They were. William would pick up Molly, bring her back to the farmhouse on Friday night. There was no sense in trying to figure out what Molly’s next move would be when they didn’t understand where she’d been and what brought her home. Molly coming back was about Nola Wren, sure, Maeve told them, but it would affect everyone, regardless of whether she planned to stay. Until something changed, nothing would.
Chapter Thirty
1995: Mid-Coast Maine
Faye crimped the crust on an apple pie while Nola Wren sucked on a sugar-coated slice that poked out of her mouth, dark hair up in pigtails that bobbed off the back of her head. Faye marveled at how the sweet smell of a blueberry pie fresh from the oven masked the nervous energy that vibrated through the house since Molly’s call earlier in the week. The front door squeaked, and William’s voice called out.
“In here,” Faye responded. “Let’s wash your hands,” she said to Nola Wren. “Grandpa will read to you while I finish up.”
Faye ran the child’s tiny hands under the water, dried them with a dish towel, then the little girl stepped down from her stool dutifully. Her quiet nature sometimes worried Faye. She was wide eyed and observant—so like Molly when she was little—and sweet, especially with William. How he doted on her! But she had a fretful side, too, a twiglike furrow at the bridge of her little nose, as if she expected an alarm to go off. Faye knew it was nothing more than a trait, an expression of curiosity, though it caused her to wonder how much angst the child might have absorbed so early in her little life. They had all tried so hard.
And what would Molly even look like, how long might her hair be, what color even? She’d never said it aloud but, over the years, she’d worriedabout drugs and rapists and terrible things she heard on the news that happened to girls traveling alone. Would she be too thin? Anorexic even? She was never a great eater. So many worrisome thoughts! If Nola Wren’s brow furrowed, she probably caught it from Faye.
Maeve had dropped Nola Wren off with Faye that morning. Her own flurry of activity since Molly’s call had not yet subsided. Faye had tried to convince Maeve to slow down, to be reasonable. On the phone that morning, she’d asked, “Do you really think Molly’s going to judge you? You think she’s going to care whether you’ve cleaned under the couch? Try to put yourself in her shoes. She’s nervous. She’s the one who feels judged, Maeve. Not you.”
“You’re right,” Maeve replied. “But also, tell me what you’re doing, right this second. I’m guessing you’re rolling out pie dough.”
Faye laughed. It was true. She baked Molly’s favorites, knowing she was never able to resist homemade pie. But weren’t they all running around like they were preparing for a nor’easter? William had been in the barn of all places, tidying heaps of half-broken antiques, sweeping up shavings, hanging tools he’d left on the bench. Maeve was off to town now for more groceries as if a full cupboard equaled a happy home. Wendy had work until three and would be home soon after, she’d promised Maeve.
William peeked his head into the kitchen. “Smells good already!” he said. He was holding his right arm at an odd angle.
“What happened to your hand?”
“Ahh, I banged it on the bench.” He dropped the newspaper he was holding on the table. Nola Wren grabbed his pant leg.
“I told her you’d read to her.”
“Let me wash up. And I might shut my eyes for a bit before I head to the station.”
“But you’ll read to her first.”
“Yes, dear,” he said, shaking his hand out like it had been asleep. Faye touched his scruffy face. It was still electric for her, the whiskers on her palm. All these years later, and she loved him still, loved him more.
“You excited?” His eyes lit up. He’d talked of little else all week, Molly coming home.
“Very,” Faye said. “And you are as happy as a leprechaun, William Sullivan. Now go get cleaned up.”
He pointed at the paper. “Oh. I saw this in my pile. Is this that refugee program you talked about? Says here, ‘Operation Shamrock.’ The German girls? From the boat?”
Faye’s mouth fell open, and the whole of the sea filled it. She tried to speak, but her throat clamped shut. William’s name drowned on her tongue.
Too gleeful to register Faye’s shock, he picked up his grandchild. “Your mommy is coming home! All will be right. You’ll see.” As he left the kitchen, he turned to Faye, his face dewy and gleaming. He smiled ear to ear, shore to shore, as broad as the horizon.
Pies in the oven, shears unstabbed on the table, Faye held the newspaper to her ear. German voices, jigs and lullabies, the Irish lilt of the girl singing children to sleep. Her knees gave out, and she sat herself in the chair. That Millay sonnet again, reminding her that she was her Irish father’s daughter, the way poetry entered her head instead of her own thoughts.
Call me in all things what I was before,
A flutterer in the wind, a woman still;
I tell you I am what I was and more.
She set the paper back down, peered into the faces there. Gisela. She was Gisela. She covered the face of the child she was with the tip of her finger. She did the same with Elisabeth’s face. She stood briskly, the walls closing in as sure as birds blackened the sky. She grabbed her gathering basket. “I’m going to the garden,” she shouted. “Back in aminute!” She turned the knob, halted. The newspaper. She snatched it from the table and tossed it into the basket.
In the barn, she switched on the light over William’s workbench. A box was on the ground, a little haphazard, and two bundles wrapped inThe Irish Timeslay next to a stack of china. She pulled a weathered milking stool from under the bench and took the newspaper in both hands. She could read the story here, cry her tears here, decide what to do next here, away from eyes that she feared might see through her, accuse her. Somehow, after finding Hannie’s letter to Jean all those years ago, and despite never having found the photograph, Elisabeth had become clearer in her mind, at least the girl that she had been, what with the endless tides of memories that had come and gone and come again. And this photo told the same story. Elisabeth, smiling and open, Gisela, furrowed and suspicious.Ah, there’s my granddaughter’s furrow, there on a child’s face.Up until this moment, those girls were both so distant they could have been characters in a story. But now, she could almost taste the Irish air, soft and green on her tongue. She could almost feel her sister’s hand in her own, how small. Time itself taunted her.Come clean! Come clean!The rough stool dug into the back of her legs. William was everywhere in this workshop. Had his face registered any doubt in her when he set the paper down? It had not. She was certain of that.
An image of Molly boarding a bus flashed in her mind. And then Maeve and Wendy. Yes, Wendy. William had been so understanding of Maeve, so forgiving of Molly. Surely, he would have that same grace for her. Surely, he would understand. It wasn’t too late for the truth.
Her tears fell onto the newsprint—distorting, magnifying, obscuring.We were only children, you see. We were only children.Faye looked at her own face again, fuzzy in black and white, yet clear to her now in a way she could not begin to understand then.I was so afraid.
