The Woman in the Photo (9 page)

S
OUTHERN
C
ALIFORNIA

Present

S
hortly after her life imploded, Lee's laptop crashed, too. Looking back, she viewed its incremental disintegration as a metaphor for all the life signs she'd ignored, too. Like that
whirring
beneath the keyboard. Wasn't that similar to the distraction she'd heard—but overlooked—in Shelby's voice as she packed for Malawi?

“Um, yeah, don't worry, I'll FaceTime you.”

And Shelby's last text from Malawi: “There's this boy. A carpenter for Habitat. Yum!”

Shouldn't she have seen that coming? The same way all those frozen Web pages foreshadowed the Blue Screen of Death? If she'd been paying attention, she wouldn't have felt so run over when Shelby changed her relationship status on Facebook. How could her best friend since
middle school
change her relationship status without telling her?

When Lee spent the night of her eighteenth birthday eating microwave popcorn in front of the TV with her mom, she realized she should have made more friends. You know, as backup. In case her very
best
friend left the country to have a yummy boyfriend without bothering to mention it. In case her brother decided to
vanish
into the woods and her dad ran away from home, leaving her mother feeling all clutchy, as if Lee were the only person left in the world.

There were lots of other signs that things were awry, too. Like, for months, Lee's computer had been super slow. Constantly buffering. An endlessly rotating color wheel in the center of her screen reminding her that she was going nowhere. Wasn't that spinning symbol of impending disaster just like the foreboding of her dad's drinking? Its downward spiral? Like the way she noticed, but didn't fully note, that his glass of wine with dinner became two, then it included a cocktail while her mom was cooking, then scotch in a tumbler the moment he got home from work with his breath already ignitable. Hadn't he been disappearing in plain sight for years? And taking her future with him?

If her eyes had been open, she would have noticed that her computer was infected by something malicious; she would have begged her dad to get help before he dragged them all down with him. Had she been paying attention to all the ways her father had become little more than a prop around the house, she wouldn't have been so knocked off her feet when he called several months after he packed up and left.

“It's me,” he'd said.

“Dad?”

“Yep.”

“Where are you?”

Gil sighed and muttered something about an inability to cope. Life, he said, had gotten the best of him. “I'm a human being, Lee. With flaws.”

His speech was slow. The word “flaws” had two syllables:
fill-aws
. It was barely four o'clock and he was already drunk.

Lee said, “Lots of fathers have flaws.”

Gil Parker sighed spitily into the phone. In a confessional sort of way, he unburdened himself. “See, that's the thing, Lee. I've never been father material. I realize that now.”

“Um,
what
?”

“Not all adults are meant to be parents. I'm sorry. Truly.”
Tur-ew-lee.

Lee sat there blinking. Like a pulsing blob, she felt her blood
ba-blump, ba-blump
through her aorta. Had she really heard what she thought she heard? Had her father
quit
? Were dads allowed to do that? All this time, had he only been faking fatherhood? Pretending to love her? Was it because she wasn't genetically his? Was he father material to her brother, Scott?

It wasn't remotely close to the conversation she had imagined having when her father finally called. She'd pictured tears and apologies.
His
. She'd envisioned herself taking the high road.

“Come home, Dad,” she would say, nonjudgmentally. “We'll forget about the past. Let's start over.”

Maturely, she wouldn't mention how they'd had to cancel cable and the landline because creditors kept calling during dinner—which was now usually beans and rice. Or how her
mother had lied to her father's boss when it became clear that he'd quit his job, too.

“I'm afraid he's too ill to come to the phone,” she said for as long as she believably could. Finally, she had to come clean.

“Gone?” his boss had asked. “Gone where?”

“I haven't a clue.”

“When will he be back?”

“I'm afraid he's left us.”

Nothing is more pathetic than
silence
after you admit something like that. That's what Valerie said after she hung up. And nothing is more terrifying than the abrupt disappearance of automatic paycheck deposits.

In the gazillion times Lee had rehearsed their phone conversation in her mind, she never told her dad that Shelby's parents gave them money for a mortgage that was already way past due. Not a word about the bankruptcy lawyer that her mom had to hire even though she had no money. And she certainly never let it slip that there were lots of days when she came home from school to find the curtains drawn, the house dark, and her mother hastily dressed in clothes from the floor—her hair flat on one side, crust in the corners of her eyes, and pillow wrinkles fresh on her face.

Gil had ended the call with a resigned “Okay, then.”

Lee's cell felt like a brick in her hand. Before her father hung up, she quickly asked, “Have you heard from Scott? Do you, um, know how we might be able to reach him?”

Shouldn't
somebody
inform her brother that his family had disintegrated like cotton candy left in the sun?

Snorting a sad laugh, Gil said, “Apparently, he takes after his dad.”

Then the phone went dead.

Nothing but pathetic silence.

Just like the day her laptop crashed for the last time. She felt the same panicked loneliness when she stared at the dead machine that once contained her whole entire life.

So, now, Lee Parker's eyes were wide open. No longer would she look the other way. Now she
noticed
the gray shadow that flickered past Valerie's sunny disposition each time Lee searched her iPhone for any possible information about the woman in the photo. True, in her initial excitement, she'd been a clod. Totally insensitive in the car on the way home from Social Services. All that stuff about her peeps. But now she was keenly attuned.

“Come watch TV with me.” Valerie patted the sofa cushion. “Here. With your
mom
.”

Now Lee was aware of the way Val kept identifying herself.

“How 'bout a good-night kiss for your
mom
?”

As if Lee would somehow forget.

Lee noticed. She got it. No way was she going to hurt the only person who hadn't left her to fend for herself.

Still.

No way could Lee let it go either. As any adoptee knows. The tiny pebble of information she now knew only expanded the ripples of her desire to know more. Where was she born? How had she come to be? Where had her birth mother drowned? Why the name Elizabeth? Did she have siblings? A father? Had he been looking for her all her life? Who made her tall,
dark, and broody? And, the most pressing question of all: Who was the woman in the photo? The genetic relative whose blood pumped through Lee's veins. After eighteen years of wondering, she now had a name and a clue: Clara Barton and a pileful of rubble. Could the woman who founded the American Red Cross lead Lee to the dark-haired woman who stood next to Clara so many years ago? And, in turn, could the dark-haired woman lead Lee to the birth mother who had once pressed her palm onto her distended stomach to feel her child's stretching arms, her flexing legs, her impatience to get out and meet her? Could the woman in the photo lead Lee to the identity of the woman who gave her life?

For Lee, that simple question was the biggest ache and
pain
of her life. The mystery of her history. The elephant in the living room she'd been tiptoeing around ever since she saw the photo. Of course she wanted to know. Who wouldn't? But the distressing truth was: uncovering the identity of her birth mother would bruise the only mother she'd ever known.

There was only one solution: going forward, Lee would secretly search for her mother without her mom finding out.

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

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

Summer 1888

F
resh from my mortification in the bushes behind the clubhouse, I hop on my bicycle and pedal. Past the clubhouse, past our cottage, as far as the dirt path will allow. I search every clearing for Nettie and her picnic. My shoes are caked
with mud, as is the hem of my skirt. If not for the breeze caused by my haste, I would scarcely be able to see through the errant fronds of hair that fall onto my face like drooping leaves of a weeping willow. My heart thrashes inside my chest. In part, the pounding is due to the exertion of exercise, but also it's a result of the wild anticipation of what I'm about to do. If I could only find Nettie.

At the path's end, I lean my bicycle against a gnarled tree stump and scramble forward on foot. Dead leaves and lake sand crunch beneath my feet. The scent of rich, damp earth envelops me like an opera cloak. I feel like a Scotland Yard sleuth. My eyes are fixed to the occasional footprints in the path. For the next several minutes, I stoop under low-hanging branches, clamber over fallen saplings, extricate myself from mud hollows, and snag my skirt on every jagged twig. I follow any shoe-sized indentation I can find. My own shoes are a fright. Mother will be cross beyond words.

At long last, I hear laughter coming from a clearing in the woods. As I draw myself closer to the familiar sound, I notice a flash of fabric.

“Nettie!” I call out.

Silence.

“Nettie. It's Elizabeth.”

A great rustling ensues. Rewrapping her picnic fare, I assume. Marching straight toward the sound, I am startled to see Nettie with a horseman I recognize from the clubhouse stable. He scrabbles to his feet. Heaven knows what I might have interrupted.

“Ma'am,” he mumbles, adjusting his grubby cap.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Nettie sputters. Clearly, she is disconcerted to see me outdoors without a corset.

“Forgive my intrusion, Nettie,” I say. “I hope you won't mind cutting your picnic short. I've changed my plan for the day. I now need your help.”

Perhaps there is the faintest flicker of annoyance in Nettie's expression, but it fades too quickly for me to formally note it. And the gentleman with her stares at his feet. Almost certainly he spotted my natural waistline and unruly hair. To his credit, he doesn't embarrass me by staring at my state of undress. Not once does he look up.

“We must move quickly,” I say, turning. “I'll be back at the cottage waiting for you.” Without wasting another moment, I hurry back to the path. My bicycle, with its muck-encrusted tires, is nearly impossible to pedal. Yet I somehow manage. Such is the force of my determination.

Early afternoon has settled in by the time Nettie makes her way back to the cottage and to me. No one is there, thank goodness. Ida, our cook, and Ella, Mother's maid, are working teatime at the clubhouse for the day. Extra hands were required to ensure the Tottingers wanted for nothing. I shut my eyes for a moment in exasperation. The only thing that Tottinger fellow needs is an ample serving of humble pie.

We don't have much time. Surely Mother will come looking for me once she hears of my folly in the birch thicket behind the clubhouse. If she hasn't heard gossip about it already. I will be reprimanded severely, I'm sure. Which is why I am willing to do what I plan to do next. The rules have already been broken.
Why fret over breaking a few more? If we move hastily, I will make it before teatime
and
before Mother returns to thwart me.

“What happened to your face, miss?” Nettie asks, alarmed. We meet in the cottage hallway. In the mirror behind the coat-rack, I see a smear of dried blood directly in the center of my cheek. There is also mud on my forehead and brambles in my hair. Mother would lock me away if she saw such a sight. The very last thing a proper lady would ever do is allow her face to get so dangerously close to a hedgeful of bristles.

“I had a mishap,” I say. “But you and I will undo it.”

The preparations begin in earnest. Nettie races to the kitchen to heat water. Then she returns to the parlor and sits me down on a sturdy chair. Squatting in front of me, she works her magic with a buttonhook. The laces on my leather boots are rigid with mud.

“You decided to go out after all, then,” she says with a wry smile.

“Indeed.”

“Did you see the royals?”

Sighing with exasperation, I repeat, “The Tottingers are
not
royal.” Then I sigh in an altogether different manner. “But James may as well be.”

Nettie grins. At last, she is able to release my feet from their muddy bondage. “Mercy,” she says. “I'll have to use saddle cleaner to restore any use of these.”

“Perhaps your stable-hand friend has some to spare?”

Now she blushes. Hoisting herself up, my maid dangles my dirty shoes away from her dress. In a commotion of fabric, she
is out of the parlor and on her way to the kitchen where my bathwater is hopefully near a boil.

“Hurry!” I call after her as I race up the stairs to my bedroom. “We don't have a moment to waste.”

If this were any normal day, I would accept Nettie's help in undressing. But, today is far from ordinary. Thankfully, my clothes are easy to remove. The shirtwaist has but five buttons down the front; the simple skirt but one in the back. And my hair is already tumbled from any semblance of containment. By the time the bathtub is full and sufficiently warmed, I am stripped down to my scandalous bloomers and camisole. Since we are alone in the cottage, I have no worry of anyone seeing my near nakedness. Though, of course, Little Henry would no more notice underclothes than I would notice the manner of steam propulsion on a train.

“Here.” I meet Nettie in the bathroom and hand her the bottle of lavender oil I purchased on a recent trip into Pittsburgh. “I am told that two drops will scent an entire bath.”

It's true. The room soon fills with the sweet aroma of purple flowers.

Unlike the large bathroom next to my bedroom in our Upper St. Clair home, the cottage bath at South Fork is scaled down but serviceable. There is a washing stand near the curtained window, a rolled-top bathtub next to it, and a commode against the facing wall. Admittedly, the commode is the one luxury that makes staying in our cottage worth it. The clubhouse has only an
out
house—though it is a two-story structure, and more modern than one might expect so far into the woods. In our cottage bathroom, there is no need for a fireplace since we are
rarely here once summer has passed. Still, Nettie warms my linen towel in the kitchen oven.

“Shall I wash your hair, too, miss?” she asks, helping me out of my undergarments and into the warm, floral water.

“Not today,” I say. “I must be ready by teatime.”

After quickly plucking bits of scrub from my hair and pinning it atop my head to keep it dry, my maid commences scrubbing my back and arms with carbolic soap and a hand-sized cut of cotton fabric. Next come my feet and legs, which she washes with both diligence and care. I cleanse my private areas while Nettie rushes back to my bedroom to retrieve my traveling satin robe. Before she exits, I say, “I'll be wearing my
best
corset this afternoon. And the white silk stockings in my second trunk.”

Stopping, Nettie wheels around with a furrowed brow. “White silk?”

“Yes.” Then I shift my back to forestall further discussion.

Unlike my usual half-hour soak, today's bath takes less than ten minutes. The moment I step out of the water, Nettie is there to wrap me like an Egyptian mummy in a length of absorbent cotton. The warm fabric feels glorious on my washed and scented skin. Nonetheless, I welcome the unfurling. I am nearly completely dry when Nettie hands me my robe and we both dash back to my bedroom.

With the clamor of the clubhouse a good half mile away, it is silent in my bedroom. Even with the window open, I hear only the chatter of birds. Still, I can almost hear snippets of gossip about me.

“Ah yes, Elizabeth Haberlin has always been a bit of a rebel.” (Francine.)

“I heard she once betrayed a confidence.” (Untrue.)

“She once refused to apologize for unladylike behavior.” (True.)

From my second-floor window, I see that the sun is orange. Afternoon is fast slipping away.

“We must move swiftly,” I tell Nettie, “or all will be for naught.”

With expert movements, Nettie opens my wardrobe and mines for my finest set of drawers and prettiest silk chemise. On my direction, she retrieves the crinoline cage and pink satin corset I bought on my last trip to visit Tilly in New York. Mother adores this corset. Its boning is so stiff my waist is a full three inches slimmer than normal. If it weren't an emergency situation, I would never subject myself to such torture. But, today, I can endure pain and suffocation for the greater good. Thank heavens I had the foresight to pack an extra trunk with such finery.

“All this for tea at the clubhouse, miss?”

I answer with a question of my own: “Are there still fresh wildflowers behind the cottage?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. Please bring me several cuttings of baby snapdragons. Heliotrope, if possible. The best you can find.”

Nettie nods and scampers off. While she is gone, I dash into the kitchen for a lemon. My fingernails are a horror. My bath wasn't nearly long enough to coax out the mud beneath my nails. After cutting the lemon in half, I return to my bedroom and sit before my vanity mirror. Inserting each finger into the lemon's center, one by one, I twist and squeeze until the citrus
juice has cleansed each nail and bleached away any discoloration, leaving only the scent of sunshine.

“We had a good crop,” Nettie says, returning with an apronful of purple snapdragons. “For your hair, I assume?”

“Yes. Work your magic.”

Deftly, Nettie sets the flowers on my dressing table and proceeds to brush my unruly hair with speed and expertise. Once it is smooth, she coils it into a tight French twist. Holding the style in place with her left hand, she inserts pins with her right. Then, with fingers waggling like an upended centipede's feet, she frazzles my forehead fringe in exactly the manner I prefer. A light waterfall of tendrils in uniform density above my eyes, barely brushing my brows. Nothing as old-fashioned as finger waves or ringlets. Heavens, no. In a matter of minutes, I am transformed from forest nymph to debutante. Perfect. After Nettie tucks baby snapdragons down the length of the coil, I swivel my head left and right to note the swinging of their bell-like shapes.

“Stunning, miss,” Nettie says, admiring her work.

“I agree.” I clap my hands like a child.

Turning me away from the pier glass, Nettie commences work on my face. First, she smooths on a jasmine pomade I had sent all the way from the Orient. Its milky hue, infused with the faintest hint of glimmer, is an excellent canvas for the restrained application of beet juice on my cheeks and lips. With her smallest finger, Nettie dips into the ground charcoal I brought from Pittsburgh. Ever so lightly she brushes it across my lashes. Finally, I see her hurry over to the open window and lean all the way out. Just as I'm about to grab her foot, she
pops back in the room holding a tiny feather. “There is
always
one about,” she says, dipping the quill end into my basin water, then twirling it in the charcoal. “Look up, miss.”

I look up. With the precision of Gustave Courbet, Nettie touches my cheek once with the charcoal-tipped quill. Then she turns me to the mirror. I gasp at the sight of me. The jasmine pomade has created the most beautiful white sheen. And the charcoal dot conceals my thorn wound with a thoroughly modern beauty mark. “Oh, Nettie!” I squeal. Behind me, she smiles and squeezes my shoulder. Then we quickly get back to work.

With the nimbleness of a cotillion waltzer, Nettie stands me up and inserts me into my white silk stockings, petticoat, chemise, corset, and bustle. “Hold still,” she says, circling around to my spine. Bracing herself against my bedpost, she rears back and draws the laces of my corset into her chest as if attempting to stop a team of runaway stallions. I groan.

“Apologies,” she says.

“Harder,” I gasp.

Grunting and wheezing herself, Nettie uses her considerable heft to pull mightily. As if escaping a torture chamber by the only available exit, my breasts heave upward, nearly brushing my chin.

“Well done,” I say, feeling faint.

At last, we are ready for the final layer. My crowning glory.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Miss Elizabeth?”

“Absolutely,” I say, without so much as a glimmer of doubt.

With that, my maid takes pains not to ruin my hair as she dresses my body in the finest silk and lace. She fastens the
satin-covered buttons down the length of my spine and slips my stockinged feet into delicate silk shoes. Onto each hand, she carefully slides lace gloves from Paris. The gloves I have been saving for my debut. No matter. I'm quite sure no one will be noticing my hands. Nettie encircles my neck with a pearl choker and adorns my earlobes with fire opals. Of course I wear Grandmother's bracelet. My lavender bath has made the diamonds gleam. Assisting me down the cottage stairs, Nettie follows me out the back door to the formerly muddy access road that has, thankfully, dried to dust.