Chapter 30
July 16, 1936
I find myself often wondering about Samuel. Today I worked up the courage to venture back to the old oak. To the place I last saw him.
A note addressed to me stuck out of a hole in the tree. I am desperately curious to know what the letter says, but at the same time, I am scared to open it. So, instead of feeding my curiosity, I torment myself by staring at the unopened letter.
I gaze at the map pinned to my bedroom wall at least a hundred times a day, envisioning just what part of the Atlantic he is sailing on at that moment. I do not dare let myself think he did not make it onboard the ship. Art is his dream, and Samuel is good enough to be very famous one day. He will be. His hands make something beautiful out of every subject he draws. I know because he made me beautiful. That was a task not even God himself was up for. At least that is what Papa always tells me.
Commotion is sounding from downstairs. I hear Jo screaming for Belle to call the doctor. Something is wrong…with Papa?
I should be worried about him, but I am not. He has never seemed worried about me each time he has hurt me, so why should I care about him?
****
August 5, 1936
Papa was in a riding accident. His horse bucked at a snake, and he fell and slammed his head against a rock. As if that was not enough, the horse ran over him. He has lost feeling in his legs, and the bones in his arm were crushed so badly the doctor had no choice but to amputate. He has spent the past two weeks in the hospital.
Two weeks without Papa has been nice…but now he is back home.
Most of his days are devoted in bed with a whiskey bottle on his nightstand. When he is not passed out drunk, he yells because he is angry. Angry because everyone around him is not suffering, too, or so he thinks.
His wheelchair will arrive soon, and we all hope his spirits will lift when he can move around the house more.
Neither Belle nor any of the servant girls underneath her ever want to go in Papa’s room. I can tell by the looks that pass their weathered faces when he yells.
I should be saddened for my papa, but I am not. At least with him in bed like he is, he cannot hit me, or, not as easily.
Lucky for him, Jo knows how to work the land, and I know how to work the books. That was a task I learned partially through school and partially teaching myself.
I have started putting a little money aside for myself where Papa will never find. When I have enough, I will go find Samuel and bring him back to me.
We will be together, just like we are supposed to be.
****
Eight days.
Eight days and Lesley still hadn’t woken up.
John burned his candle at both ends and the road between Atlanta and Bakersville. Between him, his family, and Frasier, someone had been by her side constantly. Even the townspeople had taken up shifts babysitting his children, helping Emma run the bakery, and staying on top of the manor’s construction so everyone’s life could run as smoothly as possible. He would never be able to show them enough appreciation.
Lesley had to wake up. She just had to. He missed her, and despite the fact he sat with her every available second of every day he could, his heart yearned for her touch, her voice; he would even take her prancing around in her ugly Christmas pajamas with that grit all over her face…just as long as she woke up. His life would never be the same without her in it.
He pulled his chair beside her bed and opened her aunt’s journal again. “Hey, sweetie. It’s me, John. I’ve missed you.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Everyone’s ready for you to wake up now.”
Her complexion was even paler against his tanned grip, and her cheeks were sunken. Images of Sandra right before she passed played through his mind. Tears welled in his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her hand. Not again.
The same male nurse he saw at the front desk a week prior, walked through the door. “Hey, John.”
He wiped a tear away and sucked in a breath, not making eye contact with the man. “Hey, Trey.”
“It’s almost time for her exercises. Are you staying tonight or going back home?”
“Going back home.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. He’d have to leave within the hour to get his kids down for bed.
“I’ll come back in a few minutes then. Give you two some privacy.”
“Thanks, man.”
“No problem.” The nurse checked the machines before he left the room.
“I can’t stay long tonight.” He spoke softly, hoping she could hear him. Her machines beeped and buzzed all around them, steady as always. If she could hear him, he had no sign. He flipped the book open. “I have time to read a few journal entries before I go.”
****
February 14, 1937
It is Valentine’s Day, and Belle had her baby today. Beatrice Louis Brown was born at 6:30 this morning. She has a head full of shiny black hair and the fattest cheeks I have ever seen. Belle is tired but excited that her daughter was born healthy and fat. The ’30s have not provided well for most, and to have a healthy baby is a blessing, especially amongst colored people.
I held the baby for a moment this afternoon. She slept so soundly. When Baby Bea wrapped her little finger around mine, I fought back the urge to cry. I wish Samuel were with me. Had my father not pushed me down the stairs, I, too, would have a baby of my very own right now.
Instead, I have a grown invalid that I tend to every waking minute of the day. Papa sits in his wheelchair and drinks. Clutching his whiskey glass seems to be the only thing he can do with his left hand. I help him with everything else from eating, brushing his teeth, tying his shoes, and even with his daily exercises. He curses under his breath because I still have use of my legs and he does not. So, I push him around most days. His inability to care for himself has made him completely unbearable to live with.
Yesterday, his anger hit a new level. He slammed his glass on the ground, and shards of crystal flew up and cut my face. I left him alone for the rest of the day, not bothering to feed him or change him.
Every day, I think about Samuel. Getting back to him is the only hope that gets me through this terrible ordeal with Papa. Every day, I wonder what is in the letter he wrote to me—words of love…or anger that I never returned as promised? I would not survive if the letter told me that he never wants to have anything more to do with me. The strength I receive from Samuel’s past love is how I survive.
I graze through the newspapers every once in a while, looking for any sign of him. A new up and coming artist that has taken Paris by storm…but he is never there. I know he will be one day, and I will be sure to see it.
****
December 25, 1939
I hate my Papa. I realize that is a terrible thing to say on Christmas, but it is true. I have aged twenty years over the past two. Every day, I turn him, feed him, clothe him, make sure the house and farm run smoothly, and every day he drinks and curses and tells me how much he hates me.
Every.
Day…
“I made you something, Papa.” I set a plate of his favorite cookies on his bedside table. The ones Momma always made at Christmas.
He turned his head and scowled at the plate. “Cookies. Why do you think I want cookies?”
“It’s Christmas. Merry Christmas.”
“Christmas. Who gives a shit? Get them out of here.”
I stared at him. Stunned, yet again, at his meanness. “But it’s Christmas, Papa, and Momma—”
“Get them out of here, I said.” He thrashed his arm around and the cookies slammed to the floor.
Anger burned my chest as I kneeled to pick up the broken pieces of pastry scattered on the hardwood. “Why Papa?” I ground my teeth and stared up at him. “Why do you hate me so much?”
“Because…” He peered his bloodshot eyes at me as his tone took on more evil than I had ever heard from him. “She died saving you.”
“But…but…the fire. She loved me,” I stammered.
“And I loved her.” He barred his teeth like a wild animal.
I took a few hesitant steps back from his menacing expression before I ran from the room and slammed his door. Leaning against the wood, tears burned my eyes.
I remember the night it happened. The storm. I was so scared. Lightning and thunder lit up the dark sky like a fireworks display. Momma reassured me that God and his angels were only bowling like she showed me once. Every time the sky lit up it was because God bowled a strike, she had said.
She held me close, and I took in her scent—roses—as I fell asleep in her arms. At some point she must have tucked me in upstairs and went back to her own bed.
Everything after is a blur. I woke coughing, my room filled with smoke and my eyes burning. I tried to scream, but the cloud was so thick, I choked instead. Boards from the ceiling dropped all around me.
I was so afraid. I did not know what to do. I was just a child.
I remember skirting around the fallen boards and staring out my window. Lila and Richard stood on the grass. Momma, outside next to Papa, looked up when Richard pointed to me and screamed. She ran for the house, but Papa tried to pull her back. She fought his grip and ran inside anyway.
I do not know how she made it to my room, but she did. She yanked my blanket off my bed, wrapped me in it, and then threw my bedside table through the window. The glass shattered, and smoke curled out of the opening. Hoisting me in the air, she screamed a strangled, “Catch” before she threw me out. I landed on something hard, my brother and sister as they broke my fall.
Quickly, they unraveled me out of the blanket, when we all heard a loud crash. I turned to see the entire second floor collapse into the first. The farm hands ran back and forth, throwing water on the house from the well, but their efforts could not tame the blazing beast that had taken Momma.
At the time, the construction on Rosalyn—our current home—had been near complete. If the building had not been delayed because of the weather, we would have all been in the new manor that stood in a completely different field where lighting did not strike. If we had been living inside Rosalyn, my momma would still be alive.
But, now, instead of living with my momma, I live in a home named after her, with a man who cannot get over her. From the night of the fire, my father has never treated me the same. He never treated any of us the same, but especially me. I am a constant reminder of what he lost, and what he did not love enough to save.