mustn't say such a thing, and especially not in front of the Captain. Promise you won't," she asked.
"But Mamma . . ."
"Promise, Lillian, please," she begged.
I nodded. Already I understood that Mamma would do anything to avoid unpleasantness; if she had to, she would ignore the truth even if it was on the tip of her nose; she would bury her head in her books or her idle chatter; she would laugh at reality and wave it out of sight as if she held a magic wand in her hand.
"Good, darling. Now you'll have a little to eat and then go to sleep early, okay? In the morning everything will look better and brighter; it always does," she declared. "Now, do you want any help getting ready for bed?"
"No, Mamma."
"Louella will be up with something in a little while," she repeated, and left me sitting on my bed. I took a deep breath and then got up and went to the window that looked out toward the pond. Poor Cotton, I thought. She did nothing wrong. Her bad luck was she was born here at The Meadows. Maybe that was my bad luck, too—to be brought here. Maybe that was my punishment for causing my real mother's death, I thought. It made me feel so hollow inside that every beat of my little heart echoed and pounded down to my stomach and up to my head. How I wished I had someone to talk to, someone who would listen.
An idea came to me and I left my room quietly, practically tiptoeing down the corridor to one of the rooms in which I knew Mamma had stored some of her personal things in trunks and boxes. I had spent time in the room before, just exploring. In one small metal trunk fastened with straps, Mamma had some of her own mother's things—her jewelry, her shawls and her combs. Buried under a small pile of old lace petticoats were some old photographs. It was where Mamma kept her only pictures of her sister Violet, my real mother. Mamma wanted to bury any trace of sadness, anything that would make her unhappy. As I grew older, I would come to realize that no one lived more under the credo "Out of sight, out of mind" than Mamma did.
I lit the kerosene lamp by the door and set it down beside me on the floor in front of the old trunk. Then I slowly opened it and reached in under the petticoats to come out with the small pile of pictures. There was one framed picture of Violet. I had looked at it briefly once before. Now, I held it in my lap and studied the face of the woman who would have been my mother. I saw a gentleness in her eyes and a softness in her smile. Just as Mamma had said, Violet had the face of a beautiful doll, her features small and perfect. As I sat there staring down at the photograph that had already taken on a sepia tint, it seemed as if Violet were looking at me, too, as if her smile was a smile for me and the warmth in her eyes was warmth meant to comfort me. I touched her mouth, her cheeks, her hair and uttered the word that rushed forward.
"Mamma," I said, and hugged the picture to me. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you die."
Of course, the smile never left her lips; it was just a picture, but in my heart of hearts I hoped she was saying, "It wasn't your fault, honey, and I'm still here for you."
I put the framed picture on my lap and sifted through some of the other old photographs until I found one with my mother and a young man. He looked tall and broad-shouldered and had a handsome smile with a dark mustache. My mother did look very young beside him, but they looked happy together.
These were my real parents, I thought. If they were alive, I wouldn't be so miserable. I was confident my real mother would have felt sorry for me and for Eugenia. She would have cared for and comforted me. In that moment I began to sense something that 1 would sense more and more, in bigger and bigger ways as I grew older: I sensed how much I had lost when dreadful fate was permitted to swoop down and take my real parents from me, even before I ever heard their voices.
In my mind I heard their voices now, distant and
"But Mamma . . ."
"Promise, Lillian, please," she begged.
I nodded. Already I understood that Mamma would do anything to avoid unpleasantness; if she had to, she would ignore the truth even if it was on the tip of her nose; she would bury her head in her books or her idle chatter; she would laugh at reality and wave it out of sight as if she held a magic wand in her hand.
"Good, darling. Now you'll have a little to eat and then go to sleep early, okay? In the morning everything will look better and brighter; it always does," she declared. "Now, do you want any help getting ready for bed?"
"No, Mamma."
"Louella will be up with something in a little while," she repeated, and left me sitting on my bed. I took a deep breath and then got up and went to the window that looked out toward the pond. Poor Cotton, I thought. She did nothing wrong. Her bad luck was she was born here at The Meadows. Maybe that was my bad luck, too—to be brought here. Maybe that was my punishment for causing my real mother's death, I thought. It made me feel so hollow inside that every beat of my little heart echoed and pounded down to my stomach and up to my head. How I wished I had someone to talk to, someone who would listen.
An idea came to me and I left my room quietly, practically tiptoeing down the corridor to one of the rooms in which I knew Mamma had stored some of her personal things in trunks and boxes. I had spent time in the room before, just exploring. In one small metal trunk fastened with straps, Mamma had some of her own mother's things—her jewelry, her shawls and her combs. Buried under a small pile of old lace petticoats were some old photographs. It was where Mamma kept her only pictures of her sister Violet, my real mother. Mamma wanted to bury any trace of sadness, anything that would make her unhappy. As I grew older, I would come to realize that no one lived more under the credo "Out of sight, out of mind" than Mamma did.
I lit the kerosene lamp by the door and set it down beside me on the floor in front of the old trunk. Then I slowly opened it and reached in under the petticoats to come out with the small pile of pictures. There was one framed picture of Violet. I had looked at it briefly once before. Now, I held it in my lap and studied the face of the woman who would have been my mother. I saw a gentleness in her eyes and a softness in her smile. Just as Mamma had said, Violet had the face of a beautiful doll, her features small and perfect. As I sat there staring down at the photograph that had already taken on a sepia tint, it seemed as if Violet were looking at me, too, as if her smile was a smile for me and the warmth in her eyes was warmth meant to comfort me. I touched her mouth, her cheeks, her hair and uttered the word that rushed forward.
"Mamma," I said, and hugged the picture to me. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you die."
Of course, the smile never left her lips; it was just a picture, but in my heart of hearts I hoped she was saying, "It wasn't your fault, honey, and I'm still here for you."
I put the framed picture on my lap and sifted through some of the other old photographs until I found one with my mother and a young man. He looked tall and broad-shouldered and had a handsome smile with a dark mustache. My mother did look very young beside him, but they looked happy together.
These were my real parents, I thought. If they were alive, I wouldn't be so miserable. I was confident my real mother would have felt sorry for me and for Eugenia. She would have cared for and comforted me. In that moment I began to sense something that 1 would sense more and more, in bigger and bigger ways as I grew older: I sensed how much I had lost when dreadful fate was permitted to swoop down and take my real parents from me, even before I ever heard their voices.
In my mind I heard their voices now, distant and
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