, relief had relaxed the tension from
her features. I was still nervous for her and for what we were
about to do, but the renewed calm in my sister’s eyes was enough
to reassure me that we were doing the right thing. Grace didn’t
just want to end this pregnancy. She needed to do so.
“Are you ready?” I asked her. She stood and smoothed her
dress over her hips.
“I’ll just run next door and get Mrs. Hills to come and watch
the children.”
While Grace went to the neighbor’s house, I let myself out
the back door to stand on the ramp and watch the children play.
The game of dodgeball had ended, and now the boys were rid-
ing tricycles, while the girls played with some wooden blocks.
Even Beth was better dressed today, wearing a floral pinafore,
her hair woven into a braid.
Grace returned with Mrs. Hills, who seemed to be as old as
the hills. She used a cane and had a severe expression on her
face, suggesting that although she might not have known the
details of what was going on, she was certain we were up to no
good. Grace gave her a series of instructions, directed her to the
sandwiches already prepared for the children’s lunch and then
kissed each child on their forehead.
“Where are you going?” Jeremy asked, blinking up at her
with a confused frown.
“I’m just going out for lunch with Aunty Maryanne.”
“Me, too?” Ruth asked hopefully. Grace flushed a little, even
as she laughed and ruffled up Ruth’s hair.
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“No, silly. It’s a grown-up lunch. But we’ll play tea parties
when I get home.”
“Momma,” Beth said, throwing her arms around Grace’s leg.
Grace bent down and picked her up, then kissed her cheek.
“Its Mrs. Hills’s turn to look after you, okay, darling? I’ll be
back in a few hours. You be brave.”
Beth blinked her big blue eyes, trying to hold back the tears.
Grace kissed her one last time then firmly handed her to Mrs.
Hills, then all but bolted for the car.
“Do you have everything? Did you get the extra cash?” I
asked her. She patted her handbag and nodded.
“He wasn’t happy about it,” she sighed. “We had a scream-
ing argument. It was awful. And you know my husband will
mortal sin.”
“Gracie, I love you to death, but I don’t care even one bit
what your husband thinks of me,” I snorted. Grace gave me a sad
look, then glanced over her shoulder and walked a little faster.
“Let’s get out of here. I’ve never left them all behind before.
I’m a bit scared someone’s going to cry.”
“They’ll be fine for a few hours.”
“It wasn’t them I was talking about,” Grace sighed, and then
we both laughed.
“You seem better today,” I told her.
“It’s funny what a bit of hope can do for a person,” she mur-
mured.
I was proud then, that I had become the kind of woman who
lived what I believed. Wasn’t this what it was all about? Help-
ing others to live the life they chose, and not the life society
dictated for them? Helping women to reach their full potential,
and not to stay subjugated into the roles their husbands assumed
they would adopt.
The roads were clear—we’d hit the sweet spot between the
morning peak and the lunchtime rush. I drove in silence for a
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while, and then Grace asked me quietly, “You think I’m doing
; the right thing, don’t you?”
“I think you know better than absolutely anyone else what’s
best for you, and it’s strong of you to seek it.”
She flashed me the closest thing to a beam I’d seen since my
arrival back in Washington State.
“Tell me what your life is like down there,” she said, adjust-
ing her legs against the buttery leather of Dad’s “weekend” car.
“I work hard. My jobs take up a lot of my week. But I fit in
a lot of fun around that—clubs and dancing and talking with
professors and the other students about exciting ideas,” I said.
“I feel like I’m right where I belong.”
“That’s lovely, Mary,” she said, smiling at me with an odd
sadness in her gaze.
I signaled to change lanes and move around a slow truck, then
glanced at her and prompted, “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Feel like you’re where you belong.”
Grace picked at a knot in the fabric of her dress and avoided
my gaze as she pondered this question, but she looked out the
window while she answered it.
“We’re very different, Maryanne. You’re destined for bigger
and better things than I ever was. I never had it in me to swim
upstream the way you do. I was always going to marry young,
have a bunch of children and see out my days wiping noses and
changing dirty diapers.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Dad would say this is the ultimate honor for a woman. To
be a wife and mother, I mean.”
“Dad would also say that a woman pursuing a career is the
beginning of the end of society. Dad says a lot of things that
he thinks are fact but that are, in fact, uninformed opinion,” I
muttered.
“Will you ever get married?”
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“Never.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“I’ve met some lovely boys, but I’ve never been in love.”
“Well, how can you say you won’t marry if you’ve never even
felt love? It’s love that led me to marry.”
“Love is a feeling. I value my thoughts far above my feel-
ings,” I said. “If I were to fall in love, I’d do my absolute best
to override that emotion with sensible decision making. I don’t
plan on becoming any man’s property.”
“I wish you would fall in love. I wish you’d love a man the
way I love Patrick. I know you only see his flaws, but I still see