Sophia touched her forehead. So she was not in trouble. Which meant that there was no detention, leaving ample time to get her evening chores done before the sun went down. It was near impossible to work in the barn in the dark, and she always worried about stepping on chicken snakes.
Then Mrs. Brown’s words registered. Sophia asked, “What message?”
Mrs. Brown lifted a file folder from her desk with “Sophia Clark” written in red ink. “Your application to the Prosser Foundation was accepted. You’ve passed all the necessary tests and have been admitted to West Oak Forest Academy.”
Sophia blinked her eyes, not sure she had heard correctly.
“The school’s headmaster has called countless times looking for you. He said two letters were mailed out to you over the summer. I even called and left a message with your mother.”
“I got in?” Sophia asked, stunned.
“Yes. You did it. Congratulations.” Mrs. Brown’s lips were stretched so wide with laughter that Sophia could see the gold crowns wrapped around her molars.
Sophia put her hand to her mouth as she sank into the chair opposite Mrs. Brown. Why hadn’t Ma Deary given her the message?
“They were going to give your spot away to a boy from Richmond, but I told them that I would have you there before class tomorrow morning.” Mrs. Brown slid the folder across the desk to Sophia. “I am certain that it was your mother I spoke with on”—she spun her chair toward the calendar hanging behind her head—“July 29, 1965.”
July 29 had been the one day, all summer long, when Sophia had been away from the farm. Unc and one of his girlfriends had taken them to the bay for a picnic and a swim on Walter’s eighteenthbirthday. Sophia thought to lie to cover for Ma Deary’s negligence. She usually had something at the ready, but right now she was drawing a blank. She fidgeted with the hem of her skirt around her fingertip.
“Something told me to stop by your house, but I got so busy with the prep for the new school year.” Mrs. Brown beamed. “Well, in any case, you’ve already missed a few days, so it is imperative that your parents drive you first thing tomorrow.” She shuffled a few more papers. “Here’s the packing list. You can head on home to prepare. Oh, and I almost forgot.”
Sophia watched as Mrs. Brown reached under her desk and then handed her a silver gift bag tied with a white bow.
“A few of us in the office got you this. To get you started.”
Underneath the shiny tissue paper was a white cotton nightgown with a matching robe and a pair of fuzzy slippers. A package of new panties, knee socks, and a pair of gently used loafers. Sophia could not remember ever receiving a gift, let alone one packaged so beautifully. Not even on Christmas.
“I had to guess your shoe size. I sincerely hope they fit. You will be given a school uniform upon your arrival, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“Thank you,” Sophia breathed, weightless with glee.
“Your parents won’t have any issues getting you there tomorrow, will they?” Mrs. Brown eyed her pointedly. “I’d take you myself, but I have a meeting with the superintendent on the terrible condition of our textbooks.”
“No, ma’am.” Sophia swallowed hard.
“Good. Here is my telephone number. Call me if you have any problems at all.” Mrs. Brown stood, and before Sophia knew what was happening, Mrs. Brown had swept her into her arms. She was big-breasted, smelled like peach cobbler, and her embrace was as comforting as anything Sophia had ever known.
“I don’t know how to thank you.” Sophia couldn’t remember the last time she had been hugged, and she didn’t want to let go.
Mrs. Brown patted her shoulder. “Doing your best is thanks enough. Now go on. Make Brooks proud.”
Sophia picked up her bag of goodies, and as she walked out the door, Mrs. Brown called behind her, “And for the love of God, do something with that hair.”
CHAPTER 2Lourdes, France, July 1950
ETHEL
Ethel Gathers rode the train to Lourdes, France, desperate for a miracle. She clutched her rosary beads, knowing that a healing encounter with the Virgin Mary was as likely as Pope Pius XII inviting her to the grand dining hall at the Vatican for dinner. Still, she had no choice but to believe. Dr. Burroughs’s letter with her diagnosis was like energy radiating from inside her purse, and she found herself patting the top of her bag, trying to suppress the dissemination of his memorandum, which stated that Ethel was unable to bear a child.
As the wheels of the train churned and clacked beneath her feet, Ethel kissed the crucifix of the rosary and then made the sign of the cross before draping the multicolored beads across her cotton gabardine skirt. She had already prayed the full rosary three times over the past six hours while riding through the woodlands of France, but she did not feel at peace.
Since she had arrived as a newlywed in Mannheim, Germany, three months earlier, Ethel had rarely left their apartment. She had no friends, did not speak German, and whenever she ventured outside to do more than on-base shopping, she found herself disoriented onthe streets. With her husband, Bert, working long hours in the field, she was often alone, and the solitude had begun to unravel her. She found herself restless and had started to lose weight. It was Bert who suggested that she join the other army wives on the trip to France.
“I’ll miss you”—he’d pecked her cheek as he produced the pamphlet—“but it’ll do you some good, darling, to make some friends and see a bit of the world while we’re over here.”
Now the women were traveling from Mannheim, where they were stationed with their high-ranking officer husbands, on a spiritual pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes, where St. Bernadette was said to have had eighteen visions of the Virgin Mary. Ethel had agreed to the long journey because she believed that the Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of all, could heal her womb and change her fate.For we walk by faith, not by sight,she reminded herself as she reached for her leather-bound diary resting in the empty seat next to her.
As a reporter at large for Baltimore’sAfro-American,Ethel had been assigned a feature on the living conditions of the Negro military stationed abroad. She picked up her pen, with the notion of writing about the mistreatment Bert had shared with her of the Negro soldiers by the white military police, but after starting and stopping, starting again and stopping, she had managed to write only one lackluster paragraph. Capping her fountain pen, she abandoned the idea, at least temporarily, and looked out the window. She saw a clear, bubbling stream running down lush green hills into an open valley. The burgeoning blue sky held just a small trace of clouds, where two birds soared and circled each other. And then the train shunted through a lavender farm so purple and wild that Ethel could smell its soft powdery scent. Never had she experienced a rolling landscape that changed like a picture show, but even with so much beauty, Ethel had begun to feel her knees stiffen. They had been on the train for nearly seven hours. Perhaps she needed to stretch her limbs and walk a bit.
