BeforeWeWereYours

ANovel

Lisa Wingate

Ballantine Books

New York

Before We Were Yours is a work of historical fiction, using well-known historical and public figures. All incidents and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dia-logues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intend-ed to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other re-spects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Wingate Media, LLC

All rights reserved.

ForreadersofOrphanTrainandTheNightingale—anengross-

ingnewnovel,inspiredbyatruestory,abouttwofamilies,gen-

erationsapart,thatareforeverchangedbyaheartbreakingin-

justice.

Memphis,1939.Twelve-year-oldRillFossandherfouryoungersib-

lingsliveamagicallifeaboardtheirfamily’sMississippiRivershan-

tyboat.Butwhentheirfathermustrushtheirmothertothehospital

onestormynight,Rillisleftincharge—untilstrangersarrivein

force.WrenchedfromallthatisfamiliarandthrownintoaTennes-

seeChildren’sHomeSocietyorphanage,theFosschildrenareas-

suredthattheywillsoonbereturnedtotheirparents—butthey

quicklyrealizethatthetruthismuchdarker.Atthemercyofthefa-

cility’scrueldirector,Rillfightstokeephersistersandbrotherto-

gether—inaworldofdangeranduncertainty.

Aiken,SouthCarolina,presentday.Bornintowealthandprivilege,

AveryStaffordseemstohaveitall:asuccessfulcareerasafederal

prosecutor,ahandsomefiancé,andalavishweddingonthehorizon.

ButwhenAveryreturnshometohelpherfatherweatherahealth

crisis,achanceencounterleavesherwithuncomfortable

questions—andcompelshertotakeajourneythroughherfamily's

long-hiddenhistory,onapaththatwillultimatelyleadeitherto

devastation...orredemption.

BasedononeofAmerica’smostnotoriousreal-lifescandals—in

whichGeorgiaTann,directorofaMemphis-basedadoptionor-

ganization,kidnappedandsoldpoorchildrentowealthyfami-

liesalloverthecountry—BeforeWeWereYoursbrilliantlyfic-

tionalizesandbringstolifeoneofAmerica'smostnotorious

scandals.

Early praise for

BeforeWeWereYours

“I absolutely loved this book. I'm still bask-ing in the afterglow, in shock at the true-crime elements, in awe at the journey of

these characters who seem to have immortal souls.”

– Jamie Ford, NYT bestselling author of Hotel

on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet and Songs of Willow Frost

“An unforgettable read.”

– Susan Meissner, author of Secrets of a Charmed Life

“Rang so true, I couldn’t sleep until I knew their fate.”

– Julie Kibler, bestselling author of Calling

Me Home Both heartbreaking and soul-affirming! If you loved Orphan Train, be prepared to fall in

love with Rill and her siblings!

– The Book Club Cheerleader

PRELUDE

Baltimore, Maryland

AUGUST3,1939

My story begins on a sweltering August night in a place I will

neverseteyesupon.Theroomtakes lifeonly inmy imaginings. It is

largemostdayswhenIconjureit.Thewallsarewhiteandclean,the

bedlinenscrispasafallenleaf.Theprivatesuitehastheveryfinestof

everything.Outside,thebreezeisweary,andthecicadasthrobinthe

tall trees, theirverdanthidingplaces justbelow thewindow frames.

Thescreenssway inwardas theattic fan rattlesoverhead,pullingat

wetairthathasnodesiretobemoved.

Thescentofpinewaftsin,andthewoman’sscreamspressoutas

thenursesholdherfasttothebed.Sweatpoolsonherskinandrushes

downherfaceandarmsandlegs,She’dbehorrifiedifshewereaware

ofthis.

Sheispretty.Agentle,fragilesoul.Notthesortwhowouldinten-

tionallybringaboutthecatastrophicunravelingthat isonly,thismo-

ment,beginning.Inmymultifoldyearsoflife,Ihavelearnedthatmost

peoplegetalongasbesttheycan.Theydon’tintendtohurtanyone.It

ismerelyaterribleby-productofsurviving.

Itisn’therfault,allthatcomestopassafterthatonefinal,merci-

less push. She produces the very last thing she could possiblywant.

Silentfleshcomesforth—atiny,fair-hairedgirlasprettyasadoll,yet

blueandstill.

Thewomanhasnowayofknowingherchild’sfate,orifshedoes

know,themedicationswillcausethememoryofittobenothingbuta

blurbytomorrow.Sheceasesherthrashingandsurrenderstothetwi-

lightsleep,lulledbythedosesofmorphineandscopolamineadminis-

teredtohelpherdefeatthepain.

Tohelpherreleaseeverything,andshewill.

Sympatheticconversationtakesplaceasdoctorsstitchandnurs-

escleanupwhatisleft.

“Sosadwhenithappensthisway.Sooutoforderwhenalifehas

notevenonebreathinthisworld.”

“Youhave towonder sometimes…why…whena child is so very

wanted….”

Aveilislowered.Tinyeyesareshrouded.Theywillneversee.

Thewoman’s ears hear but cannot grasp. All slips in and slips

away. It is as if she is attempting to catch the tide, and it drains

throughherclenchedfingers,andfinallyshefloatsoutalongwithit.

Gloriousanticipationhasmeltedintowrenchinganguish.

“Sir,Iamsoterriblysorry,”thedoctorsaysasheslipsfromthe

room. “Rest assured that everything humanly possible was done to

easeyourdaughter’slaborandtosavethebaby.Iunderstandhowdif-

ficult this is. Please offer our condolences to the baby’s fatherwhen

youarefinallyabletoreachhimoverseas.Aftersomanydisappoint-

ments,yourfamilymusthaveheldsuchgreathope.”

“Willshebeabletohavemore?”

“Itisn’tadvisable.”

“Thiswill be theendofher.Andhermotheraswell,when she

learnsofit.Christineisouronlychild,youknow.Thepitter-patterof

littlefeet…thebeginningofanewgeneration….”

“Iunderstand,sir.”

“Whataretherisksshouldshe….”

“Her life. And it’s extremely unlikely that your daughterwould

ever carryanotherpregnancy to term. If shewere to try, the results

couldbe….”

“Isee.”

The doctor lays a comforting hand on the heartbrokenman, or

thisisthewayithappensinmyimaginings.Theirgazestangle.

Thephysicianlooksoverhisshouldertobecertainthatthenurs-

es cannot hear. “Sir, might I suggest something?” he says quietly,

gravely.

“IknowofawomaninMemphis….”

Chapter1

Avery Stafford

AIKEN,SOUTHCAROLINA,PRESENTDAY

I takeabreath,scoot to theedgeof theseat,andstraightenmy

jacketasthelimorollstoastopontheboiling-hotasphalt,Newsvans

wait along the curb, accentuating the importance of this morning’s

seeminglyinnocuousmeeting.

But,notonemomentofthisdaywillhappenbyaccident.These

past twomonths in SouthCarolina havebeen all aboutmaking sure

thenuancesarejustright—shapingtheinferencessoastohintbutdo

nomore.

Definitivestatementsarenottobemade.

Notyet,anyway.

Notforalongtime,ifIhavemywayaboutit.

IwishIcouldforgetwhyI’vecomehome,buteventhefactthat

myfatherisn’treadinghisnotesorcheckingthebriefingfromLeslie,

hisuber-efficientpresssecretary, isanundeniablereminder.There’s

noescapingtheenemythatridessilentlyinthecarwithus.It’sherein

the backseat, hiding beneath the gray tailored suit that hangs a hint

toolooseovermyfather’sbroadshoulders.

Daddy stares out thewindow, his head leaning to one side. He

hasrelegatedhisaidesandLeslietoanothercar.

“Youfeelingallright?”Ireachacrosstobrushalongblondhair—

mine—offtheseatsoitwon’tclingtohistrouserswhenhegetsout.If

my mother were here, she’d whip out a mini lint brush, but she’s

home,preparingforoursecondeventoftheday—afamilyChristmas

photothatmustbetakenmonthsearly…justincaseDaddy’sprognosis

worsens.

Hesitsabitstraighter,liftshishead.Staticmakeshisthickgray

hairstickstraightout.Iwanttosmoothitdownforhim,butIdon’t.It

wouldbeabreachofprotocol.

Ifmymother is intimately involved in themicro aspectsof our

lives,suchas frettingover lintandplanningforthe familyChristmas

photo in July, my father is the opposite. He is distant—an island of

staunchmaleness in a household ofwomen. I knowhe cares deeply

aboutmymother,my two sisters, andme, but he seldomvoices the

sentimentoutloud.IalsoknowthatI’mhisfavoritebuttheonewho

confuseshimthemost.Heisaproductofanerawhenwomenwentto

collegetosecuretherequisiteMRSdegree.He’snotquitesurewhatto

do with a thirty-year-old daughter who graduated top of her class

fromColumbiaLawandactuallyenjoysthegrittyworldofaU.S.attor-

ney’soffice.

Whateverthereason—perhapsjustbecausethepositionsofper-

fectionistdaughterandsweetdaughterwerealreadytakeninourfami-

ly—Ihavealwaysbeenbrainiacdaughter. I loved school and itwas

theunspoken conclusion that Iwouldbe the family torchbearer, the

sonreplacement,theonetosucceedmyfather.Somehow,Ialwaysim-

aginedthatI’dbeolderwhenithappenedandthatIwouldbeready.

NowIlookatmydadandthink,Howcanyounotwantit,Avery?

This iswhathe’sworked for all his life.Whatgenerations of Staffords

have labored for since the RevolutionaryWar, for heaven’s sake.Our

familyhasalwaysheldfasttotheguidingropeofpublicservice.Daddy

isno exception. Since graduating fromWestPoint and serving as an

armyaviatorbefore Iwasborn,hehasupheld the familynamewith

dignityanddeterminations.

Ofcourseyouwantthis,I tellmyself. You’vealwayswantedthis.

Youjustdidn’texpectittohappenyet,andnotthisway.That’sall.

Secretly, I’m clinging by all ten fingernails to the best-case sce-

nario. The enemieswill be vanquished on both fronts—political and

medical. My father will be cured by the combination of the surgery

thatbroughthimhomefromthesummercongressionalsessionearly

and the chemo pump hemustwear strapped to his leg every three

weeks.MymovehometoAikenwillbetemporary.

Cancerwillnolongerbeapartofourlives.

It can be beaten.Other people have done it, and if anyone can,

SenatorWellsStaffordcan.

There isnot, anywhere, a strongermanorbetterman thanmy

dad.

“Ready?” he asks, straightening his suit. It’s a relief when he

swipesdowntheroostertailinhishair.I’mnotpreparedtocrossthe

linefromdaughtertocaretaker.

“Rightbehindyou.”I’ddoanythingforhim,butIhopeit’smany

more years before we’re forced to reverse the roles of parent and

child.I’velearnedhowhardthatiswhilewatchingmyfatherstruggle

tomakedecisionsforhismother.

Myoncequick-witted,fun-lovingGrandmaJudyisnowaghostof

herfavoriteself.Aspainfulasthatis,Daddycan’ttalktoanyoneabout

it.Ifthemediagetscluedintothefactthatwe’vemovedhertoafacili-

ty,especiallyanupscaleoneonalovelyestatenottenmilesfromhere,

it’llbealose-losesituation,politicallyspeaking.Giventheburgeoning

scandaloveraseriesofwrongfuldeathandabusecasesinvolvingcor-

porate-owned eldercare facilities in our state, Daddy’s political ene-

mies would either point out that only those withmoney can afford

premiumcareorthey’daccusemyfatherofwarehousinghismombe-

cause he is a cold-hearted lout who cares nothing for the elderly.

They’dsaythathe’llhappilyturnablindeyetowardtheneedsofthe

helplessifitprofitshisfriendsandcampaigncontributors.

TherealityisthathisdecisionsforGrandmaJudyareinnoway

political.We’rejustlikeotherpeople.Everyavailableavenueispaved

withguilt,linedwithpain,andpockmarkedwithshame.We’reembar-

rassedforGrandmaJudy.We’reafraidforher.We’reheartsickabout

where this cruel decline into dementiamight end. Beforewemoved

hertothenursinghome,mygrandmotherescapedfromhercaretaker

andher household staff. She called a cab and vanished for an entire

dayonlytobefoundwanderinginabusinesscomplexthatwasonce

her favorite shopping mall. How she managed to do this when she

can’trememberournamesisamystery.

I’mwearing one of her favorite pieces of jewelry thismorning.

I’mdimlyawareofitonmywristasIslideoutthelimodoor.Ipretend

I’veselectedthedragonflybraceletinherhonor,butit’sthereasasi-

lent reminder that the Staffordwomendowhatmust be done, even

whentheydon’twantto.The locationof thismorning’seventmakes

meuncomfortable.I’veneverlikednursinghomes.

It’s justameetandgreet,I tellmyself.Thepress isheretocover

theevent,notaskquestions.We’ll shakehands, tour thebuilding, join

theresidentsforabirthdaycelebrationofawomanwhoisturningone

hundred.Herhusbandisninety-nine.Quiteafeat.

Inside, thecorridorsmellsas if someonehas turnedmysister’s

triplets loosewith cans of spray sanitizer. The scent of artificial jas-

minefills theair.Lesliesniffs, thenoffersanodofapprovalasshe,a

photographer, and several interns and aides flank us.We’rewithout

bodyguardsforthisappearance.Nodoubtthey’vegoneaheadtopre-

pareforthisafternoon’stownhallforum.Overtheyearsmyfatherhas

receiveddeaththreatsfromfringegroupsandmilitias,aswellasany

numberofcrackpotsclaimingtobesnipers,bioterrorists,andkidnap-

pers.Heseldomtakesthesethreatsseriously,buthissecuritypeople

do.

Turningthecorner,we’regreetedbythenursinghomedirector

andtwonewscrewswithcameras.Wetour.Theyfilm.Myfatherturns

up the charm.He shakes hands, poses for photos, takes time to talk

with thepeople,bendclose towheelchairs,and thanknurses for the

difficultanddemandingjobstheydedicatethemselvestoeachday.

Ifollowalonganddothesame.Adebonairgentlemaninatweed

bowlerhat flirtswithme. InadelightfulBritishaccent,he tellsme I

havebeautifulblueeyes.“Ifitwerefiftyyearsago,I’dcharmyouinto

sayingyestoadate,”heteases.

“Ithinkyoualreadyhave,”Ianswer,andwelaughtogether.

OneofthenurseswarnsmethatMr.McMorrisisasilver-haired

DonJuan.Hewinksatthenursejusttoproveit.

As we wander down the hall to the party for the hundredth

birthday,IrealizethatIamactuallyhavingfun.Thepeoplehereseem

content.This isn’tas luxuriousasGrandma Judy’snursinghome,but

it’s a far cry from theundermanaged facilitiesnamedbyplaintiffs in

therecentstringoflawsuits.Oddsare,noneofthoseplaintiffswillev-

erseeadime,nomatterwhatkindofdamagesthey’reawardedbythe

courts.Themoneymenbehindthenursinghomechainsusenetworks

ofholdingcompaniesandshellcorporationstheycaneasilysendinto

bankruptcy to avoid paying claims.Which is why the uncovering of

tiesbetweenoneofthosechainsandoneofmyfather’soldestfriends

and biggest contributors has been so potentially devastating.My fa-

therisahigh-profilefaceuponwhichpublicangerandpoliticalfinger-

pointingcanbefocused.

Anger andblamearepowerfulweapons.Theoppositionknows

that.

Inthecommonsroom,asmallpodiumhasbeensetup. I takea

spotofftothesidewiththeentourage,positionedbytheglassdoors

that look out onto a shady garden where a kaleidoscope of flowers

bloomdespitethebeastlysummerheat.

Awomanstandsaloneononeoftheshelteredgardenpaths.Fac-

ingintheotherdirectionshe’sseeminglyunawareofthepartyasshe

gazesintothedistance.Herhandsrestonacane.Shewearsasimple

cream-colored cotton dress and a white sweater despite the warm

day.Herthickgrayhair isbraidedandtwistedaroundherhead,and

that,combinedwiththecolorlessdress,makesherseemalmostghost-

like,aremnantofsomelong-forgottenpast.Abreezerustlesthewis-

teria trellisbutdoesn’tseemtotouchher,addingto the illusionthat

sheisn’treallythere.

Iturnmyattentiontothenursinghomedirector.Shewelcomes

everyone,toutsthereasonfortodaysgathering—afullcenturyoflife

isnotachievedeverydayoftheweek,afterall.Tobemarriedmostof

that time and still have your beloved by your side is evenmore re-

markable.Itis,indeed,aneventworthyofasenatorialvisit.

Not tomentionthe fact that thiscouplehasbeenamongmy fa-

ther’ssupporterssincehisdaysinSouthCarolina’sstategovernment.

Technically,they’veknownhimlongerthanIhave,andthey’realmost

asdevoted.Ourhonoreeandherhusbandholdtheirthinhandshighin

theairandclapfuriouslywhenmyfather’snameismentioned.

Thedirectortellsthestoryofthesweet-lookingloversperchedat

thecentertable.LuciwasborninFrancewhenhorse-drawncarriages

stillroamedthestreets.It’shardtoevenimagine.Sheworkedwiththe

French Resistance in the SecondWorldWar. Her husband, Frank, a

fighterpilotwas shotdown in combat.Their story is like something

fromafilm—asweepingromance.Partofanescapechain,Lucihelped

todisguisehimandsmugglehimoutofthecountryinjured.Afterthe

war, hewentback to findher. Shewas still livingon the same farm

withher family, holedup in a cellar, the only part of thehouse that

remained.

The events these twohaveweatheredmakememarvel. This is

what’spossiblewhenloveisrealandstrong,whenpeoplearedevoted

tooneanother,whenthey’llsacrificeanythingtobetogether.This is

whatIwantformyself,butIsometimeswonderifit’spossibleforour

moderngenerationwe’resodistracted,so…busy.

Glancingdownatmyengagement ring, I think,ElliotandIhave

what it takes.Weknoweachother sowell.We’vealwaysbeen sideby

side…

The birthday girl slowly pushes herself out of her chair, taking

herbeau’sarm.Theymovealongtogether,stoopedandcrookedand

leaning.Thesightissweetandhearttugging.Ihopemyparentsliveto

this ripe old stage of life. I hope they’ll have a long retire-

ment…someday…yearsinthefuturewhenmyfatherfinallydecidesto

slowdown.Thisdiseasecan’ttakehimatfifty-seven.He’stooyoung.

He’s toodesperatelyneeded, both athomeand in theworld.Hehas

worktodoyet,andafter that,myparentsdeservearetirementwith

quietlypassingseasonsandtimetospendtogether.

A tender feeling settles in my chest, and I push away these

thoughts.Nooverwhelmingdisplaysofemotioninpublic—Leslie’s fre-

quentreminder.Womencan’tafforditinthisarena.It’sseenasincom-

petence,weakness.

AsifIdidn’tknowthatalready.Acourtroomisn’tmuchdifferent.

Femalelawyersarealwaysontrialinmorewaysthanone.Wehaveto

playbydifferentrules.

MyfathersalutesFrankastheymeetnearthepodium.Theman

stops, straightens, and returns the gesture with military precision.

Theirgazesmeet,andthemomentispure.Itmaylookperfectoncam-

era,butit’snotforthecamera.Myfather’slipspressintoatightline.

He’stryingnottotearup.

Itisn’tlikehimtocomesoclosetolettingitshow.

I swallowanotherswellofemotion.Abreathshudderspastmy

lips. Ipressmyshouldersback, turnmyeyesaway,andfocusonthe

window,studyingthewomaninthegarden.She’sstillstandingthere,

gazingoff.Whoisshe?Whatisshelookingfor?

The boisterous chorus of “Happy Birthday” seeps through the

glassandcauseshertoslowlyturntowardthebuilding.Ifeelthetug

ofthesong.Iknowthatthecamerasarelikelytosweepmyway,and

I’lllookdistracted,butIcan’tquiteextricatemyselffromstaringatthe

path outside. I want to see the women’s face, at least. Will it be as

blankasthesummersky?Isshemerelyaddledandwandering,orhas

sheskippedthefestivitiesonpurpose?

LeslieyanksmyjacketfrombehindandIsnaptoattentionlikea

schoolgirlcaughtinline.

“Happybirth—Focus,”shesingsclosetomyear,andInodasshe

moves off to gain a better angle for snapping cellphone photos that

willgoonmyfather’sInstagram.Thesenatorisuponallthelatestso-

cialmedia,eventhoughhedoesn’tknowhowtouseanyofit.Hisso-

cialmediamanagerisawhiz.

The ceremony continues. Camera flashes erupt. Happy family

memberswipetearsandtakevideosasmyfatherpresentsa framed

congratulatoryletter.

Thecakeiswheeledup,ahundredcandlesblazing.

Leslie is delighted. Happiness and emotion swell the room,

stretching it like a helium balloon. Any more joy and we’ll all float

away.

Someone touchesmy hand andwrist, Fingers encirclingme so

unexpectedly that I jerk away, then stopmyself so asnot to cause a

scene.Thegripiscoldandbonyandtremblingbutsurprisinglystrong.

Iturntoseethewomanfromthegarden.Shestraightensherhumped

back and gazes up at me through eyes the color of the hydrangeas

back home at Drayden Hill—a soft, clear blue with a lighter mist

aroundtheedges.Herpleatedlipstremble.

BeforeIcangathermywits,anursecomestocollecther,takinga

firmhold.“May,”shesays,castinganapologetic lookmyway,“Come

along.You’renotsupposedtobotherourguests.”

Rather than releasingmywrist, theoldwomanclings to it. She

seems so desperate, as if she needs something, but I can’t imagine

whatitis.

Shesearchesmyface,stretchesupward.

“Fern?”shewhispers.

Chapter2

May Crandall

AIKEN,SOUTHCAROLINAPRESENTDAY

Onoccasion,itisasifthelatchesinmymindhavegonerustyand

worn.Thedoors fall open and closed atwill. Apeek insidehere.An

emptyspacethere.AdarkplaceI’mafraidtopeerinto.

IneverknowwhatIwillfind.

There’snopredictingwhenabarrierwillswingwide,orwhy.

Triggers. That’swhat the psychologists call them on TV shows.

Triggers…as if the strike ignites gunpowder and sends a projectile

spinningdownariflebarrel.It’sanappropriatemetaphor.

Herfacetriggerssomething.

Adooropensfarintothepast.Istumblethroughitunwittinglyat

first,wonderingwhatmightbe locked inside this room.Assoonas I

callherFern,Iknowit’snotfernI’mthinkingof.I’vegoneevenfarther

back.It’sQueenieIsee.

Queenie,ourstrongmama,whomarkedallofuswithherlovely

goldencurls.AllbutpoorCamellia.

My mind skitters featherlight across treetops and along valley

floors.Itravelallthewaytoalow-slungMississippiriverbanktothe

lasttimeIsawQueenie.Thewarm,softairof thatMemphissummer

nightswirlsoverme,butthenightisanimposter.

Itisnotsoft.Itdoesnotforgive.

Fromthisnight,therewillbenoreturning.

Twelve years old, still thin and knobby as a front porch post, I

danglemylegsundertherailofourshantyboat,watchingforagator’s

eyestocatchtheamberflickeroflanternlight.Gatorsshouldn’tstray

this far upwater on the Mississippi, but there’s been gossip about

sightings aroundhere lately.Thismakes looking for thema gameof

sorts.Shantyboatkidstaketheirentertainmentwheretheycanfindit.

Rightnow,weneedadistractionworsethanusual.

Besideme,Fernclimbstherailandsearchesthewoodsforfire-

flies.Atnearlyfouryearsold,she’slearningtocountthem.Shepoints

astubbyfingerandleansout,mindlessofgators.“Iseeone,Rill!Iseen

’im!”shecries.

Igrabherdresstopullherback.“Yougofallin’off,Iain’tjumping

inafteryathistime.”

Truthtold,itprobablywouldn’thurtherifshetumpedover.It’d

teachheralesson.Theboat’stiedupinanicelittlebackwateracross

the river fromMud Island.Thewater isonlyhipdeeponmeoff the

Arcadia’sstern.Fernmightcouldtouchthebottomonhertiptoes,but

allfiveofusswimlikepollywogsanyhow,evenlittleGabion,whocan’t

talkafullsentenceyet.Whenyou’rebornontheriver,youtaketoitas

natural as drawing breath. You know its sounds and itsway and its

critters.Forriverratslikeus,thewater’sahomeplace.Asafeplace.

Butsomething’sintheairjustnow…somethingthat’snotright.A

spat of gooseflesh runsupmy arms andneedlesmy cheeks. There’s

alwaysbeenaknowinginme.I’dnevertella livingsoulof it,butit’s

there just thesame.Achill settles throughme in theairlesssummer

night.Overhead,theskyisthick,andthecloudsareripeasmelonsfair

tobursting.There’sastormcoming,butwhatIfeelissomethingmore

thanthat.

Insidetheshanty,Queenie’ssoftgroanscomefasternow,mind-

lessofthemidwifewoman’smolasses-thickvoice:“Now,MizFoss,you

gotstostoppushin’,andyougotstostopnow.This’erechildcomeout

wrongsided,heain’tgon’belongfo’thisworld,andyouain’tneither.

That’sitnow.Youjus’quietendown.Beeasy.”

Queeniegivesa low,wrenchingsoundthat’s likeabootsucking

outofthickbayoumud.She’sbirthedthefiveofuswithhardlymore

thanaheavybreath,butit’stakingsomuchlongerthistime.Irubthe

sweaty chill off my arms and feel like something’s out there in the

woods.Somethingevil. It looksourway.Why is ithere?Did it come

forQueenie?

Iwanttoscamperdownthegangplankandrunalongtheshore

andyell,“Yougitonnow!Yougitaway!Youcan’thavemymama!”

I’d do it. I’mnot afraid theremight be gators. But instead, I sit

stillasakilldeerbirdonanest.I listentothemidwife’swords.She’s

loudenough,Imightaswellbeintheshanty.

“Oh,lands!Ohmercy.Shegotmore’noneinside.Shedo!”

My daddymutters something I can’t hear. His boot steps cross

thefloor,hesitate,crossagain.

Themidwife says, “Mista Foss, ain’t nothin’ I can do ’bout this.

Youdon’tgitthiswomantoadoctorquick,thembabiesain’tgon’set

eyesonthisworld,andthisbetheirmama’sdyin’daytoo.”

Brinydoesn’tanswerrightoff.Hepoundsbothfistshardagainst

thewallsothatQueenie’spictureframesrattle.Somethingslipsloose,

andthere’stheclinkofmetalagainstwood,andIknowwhat it isby

whereit fallsandhowitsounds.Inmymind,Iseethetincrosswith

thesad-lookingmanontop,andIwanttoruninsideandgrabitand

kneel by the bed and whisper mysterious Polish words, the way

QueeniedoesonstormynightswhenBriny isawayfromtheshanty-

boat,andtherainwaterflowsovertheroof,andwavespoundthehull.

But I don’t know the strange, sharp language Queenie learned

from the family she left behind when she ran off to the river with

Briny.ThefewPolishwordsIhavewouldbeamouthfulofnonsenseif

Istrungthemtogether.Evenso,ifIcouldgrabQueenie’scrossinmy

hand justnow, I’d say them to the tinmanQueeniekisseswhen the

stormscome.

I’dtryprettynearanythingtohelpgetthebirthingoverwithand

seeQueeniesmileagain.

On the other side of the door, Briny’s boot scrapes the planks,

andIhearthecrossclatteroverthefloor.Brinylooksoutthecloudy

windowthatcamefromthefarmhousehetoredowntobuildtheboat

before Iwaseverborn.WithBriny’smamaonherdeathbedand the

cropsdroughtedout foranotheryear, thebankerwasgonnaget the

house anyway. Briny figured the river was the place to be. He was

right too.Time theDepressionhit, himandQueeniewere living just

fine on thewater.Even theDepression can’t starve the river,he says

every timehe tells thestory.Theriver’sgotherownmagic.Shetakes

careofherpeople.Alwayswill.

Buttonight,thatmagic’sgonebad.

“Mista! You hear me talkin’ at you?” The midwife turns mean

now.“Iain’thavin’theybloodonmyhands.Yougityo’womantothe

hospital.Youdoitnow.”

Behind theglass,Briny’s facepulls tight.Hiseyessqueezeshut.

He hammers a fist to his forehead, lets it fall against thewall. “The

storm…”

“I don’ care if the devil hisself is dancin’ by, Mista Foss. Ain’t

nothin’Icandofo’thisgal.Nothin’.Iain’tgon’haveitonmyhands,no,

suh.”

“She’snever…hadtrouble…notwiththeothers.She….”

Queenie screamshighand loud, the soundwhirlingoff into the

nightlikeawildcat’scall.

“’Less’nyou fo’got to tellmesomethin’, sheain’tneverhad two

babiesatoncebefo’neither.”

Ishifttomyfeet,andtakeFernaround,andputherontheshan-

typorchwithGabion,who’s two,andLark,who’s six.Camellia looks

mywayfromwhereshe’sstaringinthefrontwindow.Closingthegate

acrossthegangplank,ItrapthemallontheporchandtellCamellianot

toletthelittlekidsclimbover.

Camelliaanswerswithafrown.Attenyearsold,she’sgotBriny’s

muleystreakalongwithhisdarkhairandeyes.Shedoesn’tlikebeing

toldwhattodo.She’sstubbornasacypressstumpandtwiceasthick

sometimes.Ifthelittleonesgotofussing,we’llbeinabiggerfixthan

wealreadyare.

“It’s gonna be all right,” I promise, and pat their soft, golden

headslikethey’repuppies.“Queenie’sjusthavin’ahardtimeisall.She

don’tneednobodybotherin’her.Y’allstayputnow.Oldrougarou,he’s

rootin’ round tonight, Iheardhimbreathin’minuteago.Ain’t safe to

beout.”Nowthat I’mtwelve, Idon’tbelieve in therougarouandthe

buggermanandMadCaptainJackof theriverpirates.Notmuchany-

how.IdoubtifCamelliaeverdidswallowBriny’swildtales.

Shereachesforthedoorlatch.

“Don’t,”Ihiss.“I’llgo.”

We were told to keep out, which Briny never says unless he

meansit.Butrightnow,Brinysoundslikehe’sgotnoideawhattodo,

and I’mworried about Queenie andmy new baby brother or sister.

We’vebeen,allofus,waiting toseewhichone it’dbe. Itwasn’tsup-

posed to come yet, though. This is early—even earlier than Gabion,

who was such a little thing, he came sliding into the world before

Brinycouldget theboat toshoreand findawomantohelpwith the

birthing.

Thisnewbabydon’tseemmuchinclinedtomakethingssoeasy.

Maybe it’ll look likeCamelliawhen it comesoutandbe justas stub-

born.

Babies, I remindmyself. It sinks in that there’smore than one,

likepuppies,andthisain’tnormal.Three lives layhalf-hiddenbythe

bed curtain Queenie sewed from pretty Golden Heart flour sacks.

Three bodies try to pull themselves apart from each other, but they

can’t.

Iopenthedoor,andthemidwifeisontopofmebeforeIcande-

cidewhethertogoinornot.Herhandlocksontomyarm.Itfeelslike

herfingersgoaroundtwice.Ilookdownandseethecircleofdarkskin

againstpale. Shecould snapme in two if she’damind to.Whycan’t

she savemy baby brother or sister?Why can’t she pull it frommy

mama’sbodyandintotheworld?

Queenie’shandgripsthecurtain,andshescreamsandtugs,arch-

ingupoffthebed.Ahalf-dozenwirehooksriploose.Iseemymama’s

face,her long, corn-silkblondhairmatted toherskin,herblueeyes,

thosebeautiful,softblueeyesthathavemarkedallofusbutCamellia,

buggingout.Theskinonhercheekstretchessotight,it’scrossedwith

lacyveinslikeadragonfly’swings.

“Daddy”

Mywhispercomeson theendofQueenie’sscream,butstill it

seems to upset the air in the room. I don’t ever call BrinyDaddy or

QueenieMama unless something’s real wrong. They were so young

when they hadme, I don’t think they even thought to teachme the

wordsMama and Daddy. It’s always been like we were friends the

sameage.Buteveryonce inawhile, Ineed themtobeadaddyora

mama.Thelasttimewasweeksagowhenwesawthemanhunginthe

tree,dead,hisbodybloatedup.

WillQueenielooklikethatifshedies?Willshegofirstandthen

thebabies?Orwillitbetheotherwayaround?

My stomach squeezes so tight I don’t even feel that big hand

aroundmyarmanymore.Maybe I’mevenglad it’s there,holdingme

onmyfeet,keepingmeanchoredtothespot.I’mafraidtogoanyclos-

ertoQueenie.

“Youtellhim!”Themidwifeshakesmelikearagdoll,andithurts.

Herteethglarewhiteinthelanternlight.

Thunder rumbles not far off, and a gust of wind hits the star-

board wall, and themidwife stumbles forward, takingme with her.

Queenie’seyesmeetmineShelooksatmethewayalittlechildwould,

likeshethinksIcanhelpherandshe’sbeggingmetodoit.

Iswallowhardandtrytofindmyvoice.“D-Daddy?”Istutterout

again and he still stares straight ahead. He’s froze up like a rabbit

whenitsensesdangernearby.

Throughthewindow,IseeCamelliawithherfacemashedtothe

glass.The littlekidshave climbedupon thebench to look in. Lark’s

gotbig tears rollingdownher fat cheeks.Shehates toseeany living

creaturehurting.Shethrowsallthebaitfishbackintheriverifshecan

getawaywith it.WheneverBrinyshootspossums,orduck,orsquir-

rels,ordeer, shecarrieson likeherbestpal’sbeenkilleddeadright

thereinfrontofher.

She’slookingatmetosaveQueenie.Theyallare.

There’saspitoflightningsomeplaceoffinthedistance.Itpushes

backtheyellowcoaloilglow,thengoesdark.Itrytocounttheseconds

beforeIhearthethunder,soI’llknowhowfaroffthestormis,butI’m

toorattled.

IfBrinydoesn’tgetQueenie to thedoctor soon, it’llbe too late.

Likealways,we’recampedonthewildshore.Memphisisalltheway

ontheothersideofthewide,darkMississippiRiver.

I cough a lumpout ofmy throat and stiffenupmyneck so the

lumpwon’tcomeback.“Briny,yougottatakeheracrosswater.”

Slowly, he swivelsmyway.His face is still glassy, but he looks

likehe’sbeenwaitingforthis—forsomebodybesidesthemidwifeto

tellhimwhattodo.

“Briny,yougottacarryheroffintheskiffnow,beforethatstorm

comes in.” It’d take too long tomove the shantyboat, I know. Briny

wouldrealizethattooifhecouldthinkstraight.

“Youtellhim!”themidwifeeggsmeon.ShestartstowardBriny,

shovingmeaheadofher.“Youdon’getthatwomanoffathisboat,this

child’smamabedeadbefo’mornin’.

*Endofthisfreepreview

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