

Making Family

By...

Jennifer White

Copyright 2016 Jennifer White

Smashwords Edition

For Nick, Kira, and Denis, because everything I do is for you.

For Lee, because home is wherever you are.

Chapter One

The fog is swirling around the streetlight poles and dancing around the sidewalks. It seems to have a life all its own, but then again, what about this place doesn't? As I sit down in the worn chair by the window and watch for nothing in particular, I notice how the fog seems alive on this Tuesday morning.

I sip my tea slowly, waiting for the warmth to spread through my middle and take away the early morning chills. No one but me would be awake at such an ungodly hour, and I have always been one to enjoy such solitude. My poor mother had often worried about me when I was young; I seemed to survive on little to no sleep, staying up all hours reading and disappearing over the hills with the first light of day. That seemed like a lifetime ago – I suppose it was. I shake my head to clear out those long distant memories, and turn my thoughts once more to the view from my window.

I didn't much think about that place, once I left. Occasionally, it would slip, unbidden, into my thoughts in the early morning, such as today, when I have little to distract me. Soon though, the streets of the old city will be coming alive, and those bothersome memories will disappear once more. The sun is beginning to cast its fiery glow over the Southside hills, and the late season frost glistens as the fingers of daylight stretch to choke away the icy blanket. The scattered window is lighting up – people are getting up and about now – they'll soon be heading out to work and school, another day ticking away.

I had come to this city as soon as I had my chance. I was barely more than fifteen, as I recall now. Thinking back on how foolishly I had acted, I couldn't help but shudder. I had been in such a hurry to leave home and had no idea what I was getting into. As I stepped onto the boat that morning, I had vowed never to look back, and I hadn't. Not once. Not when the boat lurched away from the dock, not when my mother cried out to me. And not when we slipped out of the harbour into the open sea, and the place of my birth slipped out of view. I was disgusted with myself for letting one tear slip down my cheek, and brushed it away before anyone noticed. Back then I was full of piss and vinegar and wanted to look forward, not back. And that's exactly what I had done.

Now I am sitting here, a lifetime later, and I wonder what the rush was about. I could have waited a year or two. I could have stayed longer to help. But I didn't. I chose to run away and pretend that my life there was nothing more than a made-up story, like the ones I was reading in dime store novels. Now, most days, I sat and watched from my window as other young girls made the same mistakes. I smile tenderly as I watch them try to distance themselves from everything and everyone that defined them – their families, their friends and this place. When would they realize, like I had, that all of those things made them who they were and would forever be a part of them? All the distance in the world would not change that...

I pull the quilt over my legs again and snuggle back into the corner of the overstuffed, floral chair. Every day this chair seems to be growing, and I can disappear a little further into it. "Silly child," I chide myself, "you're this old and still thinking like some four year old. Grow up!" My voice sounds strange in the empty room. The house itself is full of echoes since I am the only one left now. Funny how, from time to time, I think I can still hear some of the others wandering around. Those days are also long gone. I have lived alone these past ten years, at least.

My tea is almost gone and I lean forward to pour another cup from the pot on the cluttered table. I catch sight of my knobby, gnarled hands as they wrap around the little ceramic pot. This getting old business wasn't for the faint of heart! The quilt slipped a little off my lap and I have to pull it up once more to cover my faded dressing gown. Some nights I don't even bother pulling on an old flannel nightie – I just sleep in my clothes, with that same quilt pulled up to my neck. I'd drift off in this selfsame chair but never slept for more than a few hours at a stretch. It seems as if my tired, old body doesn't want to waste what little time I have left with such a useless activity as sleep. The second cup of tea seems to rouse my spirits today though, and once I sip the last drop from my favourite china mug, I am finally ready to face the day. But what exactly am I facing? Another day sitting by the window, watching as others lived life and I was the observer? Another day of listening to my lone voice echoing in the narrow downstairs hallway? Or should today be the day when I finally did like the others – take to my bed like the frail, old woman that I was supposed to be, and wait for my last breath? "Not goddammed likely," I muttered, for I know that I am not one to give up so easily.

With a deep breath, I pull myself upright (or almost upright, these days) and gather up the teapot and mug and head out to the kitchen to tidy up. The narrow hallway hugs me in welcome, being used to bodies bumping up against its beadboard sides, it was not used to life with one. Nor was I, even though so much time had passed, the wallpaper above the chair rail had been picked out by Mary. She had loved those little clusters of purple pansies tossed against the pale yellow stripes. How we'd all teased her for that! She had stood her ground though, and the wallpaper stayed. In time, I had grown fond of it too, but I didn't dare tell poor Mary, lest she think she had converted me into a "lady" such as herself. Another smile passed my lips. Sometimes the memories were good, and those were nice company. But the memories from my early days at home were unwelcome, and those were the ones that bothered me. I clatter the dishes around in the sink for a while – not that there are many, just a small plate and the pot and mug, but the sound made me happy – made me feel like I am useful, and cleaning up after breakfast in the old days, when the wooden table had three or four girls sitting around it, chattering excitedly about what adventures their day would bring.

I finish the dishes quickly and leave them to dry in the dish drainer. I make my way back down the hallway and grab the solid banister to make my way upstairs to get dressed. The knob on top is worn, but is a strong old post, and doesn't shake at all when I grab it. The paint isn't badly chipped, just worn thin in a few places, where it had gotten the most use over the years. The narrow, steep stairs lead to another beadboard hall – this one with three doors and yet another set of stairs. The other stairs were seldom used, as the top flat had been vacant for many years now. I stop in the hallway and look at the heavy closed doors. Each one could tell it's own story, but I was glad that their voices were silent. I push open my own room door.

The room had changed very little in the past fifty years. The same iron, four-poster bed sat in the corner and the same wardrobe graced the far wall. It was by no means a large room, couldn't be more than 10x12, but it had the best view of the city by far. From my window I can see the spires of the Basilica to the left, and sweep my eyes across the horizon to see Cabot Tower, guarding the old city. Piles of handmade quilts sit atop the heavy wooden wardrobe, quilts I had made to pass the long winter nights. Now my hands wouldn't allow such fine stitching, and I was contenting myself with knitting and crocheting. The quilt on my bed was one of the last ones I had completed, and it was heavier than the others. I am finding it harder to rid myself of chills and aches these days, so I had made it extra warm.

I pull on a knee-length, black skirt – for I never wear pants, and a warm cardigan sweater on top of a pretty, pale pink blouse. I run a brush through my hair quickly and try not to look at the gray in the mirror. The curls are still holding out, and this makes me smile; my curls had been the thing that I had been most proud of when I was a foolish young girl. I put on a pair of pearl earrings and shove my feet into a pair of moccasin slippers.

Eventually I find my way back downstairs to the front room again. Now the street is full of activity. I watch children racing down the block, heading to school. Young Nathan next door is swinging his book bag at the girl who lives further down the street. She is sticking her tongue out at him, taunting him, and he is pretending to try to hit her with his bag. She squeals at a near miss, I can hear her through the glass. I laugh a little, in spite of myself. I'm sure that they don't think of me as a crotchety old woman, but I have been known to express my opinion. Finally Nate notices me watching, so I pretend to be upset and shake my fist at him. He reads my expression though, and winks. _Since when do ten year olds wink?_ I think with a rueful smile. _What a smart ass!_ He gives a quick wave and takes off, running after the girl again. I turn away, still grinning.

I set about tidying up my little room, not that there was much mess with just me sitting by the window all day, but I straighten the pillows on the sofa and stack the books on the table a little more neatly. My eyes are still good, so I devour books as a way to pass the long, lonely days. My gaze sweeps across the room, satisfied that I have done my housekeeping for the day. I look at the old photos in the frames on the wall. Most are faded and the sepia is more yellow than brown. The stern faces that stare back at me with those unseeing eyes, give me the chills. No one looked like that in life, and these photos had always made me shudder. They were mostly of long-dead relatives; Mary's parents in one, Beth's mother and grandmother were in another. No one made a fuss when I didn't want my parent's picture mounted on the wall, although I could tell they had some questions.

I remember the day that those damn pictures went up on the wall. Mary had decided that we should try to make this place more like our "home", since we had all bought it together. She had trotted up to the top flat and returned with two giant pictures in matching walnut frames. The unsmiling faces of her parents glared out as us all, but she didn't seem to mind their expressions much. "There," she had said with a satisfied grin, "now this is more like home!"

"For whom?" I asked gloomily. I wasn't really taken with the idea of coming face to face with those characters every day.

"Cheer up – you can put up pictures of your family too," she had said as she wiped her hands in her apron.

"No thank you," I said simply and walked out of the room. Beth followed and touched my shoulder.

"You don't talk about them – ever. If you ever feel the need..." her voice trailed off. I shook her hand away and headed upstairs, so that she wouldn't see the tears that had come suddenly to my eyes.

Now, all these years later, and those two were still staring out from their dark frames, judging me. _You can quit now; you've seen all the bad stuff and now it's just me left. Not much I'll be doing to disgrace you._ Maybe one of these days I'll take them down – if the paper behind isn't too faded.

According to the nice looking woman in the smart suit on the television channel, the fog will burn off shortly and it will be a pleasant afternoon, but a cool evening. I decide that I should go out for a while – blow the stink off of me – as Beth would say.

I putter around the kitchen and make some raisin tea buns. I lay them on racks on the table to cool and begin making a sandwich for my lunch – ham and cheese on homemade bread. I can't knead the dough anymore, but the bakery on the corner makes it almost as good as my own. I sit at one corner of the table and eat my lunch in solitude. I turn on the radio for a little company, and the announcer's voice is rich and deep. The community service announcements end, so he introduces the next song as "an oldie but a goody". The cliché doesn't bother me too much, especially the way that he croons the phrase. He's right. The oldies are definitely the goodies, way better than the trash they were passing off as music these days. I recognize the tune at once – Moonlight Serenade. God, how I had loved dancing to those Glenn Miller tunes at the base during the war. I close my eyes and rest my chin on my hands, the sandwich forgotten. I let the music wash over me. It holds me in its embrace like those soldiers did so many nights ago. I can still feel their hot breath on my neck and their hands on the small of my back. I sway a little to the music, forgetting that all of that had been a lifetime ago too, and I am sitting alone in my kitchen over sixty years later.

Lunch is finished, so I head back upstairs to get a sweater. I catch a chill more easily these days and think it best to take one along, just in case. The one I had put on this morning isn't really warm enough on its own, and a spare couldn't go astray. I find a gray, hand knit pullover, feeling pretty sure that I won't need it, but don't want to be caught unprepared.

As soon as I shut the front door, I know that I had made the right choice. The sun caresses my cheeks, like an old lover, a familiar touch that still holds some warmth. I head towards the shops on Water Street. I'm not looking for anything in particular, just twacking, mostly. I have little use for the touristy things that most of the stores peddle, but I did plan to stop in a craft store to look at some wool, and a little café for a cup of tea mid afternoon. With the sun dipping below the tops of the buildings, I know that the time had come to head home. At my slow pace I will be lucky to make it back in an hour, and that is the time when the streets were at their busiest. I didn't like walking around downtown during rush hour. I had never much liked cars, and the congestion on these tiny streets makes me nervous.

As I turn the corner to my familiar street, the place I had called home for more than half a century, I look at the houses that line both sides of the road. They are mostly linked together in many colours, like yarn that had been joined haphazardly together to make a scarf with little thought of the combination. Some of the people have been doing up the houses – flipping them, I believe is the term they use. My house looms lonely almost at the end. It is one of the few unattached ones, which had made it quite a find when we girls had bought it. I suppose it is still quite a find, and someday, someone will probably make a fortune off of it, if they renovate it properly.

Every time I walk down this road, I stop midway to stare at my house. Even after all this time I can't believe it is mine. It is a three-story house, with turrets on either side. The faded red colour is like wine, and the money I had spent last summer to have the front porch replaced and painted white was well worth it. I had a small wicker chair, also white, placed in the corner so that I could enjoy the fine weather. I squint a little.

There appears to be a small shadowy form in that very chair. Usually the kids in the neighborhood stop by after school to say hello or have a cookie. I don't mind, am glad for the company, and am fairly certain that their parents asked them to check on me. It is nice living here, these strangers treating me like family, and for that, I am grateful.

I get closer and the shadow doesn't move. It doesn't stir at all until I am at the bottom of the three steps leading to the door.

"Can I help you?" I ask, not recognizing the figure at all. When it looks up, I realize that it is a young girl, maybe fifteen or so. She is thin and pale, and has long blonde hair that hangs straight down her back. Her eyes are so blue they are almost black, and judging from how red-rimmed they are, she has been crying. She is a striking girl, even in her misery. I slowly mount the steps and head towards her. She still hasn't spoken. I am at a loss for words – I have never been the good one at this sort of thing. Dealing with tears had always been Beth's department.

I put on hand on her shoulder and she lifts her face to look in my eyes. Suddenly I am struck by how familiar the girl looks, yet can't place how I could know her. "Are you okay?" I ask gently, not knowing exactly what I should be doing to comfort this stranger.

With her voice breaking, and two more tears following the tracks down her cheeks, she asks one question: "Are you my Nan?"

Chapter Two

I feel as though all the wind has been knocked out of me. I stagger a little, before plunking myself down on the top step. She seems a little shocked at the way I've turned my back so abruptly, because I hear her gasp.

Slowly, I turn to meet her gaze once more. I search her face and struggle to say something...anything. But nothing comes from my open mouth.

"I should go," she stammers awkwardly. "This was a mistake." She stands shakily. Now she is towering above me, and even though she is slightly built, I feel dwarfed by her shadow.

She begins to walk past me, down the stairs and into the twilight. She couldn't belong to me, could she? How could she have even found me? Although I had never thought of myself as hard to find, no one else had ever gone out of their way to seek me out.

"Wait."

She turns around on the sidewalk. Her head tilts to one side, like a puppy trying to comprehend its owner's commands. Still she waits. After an eternity, I find my shaky voice once more. "What makes you think I'm your Nan?" I manage.

She leaps up the three steps once more, and sits next to me. This young sprite of a thing looks into my soul with those blue-black eyes again, and I was sure that it was true. She is my granddaughter – she has to be.

"I don't know where to begin really," she said simply. Her voice is shaking as much as mine had been. I look more carefully and notice that her sweater was much too thin, and the chill in the air was creeping into her insides and wrapping its boney claws around her middle.

"Help me up and you can come in to get warm," I said bravely. Although I didn't feel brave about this whole thing, I felt that one of us should sound certain about something. "You can tell me your story over tea."

The strength of her grip surprises me the most. I expect her to be gentle and timid, but she holds my arm with just the right firmness and steadies me as I teeter while turning to open the heavy door. Once inside, I flick the hall switch, and the dim, yellow glow turns us orange. I show her the way to the kitchen and she sits quietly at the table while I make us both a cup of tea.

"This should help chase the cold away," I tell her as I putter around, thrilled to have company, regardless of whether or not we are related. I put some oatmeal cookies on a plate and set them down in front of her. I take my own china mug and sit in the chair across from her. In here the light was a circular fluorescent, and it makes us both look pale and slightly green. But I'm not sure if it is the light, or the situation.

I cup my hands around the cup and let its warmth permeate my joints. She sips cautiously and I can tell that she seldom drinks tea. I give her some honey to put in hers. She takes it gratefully, and is more content with the flavour. After an eternity, she begins to speak.

"My mom told me that I had a grandmother who died a long time ago, but I found a card in a box in her closet with this address on the envelope. It was a birthday card, and it said: _For my Daughter on her Birthday_ , so I thought..."

I stop my cup mid-hoist. I try not to look surprised, and calmly reply, "What makes you think it was me? There were four women who lived here, once upon a time. It could have been one of the others. They've all died. It's just me left." My voice has become barely more than a whisper. "Surely you must mean one of the others." Even I know the difference in that.

"No," she says, with an amazing amount of conviction for a child, "it's got to be you."

"What makes you so sure? One card isn't enough to convince me." I try to sound indifferent, but know that I am failing.

"Because you look just like my mom," she said simply. "And I think my mom told me you were dead so that I wouldn't want to find you. But I can't figure out why." She looked like she was going to cry. Her eyes filled to the brim, but she fights hard to keep them from spilling over. I notice that she is biting her bottom lip to keep control, and her top front teeth are slightly crooked, making uneven marks in her lips.

She looks like a little girl trying to be brave and grown up. Her gaze is down, and her lashes are damp. There is a light dusting of pale freckles sprinkled across her nose. When she pushes her hair behind her ears, one stubborn piece keeps falling forward and casting a shadow across her features. She almost looks like a contrite angel, all she is missing is her halo and wings.

Her sweater is navy blue, and quite large. It hangs on her shoulders and the sleeves pool around her wrists. Her jeans are faded and the ends are frayed, and her sneakers look like they too have seen better days. Her shabby appearance is in keeping with other girls her age, so I assume she has had a good life. But why seek me out, especially since she was told that her grandmother was dead?

She nibbles daintily on a cookie. I take one too, and for a few minutes there is no talking, just the crunching of crumbly cookies. _Maybe I should have offered her milk instead of tea,_ I thought a little too late _._ But she dutifully sips the tea, and soon her cheeks are flushed with warmth and she looks familiar once more. Without any more details, I know that she is right, and I am indeed her grandmother. Not that I will tell her this yet, of course. I still need to know more.

Another couple of minutes pass without conversation, so I pull myself up from the table and turn on the radio. "You don't mind, do you dear?" I ask, shocked that I used the term _dear._ That's what old-folks said! She shrugs indifferently, so I set the volume on low – just enough to take away the harshness of the silence that has descended upon us.

I sit again and drain the dregs from my chipped mug. I think she knows that I am, impatient for her to talk, but that I don't want to force it either. She clears her throat, and I look up expectantly.

"I guess I should tell you why I'm here," she struggled to find the right words.

"Only if you want to," I reassure her. "If that's hard, why not tell me something more simple... like your name and age."

"Oh," she almost giggled, "Sorry. My name is Hannah and I'm sixteen." She looks relieved. "You must think I'm rude."

"Rude? No. Confused? Maybe." I laugh a little. "Tell me about you, and then about why you think we're related." She relaxes a bit. She looks deep into my eyes again and takes a breath.

"Okay. I'm in high school and I'm an average student. I'm learning to drive this year and I like to hang out with my friends. I'm basically a normal teenager." She stopped. "I think we're related because, like I said, you're like my mom. Well, you look like her anyways. You've already been more patient with me than she is." With that comment, I think she startled herself. She glanced away. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Hold on," I put that knobby old hand on her arm. "Don't do that. You can say anything to me. Never stop yourself from telling me whatever it is you want to say...unless it's that you don't like my cookies." She meets my gaze once more, and laugh when she sees the twinkle in my eye. "I remember being sixteen, you know," I continued, "It's a very dramatic age. I doubt you're going to tell me anything that I haven't heard or experienced before."

She grew serious once more. Her face clouded over. "Do you mean it?" she asked quietly. "Can I really tell you _anything?_ "

"Of course," I pat her arm again.

Another big breath. "Maybe I should just go."

"That's up to you," I said simply. I think I shocked her by not begging her to tell me, but I learned long ago that that wasn't the way to get to the bottom of anything. I stand up, expecting to lead her out the narrow hallway and into the porch once more, but she remains in her chair. I sat again.

"My mom hates me."

"All teenagers think that."

"No, it's true."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because she told me."

I had no idea what to say. What kind of monster would say something like that to this beautiful child?

"You don't believe that, do you?" I ask gently.

"Yes, I do." This time the tears did spill over. I hand her a napkin to wipe them away.

"Well, I don't believe that. No mother ever hates their child. I think you must have misunderstood." This was definitely the wrong thing to say to a sixteen-year-old girl, because sixteen-year-old girls are never wrong. I remember that from when I was sixteen and invincible. She shoots me 'the look', another thing that sixteen-year-old girls are famous for. I shut up quickly.

"Well she does then. She tells me all the time. If it was once or twice, I'd think you were right, but she tells me almost every day. So how can that be a mistake?"

Silence. I sat on that hard chair with my mouth agape. This was a deliberate action on this child's mother's part. Every mother says things in anger, but immediately wants to take it back. Telling a child that you hate them on a regular basis was one of the cruelest things I could ever think of. Well, telling any child that you hate them in the first place is despicable, even if said in anger one time.

"I don't know what to say." I speak softly. My heart is breaking for this sweet little thing, caught be her last chance, after all. But maybe even I am too late. And she doesn't even really know for sure _if_ I am the elusive grandmother that she seeks.

A few more moments pass. We avoid each other's gazes because we have suddenly become self-conscious. I know that Hannah is indeed my granddaughter without hearing her story, and I anticipate that it is going to be a long and complicated one. I also know that eventually she will also have to hear mine, and then she too, will leave. Like they all had done.

I shake that thought out of my head immediately. Maybe not. Maybe this child would forgive what the others couldn't. "Are you hungry?" I ask her, realizing that it was long past the time we should have eaten a sensible meal. She nodded. "I don't have much, but we could have some soup and sandwiches – would that be okay?" She nods again, and I am struck by the thought that she is really young. It seems that she tries to pass herself off as worldly, but underneath she is still a scared little girl. _How familiar is that_? I grin, in spite of myself.

I slice some bakery bread into thick hunks and slather them with sandwich spread. I open the fridge and pull out a plastic container with some ham inside. I pile that on, add some cheese, and slice these mountainous sandwiches into halves. I rummage around the junk drawer for the can opener, and take a can of cream of broccoli soup out of the pantry. While I do all of this, I am trying to observe Hannah, unnoticed. She is still sitting there with her eyes on her folded hands, which are playing distractedly with the napkin I had given her to dry her tears. When she catches me looking at her, I ask her to open the soup can because my hands are too shaky.

"Old age is a bitch," I tell her, laughing when she looks shocked. "Yes, Hannah, old people swear too sometimes."

I pour the soup into a tiny pot and set it on the coiled burner. When I turn the knob, an acrid smell fills the air. Whatever I had spilled on the stove was burning and stinking up the kitchen. I apologize and switch burners.

"After it cools down, I'll clean that off for you," Hannah offers. This time, my eyes filled. _She doesn't know me from Adam, yet is offering to help a tired old woman do stuff that she can't do on her own anymore._

"That would be nice," is all I manage to get out.

Within minutes the air clears and our soup is done. I pour it into two bowls, and try to steady my hands as I carry the bowls to the table. Hannah rises from her spot and takes them from me. I bring the sandwiches to the table, and get Hannah some milk, and me some more tea.

We eat in silence. The radio station is static-y and the music is bad. I shut it off, and the deafening silence engulfs us once more. Finally I asked her when she had to be home. She shrugs and mutters something that sounded shockingly like "doesn't matter. No one notices if I'm there or not." There is much more going on than I had thought.

"Well, should you call someone and let them know you're okay?" I ask. Hannah pulls a tiny cell phone from her pocket and tells me that if anyone is looking for her, they'd call that phone. "Sorry, I forgot about kids and technology."

Hannah makes short work of her dinner. I eat mine at a more leisurely pace, but still finish within a brief period of time. As I pick up the dishes, Hannah puts her hand on mine and stops me. She wordlessly picks up the dishes and piles them neatly into the sink. She then grabs the cloth, and, true to her word, cleans up the burnt goo from the first burner. Within two minutes she was sitting in the chair again, beaming in response to my look of gratitude. This made me wonder if anyone had ever said a kind word to her. "Thank you Hannah," I pat her shoulder, "I appreciate your help."

Her demeanor changes almost immediately. She slumps over in her chair once more, and shifts her eyes downward. Softly, she said, "I need to tell you why I'm really here." She never once looks up at me. I wait, motionless. I am afraid to breathe too loudly, lest she change her mind. I can almost see her gathering her courage.

"Look," she begins at last. "I really think that you're my grandmother and not one of those other ladies. Like I told you, my mom looks just like you. Her name is Mary and she's 42 years old. She married my dad when she was eighteen and they moved to the mainland. We all moved back here last year when Dad's mother got sick. She had cancer and died just before Christmas last year. Mom is a nurse at the hospital and Dad's an accountant for a private company. I've got a brother too, and he's twelve."

While she is talking, I'm doing the math in my head. _Yes, that sounds about right. Mary would be that age, and the last time I heard from her was about 15 years ago. But she never mentioned having a child then...Of course, getting her to speak to me at all was like pulling teeth, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she wouldn't have told me about Hannah._

Hannah was looking at me in a puzzled manner. Had I said something out loud? Should I have? "Sorry," I half smiled, "I got lost in my own thoughts there for a second. Go on."

Nothing. Hannah stopped talking altogether. I must have really messed up. Here was a child who needed me and I didn't know why, yet I had tuned her out. Her parents had probably been doing this very same thing for years. I figure I ought to 'fess up. "I was doing some math in my head," I told her simply. "The truth of the matter is: I do have a daughter named Mary, and she should be about your mother's age. But she certainly didn't tell me I had grandchildren. We haven't spoken in close to fifteen years. I wasn't tuning you out really, I was just trying to figure things out."

This seems acceptable to her, and a warm grin spreads across her face. "I knew it was you," she runs to embrace me. I awkwardly pat her back and feel the smooth strands of her hair trailing down her back. I was never good with affection, and it feels strange to me to have someone want to hug my bony, old body. I melt a little in this moment, as if I was the child. At my age, I can honestly say that this is my first hug.

Chapter Three

I hold that sweet, trembling girl in the embrace for only a moment, but know that in my heart, that moment will live forever. I feet both warm and foolish at the same time, and think that anyone reading my thoughts at this second would surely laugh at the sentimentality I am exhibiting in my old age.

After a brief spell, I pat her on the back and brake out of her hold. "Like I told you, it sounds like I could be your grandmother, but I never knew that you existed."

"So you don't get along with my mother either," Hannah smiles as she says this.

"No, I guess I don't," is my rueful reply. "What else can you tell me about your family?"

"Well, not a lot. Mom told me that her mother – you – died when she was young and that she had no other family. We moved back here to take care of my Dad's mom. Oh, and Mom's maiden name was Ryan." This is like an afterthought, but a very important one. Hannah stops, looking closely at my expression, as if trying to read it.

"Yes, Hannah, my name is Ryan. By all accounts, I must be your grandmother."

I see her body relax as she slumps forward. I realize that this cramped kitchen table with its bench seat and hard chairs isn't the best place to be having a conversation with my newly discovered granddaughter. "Let's go out to the front room and sit where it's more comfortable," I suggest. Together we walk through that narrow corridor once more and make our way into the living room. I switch on the tiny table lamp, and the soft glow make Hannah's cheeks look flushed.

I glance at the clock on the mantle before I sat down. 8.15. Still relatively early, so I am sure that Hannah won't be missed at home for a while. Still, I wonder why she is even here, and I remember about the comments she had made about her family not missing her. I am hoping that we can get to the bottom of the reason she has sought me out before she has to leave. I turn around and see that she has made herself comfortable on the faded couch, and is stroking the quilt that I had tossed across the back. "Did you make this?" she asks, amazed.

"Yes, I did, but that was a long time ago." Telling her this makes me sad for some reason, and I can't quite figure out why.

"It's beautiful," is her simple reply.

I wait for a moment. As I lower myself into my chair by the window, I look straight at Hannah. "Okay Hannah, I need to know why you found me."

She seem taken aback by my abrupt statement. But this child has now been in my house for three hours and I know very little, other than that she is most likely my granddaughter and that Mary, my daughter and her mother, had told her I was dead. Why would any 16 year old be out looking for ghosts? My curiosity can no longer be contained.

She starts to tell me again about the card that she found, but I interrupt her with a wave of my hand. "I know that, you told me already. But why find me now?" I press.

Suddenly, Hannah looks even more like a child. She sits small and vulnerable, dwarfed by the giant sofa, and seems to shrink into the back a little more. I feel like I have pushed too far, too fast. I drop my gaze and hold my breath.

"I know that you must be mad at me and think I'm wasting your time," she begins, "but I'm really having a hard time here. I've never had anyone to really talk to, and coming here and taking a chance like this is a pretty big deal."

"I know – I am sorry, but I want to know how I can help you before you leave here tonight."

"You won't be able to help, other than to listen," she says simply and with a conviction far beyond her sixteen years.

"Then, I will listen, but you will have to talk," I say with a slight chuckle. The corners of her eyes crinkle a little, as a smile finally appears.

"Okay, here goes," she takes a deep breath. "I've told you pretty much everything about me that there is to know. I'm pretty average, like most teenage girls. My brother's name is Josh and he's twelve. He's a pain, like most little brothers, but he can be okay too. I think you'd like him." _Of course I would, he's my grandson_.

"I don't get along with my parents," she is speaking a little more softly now. "But, again, that's like most teenagers, right?" I nod. _More than you realize_ , I add silently. I don't want to speak, lest I scare her from her mission once more, and this time I feel that she is close to telling me what is going on.

Suddenly I hear a faint melody. Tinny and electronic. "Sorry," Hannah sighs, "that's my phone." She puts her hand in her jeans pocket and draws out the tiniest of rectangles. _Surely something that small isn't a telephone?_ I hold my breath.

I can tell by the tone of her voice that it must be her mother. Her body stiffens and her words become curt and short. There are a lot of long pauses on Hannah's end, and at one point a huge sigh and eye-roll. Then I hear her say, "Fine, give me an hour. Okay?" And she slams the shiny silver device closed.

"Time to go?" I ask tentatively.

"Soon," is the angry reply.

"Will it take you long to get there?" Suddenly I am worried for her, having no idea how far away she lives and how she would get there. "I'm sorry, but I don't have a car and can't bring you home..." my voice trails off.

"I wouldn't want you to." Once more, Hannah stops speaking and seems tired. "Look, I don't want anything from you, really. I just need someone to listen while I sort out my life – you know what I mean?" I nod wordlessly and think that if I had had someone like that at her age my life would've unfolded a lot differently.

"I don't live that far from here," the slight smile is returning, "so even if we don't get to finish talking tonight, I can come back easily another time."

"But you will tell me why you're here?" I am beyond being subtle. No longer worried about scaring her off, now I am more concerned with getting some answers. She laughs.

I know that this is it; she is really going to tell me this time what has brought her to me. In the dim lamplight I see her sitting up a little straighter, and know that whatever she tells me is going to be important – at least by teenage standards. A few seconds pass, yet it feels like forever. My body is tense and my ears are strained, listening, so that I might catch every word that this child is going to tell me.

"I don't have anyone to talk to. I have friends, or at least I thought I did. I haven't got a best friend, and my best friend from when we lived away is too busy with her life to even send me an email. I can't talk to my parents, they're never around, and when they are, they're always angry. Josh is too little to understand, and I couldn't think of anyone who wouldn't judge me – except someone who doesn't know me. And that's why I came to see you. You don't know me, so you can't pass judgment."

I don't have the heart to tell her that people judge you the moment they meet you, and I had already made my judgment of her. In my eyes, she is indeed a troubled young girl, but I think that she had a good heart. Instead of telling her this, I smile and nod, encouraging her to continue.

"I'm in trouble." She stops. I get up slowly and cross the room. I sit next to her on the lumpy sofa and put one of those knobby hands on her leg, just at the knee. I can feel the bones in her leg through the denim.

"Tell me."

"I did something that I thought might be a bad idea, and now it's coming back to bite me in the ass." Another pause. "I didn't have any friends. Mom and Dad weren't around and I was lonely. Josh fit in well at his school, he fits in wherever he goes. I wasn't fitting in. So I decided that coming back to Newfoundland was a chance to reinvent myself, but I kind of did that wrong. Now everything's a mess and I can't seem to get out of it. I went to a party that some girl I didn't know very well was having one Friday night. I thought it would be a great chance to meet some new kids and find someone to hang out with. So, I get there and there's like, 200 kids in this house. They're drinking and smoking, some are doing drugs, and every bedroom is locked. Her parents were gone away for the weekend, and it was a totally out-of-control party.

"After I was there for about a half an hour I started talking to this guy in my math class. He was nice enough, and introduced me to a couple of his friends. They were all really nice, and the girls were in a couple of my classes too. I felt like I might fit in for the first time since moving back here. None of us were into the wild stuff, so we all decided to leave and get a coffee.

"So we get to the coffeehouse and grab a table. We're all sitting around, laughing and talking. I felt really good, and finally had some friends to hang out with. We're all laughing and chatting and Mark, the guy from math, is flirting with me a lot. One of the girls whispered to me that he and his girlfriend had broken up and he was looking. I wasn't really interested because I didn't know him well, but I can be a bit of a flirt, so I played along."

I am starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, but try not to let Hannah know that I am aware of what must have happened next.

"We stayed there for almost two hours. When we were leaving, everyone exchanged cell numbers with me. Mark offered to walk me home. I thought it wouldn't be a big deal, so I said okay. He was a nice guy. We walked back to my place and had a really nice time. When we got to the front door, Mark kissed me. No big deal. I was actually kind of excited, because I finally felt like I could get used to living here. He left and I went inside, and felt happy for the first time in a year."

I let out a sigh of relief, since the story had not ended the way I was expecting. Hannah senses this too, and almost giggles.

"We started to date. That was about three months ago, just after the start of the new school year. I was like a new person. I was always a good student, but I was more outgoing and had a group of people who were my friends, finally. Mark and I went everywhere together, things were really good. But after a month, things began to change. Mark started to pick fights with me over everything. None of our friends said anything, but Sarah, one of the girls who went with us sometimes, told me that Mark had been like that with his last girlfriend, and that's why she left. So, I was kind of on my guard. Then one morning, Mark showed up to walk me to school. I grabbed my stuff and we left. Things were okay for a while, until he told me that he didn't like my sweater. I told him to mind his own business, it was only a sweater and not a big deal, but that only made him more upset. He started to yell at me. The traffic was really loud, so it wasn't obvious to the people driving by what was happening. I got mad and told him to shut up and leave me alone. That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Next thing I knew, he pushed me out in front of a car."

This time I gasp. "Oh Hannah, were you hurt?"

"No," she smiles. "The guy driving the car swerved and blew his horn, but never hit me. I was really lucky. And really mad. I ran away, leaving Mark standing there. He was shouting apologies at me, but I wouldn't listen. All that day at school it was the same thing – he was sorry, it was an accident, and it wouldn't happen again. Classic right? Well, I had heard all that stuff before and knew that it wouldn't change, and he would do it again. So I broke up with him."

Hannah stops speaking and looks into my eyes. She blinks quickly a few times but can't hold back the tears any longer. Several spill over and make little trails down her face.

"Breaking up is hard," is all I could say, "especially if he was your first boyfriend."

She almost looks grateful at these simple words.

"That's the nicest thing anyone's even said to me about this whole thing," she chokes out. Now her tears are coming more quickly and freely. After a moment she settles down a little and begins again.

"So after I dumped him none of _our_ friends would have anything to do with me. He began telling people nasty stuff about me and spreading rumours around school. So if I wasn't popular before, I wouldn't be popular now, for sure. He made sure of that. But that wasn't the worst part. That's what happened last weekend.

"I finally got up the nerve to go to another party, but I knew this guy a little better. We were in a couple of the same classes and he has a locker close to mine. I figured that maybe people were starting to realize that the things Mark was saying were lies and that I could fit in. Boy was I wrong!"

I hand her a tissue. This time, her whole body shakes and a few sobs escape her lips.

"It was all a trick. They were all in on it. I went to the party just to check things out and see if people were over the gossip yet and figured that I'd stay for an hour. So I get there, and all the group is there. Mark isn't around, so that made me feel better. And we're all talking and laughing like nothing happened. So I relaxed and started to have a good time. Sarah got us each a glass of pop, and it was like old times. That's the last thing I remember, because the next thing I knew..."

I am leaning forward and am so close to her face that she can feel my breath on her forehead. Her voice is barely more than a whisper when she says, "I woke up, naked, in a bed upstairs."

Chapter Four

This time I don't even try to hide my shock. Hannah, through her tears, looks me full in the face. My reaction makes her cry all the harder, and I am at a loss as to what to do for her. I rub her leg with just enough pressure to make her realize that I am here for her, although I really have no idea what I can do to help.

After a few minutes Hannah manages to choke her sobs back enough to tell the rest of her story. I worry about her getting home safely, but the last thing I want to do is turn her out now when she has finally opened up to me. I decide not to mention the time, and let her finish her tale.

"So, I woke up – naked – and had no idea how I got there. And my clothes were missing. My head was pounding and the room was almost totally black." She stops for a minute to collect her thoughts.

"After a few minutes I could see a little better, and realized I was in the parent's room. My clothes weren't anywhere around – I looked everywhere for them. I didn't know how long I was there or anything, and I was pretty scared. So I pulled on some of the mom's clothes – a pair of jeans and a sweater – nothing that she'd miss, and snuck out.

"But I must've been up there a really long time, because by the time I went downstairs everyone was gone. The place was trashed. There were chips crushed into the carpets, and empty beer bottles all over. The air smelled like old cigarettes, and the smell made me want to throw up."

"Hannah," I feel that I have to ask, "do you remember what you – did – upstairs that night?"

Her eyes tell me everything that I need to know. The fear and hurt mingling together means that she doesn't know exactly what had happened, but she fears the worst. "Did you go to the hospital, or your doctor?" I ask her gently.

"No...I was really scared. I still am. How could I go to a doctor and say MAYBE this happened, but I don't know? They'd think I was crazy!" The fear was replaced by anger.

"I thought there was a pill or something that they could give you..."

But even I know that that pill can't take away the pain she is feeling. So instead of talking about something I don't know a lot about, I decide to ask her what she plans to do next.

"I don't know," is the simple reply.

We sit and look at our feet for a while. Now that the whole story is out, I figure that Hannah wants me to offer her some solution, but who the hell am I to offer her anything? I can barely take care of my own life, how can I expect to offer this scared girl any help?

Eventually I realize that Hannah should be at home by now. I tell her that she should go home, before her mother gets too worried. Hannah looks up at me, and her eyes flash with rage.

"You don't honestly think that it matters to her where I am, do you?" she fair spits the words out. "The night that – it – happened, she never even knew I was missing. When I got home, it was morning. I was gone all night and no one missed me!" This, I think, hurt her as much as being betrayed by her friends.

"Look Hannah, I think you should go home before it gets late. I need to think about what you've told me. I'd like to help you, I just need to figure out how. You have to give me time to think."

"But you can't help, no one can," her voice has a hint of a wail about it now. Telling me what had happened has been a great stress relief, and now it looks like the full realization of what might have happened is actually hitting her.

I put my hands on both her shoulders and turn her towards me. She has no choice but to look at me, although she tries to shift her gaze down to her lap. "Look Hannah, I will do everything in my power to help you, but I need to sort it all out in my head. Things are different from when I was 16. Give me time." I feel like I am pleading: _Please let me try. You just found me and I don't want to lose you from my life already. Please, I want to do it for you. Especially since Mary wouldn't let me do it for her..._

My thoughts trail off here. I almost forget that Hannah is sitting right in front of me. I rub my knotty old hands across the threadbare sweater. "Trust me." Hannah smiles a half smile.

"Okay," she says hoarsely. "I guess you're right, I'd better go home." She looks up shyly now, and I meet her gaze through those long, damp lashes. "Can I come back tomorrow?"

"You most certainly can honey," I smile. "Just don't skip school or anything. I'll expect you after three tomorrow."

The time has come to let her go back to her home, but a part of me wants to keep her here with me. I feel ridiculous. This child has a family to go home to, and I am being a silly old fool thinking that she should stay here in this big, empty house with an old fart. I slowly get to my feet and feel each vertebrae of my spine groan with the effort of straightening. Hannah got up slowly too, but not because she was old, just because she was dreading going home.

I follow her to the door and ask again if she will be all right to go home. "I can call you a taxi." But Hannah dismisses this idea with a wave of her hand.

"I'm used to walking home at night," she almost smiles again as she said this.

"Okay then. Until tomorrow." I smile at her as she waves and goes down the steps. I watch her retreating figure until I can make out nothing but a blob turning the corner. Then she is gone.

As quickly as she came into my life, Hannah is gone. _Until tomorrow, you old fool._ I close the heavy front door, one of the last solid wood doors on the street, latch the chain lock and turn the deadbolt. I switch off the light in the porch and hobble my way back into the living room. As I sit in my chair, I suddenly feel tired. Tired and old. A lot had happened today – a day that had promised nothing out of the ordinary as I had watched the sunrise chase away the fog. That seemed like a lifetime ago, when it had only been this morning.

I pull my quilt over myself and sink back. I know that sleep will not come at all tonight, so I might as well make myself comfortable. I have a lot to sort out in my head. I had told Hannah that I would help her, and I honestly had no idea how I could do that. We didn't even know for sure what had happened that night.

_Did they rape her? Or was that another cruel part of this game: make her think that they had done unmentionable things, when they'd done nothing. How did they drug her? Her soft drink! Of course._ I had read about that drug they put in drinks, usually at bars downtown, to make girls more susceptible to the whims of unsavoury men. It makes me both angry and sad that teenagers can be so cruel to each other. _Things are very different from when I was that age..._

After several hours of staring out at the pitch dark I feel like my head is going to explode. My thoughts are going in circles, and I know that at this rate I will have nothing to offer Hannah when she returns. Finally I give up and decide that I will think better in the morning when my head is clear after some sleep. I raise myself from the chair, lay the quilt across the back and shut off the downstairs lights as I slowly make my way upstairs to my small room.

From my window the black night is punctuated by streetlights burning orange/pink into the darkness. Every so often a car turns the corner and its dual beams dance across the striped wallpaper of my room. I lie on my back with the covers pulled high – for I can only sleep with the covers pulled to my chin. Still my brain will not quiet. I keep tossing thoughts around and around, back and forth. After a while I realize that it was not just my thoughts that are in turmoil, I have been thrashing around in my small bed, and the sheets are twisted tight around me. This is how I fall asleep – finally – as the sun is peeking over the tower on the hill by the harbour. My cocoon and my fitful sleep will hopefully provide the answers that both my newfound granddaughter and I seek.

Chapter Five

I can't really say that I sleep a lot, even when I do drift off. My brain can't stop processing what Hannah had told me, and when I do slip into unconsciousness my dreams are nothing but a torment. Sleeping on it apparently would be of no use to me.

It must have been around ten when I give up trying to force myself to sleep and make my way back down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. The thought of food makes my stomach turn over, so I boil the kettle and content myself with a mug of steaming tea. I wrap my hands around the hot mug and blow a little across the surface, not so much to cool it as to watch the ripples dance on the surface. Slowly I find my way back to the chair by the window again, wrap up in my quilt and stare blankly at the street.

I don't notice the weather or the time of day. I turn the events of yesterday over and over in my mind, occasionally sipping my brew. I think about how scared young Hannah must have been, and must still be. I think of how she must not have a soul to confide in, especially since she sought out someone who was supposed to be dead. And about that...how could Mary tell those children that I was dead? Maybe I was expecting more of her than I should, since she obviously had a lot of things going on in her life. _But too many to realize that her daughter is struggling with something so horrible?_ How could she not notice whether or not her own child was missing for an entire night? Does she really not care?

I also know enough about teenagers to realize that Hannah is probably not telling me the whole story. It might have been a good many years since I was a child, but I had told my share of half-truths and fibs. That is a trait that I was certain had not disappeared in the generations since. I am also certain that it will continue well into future generations. I have always prided myself on my ability to read people, and from my passive view of the world, I have seen much in the way of lies and sins of omission. But now is not the time to think about that, I have bigger fish to fry. I have to find a way to help Hannah, and the hours are ticking away. She will be back before long, and even though she had said I couldn't help I had seen in her eyes the desperate hope that maybe I could.

After an hour of staring blankly through the window, I decide to shift my weight from one side to the other of the chair. My right hip screams at me, and I remember how damp it had been last night and how we had sat on the steps for a while. I know that for the next day or so I will pay the price for that – arthritis forgets nothing, and lies in wait for the ever-vigilant sufferer to forget to wear a sweater just once, to do something to provoke an attack. And I had done just that, sitting on the steps last night did nothing for my cause.

Eventually the pain dulls to a steady ache, and I figure that the time has come to eat something. I half-hobble into the kitchen and toast some bread. Within minutes I am sitting at the table and crunching some burnt crusts. My tea, now cold, sits next to my faded china plate. Beth had insisted on real china plates, and had so much fun picking the pattern in the catalogue at Woolworths and having it delivered. She had taken such pride in the delicate dishes, and had usually done all the washing up so we didn't break anything. After all these years most of the dishes had survived. They were faded and the glaze was cracked in places, but the dainty blue flowers still wound around the crimped edges, held together by a sliver vine. I had always thought the dishes were sweet, and they still reminded me of Beth, because she was dainty too, and always carried herself like a lady. Beth was the personification of china – delicate but durable. That was Beth in a nutshell.

I smile at this thought. Beth always knew how to make me smile, even when she was no longer around. That had been her gift. She thought of me as the smart one – I always told her she must've meant "smart-mouthed", but she would just brush that off with a laugh and tell me that I was the smartest person she had ever known. I'd try not to blush, but the colour would always rise to my cheeks and I'd look away, embarrassed. Beth would then move on to another chore, her work with me having been done. We were the closest of the girls, and could never figure out why. She was a mite of a girl, and looked as if she would break in two if the wind blew too hard on her. Her hair had been so black it was almost blue, and she kept is short and curled – we called it 'marcelled' back then. I don't know if there's a name for it anymore, because I never see that style on girls nowadays. Like me, she always wore dresses, even in the harshest winters. She liked to do needlework samplers and pick out china, while I would rather walk the streets and watch people. When I wasn't doing that, my nose was always buried in a book of some sort. That had not changed. Now I read as often as my eyes would allow, but I find that they tire easily.

I shift my weight again on the kitchen chair, and that brings me back to reality. Thinking about Beth had been nice but was not bringing me any closer to a solution for young Hannah. I pick up my plate and mug and place them in the sink gently, half expecting Beth to be looking over my shoulder, reminding me to be gentle with her china. Back I go to my perch in the living room, to wait for Hannah.

As I look out into the damp, drizzly day –finally I notice the weather, now that the day is half over – I am struck with an agonizing thought: what if Hannah doesn't come back? What if she thinks better of coming to see me at all? _No, she said she'd be back, and I know she meant it. She thinks that I can help her, and dammit, I have to find a way!_ I look at my gold wristwatch for the umpteenth time and realize that she would be here within the hour.

This is the longest hour in the history of time, and I can't believe that it is the same length as every other hour in the day. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I begin to see schoolchildren meandering down the sidewalk, swinging bags and laughing. None of them have that willowy figure that I am looking for. A few more minutes pass and the flow of children became a trickle. Then that too, stops. No Hannah. By quarter past four, I begin to fear that she won't show up. _You stupid old woman, you can't even get in touch with her. You don't know where she lives or her phone number. You couldn't find her if you tried._

I begin to slowly pace the worn floorboards of the front room. They had once been a rich mahogany colour, and had faded over the years to a muddy brown where they had received the most wear. It is a short space to pace in, because the room is small and the coffee table keeps getting in the way, but I am determined to "wear a hole in the floor" as a way to stop myself from looking out of that damn window – waiting for a child that might not even show up.

I am concentrating so much on the wear of the floors that the ringing of the phone nearly stops my heart. It is ancient, like so much of the house, and mounted on the wall of the kitchen. When I answer it some man on the other end is looking for Dave. "Wrong number," I say distractedly and hang up.

I am feeling defeated by the time I reach my chair. She had said she'd be back after school, and now it was coming on dark and still nothing. Maybe she had changed her mind about seeing me. Maybe she knew that I was an old fraud and could offer her nothing. Maybe she knew about me. _That's it_ , I think, _her mother told her about me and she won't come back – like the others._ I feel the stinging tears hit my cheeks before I can make them stop. I raise one gnarled fist to my eyes to wipe them away, furious at myself for believing that Hannah would be back. Why should she be any different than all the others who had walked out of my life?

I am so busy beating myself up for the mess I'd made of everything leading up to this point that I don't hear the click of the front door. When I look up, Hannah is standing in the doorway between the hallway and the front room.

As I wipe away the salty tears I try to hide them from her –pass them off as my eyes being tired. She doesn't look at all convinced. She crosses the small distance between us quickly and wraps her arms around my shoulders and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. She takes one step back when she sees how embarrassed I get by this show of affection. A small grin is spreading across her face. I am struck again by how striking her appearance is. Today she is wearing dark jeans – the uniform of teenagers – and a zippered up sweatshirt that is a deep burgundy. Her hair hangs straight down her back and is parted in the middle. I awkwardly pat her back in acceptance of her kiss. She laughs a little.

"Hasn't anyone ever given you a kiss and a hug before?" she asks, still giggling.

"No."

The smile fades. I watch it disappear as slowly and as certainly as a wave washes away initials in the sand. Hannah becomes awkward. She doesn't know how to respond. I am guessing that whatever her relationship is with her parents, they had shown her some affection. For that I am glad.

I motion for her to take a seat on the sofa. She does, and I resume my seat by the window. "Do you want anything to eat or drink?" I ask her. She shakes her head. I figure that she is too nervous to eat, hoping that I can offer a solution.

"Hannah, I've tortured myself with this all night and day. I don't know exactly what happened to you that night, and you say that you don't either. But I do know that there are a couple of things that you need to do, and you're not going to like any of them. There are going to be serious consequences, and you're in for a rough time. I hope you understand that." I stop and look into her eyes. It is her turn to cry. She is biting her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

I'm not sure where this is coming from. Up until she arrived, I had no idea what I was going to say. But now, I seem to have a plan in mind.

"First you have to tell your mother." I hold up my knotted index finger to silence her protest. "Then you have to get yourself to a doctor. If you don't want to go to your family doctor, you can go to the hospital or to the sexual health clinic. But your mother has to know. She won't be happy that you came to me, but eventually she'll understand." I lower my finger to indicate that she can now speak, expecting a flood of disagreement.

Silence. I realize that I had given my entire speech with my eyes closed. I open one, like a child expecting a surprise, then the other. I am looking at Hannah's face, which has grown cold. Suddenly I feel like I am looking into her mother's eyes. _Definitely Mary's daughter,_ I think.

After an eternity Hannah rises from the couch and walks towards the window by my chair, still not looking at me. She stands there, motionless, for another couple of minutes. I am getting edgy, but it still hurts to move after my arthritis flare-up, so I try not to squirm. When she finally turns to look at me, her cheeks are wet.

"I'll only tell her if you come with me," is all she says.

Chapter Six

I am not at all convinced that this is a good idea, but I can see by the stubborn way that Hannah purses her lips that if I don't go with her, she'll never tell Mary what happened – or what she thought had happened – that night. I'm not even sure that going to a doctor will help either. I know that it is too late to get a sample, and any other outward signs, like tearing, would be healed by now. Suddenly, my ideas seem foolish. But Hannah doesn't seem to care. She is almost holding her breath waiting for my response.

The dusk has brought the lurking shadows into the room with us. Every corner holds a secret, it seems, and with every passing minute they advance a little more. I take a big breath, puff out my saggy chest, and with fake bravado tell her that I will go with her to tell her mother. Hannah hugs me again, harder this time, and I can almost feel the relief pouring from her. After a lengthy embrace, I place both hands on her shoulders and look her square in the face. "When do you want to do this?" I ask, trying not to let my voice tremble too much.

"Can we do it now, and just get it over with?"

My jaw drops. I certainly wasn't expecting that. I was hoping for a day or two to gather my courage. It's not that I am afraid of Mary, she is my daughter, after all, but I certainly don't want to come face-to-face with her when she has spent the last fifteen years telling her family that I was dead. And to show up on her doorstep with her daughter and tell her that the child may or may not have been raped last week. Not my ideal reunion, nor the perfect circumstances to meet my son in law and grandson. I manage a feeble smile and weak nod. We are on our way.

* * * * * *

I close the heavy front door behind us just as the cab pulls up. It is past suppertime and the street is deserted. All of the houses are lit, and look cheery. From the sidewalk I can see families sitting in their front rooms, lit by the flickering glow of television sets. Hannah sits in the backseat and slides over to make room for me. The cabbie is friendly and cleanly shaven. "Where to, ladies?" he asks with a smile and wink.

I pause. Hannah quickly speaks up, " 14 Idlewild," she says in a loud, clear voice. Idlewild? That is only a few minutes from my own place, in the heart of this old city. How can Mary live this close to me and I not know? I don't have a lot of time to dwell on this, or anything else for that matter, because within five minutes we are stopping in front of a large two story. It isn't downtown proper, but rather one of those snake-like streets that had grown up with the city itself. The neighbourhood was well over a century in age, whereas mine was well into its bicentennial, and large maple trees lined the sidewalks, blotting out the inky night sky.

I pay the fare and get out of the cab, with Hannah following through the same door. She slams it, and I jump with the sound. The night is silent, and the sudden noise brought me back to this most unpleasant reality. Neither of us seems to want to make the first step, but the chill in the night air eventually gets us moving.

Together, as misery loves company, we walk up to the concrete steps. They are a little crumbly around the edges, but the iron railing is strong and unmoving as I grip it for dear life. Partly for the safety it promises, and partly for the knots in my stomach. Hannah reaches the door before me, and waits for me to catch up before placing her hand on the tarnished brass knob.

I take a shaky breath and nod again. Hannah opens the door and steps in ahead of me. I can feel the heat as soon as I cross the threshold. The house is similar to my own in layout: the living room is to the left as you enter, and a long hallway leads to the kitchen that is in the back. The biggest difference is that there is a large formal dining room to the right, whereas I just have my narrow, steep steps. Their staircase is flanking the living room wall, but it too is steep. It is painted a cheery off-white though, to match the wainscoting that lined this hallway too.

This house is much brighter than mine. Light spills from the living room and kitchen, and I can see a hallway light upstairs as well. I see that Mary has put a lot of time and effort into making this a home for her family. I hear a television in the distance, and there are voices coming from the back. Clearly the family is in the kitchen. So, with a final glance at each other to steel our nerves, Hannah and I get ready to face her mother.

Her mother. My daughter. Mary told them I was dead. Mary hasn't spoken to me in fifteen years. Her husband doesn't know me, her son is also ignorant to my existence. Why? I knew that Mary wasn't exactly proud of where she had come from, she had always made that abundantly clear from the time she was about ten years old. Had her childhood really been that awful? I thought she had been surrounded by four loving women: me, and three others who treated her like their own. I had raised her to think of them as her aunts, and they were as good to her as if she were their flesh and blood. I thought I had done right by her, but I guess I was alone in that.

Hannah stands in the doorway of the bright kitchen. It is so bright that the light burns my eyes, which had become adjusted to the dimness of the hallway. I stand slightly behind Hannah, to her right. From my position I can see clearly into the large, homey room.

The kitchen is huge: something that renovators had been doing to these old houses. There is a large island in the centre with a potrack overhead. Modern, stainless steel appliances are sprinkled through a cherry cabinetry wall. A table which is bigger than my humble galley kitchen sits in the far corner, surrounded by windows on two sides. Mary is standing at the kitchen sink, her back to us. Her husband is sitting at the table, engrossed in the newspaper. The boy is nowhere to be seen, although a knapsack is tossed carelessly in the corner by the back door, close to Mary. Neither look up when Hannah clears her throat the first time. She looks helplessly at me.

I feel that old feeling that never quite goes away: that of a mother being ignored by her child, and there is nothing more annoying. I gently push past Hannah, so that I am in the front. I don't bother to clear my throat. I stand a little straighter in my black raglan and hope that I look like an intimidating figure, although I expect that is a laughable notion.

"What's this I hear about me being dead, Mary?" This is the way I have chosen to open this conversation.

The man looks up with his mouth agape, and Mary stands, frozen at that sink. I am somewhat pleased, however, to hear a glass shatter as it hits the tiled floor instead of the dish rack on the counter.

Chapter Seven

Mary seems frozen. She stands there, at that sink with her back to us, for well over a minute. Finally she turns to face us, and when she does, I see how ashen her face is. Pale, and aging poorly. Mary looks at least ten years older than her forty-two years. Her eyes are steely, but I can still detect a little shock that she can't conceal. They are the same blue-gray as my own eyes, and her thick brows are pulled together in a frown. I can see that this is a familiar expression for her, as the lines are deeply etched between her eyes. Her lips are pursed, and the creases in her cheeks also tell me that this is a common thing. Mary's mouth had always seemed to turn down at the corners, and over time, this had evolved to a permanent frown.

I don't let this glare stop me. In fact, I find it amusing. I march over to the table, where her still shocked husband is sitting and hold out my hand. "So sorry not to have met you, oh, twenty or so years ago, but I'm your mother-in-law. Everyone calls me Rose, and you can certainly do the same. And if my daughter ever recovers her power of speech, she might be able explain to us all why you and I have never met."

I am satisfied by the mute way he takes my outstretched hand and stares at me. I have definitely taken control of the situation, which is how I meant to play it. Things will fare better for Hannah, I think, if I am the one in charge of the discussion.

I look over John, my not so new son-in-law. The paper is now crumpled on the huge table in front of him as he looks back and forth between Mary and me. He is in his mid-forties, by my estimation, and seems to take care of himself. He has a thick head of wavy hair black with just a few silver strands peeking through. He is well dressed, in that way of a man who knows how to pull off a casual look and makes it effortless, when you know that it really wasn't. His polo shirt is a plain black, and I imagine he is wearing a pair of khaki pants, just like some man in a catalogue. I can't see him below the waist, because he seems to be glued to his chair.

Almost as if he is reading my mind at that point, he jumps to his feet. "Er...hello...I'm John. Nice to meet you?" I know that he can't help but make that a question, and I smile at him. His eyes light a little at that. "Please sit down." He pulls out the chair next to his own for me, and I try not to chuckle when I see the beige pants.

By the time I settle into that chair Mary has recovered a little. But I am not ready to give her the upper hand yet. "So I hear I have a grandson too, that I didn't know about. Is he around, by any chance?"

John practically jumps out of his chair. I'm guessing that accountants don't get much excitement, so this is something new for him. He leaves the room, and I hear him ascending that steep staircase we had passed on the way in. Hannah is still standing in the doorway of the room, unsure of how things will play out. While John retrieves my grandson, Mary makes her way over to the table. My back is to her, but I can hear her approaching. Wordlessly, she walks around the table and pulls out a chair. She sits across from me, her back to those large, black windows, with the dishcloth on the table in front of her. She stares at it, as if she had no idea where it had come from. Slowly, she raises her eyes to meet mine, but before our gazes lock, she thinks better of it, and shifts to look at Hannah. I can feel the daggers she is shooting at the girl from where I am sitting. Again, I take the opportunity to claim the upper hand.

"Hannah, honey, come sit next to me," I smile. I see Mary bristle at the word _honey_. Hannah dutifully and soundlessly crosses the room and sits next to me. I get the impression that this is a house that is silent more often than not, and Hannah is used to doing things quietly, so as not to bother her mother. I am quickly learning that Mary is used to having things her way all the time.

We sit there in silence. I feel the hatred seething from Mary, and that unnerves me. I really hadn't thought she hated me that much. Sitting here however, proves me wrong. I know that Hannah feels it too, and the way she is looking at the side of my head tells me that she is having second thoughts. Before she can voice them, however, two sets of steps are rapidly approaching the room.

I look towards the doorway and see Josh, my twelve-year old grandson. He has sandy coloured hair that is too long for my taste. It falls into his eyes and is shaggy and almost down to his shoulders. He is wearing a plain brown t-shirt and jeans, and his white socks are a little dingy from wear. He stands there, unsure of what to do. His father comes up behind him and places his hand on the boy's shoulder, steering him into the room.

"Hello Josh," I say, my voice loud and clear. "I'm your Nan."

"Uh – hi," he replies, with that same, unsure tone his father had used moments before. John returns to his chair and motions for Josh to take the one at the far end of the table. That leaves the chair between Josh and Mary vacant. We are all sitting there and no one seems to know what to do next. After another uncomfortable minute of silence, I once again decide to take the lead.

"Well," I begin, not sure of where to take the discussion. I don't want Josh here for the whole conversation, I didn't feel he belonged at the table. But I am not ready to dismiss him just yet either. "I'm not sure why I didn't know you lived several streets away from me, or why none of you knew about me (I look at Mary as I say this, but she is looking at that damn dish towel again), but I'm glad to have found you. I look forward to getting to know my grandchildren, and to having family around. I've been alone for a long time now, and meeting you all has been a blessing for me."

Without looking around the table, I continue. My tone is surprisingly even, as if sitting at this table with a daughter who hates my very existence, is an everyday occurrence. "I am really looking forward to getting to know you all, but I would like to speak to John and Mary alone for a few moments. I hope that's okay with you Josh." He nods. There is still a look of disbelief on his face as he wordlessly stands up and leaves the room. "I would like it very much if you would come to see me after school tomorrow Josh. Hannah knows how to find my house and will bring you, I'm sure."

"Uh – okay," I am beginning to think he didn't get the chance to speak much, and when he did it was in very short sentences.

Mary opens her mouth to speak – the first time since I had entered her house. I know she will try to stop the children from visiting, so I raise my hand to silence her. The daggers in her eyes are for me this time, not her daughter.

Josh slowly leaves the room, glancing over his shoulder to see if Hannah will follow. She is still sitting beside me, looking at me, waiting for further direction. Eventually, he gives up on her following him and goes back upstairs. I suspect that he'll have a lot of questions for his older sister when she makes her way to her room this evening.

"Hannah sought me out," I begin, once I hear the heavy bedroom door close and the muffled music begin. "She needed someone to talk to, and felt that someone should be me. I'm not here to get into why she didn't know I was alive, or why you've been back in this city for years and haven't bothered to let me know. That's a discussion for another day. But believe me when I say we will discuss it, but all in good time. I am here for another, more important reason.

"Hannah has had a hard time adjusting to life here. She hasn't made friends as quickly as Josh, and just when she thought she was starting to fit in, something happened. When she had nowhere else to turn, she came looking for me. She found an old card with my address on the envelope, in case you're wondering how she came to be sitting on my doorstep." I shoot a glance at Mary, who has given up staring at the dishcloth, and is now looking me full in the face.

I decide to hold her gaze, and we begin a sort of staring contest. "Some kids that Hannah thought were her friends did something pretty unspeakable to her last week. Did you know that she had a boyfriend?" I look from Mary to John, and both register a look of surprise. "I didn't think so," I continue. "Well, he wasn't the sort of boy she should be tangled up with, from what Hannah has told me he had some anger issues, and when she broke up with him he decided to get even.

"Since you didn't know about the boyfriend I'm guessing that you didn't know about the party she went to last weekend either. Well, these "friends" drugged her. She passed out, woke up naked in a bedroom, and can't remember what happened."

For the first time, Mary's face shows emotion. She looks horrified, and at the same time amazed, that this could happen. John's mouth is a hard, thin line, and it is his turn to harden his gaze.

"I'll kill him," he mutters.

"Hang on John," I hold up my hand in protest. "We can't say for sure that anything did happen. It's too late for those drugs I've heard about, and any medical evidence is long gone. Right now all you can do is wait. In a week or two you'll be better able to gauge the situation. She needs to see a doctor and get tested for diseases, and maybe see a counselor. But she was afraid to tell you this herself, because she tells me you are both too wrapped up in your own lives to notice whether or not she's here. She didn't even come home that night, and you didn't even notice."

When I stop to catch my breath, I take a good look at the three pale faces around the table. This time John is angry, Mary is sad, and Hannah is trembling. "Now, I've said my piece," is all I had left to say.

For a moment I am not really sure how things will play out. I expect hostility from Mary, confusion from John, and perhaps anger on both their parts once the reason for my visit had been revealed. Now I sit, suddenly nervous, waiting for the aftermath.

Chapter Eight

I don't have to wait long. John's blood pressure must be through the roof, because he is turning redder by the second. He runs his hands through his hair over and over, and I think he looks like one of those cartoon characters that pull all their hair out in clumps. Mary's lips are shut so tight together that they have almost disappeared.

I have been so focused on this hard woman before me, that I have almost lost sight of what has brought me here in the first place. I snap back to reality when I realize that Hannah is sniffling gently beside me.

"It's okay," I croon softly as I pull her into an embrace. I am getting familiar with feeling this child melt into my arms, and find it a little unsettling that she doesn't relax into my body. Mary gets up from the table and lets out a long sigh.

"You've said your piece, now please leave."

John gasps and also rises from his spot. The open hostility Mary has shown towards me brings him back to his senses. He looks shocked at the venom his wife has shot at me, and tries his best to smooth things over. I pat his arm, smile sympathetically, and shake my head.

"I'm going to leave now," I say, to no one in particular. "Hannah, make sure that you and Josh come to see me tomorrow afternoon. John...it is nice to meet you – finally."

"I'll see you out," he takes my arm gently and steers me down that narrow hallway. "I don't know what any of this is about, but I am going to get to the bottom of it. I had no idea... She told me she had no family... I thought you were..." He is almost whispering, his voice is that low, and I realize that he is talking about more than Hannah's situation.

"I know you will sort everything out." I offer a small smile to let him know that I am not angry, but that I do expect those children to arrive on my doorstep the following day. As if reading my mind, John assures me that both will be delivered to my house promptly at four.

As I step out into the brisk night air and hear the heavy wooden door close behind me, I feel sick to my stomach. Suddenly, the drama of the evening starts playing in my head, faster and faster. The stars in the night sky begin to spin. I press my hands into the door to steady myself. After a couple of long, slow breaths, I manage to walk down the steps, turn up the street, and head for home.

By the time I reach the end of their street and am ready to turn onto the main road I am feeling more like myself. Fresh air is the answer to everything! _If only_! I almost stop in the middle of the street and laugh to myself. If only a few deep whiffs of this wonderful, crisp night air could fix all the problems in the world!

This night is yet another sleepless one for me, and I can only imagine the drama unfolding in that tense house not too far away. What kind of life has Hannah had? Is Mary as hard with her children and husband as she has been with me? Neither John nor Hannah seemed shocked by her tone and attitude towards me – has she been like this with them as well? I have no answers, but that doesn't stop me from turning these thoughts over and over in my head.

Chapter Nine

Four o'clock can't some soon enough for me. I've clattered around the house all day, trying not to stare at the clock, but not having much luck. I decide to make a batch of cookies, since that is a grandmotherly thing to do. But cookies don't take too long to make, and within an hour, I am back to watching the clock, with oatmeal raisin cookies cooling on the rack by the stove.

I give up. I finally decide to do some reading, but can't focus on the words on the page. Nothing is working to distract me, so I pull out an old photo album. That way my worries can keep company with the memories, and perhaps even distract me for a while.

I pull the brown leather book off the shelf, settle into the chair by the window, and open the first page. The first picture is of all us girls, taken on a picnic in Bowring Park. We were all sitting around on a blanket, picnic basket in front of us, enjoying a sunny day. A kind couple, as I recall, offered to take a picture of the group, when they saw us taking turns snapping photos. It's the only group picture we ever had.

I'm sitting in the back of the group, smiling broadly. My trademark curls were perfect, except for one stray strand, which was falling towards my eye. The dress I was wearing had been one of my favourites: a pale blue cotton with small roses scattered across it. It buttoned down the front. I looked really happy.

Alice is sitting beside me, slightly towards the front. But that's where she belonged – Alice was a leader. She had fiery red hair, and even then, kept it cropped really close. She was about twenty years ahead of the trends, because her style became known as the 'pixie' cut. It really suited her, because she was edgy as well. Her smile doesn't look forced in this photo, and that makes me smile as well.

Beth is on my other side, with her long black hair tied with a ribbon. She was wearing one of my dresses – we always shared clothes. She was more like a sister than anyone else – I had never had sisters of my own, and these girls were the closest thing I'd ever had.

Mary was next to her, Daisy was behind them and Cecilia was slightly off to the side by Alice. We were a handsome bunch of young women in those days. Always well dressed and hair well coiffed. We were manicured and clean. And happy. There was an ease about the group, and even now, I can't imagine others in our situation being as at ease as we had been.

Times were different then, that's for sure.

Further down the page there's a picture of Mary and Beth sitting at the kitchen table, laughing over some inside joke. There were cards scattered in front of them. They must have been playing one hundred and twenties. I knew Mary cheated, and was guessing that she'd been caught. Beth couldn't stay mad at her, and I imagine that's what they had been laughing about.

The album is filled with memories like that.

Beth had arranged the pictures as close to chronologically as possible, yet we hardly aged. They had to span twenty years, if not more. There were photos of Christmases and birthdays, summers and winters. At the time it never occurred to me that we spent all those occasions with each other, instead of our families. Now it occurs to me that we _were_ each other's family – in every way that mattered.

I gasp. There, about halfway through the album, is a picture of me, pregnant with Mary. I was glowing. It had to have been early in the summer, because my belly was swollen, but I could see that my hands weren't. Towards the end of my pregnancy my hands and feel had swollen – part baby and part heat, as it had been one of St. John's hottest summers – but in the picture I looked comfortable. And happy. Which is funny, even now, when I think about how hard it had been to tell the girls that I had gotten myself in the family way. In the picture, I was standing by this very window. The sheer curtains are blowing gently, and one of my hands was resting tenderly on my ever-expanding bump. She must have been kicking, because I was looking down and smiling, instead of out at the street.

Even if Mary thinks I wasn't much of a mother, I wanted her from the moment I found out I was pregnant. No one could dispute that. And this group of women loved that little baby more than any traditional family ever could have. I just wish she could see that, but memory is such a subjective thing. Mary remembers the parts she wants to, and is forgetting about the tenderness and love she knew when she was growing up here.

The knock on the door brings me back to my senses. I close the heavy album, lay it on the coffee table, and hastily make my way to the front door. I open it and greet John, Josh and Hannah, gesturing them into the front room.

They sit, somewhat awkwardly, three of them on the couch. I scuttle off to the kitchen, returning with a plate of cookies, a pitcher of milk and some glasses. I offer John some tea or coffee, but he says he's happy with milk.

No one knows what to say. Finally Josh, being a typical twelve year old, grabs a third cookie, smiles and says, "So, you're my grandma? Cool."

We all laugh, the ice broken. John sits back, crosses his legs, and lets Josh start talking. I learn that he's loving his new school, on the basketball team, has made a lot of friends, and wants his own cell phone. John laughs, and says something vague about Christmas. I can tell this isn't the first time they've had this conversation. I like how easily John relates to the boy, and can tell how close they are. I get the feeling that they don't share the same bond with their mother.

Hannah isn't saying much, and I notice the dark circles under her eyes. She couldn't have slept much last night. She must be worried about what happened at the party, and maybe thinking about whatever happened at her house after I left last night. I doubt she'll tell me while John and Josh are here, but hope that she will eventually confide in me about it. I want to know more about what goes on at home, and even more than that, I want to help this family. My family.

We visit pleasantly for close to an hour, making small talk. Only when I have to switch on a lamp, do we all realize how late it's getting. Reluctantly, the three get restless, and I know that they are going to leave.

John stands first, and the kids follow suit. "I guess we should go home and start supper, hey kids? Your mom will be home in under an hour." I notice that all of their expressions have gotten serious. I offer to make them something here, but they politely refuse, asking to do it another time.

Suddenly, as he is doing up the buttons on his coat, John looks up. "Hold on, Rose. Let's go out to supper, the four of us!" He sounds excited, but I notice right away that he hasn't included Mary in this. When my questioning look meets his gaze, he waves his hand in dismissal. "Mary won't mind – she'll be glad to come home to some peace and quiet after a shift at the hospital."

So John holds my raglan, like a gentleman, and I slide easily into it. It's as if men have been helping me on with my coat every day. When we get to the car and he opens the door, I'm positively giddy. I've never been treated so well and can see why Mary had fallen in love with him. He is a gentleman, through and through.

I notice that Hannah and Josh are pleased that I'm going to join them for supper. We end up at a chicken and rib restaurant. By the time our food arrives, we're laughing and joking like old friends. The kids are teasing each other, and Hannah finally looks like she should: a typical teenager, without the weight of the world on her shoulders.

John offers dessert. We have tea, coffee and very rich cheesecake. Josh has ice cream and Hannah has chocolate cake. After an hour and a half we know it's time to leave, but no one seems to want to get up from the table. Finally we can postpone it no longer, the kids have homework. We make our way back to the car and John drops me off. He leaves the car running, but hops out and rushes to the passenger side, where he holds open the door for me.

Once we're standing on the sidewalk together, John hugs me. I am speechless. When he's holding me close, he whispers a simple 'thank you' in my ear.

"For what?" I ask, stunned.

"For showing up on our doorstep, for whatever it is you said to Hannah, for welcoming Josh and me, and for hopefully, continuing to be there for the kids. I'm not sure what's going on with Mary, but I'm going to find out."

He walks me to the front door and waits while I unlock it and step inside. I thank him for supper, but he waves me off. "Just the first of many," he says with a smile. Then they are gone.

And I am alone with my new memories.

Chapter Ten

Hannah and Josh's daily visits have become a habit. Since we met two weeks ago, they've been coming over every day after school. And every day at around three thirty, find myself getting antsy, and pushing the sheers aside in the front window to get a better view down the street. Most days I can see them, trudging side by side, towards this lonely old house, ready to warm it with family and love.

There, I said it. I've grown to love them. I feel as if they've been in my life forever, even though it's only been two short weeks. Hannah's been bringing me books to read, and Josh keeps trying to show me how to play his hand-held video game, but I think it's more so he can laugh at me than anything. And I do enjoy making him laugh too. It echoes through the downstairs – a voice on the verge of changing.

Today the weather is damp and threatening snow. I think I see a few stray flakes, but am unwilling to believe that it's real. Much too early for snow! Although it wouldn't be the first Halloween with snow on the ground. The grayness of the sky is making it a dreary afternoon, and the dusk is arriving earlier each evening.

I see them taking the turn and heading towards the house, finally. Josh is gesturing animatedly about something to his sister, and she is trudging along beside him, hands in her pockets and backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Her head is down, and I can't tell if she's listening to him or not. Only when the strap of the bag slides down her arm does she show some sign of life, by hoisting it back up. She never thinks to use the other strap.

I am waiting with the front door open by the time they're at the bottom of the steps. Josh is talking a mile-a-minute. He's still too young to be the victim of teenage angst, and his enthusiasm is infectious. Before he's got his jacket hung on the hook in the porch, he's asking for a snack and telling me that he wants to decorate my house for Halloween.

I laugh. "Why would you want to do that, Josh?"

"Because it's so old and cool. We could do some really wicked stuff here."

"Well, if you want to. Halloween's in two days. Can you be ready?"

"Sure thing, Nan!" His excitement is endearing, because I suspect that by this time next year, he will have forgotten what it's like to get excited over things.

"Okay then," I rub my knotty hands together. "What do we need?"

Josh settles in with a peanut butter sandwich and glass of milk in the kitchen, and begins making a list of things we need to make ready for Halloween. Hannah's sandwich is untouched on the table.

"Hannah, honey, are you not hungry? You should eat something. There's nothing to you."

She mumbles something about not being hungry, just tired. She had stayed up too late last night, studying for a history test, she confides. I rub her back from shoulder to shoulder, and tell her to go lie down on the couch, or upstairs if she'd be more comfortable.

"You wouldn't mind?" She sounds amazed.

"Of course not! Besides, Josh will be more company than I had bargained for, with his decorating idea."

Hannah smiles at this. She seems to have a genuine affection for her younger brother. "Yeah," she whispers, "watch out for your table cloths, though. He might cut them up for ghosts."

"He'd better not!" He looks up, grinning, from the table. I shake my fist at him in mock anger. "No table cloths will be harmed in the celebrating of this holiday – you hear me?"

He laughs and winks. Another winking child! "Yes, Nan," he says, meekly. I can't contain my laughter at this point. Hannah heads up the stairs, and I can't help but notice how slowly she's going.

After a few minutes, I decide I should go up and check on her. I find her on my bed, small and weary looking, dozing fitfully. I pull the spare quilt up from the foot of the bed, tuck it in around her, and gently brush her forehead with my lips. She stirs, but doesn't wake. I close the door and make my way back downstairs.

"Say, Mr. Josh," I begin as I enter the kitchen, "why don't you call your Dad and ask him if you can stay for supper? Hannah's having a nap now, and I think she's pretty tired."

"K." I wonder when okay became too long a word...

He calls his father on his cell phone and they discuss supper. I go out to the living room, to give Josh some privacy, but within a minute he has joined me.

"Dad says that's cool with him, but only if you'll let him pick something up and bring it over." With that, Josh passes me an impossibly small phone. I realize that John wants to talk to me, so I gingerly take it.

"That's not necessary John. I can put something on for all of us, you know."

"Don't be silly Rose," he shouts into the other end of the phone. "I'll pick up some Chinese from the place on Freshwater and be there in an hour. No arguments!"

I laugh, and promise that there'll be no argument. I'm secretly glad that he wants to pick something up. I'd only taken out a chicken leg to defrost this morning, and that was enough for me. I wasn't even sure what I would have given them to eat if I had to cook. Maybe some spaghetti or something. There's always a few staples in the pantry.

So, for the next hour Josh and I talk about what he wants to do to the house, and I learn that Mary doesn't let him put up decorations at home – makes too much mess, he's been told. I look over the list. Everything is pretty basic, and looks like it can come from a dollar store. Josh wants to know if we should carve real pumpkins, or just buy plastic ones.

"That's up to you. When will you carve them?"

"Hmmm. Saturday morning, I guess – if that's okay. That way they'll be fresh for the trick or treaters!" He sounds so excited, how can I refuse?

Then, he proceeds to tell me that he's too old for trick or treating, but wants to dress up as a hobo and sit on my front step, scaring people and handing out candy. Laughing, I agree that he can do this, if he wants to.

We're so deep into the Halloween decorating discussion that John lets himself in, unnoticed. Only when the door slams, do I realize how much time has passed.

The three of us go into the kitchen, and Josh takes some plates out of the cupboard. _How quickly he's come to feel at home here,_ I think with delight. John, equally at home now, opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of soda. He pours up a glass for each of us, and asks if Hannah is still sleeping.

"I should go wake her," I say, and head for the stairs. "You gentlemen start helping yourselves, but save me some beef and broccoli."

"No problem," mutters Josh. "You can have mine."

I'm still chuckling when I reach my bedroom and push the door. It creaks softly in protest, but yields regardless. There is very little light in the room now – just whatever is coming from the streetlights outside. I switch on the tiny bedside lamp, and the light casts a soft glow on Hannah's peaceful face. For a brief moment, she looks like any other girl her age, without the weight of the world on her shoulders. I know the time for answers is rapidly approaching, and that the worry about what the next little while would hold is also playing a large part in her lack of sleep.

"Honey, time to wake up," I croon gently. "Suppertime. Your Dad brought us some supper, and you must be hungry by now."

She stirs, rubs her eyes, and squints to adjust to the light beside her. "What time is it?" Her voice is thick with sleep, and I'm glad she's managed to get some rest.

"6:30, and if we don't get downstairs, those boys will have eaten all of the chicken balls!" She smiles, pushes the quilt away, stretches, and gets up. When she reaches for the quilt again, to fold it and put it back at the foot of the bed, I tell her not to bother, because I'll pull it up myself later on. The nights are getting cooler.

"...and if we use poster board, we can cut the faces out and put them in the window." Josh is explaining some of the details of his plan for Saturday to John, who is nodding with concentration.

"I said it was okay, if you agree." They look up at the sound of my voice. John is nodding, saying that he thinks it's a great idea, and he might help too. Upstairs there is the sound of running water – Hannah in the bathroom, getting ready to come downstairs. Within a minute she appears in the doorway, grabs a plate, and pulls up a chair, equally at home. I wonder why this is so easy for them, and whether it's like this at home. I guess not, because they're here, after all, not there.

Hannah is quiet, but makes small talk. She keeps her eyes low, and answers questions, but never asks any. John and I exchange worried looks. After supper, John motions to Josh to clear the table. I shake my head, telling him and Hannah to go watch some television, so John and I can have a chat. Hannah looks up for the first time, worried. With a smile and a wink, I send both of them off, leaving me and John alone.

"It's almost time, John," I begin. "She'll soon be able to take a pregnancy test. The doctor said her other tests were good, and she didn't catch any diseases, thank god..."

John is clattering the dishes a little louder than I'm used to. "I know." His voice is barely more than a whisper. "Rose, I don't know what's going to happen. I'm terrified. And I want to kill the bastard that did this!"

I put my hand on his arm in agreement. He stops what he's doing and turns to me. "Rose, what if she _is_ pregnant? She's barely sixteen. And Mary..." his voice trails off, before he finishes the thought. _What about Mary? Why is her family sitting with me tonight, instead of with her? Is she working, or at home alone?_

John, as if reading my thoughts, tells me that Mary is working an overnight – not that it matters. She is refusing to discuss the whole situation, from the boyfriend to the party, and most especially - me.

"John, she'll tell you when she's ready." This is all I can offer.

I am not prepared for the look in his eyes, or the single tear that spills down his cheek. "She's so cold towards all of us. I don't understand."

The dishes are forgotten, and John and I sit together for a few moments, my hand on his. _This is something we have in common now. Mary's coldness. But it shouldn't be like this, she's shutting out her husband and children. There has to be more to this situation than I know._

John regains his composure and we continue the dishes. He washes and I dry and stack in the cupboard. I hear the television in the living room, and Josh's occasional laughter. When we're just about finished, John asks me if I will let Hannah take a pregnancy test here.

"Anytime," I smile sadly, "anything any of you need, just ask."

"Thanks Rose. We will." Not wanting to get emotional again, John decides to end the conversation and heads out to the living room. He tells Josh that they can pick up the decorations tomorrow evening, and be over here Saturday before noon. Clearly John is now a part of the plan. I can't help but laugh, and even Hannah offers a weak smile when she's recruited to help.

They bundle up against the frosty evening air, kiss me goodnight in turn (even John), then they are gone.

I watch a little television, but there is nothing on that I enjoy, so I pick up the latest book Hannah has gotten for me. _The child has great taste in books_ I smile, as I crack the spine and get lost in its pages for an hour.

Ten thirty comes and I decide to head to bed. I shut off all the lights, check the bolt on the front door and head up the creaky stairs to my cozy bed. A quick stop in the bathroom, where I retrieve my long flannel nightie from the back of the door, and glance at myself in the mirror.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the shopping bag in the trashcan. From the drugstore close to the high school. Inside the bag – a pregnancy kit box.

It's empty.

Chapter Eleven

I'm not shocked when the kids don't come over on Friday. I know that John is taking Josh to get the decorations for the house, but I can't get the empty box in my bathroom trash out of my mind. I want to call John, but don't know what to say. I can't tell him if Hannah is pregnant or not. I don't know.

I spend most of Friday going over the previous day's events in my head, looking for clues: she was tired, but had stayed up late, she wasn't hungry when she arrived, but ate a normal supper. She was quiet, but that wasn't anything unusual either. I think so much about it that I end up giving myself a headache, and go to bed early, but don't get much sleep.

Slightly after ten on Saturday morning, John's sedan pulls up outside, and he and the kids pile out. The trunk pops open, and they all unload bags and pumpkins. I let them in and direct them to the kitchen table, where I've already laid out newspaper on the table, for the pumpkin carving.

Josh is pulling things out of bags, holding them up for my approval, and I'm just nodding and trying to keep up. John is laughing at the boy, not out of malice, he is just happy to see him excited about something. Hannah is avoiding eye contact and making a halfhearted effort to unpack the bags.

Josh has decided that he will cut faces out of black poster board and hang them in the living room window. Then, when night falls, the light from the living room will illuminate the faces. He has stencils for the two pumpkins, and wants to carve a cat in one, and a witch's face in the other. He has cobwebs for the doorway, and John even picked up candy to distribute. He pours it into a black, plastic cauldron – another purchase for the occasion.

John cuts the tops off the pumpkins and I offer plastic supermarket bags to fill with the pumpkin guts. Josh screws up his face, but digs in with a metal spoon, and starts cleaning out the gourds. "Help me, Hannah. This is gross!" he pleads.

"Nope. You're on your own," she smiles and takes the cobwebs out to the front door. "I'll do this," she calls from the porch.

I choose this as my opportunity. The boys are busy with the pumpkins, and since my arthritis won't allow me to help, I decide to see if I can be of assistance to Hannah.

"Can I help you with that?" I offer, as I take a strand of the cotton candy like material from her. I notice that there are little black spiders embedded in it. I cringe involuntarily, but continue to help her attach it to the corners of the doorway.

When she thanks me, I can barely hear her.

"Hannah – I know about the test. What did it say?" I decide that it's better to ask this, then ask if she wants to talk about it. She _has_ to talk about it.

Her hands drop to her sides, spiders and webs falling to the porch. She reaches into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out the unmistakable plastic stick. She passes it to me, her hands shaking as much as mine.

There are two mauve lines, clearly visible. I don't know what it means, but judging from Hannah's tears, two lines must mean a positive.

When I pull her into my arms and hug her fiercely, I realize that my own cheeks are wet with tears. This is how John finds us, clinging to each other in the Halloween sunshine on my sheltered porch, with that damn stick clutched in my hand.

Obviously John knows what the two lines mean as well, because the next thing I know, the three of us are huddled together, crying on the step. John keeps repeating, "it's okay Hannie... it's going to be okay." Only when Josh comes out to see where we all disappeared, do we move back into the safety of the living room.

"How're the pumpkins coming?" John asks, trying to hide his obvious emotion from the boy.

"They're all cleaned out – we have to do the stencils now. Are you okay?" Josh is looking at all of us, and no one knows just what to say.

Finally John puts a hand on the boy's shoulder and steers him back to the kitchen. "I'll be right there to help with the stencils, okay?"

"Sure... Thing... Dad." Josh sounds unconvinced, but clearly knows there is something going on that he isn't a part of. He reluctantly returns to the kitchen.

John puts both hands on Hannah's shoulders now, and makes her look him in the eye. "We'll figure this out. Together." Then he goes back to the kitchen to help Josh with the carving, leaving me alone with Hannah.

We sit in silence, because there doesn't seem to be anything left to say. I pull her into my arms, and we snuggle together on the couch while I stroked her hair. She is still sniffling softly, and every so often her tiny body shudders with a hiccup – the leftovers from the heartbreaking sobs on the porch.

"We're going to have to get you to a doctor soon, you know," I say into her hair. She nods, but doesn't speak. "And we have to tell your mother." I feel her body stiffen, instantly.

"I know."

"And your Dad and I will be there with you the whole time. She doesn't scare me!" It sounds hollow though, because she really does scare me. I just hope I'm covering it well.

We sit like this forever, and eventually John and Josh return, each one carrying an intricately carved pumpkin. "They're wonderful!" I am very impressed, and Josh beams under my approval.

"Well Rose, we'll set them on the doorstep with the candles inside, but we'll be back before dark to finish everything. Josh has to get into his costume too." John is trying to keep the spirit of the day for the boy.

"Okay," I smile. "Do you need me to come back to your place this afternoon?" John knows why I'm asking, and he quickly shakes his head.

"Thanks Rose, but I think we'll handle it ourselves. I'll need you for the fallout though – I'm sure of that!" Even though he's trying to keep it light, I can see the weight he's carrying, and wish I could take it away for him.

"Well, let me know if you need anything," I offer, as they put on their jackets and make ready to leave. Hannah looks positively miserable, and John isn't far behind. Even Josh, who was just beaming with pride a few moments ago, has gotten serious and withdrawn. I kiss his forehead and make him promise to be a scary zombie when he returns this evening. He nods in agreement.

I send them away, and feel like I'm sending them to war.

Chapter Twelve

They come back before five, just as John had promised. Josh has abandoned the hobo idea in favour of being a zombie. He makes a very convincing member of the undead, his face the colour of damp chalk, eyes rimmed in black, clothes tattered. The only thing giving him away is his grin, which has spread across his morbid face in the ultimate display of irony. I have never met a happier zombie.

"You look wonderful, Josh," I smile warmly.

"Geez Nan, you're supposed to be afraid of me." He almost looks disappointed, but not quite.

John and Hannah don't look quite so happy. They're standing behind Josh on the porch, so I step aside and let them all in. Josh wants to get set up before the first trick-or-treaters arrive. I fill a plastic bowl with the candy that John brought, and he pulls the wooden chair close to the front door. He's all ready to go, and is very excited about the prospect of scaring the preschoolers of the neighbourhood.

I kiss his messed up, undead hair, and head back into the living room, where John and Hannah are waiting for me. I anticipate a much scarier scene in there.

Inside, there are no smiles. Red-rimmed eyes and a feeling of heaviness permeate the whole house. John is sitting beside Hannah on the couch, holding her hand in his lap.

"I take it things didn't go so well with Mary this afternoon."

"Not really, no." John sounds old, and broken.

"What can I do to help?"

Hannah and John exchange looks. "We think it might be best for Hannah to stay here for a while, if that's okay with you."

"Of course! I'd love to have you here with me, sweetheart... But what about Mary?" I am almost afraid to voice this.

Hannah looked up from her lap, and her eyes were frozen. "She threw me out. My bags are in the car."

I can't help but gasp, but try to contain it by covering my mouth with my hands. The expression on John's face must be a mirror of my own. I cannot believe that Mary could do this to her own child. I wonder how John can allow it.

But for now, these questions will have to wait. Hannah's well-being is my top priority, and I want her to be safe and happy. And loved. I know that I can give her this, and think that she does belong here – almost like history repeating itself.

I can hear the revelers squealing with delight when Josh scares them on the porch. He's taking as much joy out of this as they are, it seems, and I'm glad that I let him do all the decorating and get dressed up. Things at home are going to get really tough – even more than they have been – and I want him to have this memory of fun.

John decides to get Hannah's things from the car, and I ask her which bedroom she'd like to have – she can pick. There are two more on the second floor besides mine, and three more on the top flat – that's what we always called the third floor. She wants the room next to mine.

"Whichever you want Hannah. It's your choice. And we can do it up however you like."

She and I head upstairs to look at her new room. It's been pretty much unchanged since Beth left it. The bed is bare and there is a fine film of dust on the tall mahogany chest of drawers in the corner, but it's nothing that I can't clean up. I will have to wash some sheets and freshen up a quilt or two for her, but that's nothing that I won't be able to do in short order. Hannah offers to help, and I agree, but only as long as she feels up to it.

"I feel fine Nan. Just a little tired. Actually I'm really glad to know and have it in the open, because not knowing was worse." She makes a lot of sense, this kid.

I smile, rub her back, and show her where the linens are kept, telling her to take her pick. She picks out a flannel sheet set with faded blue stripes and a crazy quilt that was also mostly blue. I give the dresser a quick swipe with a cloth and some furniture polish, promising Hannah a more thorough cleaning in the daylight.

Just then, John appears in the doorway, with a gruff, "there you are. I thought you got lost." He is carrying a large duffle bag by its shoulder strap, and has a backpack over one shoulder. He bustles into the room, and deposits them on the bed. "We can get anything else you need from home whenever you find out what you're missing – not that you could be missing a lot, based on how heavy these bags are!" His joke falls flat, however, although Hannah manages a weak smile.

"Thanks Dad." She kisses his cheek.

"Well Hannah, you get yourself settled, and Nan and I will head downstairs to give you some privacy to get organized." John and I leave her to her things. I expect that she needs some time alone, to get used to this. It's a lot of change for someone to handle, especially someone so young.

Downstairs, John fixes us both a cup of tea, as if he's lived here as long as me. I like it that he feels at home. I feel as if I have spent the last thirty years asleep, and have woken up to a family that has always been there. It's a comfortable feeling.

"Listen Rose, I'm going to give you money to help with Hannah..." I raise my hand in protest, but he won't hear it. "Look, you're on a fixed income, and Hannah _is_ my daughter, and I will take care of her." I felt that the end of that sentence could have been "... and you." Because John has been taking care of me a little more each day. I smile, understandingly, but still protest that I don't need him to take care of us. "Nonsense." It is clear that this discussion is over. John may be a quiet accountant, but he can still get his point across. We sip our tea in silence.

It isn't quite nine o'clock when Josh bursts into the room. His hands are like ice (rather appropriate for a zombie), and puts them on his father's neck. John squeals and I laugh and clap my hands together in delight, until Josh approaches me.

"Keep your undead hands off me, young man, or I'll redden your arse!"

He bursts out laughing, John looks shocked and I grin. "I might be old, but I'm not dead – unlike you!" We all have a good laugh, I make him some hot chocolate, and we all chat and make merry for a while.

Eventually Hannah appears, and I make her a cup of hot chocolate too. "She drinks coffee," Josh offers helpfully.

"Not in my house," I smile. Hannah sips the warm drink slowly, with her hands wrapped around the mug, trying to capture the warmth and let it spread through her.

After a while, John decides it's time to head home. "C'mon son, time to head out." I notice that how he avoids using the word 'home'. Josh stands up, and waits for Hannah, who doesn't move. He looks questioningly at John, who just shakes his head and motions towards the door. "Hannah's staying here for a while."

"Can I stay too?" he looks back and forth between John and me.

"You can stay anytime you want darling, as long as it's alright with your Dad." I had left Mary out of the equation without realizing it until after the fact. No one noticed. John gives Hannah a kiss and a hug and tells her that he will call her tomorrow. She smiles at him and waves at Josh.

They leave and we sit in silence for a few more minutes. I decide it's time to tidy up, and start putting the mugs in the sink. Hannah grabs a cloth, but I tell her not to worry about it – I'll wash them up in the morning. I kiss her cheek and we head upstairs.

Through the wall, I hear her sobbing gently.

Chapter Thirteen

I can't believe how quickly Hannah and I fall into a routine. I know that for me, having company in the house makes each day brighter. It's easier for me to get out of bed in the morning, knowing that I have someone to make breakfast for, and there's so much to be done in the evenings: meals, homework, and even just enjoying conversation.

Hannah is doing remarkably well, considering she has to juggle school, deal with being a pregnant teenager, and helping me at home, which she insists on doing. She's been lucky, in terms of the pregnancy – she's not been really sick, just a few mornings. Her appetite is small, but I think that's normal for her, and she sleeps a lot. I'm not sure if the sleeping is a response to the baby growing inside her, or a coping mechanism.

John stops by almost every evening. I stopped calling it 'visiting' months ago. John is a permanent fixture here now, and Josh is here almost as much. Mary has been invisible, and no one expected otherwise.

Now, it's the week of Christmas. John and Josh are on their way over, to decorate the tree and have supper. I extended the invitation to Mary via her answering machine, since she obviously doesn't answer when she sees my number on the phone.

"Hannah, come down and set the table please," I holler from the bottom of the stairs. "They'll be here any minute!" This is the first Christmas I've been excited about in many years. I can't help but think how much more thrilling the next one will be, with a baby in the house, provided I will be around to see it.

"I'll be right there Nan!" Hannah sounds chipper too, and I'm delighted to hear her sounding upbeat for a change. She's been trying, but I know that everything is taking its toll on her. Perhaps we can have a merry Christmas and start the New Year on a more positive note than the one this year is ending on.

I don't have the words out of my mouth when the front door slams. I hear a muffled, "Sorry, Rose," from the porch, and the stamping of feet. The inside door opens and John and Josh tumble in, under the weight of an enormous spruce tree.

"John! What have you done this time?"

"Got you a REAL tree, Rose. You can't call that tabletop piece of plastic a Christmas tree, now, can you?"

"I suppose not, but it's what I'm used to. I don't have decorations for something that size!" The tree must have been nine feet tall, and still had snow hugging its tips.

"Got that covered too, m'lady," he says with a laugh and a low sweeping bow. Josh appears from behind the tree, holding bags of ornaments.

Hannah comes down and sets the table while John and Josh prop the tree up in the new stand in the corner of the living room. It is the full of the corner, and even without lights and decorations, it takes my breath away. They weave lights throughout the branches and Hannah and I put the finishing touches on the meal.

We all sit together in the kitchen and have a delicious roast beef dinner with all the trimmings. Hannah has put out my favourite Depression glass candlesticks, pale pink with twisted bases, and everyone is feeling festive. Dinner by candlelight is special, and this evening has all the makings of a wonderful memory.

With the dishes stacked on the counter, we all return to the front room to decorate the tree. Josh has a music player that he hooks up to some small speakers, and holiday music fills the room.

This could almost be a Christmas card, I muse. The old lady, her son-in-law, and two grandchildren: an enthusiastic boy and his pregnant teenage sister. The missing daughter might not even be noticed by an outsider. A somewhat funny card, but for us, it works.

I'm trying not to notice every set of headlights that turn down the street and head this way. I keep hoping that Mary will show up, even though she's given no indication that she would. I try not to let this dampen the mood, and feel that I'm doing a good job, until John comes up behind me and whispers in my ear, "She's not going to be here. She told me before Josh and I left to get the tree."

I nod, trying not to well up. John looks like I feel, but he doesn't fully understand why Mary has such hatred for me. I wish I could explain it to him, but feel that only Mary can tell him. Hannah and Josh are oblivious to this, they are busy decorating each other with tinsel and laughing like the best of friends.

It takes the better part of two hours, but the tree is a masterpiece. We turn off the overhead light and oooh and ahhh appropriately at the finished product. John puts an arm around me and Hannah, and I grab Josh and pull him tight to me. Bing Crosby's _White Christmas_ is playing on the tiny speakers.

We make plans for the actual Christmas Day festivities as well, and I ask John to make sure that Mary knows she is welcome for dinner. I will cook a turkey and salt beef dinner, complete with boiled raisin pudding. It's been years since this house has seen a celebration like the one I'm planning. John says that he will pass along the invitation, but not to expect much of anything. I nod. Josh kisses my cheek, John embraces me in a giant hug, and they are off, leaving Hannah and me to bask in the glow of our tree.

We curl up on the couch together, pull the quilt over us, and sit in silence for a while. I absently begin stroking Hannah's long hair. After a few minutes she turns to me with tears in her eyes. "She's not going to show up, is she?"

I shake my head and shrug at the same time. "I doubt it honey, but we'll make it a wonderful holiday anyway."

"She's never going to forgive me." This is the first time Hannah has cried since that first night, Halloween.

"Oh Hannah! It's not you she's mad at. It's me."

"But why? What does she think you did that was so awful?" Voiced as only a child could. Sometimes I forget that Hannah is still a girl.

"I'll tell you about it sometime, but not right now. There's too much history, and too much pain. This is supposed to be a happy time, and we're going to make the most of it." A kiss on her forehead, and I'm off to bed. Hannah wants to sit by the tree for a while, so I tell her not to stay up too late. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and she has a doctor's appointment in the afternoon.

"G'night Nan," she waves as I head upstairs. I can't remember what the house was like before she moved in.

Chapter Fourteen

Christmas comes and goes, as it inevitably does. For the first time in years, my house is filled with love and laughter. We have come together, as a rag-tag bunch of misfits, and are enjoying each other's company. I find myself laughing easily at Josh's antics. It's nice to be a family.

I've gone to a lot of trouble making this dinner: traditional Jiggs dinner with turkey and all the trimmings, including a boiled raisin pudding and the tastiest gravy I've made in years. I forgot how much fun cooking for more than one person can be, and the appreciation and compliments come my way fast and furious. I find myself blushing like a schoolgirl.

No one mentions the empty chair at the table, although I've set a place – just in case. I see Hannah glancing at the heavy wooden chair occasionally, but her look never lingers, and she doesn't know that I've seen. Then I realize that I've been looking at the chair too. John catches me, wipes his mouth with the festive red napkin, and announces that Mary is working at the hospital today, so she won't be here at all.

"She's working a double shift to give some of the other nurses a chance to be with..." his voice trails off.

"... their families." Hannah finishes the sentence for him. "It's nice that she's so busy thinking about everyone else's family." For the first time, she meets John's gaze. "How long is she going to punish me, Dad? Doesn't she know that this wasn't my fault? I was attacked."

Before the first tear hits her plate, John catapults from his seat and has enveloped her in his arms. He strokes her hair and lets her cry, just murmuring over and over that he knows what happened, and doesn't blame her for anything. Josh and I sit silently, staring at our almost empty plates.

I decide that this isn't how we're going to spend our first Christmas together, crying over the ungrateful bitch that my daughter has become. My chair scrapes the worn hardwood as I push it back, and I pick up my plate and John's. "C'mon Josh," I smile, "help me clear the table. There's dessert, you know."

Like any growing boy, Josh knows a good thing when he hears it. "I hope there's chocolate." He smiles, glad that I've changed the subject and tried to lighten the tone. He's a smart kid, I think.

He collects his sister's plate as well as his own, and carries a stack of side plates out to the dining room. I follow close behind with my famous chocolate cake, which breaks up John and Hannah's embrace. She wipes her eyes and smiles weakly. John pats her shoulder, returns to his seat and asks for a big piece of cake.

"I want the biggest piece," Josh chimes in. There's a brief, mock scuffle amongst the men, and even Hannah manages a giggle. Threateningly, I wave the cake server around, telling them that no one gets a bigger piece than me. Looking down at my miniscule body, we all dissolve into fits of laughter. I don't look like I've ever eaten a piece of cake in my life. Granted, I've always had a hearty appetite, but have been lucky to have kept my figure. Although these days, I wouldn't call it a figure - so much as skin stretched across bones.

I divvy up the cake, ask if anyone wants canned cream – Fussels, of course – to top the cake, and John groans with pleasure. "I haven't had thick cream since... I don't know when. Bring it on Rosey!"

We have tea and cake, and linger over the table longer than usual. Finally, Hannah makes a move out to the living room, to sit by the tree. It's time to exchange gifts.

"I'll do the dishes later," I tell Josh, as he starts to gather the plates.

"Absolutely not!" John declares. "The boy and I are doing the dishes tonight. You did the cooking, we do the cleaning." Josh looks less than impressed, but the cuffing his father gives his ears makes him quickly change his expression.

"Sure thing Dad."

"I'll help too," Hannah chimes in. "Later though, okay. There are presents to open."

Josh is already under the tree by the time John and I get to the living room. Hannah is sitting beside him, cross-legged on the floor. Her hair hangs over one shoulder, and she looks excited. I'm struck by the fact that she's still really a child. A child in an awful situation.

But Christmas isn't the day to dwell on such things, so I turn my attention to the matter at hand. Brightly coloured boxes and bags are being hauled out at an alarming rate. I had no idea that there were so many presents under my tree...

Josh's haul included video games, a movie, two hooded sweatshirts and a snowboard. He ooohhhed and awwwed appropriately, and John looked pleased. He'd done well, and Josh was appreciative.

Hannah started to open her presents. Books, a music player (they tell me it's called an mp3 player – whatever that is), new boots, and some gift cards. I pass her my gift last. It's a medium sized box, and I've wrapped it in bright green, metallic paper with a gold bow. Looking at me over the top of the ribbon, she smiles a sideways grin, and tears the corner carefully.

"Aw c'mon Hannie, "Josh moans, "Rip it off!" Clearly the chocolate is getting to him. Laughing, she gives in to her little brother, and rips the side out of the present. She slides the box out, lifts the lid, and stops.

"Is it okay, sweetheart?" I'm concerned by her sudden stillness.

"What is it?" Josh is peering around the top of the box, trying to see inside.

"You shouldn't have." She says. Her eyes are dry, and her expression is sincere, but not harsh.

"I wanted to. You'll need it sooner rather than later." I smiled kindly, and John understands.

"It's just too much." Hannah is shocked.

"Not at all honey. You need it and I have it to give. This is the least I can do for everything you've brought into my life."

Hannah stands, crosses the room to the couch where I've planted myself, and wraps her arms around my neck, kissing my boney cheek.

"What **is** it?" Josh asks exasperatedly from his perch by the tree.

"Maternity clothes."

Josh rolls his eyes. "I thought it was something good," he mumbles, and turns his attention to reading the back of one of his game boxes. Hannah, John and I laugh at his disinterest.

Hannah holds up the white blouse and the jeans. I tell her that there's a gift card in the pocket of the pants as well, in case she wants to get a sweater to go with the outfit. "It's not much Hannah, but it's a start." I smile. "We can catch the bus to the mall during your vacation and pick one out, if you want."

Now it's John's turn to smile. "That won't be necessary, Rosey." I blush at his nickname for me. No one's called me that in years, and John wouldn't even know that another man had called me that before.

He opened the palm of his hand towards his daughter, producing a small jewellery box, tied with a red ribbon. She looks at me and I shrug. I have no idea what's in store for her.

Opening the box carefully, her eyes grow as wide as saucers. She squeals a teenage girl squeal, and hugs her father fiercely. I see, clutched in her fist, a set of keys. John smiles and pries his daughter's stranglehold loose.

"It's a used car, but plenty good for my two best ladies," he chuckles, "besides, I can't have you two standing on the corner waiting for a bus all winter, can I?"

I feel my eyes burning. I know John's done this for Hannah because as her pregnancy progresses she'll have appointments to keep, and he may not be available. He's missed a lot of work already this fall because of all of the upheaval in their lives, but I can' help but think that the car is for me as well. It will make both Hannah's and my life so much easier. Just the thought of being able to get groceries and not have to get a bus or taxi home...

I hear John telling Hannah that the insurance is paid for the full year, and all she has to worry about it gas. I chime in, "and you won't have to worry about that either, my love. For the sake of a trip or two to the supermarket, I'll keep you in gas money."

There are more smiles and hugs, and Josh wants a ride in the new car, which he tells us he's known about for a week. John smiles, and ruffles his hair. With that, we all bundle up and pile outside, to see the new-to-us blue Toyota, and take a joyous ride around the city to admire the Christmas lights.

Chapter Fifteen

The days after Christmas are often depressing. The trees, discarded on the sidewalks of the old city, lights put away for another year, and the long nights bring with them a coldness that extends beyond the dropping mercury.

Time blends together. Days turn into mundane days. My routine is the same, altered only slightly by that fact that Hannah is living with me. She is in school all day, trying to maintain a somewhat normal life. John is back to working his regular schedule, Josh is thriving at his school, and Mary is ever absent.

John and I have even managed to convince Hannah to talk to the police about what happened, but the news isn't encouraging. She doesn't want to press charges; her life at school has been unbearable enough, and she wants to put the incident behind her, even if it does have life-long implications. I understand, and tell John that we shouldn't push the issue. Hannah tells us that a lot of the kids at school know what happened – know the truth about what happened – and she's been getting support there too. Finally, she seems to have made a few friends. The police are helpful and set her up with a counselor to talk to, and she seems to be coping a little better.

After supper one unremarkable evening in early February, I ask her if she wants to invite a friend over after school sometime, since spending all her time with me must be boring. She laughs, and says she'll consider it. I decide that this is a small victory, since she wouldn't have considered it a mere month ago.

"Maybe I'll ask Molly to come over sometime. She's in my English class."

"Sounds good to me," I smile warmly, not wanting to appear too excited.

"Oooohhh." Hannah drops the dish towel and looks down. "That was weird."

"What's wrong?" I turn to face her, dripping dishwater all over the front of the cupboards.

"It was like a bug crawled across my shirt, but there's nothing there. It was ticklish." She was still looking around for the "bug" and confused as to why I was laughing at her.

"Honey, there is no bug. That's the baby. You just felt it move for the first time."

"Weird." She puts both hands on her belly, which has just started to protrude in the last two weeks. "That's just weird," is all she says.

I steer her towards one of the kitchen chairs and tell her to sit down and enjoy it. "Before you know it, that youngster will have its feet jammed into your ribs and you'll be wishing it would just tickle. Enjoy this Hannah. It's real."

And she does. I return to the dishes, glancing every so often over my shoulder at her. She's just sitting there, rubbing the little mound under her t-shirt, an expression of awe on her petite face. The smile dancing on her lips is one of the few genuine ones I've seen, and I understand it completely. Hannah is finally coming to understand what it means to have this baby; it's becoming real to her, just as her mother did to me.

***********************************************************************************

The unremarkable February turns into the decidedly dirty month of March. The city is pounded relentlessly by snowstorms. The only break from the snow seems to be the days that assault us with sleet. I am essentially housebound, and Hannah is missing a lot of school because of closures. We get out for groceries and doctor's appointments, and very little else.

Molly has been over a few times in the last month. She's a pleasant girl, with a wide smile and deep red curls. She's quick to laugh, and her enthusiasm is a good tonic for Hannah. I notice that when they're together Hannah is more youthful and carefree, although Molly likes to talk about the baby, and feel for movement. Each day it gets a little stronger, and even though I was never a 'belly toucher', I find myself trying to feel the flittering motions of my great-grandchild. Hannah doesn't mind, but I try not to do it too often.

Hannah has surrendered to her new figure, and we shop for maternity clothes when the weather isn't too bad for us to get out. I fear slipping and falling on ice, and I fear for her slipping and falling on ice. From the back she looks like any other sixteen year old, but from the side, it appears she's smuggling a small ball under her shirt. And like any typical teenager, she loves shopping, so we're beginning to collect a little stockpile of maternity clothes. But it makes her smile, which makes me smile, so I don't mind too terribly.

On one particularly blustery day Hannah, Molly and I sit in the food court of the mall, eating soft serve cones when Molly has the idea that we should look for something for the baby.

"C'mon Hannah," she implores, "You have enough clothes for you. Let's buy something for the baby!"

"It's kind of early." Hannah's voice is low.

"Awwww – let's just get one of those cute diaper shirts with a saying on it. Doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl – both need those, right?"

Hannah looks at me. I shrug my shoulders. "You're past halfway, and you don't even have a diaper shirt. Maybe it's time." Molly squeals that teenage girl squeal again, and we rush through our cones to start baby shopping.

As Molly and Hannah pour over the racks of baby clothes at the department store, I thumb absently through a rack of dresses, pajamas and overalls. I'm a lifetime away, half listening to Molly telling Hannah that she's going to plan a baby shower for her, and they'll have it over Easter vacation. I hear snatches of this, think how nice it will be to have that to look forward to, but am lost in my own thoughts. I'm remembering what it was like for me to stand where Hannah is standing; young (although not as young as she is), afraid, and trying to be brave. Some things never change with the passing generations.

"Do you have any names picked out?" I hear Molly asking. "I like Brayden for a boy..." She's not even giving Hannah a chance to answer, she's busy plowing through her thoughts. "But I'm not sure about a girl's name. There are so many great girl's names!" Hannah stifles a yawn, and that's my cue to be the adult.

"Okay ladies," I smile. "I think it's time to call it a day. My poor old bones can't keep up with you youngsters. I'd like to go home please." Hannah's glance was grateful. We headed back to the car, which we had managed to park in the parking garage, and without having to scrap or defrost it, we were home quickly, having dropped Molly at her place first.

"Thanks Nan. How'd you know?"

I patted her shoulder. "It might have been a lifetime ago, my dear, but I still remember how much work it is to grow a baby. Getting tired is part of it."

I tell Hannah to head on to bed, and that I'll lock up and shut everything down for the night. She says something about having a bit of homework to do, but assures me that she won't be up too late. I hear her desk lamp click on, and her bedroom door squeak. Within twenty minutes I'm changed into my flannel nightie and pulling my quilt up to my neck. As I drift off to sleep, a list of baby names is dancing through my thoughts.

Chapter Sixteen

"Nan," Hannah is standing beside my bed, and I didn't hear her come in. Since she has moved in with me, I have been sleeping like the proverbial baby. These past few months have left me better rested than I had been in many years.

"What is it, Hannah?"

"There's something wrong." I sit up quickly, looking at her. My small bedside light is on, but there isn't enough light to see her face clearly, to see if she's flushed or has been crying. I raise my hand to her forehead, but she isn't warm to the touch.

"No, Nan. I'm bleeding."

I am on my feet before she can say another word. I pull on yesterday's clothes and tell Hannah to grab a jacket and meet me in the living room. I call my favourite cab company, and they assure me that they are sending someone right over.

It is a short ride to the hospital, and I hold Hannah's hand the whole time. She doesn't say a word, but the grip she has on mine tells me that she is petrified. Each time we pass a streetlight, I notice how pale her face is. Hannah isn't the same little girl who showed up on my doorstep six months ago, but she is just as scared.

The cabbie waves my hand away when I try to pay him. He winks and cocks his head to one side. With a smile, he says, "don't worry about it Rose. Just take care of that beautiful granddaughter of yours, okay? You're a great customer, it's the least I can do." And then he is gone, a pair of red lights glowing in the late night sky.

Now we're in the emergency room. There are a few drunks sitting lopsided in chairs, faces bruised and bleeding, obviously here for stitches after a bar fight. There is an elderly man nodding off in the corner, and it isn't apparent why he's here instead of home in bed. The nurse behind the counter looks at Hannah and me, and points to the sign next to us. It's telling us that all patients more than 25 weeks pregnant must go to the case room and not emergency. "She's 23 weeks." I tell the woman.

"What's the problem?" This lady sounds tired, and I think that she is expecting me to be angry. When I am not, her expression softens and she looks genuinely concerned.

"She's bleeding."

I squint at the nurse's hanging ID tag, and learn that her name is Joan. "Joan, should we go to the caseroom anyway?" She holds up one finger, signaling me to wait while she calls ahead.

"They're expecting you – go on up." She is smiling tenderly at us through her exhaustion, and we follow the lines and signs to the labour and delivery floor, which is behind a locked door. We are buzzed in and met by another nurse; this one is younger and immediately serious looking. She takes Hannah to a bed quickly, and is asking her a series of questions. I follow behind, trying not to get in the way.

After a few minutes of this, the nurse pats Hannah's hand and heads for the door. "I'll be right back with the doctor on call," she says in a very businesslike manner, not giving anything away in her tone.

The doctor arrives within moments and restates everything that the nurse had charted: bleeding, no pain, blood pressure fine, and no temperature. He feels Hannah's swollen middle with giant hands. I wince, but when I look closely I realize that these large mitts are perhaps more gentle than even I could have been.

"Ok Hannah." I like that he's speaking to her, and not me. "I think that you have a placental abruption. That means that a part, or all, of the placenta has torn away from the uterine wall. Without the placenta being attached, the baby can't get nutrients. Tomorrow morning we will do an ultrasound and biophysical profile on you and the baby, and see where we stand. I am going to give you steroid injections as well, so that if we have to deliver tomorrow, the lungs will be stimulated. Right now, they aren't developed enough for the baby to breathe on its own. So, for tonight at the very least, you will rest here, and let the nurses know if the bleeding gets worse, or you have any pain."

He checks the baby's heartbeat briefly, and reassures her that it is strong and regular. "Try to rest," is his parting advice.

Once the door clicks shut behind him, Hannah and I are alone. I pull one of those horrible vinyl chairs over to her bedside, and grab her hand. Tears are falling down her cheeks, but she is silent. When I ask if she wants me to call her mother, she shakes her head. "You can call Dad in the morning, okay? I don't want to worry him since we don't know much yet." I nod, and squeeze her hand in mine, wanting nothing more than to keep her calm and safe.

After another couple of minutes the doctor returns with the head nurse and a small cart. He unwraps a needle and the nurse is rolling a small bottle between her palms. I'm assuming that's to warm up the liquid inside. "What's that?" Hannah sniffles.

"This is the first steroid injection. We'll be giving you another one this time tomorrow night too. This is to make sure that if we have to deliver, the baby's lungs will have a bit of a jump start." Hannah and I exchange startled looks.

"Do you expect to have to deliver?" I whisper.

"Time is our best friend right now." He smiles sympathetically. "Now Hannah, I need you to lie on your left side." She obediently rolls over, and the doctor with the enormous hands lifts her hospital gown gently. He swabs a portion of her behind with alcohol, and in one swift motion, jabs the needle into the flesh. Hannah's sharp intake of breath makes me jump. He laughs a little and swabs the miniscule puncture wound. "That's the best place for steroids – they need a muscle."

He pulls the blanket back up over her, and tells her to settle in for some rest. He says that she'll be admitted for at least the next day, because the next steroid shot is 24 hours after the first. When I ask if I can stay, he smiles, nods and the nurse agrees. I walk them out of the room, and stop them just before they leave. "Is there anything else you're not telling us?" I'm trying not to sound accusatory, but my protective instincts are in overdrive by now.

"No. We've told Hannah and you everything. Tomorrow morning though, after the biophysical – that's where we measure the baby and do some activity tests – we're going to give Hannah a brief tour of the Nic-U. That's the Neonatal intensive Care Unit. If her baby comes now, that's where it'll end up for a while."

"If the baby is born now... what are its chances?" I'm not sure that I want to know this.

"If Hannah delivers this week, the baby has slightly less than a fifty percent chance."

Tears fill my eyes. "Is it dangerous for Hannah – to have this abruption thing?"

The doctor sighs and puts a hand on my shoulder, dwarfing it. "Yes." The tears spill over now, but I wipe my eyes furiously, knowing that Hannah needs me to be strong now more than ever. "There's a chance that she could lose too much blood. But that's a very small chance, and we have plenty of knowledge about this condition. Hannah is now considered high risk, but lots of women have high risk pregnancies and go on to have normal deliveries and healthy babies.

"Nan?" Hannah is calling from the bed. "You didn't leave, did you? Are you there?"

I hear the fear in her voice, and nod to the doctor in farewell. "No Honey, I'm here. I'll be right in, I'm just talking to the nurse about making sure you have a decent breakfast in here tomorrow." I hope that she can't hear the false cheerfulness. Gathering my composure, I push open the heavy door and go immediately to her bedside. I smooth her hair tenderly and she begins to calm down. Within minutes I see that her eyes are getting heavy. I hope that she'll sleep.

I turn out the overhead light, so that the room is lit by that strange rectangular box behind the bed. Hannah closes her eyes, but I know that she isn't asleep yet. I sit in the bedside chair and watch her silently. After a few minutes, she stirs and looks at me.

"Are you having any pain?" I am on my feet, ready to get the nurse back into the room.

"No, I'm okay." We both know that she isn't really though. "Did you want to go home and get some rest?"

"No Hannah, I'm not leaving here until I know what's going on, and that you and the baby are going to be fine."

"But the chairs..." I raise a hand to silence her. Not even these horrible chairs can drive me away from her side at this point. I'll make due – it's not like I haven't slept in a chair before. She is family, and I intend to be here with her as long as she needs me to be. And I know that she needs me here now.

Once I am satisfied that she isn't having any discomfort, I settle back into the chair again. I am surprised at how quiet it is on this floor, considering how many babies there are on the ward and how many births are happening around us. It is very peaceful in fact, and Hannah is visibly calmer. Soon both she and I are drifting off.

By the time daylight arrives, I am stiff and creaky. I stretch a little, and look at my granddaughter still sleeping in the narrow hospital bed. She reminds me of Mary now, and how I would watch her sleep on those nights so long ago. I realize that Mary might be this child's mother, but that was where the resemblance ended.

Breakfast arrives, followed by a new nurse, more bloodwork and temperature taking. The doctor makes his way back shortly after nine, and tells us that the tests are ready to go. I kiss Hannah on the forehead and promise to be here waiting when she gets back. "Can't you come too?" The doctor nods and smiles a little.

Hannah has two straps placed around her belly and the room fills with a rapid thumping noise. The technician smiles and tells us that it is the heartbeat, and a very good sign. For twenty minutes they move a disc around, turn Hannah on her side, and take some sort of pictures. After it is over, the kind lady asks Hannah if she would like copies of the grainy images. She nods excitedly, and I realize that I'm nodding right along with her.

"Do you want to know the sex?"

"You can really tell?" I'm more excited than Hannah now. Hannah meets my gaze, and a smile spreads across her face, for the first time since this began. We both nod.

"I can tell you with _almost_ 100% certainty that it's a girl." Now even the tech lady is grinning. "And right now, she is one pound, six ounces. Oh, and waving her fingers!" We're all laughing now, as the lady points to a slight wiggle on the screen.

"Oh Hannah, a girl!" I am amazed that I have been a part of this process up to now. Together we look at the pictures the lady gave us as Hannah is wheeled back to her bed.

We sit quietly, waiting for the doctor to return and tell us that the baby will be fine. Time isn't moving quickly enough for me now. I need to know that my granddaughter and my great-granddaughter will come through this without any problems.

Hannah suddenly turns to look at me. "Nan," she sounds excited. "I want to call her after you, Rose. Is that okay?"

Now it is my turn to cry.

"I don't think that's such a good idea." I finally manage to choke out. Hannah's excitement evaporates. "Really Hannah, I'm flattered, but I don't think that you want your daughter to carry my legacy."

I don't want to upset her, but can't bear the thought of her thinking that calling her child after me would be a good thing. Mary isn't accepting the baby at all, and my sudden reappearance in her life is not going well. If her daughter names the baby after me, well, I'm not sure how that would go.

When I look into her eyes, I feel nothing less than devastated. She is looking into my soul again, with those midnight coloured eyes. I feel like she knows everything that I should tell her, before I ever open my mouth.

Sighing, I sit on the edge of the hospital bed. I smooth the edge of the knit blanket. I place my hand on the bump where the little baby is growing.

"I don't think that I deserve having this precious little girl named after me. You don't really know much about me, or my life. If you did, I don't think that you'd be so interested in having her share my name." I feel a little thump. That one pound baby is kicking at me!

"Hannah, did it ever occur to you to wonder why your mother hates me so much?"

"Maybe, but then I thought it was because she hates everybody."

"Well, I expect that's my fault as well. Mary blames me for a lot of things that went wrong in her life, and I guess she has every right to do that. She didn't ask to be born, or have the life that she had. It was so awful for her, that she ran away at eighteen and married your father, just to get away.

"Your father is a wonderful man, don't get me wrong, but he was your mother's ticket away from me, and she took it. She never looked back." I laugh at this, because I had taken off on my mother when I was a teenager as well. Funny how history repeats itself!

Hannah is sitting so still that it's hard to imagine that she's real. Even her breathing is so slow and gentle. I know she is waiting for me to tell her everything, and I also know that once I do, this will all be over. She will leave, and I will be alone once more.

She lays her hand on top of mine. I want to be brave, for her – like her. She is a teenager, but has an adult life thrust upon her, and she is handling it remarkably well. Now she is sitting here in this hospital bed, and she doesn't realize how serious her situation is. She could die. This baby could die. I could lose them both.

But I will lose them both if I tell her the truth as well...

Part Two

Chapter 17

I was the oldest of thirteen – all the rest of them boys. My parents, very religious, gave us all holy names, so growing up in my house was like a roll call of the Bible. My name was Rosary – Rose for short.

I grew up in a small community nestled in Conception Bay, where almost everyone was related to us. But that's the way things were then – entire communities were built by families, so everyone knew everyone's business, for better or worse. Aunts, uncles and cousins were my neighbours and my playmates. The only outsiders were the priest and the schoolteacher.

I was lucky to get my grade seven education, considering. Most of the other girls had less, and all of the boys certainly did. As soon as they were old enough, they were aboard the boats with their fathers and older brothers, and us girls were left to help our mothers with the house – we did the same work as the adults, and reared the youngest of our families, so that by the time we were ready to be married, we'd already had years of experience in how to keep a house.

So, for me, grade seven was it. That was the year that my youngest brother was born. Mother didn't do so well after he came along. He was early and sickly, and she didn't seem to have any time for him at all. She stayed in her bed well beyond the usual time and wouldn't eat the groaning cake that my aunts brought. The entire winter after he was born, she barely got out of bed at all, and when she did it was just to go to the outhouse. Once I saw her stare blankly at the cradle by the stove, but she never even looked inside to see the sleeping infant. So he was left to me.

I named him Moses, since Mother wouldn't answer when I asked what she wanted to call him and Father was in the woods when the priest came by. So the priest and Aunt Helen took him up to the little white church on the hill, and gave him his name.

Moses was so tiny and frail, because he had come almost two months early, but I treated him as well as I treated all the others. He wasn't the first infant I had tended, since Mother had had a baby almost every year of her married life, but he was the smallest. I rocked him in the hard wooden rocker for hours, I gave him milk in a glass bottle with a tough rubber nipple. Mother's milk had long ago dried up without her ever having held him to her breast.

Every day was the same for me: I would rise before everyone, light the stove, and get breakfast ready for Father and the boys. The older three, ages ten, eleven and twelve, would go on the boat or in the woods, and I would get the younger ones ready for school. There were still a few who were too young, so they would be underfoot all day while I was trying to clean the house and tend to the baby. All the while Mother remained in her bed. I would usually bring her some toast and tea and lay it on the dresser. Some days, if she was having a good day, she would eat it and smile at me when I came back to get the plate and mug. But those days didn't happen very often, and most of the time she'd turn her face into the wall until I left. I stopped trying to talk to her after the first month or so.

After the breakfast mess was cleaned up, I'd strap Moses to my waist and cart him around the house and garden, doing whatever needed doing. Most days it would involve three or four loads of laundry being washed, then hung out on the line. Once I got it all pinned up, I would prop the line up with two or three wooden sticks so the clothes wouldn't touch the mucky yard. Grass was non-existent in our yard. There was hard packed dirt that got slimy in the rain, and rocks. When Mother and Father had gotten married first and he built the house, Mother planted a small flowerbed by the door, but it had long ago gone to ruin. There was one wild rose left, and it kind of climbed the side of the house towards the second story. Once the laundry was out, I could tend to the vegetables, milk the cow and strip and change the beds. We still had a bed wetter or two, so the beds had to be done every day without fail.

The floors would be swept (mopped up at least twice a week, depending on how much muck got traipsed in), and the lamps had to be filled. We had no electricity then, and no indoor plumbing. And while all of this was going on, I was cooking dinner or supper, watching the youngsters, and doing the sewing. When Father and the boys came home just after dark, their supper was always waiting on the table; hearty and filling. The food was plain, but there was always enough to go around, and if I had the time (which I often didn't), there might be something sweet for dessert.

When you're a thirteen-year-old girl who's been taken out of school to care for her family, you're not an uncommon creature. When you're doing it alone because your mother won't get out of bed... people talk. It was different for me. There were girls who had to quit school earlier than me, but that was because their mothers had died, usually in childbirth, and they had to take care of things at home until their father could remarry. But because my mother was still alive, physically anyway, tongues were wagging all over.

"Jeezus, isn't your mother out of bed yet?" asked Aunt Martha one day when she saw me pulling weeds in the vegetable patch.

"No, not yet," I jiggled Moses on my hip to make him easier to carry. I turned back to the pile of weeds at my feet, hoping that Aunt Martha would move on, but no such luck. She pressed on.

"How long's it been now? Isn't the baby three months old?"

"He's four, almost five," I mumbled, not wanting to have the conversation.

"Well then, if you're out here tending the garden, shouldn't he be inside with your mother? Why is she making you do it all? She needs to get herself out of the house – that'll make her feel as good as new."

I pushed my lips together until they were nothing but a thin white line on my face. I didn't know how many times I had asked myself the same questions late at night, in those brief moments between collapsing exhausted and actually falling asleep. Most nights that happened within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, so thankfully I didn't have much time to dwell on it. And with Moses not yet sleeping through the night, any sleep I did get was precious.

Eventually Aunt Martha went on her way, tsking and shaking her head. In a way it made me feel better that someone had noticed the burden I was dealing with, but my fierce pride made me ashamed that I would even consider feeling bad about my lot in life. So I put up and shut up, accepting that this was what I was meant to do. And each Sunday in church, I sat in the pew with my father and brothers, and gave thanks that I was strong enough to do what needed doing. Every once in a while, I would also give thanks for Sunday, because it was my only day of rest. No chores got done, and that was probably better for my soul than any hours logged in the church.

Chapter 18

When you've gotten yourself into a routine, the days, weeks and months kind of blend together. And that's the way it was for me during that time. My days were a blur of monotony – every day brought the same struggles, every day brought the same results. Another day just like the last.

And the irony is, I still felt bad for my mother. Even though I was doing her job without her help, I still felt bad for her. After many months of being in bed, she finally began to sit in the rocking chair in the kitchen, but only at night, after the youngsters had gone to bed, and there was no chance of them looking for her. They had all but stopped that ages ago, but I didn't think she'd noticed. When they fell down and cut their knees, I was the one they came to. When they were croupy or feverish, I was the one who sat by their bedside, sponging their heads or holding them up so they didn't choke.

I felt bad for Father too, and I suspect that's why I stayed around as long as I did. He had a brood of thirteen children to take care of, and a wife who wouldn't get out of bed to help. He would have been better off had she died because then he could have moved on to someone else, someone who wanted to be a part of this world. Divorce wasn't even a part of our vocabulary, never mind an acceptable thing to do in our community. I knew that he was suffering too, but he kept it inside. I could see it in his eyes though, and that almost made it worse. I wished I hadn't known how hurt he felt, because it would have made things easier for me. I kept thinking how much better off he would be if this had been his fault – it would mean that he was a hard man, used to causing suffering, not the one being hurt. And it wasn't that we were particularly close, either, but I still felt for him.

Each night, Father would come home from a hard day of work, sit at the table while I heaped out his meal. He'd smile sadly at me, pat my hand in thanks, and eat in silence. I guessed that he was used to bawling orders all day to the boys and didn't need conversation at the end of the day. So I left him to eat in peace. The younger ones had been fed first and were washed and ready for bed, so he could have some silence. I always thought that he was grateful for the things I did, even if he never said it.

And for the most part, the boys were good kids. They got along better than one would expect that many to do, especially in a small salt box house, where they had to sleep four and five to a room. Even I didn't get my own room – I had to sleep with the youngest boys, so I could tend to them in the middle of the night. It made it easier for me, and we did have the best room, in my opinion – the one downstairs just off the kitchen. It was always warm so the babies were comfortable. The room next to mine was my parents – the rest of the rooms were upstairs. And sleeping in "the nursery" wasn't all that bad either. Once I got them to the point of sleeping through the night, my sleep became restful again – that is, until Mother had another one.

I'd often wondered how they would have coped without me around. Being the oldest as well as the only girl made it a foregone conclusion that I was free help. And again, it wasn't anything that was unexpected of girls of that time. So I accepted my fate, tried not to think too much about it, and focused instead on taking care of the house and the boys. If I thought too much about taking care of Mother, I was afraid that I would get bitter and take it out on the rest of the family.

So I didn't.

Chapter 19

By sixteen, I was well seasoned in the ways of running a household. I had long ago forgotten about going to school, and my dream of becoming a teacher had fallen by the wayside. I was needed at home, so home was where I would be. And I was fine with it – I never once missed going to that one-roomed school which was held in the church. I knew the basics, and that was enough. I did miss reading though, and tried to read as much as possible, but we didn't have access to many books. There were only so many times I could read the Bible, and the merchant didn't bring in many books. There wasn't much call for things like that. It wasn't an educated place, but it sure was a hard-working one.

There weren't many opportunities to meet boys either. They were all related to me in our town, and once the winter came in, travel to the neighbouring communities was difficult. Courting only happened for three of the four seasons.

Not that there were suitors lined up to walk with me, mind you. I wasn't plain or anything, but everyone seemed to know about my life, and I figured that they were afraid that getting hooked up with me probably meant that they'd have to take care of my brood as well. Nothing I'd said or done would have led them to that, but that's the way small towns operate.

Some of my friends were even getting married – married at sixteen! When it happened to the first of my friends, I was shocked. MaryAnne looked so happy though, standing at the altar in a new pink dress, that I couldn't be anything other than thrilled for her. Three other friends followed suit that same summer, and I was now one of the few unmarried girls. The town gossips soon turned to matchmaking – wanting to set me up with so-and-so's cousin from three communities over. I'd humour them every so often and end up sitting through an awfully boring evening of listening to them talk about their boats or how they were going to build a nice house someday. It was almost like they had a common script. And while I certainly didn't think that I was better than them, I couldn't picture me in the lives they were building for themselves.

Eventually they stopped trying. Maybe I'd been through all the eligible bachelors in Conception Bay, but I think that's unlikely. Either that, or word had gotten around that I was too choosy – and I suspect that's what happened because I overheard as much at the mercantile one morning when I was getting some flour. MaryAnne was talking to another of our classmates who had also gotten married and they didn't see me. The other girl said that I was being too particular, that there'd been at least four men over here that were better than I could have hoped for. They'd be the ones settling. For me.

My cheeks flushed furiously and I left the store without the flour. How dare she? How dare they talk about me like that? What did they know about my life anyway? Maybe I didn't want to get married. Maybe I was content to tend to Father and the boys while Mother rocked in her chair. There were no more babies, and Moses was a rambunctious, roly-poly little sweetheart who followed me everywhere until I shooed him off. Why would I give up the life I had been given in a home where I was safe and appreciated to start over with someone strange, probably in a strange place? How could I leave Father to take care of everything? No, I was content to stay and live as I had been – talk be damned. Besides, I figured that in a couple of years those girls would have youngsters of their own, and I'd be the least of their worries.

But I was only lying to myself. I knew that I wasn't happy, but didn't know what to do about it that wouldn't leave me worse off than I started.

Chapter 19

Sixteen was a tough age for me. I had seen the others getting married, heard the gossip about me, and things at home remained unchanged. I toiled through the winter just as any dutiful housewife – except I wasn't a housewife. No one seemed to notice. Mother continued to rock and Father continued to work.

By the time the ice broke in the harbour the following spring my spirit was totally broken. It had been a tough season this time, full of sleet storms and blizzards. They never seemed to stop, and at one point we were all snowed in together in the tiny house for three days as the worst storm in a century raged. Finally, Father and the older boys climbed out an upstairs window and started digging us out. I bundled up the middle children and sent them out to play, and they delighted in being sent out through the bedroom windows. For them it was an adventure, not a plight at all. I think that seeing them squeal as I pushed them in mock anger through the windows was the first time I could remember smiling in months.

"Git out, you mangy youngsters," I'd shouted, pretending to scowl at them as I gave a playful shove. They jumped to their waists in snow, and it wasn't long before I could look out the windows and see them jumping off the roof of the porch. I warned them to steer clear of the outhouse roof, and went back to my chores.

It took the boys all day to clear up the snow. By nightfall we had a path to the road and a path to the outhouse – and each was higher than my waist in places. When I got a good look around, everyone else was in pretty much the same condition. Our little home was hard hit.

Because things were so tough that winter, the government began talking about putting the railway through town, to make getting supplies easier, but I wasn't sure that would help in a winter like the one we'd just been through. Everyone was delighted, and the talk of progress and the government finally realizing that we needed it were the dominant topics of conversation most days. Men in their stores were praising whomever had the idea, women were dreaming about the availability of food and fabric – maybe some new prints, instead of the same, tired calicos! We were entering the modern age!

There were town meetings at the church to get ready to meet with a government member and persuade him to give that last little push to get us on the rail line. It would really be just a connecting track – the train passed through the larger communities all the time, but there was some tough terrain between us and them, and that would be the only deterrent.

I knew that Father was excited about it too, because he would talk to me about it during his supper some nights. When he wasn't too tired and the younger children were tucked in, he'd look at me fondly, smile, and say – in a voice low with wonder – "imagine it, Rosey! Bringing the train here! Wouldn't it be grand?"

"You know it would." I'd continue to putter around, tidying whatever I didn't need left out for the rest of the evening. But that's where my opinion ended. I didn't see how the train could make any difference to my life whatsoever. Nothing changed within the walls of this little house, and it was essentially my whole world.

As talk of the train continued to grow around our little town, Father opened up more and more about it. He loved the idea, and thought it would only mean good things for this place. I'd smile politely at his talk, and think that he was becoming as chatty as our Matthew, who was known around town for talking the ear off anybody who'd stop to listen. I enjoyed seeing Father like this too – I thought he was happy again. He certainly seemed so. An easy peace settled over the house. We'd come through a tough old winter but were on the other side now, and had the possibility of a train route to look forward to. The air was charged with positive energy.

Except for Mother.

She only ate enough to keep herself alive, if that's even what you'd call it. Her looked like nothing more than a shadow of herself: sunken cheeks, black circles under her eyes, hair barely pulled back into an untidy bun. None of the older children noticed her – they'd long stopped dropping the obligatory bedtime peck on her cheek, and the younger children avoided her. They appeared to be afraid of her, and on one sunny but chilly morning, I heard two of the boys outside the door. They were poking the cement-like ground with sticks, intent on their purpose, not noticing my shadow behind them.

"I think she's really a witch," Matthew said, with all seriousness.

"D'ya think?" Noah gasped.

"Yup. An' I think she's got Rose and Dad enchanted, so they can't get rid of her. That' why she's here. They take care of her, because they _have_ to. She spelled 'em."

Noah was shaking his head, but he wasn't so sure that his brother was wrong. It all made sense to his four-year-old mind.

I continued to sweep, pretending that I hadn't heard their little exchange, but it made me sad. I knew that the others probably thought much the same way – they couldn't remember Mother being happy or full of life. I could barely remember it myself. With each passing day it faded a little more into the recesses of my mind, and I found myself wondering if it was even a real memory, or something I made up so I could be like the other girls.

That was the afternoon I found myself with a free half an hour – a rarity – and decided to take a walk up the hills and look out over the bay. It was one of those early spring days that you could actually _call_ spring – winter had finally released its firm grasp on us. The grass was starting to green up, and the paths around town were mucky, so I walked just outside of them. Every so often my rubbers would get sucked down into a soft spot, and I'd pull them out deftly, listening to the slurp of the boggy ground as it fought to keep hold of them.

Even with my heavy grey cardigan buttoned against the breeze, I found it chilly on the headlands. The trees had receded from the rocky cliffs, so they offered no shelter. But the wind rubbing my cheeks was welcome. It pulled at the loose strands of my hair and made my eyes water a little. It was only then that I realized that I was actually crying. The wind had little to do with it.

I wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but I decided to let it run its course. I sat on one of the smooth rocks overlooking the water, pulled my knees up inside my dress, brushed some of my now flying tendrils out of my face, and cried. I wept for what my life had become, for what my family was, for what my father had lost. He might have a wife in name, but Mother had long stopped being his wife in any other way. Matthew was right – we were keeping her because we had to. It made perfect sense! Had she died lying in childbirth with Moses, Father would have remarried by now. I would have helped him for a year or so, but he'd have a new wife now, and maybe even a new baby. And maybe I'd have my own life.

That was the first stroke of bitterness I had ever felt about my home life, and once I recognized what it was, I felt its crushing weight upon my shoulders. I put my head on my crossed arms as they rested on my knees and cried all over again. I wasn't sure how long I sat there letting the salty tears mingle with the sea air. Eventually I knew that I'd have to head back to the house and start supper for everyone. The vegetables had been peeled already, so it wouldn't be too much work, but I still wanted to hurry. I hated to keep Father waiting for his meals.

I wiped my nose in my sleeve, in a rather ungraceful manner, pushed my hair back and fiddled with a few of the pins in the back. Once I felt reasonably sure that I looked better than I felt, I picked my way down the narrow, twisty path and headed back to reality.

Supper was ready on time.

But that night, after I had put the youngsters to bed, Father was lingering at the table. I thought there was something wrong with his stew, so I started bustling around, getting him another dough-boy, asking is he wanted his tea warmed up.

"Sit down," he said. I sat obediently. I didn't often sit at the table with him – I usually took my meals with the children, to give him his privacy. I guess in some ways I still considered myself a child, even though I had been running this house for close on four years. Even sitting, I was wiping the crumbs off the table. Father reached out and held my hand still.

"Rosey, you've been a wonderful daughter to me. I'm not sure how many other young girls would have done everything that you've done for me without quibbling at all. I want you to know that I'm grateful."

It was like he had stared into my soul and had seen me on the cliffs that afternoon. I resisted the tears that threatened to spill over for as long as I could, but it was useless. By the time he had finished speaking, they were running down my cheeks, following the trail of the earlier ones. But these weren't bitter. They were almost tears of relief – at least he noticed what I was doing, what I had given up.

Then this man – my father – looked me square in the face and _he_ had tears in his eyes. "Rosey, you have to get out of here."

I gasped.

He was shooing off my protests before I was uttering them. "You have to go. If you don't, you'll be stuck here taking care of me and the boys until it's too late for you. I already feel like that's happening."

"But I can't –"

"Yes you can, my girl. You are one tough young woman, and it's time for you to get out. I'll be fine. And who knows, with you gone _she_ might have to come to her senses and be a part of this family again. This has gone on far too long. It's time to live _your_ life."

It was the most that I'd ever heard him speak. And I knew that he was right.

Chapter 20

After that evening, Father and I would chat about me leaving in the dusky nights after supper. As the days got longer, we decided that I'd get a berth on one of the coastal boats and head to St. John's. Once I got there, I could go in service for a year or two, and that would be sufficient time to figure out what was to become of me. I greedily thought about going back to school, but realized how foolish it was – I was a young woman, and realistically knew that going to St. John's was nothing more than a means to getting myself a husband who didn't know the littlest details of how I'd spent the last four years. All any potential suitor needed to know was that I'd come to town to work after taking care of my family for a while. It sounded like a perfect beginning to my adult life.

I didn't give much thought to how the rest of the family would deal with my departure, and Father and I decided not to tell the children until it was actually time for me to go. Neither of us even considered whether Mother would have an opinion or not.

But she did.

I wasn't meant to hear her, but in a small house full of people it's hard not to eavesdrop sometimes. In the early morning hours I woke up to hear her shouting – actually shouting – at Father, telling him that I wasn't allowed to go because she needed me here.

"The first thing you say to me in four years – FOUR FRIGGIN' YEARS – is to tell me that Rosey can't have a life of her own? After her giving up everything to do your job? You're cracked in the goddamn head if you thinks that I'm stopping her. It was my idea. She needs to get out of here before it's too late."

"I won't have it!" Mother's voice was hoarse from lack of use. I didn't even recognize it, and thought with alarm that the younger children certainly wouldn't know it, and might think Matthew's witch theory was right. I just hoped that they were sleeping through the racket.

"You don't get a say in it. You gave up your right to have any say in that child's life when you made her do your work while you stared out the window all day like an idiot."

"Well, if she goes, who will feed you then?" Mother spat the words at him.

_She._ I didn't even have a name. That simple word tore at my heart. I buried my head under the thick feather pillow, willing myself to sleep and not hear anything else. When sleep finally came it was fitful and plagued by bad dreams. I dreamed that I was being chased by the boys all up and down the hills. They would get close enough to grab my skirt and tug on it, but not close enough to grab me. Except Moses, who was holding on to my neck for dear life, crying – his tears dampening my hair.

When I woke up it was with a start. The tears in my hair were my own. I rubbed my eyes against the harsh sunrise, glanced at the littlest boys who slept, apparently undisturbed by last night's drama, and shoved my feet into slippers so I could go light the stove and start breakfast.

Mother was sitting in the rocker by the stove, waiting.

I didn't look at her, I just started my morning routine as if it were any other day. But she was having none of that; I heard the chair creak ominously as she rocked slowly. It was no different than any other time she sat and rocked while I worked, but it felt different. I half expected her to say something, and that was a new thing for me. I'd long ago given up on having a conversation with her.

"So, you think you're better 'en us? You think you can _go?"_ Her voice dripped hatred, leaving me to wonder what I'd done that was so awful. I'd taken care of her family – our family – while she sat there, barely present – and never uttered a word against her or my life. I said nothing.

Her tirade continued. I remembered words like "lazy", "ungrateful", and most hurtful of all, "father's whore." What had I done? With my back to her, I put the bread in rise, kneading it at the table. My fists pounded at the elastic lump harder and harder, as the words pierced deeper and deeper.

"SHUT UP, EUNICE!"

Father was standing in the bedroom doorway, his face red and his lips pursed. But Mother continued, and in less than three steps Father crossed the room to where she sat. When I turned around, he was standing between her and me with both of his hands planted on the armrests of the rocker, holding it still. So then she started in on him again, saying horrible things about him, and us, and how she hated all of us. How we were useless and horrible, dirty and stupid. How she'd settled for this life and spent her time praying for death. She should have listened to her own mother, and never married a useless fisherman and become nothing more than a baby-maker.

That's when he hit her.

I'd never seen Father raise his hand to Mother, ever. He'd reddened the arse of a disobedient youngster more than once, but that was normal. We'd all felt the sting of a switch at one point, learned our lesson, and that was it. But never had I seen him so angry, so out of control. But it was effective. Mother held her cheek where the blow had landed, and she finally fell silent again. I had spent years willing her to talk, and once she started, I only wanted her to stop spewing her bile.

Father turned to me and he had tears in his eyes too. I looked at the bedroom door and saw the four youngest boys staring with wide eyes and ghostly complexions. Father crossed the small gap between us, engulfed me in his large, gruff hug, and told me to pack a bag, I was going today.

Chapter 21

He pushed me towards the bedroom and told me to get my clothes together. He went into their room and I heard him rustling around. When he came back to me, he was holding a small duffel bag. It was for my clothes. This was really happening.

Moses was crying and pulling on my skirt. I was throwing my meager belongings in the bag, not paying too much attention to how they were placed. Matthew was all questions, and I could see Mark, John and Paul standing in the kitchen wondering mutely what was going on. There was no breakfast, an angry red welt on Mother's cheek, youngsters crying and Father standing in the doorway of my room, arms crossed.

"Make yer sons their breakfast," he roared over his shoulder at Mother.

"Like hell I will," she sputtered. "You lot can damn well starve once you sends _her_ away." Again, I had no name. I watched the colour in Father's face change from crimson to ash, and I feared for what was going to happen next. He saw me looking at him, and shook his head. I was not to make their breakfast, I was to continue to pack. He was going to bring me down to the coastal boat this morning, himself.

By now all of the youngsters were upset. Matthew asked if we were going to die because Mother wouldn't take care of them, Noah wanted to know why I was being sent away. No one understood what was happening. I barely understood it myself. Up to that point it had been something intangible, a dream that I'd dared to believe in and share with Father. It was the first thing I'd shared with him since I'd stopped being his little girl and he could no longer scoop me up into a bear hug while I squealed a mock protest. As I'd gotten older he put a distance between us that I hadn't really noticed until he closed the gap again with his suggestion that I move on.

I heard one of the older boys poking at the stove, stoking the pitiful fire. I hadn't gotten a chance to make it right before Mother had started in on me, and the house still had a chill. I heard the clatter of pots and pans, and knew that one of the others was making oatmeal for breakfast. Moses was still crying and trying to take my things out of the bag as I was putting them in. I picked him up and cradled him in my arms. More tears – this time they were mine.

"You be a good boy for Father now, and mind your brothers," was all I could manage to get out. His little fists were tangled up in my long blonde curls. I hadn't even had time to put it up yet. I pulled him in close to me, smelling the top of his head, feeling his tiny heart pounding in his chest. Noah and Matthew sat, pale faced and mute, on the edge of their bed. I hugged them too.

From the doorway, Father cleared his throat. "Get dressed. The boat will be here within the hour, and I'll be seein' you off." I knew that he wouldn't be leaving the house to go out in his boat until I was ready to leave too, and he was going to miss the best part of the day because of me. I felt guilty, but as if reading my mind, he was shaking his head and growling, "Yer goin' and that's that."

He left the room so that I could dress in private, hauling the boys along with him. By that time the oatmeal was on the table, and I could hear them all digging in. I finished packing up my things, amazed that I had so little to my name, and sat on the edge of my saggy bed for the last time, drinking in the sights and sounds of my home before it was too late.

I saw the crack in the wallpaper by the window, where the newspapers Father had used to insulate the house were poking through. I guessed that the boys had been pulling them out. I noticed the thick layer of oil paint on the window frame, and wondered if this might be the year that the window opened. All of the upstairs ones did, but the windows in the bedrooms downstairs had been painted shut. I wasn't sure why, or even if there was a reason at all. Maybe the upstairs ones had been as well, but it was so sweltering during the summer that they had to be pried open and weren't painted after. I rubbed my hand across the quilt on my bed, smoothing the edges and looking lovingly at the faded colours. I had made it myself when I was about nine, and it had been my first attempt at quilting. My grandmother had shown me how to piece the scraps together into squares and then attach the squares to each other. She'd been proud of my persistence, and told Mother I'd be a fine homemaker someday. Little did she know that someday would be three years later, when her own daughter-in-law would turn her back on her family and leave a child to step in. Nan had died the following summer, so she never knew. In an impulsive moment, I stripped the quilt off the bed, folded it and crammed it into the bag.

Nervously, I stepped into the kitchen. Mother sat in the chair, but she dared not rock. Her cheek was still warm from the slap. The boys were finished breakfast, and Matthew was helping Paul pile the dishes to be washed. Father stood up. We all held our breaths.

"Now," he began in a deep, rumbling voice, full of emotion, "I am bringing Rosey down to the coastal boat and she is getting on it. She is going to St. John's to find herself a good job and a good man. She's worked hard for us for a long time, and now she needs to find her own way in the world. It's not a discussion. If any of you want to say your goodbyes here do it. If you want to come to the wharf, that's fine too. But tomorrow, life here will be back to the way it should be. Your mother will be cooking and cleaning, she's taken advantage long enough." He looked her straight in the face as he said these last words, and she met his gaze with an equally icy glare.

John and Luke, the oldest of the boys, mumbled quick "good lucks", avoided eye contact and beat a hasty retreat. Some of the others quickly followed suit. But Noah and Matthew wanted to come to the wharf, and Father nodded. I wasn't sure if it was to see me off, or if it was the thrill of seeing the coastal boat. I couldn't bear to see poor Moses at the wharf, so I hugged him once more, picked up my bag and shut the door behind me, ignoring his heart wrenching sobs. I knew that he wouldn't go to Mother for comfort, so where would he turn now? I tried not to think about it.

Noah and Matthew walked along beside me, asking me more questions than I could keep track of, but most of them had to do with me writing them letters and telling them all about St. John's, and could I please send them some fancy candy? I laughed through my tears and promised that I would send them some, but they had to promise to take care of Moses for me, and be nice to the littler boys as well, and try to include them in the games they played each afternoon. Michael and Jacob were caught between being little kids and toddlers, and Noah and Matthew should be nicer to them. They solemnly promised to play with their little brothers AND take care of Moses, and I promised, with equal seriousness, to send them presents when I get settled and had a job.

As we walked towards the wharf I tried not to notice the curtains in nearby windows fluttering open and shut. I knew that people were wondering what our odd-looking procession was doing that morning, and knew that before lunchtime everyone would know exactly what happened at our little house this morning.

At the bend in the path I met up with MaryAnn as she was just coming up the road from seeing her husband off in his dory. Her housedress flapped in the gentle breeze, and her bandana flipped upwards. She looked every bit the housewife, and I was envious. When I noticed her cradling her softly rounded middle and beaming, it was more than I could take. Father was already on the wharf, watching the boat glide into view. It would be docking within the hour.

MaryAnn was oblivious to my situation and was gushing about her 'news'. She had wanted to tell me so badly, but didn't want to jinx it. She'd be having a fall baby, and Eugene (her husband) wanted their first to be a girl, unlike so many who wanted their first to be a boy. On and on she went, without noticing the boys tugging on my dress. Finally I said, "Oh! That's wonderful news. I know that you'll be a wonderful mother. We'll have to catch up later, I really have to meet father now." I didn't even tell her that I was leaving; it seemed so unimportant. She looked a little hurt at my abrupt words, but didn't say anything else. I hugged her quickly, which must have been even more confusing, and stepped around her. The boat was pulling into the slip.

My time had come.

Chapter 22

Father had already spoken to the captain by the time I reached his side. My fare had been paid and I was told that the trip would be only one day and one night. I was lucky that they were doing a quick trip this time, otherwise I'd have been on the boat for weeks. They had a large order to pick up in St. John's before going further up the coast, and my timing was perfect.

I gave the boys on more kiss each, and turned to Father. He hugged me hard – quickly, so I wouldn't see his eyes fill up. I buried my face in his shirt, smelling the pipe tobacco and sweat mingling, wondering if I should leave them all alone. I was feeling selfish and weak. I should have protested that they needed me. I shouldn't have been so quick to give in.

"You have to go, Rosey. It's not good for you to be here. We'll be fine." Father's voice was gruff. All I could do was nod. I stepped back. "Here, you'll be needing this." He shoved a wad of bills into my hand. The money was crinkled and smelled musty. I wondered how long he'd been hiding it, and how long it had taken to save. Money was rare in our world.

"I... I can't take this!"

"Yes you can. You'll need it in the beginning to get set up."

"I'm going to pay it all back. This and more." I was emphatic. He hugged me again.

"I know you will. Make me proud." Then he turned on his heel, took the boys, and headed back to the house. I picked up my duffle bag and turned the opposite way, heading to the boat and my new life.

I stepped somewhat gently onto the deck of the boat. It was much larger than the dories I was used to, and much louder. There were lots of men around, and each one had a specific job to do. They seemed to know what they were doing though, and we were loose from our moorings before I realized what was happening. With my bag at me feet, I leaned my arms on the port side rail, and watched my home slip from view. I was convinced that I saw my Father standing on the point watching, but couldn't be sure. So many surprising things had happened in recent weeks that I was left confused and out of sorts. I hadn't even had time to think about what was waiting for me at the end of this trip. Until now.

What had I done? How was I going to survive? I'd never even _been_ to St. John's, and now I was going to live there? And find work? Suddenly I found myself gasping for air.

"Miss?... Miss, are you alright?"

One of the hands saw me panicking and thought I was seasick. I waved him off and told him I was just thinking about going to the city, and feeling unprepared.

"This trip came about suddenly," I told him simply.

"Ah, if that's all – you've got nothin' to be worried about. St. John's is a wonderful place. I've been goin' there for years now!"

I couldn't help but smile at this, since he appeared to be my age or a year or two older, no more. "If you'd like me to show you around, I'd be delighted." He was blushing. "I'm gettin' off there for my weeks leave this afternoon."

"Thank you, I'd appreciate it. Can you help me find a place to stay?"

"Sure thing. D'you want a boarding house or a hotel? How long are you stayin'?"

"I'm not really sure. A boarding house, maybe." He thought on this for a while, snapped his fingers and smiled. His face was already showing the wear of a man's life at sea – fine lines danced around his mouth and eyes, the marks of older men.

"I know just the place." He looked around quickly. "I've got to get back at it, but I'll be back for you once we docks." And with that, he was gone, and I was left with my thoughts once more.

I wondered what was happening at home. Did Mother have the wash on the line? Were the boys playing as usual, like this morning had never happened? Did Father pack up his gear and head out once the coastal boat had left the harbour? I guessed that it didn't matter, life would continue in some manner for them, and mine would take a different path. I turned my attention to the black, lapping waves. It wasn't a rough day on the water, a little choppy maybe, with small whitecaps striking a sharp contrast to the inkiness of the cold Atlantic. Off in the distance a whale surfaced and cleared its blowhole and the odd seabird screamed against the wind. I couldn't have asked for a smoother voyage, and started to look forward to the adventure that was waiting for me in town.

As promised, once the last rope was secured, my new friend the deckhand was at my side. He stuck his grimy hand out to me, still smiling and said, "I forgot me manners. I'm Jack. Jack Dwyer."

Laughing, I told him that my name was Rose.

"So Rose, what's yer story? Why are you here, and not knowing how long to stay?" He was picking up my bag as he was speaking, giving me no choice but to follow him down the gangplank and into the city.

It was overwhelming. There were people everywhere. There must have been hundreds of them on the harbor front alone, that's not counting the people I could see through the narrow lanes leading up into the streets. I had never seen so many people in one place. Jack was laughing again. "I know it's a bit much the first time, but before long you won't even notice the people." I highly doubted it.

Everything was different. The air smelled funny – a mixture of sea air and burning coal, sooty to the left and clear to the right. There was a haze around that wasn't as thick as a fog, it was just enough to make the air heavy and moist. Horses and streetcars mingled on the main thoroughfares, children skipped and spun hoops on the sidewalks and women pushed carriages. I'd never seen such things. There were shops everywhere, and each one sold more than our mercantile back home. I couldn't have dreamed anything so wonderful as what I was seeing. I couldn't believe that I'd hesitated over the thought of coming here.

Jack was talking away, and I realized that I hadn't been listening, so I made every effort to pick up the conversation and not appear rude. "... and Mrs. Brown offers rooms up on Barter's Hill too, she's nice enough, but the hill's steep walking after a long day of work..."

"Is there anywhere you'd recommend then?" I'd asked. "Until I can find a job at least."

He seemed to think about it for a minute or two, then he grabbed me by the hand, dragging me along a side street. "I know just the place!" The street was barely wide enough for a horse cart to pass through, and the houses were stuck together like a crazy quilt, each colour mish-mashed into the other. I saw clotheslines in the small yards and open windows. The twisty lane gave way to a larger street again, this one lined with maple trees just starting to bloom.

"Where are we going?" I was laughing and out of breath. Within a few minutes we stopped in front of the largest house I'd ever seen – three stories high with two beautiful bay windows flanking the heavy doorway. Above the door was a floral stained glass window, and each of the bay windows had empty window boxes, waiting for flowers to be planted. The house was a stunning white, with shiny black trim and fancy shutters.

Jack rapped on the front door smartly, like he was used to doing this sort of thing all the time, and maybe he was, because when the door opened, the young woman who answered squealed and hugged him. I was standing on the step below Jack and was half hidden from her view, when she saw me blushing and looking down, she stopped and stepped back.

"Well Jackie, what have we here?' Her voice was a little shrill, but not unpleasant. She reminded me of someone who was used to being heard.

"Ah, sis, this is Rose. She's come to town for work. Got anything she could do?" I gasped at his boldness, and they both laughed.

"I think you've come to the right place today, Miss Rose." She was smiling. "I think we could use your services right here. I'll see the lady of the house the once, and we can see if you're suitable for the job. Well done, Jackie." She tousled his hair and he ducked. I finally saw the resemblance between the siblings. They had the same smiling eyes.

Jack donned his cap and turned to me. "Well Rose, good luck to you. I'll leave you with me sister, and she'll take care of you. If they don't need you here, she'll find you a place, no worries. Hopefully I'll see you around." With a quick hug for his sister and a doff of his cap to me, he turned on his heel and walked back down the steps into the street. We both watched him turn the corner before facing each other once more. Wordlessly, she led me into the house, stopping at the porch and turning left into the fanciest parlour I had ever seen.

"Wait here, and don't touch anything." The warmth in her voice was gone, but the shrillness remained. She trotted down the long hallway, muttering, "Jack always does this. Sees a pretty girl and dumps her on me... Doesn't he know that's not how it works?" She kept on like this until I could no longer hear, but as instructed, I stayed right there and didn't touch anything. But I did look.

It was glorious. I could have never thought of such extravagance had I tried. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves and the leather spines of thousands of books glinted in the afternoon sunlight that was being filtered in through ivory sheers. There was a large polished desk at one end of the room, and a leather daybed flanking one wall. There was even a globe in the corner, and the one wall that didn't have bookshelves had paintings hung in heavy golden-looking frames. The people in the paintings looked old, and serious. Their clothes were old fashioned and they wore stern expressions. I stepped towards them, not daring to leave the heavy rug and step onto the hardwood, lest it be too close to 'touching something.'

Within a few minutes Jack's sister returned, followed by an overdressed, overly made-up, middle-aged woman. She looked at me somewhat distastefully, looked at Jack's sister, snorted and said, "She'll do. For now." Then she turned and left the room, the only sign she'd been there was the sickly sweet trace of perfume that lingered behind her.

"Well, it's your lucky day. Follow me." She led me up the winding wooden staircase to the second floor, down a hallway and up a narrow, unpolished staircase to the third floor. At the end of another long hallway she opened a door to a narrow bedroom. "This is your room. You'll find a uniform in the closet. Get changed and meet me in the kitchen in fifteen minutes. You've got a lot to learn in a short time."

Then she was gone.

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to take it all in. This morning I had woken up in my own bed with my little brothers snoring contentedly in their beds beside me. By this afternoon I was leaving home to find my own way in the world, and by the end of day one, I'd found a job and a place to live. The great adventure had already started, and I was doing better than I'd hoped.

Chapter 23

As it turned out, I ended up working as a serving maid for the Bowring family, one of the oldest and most well established families in St. John's. I was one of a fleet of girls, and my job was to serve in the dining room for meals, with the occasional party where I would serve drinks on fancy silver platters in cut crystal glasses. It was a pretty swanky lifestyle, and the upper crust of town seemed very far removed from the life I'd left behind. It was a whole different perspective from the rest of town too, people had just struggled through an awful Depression, and making ends meet was tough. The war was on, much to everyone's surprise, and things in town were changing fast. It was always the topic of conversation at these parties.

The other girls that worked with me were nice enough, friendly and helpful, especially in the beginning. Jack's sister was the head of the household, and I'd come to learn that her name was Martha, and no one messed around with her. She'd turn on you faster than you could blink, so we all gave her a wide berth, listening to her orders and getting them completed as fast as we could. It wasn't _hard_ work, other than remembering your place, and it paid well. I enjoyed it.

I got one afternoon off a week, and one full day off a month. I'd use that time to wander around the winding streets, going to see the movies, window shopping downtown and when it was too miserable to go out, I would stay in bed and read. I took such pleasure in reading, and knew that I could borrow any of the books in the library, as long as they didn't leave the house and I put them back in the right place. After a year there, I'd read many of the classics, and would supplement this reading with dime store romances on occasion, just to keep things interesting.

I had also stepped out with Jack the deckhand a few times too. He took me to a dance at the Star Hall one night, and to a pub another time. He was friendly and easy to spend time with, and I enjoyed our time together. Then one afternoon as I strolled by Bowrings and thought about stopping in to buy some new gloves, I saw Jack leaning against the side of the wall with a girl draped all over him. He looked embarrassed, untangled himself from her and nodded a quick hello. I never did see him after that.

I was doing well for myself and, as promised, started sending home money to Father. I'd also send the boys some little treats: candy for some of the younger boys, and comics or books for the older ones. Once I sent Mother a beautiful lace shawl because I thought she'd like it for a change from her usual crocheted ones, but I never did hear back from her to say that she'd gotten it. I got letters from the boys, and every now and then one would say, "Father said to tell you hello." I didn't expect him to write me because I knew that he was barely literate, and to try to compose a letter was beyond him. I wanted to spare him the embarrassment, so I'd just put a note in the letters I wrote to the others, asking them to tell Father this or that – whatever I wanted to pass on to him, without him thinking too much about my reasoning.

It's funny how time kind of melts together when things are running smoothly, and that's just what happened to me. I spent my time serving meals on silver platters, smiling demurely at haughty couples as I offered them crystal goblets of wine, and learning about the old city. It was booming with the Yanks on the base, war talk was everywhere, but it still seemed to be a very distant thing. There were casualties, of course, and I quickly learned to stay away from the postings of casualties and deaths that appeared every two weeks. The first time I'd been walking around downtown and saw a crowd gathered. They were reading a list of MIAs, and the crying women were unbearable. Their anguish cut through every part of me, and I quickly learned to stay away from the church area of town on the days when the lists went up.

The seasons blended together, the war talk become commonplace. Life was routine. There was nothing really upsetting or displeasing about it. I was content enough, even when the other housemaids started getting married and I was still unattached. It was just like home, after all! I watched them leave, one by one, and I climbed the ranks in the household. Life was fine.

One day Martha was sorting through the mail and handed a stack to me. "Wait until you're off to read them. You know the rules." I smiled. She wasn't really all that bad once you got used to her. I tucked them into my apron and went back to dusting the banisters, thinking about how wonderful it would be getting news from home. I hadn't heard anything in quite a while.

After a seemingly endless day of sweeping and dusting, I retired to my bedroom and pulled out the first letter. The writing on the envelope didn't look familiar, so I flipped through the others. One from Matthew, the most faithful letter-writer ever, a bill from one of the shops where I'd bought a new dress, a note about church dues, a magazine and an official looking letter with no return address. It was an odd assortment, but nothing alarming. I started with Matthew's letter.

June 23, 1944

Dear Rosey,

How are things in the big city? Father tells everyone in town how you've made a grand life out there. When can I come and visit? Would you take me to the picture show if I did? The train comes through here two times a week, and I have to keep Moses away from the tracks because he got his foot stuck there once and Father said it wasn't safe to play down there. But Moses doesn't listen to us, he used to listen to you.

Father says that next fall I can go wood cutting and hunting with him! That means by next summer I'll be old enough to go fishing too! Paul's taken up with a girl from Bay Roberts and takes the train over there once a month to see her. She's a school teacher – I don't know what he wants with one of them, I try to stay away from teachers!

I try to help out with the little boys, just like you asked me to, but it's hard. I don't get time to do my own things, and who's going to take care of them when I go with Father? Maybe Noah will have to take his turn.

I hope you are enjoying the weather and the roads aren't too sloppy. You said that St. John's wasn't muddy like here, so what is it like? I wish I could go there.

Your loving brother,

Matthew (age 11)

Sweet letter. I knew to count on Matthew for regular letters. They weren't the most informative, but they were guaranteed to be entertaining. He always left me smiling, but I knew that the time would come when he wouldn't be so keen to write his older sister who lived so far away. How would I get the news from home then? I folded it up, put it back in the envelope and added it to the stack I kept tied with a ribbon on top of my dresser. All letters from home, when the other girls were collecting love letters. Sometimes it bothered me, but not often. Usually it got to me when I would hear the girls getting ready for their dates, or giggling over the details of how so-and-so awkwardly took off his hat, hoping to steal a kiss as soon as the lights went down in the theatre. But most of the time I was just content with my books and letters, and working away for the Bowrings.

I decided to open the letter with no return address next, because it intrigued me most of all. It was addressed to me in a typewritten envelope, had my address correct, but there was no markings to indicate where it had come from. Carefully I tore away the seal and pulled out a single white sheet of paper.

Dear Rose:

You do not know me, but I have been instructed to contact you in the event of some unusual circumstances at your home. I have been working on the train that passes through your town for the last three years and have become a close friend of your father's. He speaks very highly of you, and wanted me to contact you in such a case as this, and I had hoped that I would never have to obey his wishes.

Your father passed away last Sunday, July 15 in his sleep. He had been sick for a while, but didn't want you to know because he was afraid that you would come back.

I have other information that I would like to discuss with you, but would prefer to conduct this business in person. Please allow me to see you on the first Friday of August.

Sincerely,

Jacob Jackman

Dead? Father? No, there must have been some mistake! There were no details in the letter to make me believe that it was my father – if it was him he would have certainly wanted to see me. This had to be a mistake. The first Friday of August was the end of this week. Surely if something had happened, one of her brothers would have written or sent a telegram. So I decided to meet this Jacob and see what he had to say. If nothing I could tell him he had the wrong Rose.

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The first Friday of August was a sticky, humid, never-ending day. I finished up my work, sponged myself off and changed into a clean linen dress. I grabbed my pocketbook and headed down the servant's stairs and out through the back door. I took the alley behind the house to the road and quickly made my way to the pond in the park named after my employers. I was meeting Jacob there at 6:00.

He was easy enough to spot; looking around and checking his watch often. I walked up to him and introduced myself, and he smiled a sad smile. "Yes, your father described you perfectly, although he said that your hair was longer." I'd forgotten that I'd cut it off and had it marcelled and that Father would not have known this.

"I think you've mistaken me for someone else." I began, but Jacob lifted his hand to silence me.

"No, you are the oldest child of thirteen, and the others are all boys. You took care of your family for close to five years after your mother refused to, and your name is Rosary, but your father always called you Rosey." I nodded. So he was right. And Father was dead.

After a moment I asked timidly, in the voice of a child, "Please tell me what happened, and why my father didn't want to see me." That was the part of the letter that had hurt the most; he was sick and didn't want to see me on his deathbed. That wasn't right. There were pieces of the puzzle missing.

Jacob took a long, slow breath and looked around. The park was full of happy families feeding the ducks, couples in rowboats whose laughter floated across the air to us, but no one was within earshot. "Listen," he began, "I need to tell you this before you read about it in the paper. It's not going to be good." I crinkled my brow in confusion, and Jacob continued.

"Before he died, your father told me that things at home were bad, but I'm guessing that you knew that. He said that your mudder wasn't right in the head, and that's why you were doing all the work for that time. Well, after you left, things got worse. The older boys stepped in and made sure that the youngsters were fed, but the house wasn't kept up and your father was at his wits end. The woman would just it in the rocking chair between the window and the stove all day, rocking, and not do a damn thing. No one knows how she lived – she never ate or seemed to sleep. Towns talk, and it was all over yours. But no one knew what to do. Your father couldn't remarry because she was still alive, and no one would come to the house to tend it because she was there. A couple of your aunts tried one day, but that she-devil drove them out. So they stopped trying.

Then your father started getting sick. Nothing serious, just feeling poorly. A couple of the boys were the same, so they thought it was going around the house. And living in them conditions, it wouldn't surprise anyone. Then the youngest got really sick and your father sent him off with a relative. It was touch and go for a while, but he did get better. Your father didn't. He took to his bed and was gone within the week."

"Did he suffer?"

Jacob looked at his feet. That was all the answer I needed. "So why would I read about it in the papers? That doesn't make sense."

"Because your father left a letter with me to give to the constable if anything should happen to him, which it did. He thought that your mother was poisoning him."

"NO!" I shook my head vehemently. "That's impossible. She wouldn't... She couldn't..." Then I thought about all the horrible things she had said on my last day there, and how she had looked at us all, as if seeing us for the first time, and the hate that oozed from her very pores. It was entirely possible, and highly likely. And that's why Father wouldn't have wanted me to come home.

Jacob was nodding. "He thought she was poisoning the water, which is why some of the boys were sick too. The weaker ones were hit the hardest, and I think your youngest brother was the worst, besides your father."

I was completely overwhelmed. I didn't know whether to be angry or devastated, or both. "Is Moses okay now?" Jacob nodded, and I felt the balance shift to anger. "Is she being charged?"

Jacob told me that the Newfoundland Constabulary was investigating, but he wasn't sure. Until they could prove it, it was unlikely that Mother would suffer any repercussions. The boys had all been sent to live with other relatives throughout the community, the exception being the oldest two, who were living in a hunter's cabin outside town on their own. "They've been taking care of themselves for years now," Jacob informed me. The sadness was back.

"Well, if it comes to court, I would like to testify to her being unfit," I heard myself say. Jacob didn't even look shocked, and said that he'd keep me informed. I gave him my address and the house telephone number and we parted ways. I wandered through the park for a while, oblivious to the sights and sounds of summer around me. The park was full of life and love, and I was consumed with loss. How was it possible for these things to happen? What had changed my mother so much?

But it was the thought of poor, sweet Father lying in his dirty bed, suffering to the bitter end - that brought me the most pain. There and then I decided to make sure that bitch got what she deserved.

Chapter 24

I had gone to the police on my next day off and explained who I was and my reason for being there. A kindly old constable took me into his office and shut the door, the aluminum blinds rattling with the breeze from the slam. A desk fan blew hot air around the room, but he seemed not to notice the stifling heat.

I explained how Mother had changed after Moses was born, and she wouldn't even look at him and took to her bed. I told him all about the next four years; the backbreaking and soul-wrenching work I was doing and how Father kept us all going. I talked for a long time about her sitting in the chair and rocking. The ceaseless rocking. When it came time to tell him about how I had to leave, I couldn't contain my tears. Even the hardened man looked shaken by some of the things she'd said.

After I'd finished my story, I sat in the hard wooden chair with my hands folded in my lap, waiting for him to tell me that Mother would be arrested immediately and put in jail for the murder of my father, and attempted murder of my brothers. Instead, he looked into my eyes and his voice was much more businesslike than I'd expected. "Thank you for coming in and telling me this miss. I will pass it on to the constable working the case. It sounds to me like insanity, and she'll be locked up in the Waterford for a long time."

"What?"

He repeated himself, telling me that the judge would likely find her insane if they went to court, so I'd have nothing to worry about.

"Nothing to worry about? She killed my father and tried to kill my little brothers! How is _that_ nothing to worry about? I've spent every night since I came to this city wondering if I made a mistake leaving them with her – and obviously, if I hadn't..."

The man was handing me a handkerchief, but I furiously brushed him off. "Why bother at all, then?" Why not wait until she succeeds? Leave her there, and see which of my brothers is next!" I slammed my fist down on his heavy desk, hurting the side and crushing my fingers. Grabbing my pocket book, I tore open the door and left the station. The oppressive heat of the late summer was endless, but its wrath only mirrored my own.

By the end of August it was, as predicted, all over the newspapers. The police had decided to charge her, as I'd hoped, but as the officer had told me, the judge found her insane. She was immediately committed to the mental hospital, and got to live out the rest of her days overlooking that very park where I'd heard the terrible story of what she'd done to my family.

I never saw her once, and read about her death with the same detached interest reserved for strangers and celebrities.

Chapter 25

I wasn't the same after that summer. I found myself consumed by worry for the boys and was constantly distracted by these thoughts. I'd started having nightmares where I'd see Noah or Matthew walking along barefoot in the streets, and they wouldn't come to me when I called them. They'd turn, look at me with dead eyes, and trudge away again, the weight of the world on their tiny shoulders.

Martha noticed my change in behaviour, but when she tried to talk to me about it, I angrily brushed her off. That wasn't like me either, and she left me alone with a mumbled, "if you ever need to talk to anyone, you know where I am." By this point I'd been here the longest of any of the other girls, and we'd become almost friends. But I wasn't ready to share the details of my life with her yet. She didn't know about my family's demise, and I had no desire to tell her.

The last weekend in September was always a big deal in the Bowring house. There was a dinner party that often turned into a late night dance, so all staff was required to work. Everything was polished and cleaned, the menu was long planned, and only the elite of town were included in the invite. If you got an invitation to this soiree, you had officially made it in St. John's.

Normally I looked forward to this party. The other servants and I would spend days afterwards dishing about the dresses we'd seen, and how drunk so-and-so got. The gossip that party generated lasted well into October. But this year, I wasn't looking forward to it at all, and dragged my feet on the preparations. Martha's scolding had taken on new heights, and even though we were friends, I was not immune. "Rose, you've been dusting that same spot for fifteen minutes. It's clean. Move on!" And I would, but a half an hour later it was the same thing all over.

The night of the party was a thick, foggy one – for which St. John's is known. The cars started pulling into the drive at seven, and it was already dark. The headlights sliced a path to the door, and the other girls peeked through the sheers in the upstairs landing, oohing and aahing over the furs and glittering jewellery that shone even through the mist.

I waited patiently at the door with Martha. She was greeting, I was taking the coats and hats away. "Good evening, Mr. Smallwood, Mrs. Smallwood," Martha gushed, adding a small curtsey for good measure. I looked at the floor, mimicked her movements and took the coats away. This was repeated dozens of times, and each time I retreated with a coat I was met with a flurry of questions from the other girls: did Mrs. What's Her Name really have ruby earrings? What was her coat? Did someone actually show up _here_ in sealskin? How tacky! That was a poor man's fur! I half-heartedly answered as many of their questions as I could, but my lack of enthusiasm was obvious. Eventually they stopped asking, knowing they would glean lots of juicy details once the serving began.

It was arguably one of the finest parties that St. John's had ever seen. The Government House Garden Party didn't even come close, and it wasn't only the serving staff that was going to be talking about this one. I smiled my way though and bowed and scraped appropriately, but I noticed very little – including when I accidentally spilled a drink over the sleeve of one of the most notorious lawyers in town, David Miller.

He was good-natured enough about it, the liquor he'd already ingested likely had a lot to do with that, and I apologized over and over. "Don't worry about it," he slurred, "just point me to the nearest sink, and I'll clean myself up." I led him up the stairs to the water closet and began sponging off his sleeve with a clean cloth. The party seemed very far away, and I was standing close enough to him for his sour breath to warm my neck.

Before I realized what was happening, he was sliding his hands up inside my uniform skirt. I pushed them down, smoothed my skirt and tried to leave the small room. He was blocking the door.

"C'mon my love," he crooned as he fell against the closed door. "I want to have a bit of fun." The colour was creeping into my face, and I wasn't sure if it was anger, fear or embarrassment. No one had ever tried to touch me before – not even deckhand Jack. Once again, David wrapped his arms around my waist and drew me to him, ignoring my protests. His hot breath was back; this time on my cheek. He was kissing me, surprisingly gently, and telling me not to make a fuss, it would be over soon.

His hands were under my skirt again, probing. I pushed at his arms, but only feebly. This time he kissed me hard on the lips, and I let him. When his lips parted and he forced his tongue into my mouth, I was shocked, but found myself responding somewhat unwillingly. I could feel him pressing hard against my hip, grinding his body against mine. When he unfastened his pants and entered me, I felt a release like I'd never experienced before. There was a little pain as I felt myself tear, but it was overshadowed by something else. A part of me that I'd ignored for so long had been awakened, and I was enjoying it.

It was over too fast. He grunted and pushed himself inside me a few times, and that was it. But it was still enough. I had, in all my twenty-one years, never felt so complete as I had in those few brief moments with a well-to-do stranger. He got himself together, mumbled something about not worrying about his sleeve, and with his eyes downcast, left me alone in the room.

I took a few minutes to collect myself and returned to the party, wondering if anyone else noticed the change in how I'd carried myself.

Chapter 26

Whether or not anyone noticed the change in me after that night was irrelevant, because I felt it. For the first time in my life, I got what the fuss was about; why the girls were swooning over so-and-so, and why they wanted to get married. For years when my friends and classmates were settling down I was focused on taking care of the family, and once I'd come to town I'd focused on work. I had figured that it was just my nature, and I was destined to be an old maid. Suddenly, I didn't want that.

As the days got shorter I found myself wandering absently through the streets downtown in the dusky afternoons when I had free time. More and more often, I'd find myself outside the office where David worked, wondering if he remembered me from the party. I'd never dared to enter the office – that would be too forward, but I was drawn there over and over.

One bone-chilling day in November I pulled my coat closer to my face, feeling foolish for being out in such weather, when the office door opened and he actually came out! Boldly I met his gaze and smiled. David looked confused, but smiled cautiously in return.

"Do I know you?" he wanted to know. I felt the familiar crimson rising in my cheeks.

"We met at the Bowring's party earlier this fall," I responded, searching his face for recognition. For what seemed an eternity there wasn't. Then his eyes opened wide, and he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me down an alley between two buildings.

"What's the meaning of this? Why are you here?" He was angry. I hadn't expected that.

"I'm... I'm sorry." I was stammering, not wanting him to see how hurt I was. "I just wanted to say... hello." I didn't know what else to say. Why _had_ I come down there again and again? What did I expect to happen?

Then something amazing happened. IT happened again, right there in the alley.

When it was over he smiled a half-drunk, half-sleepy smile. "Now I remember you," he purred, "you were the maid in the bathroom." I looked at my boots. "Here," he smiled again, "I've got to go, but this is for you." I felt something being pushed into my gloved hand, and in an instant, he was gone around the corner. Looking down I saw a $20 bill crumpled in my fist.

And I wasn't ashamed.

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I met David whenever I felt the urge all throughout that winter. We had sex in alleys, in hotels that he paid for and even in his office late at night. I never felt anything other than release. I was enjoying my newfound sexuality and the power that came with it. I took it for what it was; my stress release, he got to have some fun, and the extra money was accumulating quickly. I was sending some back to my brothers to help them take care of each other in a place where money was scarce, and it felt good to be able to help.

My work never suffered, and I never missed a day. No one knew about this double life I was leading, and I was fine with that too. When one of the girls asked where I was going on those blustery dark evenings, I'd say something about going to see a cousin who had just moved to town, or going to church. With a name like Rosary, I was expected to spend my time there too, even though I seldom darkened its doors after leaving home. Any God who would let a mother do that to her family wasn't a God that held any interest for me.

By spring, David and I had developed a routine. We would see each other once a week at a place of his choosing. It was never the same place, and he always left first, leaving money for me and a location for our next tryst. Once when I asked why it was never the same place, he told me that it was a small town, and people talk. I had laughed at this, thinking St. John's was far from small.

"I do have a thought though," he said one sunny Sunday afternoon as he sat on the side of the hotel bed, putting on his shoes.

"What's that?" I asked lazily from where I was lying, still naked, behind him. I'd pulled up the bedspread to ward off a chill, but the sun was surprisingly warm as it filtered through the window.

"I know a place where we could go _regularly_ , if you'd rather."

"You do? Where?"

"An old friend has a house. It's very discreet."

"And he's willing to let us go there?"

David laughed. "He's a she, and yes, I think so. I saw her downtown last week and she was wondering why I hadn't been over lately. I explained, and she offered." I was shocked. She _knew_ what we were doing? And she was fine with it? David saw the questions in my eyes and nodded. "Trust me," was all he said. And I did. I agreed to go to his friend's place next week and see what it was about.

Chapter 27

David's friend's house was beautiful. It stood at the end of an old, narrow street that was lined with trees and was just far enough away from downtown to say that it wasn't downtown. There were two turrets flanking the entrance, and it was three stories high, painted an unassuming gray with black trim. The solid front door was a deep red.

The fact that David opened the door without lifting the heavy brass knocker was surprising, but not shocking. If his friend knew about us, I was sure that she wouldn't mind him going in unannounced. Inside was just as elegant as the outside. Everything was understated, but in exceptionally good taste.

Heavy rugs lined the narrow hallway, and a cherry stained beadboard trimmed the walls. Above the chair rail was a simple pinstripe wallpaper, and there were fresh flowers in a vase on a dainty table at the end of the hall. David took my hand and led me up the narrow stairs. He seemed to know where he was going, and I went willingly. My hunger for him was growing daily, and it was getting to the point where once a week wasn't enough to satisfy me.

We ended up in a tiny but charming bedroom on the top flat. It had a cozy brass bed, a little oil lamp on the night table, and a stunning view of the harbour. David closed the door behind us, leaving us wrapped in the flickering glow of the lamp's delicate flame. He stepped towards me, slipping my sweater down my shoulders, kissing my cheeks, my nose, my lips, and the hollow of my neck. I moaned softly.

It was different here; it almost felt like we were _home_. I couldn't explain the difference in being here and being in a hotel, but there was one. We fell back into the bed together, pulling at each other's clothes, kissing every inch of each other. It was the first time we spent an entire afternoon in bed together.

Darkness was falling by the time David reached for his trousers. We were both exhausted and content at the same time. This time however, David wanted me to leave with him instead of lingering. "Why?"

"Well, Alice needs to know when we're gone so she can clean the room. And I'd like you to meet her. She's a great gal."

"Sure," I smiled warmly at the face that had come to mean so much to me over the course of the last winter. We got dressed together, stopping every so often for a kiss or embrace. David reached into his pocket and pulled out some money. For the first time, I refused.

"I insist," he pressed it into my skirt pocket, smiling. "Worth every penny."

Downstairs in the parlour there was a heavy, old-fashioned desk at the end of the room. David's friend Alice was sitting behind it, looking very comfortable. When we entered the room, she stood up, revealing a curvaceous figure in a flattering black dress, kitten heeled shoes that I'd only ever seen in magazines, and a beautiful pearl bracelet on her left arm. She patted her flaming hair, smoothing some non-existent flaw, and come over to us, smiling broadly.

"David dear! How was everything?" She beamed at him like an old friend before turning her attention to me. "And you must be Rose. David told me about you, and I've been so looking forward to meeting you. I have the feeling that we could be great friends."

There was something unnerving about her smile, her confidence, but I was too wrapped up in David to think much of it until later. I smiled back, shook her hand and thanked her for her hospitality. Alice smiled graciously and asked David if she could speak to him for a moment in private. I obliged, stepping into the hallway and looking down its narrow opening towards the back of the house. _That must be the kitchen back there_ , I mused, noticing the closed door. I could hear muffled voices, but no snippets of conversation made their way back to me. I contented myself by looking at the flowers, a spring mixture of lilacs and baby's breath. They were nestled in a stunningly simple white-glazed vase. Underneath the vase sat a crocheted doily with fluttery edges. Very homey, but elegant too.

David came out of the parlour after a few minutes. He helped me into my coat and we left, arm-in-arm. He seemed to be in an exceptional mood. My already high spirits were raised even more.

"Alice liked you, you know." He squeezed my shoulder. "I'm glad that you hit it off with her."

"Why's that?" I was lost in my pleasant daydreams. More and more often I'd been allowing myself to imagine a life of domestic bliss with David; keeping his house, taking care of him, starting a family. Something that so many women younger than I had this already, and I'd developed a thirst for it too.

"She'd like to see you again."

"Really? That's nice. Did she say when?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"You know that I can't go then. I'm working. I don't finish until 7."

"Make an exception. It'll be worth it." I stopped walking and turned to him.

"Why do you say that?" There was an uneasiness building in my chest. Something I hadn't felt with David since that first night in the bathroom.

"Well, I didn't want to say anything... But I think that she wants to offer you a job."

Now I was confused. "But I already have a job. A job that I like. The Bowrings have treated me well, Martha isn't really a beast to work under, and I make a good wage. I have no complaints."

"Oh I know that Rose. I just thought that you'd like _more_ than that. And Alice can offer it to you. You saw how well she was dressed? Well, that could be you." I laughed.

"A maid is a maid, David. We wear uniforms by day and nightdresses by night. I'm fine with that. I don't need more."

David pulled away and stood in the middle of the sidewalk. He looked angry. "Look, I thought it would be what you wanted, and it would make it a hell of a lot easier for us to see each other. But if you're not interested..."

"Okay, I'll see what she has to say," I tried to appease him, but I couldn't see myself leaving my job. It had been a home to me for five years, and it was comfortable and safe. The routine wasn't taxing and the pay was good. It didn't offer a lot of freedom, but I didn't need it either.

"Good." He kissed me lightly on the top of the head and we parted ways at the bottom of my street. I strolled home, confused by the conversation and intrigued by the offer. Even though I knew I wouldn't accept it, I'd still go and see Alice, and see what she was offering.

For the first time ever, I pretended to be sick so I could have the afternoon off. I told Martha I needed to go to the doctor, and given my exemplary record, she didn't ask questions, which made me feel all the more guilty. I bundled up against the chilly spring air and headed out the door shortly after one thirty.

It took less than twenty minutes to walk to Alice's place again, and I was glad that I had such a good sense of direction, because the street was tucked away amongst so many others that it was easy to get lost. I lifted the heavy knocker and let it drop twice before standing patiently on the doorstep waiting for an answer.

Finally Alice came to the door, let me in and took my coat. She showed me back into the parlour again, and I sat on one of the overstuffed sofas that hugged the wall opposite the window. Alice sat behind the desk again and moved some papers out of her way. Again I was struck by how confident she seemed. I hadn't had any real job interviews before, so I was more than a little nervous.

After a minute that felt like an hour, Alice looked up from her papers and smiled warmly. "David tells me that you're wonderful," the words flow as easily as a brook runs over worn rocks. I blush and stare at my hands. "I've known David for many years, and if he says that you're something special then I'm apt to believe him. I'd like to offer you a job." She was very straightforward, and I had to admit that I liked that.

"But you don't know anything about me, or how well I work..."

"Oh sweetheart, don't worry about that. You'll learn the ropes here pretty fast. I'm offering you fifty dollars a week to start, plus room and board, of course. You have to be responsible for keeping your own room up, and I will give you a clothing allowance."

"There's no uniform?"

"Not really honey. Wear what makes you comfortable."

"I'm not sure that not having one will make me comfortable. I've worked in uniform since coming to St. John's. None of my old dresses would be good enough to work here."

"Well, I'm going to give you money for clothes too, remember?" I started to smile. This was really too good to be true.

"Will I have to work parties?"

Alice's laugh was like music. "No, we don't do that here. But you will have to take your turn in the kitchen, all the girls do. They've worked out a schedule and will just fit you in where the last girl left off."

"How many girls work here?"

"There are five now, and we just lost one. I like to have six here at all times."

I was impressed. "I didn't think a house this size needed six maids."

Alice looked confused for a minute, then smiled again. "Oh no, honey! They're not maids. I thought David told you. I'm looking for a _girl_. _A working girl._ " When my brow didn't unfurl Alice stopped smiling. "Rose, I'm offering you a job as a prostitute."

Chapter 28

It took me a week to stop fuming. How could David think I'd want a job as a whore??? But the more I thought about that last year, the more I realized that's exactly what I was. How could I have let this happen? How could I have mistaken David's attention for something other than a quick lay? That week saw my emotions run from anger to sadness, and back to anger. For the first time since last fall I refused to talk to David when he called to set up a meeting.

By the middle of the second week Martha stopped trying to figure out what was wrong. She jokingly told me to keep it up, because when I was upset I cleaned with a vengeance, and the house had never been cleaner. I was working so furiously that the other girls were without work of their own because I had done that too. By day I cleaned and by night I lay alone in bed and wept.

Alice told me that David thought I was wonderful. Wonderful? He was my first. Maybe I was foolish enough to fall in love with him instead of seeing him for what he was; a sleveen looking for a good time and nothing more. I knew nothing about his 'real' life, other than what I invented in my daydreams. Maybe he was married with a nagging wife and four kids? Maybe he hated being a lawyer and wanted to be a musician – how would I know? All of our pillow talk had simply revolved around planning our next tryst. And I hadn't seen it.

But the more I thought about it, the more empowered it made me feel. And I knew that was wrong, and that the church would excommunicate me for even thinking such things – but what of Mary Magdelene? Wasn't she supposed to have been Jesus' mistress? The money David was giving me had gone a long way to helping my brothers take care of each other, and all they knew was that I was making a good living in the city.

Then the anger went away, and I made a choice. I decided to become a prostitute.

Chapter 29

Alice was delighted to see me on her doorstep the next month. I had worked out my notice, telling Martha that I was taking a position in another house, but giving away no more information than that – and it was the truth, sort of.

Alice took me back up to the top flat, to that same room David and I had been in. She talked about the basics: hygiene, appointments and time off. My salary, including clothing allowance, was going to be nearly triple what I was making for the Bowrings. Later on that first evening, Alice introduced me to the other girls.

Beth was the one that I took to instantly. She was very small town, like me, and was quick to smile and laugh. She had deep ebony hair and skin that reminded me of pearls. Her hands were dainty, and looked like she should be a piano player somewhere.

Daisy was next. She was tall and lanky and I thought she looked like an athlete. She gave me a friendly wave and went back to washing the dishes.

Bridget was the blonde, and she looked like she'd come right out of the moving pictures. She oozed Hollywood, and that was even more evident when I noticed that she was carrying a movie magazine that looked very well-worn.

Amelia was next, and she was pleasantly plump, with chestnut hair and matching eyes. Alice told me that Amelia was a witch – she could fix any and all ailments. We laughed over the title, but I could tell that Alice was serious and Amelia had some sort of gift.

Finally there was Cecilia, and she seemed to be older than the others, closer to Alice in age. She had red hair too, but it was more of a strawberry blonde. She told me that she'd been with Alice since before the Depression, and I was afraid to imagine how old those two really were. But Cecilia was just as friendly as everyone else, and told me that she had quite a library if I wanted to borrow anything. I knew that we'd all be best friends in no time, once I got used to my new surroundings.

I sat with my new house-mates at the kitchen table and chatted. There were no customers on Sunday nights, so we had all evening to get to know each other. By the time I made it back to my little room, I felt like I could easily get used to life in a house full of women – something that I'd never experienced. I had been expecting cattiness, but from what I'd seen in the homey kitchen, these girls were like a family, and they were welcoming me with open arms.

**********************************************************************

The work certainly wasn't difficult; say the right things, purr encouragement to the more shy of the men, accommodate the regulars and try to establish a customer base. I quickly came to learn which men liked what, and before long I had my own clients. My booking calendar filled up quickly, and Alice ran a professional business. She handled the money, she treated the men right and didn't make them feel bad for coming to our establishment, and she made our little place something more than a traditional whorehouse. It was a different experience for everyone and that's why it flourished. We decided to buy the house together, so all the girls had equal shares in it, with Alice acting as our manager. We enjoyed prosperity unlike most women in St. John's (as well as a lot of men).

There were only two rules: don't fall in love, and don't get caught. I did both within the first year.

Chapter 30

"You're not going to keep it." Alice looked at me with a mixture of contempt and confusion in her dark eyes. I had always wanted eyes as dark and as smoky as hers. To me, they were mysterious and brooding. Today, however, there was absolutely no mystery in them.

I looked into her face. We were sitting in my bedroom, each of us perched carefully on the edge of my bed. The brass footboard was close enough for me to touch, and I grabbed it for support – mental and physical - as I turned my body slightly towards her. "Why not?" I asked simply. I wasn't being flippant with her. I just wanted an answer.

"You can't be stupid enough to think that keeping it would be acceptable, or that any of us would help you." Alice was speaking for the group, or at least she felt that she was.

"I'm not asking permission, or expecting anyone's help." I could feel the heat spreading up my neck and cheeks. Alice wasn't going to let this go. "Besides, we're not talking about a puppy."

"No, you're goddammed right we're not!" Alice's voice was raised slightly. She stood up to face me, hoping that her considerable height would help her win the argument. She had her hands on her hips, and her floral housedress was hiked up slightly from her pushing on her sides. I could almost see the tops of her stockings and her garters. Her long legs brought her lots of attention from the men, and she knew it. With women, however, Alice couldn't use her looks to get her way.

I tried to think fast. "It would be different if it wasn't his," I felt the tightness in my throat that meant the tears would soon follow.

Each girl had her favourite, and Luke was mine. He had been seeing me for about a year, whenever he could get away from the demands of his job. From the first time we'd met, there was a special connection. I loved the way his wavy red hair curled when it rained, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Now, I had a chance to have a piece of him with me forever, and Alice wanted to take it away from me. Surely I wasn't the only girl to find herself in the family way after falling in love with a priest. Priests were often our first confidants, and many a schoolgirl crush was wasted on a small town member of the cloth.

"There are ways of getting rid of it now, but we can't wait too long," Alice continued to lecture me, as if I hadn't spoken at all. "In fact, I could probably take care of it myself, although we do have a doctor that handles this sort of thing for us."

I was starting to panic. Alice wasn't going to bend. I smoothed out the quilt where she had been sitting. I had made it the previous winter out of scraps from the Woolworths bin. I loved the warmth of the colours and how the plaids reminded me of home.

"Should I get a hanger and candle?" she asked brightly, turning to stride out of my room.

*********************************************************************************

But she didn't win. Eventually she settled down, and I'm sure that Beth had worked some magic on her, because she was the calming force amongst us. By the time I was showing, Alice had become one of my greatest supporters.

I was surprised by the number of men who wanted me then, even though I was pregnant. Looking back on it, I suppose they were relieved that since I was caught already, they couldn't possibly father a child with me, and that made me safe. But then again, there were a few that really had a thing for pregnant women. And I _loved_ being pregnant – I remember that vividly. Until I got pregnant I had never been truly comfortable in my skin, but that changed almost overnight.

I never felt more like a woman, or more powerful, than I had when I was pregnant. As I felt Mary growing inside me, I grew into a confident woman who knew her place in the world. I knew what I was, and enjoyed it. I liked when men looked at me and enjoyed it when they touched me. Sometimes I felt it was wrong to take money for doing something that came so naturally to me. I loved the fact that my average bustline blossomed. I was buxom, and secretly hoped that I'd keep my new breasts after the baby came. Silly and immature, but my living was determined by how I pleased men, and the men more than appreciated my newest assets.

I worked until I was almost nine months along, then I started to get uncomfortable. I did smaller jobs as necessary – oral sex for some of my regulars who wouldn't see other girls mostly. The summer was promising to be hot and dry, and I was getting big and uncomfortable. Mike, one of my regulars since the beginning, sat on the edge of my bed during his weekly visit. He rubbed my back, kneading his fist into the lower part. I moaned. "Don't stop, Mike." He had thought he was hurting me, but he was relieving the pressure of my ever-growing baby on the nerves running down my back. He didn't want to have sex that night, because he didn't want me to be more uncomfortable. It wasn't your typical whorehouse, I can tell you. We cared about them, and they cared about us. I insisted that we 'take care of business' anyway, and made sure that he didn't see my discomfort. Towards the end of my pregnancy, I was doing less of this, and more of the housekeeping. Mike was probably my last customer before Mary was born. When he was getting dressed, he laid an extra five dollars on the nightstand – buy something for the baby, he'd said.

Luke had never come back after the ice storm – the night I had gotten pregnant - and I never knew why. As my pregnancy was drawing to its inevitable close, I spent more and more time wondering why he had stopped coming to see me. Had I done something wrong? Had he been found out? A couple of times I had even made the walk across town to see him, but had changed my mind short of confronting him. Once I even went into a confessional on a Saturday afternoon, in an attempt to tell him about the baby from behind the protective partition. It wasn't him on the other side. The voice was too nasal sounding to be his smooth baritone, so I made up some perfunctory sins, received my penance, and left. I had almost asked for Father Luke, but once more, didn't have the courage.

As I had walked back home after my failed confession that early summer day, I tried to blame my tears on the baby. I had been told that I'd be more emotional, and was using this as my excuse. I watched the families as I walked: the mothers hanging clothes on weighted-down lines in the yard and propping them up with sticks so the clothes wouldn't drag on the ground, kids playing on front stoops, dogs sniffing the sidewalks. Fathers were sitting on chairs by the front doors, enjoying the warmth of the day, and relieved not to be working. Everywhere there was laughter and optimism because people were throwing off the stench of a long, dark winter and non-existent spring and making ready for an all too brief summer.

As I rounded the corner of Prescott Street a little boy of about four darted in front of me, chasing a tin can. Totally caught off guard, I staggered a bit. He looked up at me, startled by my reaction. In the distance I heard his mother yell at him to be more careful. I recovered quickly and, noticing his quivering lip, I smiled down at him and winked. "That's okay little man," I whispered, "I wasn't paying attention to where I was going." He quickly wiped his eyes with a grubby little hand, kicked the can back the other way, and was gone. I continued on my way without incident.

Walking had become therapeutic for me by that point. I'd spend my days tending house, and stroll away my lonely evenings. We had so little rain that summer that everything was dry and dusty. Even the weeds poking through the cracks of the sidewalks were half-hearted in their efforts to survive. I began to walk the same route each day, and eventually came to recognize the people I saw. The kids would wave at me, and some would shyly offer me wilted daisies or piss-the-beds. I'd take each shriveled bouquet with a smile, and offer them some of the candy I'd begun to carry with me.

The mothers would tsk at me and shake their heads, but the smiles they tried to hide told another story. I even began chatting with some of them, just passing the time of day. One of the women, Mary, had a brood of thirteen children and a perpetually drunk husband. She always looked disheveled and I understood why. On one particularly close evening, she was leaning against her front door, wiping the sweat from her brow and pushing the frizzy tendrils from her face.

"Too hot for you today Mary?" I offered, with a smile and a Bullseye candy.

"Jesus Rose, how can you stand walking around in this heat, so close to being sick?" Being sick was what some of the women called giving birth. They thought it was inappropriate to actually use words like birth and pregnant.

I laughed. "Nah, I'm used to heat. And besides, it's not nearly so hot as it was this morning. These evening walks are pretty cool." She shook her head at me.

"How much longer, do you figure?" She nodded at my belly, which I was cradling in my hands to support the weight.

I shrugged, and she looked me up and down. "I give you about a week – no more than that. I should know." She laughed. And she was right. It was only five nights later that I went into labour. One of the reasons I had named my daughter Mary was for that woman, because she always stopped what she was doing to talk to me, when I knew she didn't really have the time for small talk. She was my only friend in St John's who wasn't a whore.

Chapter 31

The night that Mary was born was a beautiful summer evening. I had not been feeling the best for a few days, and it was all I could do to keep the kitchen tidy. Since becoming obviously pregnant, I had started to cut down on my regular work, and the girls and I had agreed that I would keep house. So, on that sticky August evening I washed the dishes as quickly as I could. My housedress was clinging to me and sweat was dripping between my swollen breasts. I felt full and heavy. All I wanted to do was go to sleep, so I told Beth that I was going to lie down.

It was close to eight thirty when the pains began. I tried so hard to be quiet, so as not to disturb the other girls and their customers. But the summer had been so humid, even the whims of men were slow. By the time Beth realized what was happening, I was well on my way to becoming a mother. She sat with me and held my hands. Each time a contraction gripped my middle and made me thrash around in my bed, she looked into my eyes and became the calming force that I needed. I could focus on her smile and could see the encouragement in her eyes. When the pains were at their worst, Beth leaned in and placed her forehead against mine. I could feel her hot breath, and her face was so close that I could feel the breeze of her eyelashes with each blink. Between the pains, she laid a cool cloth on my forehead and crooned soothing nothings to me, much like a lover would. When it came time to push, she positioned herself so that I could push my feet against her shoulders. Beth was my saviour that night. She never shushed me when the pain became too overwhelming not to swear. She never complained about having to clean up my bloody sheets. She was the one who delivered my baby in the small hours of that August night.

I will never forget, as long as I live, how it felt when Beth passed me that tiny, wailing bundle. She was wrapped in a striped flannel sheet, and was absolutely perfect. The other girls waited outside until it was over, but they all rushed in once they heard the little cry. Tears flowed, hugs were exchanged and everyone had a turn cooing over what was soon to become "our" baby. I think that was the turning point in our house. It became our "home", and we were on our way to becoming more than just a group of friends or co-workers.

Mary was a delightful infant. She slept and fed well, and even Alice was coming around to having her in the house. Within a month I was back to work, and Mary had her own room, so none of the men would interrupt her naps, and she wouldn't interrupt their...appointments. I'm not even sure how many of the men knew that there was a baby in the house.

When she was six weeks old, I decided that it was time to have Mary baptized, because it was what was expected. You had a baby, and then you got it baptized. So, Beth and I made plans to go to church. I thought it only fitting that she receive her name at St. Patrick's, under the watchful eye of Father Luke.

The last Sunday in September, Beth, Alice, Esther, Bridget, Amelia, Louisa and I trotted off to Patrick Street, with baby Mary in her carriage. It was one of those spectacular days where summer is just kissing autumn, not too hot or cold, but sunny and bright.

When we walked into the vestibule I looked towards the altar and saw Luke extinguishing candles. We all processed up the aisle towards him, and I smiled my sideways grin. I knew that he was surprised, and I knew that bringing the baby here had been the right choice. He needed to know that she existed, and that she was his. His auburn hair was clipped closer than it had been last winter, probably because of the recent heat of the summer, and the freckles splayed across his nose were darker than before. His eyes met mine, and as I adjusted to the dim interior, I registered the shock on his face.

We all stood together at the altar, looking at each other. Luke stared at us, the collection of women in his church, but was afraid to meet our eyes. I wondered if Alice recognized him now – she had been so drawn to him in our house all those months ago. She looked distracted at the very thought of having to be in a church at all, so I guessed that she hadn't put it all together.

Beth, on the other hand, knew as soon as she saw me smile. Her eyes widened, but she didn't say a word. I nodded slightly, to let her know that I had seen her reaction, and that she was correct. Personally, I was glad that I had chosen to wear my navy wrap dress with the tiny white polka dots. My crinoline wasn't too full, just plump enough to make me look respectable, and the lace trim peeked out from underneath, as a tasteful suggestion, and nothing more. This dress made my figure look good as well, and I was vain enough to care about that. I wore a skull cap with a net and flower on top as well, rather than the kerchiefs most of the women in town wore to cover their heads in church. I was pleased with how I looked, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I wanted Luke to notice.

Father Luke went to get his robes and baptism book, and when he returned, he brought Father O'Connell, the senior priest of the parish. Father O'Connell was an older priest, with snowy hair and a thick brogue. He had brought along the church register, to record the baptism.

Luke prayed over Mary, and the rite of baptism began in earnest. I wasn't sure how to gauge his reaction, he looked at the book more than the baby. When he did look at the child, his child, his eyes filled with sadness.

He cleared his throat. "I baptize thee...Mary Cecilia Elizabeth Ryan." He didn't even blink at Mary having my last name. He knew that she could never have his. After the ceremony, Luke pulled me aside by the arm, gently, and asked if he could speak to me alone. I nodded to the girls to go ahead with Mary, and they were clucking and fussing over her, like the brood of hens they were becoming. I watched them tuck her into the carriage, wrap her in her newly crocheted blanket that Daisy had given her. They left the church, but I knew that they would wait for me on the steps. Father O'Connell was at the far end of the church, writing in the register. I turned to face Luke. The tears in his eyes took my breath away, I hadn't expected them. I expected anger, or even resentment, but had instead broken his heart. I was not prepared for that.

"Luke, I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. I tried. I really did. But you never came back to see me after that ice storm. That's when it happened. The girls have taken really good care of us, and we're doing fine. I don't need or expect anything from you, but you can see her whenever you want." I almost added, _and you could see me too_ , but didn't.

He put a hand on each of my shoulders, and I thought that he was going to hug me. Maybe he would have, except it was at that moment that Father O'Connell looked up from his register and cleared his throat. "I need you to sign the register, please."

I nodded, and Luke and I made our way back up the aisle towards the older man. The irony of walking up the aisle with Luke wasn't wasted on me either. Briefly, I let my mind wander along that possibility.

I imagined being dressed in a lacy ivory dress. It would have a fitted bodice and a full skirt that came to mid calf. The boat-neck would have a scalloped trim, and I would have a single strand of pearls to wear, as creamy in colour as the moon in the late summer sky. I would wear a veil that dusted my elbows, and would carry a bouquet of roses, my namesake. And Luke would wear a new navy suit, with maybe a small stripe in it, and a black tie. His tie clip would match my necklace, so that the world would know we were a couple. He would look at me in a way that made my insides quiver. He would look at me with a longing that only comes from a man who had found his soulmate. And we would be together.

But that was not my reality. It was a short walk to meet the elder priest, and although he didn't comment on our obvious awkwardness, I knew that he saw it. Up close, his eyes weren't as kind as I had imagined they would be. There was a hardness there that I hadn't expected. He was writing hurriedly in the register, entering names and dates of marriages, births and deaths. He flipped to the last entry, which was my daughter's.

"I just need some more information to complete the register," he began. "Address?"

I gave him our address, and he didn't react. Just wrote it in the appropriate column. "Father's name?" He didn't raise his eyes from the book.

Helplessly, I looked at Luke as I began to speak, but he cut me off. "Brendan," Luke spoke firmly, "the child has no father."

I should have been prepared for it, but I wasn't. The tears were streaming down my cheeks, but I could see the burning flush of Luke's cheeks through them. I could also see the register, where the elder priest had written, next to my sweet Mary's name, the unmistakable label: bastard.

I couldn't get out of that damn church fast enough. I spun around and headed towards the heavy doors at the back of the church. I heard Luke following me, his footfalls fast on the thick carpet, but I refused to stop. Only when I got to the doors themselves, did I stop for a second.

Luke was behind me, pleading with me to understand. He was whispering, so that his superior wouldn't hear the echoes of his voice. All he would hear instead, was my sobs. Luke begged me to listen, but I turned away. Instead, I pushed open the doors and squinted as I headed outside to meet my real family, and bring my daughter home. We had accomplished what we set out to do – give Mary her name, and now it was time to go back to the business of living. I knew that Luke couldn't be a part of that, but still felt entitled to grieve for the loss of the perfect life I had wanted with him.

In the harsh sunlight, Alice was the first to speak. "Well, that's done. Let's go home and get some lunch." She was all business, and didn't even bother to comment on my tears, or Luke's standing in the threshold of the church, watching us leave. Bridget rubbed my back gently, which only made me cry harder. Amelia handed me a hankerchief, and I wiped my eyes and nose. With a determined sniffle, I smiled weakly at the girls, peeked in the carriage at Mary, who was peaceful and oblivious to her label, and we headed down the steps of that horrid church and began our life as the most untraditional family in St. John's.

Part Three

Chapter 32

By the time I had finished telling Hannah and her father my story, the tears had long stopped flowing. And I realized for the first time that I had told anyone. Never had I taken such a risk before, and never had it mattered so much what the outcome was to be. The old fear grips me again; how could I have told them this, knowing that it could drive them away in the same way it had driven away my own daughter? How would I survive losing the only people left in my life who meant something, having just found them? What would they think of me? I had never regretted or been particularly ashamed of the choices I had made in my life until now. The money had been good enough to take care of my brothers and provide for Mary, and she had had a wonderful, albeit unusual upbringing, surrounded by women who loved her and would have done anything for her. And the first chance she got, she ran away from us all, embarrassed by what we were. I had never felt that shame, until now.

John had been looking at his hands the whole time. Hannah had been staring at me, pale and silent. I had run out of words, and had to let my family decide my fate. Finally, after what felt like an eternity in purgatory, John stands up and looks hard at me. I stand to face him, only reaching his shoulder, feeling small and frail.

"Rose," is all he can manage.

I am shaking my head, knowing what is going to come next. I turn around and gather up my sweater and purse. When I turn around again, I meet Hannah's gaze, and notice the tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's okay honey," I murmur, kissing the top of her head, "I understand. This is why I didn't want you to know. I was being selfish. Now that you know, I will leave and not bother you all again." Hannah's shoulders are shaking.

But when I turn and start towards the door, John is blocking my exit. So much for quick and neat; I had written off the idea of this being painless a long time ago. I try going around him.

Without warning I find myself wrapped in his arms, and he is kissing the top of my head, just as I had done with Hannah moments before. "What do you think this changes, exactly?" His voice is gruff, and I hear the effort he's exerting not to cry. When my teary eyes meet his, I can no longer control the emotions. "We love you Rosey, and nothing is going to change that. Ever. Get used to it." We are all crying and hugging by this point. I hear the room door click shut and realize we must be making a racket and one of the nurses feels the need to check on us.

We stand like that for a while, and I let myself be held for the first time in a long time. I can't even remember being held by someone who loves me like John, Hannah and Josh do; but the girls I worked and lived with come close. They were my first family and these people are my second. I feel truly blessed to have them know who I really am, and love me anyway.

Eventually John and I return to our vigil chairs. Hannah appears to be comfortable, and the tube feeding into her arm is the only indication that we're in a hospital and not just relaxing around the house. The nurses come and go, monitoring Hannah's progress, and we chat casually until the time comes to pick up Josh from school. John agrees to bring him over for a quick visit, as long as Hannah is feeling up to it, which she is. John offers me a ride home on his way, but I protest because I don't want to leave Hannah alone for a minute.

'Go ahead, Nan, I'll be fine. Dad and Josh will be back here in a half an hour. You get some rest." She sounds very much like a mother already, and I smile warmly at the thought.

"Alright, but I'll be back after I get cleaned up."

"Eat something too!"

I laugh, kiss her forehead, which is a little warm, pinch her cheek and say, "Yes mom." More laughter. The relief I'm feeling is unlike anything that I could have imagined. Now they know and everything will be fine.

Chapter 33

I get home and find our house chilly and empty. It's funny how a few months ago I never would have noticed the silence that greets me, or feel its presence so acutely. Now all of that is different, and I spend my days thinking of the things we will need once the baby – my granddaughter – comes home. There are swings, gates, cribs and cradles... So many things to consider, so many more choices.

Deciding to treat my creaky old bones, I draw a lavender bubble bath and dim the lights. The old claw foot tub welcomes me as I let the soapy, springtime scented water caress me. It's only now that I realize just how stiff I've become since putting in those long hours at the hospital, not that I would have done anything differently. I let the bubbles creep to my chin and close my eyes, drifting in that delicious half asleep – half awake state where I'm aware of my surroundings but not much else.

By the time the bath cools, my fingers are shriveled and pruney. I towel off and wrap myself in the thick terry robe that the kids gave me for my birthday. As I wipe the steam off the mirror over the sink, I'm struck by the contrast in my hands and my face. The shriveling effect of the water will disappear, but for the first time I notice that I'm still relatively young looking. My face doesn't show the same wear as some of the other women my age; maybe a product of them working outside and me not? My nails are still manicured and I never leave the house without my lipstick. My age has been the source of some speculation for the shopkeepers I encounter regularly, and I like to keep them guessing.

"Not too bad for an old broad," I whisper to my hazy reflection in the still steamy mirror. Mirror-Rose smiles back and winks. "We've got it pretty good, I think."

Downstairs I boil the kettle and find my favourite china mug again. Within minutes I am sitting in the living room, tea in hand, flicking aimlessly through the television channels, wondering how Hannah is doing. I leave the evening news on to see if there's anything of interest, but can't seem to make myself focus on what's being said. The remote slides from my fingertips and slips into my lap. The half drunk tea is cooling on the coffee table. I'm not sure how long I sit like this, or how long it takes for my exhaustion to find me again, but it isn't long at all. Soon my breath is slow and even, and my eyelids are too heavy to keep open.

When I feel the weight of the quilt on my chest, I startle awake. "Shit Rosey, I didn't mean to wake you. Just wanted to cover you up. You've had quite the couple of days." John is standing over me, blocking out the glow of the television set in the otherwise dark room.

"What time is it? I should get ready to head back..."

"Nah, not tonight. She's resting comfortably and the nurse says that Hannah will get more rest if we're not around. Keeping her stress down is best for them both, and she'll feel like she has to talk to us if we're there. We can go back in the morning. I'm taking a few days off work." I have mixed feelings about this; I want to see Hannah for myself to make sure that she's okay, but I know that John is right and Hannah's need to appear strong will keep her from resting, and that's what she needs most of all right now. I don't move from my cocoon, but tell John to make himself a snack if he wants, and settle in for a break.

"I have to pick Josh up from hockey in an hour, but sure, I'd love a snack." John strolls off to the kitchen, and I hear him rummaging through the fridge. The clinking bottles and gentle slam of the cupboards tell me that he's making himself a sandwich. He appears minutes later with a thick-cut sandwich made from leftover chicken.

"Glad you're eating that," I smile at him. "I hate to see food go to waste."

"How could I not eat it, Rosey? It's delicious." I find myself blushing at his blatant flattery. He's a charmer, that one! I'm a little more alert now, so we chat about Josh and his school, how things are going at John's work, and every Newfoundlander's favourite topic – the weather. Neither of us speaks of Hannah or Mary, even though both of us feel the specter of their presence lurking in the room. This is the room where Mary sat on the floor and played dolls, she knelt at this very coffee table and drank milk from china cups because Lousia would let her pretend to be a grown up, and this is the couch where she sat and cried at age eleven after her first 'boyfriend' teased her in front of their class. This is the same room that she stormed out of at age eighteen, and has never set foot in again, despite many invitations. This is the room where I came to know my granddaughter and her story, and this is where I felt my great-grandchild make her presence known under a teenage girl's stretched belly. The room is full of happiness and sadness, but it mostly echoes with love. Even with the heartache it has seen over the years, tenderness and welcome still permeate the air. It makes me feel warm and cozy. And content. I feel relieved that John and Hannah know my story and don't think any less of me. I just wish Mary could feel the same.

John finishes his sandwich and drinks a glass of milk, gulping quickly, much like Josh. I see the resemblance more each day. He lays the glass on top of the plate, careful not to spill any crumbs onto the rug.

"Rose?" I'm shocked by how formal my name sounds. He always calls me Rosey. A small lump rises in my throat. This is it. He hasn't accepted it after all, and didn't want to say anything in front of Hannah to upset her more.

"Can Josh and I stay here for a few days with you?"

Chapter 34

"Oh John," I breathe, "Are things really that bad at home?"

"Yes."

I purse my lips together tightly and think that when she acted like a spoiled child years ago, she would end up over my knee, and get her arse reddened. It didn't happen often, and I usually felt worse than she did by the end, but I still can't help but wonder how my child turned into this angry woman who was shutting her husband and children out.

"How is she with Josh?"

John shrugs. "The same as the rest of us, Rosey. It's like he's not even there, or if she does acknowledge him it's to yell about something trivial. All of the joy disappears from his eyes when we're there, and I hate that." I can hear the lump in John's throat. I believe that it's taking everything in him to swallow his pride and tell me this. It can't be easy to admit to the end of a crumbling marriage, even if the rest of the world can see it coming.

"You and Josh are more than welcome. You know I'd love to have you both, I just wish it were under different circumstances. You know that." John nods, his sandwich all but forgotten. "Go home, pack some things with Josh and come on back here tonight. We'll all settle in and you and I can go back to the hospital tomorrow morning when Josh goes to school. How does that sound?"

"Heavenly Rose. Just heavenly." And John looks like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders for the briefest of time.

My tea is cold and John's snack is not eaten, but it's time to go get Josh. "We'll be back in about two hours, if that's okay. I want to make sure that Josh has everything that he needs. Mary is working tonight, so that'll give us time to do this right." I smile sadly, wondering how long it's taken John to admit that he needs to leave, and how much time he's put into this plan of action.

"I'll be waiting." I'm trying to sound upbeat, but the strain of the last few days is starting to show. However feeble my attempt, John obviously appreciates it. He kisses my forehead and heads out the door. It's less than two hours later when I hear two sets of footsteps on the porch and heavy bags being dropped. I unwrap myself from the quilt, realizing that I must have slept while John was gone, and hurry to open the door for them both.

Josh looks a little more reserved than usual, but that's to be expected. He has his school bag slung over one shoulder, a suitcase at his feet and a laptop bag tucked under his arm. I take the laptop bag from where it's squeezed between his arm and body and he relaxes. "Thanks Nan. I was afraid I was going to drop that."

"C'mon in," I smile, "You can have the room next to Hannah's if you want."

"Cool!" He bounds up the stairs, thrilled with his room allocation.

"Couch is fine for me," John begins.

I look at him with a horrified expression. "Absolutely not! You can have either of the two rooms on the second floor with me. Mine is the one closest to the bathroom. I thought that the children would enjoy being together on the third flat, and once Hannah and the baby come home..." My voice trails off into the uncertainty of that statement. There is no guarantee that that is going to happen, but I must think positively.

"Rose, "John's voice is barely a whisper. "You are an angel. You couldn't have come into our lives at a better time." Before the tears spill from both of us, I push him towards the stairs, telling him to pick the room he likes best. I bustle off to the kitchen to make Josh a bedtime snack, still glowing from the nice things that John has said about me.

Josh thumps down the two sets of stairs and finds me in the kitchen. I've cut off two thick slabs of homemade bread and toasted them both to a light crispness. "Smells good Nan!" Josh smiles shyly, "Is that for me?" I nod and laugh, pushing the plate towards him. "Can I have peanut butter on it?"

"Please." John is the full of the doorway. "What happened to your manners, young man?" John's voice is full of mock-shame.

"Sorry. PLEASE," Josh's over-emphasis makes both John and I laugh, so all pretense of anger is gone. We all sit together in the kitchen while Josh eats his toast. As I sit looking at them both I wonder what John has said to Josh about coming here tonight and how he reacted. He's a smart kid and certainly has to be aware of what's been going on at home. He is eating happily, downing a large glass of milk as well, and is oblivious to my staring at him.

Finally he finishes and John sends him upstairs to unpack and do some homework. He puts his glass and plate in the sink and takes the stairs two at a time. I hear the thud of his suitcase on the floor and the gentle click of the bedroom door. I ask John if he wants to get himself settled as well. I know that he must be exhausted, and will likely crave some privacy to process everything that's happening. He nods gratefully, hugs me again, and heads up one flight of stairs. I busy myself in the kitchen, giving them both some space.

Eventually I hear muffled voices, and realize that John and Josh are talking. I don't want to eavesdrop, but it's difficult not to overhear. The sadness in John's voice is heartbreaking, and I can hear the anger in Josh's. Mistakenly, I think that it is towards John, Hannah and me. After a few minutes, I realize that it's all directed towards Mary.

I hear him say, "Well, if she wants to be mad and alone, she's getting her wish. I don't care if you ever go back, but I'm staying here with Nan!" I can't make out what John says to him next, but when I finally head up to my room to call it a night, I see John sitting on the end of the bed in the next room, his head in his hands.

"Did it go okay?" I ask him this both to alert him to my presence and to let him know that he can talk to me about Mary and the kids. He looks up and I see the tears. He's come close before, but this is the first time that I've actually seen John cry. I sit beside him on his bed, hold his hand, and don't say a word. Sometimes not saying anything is the best conversation.

Eventually John sniffles a little and shifts his weight on the bed. I take this as my cue to leave. With a reassuring pat on the shoulder I take my leave of him, taking comfort in the fact that I am in the room next door if he needs me, and Josh is only one floor above us.

When I finally haul my flannel nightgown over my head and crawl into bed with a novel to distract me, I hear the sound of a broken man through the wall. No book is distraction enough for that.

Chapter 35

By the time I'm up in the morning I hear John and Josh bustling around in the kitchen. The clattering of plates and John's shushing Josh makes me smile. I think it's sweet that they're trying so hard to be quiet for me. I stand, unnoticed, in the doorway for a moment or two while they're caught up in their morning routine. By the time they do notice me standing here, I can't even try to erase the smile that's dancing on my lips. It feels so good to have a house full of sounds and energy in the morning.

John pours me a steaming mug of tea and flips an egg in the pan. The sizzle drowns out the announcer on the radio, who seems content to drone on about Sheila's Brush. Josh swipes a piece of bacon from the plate, narrowly missing getting his hand swatted by his father. They certainly seem to be in a better mood than last night. A fresh day often gives a fresh perspective, I muse, and that's definitely the case here this morning.

We eat in an amicable silence. John tells us that he's called the hospital and Hannah and the baby are holding their own, and the doctors are optimistic. She's twenty-six weeks pregnant today, and the goal has become keeping the baby inside for as long as possible. We agree to go see her this morning. Josh moans about having to go to school, but his father is adamant. "You're just looking for an excuse not to go. I can't imagine you sitting at your sister's bedside all day in a hospital full of screaming babies. Nice try though." When he sees the disappointed look on the boy's face, he amends his little speech. "I'll take you to see her this afternoon though. After school. You have a science test today."

I catch Josh's grin as he lowers his head. I know that he and Hannah are close, and the request to visit her is only partly about missing the test. I'm certain that he wants to tell her that we're all going to be living together for a while. I think that John and I should wait, so he can tell her the news himself. When I mention this to John after Josh leaves for school, he smiles and agrees easily. "I think it'll mean more coming from him anyway, and he's likely to put it I such a way that it won't stress Hannah at all." I know that John's right, and that Josh will spin this away from the breaking up of a family into something wonderful; exactly the way that I see it.

John and I take turns in the bathroom, having to familiarize ourselves with a new routine. While waiting our turns we both watch the most awful morning talk show – full of fake hosts and cheesy guests. If this is what television is coming to, I vow that John will have to take me to the bookstore more often. Smiling at this, I think that I'll suggest this very thing to John, and that way we can get Hannah some books or magazines. She's going to be in the hospital for a few more days, then she's likely to be put on bedrest for a while and need something to take her mind off things.

And that's exactly what we do. John and I leave the house in the frosty sunshine and head to the bookstore. The smell of coffee welcomes us and we spend almost an hour getting lost in the stacks. I pick up a baby name book and a fashion magazine for Hannah, a graphic novel for Josh and a Harlequin for me. I find John sipping a coffee and reading a newspaper at a table and lay my purchases down next to his arm. I notice that he's got a book in a plastic bag as well. "Did you find something for yourself?" I ask kindly, hoping that he's coping well with all the changes in his life this week.

"I got a book for Hannah – some vampire thing that the girl with the eyebrow ring recommends. She says that all the teenagers are crazy about these books." I smile and shake my head.

"I'll never understand the fascination with the undead that this generation has," I laugh. "But if a girl with an eyebrow ring says it's true, then it must be." We both laugh at this, and John opens the bag to show me the contents.

"I also got this for me." I peer inside and see a book on getting over someone. "Rosey, I can't help but wonder how long ago it really ended. Hannah was just the catalyst." He doesn't add that _I_ was probably the bigger catalyst, but I know that I was indeed the proverbial straw. I put my hand on his arm and let him talk.

We sit here for another hour and John just talks. I listen and nod, but don't say very much at all. This is what he needs more than anything; to put a voice to all his feelings, and that's something that men don't come by easily, especially when there's often a woman standing by to tell them why they're wrong. John just needs to sort things out aloud, and I can be his sounding board. He's given me so much, it's the least that I can do.

He tells me about the early days with Mary; when they were dating and how she wanted to get married so badly. I nod sadly, remembering how I had heard in Bowrings that Mary had gotten married. She had run off (with John), gotten married and taken a sales job at the department store and I hadn't known. John tells me how hard she worked; putting herself through nursing school while he was getting his degree, and how they moved to Ontario after he graduated. He said that Mary told him her family had been killed in an accident, and he never thought to check, but always wondered if that was what made her so determined.

But what he thought of as determination was something different, he discovered. After the children were born she wasn't particularly nurturing, but John thought that this was some new approach to parenting, so he often deferred to her judgment. More and more, the kids would turn to him for comfort if they fell and hurt themselves, or even to talk at the end of the day. I knew that she hadn't been raised that way at all, so it hurt to hear how she treated Hannah and Josh. John continues to tell me how she didn't go to their concerts, and always seemed to be working, and how she'd stopped talking to him.

"But it was all so gradual, I didn't even notice." John's hand is cupping his chin. "How could I have let this happen?"

"Shhhh, John. This is not your fault. It takes two, you know, and it sounds like Mary did more than her fair share. More men than you would have walked away from it all years ago, but you stuck by her and the kids. And Josh and Hannah are all the better for it."

John looks grateful for my words, and I'm glad to have helped. A more traditional old lady might have spent years doling out advice, but this is new to me. I hope I'm doing it right. John finishes his coffee and we head to the hospital.

The ever-sweet John drops me off by the door before parking the car so I don't have to walk across the icy parking lot. The winds have picked up and I think back to the talk of an impending storm on the radio this morning. I hope that they're wrong and it's going to pass us by, but I don't hold out much hope. We've had a pretty mild winter, so we're probably due a nasty storm.

While I'm waiting for John inside the doors, I'm struck by the thought that Mary knows Hannah is in this hospital; has she ventured down a few floors from the ward she works on to check on the girl? I'm almost afraid to ask. I think that I will check with the desk when we get upstairs, but not tell John; he's got enough to worry about.

Five minutes later we're strolling down the corridor to Hannah's room, which is at the end of the hallway. The nurses nod and smile as we pass, so I take that as a good sign. I wonder if Hannah's been down for her tests this morning, or if they are waiting until this afternoon. Diane, a plump middle-aged nurse stops us a few doors down from the room.

John is instantly worried. I can see his whole body tensing up as if waiting for an impact. I hold my breath. "She's a trooper, that's for sure," Diane is smiling kindly. "She's been having a few pains, but nothing serious. We're doing her biophysical now so she's not in the room. I just didn't want you to be alarmed when she wasn't there."

"What sort of pains?" John is in protective parent mode now.

"Just some cramping. We're watching closely, and if they get worse it might signal pre-term labour. We're ready to give her something to stop it, but she's fine right now."

"How will you know the difference between cramps and labour?" This time it's my turn to be protective.

Diane smiles again, not at all put off by our questions. "There will be a change in the type of pain. I've talked to Hannah about it. Right now she's having cramps in her abdomen, and that could be something as simple as trapped gas or a change in her diet since she's been here. She's been drinking a lot of orange juice to stimulate the baby's movement, and that might be upsetting her stomach. We're not worried yet, and you shouldn't be either. We'll know if something changes."

I'm slightly reassured by all of this. I know that the staff on the maternity ward are wonderful, and have been extra kind to my granddaughter during this tough time. John seems relieved too, and heads to the room to wait for Hannah. I stop Diane before I follow him and ask if Mary has been down to see Hannah. She shakes her head sadly, and I can feel my blood boiling. How can Mary not care that her own daughter is scared, lying in a hospital bed, waiting to see if her baby is going to make it? I can't imagine how she got to be this way. Even when I was raging at her choice to leave our home, hurt when she didn't tell me of her marriage or children, I never once stopped caring. Every day I wondered if this was the day I would hear news of her, if this was the day she'd appear on the doorstep and all would be forgotten. It never happened, but I never stopped wondering or worrying. And now I can't understand how a woman who had been loved so much in childhood, who'd had an upbringing surrounded by caring women who treated her as their own, could turn her back on her husband and children.

"Thank you, Diane. If she does come down, or even ask about Hannah, would you mind letting me know please?" Diane nods and winks, then goes back to her work. I find John sitting in the hard chair beside Hannah's bed, staring out the window.

"What if she doesn't make it?" His voice is hoarse and whispery.

"Don't think like that. This baby's made it this far, she's a fighter."

"I meant Hannah."

I have no words. I've been trying not to think of this possibility at all. I can't let my mind go there. "She's tough, just like her grandmother," I offer weakly, not wanting John to know that I'm worrying about this too. "Every day she stays pregnant is a good day. Bet you never thought you'd hear that about your daughter." My attempt at humour only gets me a weak grin, but I decide that's better than nothing.

"Hello?" Hannah's wheelchair pushes open the door and we both turn towards her voice. She's pale, but smiling, and John and I smile in return. The nurse behind her is steering the chair towards the bed, so I shift and make room for her to pass.

"How was it today?" I address Hannah, but study the nurse's expression.

"Good. I lay on my left side and she kicked up a storm." Hannah's voice is excited, and it's the first time since this started that I hear the old Hannah shining through.

The nurse chimes in, "we counted ten strong kicks this morning, and the baby is about one and a half pounds."

"I'm having some cramps though." Hannah is suddenly serious again.

"We know honey, Diane told us that they're watching it all closely. Try not to worry." John's voice is soothing. I am delighted that these children had one parent to rely on all these years.

"Easier said than done Dad."

"I know babe. We're here for you." He rises and kisses her head, helping her into her bed again. "We brought you some books." Hannah claps like a little girl, and we give her our presents while the nurse backs out with the chair.

Hannah is all over the baby name book. She opens her night table drawer and pulls out a notebook and pencil. "I want to make a list," she announces. For the next two hours we all vote on names, relaxing and enjoying each other's company. By the time John has to meet Josh after school, we've got quite a list.

_Rose_ ("No way, and you know why," I tell her)

Isabelle

Beth

Lily

Emma

Rebecca

Ruby

Hillary

Emily

Sophia

Zoe

Chloe

Bridget

Madison

Maya

We're laughing and trying out the names like a couple of giggly girls when the boys get back. It's obvious that Hannah is relaxing, and I'm feeling better about her chances. The less stress for her means the better her odds.

When we start sharing the list with John and Josh, they're full of opinions of their own. By the end of the afternoon, the list is considerably shorter:

Maya

Bridget

Emma

_Rose (_ against my better judgment, but they're insistent)

Josh tells Hannah about his new living arrangements as her eyes widen. When I study her expression, it's relief and not sadness that I see, and this makes my heart break a little more for their life up to this point. I vow that from now on, neither of my grandchildren, my great-granddaughter, or my poor son-in-law will ever know a day without feeling loved or wanted.

The waning light through the closed blinds is our cue to call it a day, and as we're bundling up to head home, Nurse Diane appears with four dinner trays. "You folks aren't going anywhere this night," she informs us in her most brusque voice, "Sheila's Brush is here, and you're going to have to stay with us for this evening." When John pulls aside the blinds, we're all shocked to see the whiteout outside the window.

"Yes!" Josh squeals, "Snow day tomorrow!" We all laugh and help ourselves to a questionable tray of supper, thanking Diane for feeding us.

"I'll grab you some blankets later on, when rounds are over," she smiles and we settle in for our impromptu slumber party.

Chapter 36

The snow starts beating on the windows, alerting us to its fury around midnight. The boys and Hannah have been asleep for well over an hour, and I've been dozing off and on, listening contentedly to their even breathing and smiling to myself in the darkness. Every so often I will hear the muted cry of an infant in a room down the hall or the buzzing of the nurse's call, but other than that, it's a peaceful night.

I drift in and out of consciousness, dreaming snatches of dreams, each one picking up where the last left off. I dream about Mary as a baby, and our first few nights together as mother and daughter. Her long, slow blinks as she nursed herself to sleep as I caressed her forehead were endless, and I had never felt so content, or so complete.

I dreamed of the agony of Luke's refusal of her at the church, and the title "bastard" in the records. In my dream I pleaded with him to come home with us, to be a real family, and he turned his back on us. I woke from this one with a start, short of breath with tears on my cheeks.

Thankfully no one had stirred, so I settled in again, listening to the sleet and snow whirling together outside. It reminded me of that last night Luke and I had spent together, the night that Mary was conceived. It had been a night much like this one, only it was a beginning of winter storm, not the ending.

As always I had booked him into the last appointment of the evening, both for his discretion and for my satisfaction. I knew that I could linger with him since there would be no others waiting patiently in the parlour. When he opened the door to my room, I couldn't' help but catch my breath. He never wore his collar when he called on me, and that night he had dressed simply in a navy blue shirt and pants, with a grey sweater over top. The pieces of his hair that had crept out under his cap were curling with dampness, and the storm was starting but not too bad.

"Was it tough to get here tonight?"

"A little." His voice was deep and husky. I had broken the rules before with men, but never so much as I had with Luke. I let him kiss me, and I melted into his arms. With him, I got as much pleasure as I gave, and I allowed myself to feel and be fully aware of what I was doing. I surrendered to each sensation with him – it was unlike any of my other clients.

He had removed his sweater and I began unbuttoning his shirt, kissing my way down to his waist. I stood up again, teasing him, and slid my hands onto his shoulders and down his shirtsleeves, slipping them down his arms. When his shirt was an inky puddle on the floor, I unbuckled his belt and gently removed his trousers. He stood in the centre of my room, almost naked, and I smelled the clean smell of soap on his skin. He put his hands on my cheeks and pulled my face to his, kissing me, gently at first, then with more need.

I could feel him pressing against my hip, anxious to be in my bed, inside of me. I untied my silky robe and let fall to the hardwood, mingling with his shed garments. Luke inhaled sharply as I pressed my own naked flesh against his for the first time that night. He regained his composure and pushed me urgently towards the bed. We tumbled into the pile of sheets and blankets together, kissing, touching and laughing the secret laugh of lovers, of partners.

I don't remember feeling like that was the night I got pregnant, although now I know it was, but I do remember feeling more content that evening then I ever had before. It was a feeling I had never really known before; I had always been moderately happy, except in the last year at home with Mother, but this was different. I knew, at that moment, were I to die, I would have no regrets and it could be said that I passed away happily. I lay in his arms for hours that night, and we made love over and over – not had sex – there was a tenderness there on his part as well. I felt it with the gentle way he traced a line from my navel to each of my breasts, and I saw it in his eyes when his gaze dreamily met mine.

So I broke the rules. I let him kiss me, I let him stay, and I didn't use the proper clean up method, I was so caught up in the romance of the evening. After each customer we washed, of course, but at the end of the day we were required to sleep wearing a 'vinegar tampon' – a piece of vinegar-soaked cotton tied with a string and inserted inside us; to kill any sperm and infections. That night I forgot.

And the rest is history.

Chapter 37

We awake the next morning to the sound of metal on pavement; the plows are clearing the lot. The storm has passed. Hannah is sitting up in bed, getting her blood pressure taken amid a sea of pillows. Her cheeks are flushed in stark contrast to how they were yesterday, and I worry about her running a fever. The nurse is feeling her forehead and turns to her cart for a thermometer.

The beep interrupts the silence and the nurse looks at the readout. "Hannah, are you feeling okay? Anything new you'd like to tell me?" I hear a faint trace of concern, but it's not something that Hannah is likely to notice. The nurses always ask these questions, I am just catching a hint of worry from this woman's tone.

"No, not really. I feel a little warm, but maybe it's because I have an extra blanket on me. I don't have any pain or anything."

"Okay, well, that's good." The nurse is making notes on Hannah's chart. "You know the drill; if anything changes, you buzz us right away." Hannah nods. "Breakfast will be here soon."

"We'll head to the cafeteria for a while Hannah, so you can have your breakfast in peace." John smoothes her hair and kisses her forehead.

Josh wrinkles his nose, "And... you can get a shower." We all laugh, including the nurse, who is packing up her little trolley to leave. Hannah tosses a pillow at her little brother and sticks out her tongue. The three of us leave Hannah to her meal, and we have breakfast platters of rubbery eggs, chewy bacon and soggy toast in the cafeteria downstairs. The tea is strong and hot though, and I can feel it giving life to my achy bones once more. Feeling totally fortified by its warmth, I can face the day head on, run a few errands, and sit with Hannah some more. I tell John my plans, and he agrees that it's just what I need.

"We're not sure how long Hannah is going to be in here, so we can't stop living regular life either. You go and do what you need to do this morning – do you need a ride?" I shake my head. "I'll sit with her this morning with Josh, and then he and I will hit the video game store after lunch. Sound like a plan?"

Josh nods excitedly. I know that there's a new game of some sort that he's had his eye on, so this will make his day. No school, a new game, and a long weekend – what more could a twelve-year-old want?

After we finish our meal we head back to Hannah's room. I collect my coat and hat and tell her that I'll be back after lunch. Josh is telling her about the new game, which promises to have lots of violence, and she's pretending to be interested. She's a good big sister, I decide, smiling once more. John walks me to the door, then continues towards the nurse's station.

"The nurse was worried this morning," he says, under his breath. "What do you think is going on?"

"I don't know, but I was thinking the same thing. I can't shake this uneasiness." We stop at the desk to ask, and the friendly young nurse who'd monitored Hannah was sitting there, taking a phone call. We wait patiently for her to finish, and when she does she flips open Hannah's chart and scans it before speaking.

"She's running a slight fever this morning. We're going to take her temp every hour to make sure that it doesn't spike. She hasn't mentioned cramping since yesterday afternoon, so that's good. We're watching her extra closely this morning." John's brow is creasing with worry, and I start removing my coat, errands forgotten.

"No Rosey, you go. Take my cell phone, and if anything changes, I will call you immediately." John presses the tiny phone into my palm. I'm reluctant, but know that I need to do a few things before this afternoon. I nod half-heartedly, and promise to be back in a few hours.

As I stand in the lobby downstairs I wonder if I should take a taxi or get the bus. Someone opens the door and an icy blast of air hits me, and that's my decision made; I am not standing at the bus stop in this weather. I make my way carefully to one of the cabs parked by the curb. I give him the address, he smiles, clicks on the meter, and we're off.

As we turn off the lot I see Mary's hunched figure crossing the road, heading into work.

Chapter 38

"Rose, my love, we haven't seen you all week. He's been asking for you on his good days." That's Nicole, trumpeting my arrival at the nursing home. I smile at her, telling the middle-aged woman why I've been away for so long. I haven't missed a day here in four years, since I decided that reading to others was a lovely way to spend my time. It meant so much to the residents here, and gave me something to look forward to. These people and the staff here had been a family to me when I'd had no one else, and now that my life is so rich and full again, I had no plans to abandon them.

This home isn't just for the elderly. It provides a place to live for people who can't take care of themselves for whatever reason, and I have read to most of them on occasion. I usually sit in one of the many lounges, in a plump but faded armchair, and read a chapter or two from a novel, then sit and chat. Typically I come here three times a week, although that varies with the winter weather. This week, of course, Hannah has taken top priority.

When I finish telling Nicole what's been going on, she clucks sympathetically and offers to hang up my coat in the closet behind her desk. I pass it to her gratefully, pick up the book I'd left on the shelf by the lounge door and look inside. Today I will be reading to only one. The one who's been asking for me, and the one I really come to see.

I didn't know he was a resident when I started coming here. This was the home where Beth spent the last few months of her life, when I could no longer take care of her myself, and since we were the last two, we had agreed that a home was the best choice. When I saw how lovingly they treated her, right up until the end, I knew that I would have to give back. After she passed, I continued to come here, and since I can't do a whole lot physically, reading is what I choose to do. That, and talking.

My chair is waiting, as is my guest. His hair is snowy white and his eyes are dim. He is hunched over on the couch, leaning to the left slightly, hands clasped on his lap. His long, slow blinks tell me that he's either on the verge of napping, or just waking up.

"Hello my sweet," I shout, "How are you this morning?" I seldom expect an answer, but sometimes I get a look in my direction. That's how we know it's a good day. His eyes shift in my direction. "Nicole says you've been looking for me. I've been busy with family things, but I'm here today. Let's read for a while, okay?" Nothing. His gaze is once again fixed on the unknown, and I wonder how it feels to be trapped in one's own mind like that – does it bother him, or does he even know?

I pick up where I left off in the novel. I read whatever they have on hand sometimes, and this is a crime bestseller that another resident's son had left behind. It isn't my usual taste, but this isn't about me. I read a chapter in a loud voice, and Nicole brings me a glass of water. I thank her, and read another chapter while he appears to drift in an out of consciousness.

Eventually, my voice tired from strain, I close the book and move from my chair to sit beside him on the couch, so I won't have to shout. I smooth his hair, much like I would with a child, and look into his vacant eyes. I notice a small dribble of drool has escaped his parted lips and is snaking its way down his chin. I reach across him to the end table, grab a tissue from the box and wipe it away tenderly. His eyes shift towards me.

"You're welcome." I have these one-sided conversations so often that sometimes I forget that there's no other voice. I tell him about my week: the long hours at the hospital, about Josh and John moving in, and about seeing Mary across the parking lot this morning. I don't tell him how unconcerned she looked, like it was just another day at work, and she didn't have a scared teenager up on the fourth floor, wondering what her fate is to be. Thinking about it makes me angry again, and I quickly stifle it because the nurses here have told me that these people can sense moods, and they are easily affected. I don't want him to be upset because I am, so I quickly shift my thoughts to babies; healthy babies. I chatter on about the names that Hannah has picked, and how much I love smelling baby hair while they curl up on your chest.

Even this talk is making me sad, because I don't know for certain that I will have this experience, and the only other time I did was so long ago. I push these thoughts away too and focus on the more immediate, like what they're serving for lunch today, and whether or not he will like it.

I am mid-sentence, conscious that I am babbling a little, when the strangest thing of all happens. He meets my gaze, and for the first time, I can see that he is really 'seeing' me. I stop speaking and smile encouragingly.

"You're a fine wife. I'm lucky."

I brush away my sudden tear. "What?" My voice is barely a whisper. _He thinks I'm his wife?_ He doesn't say anything else, and the look is gone. His mind is back in that other universe that's been reserved for Alzheimer's. I stand, still in shock, and prepare to leave. I stoop over and give him a gentle kiss on the forehead, just as I always do, my lips pressing against the cool furrowed brow, lingering tenderly. I hate saying goodbye on the best of days, but on a day when he speaks...

My eyes are damp and I kiss him a second time, cupping the back of his head with my hand. "I love you, you know." I murmur into his hair. I hear Nicole approaching, and turn to tell her that he's spoken today, but she's holding my coat in her hands.

"Your jacket is ringing," she says, "I thought it might be important."

Chapter 39

It's John, wondering if I'd like a ride back to the hospital. Hannah's fever is still up, but she's been napping and sucking on popsicles. The staff have been taking her temperature every hour, but there's been no change. "Well, no change is almost good news," I offer. "It does mean that she's holding her own." I give John the address, and he says that he'll be here to get me in about 20 minutes.

I tell Nicole about the eye contact and the conversation – _he actually spoke! –_ And she is more than pleased. We both know that it doesn't mean anything is really going to change with him, just that it's been a really good day. He will succumb to the horrible disease eventually, but every so often he emerges from his shell to our reality for the briefest moment. These moments are getting rare, and this is the first time he's spoken in months. And since this is the first time that I've seen him all week, I see a difference in him from my last visit. He no longer sits upright, he kind of falls to one side, propped up by pillows. How long before he must be in those rigid chairs with trays – the ones that look like adult high chairs? Will I be strong enough to see him like that when the time comes?

But today Nicole is focusing on the positive – he said something coherent, and that's a good thing. _But I'm not his wife. I've never been anyone's wife,_ my subconscious is screaming. Nicole thinks that he called me his wife because I'm an important person to him and I'm the one person he sees most often, but I can't shake the sadness that one word has left in my heart. Years ago I wanted to be his wife more than anything in this world. Then he chose his church over me, over us, and I closed off that part of my heart to him for good. I knew that I would always love him, of course, but could no longer be _in love_ with him. It was too hard.

I head John's horn tweeting outside, wave fondly to Nicole and head back to the hospital again, my head and heart warring once more.

Chapter 40

John drops me at the door again, but isn't coming in this time. He's going to meet Josh, run some errands and spend some time with his son. They need it. I find Hannah's room on auto-pilot now, sometimes I'm so tired it feels like I blink and I'm standing outside of her door, not knowing how I ended up there.

The nurses at the desk tell me that there's no change yet, and I look questioningly at Diane to see if Mary has made any inquiry. She shakes her head sadly and I mirror her action. I'm certain that the nurses must talk amongst themselves, and I wonder what they say about Mary and her total disregard for Hannah. But I say nothing, just smile sadly in gratitude and head in to see my granddaughter in her bed.

Hannah's hair is mussed and her cheeks are flushed. She seems to be in good spirits, considering, so I offer to fluff up her pillows and ask if she wants her magazines from the nightstand. She nods, and we spend the next hour or so thumbing through them, commenting from time to time on one of the articles, or celebrity pictures inside. It's an ordinary day, with the nurses stopping by more often than usual, each time they take Hannah's temperature, they give her another popsicle, which makes the baby kick because of the sugar. We laugh over the increased activity every time, and it's almost suppertime when the orderly arrives to take Hannah downstairs for yet another biophysical. This is her new daily routine, nothing to be alarmed about, and Hannah is all smiles as she is pushed out through the door. I tidy her room while she is gone, and don't hear anyone behind me until Diane clears her throat.

I startle a little and she is quick to apologize, which I wave off as nonsense. She tells me that there's no change, and that is a little worrisome, but it just means that Hannah will not be discharged for a few more days. They will continue taking her temperature hourly and monitor her blood pressure, which is still fine, and once she is fever free for at least 24 hours they will consider sending her home. "Being here is sometimes the biggest stressor of all," Diane finishes.

I nod in agreement. "Has Mary been by?" I know that both her absence and her presence would be stressful for Hannah, I'm just not sure which would be worse. Diane's lips are an almost invisible line.

"No she hasn't."

I sigh. I can't say that I'm surprised, but it's no less hurtful. "I'm embarrassed to be her mother right now," I confess. Diane puts a comforting arm around my shoulders.

"No one blames you for this."

"I do."

I am surprised by the force with which she grabs me, and before I am aware of what is happening, I am in the biggest, most engulfing hug I've ever encountered. Diane smells of sanitizer and her scrubs are soft and well-worn, and she holds me as if I were her own family. "Don't be so foolish. You're amazing, and she's an idiot not to be here. From what I can tell, she hasn't even asked anyone on staff how Hannah is doing, and that's atrocious." We break from our embrace, I recover from my moment of weakness and doubt, chalking it all up to a very stressful day; storm, fever, him speaking, no Mary... This was enough stress to bother even the most stoic of souls.

By the time Hannah is wheeled back, Josh and John have reappeared. Josh is all talk about going out for supper and ordering from the adult menu, less enthusiastic about his science test results, and is telling the worst jokes ever. His mood is infectious, and within a short time we're all laughing and cracking awful puns, one after the other.

Hannah is growing quiet, but it happens so gradually that none of us really notice, until John gets up from his chair, crosses the room and stands beside the bed. "Hannah honey, are you tired? Is your fever worse?"

Both Josh and I turn to look at the girl. Her cheeks are still flushed, but I notice beads of sweat on her upper lip; they weren't there before. She's absently rubbing her belly in circular motions, but has been doing that more and more since the baby has been kicking stronger. Hannah's eyes are half closed, and she focuses them to look at John. Something isn't right, and my finger is on the buzzer before John's gaze meets mine. I hear the nurses padding down the hall towards our door.

Diane and another nurse enter, their expressions full of questions. John turns to them and says simply, "something's wrong." I move aside to make room for them bedside, and John tells Josh to wait outside. For once, the boy doesn't argue – he can tell that this is serious. The forehead creases and his eyes fill up. I tell him that I'll come out in a minute and tell him what's going on, but we don't know anything yet, and there are too many people in the room.

The nurse that I don't know has her fingers on Hannah's wrist, checking her pulse and Diane is on the phone. I hear parts of phrases, but nothing makes sense. It's hard not to jump to conclusions, especially when the only words I'm catching are: spiking, non-responsive and quick. Diane hangs up the phone, leaves the room and is back in an instant with a portable baby monitor. She's strapping two wide elastics around Hannah's middle, each one with a disc-like sensor attached. The room fills with a rapid thumping – the baby's heartbeat – and the machine begins to spit out paper with wavy lines on it.

"Hannah? It's Diane. Can you hear me?" Hannah looks in the woman's direction. Diane smiles warmly, a picture of professionalism. "Hannah, are you able to talk to me? I need to know if you're having pain."

The other nurse taps Diane on the shoulder and they turn to look at the monitor together. When they turn back, they are both very serious. "There's a resident on his way down here to assess Hannah. Her fever is too high, and she's having contractions."

John and I look at each other. There are no words. Everything that we had been fearing for so long was starting to happen, just when we let our guard down. John stepped outside to tell Josh that things weren't good and we were waiting for the doctor, and when John opened the door to reenter the room, I could see Josh looking very small and frightened, sitting on the floor against the wall.

The two minutes it takes the resident to arrive feel like two hours. He is young and foreign, and we don't even ask his name. He's issuing orders to the nurses, looking at the monitor and Hannah's chart and John and I are doing our best to stay out of his way. The nurses leave, returning almost immediately with cold compresses. One strips away the blankets that are covering Hannah, and when she does John gasps and points to the bed. Hannah is sitting in a puddle. Her water has broken.

Chapter 41

The bed is flattened and the doctor ushers John out of the room while the nurses hold Hannah's legs back. I don't think to ask if they want me to leave, so I stay out of the way, but close enough to see what's going on. The doctor slips a gloved hand inside my poor granddaughter and I wince at the unpleasantness she must be experiencing. Hannah's brow furrows. She's registering the pain and a moan slips from her lips.

"She's almost three centimeters," the doctor is saying. "How far apart are the contractions?"

Diane answers brusquely, "The monitor is registering them at eight minutes." The doctor is thoughtful.

"Too bad her water broke. We might have been able to stop it."

I fall back into the chair. They can't stop the labour. Hannah is going to deliver the baby. Tonight. I hear more snatches of his conversation with the nurses: things about notifying the NIC-U and getting a pediatrician. I gather my composure and step outside to tell John and Josh what's going on. Every bit of colour drains from John's face, and I notice Josh begins to tremble. I pull him to me, and John pulls us both close. We stand there in this embrace for a moment, and John asks me if I will stay with Hannah throughout.

"As long as they'll let me," is my resolute reply.

Diane gets me a surgical gown and hat to put on. While not standard for a typical delivery, this is necessary to protect the baby, she told me. Nodding, I put the pale blue gown over my housedress and slip the hat over my curls. We both step back in the hallway as Hannah's bed is pushed through the door and down the hall. Diane steers me behind and John and Josh follow us to the delivery wing.

Just outside the doors to the delivery area is the waiting room where John and Josh take their leave of us. They both kiss Hannah on the cheek, and her gaze flutters towards them. She is slipping in and out of awareness. We push through the doors and leave the boys behind.

Even though the décor is designed to be calming, I doubt that anyone feels that way in here. As if echoing my thoughts, I hear a scream from behind a closed door. My worried gaze meets Diane's.

We're pushed through another door, the blankets placed on Hannah for decency as she traveled down the hallway are stripped away, and the monitor is hooked up once more. There are more ice packs and an IV hookup. Hannah barely registers what is happening. Her head lolls from side to side and she moans periodically, but that is it. She hasn't spoken to anyone since John noticed that something was wrong.

Diane pulls me aside. "Listen, I can't stay here, I have to cover our ward. I'll be checking in, and I'm not leaving until I get to see your darling great-granddaughter. Right now you need to talk to her, keep cloths to her head and help her. They're trying to break her fever so she can deliver without having a section because that's what's best for them both. But if her fever doesn't break soon, they're not going to have a choice. Pull her out of it Rose. You can do this." And with that, she is gone.

There are other nurses in the room, setting up an incubator, monitoring things – but I quickly forget about them. I stand beside Hannah's bed once more and push the sweaty tendrils back from her face. I wring out a cloth in the bowl of ice water, grimacing as the cold hurts my knobby fingers, and spread it across my sweet granddaughter's forehead once more. Her eyelids flutter, but her eyes do not open. I do this for a half an hour and nothing changes. The nurses tell me that we have less than an hour for her condition to change, or she will have to have an emergency Caesarian.

"Hannah honey," I whisper into her ear, so close that she can feel my breath. "You need to snap out of this. The baby needs you to be strong. She's coming – tonight – and you have to push her out. Can you do it?" She doesn't answer. The monitor beeps more frequently, signaling an increase in contractions, largely in part to the medicine being pumped into her arm. I try again; I smooth her hair, I talk to her and will her to snap out of this.

One of the nurses checks her dilation again; seven centimeters. The monitor tells us that the contractions are less than three minutes apart. Hannah stirs in the bed, pushing at the ice packs outlining her frame. She opens her eyes, looking confused then terrified.

"I'm here Hannah honey," I croon, grabbing her limp hand and squeezing it tightly. Tears flow down her cheeks as she comes to the full realization of what's happening. The nurse checks and her temperature is still high, but seems to be dropping back to a normal range.

"Ooooohhh, it hurts!" Hannah shifts uncomfortably in the bed. She clutches at her stomach, unsure if she should be sitting or lying. Nothing is comfortable, and the pain is getting more intense. She is unprepared for this. I ask for something for the pain, but they tell me that it's too late, and they couldn't administer anything earlier because they were uncertain about how the delivery was going to happen. I steel myself against her cries, and although they are ripping my insides apart, I am determined not to show her this. Instead I grab her hand, help her sit up and rub the small of her back with my fist.

The resident is back, and since Hannah has come to and is so far along, he decides that it is time to shift her to a birthing bed instead of her own. I take a look around the room for the first time, and see another bed, a small sofa, a television, bassinette and an incubator. There's a bathroom off to the side and a counter and cupboards against the far wall. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was a small apartment, not a hospital room.

Two nurses help Hannah from one bed to the other and I guide the pole with her IV and medicine swinging in clear bags. There's the regular bag of water, a bag with a drug to speed up labour and an antibiotic, since fever signals infection, and the baby needs as much help as she can get. They get Hannah into the bed and then systematically break apart the bottom, so that the lower half disappears, making it easier for delivery. I can't believe that we're this close. When I ask how much time we have, they say it will be soon, so I decide that now's the best time to tell John what's happening.

Hannah looks scared. "Don't worry honey, I'll be right back. I'm going to tell your father what's happening."

"Don't be long, okay?" Her voice is shaking.

"I'll be back in less than two minutes," I tell her with a reassuring smile. And I am. I give John as many details as I can remember before rushing back to be by Hannah's side. Josh is dozing on one of the couches in the lounge, so I don't wake him. John can decide when to tell him what's happening.

I open the door to birthing room three and see the doctor sitting on a stool in front on Hannah's bed, the nurses beside her, and another doctor in the corner. I'm assuming she's the pediatrician, since she's busying herself with the incubator and some tools on the counter.

"Nan! I need you!" Hannah is frantic. The doctor's hand is inside her again, and he's telling her that she's at ten centimeters. It's time to push. "I can't. I can't." She's crying, sobbing.

I'm at her bedside in a flash, holding her hand. The two nurses have Hannah's feet braced against their shoulders and are telling her to push with the next contraction. Hannah's eyes are squinted tightly shut and she's shaking her head. I grab her face with my free hand, and cup her chin, forcing her to look at me.

"My child," my voice is loud and strong. I'm not sure where it's coming from, but I continue. "You are the bravest person I know. You're doing this thing... this incredibly hard thing... and I'm here with you. Your Dad and Josh are outside, and we're your fan club. This isn't an easy road, but we're in it together. You just need to get through this next little bit."

A contraction rips through her; I can see the flesh of her belly tightening. I squeeze her hand harder, and the doctor begins counting backwards from ten. "Three good pushes," he tells her.

Amazingly, with a grunt of brute strength, she bears down and tucks her chin to her chest. "Great job, Hannah!" The doctor is cheering for her, and the nurses are rubbing her trembling thighs as it ends. In less than thirty seconds it starts all over again, and Hannah repeats her performance. At the end of the contraction, Hannah falls back in the bed, exhausted. "And she's out!" the doctor proclaims. Hannah looks at me, and I turn to where the doctor is sitting, holding the tiniest of babies. She does not cry.

He passes her to the pediatrician immediately, and she is wiped down and placed in the incubator, where she is weighed and measured, but still doesn't make a sound. Hannah begins to cry. I lean my head against hers and weep as well. The doctor tells Hannah that she has to sit up again, it is time to deliver the afterbirth.

Hannah does as she is asked, but her heart isn't in it. The slippery placenta is delivered quickly and the nurses begin cleaning Hannah. Finally we hear a weak little mewl from the far end of the room. A cheer goes up, and it's not just Hannah and me – the whole staff in the room is teary eyed and smiling.

Chapter 42

"Can I see her?" Hannah's voice is weak and she is resting against a mountain of pillows. The bottom on the bed has been replaced, and blankets have been tucked around her.

"In a minute, sweetheart, we're just doing some tests." The voice doesn't seem to have a body attached there are almost half a dozen people huddled around the baby at this point. Hannah's eyes are wide with fear. I hold her hand again, rubbing it gently, trying to tell her that they test all babies when they're born. I'm not fooling anyone.

I don't want to leave John in the dark any longer, but I don't want to leave Hannah alone either, not until we know what's going on. I feel like screaming why can't they tell us what's happening to my great-granddaughter?

Finally one of the nurses makes her way over to Hannah's bedside. Her face is kind, creased from years of laughter and worry – she's the type of woman who feels everything. And her expression is grave.

"I'm so sorry..."

"NOOOOOOOO!" Hannah wails and my own anguish can no longer be contained. I put my head down on the bed and my whole body shakes with the sobs that I've been withholding for so long. I feel a hand on my shoulder, but don't care enough to see who it is. Hannah's cries are ripping through my soul. She was raped as a practical joke, her mother has all but abandoned her, and she went through the last winter as a pregnant student in a school where everyone knew what happened and no one would stand up for her. She decided to keep a baby that no one would have blamed her for wanting no part of, and spent her time trying to learn to be a better mother than her own had been... And now THIS???

When I look up into Hannah's eyes, I see the full extent of her devastation. I rush to grab her into a fierce hug, never wanting to let her go. I wish that I could take away her pain and make it my own, but I lost my child in a very different way. I ask one of the staff to go get John and tell him what's happened. The only sounds in the room are Hannah's hiccuppy breaths intermingled with our sobs, and the soft click of the door.

John's eyes are red and teary when he comes in. He says in a thick voice that breaks from time to time, that Josh is sleeping in the lounge. John stands at one side of the bed and I at the other, neither of us wanting to let go of our poor Hannah.

"I still want to see her." She looks from one to the other of us. "Please tell them to let me see her."

"I don't know if that's a good idea..." John begins, but the look on Hannah's face stops him. He kisses her tenderly, and crosses the room to ask the nurses if Hannah can see the baby. There is a brief discussion in hushed voices, I see John's shoulders shaking as he brings his hands to his eyes. He's seen her, I can tell.

When he turns around, he is carrying a tiny bundle in his outstretched hands. All I can see is blanket, but just knowing that he is carrying the infant inside is enough to break my heart all over again. He passes the baby to Hannah, who is suddenly very calm.

She moves the folds of blanket away to reveal the tiniest, most perfectly formed child. John says softly, "She weighs one and a half pounds." I am amazed at how perfect she looks, considering. Hannah strokes the tiny head and holds a tiny fist between her thumb and index finger. When she looks up at us, the three of us have teary eyes.

"She's perfect. Too perfect." Hannah presses her lips to the little forehead. "She was a fighter, but the fight was too much for someone so little. And her name is definitely Rose." I nod silently. I don't have the heart to take that from her as well.

Hannah holds baby Rose for a while longer, and John and I stand by silently. Eventually Hannah asks me if I'd like to hold my namesake, and I take her gently into my hands. It's like holding air, there's nothing to her. She hasn't had the time to put on any fat, but her miniscule body is absolutely perfect. I admire her tiny feet with the littlest pebbles for toes. I stroke her cheek with one finger, feeling the velvety skin under my own. Then I, too, kiss the little forehead.

"Little Rose," I whisper, "You have the bravest mommy in the world. She fought so hard for you, and loves you so very much. We all do, and always will." I kiss her again and offer her to John. He sits on the side of Hannah's bed and sings a lullaby, in a voice that keeps breaking. "I used to sing this to you," he tells Hannah. I hear sniffling from the nurses in the corner.

We sit together for a while, then John goes and tells Josh what's happened. He wants to see Hannah and the baby, so John agrees. We all sit together in silence. Eventually the nurse tells us that it's time to say goodbye. There are more tears and hugs. I ask Hannah if she'd like a moment alone with baby Rose, and she nods. We step outside to wait.

When the nurse wheels Hannah out to return to her room, her eyes are rimmed and empty. No one speaks, we just follow the chair in silence, trying not to notice the sounds of happy tears and infant wails around us. We are a sad procession, and when we get to the corridor that will take us back to Hannah's room, the nurses at the desk stand silently by. Obviously they've heard the news.

Mary never once checked on that girl while she was in the hospital, and I am sure that our story is all over the halls. Even as word of baby Rose's death spreads, Mary never shows her face or asks at the desk.

We settle Hannah into her bed and the nurse with the wheelchair tells us that they've given her something to help her sleep, and it should be kicking in any minute. We thank her, tuck Hannah in and look at each other, lost.

"Now what?" John asks me. He is unable to hide the sadness in his voice. Whether or not he was looking forward to becoming a grandfather, this was not how he'd envisioned things playing out. Neither had I.

"Well, we take Hannah home as soon as we're allowed, and we work at putting her life back together. Yours too." I pat his back, even though he towers above me. "It's time for you all to heal."

And two days later, that's just what we do.

