“If you get her to me, she has a place.I gave my word on that, too.”
“Okay,” Emily croaked.“I’ll uh…I’ll be in touch soon, then.”
June paused, then reached in to grasp Emily’s hand with her good one, squeezing it remarkably hard.“Thanks, kid,” she said, and her eyes were shining.“Get home to your folks, now.You’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER 39
EMILY
January 11, 1962
The Christmas decorations were still up.
Emily was seated at her father’s desk in the living room.Winter light filtered through the sheer, lacy curtains that hung on all three sides of the bay window as Emily stared, gaze out of focus, at the unlit Christmas tree to her left.
Christmas trees always looked so strange when they were unlit, so cold and incomplete.She rose suddenly, her father’s chair scraping the floorboards, and strode to it.She located the cord for the lights and plugged it into the wall, then looked up at the tree, taking in the starched crochet snowflakes and shiny baubles that now reflected the multicoloured lights.The tinsel.Emily smiled.Always so much tinsel.Her mother couldn’t get enough of the stuff, and Eleanor’s children were only too happy to add their own heavy-handed touch to the decorating.It was a wonder Emily could see the ornaments at all through the thicket of shimmery lead-foil strands.She breathed deeply—she could still just discern the faintest whiff of fir.
She’d arrived home under cover of pitch darkness, nearing midnight on Christmas Eve.The night of her escape from the Mercer was still, in many ways, a blur of chaos and confusion.She’d hammered on the door of her parents’ house, oblivious to any concern for the neighbours at such a late hour, on such a significant night.Her hot breath had puffed in theair in front of her, though her body was half frozen.She’d fled the Mercer wearing only her blue dress and Stone’s thin white physician’s coat.
After a minute or two, lights had appeared in the window of the front door, and she heard someone approaching.Her nerves had nearly given way in those few breathless moments as she leaned against the door jamb, waited for it to open, to see the shock and pain on her father’s face.To fall, sobbing, into his chest as he wrapped his arm around her, rested his cheek on top of her head like he had when she was a girl and sat in his lap while he read her stories.
After that, it was a flurry of questions, of the best answers she could give, of piles of blankets and soft furniture and hot tea thrust into her hands by her mother’s shaking ones as she hurried off to heat up some leftovers.She learned that her dad had gone down to the prison on her release day at the appointed time, but no one had come to the back door, and the gates at the front on King Street were locked.He’d also tried telephoning, but got no answer.The courts were closing for the Christmas break, and they’d begun to panic that something had indeed gone wrong before Emily turned up on the doorstep.
Emily had gone to bed for a while then, and awoke in the early afternoon on Christmas Day, utterly disoriented.Her mother had called Eleanor to put off her family’s visit until at least Boxing Day.In the most bizarre Christmas Emily had ever experienced, no turkey was stuffed and cooked, no gifts exchanged.Just words.Words upon words as Emily recounted her story to her rapt and emotional parents.She ate and drank continually, regaining some lost strength and comfort with every mouthful.
But it had all felt sort of mechanical, and it was only now, in the process of actually writing the article over the past several days, that Emily had come to fully appreciate all that she had gone through, all the trials the other women continued to go through, and would, indefinitely, if she didn’t get this thing written and blow the lid off the Mercer’s corrupt and leaking roof.
And now she was putting those words to paper, threading together her scribbled notes and memories.She’d gotten to work as soon as shewas able to convince her parents to let her cease resting and justdoit.They’d wanted her to take some time, and she understood that.But what had the ordeal been for, if she didn’t get it down as quickly as possible?Every minute she spent not writing in the comfort of her warm home, the women at the Mercer—her friends—were enduring God only knew what treatment at the hands of Dr.Stone, or even the warden and the more punitive matrons like White.Thoughts of what those women might be going through dominated her mind every moment Emily took a break from writing.
She’d phoned Doris at home the day after Boxing Day.TheChatelainestaff had her telephone number, though it was with the understanding that it only be used in an emergency.Doris had gasped when Emily announced herself on the line, twisting the phone cord around her bitten-down fingernail as she leaned against the kitchen wall, her free hand tapping her stress into the floral wallpaper.
“It’s bigger than we thought, Doris,” she said, watching her mother’s back as she washed dishes at the sink.“There’s corruption, too, not just maltreatment.And someone died.”She swallowed the lump of grief.“A friend of mine.”She outlined the main points for Doris as Bess glanced back over her shoulder, dark curls bouncing, and gave Emily a smile of encouragement.Of pride.But it was thin.Her distress for her daughter lay thick underneath.
“Good Lord, Emily,” Doris had said, sounding uncharacteristically breathless.“I should never have let you do this.I am very sorry, I—”
“No, Doris,” Emily said through the lump that persisted in her throat.“I’m grateful you did.It’ll be good, in the end.I think.”She let out a shaky chuckle, aware of her mother’s eyes on her.“These women…well…what I’ve got, it just might get this place shut down for good.Truly, it might.”
There was a long pause.
“Well,” Doris finally said, “take the time you need to rest, then write it.As quickly as you can.”She heaved a sigh.“I’m immensely proud of you, Emily.We’ll talk soon.Come into the office when the piece is ready.”
Now, Emily tilted her head side to side to loosen the tension in her neck that felt almost permanent, then took a sip of cold tea, the rhythmicclack-clack-clack-dingof the typewriter filling the living room.
“I thought you might need a fresh pot.”
Emily turned to see her mother walking toward her, red apron on, as always, carrying a tray with a Brown Betty under a knitted tea cozy.Emily stood and stepped aside as her mother set the tray down on William’s desk.
“Good timing.Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s funny,” Bess said, the corner of her mouth curling into a soft smile as she stared down at the tray.“I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve brought your father this teapot, here, to this desk.And now…” She looked at Emily, who met her gaze with tired eyes, then stepped forward suddenly, seized with an urge to embrace her mother.
Bess let out a little “oh!” of delighted surprise that made Emily want to cry, made her think that perhaps she needed to hug her mother more often.
“Well,” Bess said after a moment.“I’ve made you those chocolate almond cookies, there with the tea.”They were Emily’s favourite, but labour-intensive, and usually reserved for birthdays and special occasions.“We need to get some weight back on you, or you’ll need to buy all new dresses.Goodness.”Her eyes shone.
“Thank you,” Emily said.“I’m just uh, just getting to the part about Annie.It’s very difficult.”
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” Bess said, patting Emily’s cheek.“What she went through, it’s just awful.The ‘baby blues,’ we like to call it.But sometimes it’s far more black than blue, I think.”She hesitated a moment.“I don’t know that she would want me to tell you this—people hardly speak of such things, and I suppose that’s part of the problem, isn’t it?—but when Eleanor was in that terrible state after she had Charlie…Not quite like your friend, mind you.”Bess shook her head.“But I thought she had lost the will to go on, at one point.Truly I did.She spoke of such terrible things, of not wanting to live anymore.It was terrifying.”
