Handsome? A curious reaction swirled in my belly at the word. It was not unreasonable for Phoebe to notice such a thing about a member of the family. It was, however, peculiar to have felt strongly enough about it to include it in her journal.
I came to the last page of the second journal and considered shutting off the computer, as my eyes were strained and my fingers sore.
“Hey.”
I glanced toward the apartment door. Mark was here. Excellent.
“Wait a moment.” I shot him a quick smile and then dropped my gaze back to the computer, to close the files I’d been reading and seek the button that would turn this device off. I’d been apart from Mark for too long.
From the moment we reached home, Susanna was absorbed by her journals. That was cool. It meant I had nothing to distract me from homework, and I had plenty of that to consume my evening. Mr. Fullerton never let a school night pass without expecting us to think about the history of American democracy.
And, of course, I had physics. Gabrielle had emailed me the stuff that she and Jesse/Benita put together. She tried to make it sound like they’d had a lot of fun, but I didn’t care. I’d wanted to spend time with Susanna.
Except look how well that had gone.
Maybe I should focus on Susanna’s ID. Tonight, I would look into Social Security cards.
We couldn’t be the first people to ever try to fake one before. Could it be as easy as simply asking the question?
I tried:
how to fake ssn card
.
Oh, yeah. Lots of hits.
Ask.com
had the best answer.
Get a real Social Security card
.
Get a real typewriter
.
Type the new name over the old one
.
Put the card in the pocket of a pair of jeans
.
Wash. Dry. Done
.
And what would we have? A realistically beat-up Social Security card.
My card was in Dad’s office. Gran had an old-fashioned typewriter. We were golden.
I was in a seriously good mood, and I wanted to share it with Susanna, even though I couldn’t tell her why. I headed to her apartment. The door was ajar and I nudged it open.
She didn’t even hear me enter the room.
“Hey.”
She flashed a quick look at me and then returned her gaze to the computer. “Wait a moment.”
Right.
How long was I going to be on hold this time?
C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN
H
EALTHY
R
ELATIONSHIP
S
KILLS
When I took the Consumer Living class last year, we’d spent a lot of time talking about healthy relationship skills. They made us watch these videos that emphasized how much girls liked to be asked questions. It made them think the guys were interested. I could try that. “Have you learned much?”
“Indeed.” She smiled at the computer, brushed her hand against the keyboard, and closed the lid.
“Want to tell me what Phoebe said?”
“Not yet.” She straightened a pile of loose papers sitting next to the computer.
Was I getting the brush-off again? “Come on, Susanna. Take a break for the night. Those journals will be here tomorrow.”
She looked at me, her brow wrinkling. “Why are you using that tone?”
“I didn’t expect that getting those documents for you meant I wouldn’t see you tonight.”
“We are seeing each other now.”
“Not really.” We wouldn’t be in the same room if
I
hadn’t made the effort.
“What a charming invitation this has become.” Her chin lifted. “You are quite correct about the documents. I can read more in the morning. It isn’t as if I have anything else to fill my days.”
Her words felt like a slap. I turned and left, thumping my way to the second floor. Once I reached my room, I stood in the center, fuming, looking for something to do that didn’t involve punching a hole in the wall. It wouldn’t be homework, since that was done. My mom had cleaned in here today, so I didn’t have anything to clean, even if I’d been motivated, which I wasn’t. There was a pile of folded laundry that Mom left at the foot of the bed. It would take me ten seconds to put away. And then what?
“Mark?”
I whipped around. Susanna watched me from my bedroom door. “Yeah?”
“I do not wish for our evening to end this way.”
Opening my arms wide, I said, “Come on in and we’ll talk.”
Her cheeks reddened. “You know I cannot enter your bedchamber.”
It was one of my parents’ rules—rules that Susanna would never break. There could be no sleepovers in her room and no visits of any kind in mine. “Talk from there. I’ll hear you.”
“Why are you angry?”
“I’m feeling a little stupid right now. I thought
I
was something you could use to fill your days.”
She clasped her hands at her waist. “I spoke too harshly. That comment isn’t a reflection on you.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Indeed, it is not. You are not here during school hours when I have no chores. I cannot bear to be idle.”
“Damn. Like I’ve never heard you complain about that before.” I scooped up the pile of clothes and stuffed part of them in my dresser.
“Mark.” She hung on the threshold. “Do not speak to me this way.”
“Sorry, but I don’t want to have this out with you right now.” I crossed to my closet and stared in, hardly remembering why I was there until I realized I still clutched bike jerseys.
“Do you want to have it out at all?”
Why did girls like fighting? Maybe because they were better at it than guys since it involved words. “Sure, Susanna. Why not? Go ahead and let me have it. You’re dying to say something.”
The silence stretched.
I glanced over my shoulder. She was gone.
C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN
A
N
U
NDETERMINED
D
AY
I’d been too angry with Mark to rest easily during the night.
It would’ve been most pleasant to have the house to myself. Mark and his father were gone on Thursdays, but not Mrs. Lewis. It was hard to miss her presence. She filled her day off by cleaning the first floor. The house rang with the noise of her cleaning machines.
It did seem best to remain in the apartment, a situation that suited me perfectly well since I was eager to read more of Phoebe’s thoughts.
The next journal skipped forward nearly a year, for its first entry started in March of 1799.
I learned of the tedious preparations for the Eton household’s spring cleaning. It was less complicated for my sister than it had been for me—but then, the Etons had many more servants than had the Pratts. My spring cleaning efforts had rarely gone smoothly or unpunished. Perhaps I should feel a sense of gladness that one of the Marsh sisters had escaped weekly thrashings.
I carefully turned the next page and was surprised to find a long entry, perhaps the longest she’d written. Another three months had elapsed. I put the pen down on the sheet of transcriptions and prepared to read the entry through once completely before transcribing it.
June 14th, 1799
It was a rare treat to be invited into the housekeeper’s office. Mrs. Jasper honored me thusly after breakfast on Tuesday of this week. While she wrote numbers into her account books, I had the task of mending a fine damask tablecloth, illuminated by the good light spilling in the window
.
A knock disturbed our peace. Mr. Fisk rose from the small desk he kept in the corner of the room and crossed to the front door, greeting the early-morning visitor with a dignified welcome
.
The light voice of a young girl responded and asked if Mrs. Eton were in. When Fisk requested the caller’s name, she replied that it was Miss Dorcas Pratt of Worthville
.
I looked up, shocked and pleased. What business did my childhood friend have here?
While Mr. Fisk led Dorcas to the formal parlor, Mrs. Jasper inquired if I knew Miss Pratt. I assured her that I did
.
Rising to my feet, I pressed my face to the window overlooking the lane, straining to see outside. A lovely carriage stood on the street before the house. Two horses stamped their hooves, held in check by a gloved pair of hands. Their owner remained hidden by the roof of the carriage
.
Little time elapsed before Mr. Fisk returned to the office and said that Mrs. Eton required my presence
.
I glanced anxiously toward the housekeeper. At her nod, I ran to the mistress’ parlor and rushed in
.
Mrs. Eton stood beside the fireplace, her face grave. I bobbed my head respectfully, my eyes searching the room for the visitor from Worthville
.
Dorcas hurried toward me. We clasped hands and shared a moment of delight in seeing each other after so long an absence. In retrospect, I am ashamed to admit that I forgot my proper demeanor before my mistress
.
How lovely Dorcas has grown. She wore a stylish gown of printed cotton, trimmed with ribbons of scarlet. Life must be good in the Pratt household
.
My beloved Dorcas. How good it was to hear news of her. There was nothing I regretted more about abandoning my old life than losing Phoebe and Dorcas.
In the three years since I moved to the Etons’ home, I have only been to Worthville once. A terrible dysentery had swept through the village. Many had succumbed. I returned to attend the funeral of three of the Pratt children. Dorcas had been too distraught on that occasion to speak
.
She is twelve now and displays the promise of beauty and poise
.
A sudden sting of tears ached behind my eyes, and I had to look away. It had happened. I’d known it would. Mark had already discovered that my three youngest babies had not lived until the 1800 census. But I had put it from my mind, and now here was certain knowledge of their passing.
John, Delilah, and Dinah. They had not been born of my body, but I had loved them just the same.
I rose and paced about the room, pausing to peer from the rear bay window over the glory of the back lawn. Once the initial shock lessened, I returned to my chair and searched for Phoebe’s description of her meeting with Dorcas.
“I am afraid I bring sad news.”
This solemn statement struck fear in my heart. I listened anxiously as Dorcas informed me of my mother’s death, saying that Mama had passed away on Sunday. Since my brother Caleb and his family had moved there recently, he was at her side
.
The pain of this announcement was great, indeed. Yet knowing that Mama had not been alone at her death provided great comfort
.
Dorcas continued, quietly relaying the arrangements. Caleb and Frances were tending to details. Since Mr. Pratt had business in Raleigh, he had offered to collect me, if the Etons could spare my time
.
Unease prickled my skin at the mention of Dorcas’s father. My sister had warned me about him. As much as I wished to be with my family at this time, I did not relish the thought of an hour or more in his company. I allowed my wariness to take over. It held the grief at bay
.
Mrs. Eton drew our attention with a soft sound of sympathy and urged me to attend the funeral, which was to be held the next day. “Phoebe, you may go. We shall do without you until Friday.”
Truly, I can hardly remember what happened next. The events rushed by quickly, a jumble of moments toppling onto one another. I shall write of them another day
.
“Susanna?”
I looked up from my study of the computer screen to find Mrs. Lewis standing in the door. I could not remember leaving it open this morning. Had she come in without knocking? I didn’t like to think she’d entered my private haven uninvited, but naturally I would say nothing. I was here on her sufferance. “Yes, ma’am?”
She released a heavy sigh. “You might as well call me Sherri.”
Perhaps not as gracious as I would’ve liked, but it did ease my mind. “Thank you.”
“What have you been doing up here all morning? You’ve been quiet.”
I sat back in my chair, surprised at the passage of time and melancholy at the news of Mama’s death. The grief must remain contained and unspoken. “I’m transcribing an old document for the State Archives.”
She peered over my shoulder. “You can read that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are they paying you?”
Of course not
pressed against my lips, but I held it in. This was the most comfortable discussion we’d had since I moved in. I should not like to spoil it now. “I have volunteered. It is a pleasure.”
She picked up one of my sheets and gasped. “Is this your handwriting? It’s lovely.”
“Thank you.”
She pulled out a chair and sat down. “I hadn’t thought much about what you do all day.”
I remained silent. She knew that I would work in this house—
wanted
to work for her—if only she would permit it.
“Have you thought any more about the type of job you might be good at?”
Sherri had ruled out all opportunities that involved cooking or going near people who might have illnesses. Perhaps she should be the one to suggest possibilities to me. “I can think of nothing else I can do.”
“Let me give it some thought.” She stood. “I’m about to go to the grocery store. Is there anything you need?”
I should dearly love to leave this house for an errand, but she hadn’t asked. I shook my head.
“All right.” She drifted out the door without closing it and thumped down the steps.
I closed my eyes and waited for the sounds of her vehicle purring up the lane. Only then did I ponder my sister’s entry, love and regret tugging at my heart.
My mother and I had never understood each other. She liked to be around people, especially children. Perhaps if she’d been born in Mark’s time, she would’ve made an excellent babysitter. Nothing made her happier than to cuddle and rock babies.
I had very much been my father’s daughter, a person more interested in learning and observation. Nature had fascinated us both. He and I had loved to discover how things worked or to argue how to make things better.