The Woman in the Photo (28 page)

Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

June 10, 1889

I
stand on the access road behind our cottage and stare at the destroyed shoreline below. If I had tears left, I would crumple to the ground, weeping. As it is, I can only feel the emptiness that I see. Most of the boardwalk is washed away, but our cottage sits, undisturbed, overlooking the ghastly hole. When I
see—and smell—the multitude of rotting fish that lie on the sand beneath our summer home, I am sickened anew. Screening the spillway so that fish couldn't escape downriver? It's unfathomable. Had our precious fish been left to swim freely, the rising
water
would have had a means of escape, too. Had the men of the Bosses' Club been truly generous, instead of pretending to be humanitarians, thousands of souls might not have perished.

Forever, they must live with that knowledge. As do I with my haughty inaction. Mr. Eggar warned me that our lake would one day be a murderer. How could I have so easily disregarded his pronouncement? He knew those mountains better than anyone. Until I die, I will bear that guilt. It pains me with each breath.

Together, Eugene and I circle around to the front cottage door. I know it's unlocked. In our idyllic retreat, no one ever felt the slightest hint of danger. Why would we? I now know
we
were the danger.

Reaching for the knob, I curl my fingers around it. I rotate my wrist and open the door. Mr. Eggar follows me inside.

Unbelievably, everything remains exactly as it was. I see the red Oriental rug in our front parlor, my piano, the velvet settees, our carved mantel, and the gold-filigreed embellishments on the chairbacks. One of Mother's velvet frock coats is still hanging on the mahogany hall tree. Mocking me are four umbrellas in the stand.

I am ashamed to walk through the cottage. I cannot look Mr. Eggar in the eye. Before, I never gave a moment's thought to our abundance. Of course Mother had
several
coats. As did
I. We wore whatever suited our fancy. Now my head hangs on my neck. Around me, I cannot bear to see so many unnecessary ornaments gilding our home. Our
second
home. The one of supposed simplicity. “Roughing it” in the woods. How foolish we have been. How terribly ignorant of the struggles of others.

“We must take everything,” I whisper, embarrassed to have Mr. Eggar see me as I truly am. Or, I should say, as I
was
. After all I witnessed—all that I now understand—how can I ever return to blindness?

“There isn't room in the wagon for all of it,” Eugene says.

With that, he circles around me to find Father's medical office. I gather my wits and hurry up the stairs.

Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

June 11, 1889

I
t's morning. A new day. Miss Barton has assigned me a corner of the lower works of Cambria Iron—one of the few buildings to withstand the flood. The blast furnaces have been fired up. White smoke billows from the chimneys. It's a blessing to the workers. Most resumed their jobs almost immediately after the water receded. The exhaustion of physical labor took their minds off the tragedies beyond the plant's doors.

Inside is no place for a lady, yet I endeavor to make it so. In my out-of-the-way nook, I sweep out the layers of dirt accumulated by the machinery's exhaust and the neglect of men. Using clean sheets Mr. Eggar and I carted down the hill from the cottage, volunteers help me construct privacy curtains with rope tied around steel beams. We secure the pier glass from my bedroom to a stanchion near the wall. I fill several of my porcelain pitchers with fresh water. Behind each curtain is a basin. Thankfully, the water lines in town have been restored.

Admittedly, Eugene eyed me askance yesterday when I dragged my dress form down the cottage stairs.

“Only the essentials, Miss Haberlin,” he had said.

“This is essential,” I replied. “You'll see.” Then I added, “And I insist you call me Elizabeth from here on in.”

He smiled. An expression of warmth that nearly drew tears.

“Only if you call me Eugene.”

And so it was. From that moment on.

All told, my corner of the mill is a fine setup. Perfectly situated for the task at hand. Miss Barton wisely chose the plant for my enterprise so that workingmen could escort their wives and sisters and mothers through the door on their way to work. Otherwise, the town women might have been too shy to approach me, a stranger. Most heartening is the way everyone makes a point of bringing widows and orphans to my corner. Without the insistence of their neighbors, they would most certainly sit in the mud and weep.

“Welcome,” I say, smiling.

The first woman through the door is petite. She stands barely five feet. Her hands seem made of bird bones. I notice a
patch of mud still matted in her hair. Her eyes retain the terror of the afternoon none of us will ever forget. In as unobtrusive a manner as possible, I run my gaze up and down the length of her tiny body.

“I have just the thing,” I say.

Turning to the cart where I have sorted all the clothing I found in my wardrobe at the cottage, plus everyone else's, I select a dress from the pile of the smallest. Thankfully, I find a lovely summer cotton, striped in a muted green. The matching bodice has a fetching stripe of lemon-yellow satin.

“This will offset your complexion in a most flattering way,” I say, handing the tiny woman the dress. She looks at it as if she has never seen a dress before. Her small fingers trace circles over the softness of the fabric.

“This way.” Gently, I guide her behind the first curtain. There, we have established a cleaning station. Soap, fresh water, squares of bathing cotton. A coatrack on which to hang her new dress while she freshens up. Volunteer women are there to assist. From my side of the curtain, I hear the gentle trickle of water. And I
feel
the renewal of her battered spirit.

“Welcome,” I say as my next customer comes through the door.

Word spreads quickly. By next morning, there is a line and lively chatter outside the warehouse doors. Miss Barton sends over new clothing as it arrives by donation. I encourage the women to take fresh trousers and vests for their husbands, sons, and brothers, too. We all know men will not stand in line with a bunch of women to try on clothes.

For the first time since the flood, I feel hopeful. Never would
I have imagined the joy of hearing women banter with one another. And to see them emerge from behind the dressing curtain in a new frock? Well, I have many times come near sobbing with happiness. I now understand Miss Barton's insistence on a life of purpose. Helping the women of Johnstown is the most gratifying feeling I have ever experienced.

Later that day, when an urgent letter arrives from Mother asking why I have not summoned Mr. Tilson to escort me home to Upper St. Clair, I reply, “For what? A life of frippery?” I add that I am well—and sane—and will visit as soon as I can. Then I get back to work so that I may help the next woman in line find a new dress and shoes and corset and petticoat that will make her feel alive again.

Never have I felt more fulfilled.

The most satisfying part of my mission, however, is an idea I had while gathering my things at the cottage.

When my first customer—the petite woman in the striped green cotton—emerged from the dressing curtain, I stood back and said, “Let me look at you.” Her face was pink from scrubbing. The matted mud, I noticed, no longer flattened her hair.

“Goodness, how lovely,” I said, quite honestly, even as the dress could use the attentions of my grandfather, the tailor.

“I've never seen a dress so beautiful,” she sputtered, looking at her skirt with awe. “I cannot thank you enough.”

I beamed. “From now on, you must remember that moss green is your color. Though the dress is missing one final touch.”

At the farthest corner of my station was my old dress form. On it, a dress. I picked up the scissors I brought from the cottage and marched over to snip off a small square.

“You mustn't!” the woman yelped.

Snip, snip.
I did.

“Every woman should feel the pleasure of wearing—at least
part
of—a Charles Worth original.”

I handed her a square from the bottom of my beaded and laced Charles Worth gown. The buttery gown I once considered wearing to my debutante ball, the mere thought of which now strikes me as absurd. Silently, I thanked God for instilling in me the thought to ask Nettie to “forget” the gown at the club. Only
he
would have known then how truly valuable my gown would become.

“There are sewing supplies just outside, beyond the front entrance,” I said. “I'm eager to see how you might use your embellishment.”

Some women made a small brooch out of their square of beaded fabric. Others cut it in two strips to enhance the cuffs. Still others shyly requested a piece of the underskirt's creamy satin so that they might tuck it into their bodices to feel its luxury against their skin as they set about excavating—and rebuilding—their lives.

Never before have I felt so useful. Never have I understood the life-affirming value of
true
simplicity: soap, water, a dress in a color that is just so. And, of course, a touch of glimmer to bounce the light.

What else could any woman want?

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

Present

S
he'd tried not to. Honestly, she had. York's first text went unacknowledged. His second—sent twice—was answered with a curt “Sorry. Busy.” Lee felt like throwing up after she tapped send. But York wasn't fazed. Perhaps he was so accustomed to being treated well he didn't recognize a brush-off when it came sweeping his way.

He replied, “I'll wait.”

In the meantime, he sent silly New York photos with funny captions.

“Mommy, why do you hate me?” A dachshund in a sun hat.

“NYC birdbath.” Pigeons in a puddle.

Even as she tried to resist, Lee was constantly tucking herself into a corner of Bed Bath & Beyond and sending smiley emojis to York's witty messages. After work, after class, they would chat on the phone. York was taking two summer classes
at Columbia. Lee was working double shifts. Incredibly, they had a lot in common. Both felt trapped in their lives. Both were outsiders. Theirs was a relationship that grew so naturally it felt like they'd known each other all their lives.

Lee tried not to fall in love. Honestly, she did.

“How long before you know who you are meant to be?” she asked him late one night—the
middle
of the night in New York.

“Is it creepy to admit I'm turned on by your proper use of ‘who'?” he replied.

Lee laughed out loud. She couldn't believe a guy like that liked a girl like her. But, of course, he didn't know who she really was. That night at the lagoon pool, she'd been a rich girl who lived in a glass mansion, not the daughter of a maid who showered among the skunks. Somehow, she'd never gotten around to telling him the truth. She'd tried to. Honestly, she had.

“York, I—”

Words always lodged in her throat after that.

“When are you coming to NYC?” York texted one day.

A rush of excitement flooded her body, followed by a blackened ball of dread. Lee's heart sank even as she longed to see him again. York deserved better than a liar.

“Someday,” she texted back.

“WHEN??? Weekend?”

It never occurred to him that money, not time, was her biggest obstacle.

York persisted. When he proposed flying out to Los Angeles instead, she knew the time had come. She had only one choice: cut it off cleanly, or
come
clean. She'd already waited too long. The more time that passed, the worse it would be.

“Will you be up after eight my time?” It was late summer. She was working the second shift.

“Definitely.”

“I'll call you tonight.”

“I await with appetency.”

Lee's heart fluttered. What girl didn't dream of a boy with a stellar vocabulary?

By seven forty-five that night, Lee's pulse was pounding. She could barely finish her shift. She was on the verge of losing the only boyfriend she almost had. Lee liked York. A lot. She didn't want him to hate her for not being the rich girl up the hill. For leading him astray. As the clock ticked toward eight, she felt the descending gloom of impending disaster. Her feet could hardly carry her to the employees' locker room to grab her stuff. Still, in the parking lot on the way to her car, she forced herself to
face
herself.

“What's up?” York asked, sleepily. It was eleven
P.M.
in New York. Summer was winding down. Worries over the new school year were revving up. For York, at least. Already he was stressing over sophomore calculus.

Lee licked her dry lips. Her phone felt as heavy as a brick.

“York, I—”

What could she say?
York, I am a
liar
?
Her head fell forward.

“What is it?”

In the same Band-Aid sort of way her father had delivered his bad news, she blurted, “I'm not who you think I am.”

York paused. “You're a dude?”

Lee let loose a jumpy laugh.

“A Rakhari who escaped the Bajoran wormhole?”

“You're demented,” Lee said.

“Are
you
demented? Is that what you're trying to tell me? 'Cause I've been wondering.”

Lee laughed again. Then she got serious. “York, I—” Again, words vacated her mind.

“What's going on, Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth
.

That's where she should start. Her original name. The name her birth mother had given her. The one she'd decided to give back to herself. She'd read online that Ashkenazi Jews had a tradition of naming children after a deceased relative. Since she'd faltered on every other tradition—like, did “fasting” mean total abstinence, or were smoothies okay?—she'd talked to her mom about restoring her birth name.

“Elizabeth is the long version of ‘Lee' anyway, Mom,” she'd said. “Now that I'm older, I want a more complex name.”

She didn't mention that Elizabeth was the name of her genetic great-great-great-grandmother—the woman in the photo.

Valerie had rolled her eyes. “A long name does not make a person complex. Look at Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Lee drew her mother close and hugged her hard. “You can always call me Lee, but I want the world to call me Elizabeth.”

“Watch out, world,” Valerie bellowed. “Multisyllabic woman coming through.”

From that day on, Lee called herself Elizabeth even as everyone who'd known her up to that moment never stopped calling her Lee.

Over the phone, York got quiet. He said, “How bad could it
be? You know
my
darkest shame. I secretly watch singing competitions.”

Elizabeth—Lee Parker—laughed again. She unlocked the door of her car and got in. Then she pressed her eyes shut and flattened her palm against her chest to calm her heart.

“I don't want you to hate me,” she whispered.

“Inconceivable.”

After a deep breath, she let go. In a jumble of sentences, she opened her mouth and allowed it all to tumble out. She told York about the pool house, about her mother (the maid), and her father (the disappearing act). She confessed that her college money was gone. Her brother had vanished, too, and her once best friend, Shelby, had moved on without her.

“I'm not sure why people leave me.” Her voice teetered on the precipice of tears. “My birth mother even abandoned me.”

Yes, she told him all she knew about her adoption, too.

York listened raptly. He said not a word. In the parking lot of Bed Bath & Beyond, Elizabeth watched streetlights blink on as she unburdened herself. When she was done, she nervously chewed on her lower lip. The silence was so complete she was convinced York had hung up long ago.

“Are you there?” she meekly asked into the void.

York then said two words that meant everything to her: “I'm here.”

For the first time in a long time, Elizabeth saw a future without clouds.

“I live in a fifth-floor walk-up in Washington Heights,” York said. “With two roommates. My view is my neighbor's brick wall. Living in a pool house would be a
luxury
.”

“It's moldy,” Elizabeth replied.

“A water bug crawled over my foot while I was brushing my teeth.”

“I smell like a gas-station air freshener when I get home from work.”

“I'm an intern in my professor's office. I smell like his B.O.”

“I make minimum wage.”

“My parents still give me an allowance.”

“I buy clothes on eBay.”

“Clothes are overrated.”

Elizabeth giggled. “I'm Jewish, too. Though I haven't been officially, um,
inducted
yet.”

“When you are, will you teach me the secret handshake?”

Together they released belly laughs of kinship. York said, “Rich girls are boring. They live like they're in a reality show.”

“Unlike me who is just in
reality
?”

“Precisely. Genuine life is riveting.”

He had a point. After all she'd recently learned about her birth family's history, Elizabeth couldn't wait to pull together the final pieces. To see the whole riveting picture.

“Did you honestly think I would dump you because you're not rich?”

Unable to stop smiling, she honestly answered, “No.”

After hanging up, Elizabeth backed out of the parking space and drove to the exit. At Ventura Boulevard, she turned right and began her journey home. To the pool house. Green lights at every intersection.