my finger in the page and closed the dusty book. I was ready for a rest; my tongue was tired of tripping over words. Line by line, the poems were like a long walk through the darkness. My brain was worn out.
“Yes,” I said. “Your father. You never mention him.” In all her stories, Lillian never said a word about her family.
“No.” Lillian shook her head. “I’m afraid that I didn’t know him.”
“Never?”
“No.” Lillian frowned.
“I don’t know mine either.” Through the corner of my eye I spied Eleanor skulking past the side porch.
“Her,” Lillian said when Eleanor huffed off. “I don’t think she should be working with the children. The children need more love.”
“She’s not with the children,” I said. “Her children are at home.”
“She’s a mother?” Lillian gasped. “How terrible. My mother was so sweet.”
“Mine too,” I said. “I mean my mother is.”
Lillian patted at my leg. “I’m sure you miss her, dear.” No matter how many times I told her, Lillian couldn’t remember who Mama really was.
“So you knew your mother then?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Lillian said. “Mother was a saint. The day she brought me here, they gave us each a sausage. And Mother gave me hers, because she knew that I was hungry.” Lillian’s hazy eyes filled up with tears. “Afterward, I was so sorry that I ate it, I threw up in the snow.”
“The snow?”
“We came here in the winter. So many children did. Families who couldn’t survive out in the cold. But the mothers couldn’t stay. Fathers either. They only kept the children, so Mother had to say good-bye.”
“So were you an orphan, Lillian?” For the first time since I met her, Lillian’s story was starting to make sense. Once she was an orphan in this house. “Did you live up in the attic?”
“Oh no,” Lillian pressed her palm against her chest. “The attic was for boys.”
15
“I think Lillian was an orphan,” I told Josie. I sank the oars deep in the water and tried to row the old boat forward. Teaching me to row was one of Josie’s missions. Independence , she told Mama. Raine needs it to be ready for the world .
“An orphan? I had her figured for a teacher,” Josie said. “All that talk of spelling and piano.”
“I know,” I said. “But maybe she was both.”
Lillian was another mystery we both wanted to solve. Her odd friendship with Viktor, her talk about the children, all her mixed-up memories. Neither of us knew what in all of that was real.
“Today she said she came here in the winter with her mother. And her mother had to leave, because the parents couldn’t stay. They only kept the kids.”
“I think that part is true enough,” Josie said. “Folks in town have told me. They said sometimes they’d spot a threadbare mom or dad walking brokenhearted down the road. Even in the winter.”
“They told you that in town? Who?”
“Oh, just friends I’ve made in Comfort. Folks I chat with in the shops. The café. When I’m tired of the quiet, I bike to town to talk. Viktor can’t enforce the silence rule there!”
“Have you seen Mama there with Viktor?” Maybe Josie knew what Mama did in town.
“Can’t say I have,” Josie said. “But I don’t go there to buy groceries. I’m happy to eat the feasts your mama makes. Why you asking, Raine?”
“I don’t know. I guess the trips she makes to Comfort seem a little strange. Like the way she took this job so suddenly? One day we were living in Milwaukee, and the next day we were gone.”
“I suppose it’s strange to take a job that quickly,” Josie said. “But you know me, sometimes I also move too fast. And anyway, I’m glad your mama did. I can’t imagine this summer without you. Or food!” Josie grabbed the oars and steered us from the weeds. “Almost hit a snag.”
“Maybe if I saw Comfort for myself?” I said. “Went to town with you?”
“Absolutely!” Josie cheered. “A new adventure is ahead!” In
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley