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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June6th,2017