The Stolen Ones 5h1q1t

Contents

Praise for Being Mary Ro The Stolen Ones Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Dedication 1

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Historical Notes About the Author

Praise for Being Mary Ro

“A charming book.” the sudbury star

“I cannot imagine anyone not enjoying Being Mary Ro. The material is suitable for mature young readers, contains small sketches (by Melissa Ashley Cromarty), and is an excellent first novel for Ms. Linehan Young.” — The Miramichi Reader

“We’re only halfway through the novel when Mary pulls the trigger. The strength and courage required to shoot the pistol is the same strength and courage that afterwards allows Mary to travel to . . . and pursue an independent career as a . . . I’m not telling. Find out for yourself. Read Being Mary Ro. It’s first-rate entertainment.” — The Telegram

Praise for The Promise

“A well-written story that many will want to read in one night . . . just because the plot is that good.” — Edwards Book Club

“Ida Linehan Young . . . evokes a time and a place and a strong female lead. She has also well-positioned this book to pilot into a follow-up. Her knowledge of, and research into, the processes pre-20th century household labour, or the state

of the justice system after the 1892 fire, pay off.” — The Telegram

Praise for The Liars

“Ida Linehan Young does well-researched well-paced melodrama well.” — The Telegram

“There is no doubt that she is amongst the best of the best of Newfoundland’s storytellers. . . . If you like good historical fiction stories told in a similar vein to Genevieve Graham’s, then you’ll enjoy this trilogy of turn-of-the-last-century novels from the prolific pen of Ida Linehan Young.” — The Miramichi Reader

“The storyline of mystery, intrigue, and plot twists that Linehan Young expertly crafts in The Liars is the result of true events that occurred in the late 1800s in Newfoundland. Her ability to formulate a fictitious story by intertwining the results of her research with that of the plot details conceived in her mind is brilliant. The Liars is another compelling read for those who enjoy history, suspense, and wonderfully descriptive writing. The female characters are strong, simple, but complex individuals, who reinforce the theme that there is no greater warrior than a mother protecting her child. Kudos to Ida Linehan Young in creating a work of art that will leave you wanting more.” — Fireside Collections

“Ida Linehan Young skilfully weaves this complicated tapestry from its first warp and woof on a loom in Labrador to its final hemstitch in North Harbour, St. Mary’s Bay.” — Harold Walters, Life on this Planet

The Stolen Ones

Ida Linehan Young

Flanker Press Limited St. John’s

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: The stolen ones / Ida Linehan Young. Names: Linehan Young, Ida, 1964- author. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210226188 | Canadiana (ebook) 20210226196 | ISBN 9781774570623 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774570630 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774570647 (PDF) Classification: LCC PS8623.I54 S76 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

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© 2021 by Ida Linehan Young

all rights reserved. No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well.

Printed in Canada

Cover Design by Graham Blair

Flanker Press Ltd. PO Box 2522, Station C St. John’s, NL Canada

Telephone: (709) 739-4477 Fax: (709) 739-4420 Toll-free: 1-866-739-4420

www.flankerpress.com

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We acknowledge the financial of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Industry and Innovation for our publishing activities. We acknowledge the of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $157 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 157 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

Dedication

With fondest memories of my cousins Brenda and Pat Critch. They will always be ed with an abundance of love. In Memory of Elsie Ryan, who died from burns in North Harbour two days after her nightdress caught fire, February 23, 1920. She was ten years old. For my grandparents, Frank and Ida Power, and Edward and Mary Theresa (Nash) Linehan, whose lives inspire me with a curiosity for the past. As always and forever for my father, Edward Linehan, my sister, Sharon, and my brothers, Francis, Richard, Harold, and Barry Linehan. You were all loved beyond measure.

1

Boston April 2020

“I can get her, Mom,” Tiffany Carter said softly, her shaky voice betraying her attempt to be strong. “No, it has to be me. They’re strict about that. You stay here,” Darlene said woodenly as she girded her will to be up to the task. “Please be careful.” Tiffany swallowed a gasp and grabbed her mother’s arm frantically. “I’m scared.” “I won’t be long.” Darlene’s voice was a hushed whisper. She gulped for air to quell the mounting anxiety from gaining ground. Darlene stepped out of the taxi and into a nightmare. Who was she kidding? This was day seven, or eight, or ten, or fourteen of the pandemic, and normal was no more. The streets were eerily quiet for downtown Boston on a Tuesday. She glanced back and saw Tiffany lean forward and stare wide-eyed after her through the lightly tinted glass. Darlene turned and ed the line that had formed with its terminus, the side door of the huge brick building. The silent and sombre procession was slow. It was as if an invisible turnstile controlled everything. As one person clicked out of the alley, she clicked forward toward the entryway and somebody like her ed the other end of the line. They shuffled forward, mindful of the worn painted lines, directional arrows, scuffed footprints, and warning signs on the dirty concrete. Counting time seemed a distant memory of a period when there was never

enough of it. Like when she had rushed to work after being waylaid by something that was now insignificant, or when she’d caught a bus with Tiffany after a shift at the diner, or when the laundry had finished washing and she needed to find a free dryer so that the task wouldn’t take all evening. The list had been endless in the feverish pace of her daily life. Now, putting one foot in front of the other was the only way she could survive, and time just sat there waiting to start once again. Shuffle after shuffle, orderly, quietly, they moved until she was second in line. The man ahead of her said a name, then bowed his head as the door closed and the attendant vanished. Her heart pounded, and she didn’t know if she would be able to speak when she needed to form words. The person returned and handed the man ahead of her a small package. He raised it to his face, wiped his eyes with the cuff of his coat, turned, and left without making eye . The door slammed. It was loud, like a cannon had been fired in the alley, the noise ricocheting all around her. Darlene moved up, her wobbly legs barely keeping her upright with each step. She closed her eyes at the yellow sign emblazoned with bold black letters that read Employees only beyond this point. She opened them when she heard the click of the latch release on the other side of the steel barrier. “Name, please,” the masked man dressed in the washed-out paleness of blue paper clothing said, his weary eyes staring at the wall over her head and reflecting distorted defeatedness on the visor that covered them. “Em-Emma Carter,” she stammered. “Pardon? Please speak up.” Darlene cleared her throat, pinched her mask, and pulled it away from her mouth. “Emma Carter.” The door closed with a whoosh and resounding clunk. She hung her head. How was she going to do this? How was she going to go on? “Ma’am. Emma Carter.” Darlene shook her head to clear the fog and gazed up at the man two steps above

her and holding the grey door back with his hip. “Your name?” “Darlene Carter.” “Do you have your identification?” Darlene nodded and pulled her driver’s licence from her coat pocket and raised it for him to see. He bent forward, nodded, pulled away, and straightened. He made notes on the clipboard and rested it on the ledge of the stairwell inside the door. His latex-covered hands grabbed the metal cylinder that was also resting on the ledge. He finger-checked a number on it against something on the form, pulled off a tag, and turned to her. His voice and movements were robotic as he reached forward and said, “Please don’t touch me.” Darlene nodded and cupped her hands together, pushing them forward as the person ahead of her had done. The man plopped the small cylinder into her palms. She braced for the mighty weight that would be far from physical. The door whooshed closed. She stood, dazed, with her arms outstretched and stared into nothingness. The person behind her ahemmed, bringing her back from wherever she’d gone, and she staggered away from the door and out of the alley. The trudge toward the street was in slow motion. Before she realized it, she was in the sunshine of the sidewalk. Her arms and heart ached in unison. The taxi door slammed. “Mom!” Tiffany’s shout echoed off the buildings, and the pigeons on the marble step at the front entrance took flight. Several heads rose momentarily in a lineup that extended down the block. Darlene looked away from the cool metallic container resting in her open palms as Tiffany reached her. Tiffany whipped a bottle of sanitizer from her purse and

smothered Darlene’s hands as well as the urn. She guided her mother to the cab, opened the rear door, and let her in. She pushed Darlene to the middle and bundled in beside her. Tiffany held her mother, and they both wept as the taxi pulled away from the curb. Emma Carter became a memory, reducing them to a broken and sad family of two. Darlene took on the weight of duty her mother had carried as head of the household. Every ounce of Darlene’s being dislocated and began the process of settling back into a crippled form that would remain uneven and, according to the phone call from the psychologist that came a month later, someday tolerable.

2

John’s Pond, Newfoundland 1878

Mary Rourke splayed her fingers and brushed them along the furry tips of the tall hay growing at the edge of the path. The hem of Mary’s skirt swayed to the rhythm of her walk, darting from side to side as if it, too, had a purpose. Her red hair caught fire as she ed through shafts of sunlight streaming between the limbs of the spruce trees above the old slide path. The trail was beaten down in the winter by the horses and sleds hauling firewood out from the country to the little fishing village of John’s Pond, nestled on the coast of St. Mary’s Bay. In the summer, the trail was a ageway to their secret hideaway, a tiny jut of land on the bend of the brook where a pond formed. It was a quiet place, where silence was broken by the sound of the trout breaching the glassy surface, lured by the insect that ventured too close, or by the hum of the bumblebee in the dandelion at the edge of the thicket, or by the sound of Mary turning a page. Their first meeting there had been an accident of sorts. Mary’s father had sent him to find her. She’d gone for a walk earlier in the day and hadn’t returned for supper. Peter Nolan had set out along the trail and nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke from the shelter of the trees as she was stepping out onto the path. They both laughed, both startled by the encounter. Mary had a book in her hand, and she said she’d been distracted by the story and forgot the time. A few days later, he had been collecting eggs, one of the many tasks Mary’s father put to him, finding the nests of the hens that were laying out. Mostly he

wanted to keep busy so he wouldn’t feel the sting of the leather strap from his Aunt Johannah. Peter liked and respected Mary’s father. He’d enjoyed spending time with the Rourke family. Menial chores like finding eggs or bringing in water hadn’t bother him. Mr. Rourke paid Peter a pittance once a month for cutting wood, which the man was quite capable of doing on his own. Peter protested with a bit more vigour than he felt—in truth he was saving every coin he could get to leave John’s Pond behind. However, because of Mr. Rourke’s intervention with Aunt Johannah, things had gotten markedly better at home, and leaving wasn’t a certainty like it used to be. That day, he fooled himself into believing he wasn’t overtaken with curiosity and hadn’t really wanted to see what Mary was up to. He was looking for eggs. When he pushed through the thick young spruce along the side of the path, he noticed her within moments, surrounded by dandelion and daisies, sitting, leaning against the thick trunk of a large tree, and reading a book. The sun, glistening off the pond in the background, glowed around her. He cupped his hand over his eyes to break the glare until her dark shape came into focus. He drew a deep breath that he smothered with his hand so she wouldn’t know he was there. That had been the first time his normal teasing, roughhousing response didn’t kick in. Instead, his stomach went all aflutter, and frightened by this new sensation, he backed out of the scene and ran to Rourke’s, dropped off the eggs he’d found, and headed to Aunt Johannah’s. He believed he’d come down with a sickness that might be cured at the end of Aunt Johannah’s leather belt. The lure of the newness of this strange illness pulled him back. She sat quietly by the tree. His body tensed around his bones, and a wave of heat flooded through him. That time he forced himself to stay and watch her from the cover of the spruce. She was so mesmerizing and his turmoil so unfamiliar, he dozed off and landed head first in the bushes. He crawled out to the trail to the sound of a muffled giggle and ran home. The third time he ventured there, she stirred, her ear twitched, and she turned toward him. Mary asked him what he was looking at. She asked him to her and patted the ground at the base of the tree. A surge of fear stampeded through him. He ran home again, forgetting to drop off the eggs on his way. It was almost two weeks before Peter dared go there again. This time, Mary had

an extra book with her. She told him she’d carried it for him for a week. This time, he suppressed the urge to run and gathered the courage to approach her. He sat silently on a large grey stone a little way into the clearing and threw rocks into the pond while she read. He didn’t take the book she’d offered and concentrated instead on the plop of the rocks as they were swallowed by the pond. It was a few weeks later before he dared to get closer. He built a bough house there that year, just to be around her. In the winter, she read in the house or in the hay on the stable loft after school. He found many reasons to help Mr. Rourke that winter. The next summer, when she returned to the woods, he busied himself with chores, getting up early to get them done, before heading to where Mary was. He was fifteen and didn’t tire of listening to her talk about her dreams. He even had illusions of perhaps having some of his own. She wanted to be a nurse like her mother. He didn’t want to be anything other than with her. When he was sixteen, the romance finally blossomed into a first kiss. It was awkward and startling and beautiful. By the time he was seventeen, Peter was certain he wanted to marry her. There would be nobody else in the world for him but her. His brother Ed wanted him to go off to sea, perhaps to Boston to make their fortune. The time was right. Aunt Johannah had ed away a few months earlier, severing the tenuous familial connection to John’s Pond. He couldn’t wed Mary for at least two more years and not without something to offer. Peter wanted her father to know he’d be a good man to his daughter, just like her father had taught him. He had to be a provider. He couldn’t do that with the little work he’d gotten in the cannery the past two summers. He struggled with the want to stay with her and the want to make something of himself for her. Peter hadn’t told Mary about Ed’s plans because he didn’t want her to be upset. Today, when he watched her come up the path, his heart was pounding as he ran to the tree to wait for her. “Peter,” she called.

He waved and patted the ground next to him, his heart racing as if he’d run up along the ridge and back. She bounded toward him, fell to her knees, and cuddled in beside him. “What’s that pout for?” he asked. “It’s just that it was such a wonderful day. School’s almost out. But Mom says I have to go to Mount Carmel in the fall to get more education if I’m going to be a nurse.” She nestled in closer. “I don’t want to go.” “I know how that feels,” Peter said wryly as he tightened his arm around her. “Are you going to Mount Carmel, too?” She pushed away from him. Her eyes widened with excitement and prospect as she gazed at him expectantly. Peter cupped her face with his hands. She knew he had only stayed around the last two years because of her and Ed. Most others his age were long fishing with their fathers. “No, farther than that. Me and Ed are going to St. John’s and then to Boston looking for work.” Mary pushed herself to her knees and stared at him. “What?” He repeated what he’d said. “But why?” He paused. Over Mary’s shoulder, Peter watched two sparrows as they flitted from one branch to another in the thick spruce on the other side of the pond. A chase as old as time and much less complicated. She touched his arm and drew his eyes to her face. He gently grazed her cheek with the back of his fingers before pushing a fallen lock of hair behind her ear. “I have nothing to offer you. I want to build a home, build a life, but I can’t do it if I stay here.” His voice held an air of regret. “There’s logging in Colinet, or you could go fishing.” “Ed is leaving. I have to go with him.” Peter looked away.

“You could stay.” “You know how Ed is. Always getting himself in trouble.” “And you’re always there to help him out.” “I’m all he has. It’s just the two of us.” He reached for her hands, but she stuffed them in the pockets of her dress. “I have no hold on you, Peter Nolan. No hold at all.” She stared at the ground as she forced the words from her mouth. “That’s not what I’m saying, Mary. I want to come back to you. In fact, I want to marry you. Will you wait for me?” Mary raised her head and searched his face. A slow smile came. She released her hands and grabbed his arms. “Peter, I’ll wait for you forever. You know that. I love you, too. I just don’t like the thought of not seeing you for who knows how long.” “I don’t have much to offer right now. But I have this.” Peter fished a braided line from his pocket. It formed a small and intricate loop. He took her hand and moved the line in on her finger. “Someday, my darling Mary, this will be a golden band.” He kissed her. “I’ll come back for you as soon as I can. You won’t have to wait for me forever.”

Two years later, he stood at her doorstep. She was a vision. He had to stop himself from sweeping her into his arms and running away from the world toward their hideaway, where he could unchain himself from the burden of his duty to Ed. She pulled on her coat, her eyes glistening and her face hopeful. Mary came to sit on the sawhorse beside him. She was aglow with love and promise. She reached for his hand, but he didn’t take it. He would be scarred forever by the look on her face when he told her that he was getting married the following week. “Her name is Martha Walker.”

He was hopeful that his upside-down world would someday be tolerable and the heartbreak he felt in that moment would stitch closed and see its way to mending. The scar, he was sure, would torment him forever.

3

Boston Present day, June 2021

Darlene pulled the zipper closed on her mother’s large violet-coloured suitcase. She had everything she needed for the trip, and what she didn’t have, she’d buy. Her heart wasn’t in it as Tiffany joked, “What does one wear when going to Newfoundland?” Neither of them had any idea what it was like there beyond the images they saw online. “Tiff, are you packing or are you gaming?” “Gaming? Do you even know what that is?” “I might,” Darlene said as she gave the zipper one final tug. “That stuff you look at on your phone.” Tiffany laughed. “You mean my social media?” “Whatever they call it.” “You must be the only person who’s not online.” “I have email.” Tiffany stopped in the hall and shook her head while she rolled her eyes. Her mother smiled at her. “And I’m packed, Mom. I was finished before you.” Tiffany, with her auburn ponytail wagging behind her, sauntered into the bedroom, flopped across the knitted throw at the foot of her mother’s double bed, spread her arms, and gazed at the ceiling with a sigh.

“So dramatic,” Darlene muttered under her breath. Tiffany rolled to her side, bent her elbow beneath her, and propped herself on her upturned palm. “I’m losing so many shifts down at Ray’s.” “Uh, uh, uh,” her mother said as she wagged her finger at Tiffany. “Ray’s will be there when we return. Despite what he says, he will take you back in a flash. You’re his best girl.” “He keeps me there because of you,” Tiffany said, her grin wide. She winked at her mother. “Ray Junior keeps asking about you.” “Ray Junior is full of himself. Don’t you give him my number.” Tiffany pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her faded jeans, and Darlene feigned a grab for it. Tiffany pulled away and laughed. “He’s not a bad guy, Mom. And he’s not hard on the eyes, according to the old women who eat there.” “Are you calling me old?” Darlene asked as she eyed her daughter. “Besides, you shouldn’t be worrying about work.” “I’m saving for college, ,” Tiffany said. “You’re nineteen, .” “What were you doing when you were nineteen?” “Probably working at Ray’s.” Darlene paused and smiled. “With Grandma. Oh, and Ray Senior, and probably trying to avoid Ray Junior.” Tiffany reached out and patted the suitcase. “Is Grandma in there?” She craned her neck to get a glimpse of the nightstand behind Darlene. “No,” Darlene said as she reached around and picked up the metal urn. “This was Grandma’s trip. She is going in my purse.” “Are you sure you’ll get through customs with her? I checked on the website. It

only mentioned requiring proof of vaccination, but it wasn’t clear to me that you could take, you know . . .” “I called, and the agent assured me that it would be all right. I’d feel bad stuffing her in this tightly packed thing.” “And your purse is better because . . . ?” Tiffany asked with a grin. Darlene threw a pillow at her and laid the urn back where she got it. “I’ll be putting her in my coat pocket when I stow my purse. I want to have her close to me. This was Grandma’s dream trip. She bought this purple luggage for it.” “Violet, Mom. She said violet was for mystery. And for the future.” “Future, right.” Darlene shook her head and closed her eyes. “It should be you and her going tomorrow.” She straightened from her task, threw her head back, and let out a heavy sigh. “It should have been you two going last year. Damn COVID.” Darlene squeezed her hands into fists by her side. Then she raised her fingers to her brow and massaged her temple. Her head hung low. “I still can’t believe she’s gone,” she whispered. She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve after a sudden spill of tears. Tiffany rolled onto her belly and wrapped her arms around the pillow, resting her chin there and staring at her mother. “Grandma would be so proud that you’re bringing her to Newfoundland.” “I know, baby. I know. It’s hard sometimes, that’s all.” Darlene grabbed the portfolio from the bed, pulled out several sheets, and slid the rest into the front pouch of her carry-on. “It was just the three of us for so long. I miss her.” She grabbed her glasses from the nightstand and sat on the bed, her face sombre as her finger hovered and grazed along the handwritten words. “I miss her, too,” Tiffany said. A flicker of sadness shadowed her eyes, and her lips drooped momentarily to a frown as she regarded her mother. “This was Grandma’s mission to find a family.” She made a fist and thrust it Supermanstyle into the air, her voice a booming echo on the word,“family.” They both laughed half-heartedly at the memory.

“I’ve gone over all her notes and questions she had for Aunt Ammie. Grandma took this seriously. I wish I had.” “I’m guilty, too. I should’ve paid more attention. I thought it was another one of Grandma’s whims.” Tiffany took some of the papers from her mother and scanned the list of items. “Ammie’s not our real aunt, though, right?” “I’m not entirely sure. It was Mom who did all the work on that website.” Darlene’s face contorted as if the memory of the hours her mother spent researching was a bitter one. She tossed her glasses on the bed and stroked her face with her fingers before retrieving them again. “What was it called?” she said absently as she riffled through the sheets looking for the name. “DNA Strands, or something like that. Something science-y.” Tiffany nodded and eyed her mother as she pointed to a particular page. “Yeah, that’s it.” Tiffany plucked out the sheet. “She could be a distant cousin. Mom called her Aunt Ammie, and so will we when we get there. That’s what her granddaughter says everyone calls her.” “Just imagine turning a hundred and one,” Tiffany said. “I’ve never met a centenarian before. It will probably be a pretty tame party. Aunt Ammie, I like the sound of that, though. Amelia, right?” Darlene sat on the bed and tapped her finger on the notes. “How am I going to all of this?” She traced her finger down the page and stopped on an entry. “Yes, Amelia Nolan Power, born 1920.” “You don’t need to everything. Nobody expects that.” “I expect it.” Darlene laid the papers on the comforter and shoved her fingers through her shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair. “Everything is out of whack.” She grabbed the papers, set them on her lap with a thud, adjusted her glasses to hold them in place, and peered at the names again. Tiffany reached out but stopped short of touching her mother. She pulled away and hugged the pillow instead. “There are so many names. when Grandma got her DNA results and all those people first popped up in Canada?” she said gently.

Darlene straightened her back, pushed aside the papers, and laid her hands on her knees. She took a deep breath, then another, before offering Tiffany a flaccid smile. “Grandma said it was a miracle because so many showed up at once. She had me searching names for her online. Then she ordered DNA Strands DNA kits for the two of us, and that made her worse,” Tiffany teased. “Poor Grandma said she wanted to be sure that it wasn’t a mistake.” “Yes, when she set her mind to something, she followed it through,” Darlene said with another innocuous smile. She gazed at the ceiling and nodded slightly before resting her cheek in her palm. “ the time she took up quilting?” “Yeah, that’s why I don’t have a closet.” “I have two of them in here,” Darlene said as she patted the baggage. “That’s why the suitcase is so full. I thought it would be a nice gesture for Aunt Ammie’s birthday.” “That’s a good plan. Grandma would have wanted that.” Darlene pushed herself out to rest on the edge of the bed, then paused there before standing. “ the time she decided she was a senior and wanted to play bingo and bocce ball?” “Yep. I spent that summer on a lawn with her. Oh, and in a church hall. I was traumatized by the bingo hall. Who can forget the bingo hall? Not me!” Tiffany faked a shudder. Darlene laid her hand on the papers, pursed her lips, and slowly shook her head from side to side. “It’s a shame she never got to go. She’d have had such fun.” She wiped at another tear. Her voice softened. “I hope she knows I’m taking her. Even if it is a year later.” “She knows you. She knows you’d do what she couldn’t.” Tiffany reached out and squeezed her mother’s hand. “What about ‘Aunt Ammie’s’ family?” She airquoted the name for effect. “According to this Nikki lady, everything is arranged. We’ll be picked up in St. John’s in two days. We’ll arrive after midnight and stay at a hotel close to the

airport, where somebody will come for us the next morning.” “No car rental, I . We’ve talked about this a hundred times.” “It’s not a hundred, thank you very much.” Darlene looked at Tiffany beneath a hooded gaze as if to silence her, then continued. “I want to go over it again.” She paused, looked at the ceiling, and swallowed. “Nikki said a car will be available for us.” “But no car of our own. No way to escape, either.” Tiffany tipped her head sideways and gave her mother a wide-eyed look. That thought had crossed Darlene’s mind as well. “I know.” She gave Tiffany a pensive look and grimaced. “Come on, Mom. I was kidding. Same as last time you told me about it.” “She seems friendly enough from her emails,” Darlene said absently, while Tiffany rolled her eyes and cocked her head. “Let’s hope there’s no reason to escape.” Tiffany furrowed her brow. Her mouth became a taut line across her face as she gave her mother a pinched stare. “You really should try and enjoy this, you know. You’re off work. Grandma’s savings and insurance were meant for this. Try and make it a vacation. I can’t you ever having one.” “I had vacation. I just chose to spend it here with you and Grandma.” “That’s not the same. I really wish you’d, I don’t know, stop trying to be responsible for everything.” “I don’t do that.” “You’ve had this same conversation with Grandma about getting away by herself,” Tiffany went on. Then her tone softened. “You’re still a young woman. There’s a lot of room between now and—I hate to be morbid, but between now and death. That room is not meant for all work, or at the least no enjoyment. Maybe a quilting group like Grandma did, or do something social, something you could enjoy, and meet people.”

Darlene stared at her daughter. “I do more than work,” she said, her voice defensive, though she tried to make light of the remark. “Besides, we only have so much closet space for quilts.” “Tell me what you do.” Darlene tapped her bottom lip with her index finger. “I go to Ray’s for coffee,” she said. “Yes, conveniently just before the end of my shift. You don’t want me getting the bus home alone at night.” Tiffany paused. “Going for coffee can’t be the highlight of your life. I won’t be working at Ray’s forever.” She pushed off the bed and came around to hug her mother. “I’m not judging you. I’m concerned for you. Just like you were concerned about Grandma.” Stepping back, she added, “But please don’t go playing bingo. I’d draw the line there.” Darlene laughed and hugged Tiffany again. “Maybe that’s what we’ll do at Aunt Ammie’s party.” “We’ll have to leave, that’s all,” Tiffany said as she took an exaggerated turn and pressed her nose into the air. She looked over her shoulder at her mother, her brow wrinkled and tone grave. “I think I might even be serious about that.” “Ah, Tiff, what would I do without you?” “You’re not going to know until I finish college.” She pretended to punch her mother in the arm. “Got to put up with me for a few more years.” “I don’t want to think about that.” Darlene put her hands over her ears and sat on the bed. Moments later, she reached for her mother’s urn and rolled it between her palms. She slowly shook her head. “Time is really nothing. Mom couldn’t wait to see you go to college.” Tiffany squeezed her mother’s shoulder. Her face grew serious. “Mom, you’re not going to like what I’m going to say next, so I’m going to say it, then leave the room.” Darlene gazed up at her. Tiffany held her stare. “You are not the reason Grandma died. You are not responsible.”

Darlene’s bottom lip trembled, her lids drifted shut, and she let herself fall back onto the bed. The whisper of pants legs faded, and “I love you” was uttered before the door closed.

Darlene and Tiffany left Boston at 6:00 p.m., changed flights in Toronto, and boarded the three-hour flight to St. John’s. To calm her nervousness, Darlene took out the family tree printout her mother had prepared the year before. She had close to memorized it over the last week, but now confusion was setting in. “Grandma’s grandparents, that would make them your what?” “My great-great-grandparents,” Tiffany said quietly, startled from a doze by her mother’s voice. Tiffany’s heavy “not again” sigh had no effect on Darlene’s persistence. “So, according to Grandma’s research and the calculation from this DNA Strands place, one set of great-great-grandparents, Danol and Erith Cooper, indicates that Danol was born in New York but was a policeman in Boston, and Erith Lock had birth records tracing back to England. I’m not sure how or why they ended up in North Harbour, but anyway . . .” She trailed off. “The other grandparents . . . a Mary Rourke was born in John’s Pond and got married there in her late twenties to a Peter Nolan, also from John’s Pond.” She pulled the small printed map from underneath the papers and pointed to the red “X” marked on the island of Newfoundland. Tiffany nodded, and Darlene shuffled it to the bottom of the stack. “The Nolans were both doctors. Mary went to university in Boston. Aunt Ammie was born there, too.” “Okay,” Tiffany said as she stifled a yawn. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.” “Tiffany Emma Carter,” Darlene said. “Pay attention.” “I get it, lots of Boston connections. And whatever the relationship, I’ll call her Aunt Ammie without the air quotes.”

Seeing her mother’s serious face, Tiffany straightened herself in her seat. She rubbed her hands together in feigned excitement. “What else do we know about Aunt Ammie?” Tiffany stuffed her hands in her hoodie’s pocket and grinned as her fingers moved beneath the fabric. Darlene squeezed them through the polyester pouch and smiled. “Mary and Peter had five children—Edward, Peter, Catherine, David, and James. The junior Peter is Ammie’s father. Ammie’s father married Elizabeth Cooper, and they had seven children. Ammie is the eldest and is the only surviving sibling. Ammie married a Charles Power, and they had ten children. Her husband died when the children were small, so she raised them by herself. I don’t think they are all living. Nikki is the granddaughter of one of Aunt Ammie’s boys.” Darlene fidgeted in the seat as she ran her finger over the list on the paper. “Or maybe one of her girls. I can’t rightly .” “Does it matter? She’s a grandchild.” Tiffany reached over and stilled her mother’s hand. “Besides, what could be so interesting about any of them? I mean, beyond great-great-almost-a-hundred-and-one-year-old-aunt-slash-cousin interesting?” Darlene shook her head back and forth and laughed through clenched lips as she squeezed Tiffany’s arm. “I’m sure Aunt Ammie will lots of stories about them. Mary died sometime in the 1950s or ’60s. She was a doctor.” “Yeah, Grandma talked about that,” Tiffany said. “She also mentioned something about there being confusion whether she married a second Peter Nolan.” “That was one of Grandma’s questions.” Darlene pulled a sheet from the folder with renewed enthusiasm. “See, here it says Peter Nolan obituary and death notice. Two dates—1900 and 1958. She wanted to know which one was the right one, or if they were both correct. Though I don’t see how that could be possible.” “Grandma certainly had lots of questions,” Tiffany observed as she scanned the sheet, now resigned to engaging with her mother. “Grandma’s ‘evidence,’” Darlene said as she air-quoted. Her anxiety eased as they talked it through once more. She reached for Tiffany and gave her hand a

reassuring squeeze. At the bottom of the last sheet, Darlene tapped her fingernail over the capitalized word JOURNALS, which was followed by six exclamation points and a red circled “Mary and Peter.”

The loudspeaker crackled overhead, and the captain told them to prepare for landing. Darlene shuffled the papers into her mother’s portfolio, reached into her pocket, and clasped her mother’s urn. She tipped her head back to keep a tear from overflowing as she waited for the jolt when the wheels hit the runway. “You made it, Mom,” Darlene whispered, blinking the excess water away.

4

Nikki Wall met Tiffany and Darlene at the front desk at ten o’clock the next morning. “I have to warn you, it could get chaotic there. Family are arriving over the next few weeks, and we’re pretty loud. I’m not sure what you both are used to.” “Exciting,” Tiffany said. “How many are you expecting?” “There are about a hundred people coming from away, and the rest of us live near and far on the island. The hall holds three hundred, and we figure it will be full on the day of Nana’s birthday.” “How many are like us?” Darlene asked. “Like, from the US, or something else?” “Well, strangers. We haven’t met anyone.” “I believe you are the only two. I was sorry to hear about your mom, too, by the way. From the emails I received, I believe she would have enjoyed this.” “Thank you,” Darlene said. “I’m sure she would have. So, it’s only us here for the first time?” Nikki nodded several times as if she were counting down a list. “Yes, some haven’t been home in a few years. Well, last year doesn’t count. But for the most part, they are all family we know. Usually, every five years, everyone makes an extra special effort. We call them ‘Come Home Years.’ It’s a thing here in Newfoundland. Usually for a community, but we do it for family,” Nikki said, making a swipe at the air with her hand. “We were heartbroken when her hundredth was cancelled due to COVID lockdowns. Nana said she was born in a pandemic and she wasn’t going to die in one. Now with Nana turning a hundred and one, as many as possible are coming.

We’re all just happy she made it. We miss parties and get-togethers, too, and we’re glad we didn’t have to cancel this one.” “Do you think it might be best if we stayed in the city or a hotel in the area until the party? We might be tresing on your reunion.” “Are you kidding?” Nikki said as she gazed back at Darlene and then glanced at the back seat. “Nana would kill me if I let you do that. Besides, there’s nothing close, and she has rooms ready for you both at her house.” “Really?” Tiffany asked, her voice high-pitched. “Yes, of course. Nana said that you might not feel involved or welcomed if we put you in one of the trailers. She wanted you front and centre. She’s so glad that family from away has found her.” “From away?” Tiffany and Darlene asked in unison. “Oh,” Nikki laughed. “Yes, if you are not from here, you’re from away. Nana said that’s the best part of her birthday.” Darlene and Tiffany glanced at one another. “Okay,” Tiffany said. “So, we’re from away?” “Yes. Did you hear tell of Come From Away, the Broadway musical?” Tiffany’s look of surprise made Nikki laugh. “Seriously,” she said as she bobbed her head. “Anyway, you don’t know Nana, but what she wants, she gets. So, no sense trying to change her mind. You’re in the house, and that’s that.” Nikki gave them a pointed tour on the one-hour drive and promised she’d be available to bring them to any places of interest they wanted to see the week after next. “I’m also doing a big heritage project with the school kids next year, so I’m going to be a parasite.” “Parasite?” Darlene asked.

“Yep. I know your mother was looking for family history, and I’m going to use that next year for the project. If you don’t mind, of course. I’ll work with you both and take notes from Nana’s memory and read the journals she has in the trunk. I have an appointment for us at The Rooms in two weeks. If you want to go.” “The Rooms?” “Our archives in St. John’s.” “Oh,” Tiffany said. “Yes, I’d love to go. I’m sure Mom would, too.” “Yes,” Darlene said. “I’m in. We’ll follow your lead. Journals?” “Yes, you can go through them this week when nobody is around, if you want. They are from the 1900s, mostly. After the war, Mary and Peter stopped writing them, as far as we can tell. I had the war ones for a school project last year, but I haven’t read the rest. So, this summer, that’s what I’ll be doing.” “Are you sure we can’t stay at a hotel in the community?” Nikki laughed. “You will understand when we get there. And we’re here. This is North Harbour,” she said as the trees opened out onto the ocean. “Both sides are considered North Harbour, but the other side is a dirt road and mostly cabins now. I don’t know if you can make out the path over the hill across there, but that’s the road to John’s Pond. We’ll take Nana over there before her birthday. We’ll have a boil-up . . .” Nikki noticed the blank look on Darlene’s face. “I guess you would call it a family picnic.” “That sounds like fun. We’d love that. It will remind me of Grandma and bocce ball,” Tiffany said. Darlene nodded, and they both shared a nervous grin. The road edged the harbour, and with the tide high, it was like they were travelling by boat. “Pretty neat, hey?” Darlene and Tiffany nodded as they went over a small rise and Nikki slowed. A large two-storeyed house with a gabled roof was a bright fresh white against the green mosaic of the surrounding grass and trees. Double bay windows from ground to roof on both sides of the house gave it a bold character. In the meadow, there were eight mobile trailers in a line, huddled side by side near the

driveway. Cars and trucks were spread out across the meadow. “Looks like a full house,” Nikki said. “Family are staying in the trailers when they arrive. Some have cabins on the south side or actually live here in the harbour. Like I said, we are a loud bunch and can be overwhelming, especially now that we’re finally allowed to gather together.” She laughed. “Don’t let anyone scare you off. After the initial greetings, everyone will go on about their business. There’ll be lots of meals, food and people coming and going, but that’s what Nana wants.” Darlene looked at Tiffany, her raised brows and wide eyes behind her glasses seeking reassurance from her daughter. However, Tiffany, with her forehead on the glass, was busy surveying the area. Darlene settled in her seat and waited for Nikki to park the car. They were swarmed by kids, from toddlers to teens, and two men came to take their bags. Nikki introduced them, but the names were forgotten soon after they were spoken. The gravel beneath their feet skittered away as they trod to the rear of the house, a trail of chattering children skipping all around them. “We’re intruding,” Darlene said, her stomach knotted and clenched. She reached for Tiffany’s hand. “No, you’re not. Honestly,” Nikki reassured her. As they rounded the house, Darlene caught sight of several men in the distance playing horseshoes near the barn. The few who were facing them waved, and the ones who had their backs to them turned and shouted greetings. Darlene gestured hesitantly and awkwardly as she followed Nikki across the threshold and in through the porch. She heard voices but saw only black and blurred images after going from brilliant sunshine into the darker interior on the way the kitchen. Somebody told the children to go outside for a bit. Darlene sidled toward the wall while arms and shoulders skipped and rushed past her in the porch as the kids exited. She kept following Nikki until her blackened silhouette stopped. Darlene’s eyes gradually regained sight in a brightly lit kitchen. An old-fashioned stove was the centrepiece. Kettles atop it were steaming and spitting. Pots of food lay covered on the oven door and on the warmer. Smells of meat and vegetables hung in the air, and her stomach, to her chagrin, growled in appreciation.

A larger woman, strikingly an older version of Nikki, cracked eggs into a frying pan on the polished iron stove. Darlene’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. She put her fingertips to her lips to cover her astonishment. In that moment, she believed she’d stepped back in time. Nikki kissed the woman’s cheek. “Auntie Rose, I didn’t realize you’d be here.” “Somebody has to cook for this bunch,” the woman said with a smile. She looked toward Darlene and Tiffany. “Welcome to you. I’m sure you’ll be hungry. Ham and eggs are the order of the day.” “Thank you,” Darlene stammered. “I hope you don’t mind the noise,” Rose said. “We got a fair share of it here today.” Darlene’s pasted smile didn’t leave her lips as she gazed around the room. A tall man was helping an old lady from the rocking chair in the corner. Once she straightened, he let her go, and she scuffed across the kitchen toward them. Every eye in the room—and there were many—was fixed on them. “I’m Ammie,” she said as she held out her hand. “Most folks call me Aunt Ammie or Nana.” Darlene and Tiffany moved forward to meet her. She didn’t immediately take their hands but moved her fingers instead along Tiffany’s red hair as her eyes brimmed with tears. In the coveted silence, Ammie lived out some long-ago memory. Her eyes changed with the waning intensity of the recollection, and she returned to the present. “You’re the spit of my grandmother, Mary,” she said breathlessly. “From my earliest memories, her hair was the colour of yours.” Tiffany blushed. “There’s no mistaking, you’re our family,” Ammie said with resolution as she held their hands. Darlene was surprised by the strength of her grip. She pulled each of them to her and hugged them. “Aunt Ammie,” Darlene said slowly and waited for the barely perceptible nod of acceptance from the woman.

“I’m truly sorry to hear about your mom,” Ammie said, her piercing eyes taking in the two women. She patted Darlene on the back and gave her another hug. “We were saddened to hear about her.” “I appreciate that,” Darlene stammered as a sudden and jarring grief punctured her equilibrium. Tears threatened to spill over and drench her, but in an attempt to quell the emotions, her inner voice warned of first impressions and embarrassment among strangers. Being unable to reign in a sadness that she thought she’d been able to internalize scared her. “We miss her every day.” She tensed to dam off the flooding sentiment that was threatening. “She was looking forward to meeting all of you,” she managed as she dropped her right hand and drummed her fingers along the cotton of her slacks. Her lips clamped tight against the quiver of emotion, and she focused on the empty space between Ammie’s shoulder and the wall. Darlene dug her nails into the heel of her hands to realign herself. With intent, she failed to mention her mother was here with them, in an urn in her loose-fitting pocket. That fact would remain private for her and Tiffany. If spoken aloud, it would make it real, a little voice niggled. Ammie nodded and gazed at Darlene, taking in the struggle in her eyes. “We were luckier than most in that regard. Awful thing, that COVID. I was never in a hurry for the future until last year.” She squeezed Darlene’s arm and searched her face once more. Ammie paused, and her eyes took on a comionate glow. “That’s enough about that now. We all know what it was,” she chided herself. “We’re glad to get back to this . . . noise,” Rose said as she prepared plates. Ammie gestured around the room. “This is my house, and you’re welcome here any time. We are all so glad you came.” Affirmations rose like a hummed chorus from around the room. “It’s not every day that a girl turns a hundred and one.” She smiled. “We are honoured,” Tiffany said, expressing each word with an air of importance. “I’m happy that I remind you of your grandmother.” “It’s quite remarkable, actually. Grandma Mary on the sod,” Ammie said as she reached out and stroked Tiffany’s hair once more. “Come. Sit at the table. Have a mug-up for yourselves. I’ll you.”

Sensing their confusion, Nikki motioned for them to follow Ammie as she took the plates from Rose and deposited them on the table. “You have so many people here. I’m sure you could use the room for somebody else,” Darlene said, her composure holding fast. “Nonsense. I won’t hear tell of it,” Ammie said. “You don’t know anyone around here. What better way to get to know them than being plunked down in the middle of them?” She grinned, and several people chuckled. Darlene glanced around to get a bearing on the place. The walls were lined with men and women, some seated, some standing, but all looking on. She nodded without meeting anyone’s eyes and then focused on the table. Ammie shuffled along. Tiffany helped with her chair, and they sat on either side of her. Six others were already seated and eating. They were introduced, and Darlene apologized for being sure she wouldn’t any names. They laughed, and Darlene dug into the ham and eggs to hide her unsettledness as much as to assuage her hunger pangs. Ammie pointed toward the loaf of bread. Tiffany, who seemed right at home and not at all out of place, reached for a slice without hesitation. “It’s still warm, Mom.” “Not long out of the oven,” Rose called from the stove. “Nice and fresh for you.” Tiffany took a bite and smiled. “Oh my, I’ve died and gone to heaven. Mom, you have to try it.” Darlene reached for a slice after Ammie smiled and gave her a raised eyebrow and sidelong glance toward the bread. After the first bite, she had to agree with Tiffany. She smiled as she chewed and savoured the warm delicacy. “There’s lots of local jams in the cupboard for you to try during the week, too,” Rose said. Ammie asked about their flight. They made small talk. There was laughter and joviality around the table and in the room. Some things were said so quickly, Darlene couldn’t understand them. People got up, others sat down, introductions

were made once again. “This place is more efficient than any restaurant I’ve been in,” Darlene blurted out in wonderment as they greeted the new additions to the table. Somewhere between the first bite of bread and the last forkful of eggs, the tension that had woven her tight for days dissipated. She didn’t have time to examine when or how it happened. “Rose has this shift. Tess takes the next one at suppertime,” Ammie said. “We did this when I was ninety and ninety-five.” “We’ve been doing this since you were eighty,” Rose said as she laid a plate in front of one of the newcomers. She leaned in over Ammie and kissed the top of her head on her way to the stove. “Every five years it’s a bigger affair,” she said. “And we love it because it brings us all together. We need it. Last year was another story, and we all choose to forget it.” Rose brought the teapot over, then the coffee pot. Darlene and Tiffany had the latter. A young man in his late teens came in looking for one of the boys. “Hello, Aunt Ammie,” he said as he pecked her on the cheek. It was so natural the way he held her hand while he spoke to the others. When he learned the boys were in one of the trailers, he bent and hugged her. “I’ll be back later.” He patted her hand. “I’m Stephen, by the way,” he said to Tiffany and Darlene. “I live at the other end of the harbour.” He shook their hands and turned to leave. “Want something to eat?” Rose called after him. “I’ll come back,” he shouted from somewhere in the yard. “Nice boy, that fellow,” Ammie said. “His mother comes here twice a day in normal times, even last year in lockdown and bubble times.” Rose saw the confusion on Darlene’s face. “His mom, Karen, is Nana’s care worker. She comes and helps Nana with lunch and supper. She was here last year when we couldn’t be.” “Nice woman, that one,” Ammie said. “She’s been bringing young Stephen here for almost twenty years. He’s one of our own.” “He’s a relative?” Tiffany asked.

“No, not related that we know. But he’s been coming here so often, he’s like one of mine,” Ammie said with a smile. “Now I think I’ll get in the rocker.” Rose came to assist her, and Darlene stood and moved Ammie’s chair out. “Thank you, dear,” Ammie said as she smiled at Darlene. The warmth of Ammie’s hand on hers on the back of the chair was settling as the tension threatened to take hold of Darlene once again. Ammie had a charm about her that was infectious. Darlene resisted the urge to hug her, which had sprung from some unfamiliar quarter of her being. Nikki said, “I’ll show you upstairs. Bathroom, stuff like that.” Darlene nodded, grateful for not making an awkward scene standing by Ammie’s rocker. Stephen and two boys came in and sat down. Tiffany was pushing away from the table when Stephen asked her a question. She smiled at her mother and remained with the younger gathering. “Don’t mind the busyness around here today,” said Nikki. “Tonight, most of the crowd will go home to St. John’s and return next weekend. Me included. I work next week at the school finishing up for the summer. But then I’m off, so I’ll be back. Stephen has offered to chauffeur you this week. And the car is there for you to use whenever you want.” “This is too much,” Darlene said as she followed Nikki up the stairs. They ed a wooden rail, where Nikki showed her the room. Striped wallpaper of burgundies and roses complemented the deep maroon hardwood floor. A queen bed with a soft pink covering was layered in pillows. An ancient brown trunk at the foot was covered by a lace doily. As she moved farther into the room, she noticed the window seat in the alcove overlooking the harbour. White sheers were pinned by tasselled, crocheted ties. She gasped. “I’m sure some of the family should be here.” “Nonsense. You’re family. Don’t give it another thought. Nana is across the landing. She likes to see the sun rise on the harbour in the mornings, too. It can be quite spectacular.” Nikki smiled. “Oh, and we ed the bathroom at the top of the stairs. Tiffany is in the room on this side of the hall, and the other one is free for the moment. I think that will change next week, though. It depends on whether Uncle Ronnie brings his trailer. We’ll see.” “So, Aunt Ammie lives here by herself?” Darlene’s eyes widened at the thought.

“Yes, that’s right. Karen comes twice a day, and some of us take turns staying here on weekends. The trailers will be empty, at least this week. I’ll be here for the rest of your stay starting next Friday. Our trailer is the closest to the house. Brian didn’t come in this weekend but will be here for the party. Oh, Brian’s my husband.” Nikki laughed. “I forget you haven’t been here before. Please ask all the questions you want. If you’re up for a walk, Stephen will bring you to John’s Pond on Tuesday. The road’s a little rough, so we generally walk or bike the five kilometres. We’ll bring Nana and the supplies over on bikes when we have the —” She paused as if searching for a word. “The picnic.” “Aunt Ammie rides a bike?” Darlene asked, her voice raised at the notion. “Yes,” Nikki said. “Oh, not the kind of bike you’re thinking of. It’s an all-terrain. A side by side, something like a truck with big wheels.” She laughed. “I forget you’re not acquainted with things around here. Anyway, Stephen wants to take you. By how quick he came back into the house, I think he’s taken a shine to your daughter.” “Oh,” Darlene said. “I didn’t notice.” “Any other time, they wouldn’t come in at all.” Nikki laughed. “We’re not putting him out this week?” “Stop worrying. You’re guests and family. But if you come back next year, you’re on your own.” She laughed again and squeezed Darlene’s arm. “Seriously, you’ve found us now, and it might be hard to get rid of us.” Darlene smiled. She brushed her hand over a knitted afghan at the foot of the bed and looked at the shades of black and white pictures on the far wall. “I’ll leave you to it,” Nikki said. “We’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.” “Family,” Darlene whispered to the walls as she scowled and shook her head. How easily they seemed to have claimed her and Tiffany without knowing anything about them. “Why did you have to start this, Mom?” she mouthed to the ceiling. An irrational thought swept through her mind to take her daughter and run. She squeezed her lids shut to dispel the urge. She couldn’t, of course, she reasoned—

she didn’t have a vehicle. Darlene closed the door, sat on the bed, and let her emotions loose.

5

The next morning, Darlene peeked in at Tiffany. She was fast asleep. The steady rise and fall of the patchwork quilt was a comfort to Darlene. Her mind flashed to Tiffany’s youth, when Darlene would come home from work and watch Tiffany through the crack in the door. Her mother would be asleep on the couch, and Darlene would cover her before going off to bed. She shook her head to disperse the herd of pensive thoughts. She’d slept surprisingly well. The silence here was so different. Silence in Boston was beset with honking horns, sirens, and an underpinning drone of the city—all turned into a false-silence reality. Yesterday, the first families said their goodbyes around 2:00 p.m., with the last having left after supper, all returning to work or the final week of school in St. John’s or other places. Ammie was in bed by 8:30 p.m., and Darlene and Tiffany were alone in the kitchen preparing to follow. Tiffany had a wondrous smile on her face when she looked at her mother and said, “I can’t believe we’re here. What a day. This is our family.” “Yesterday was a whirlwind. It is hard to believe.” “Mom,” Tiffany said, “please promise me you’ll give this a chance.” “I’m here. Of course I will.” “No, Mom. I mean really give it a chance.” Tiffany eyed her mother. “I know you, . Promise me. Say it out loud.” “Tiffany,” Darlene scolded. “Say it. Please,” Tiffany added softly.

They stared at each other before Darlene said, “Promise.” Her lips spoke what her heart didn’t believe. “I’m going to hold you to it.” “I promise, Tiff. Honestly.” “The promise is not for me,” Tiffany said as she put her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “It’s for you. I already believe. Night.” She bounded up the stairs before Darlene could answer. A little later, lying in bed, Darlene thought of Tiffany. She saw a younger version of herself worrying about her own mother a year or more after Tiffany was born. The worry didn’t stop. Then her mother’s smile the last morning she’d left for work entered her thoughts. Mom had embraced this notion of finding family. Darlene had been wary of it, didn’t understand it, and hadn’t tried nor helped. But her mother had done it like she had done so many other things. Fearlessly. Now with her mother gone, she was propelled into an uncomfortable state that not only did she not understand, but maybe she didn’t want to understand. Tiffany sensed this. Darlene could either stay here and bide her time until they returned home or be like her mother and launch herself into the experience. She reached for the urn on the nightstand and sighed. For Tiffany’s sake, she would do the latter. Maybe even for my own. Darlene fell fast asleep and woke with the determination that this would be an experience Tiffany wouldn’t forget. She took another peek at Tiffany, who was still sound asleep. Ammie whispered her name from across the hall, and Darlene nearly jumped out of her skin. Then she grinned at Ammie’s smile. “Sorry,” Ammie whispered. “I got a fright when I saw you, too. I forgot you were here.” She made her way over the hall and linked her arm into Darlene’s. “It’s good to see you. Good morning.” “Good morning,” Darlene whispered. “It’s so quiet and peaceful here.” She pulled Tiffany’s door shut and guided Ammie to the stairs, going down ahead of

her. “Have you ever made a fire before?” Ammie asked. “I don’t believe I have. I’ve never been camping or anything. Mom wasn’t the outdoor type until she was in her sixties.” “Well, there’s always something to be learned in a day,” Ammie teased. “The splits and shavings are made. We only have to set the match.” “I believe I can do that,” Darlene said with an exaggerated wink. “You just need to explain what’s a split and what’s a shaving.” Ammie laughed. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.” Darlene, under Ammie’s guidance, placed the shavings in the firebox and lit the match. When the third one blew out in the draft, she handed the box to Ammie. Darlene blushed, and Ammie smiled. “Cup your hand around it like this,” she said as she struck the match and sheltered it in her palm. She blew it out and handed the box to Darlene once again. Darlene smiled widely at Ammie when she successfully lit the spalls, and once the flames were going, she laid in the splits. Ammie pointed out a pair of white cotton gloves and told Darlene to put them on. Darlene fetched small junks from the woodbox and crossed them over the splits so as not to put out the flame. She closed the stove door, pulled off the gloves, and brushed her hands together. “My first fire,” she said with a grin that put an odd feeling in her belly and made her cheeks twitch. “What’s next?” “The kettles could use fresh water. Wait. Today is Monday. One kettle will do with enough water for the three of us. We can fill it after we have our tea.” Darlene poured the water from the kettles and refilled one and half-filled the other. Ammie added more wood and left one damper open over the flame for the lighter kettle. The other one, shining silver but for the blackened bottom, she directed Darlene to place on the back of the stove. It would simmer there and be hot for lunch.

“Poke around and figure out what you want for breakfast. There’s ham left over from yesterday. Bread’s in the cupboard, eggs in the fridge. Please yourself.” “What would you like?” “I’ll have whatever you’re having. Unless it’s fancy stuff that I can’t pronounce or never heard of,” Aunt Ammie qualified. “I draw the line there.” “How about boiled eggs and toast?” “That would be right nice,” Ammie said. “Now, listen here. I don’t expect you to come here to tend on me. I’ll allow it for this morning, though.” Her last sentence was uttered while peering at Darlene under hooded brows. She pursed her lips to smother a grin. Darlene chuckled. “We have to do something to earn our keep. You can take advantage of that.” She asked where to find the dishes and food, and Ammie directed her from her seat in the rocking chair. “We could be a symphony,” Darlene said. “You point, and I’ll go.” When the place was set and they were both seated, Ammie laid her hand on Darlene’s. “I was truly saddened to hear about your mother, Emma. I know how difficult it can be.” “Thanks, Aunt Ammie. I know it’s been more than a year, but it seems like yesterday.” “It helps to talk about her. Tell me about your mother and why she was looking for us.” “Mom was raised in a series of foster homes in Boston. She always said she wasn’t connected to anything until I was born. We didn’t have it easy with her a single mom, but she always made me feel special and loved.” Darlene stared at Ammie as she spoke. “She worked two and three jobs to keep us off the streets. It was harder when I was small, but when I got old enough, she’d work somewhere I could go with her, like a café or a library. I started helping out when I was twelve or so. It wasn’t as hard then. We both went to work at Ray’s

Diner when I was fourteen, saved, and with the help of scholarships, I went to university and got a degree.” “That’s wonderful. You must have made her so proud.” “Well, when I was in school, I had Tiffany. The guy wasn’t interested in ‘playing house,’ as he put it, so at twenty-one I had become like my mother, a single parent. The only difference was I had her. She wouldn’t hear of anything other than my finishing what I started and her staying home with Tiffany until she was old enough for school. I worked and went to school part-time up to when Tiffany was six. We lived together until last year, when COVID-19 hit. Mom got sick at the diner, and within two days, she was in hospital.” Darlene stopped before saying the rest. To say it aloud seemed like it would make it truer than the reality they were living. Ammie took both Darlene’s hands in hers and squeezed them. Darlene held the anguish behind clenched lips, and only one treasonous tear released. “I still can’t believe it. After a year, you think I would.” “That’s not how things work. Look at the year we all had. It’s not a race. You’ll have fond memories in time.” They heard Tiffany on the stairs. Darlene wiped at her eyes and reached for her coffee, glad to finish the conversation. “That was a great sleep,” Tiffany said as she twisted and stretched her back and arms. “I hope you slept well.” She came around the table and kissed the top of her mother’s head and then did the same with Ammie. Ammie patted the table on the other side of her. Tiffany made a cup of coffee, grabbed a plate from the cupboard, and sat down. “It feels like home, just in a different place. The sentiment is here,” Tiffany said as she bit into a slab of bread. “Try the partridgeberry jam.” Ammie’s bony finger pointed to a cupboard behind Tiffany. Tiffany fetched the small jar and opened it. She wrinkled her nose at the tart aroma but spread it on the bread just the same. “I think it will grow on me.” She

offered some to her mother and Ammie. “What are your plans for the day?” Darlene asked. “Stephen is coming over to help us piece together who we are,” Tiffany said absently as she chewed the last bite of her bread. “The graveyard is over the next rise. Stephen can show you where many of your kin are buried. I have journals in the trunk in your room I want you to read.” “The trunk in the room I’m in?” Darlene asked. “Yes. It was my grandmother Mary Nolan’s trunk. She brought that from Boston before I was born. She gave it to me when I got married.” “Oh, wow,” Tiffany said. “I want to see that, Mom.” “There’s journals from Mary’s life in John’s Pond, and Peter’s life. They stopped writing, as far as I can tell, after the First World War. That’s after they came back from . . .” Ammie stopped. “I’ll wait a few days before I say anything. It’s better if you read first. This will be a quiet week, so it’s a good time to get at that.”

Stephen helped them retrieve journals from the trunk. There were various colours and sizes of hard-bound books displayed on the table. Different sizes and thicknesses were marked by year. “I want to read Mary’s, since Aunt Ammie says I look like her,” Tiffany said. “I’ll help you take notes if you want,” Stephen said. “This is like the greatest hunt ever. Like solving a real-life mystery.” His enthusiasm was genuine. Tiffany smiled at him. Darlene made a mental note that perhaps Nikki was more perceptive than she thought. “Fine, I’ll take Peter’s.” They separated the books in piles by years and agreed to start with the oldest first. Tiffany and Stephen stayed in the house and later laid a quilt out on the grass near the old barn.

Darlene grabbed a cup of coffee and brought her first journal to the front veranda. She laid the cup on a little table and a cushion on the wooden chair. Ammie grinned at her through the window. “Are you sure you don’t mind being in there by yourself? I can come back in.” “I’m all right where I am, and so are you,” Ammie said through the glass. Darlene settled herself into a comfortable position and picked up the journal. “Now, Peter Nolan, what’s to discover about you?” A warm breeze ruffled her hair as she lifted the cover.

6

Spring 1895

Dr. Peter Nolan moved about the ward at the General Hospital in St. John’s. He smiled and conversed with patients as he checked them over, gave them updates, or discharged them. This routine helped him keep his focus and settled his thoughts of self-imposed wrongdoings that haunted an idle mind. It wasn’t that he was amassing good deeds to outweigh the transgressions, or that he thought forgiveness would be easier if his actions were counted. Forgiveness started with himself, and he was the only one keeping score. He often wondered how much was enough to lance the hurt he’d inflicted with choices he’d made. But he knew the answer and had to live with it. There was no way to tally “enough,” and that was the part that needed a busy routine, that needed settling. He’d been a ship’s surgeon until eight years ago, when he moved to St. John’s and married Martha Walker. She was an English girl who had fallen in love with his brother Ed. When Ed died tragically, Martha learned she was pregnant. With no home and no future, he couldn’t have his only living relative destitute in a foreign land, so Peter did the only thing he could—he married her. Now his wife was gone almost a year, and he had a fine stepson named Eddy. Though he hadn’t entered into any physical relationship with Martha, he missed her company, especially when she was having good days. Caring for Eddy hadn’t brought her back from her grief, and Peter believed she’d died from a broken heart. Eddy’s live-in nanny, Mrs. Mallard, had been a godsend. Herself a widow, she was happy to find employment in his household. She had saved them all in many ways. Eddy had a normal childhood, Martha had help on days she couldn’t get out of bed, and Peter had peace of mind knowing they were all well cared for. Mrs. Mallard continued to stay with them and had no plans to leave. For that, more than ever, he was grateful.

Then there was Mary Rourke—the woman who haunted his dreams, who occupied many of his waking hours, especially now that Martha was gone. Out of respect for his wife, he would wait a year before pursuing any other relationship. The only one he wanted was Mary. Peter wouldn’t soon forget her face the day he told her he would marry Martha. He couldn’t tell her he was stuck in duty. He’d had every intention to marry her, have a big family and a loving home. He had made something of himself, but the only thing missing was Mary. “Get out of here, Peter. I never want to see you again,” had been uttered from her lips. He’d wanted to reach for her, tell her everything, but he couldn’t. It wasn’t fair to her nor to Martha. So, he’d remained silent. Martha hadn’t been a burden. It wasn’t right for him to think that. He’d missed his chance at being happy because of the duty he’d carried for family. It was his choice, not Martha’s circumstance. He was to blame. Now, Peter couldn’t help but think that he could finally have what he’d wanted those many years before. However, Mary was probably married. She probably didn’t want to see him. She probably still hated him. None of these things could give blame to her. There were so many unknowns that he wasn’t sure if he could live with a new rejection for the rest of his life. But there was a lot of “rest of” left in his life. How could he bear to be alone with the love he still carried for Mary Rourke, known locally as Mary Ro, without knowing if it could be returned or not? How many distractions could he find to keep himself from going insane if her answer was no? His dilemma was fresh and tresing on his strive for resolve, especially since Martha would be gone a year on March 1. His ever-present realization that devotion to patients could only provide so much distraction kept him offbalance. “Dr. Nolan, when you’re ready, a word, please,” said Dr. Abraham Hart, the senior physician at the General Hospital. Peter finished up with the parents of the young boy who’d suffered a broken leg and met Dr. Hart in the corridor. “Peter, there’s an ongoing tragedy unfolding in Trinity Bay. A doctor has been

requested to the SS Ingraham. I want you to go. You have the most experience of the lot here for injuries at sea.” Dr. Hart knew that Peter had started out as a surgeon’s assistant on the SS Frisia, part of the Hamburg-American Line, and later was promoted to ship’s surgeon before he returned home and ed the General Hospital. “How much time do I have?” “Precious little.” “I’ll go now.” “Peter, Loretta’s people are from out there. Do what you can.” “Of course.” Peter had met Loretta Hart on several occasions when there were societal functions that required the doctors and their wives to be present. She was a bit odd and pretty much remained at her husband’s side, not mixing with the other wives. Peter, thinking she was quite shy, always made an effort to speak to her despite the initial clumsiness of conversation. He was able to build a relationship with her that stripped the awkwardness that others found off-putting, and he became comfortable in the Harts’ company after that. Dr. Hart had confided in him that the couple had had four babies after their first daughter, Geraldine, was born. However, the rest had died as infants. Loretta hadn’t been the same since then, according to her husband. Peter introduced her to Martha. They developed a friendship, but after Martha died, Peter didn’t see much of Loretta. Peter went by the house and explained the situation to Mrs. Mallard. She’d become accustomed to his goings and comings. He packed a few items to keep him warm and dry, including extra wool socks. He took his medical bag, said goodbye to Eddy, and headed for the ship in the harbour. Before long, they were steaming out through the Narrows, heading for Trinity Bay.

7

Wind whipped snowy ghosts over their heads and out across the ice. Peter couldn’t be certain if it was an omen of things to come. Behind the haunting trail, a squall uprooted the ocean and drenched them in frozen spatters that clung to them like webs and layered on everything else it touched. Three men struggled at the wheel to keep the Ingraham from hitting the white field side-on and upsetting her. “Just a little more, lads!” the captain yelled. “Easy, now. Easy.” He nodded at Peter. “It’s a foolhardy thing you’re attempting.” “Not for the people who need help.” “I fear the only one who’ll need help is you.” Peter contemplated the sentiment, which, if he were truthful with himself, mirrored his own thoughts. He smacked his heavy mittens off his thigh as if the sting could banish the lingering doubt. “I’ll write a note relieving you of responsibility for my actions,” he said. The captain had been trying to dissuade him from what he believed was certain death. “To be clear, I’m going, with or without your . I’d like it to be with it.” “I need all the men I have to fight this storm if we have any hope of getting back to port.” “I understand. I wouldn’t ask anyone to risk his life.” The captain shouted orders at the men. He turned to one of them. “Anything on the wire?” With the shake of Riley’s head, it was sealed. “Perhaps they’re all home safe,” the captain suggested. “I’m no fool, and neither are you.” Peter’s challenging glare caused the captain

to study him once more. “You know different. We would have heard.” The captain nodded, then gazed at the icy boards beneath their feet. “Over a hundred men out in this, unprepared. I allow you’ll be going to bury the lot of them. That’s if you make it, yourself.” “I hope otherwise for the men. But if it comes to that, so be it.” Peter cast a glance over the harsh, white landscape. “If I can save even one, it will be worth it. I spent a year farther north than this. I’ll be all right.” The crew had tried for hours to penetrate the wall of ice at the mouth of the bay. A pan stretched from north of Bonavista to Baccalieu Island in the south. After many attempts to forge a path, and with worry of damage to the hull, the captain declared it was too thick to break through. The captain wired St. John’s requesting the larger Labrador be deployed. That meant a day or more delay—with no guarantee the Labrador would get through, either. The sudden and bitterly cold northeasterly wind continued to blow the ice on the land for the second day. Hundreds of men were out in small skiffs and dories, and many were still uned for. Peter knew his medical skills would be needed. He couldn’t turn away from that duty. With great care, the ship sidled toward the ice, and the crew lowered a small, flat-bottomed boat. The captain gave Peter several flares. “Good luck, son. May the Lord have mercy on you and guide you safely ashore.” The ship creaked and groaned, battling the harsh elements, as the men turned her toward St. John’s. Peter watched her stern for a few moments as she disappeared into a stormy whiteness, as if a painter had swirled the brush and erased the ship, leaving a colourless canvas. Peter got his bearings from the com and set out. He pulled the boat across the ragged ice island, stopping often so as not to raise a sweat. The wind whipped at his back as he trudged for three miles to the open water of Trinity Bay. In the waning light of the day, he turned the punt onto its side in the shelter of a six-foot ice stack that was several yards from the edge. The sea was calm

close to his position, but whitecaps formed where the wind had free rein, and gusts were like fairies flitting across the darkening surface nearer to him. He lit a fire as close to the boat as was safe and crawled inside between the thwarts. He’d wait here until morning. He was prepared for these conditions. The men out there were not. From what he had been told, they had left home on a bright and sunny February day, lured by the week of good weather and plentiful seals. There were two and three fishermen to a small boat. Seeing the conditions for himself now, the captain could be right—they could have all perished. Peter hoped that was not the case, though the odds of survival were getting more dire by the hour. Peter had to keep watch and be ready to row out of there if the wind changed. Perilous conditions could leave him stranded somewhere in the North Atlantic if he didn’t pay attention. He’d heard stories of people travelling great distances on ice floes for weeks before being discovered, and surely more had perished with a tale left untold. Peter didn’t want to be of the latter. He had checked his bearings frequently as he cut across the ice, and he intended to confirm his position on the com at first light. He would head for Trinity, the source of the first distress call, and see where he was needed. The wind howled unrelentingly, baffling the flames and taunting his thoughts. He pulled off his sealskin mitts and reached his hands forward to the comfort of the fire. Memories descended on him like a warm blanket to chase away the cold. The face of his brother Ed appeared in the glow, and his heart leaped in his chest before he realized he wasn’t real. Ed was occupying his thoughts a lot lately, even though he had died more than twelve years before. Sometimes the missing piece left by his brother’s loss was easier to bear than others. Peter was tormented with images of Ed, often wondering how his own life would have been different if Ed hadn’t been murdered on a wharf in England. It was coming to a time that he’d have to tell young Eddy the truth about his birth. With Martha’s ing, he had no reason not to tell, but selfishly, he wanted to hold on to the father-son relationship that he had with the boy for just a little bit longer. It crossed his mind more than once not to tell Eddy the truth. He had nothing to lose with the lie and everything to gain. But a lie of omission was a lie, whatever way or for whatever reason it was posed. Eddy should know the truth. Perhaps

nothing would change between him and the boy he’d raised as his son. He was wary of adding “liar” to his many faults just because it was easier. With Eddy at home, he pondered on why he was always so quick to run away to save others. Sure, he was a doctor, but he wasn’t the only one in St. John’s. A sudden gust of wind rocked the boat and nearly doused the flame, as if agreeing with his assessment. He didn’t stop to think whether he was running from something or to something. Perhaps it didn’t matter. It just kept him occupied from thoughts of having to save himself. That sentiment brought Mary Ro to mind. Her flaming red hair plagued his dreams whether he was asleep or awake. The fury in her eyes when he broke her heart was always with him. Perhaps the guilt was what drove him to run toward situations that others would balk at, to keep his mind too preoccupied to think about her. Was he saving himself the torture of knowing she was happy with somebody else, or was he torturing himself by not knowing? Either way, there was nothing holding him back now . . . said the guy sitting alone on an island of ice, in the middle of February, in the middle of Trinity Bay, in the middle of a northeasterly gale. Peter Nolan onished himself once more, too many times to keep count. Though he hated to it it, this recklessness that he’d been ing off as doctoring duties was nothing more than an attempt to avoid having the life that he wanted, a life that may not be available to him now, and a life he may not deserve. As far back as he could , he’d been doing things to save Ed. He had taken beatings from Aunt Johannah, he’d run away, and he even followed Ed on the ships. Then, after Ed’s death, he was left self-imprisoned behind obligation, sacrificing Mary’s love for him and his for her. Who’s the liar now? He always thought he’d get over her. But the ing of time—being with Martha, having a son—had changed nothing in that regard. He loved Mary now as much as then, or maybe he loved the idea of her. Either way, he needed to find out if he was brave enough to know. Or perhaps he’d be the ultimate martyr and die out here and that would be that, with only himself knowing the truth. Maybe being here would give him a few days to make up his mind and decide what to do—or perhaps these few days of weighing possibilities would drive him out of his mind.

Cold crept into his hands. Peter grabbed a few more sticks from the boat and tossed them on the fire. The captain had given him enough to last two nights. He didn’t plan on being on the ice longer than a day, and he hoped that good fortune would align with his intended outcome. He sat with thoughts of Mary and their younger years together. How innocent they had been when he gave her a ring made from white tying line from the store. Her hushed “yes” was in the wind now, just like then. But his heart knew she was for him. He’d even bought a golden band to place on her finger. He had it in his pocket the day he left, the first promise he’d made to her shattered and broken, a few steps from her door. That was the beginning of a rift that might not be mended, a rift he’d created for the sake of honour. Who owned that honour? He wasn’t sure. Peter shook his head as if to wipe away the yearnings of a lonely man. Solitude was ravaging him tonight, and he believed the cold was getting to him. Silence wasn’t always hard to handle. He stood and moved around to keep the circulation going in his limbs before returning to the shelter of the boat. Each time he settled himself, Mary was there. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he’d enjoy her company if this was to be the end of him. The night, bright though deathly cold, with naught but the howling wind for company, aided in settling ideas in his head. He had to survive for them to come to fruition. Mesmerized into dozing, despite not daring to sleep, he threw sticks on the fire after a spasm shook him awake. Distrust for his own evaluation of how much supplies he had seeped into his thoughts. Sparks rose in the dark sky before the wind grabbed hold of them and launched them toward the water. One hung oddly in the air just above the flame. Peter blinked several times and leaned forward. He scrambled out from beneath the boat and set off a flare.

8

Peter dropped the spyglass, grabbed the gaff, and cleared the gunwale of the Rosscleer. He pitched between the forward thwart and the middle pound board of the small punt, his feet slipping on the ice forming in and around the ribbed interior. Clutching the oars, he struck them to water, turning the small boat in the direction of the men on the ice floe. His muscles strained against wind and sea as he folded over, then pulled with all his might as he straightened to move the tiny vessel forward. Icy spray collected on the wooden pegs and added to the slush freezing on the floorboards. He glanced over his shoulder and adjusted the pull on the left oar as the wind steered him off his target. Salt spray and ice crystals pelted his exposed flesh and clouded his vision. He yanked harder left at every third stroke, and that kept the punt in line with the men on the floe. His face stung beneath the assault of the briny spray and grew numb. A small pan of slob ice smacked off his port side, and he quickly pulled in the oars. Leaning over the side, he kept his head low beneath his hood and manoeuvred around the obstacle until he reached a small body of open water. Wet mitts froze to oars when he clasped them once again. He beat them off the thwart to keep them pliable. Peter gave several hearty strokes of the oar from one pan to the other until his age was blocked about a hundred feet away from the men. The ocean rose and fell, alive beneath the thin pans and slob. He used the gaff to push the ice away from the bow, but save for moving a few feet forward, he was stuck. His coat was crusted in ice, weighing him down and making it difficult to move. He hit his mitts off the gunwale, and crystal bits and beads flew around him. Peter wiped at the silvery icicles that formed on his brows and rimmed his eyes. He looped the leaden head rope around his shoulder and sprung from the punt. Landing a few feet from the boat, he crouched and pushed his arms outward to

steady himself. The pan jostled in the water, and he jockeyed to and fro until it steadied with the current beneath. After a few moments, he adjusted to the swell and let out some rope with each step as he trudged toward the icy encampment. He kept watch behind and tightened it before leaping onto the next pan. Sea water sloshed up and settled again as he neared its centre. Wind pushed at him, its force powerful and dangerous. Peter braced his feet and pulled the punt up on the pan he had just left. He picked his way across the shifting divide, his head and shoulders bent into the wind. At the edge of the solid pan, he threw the rope up first and pulled the punt as close as possible. He stepped in and used the pound board to propel himself onto the higher ledge. Grabbing the rope again, he turned back-on to the wind gust, gulping for air. He waved to the Rosscleer, then made his way toward the men. Quickly, he assessed the four sealers. Three were sitting in the hull of an upturned boat, alive but in advanced stages of hypothermia. One lay close to the last embers of a burning seal carcass and the remnants of a smashed dory. Peter stirred the blubber, sending black smoke across the ice. He threw the remaining wood over the top of it. Flames licked their way skyward before plummeting across the icy surface. He pulled the man closer to the heat. The sail that enshrouded him was frozen, and Peter pulled hard, cracking and breaking the ice. The young man inside stirred and stared glassy-eyed at him. Peter smiled and sat him up near the fire. “You’ll be all right, boy,” Peter murmured, more for his own sake than for the boy’s. He pulled away the canvas and peered at the scantily clad body—a thin coat and pants and no mittens. Peter shook the sail, and ice hissed on the renewing fire. He massaged the lad’s arms and legs as he crouched behind him. Moving the young man to face the heat, he searched his hands for telltale signs of frostbite— swollen hands, white welts, blackening skin. He laid him backwards on the canvas and covered him again before quickly scanning the other three huddled in the upturned boat. Peter ran to the punt he’d left at the edge of the icefield and collected the gaff before butting the wind back to the small shelter. He used the hook and the side of his boot to push the embers toward the three men, carefully building the flame

to its hottest. Hefting the canvas, he cocooned the young man within it and towed him toward the little boat. He dropped down into the punt and pulled the boy in, easing him down to the floorboards at the rear. Taking great care with his footing, he pushed the punt to open water, jumped in, and grabbed the oars. The wind, along with each stroke, pressed him toward the Rosscleer. Captain Fowlow lowered a rope, and Peter fashioned a sling to hoist the man to the deck of the schooner. Peter pushed and guided while the Captain pulled the young man out of sight and, moments later, signalled that he was aboard. Peter set out for the ice once again.

Peter repeated the trip to and from the ice floe until each sealer was brought back to the schooner. When the last man was aboard, he pulled himself up the rope ladder and collapsed in over the gunwale. He scrambled to stand, and Captain Fowlow removed Peter’s coat before throwing his own on him and offering dry mittens. They dragged the last rescued man to the shelter of the cabin. Peter removed frozen clothing from the four and threw blankets on them all. He massaged their limbs and kept moving from one to the other in a constant, consistent fashion. His body ached and his hands cramped, but his determination did not waver. The whistle sounded three blows. Peter left the cabin, took the spyglass from the captain, and watched as four boats returned from the opposite shore. In addition to the crew that had left hours earlier, he counted sixteen men, some sitting, some lying in the bottom of the boats. Peter returned to the cabin where the rescued men lay. He examined each one, prepared room for at least three more, then went below to fix bunks for the remaining stricken who were about to board the schooner. After forming a plan, he ran up the steps to the deck and lowered the rope sling for the first arrival. With that boat unloaded and some of the crew able to help the next, Peter approached the captain. “I need assistance. Some of these men can’t wait.”

“I’m the warmest,” Captain Fowlow said. “I’ll get Sooly to take the wheel and meet you below.” Peter eyed the burly older man. “Are you sure?” “I know what I’m in for,” the captain said. “The others don’t. I’ll do it.” Peter nodded. “We don’t have much time. I’ll need all hands to get to warming them as soon as they’re able.” Peter and Captain Fowlow, accompanied by one of the crew, brought a young lad not more than fifteen to the room with the others Peter had rescued. Peter quickly showed them how to warm the lad. He warned them not to lay anyone too near a stove until they were conscious and Peter had specifically directed them to do so. “It will mean excruciating pain to do that too quickly,” he said. “You understand that?” The captain nodded and began to strip the clothes from the boy. “If they don’t come ’round before I get back, I’ll see to them.” Peter returned to the side rail and, after a quick inspection of each man, gave orders to where they needed to go. “This fellow is worse off,” he said to Captain Fowlow. “I need him on the table below in the galley. It’s the only place fitting.” Captain Fowlow nodded and gestured with his head for the men to do as Peter asked. “Strip his clothes, but don’t touch his boots. I’ll do that when I get below,” Peter called after them. He triaged in order of severity. Three were dead before they were brought over the side. Five more he wasn’t sure he could save. “Captain, I need a saw and boiling water and as many sheets are on board. I’ll meet you in the galley.”

Captain Fowlow nodded. He shouted, “Sooly, make for Trinity! We have no time to spare.” He gave several orders to the crew as Peter raced below.

9

Three days later, Peter saw Captain Fowlow approach the doorway. “Any news?” “Some men returned from the other side of the bay. Folks are holding out hope for others in the wake of such news.” “What do you think?” “Hope is always good. The community has never seen the like. They need something.” “I suppose.” “What of the boy?” Captain Fowlow followed Peter to the bedside of Jerome King. “How are you, Jerry?” “Thanks to Dr. Peter, here, I’ll have all my fingers, sir.” The patient turned to Peter. “Pain’s mostly gone now, like you said. The cool cloths have eased the burning, and I’m starting to feel my fingers again.” Peter laid his hand on Jerome’s shoulder. “That’s good to hear. What about your feet? Can you move your toes yet?” Jerome pulled the sheet out of the way and showed Peter and the captain his feet. His grin was genuine when he moved his toes. “How long before I can walk?” “Give it another two days, Jerome. The circulation should be good by then. We don’t want you cracking the skin and causing other problems.” “You do as he says,” Captain Fowlow said. “I will, sir.”

“What of William?” “Mr. Pittman lost part of his foot and two fingers from his left hand. I was able to save the rest.” “Good thing we found you,” Captain Fowlow said. “Darn near didn’t but for the fire.” “I’m grateful for that,” Peter said absently as he scanned the bandages on William Pittman’s feet. “Who knows where I would have ended up?” “I believe it is these folks who are thankful.” Captain Fowlow nodded his head toward the store, where people were gathered in mourning for the families of the fourteen men whose bodies had been found, and waiting for news over the telegraph for the eleven still missing. “Despite the foolhardiness of what you did, you did good.” The schooner had landed in Trinity on Monday, and Peter had been tending to the sick since then. He had set up a clinic in the storeroom of the local mercantile premises. Many came to him for a diagnosis. Though some had various stages of frostbite, they were well enough to be cared for at home. He kept the sickest of them in the storeroom. So far, three patients had been released after a few days, and four more were bedded down in recovery. William Pittman groaned. Peter nodded to Captain Fowlow. “Keep me apprised.” “I will,” Captain Fowlow said and turned on his heel, returning to the crowd in the store. “Mr. Pittman, sir. Take it easy, now. You can’t get up just yet.” Mr. Pittman lifted his arm and stared at his bandaged hand. Tears welled in his eyes. “What good am I going to be after this?” He grimaced as pain overtook him. Peter grabbed a bottle of laudanum from his bag and spooned the liquid into the man. He coughed and sputtered, then laid back, waiting for it to take hold. When the effects of the medicine began to work, the man reached out to touch the

unseen. “If only the Poison Witch were here, I’d ask it to do away with me.” He glanced at Peter. “I would. She’d take me. I’d go willingly.” “Now, Mr. Pittman, settle down and wait a little while longer. The pain will subside.” “How can I face Dick Batson? You tell me that. His two sons out with me, now they’re gone, and I’m still here. I’m an old man to the likes of them.” The patient lifted his hand again. “Here, now, left half a man, at that.” He waved his arm around and then cradled it on his chest. His brows narrowed, and a hissing sound escaped him. Mr. Pittman’s eyes glassed over as he went on. “If I had a way to call the Poison Witch, I’d do it. Art and Billy, I’d go with them. I’d go, I tell you. Maudie would be better off without me.” “What’s this Poison Witch, Mr. Pittman?” Peter asked as he laid his hand against the man’s temple and then checked his bandages. “It’s not been around here in years. One time, children born out of wedlock, or families with already a houseful, were more apt to lose their babes shocking often. Folks said the Poison Witch had taken them.” Peter tended to the patient’s feet, rubbing salve on an open sore. “I see.” “You don’t believe me. I know you don’t, but it’s the truth. Then more people died mysteriously. Old Mrs. Penny, she became confused, poor woman—began raving and wandering around town in the night in all states of undress. Soon after, she was gone. Nobody knew why, and nobody asked questions. She was better off. “Then young Eileen Lockyer got with child when she was barely fifteen. She didn’t come out of the house for months. They says some of the boys roughed her up. Soon after her baby was born, it died. Folks said she was better off, so young and ruined like that. She went off to the convent.” Peter listened in silence to the man’s ravings. Even a doctor couldn’t save them all. It was commonplace for infants to die.

“Mr. Day out the road, his wife died, and within a month he was married off to Betsy Moore. That was the last straw. Dave had been carrying on behind his wife’s back for years. Mrs. Day was a cross woman, but she didn’t deserve that.” “Surely that can’t be true,” Peter said as he busied himself cleaning up the night table. “It’s true enough. If women died giving birth, the baby didn’t live. Charlie Cole fell off the cliff. They brought him home, but he couldn’t feel his legs. Next day, he was gone.” Peter pulled his chair in beside Mr. Pittman and checked to see if he was feverish. He felt cool to the touch. “Maybe the fall killed him.” “No, sir, it was the Witch.” Mr. Pittman grimaced once more and then stifled a yawn. “So, who was this Witch?” “Nobody knew. Well, I guess people knew. Thing was, nobody would tell. You see, the Witch asked a price. Not money, but a deed. The people who knew had done something terrible in order to get what they wanted. They weren’t going to tell. But when somebody called on the Witch, somebody died.” “I haven’t heard of such a thing. Where is the Witch now?” “That’s the thing. After George Day was suspected of killing his wife and then went on to marry young Betsy, Aggie’s sister came to find out. She sent the constables. That was about fifteen, maybe twenty years ago. George died within a day or so of the policemen coming, and the Poison Witch disappeared.” “That’s an interesting story,” Peter said. Mr. Pittman yawned again. “Not a story.” His voice faded as he drifted off. “Not a story . . .”

10

“Come in, Peter, m’boy,” Dr. Hart boomed, his broad grin welcoming. “Good to see you safe and sound.” He shook Peter’s hand with vigour before clapping him on the back. “It’s good to be home.” Peter tapped the dusting of snow off his boots and handed his coat and hat to the maid. “Come, come, Loretta and Geraldine are in the parlour.” He gestured in a hurried sweeping motion. “Get in out of the draft.” Peter followed Dr. Hart past the winding staircase and into a large, windowed room. The exquisite draperies had come all the way from Paris. He had learned that on his last visit, or perhaps the one before. “Loretta, good to see you,” Peter said as he took her hand. “And the lovely Geraldine, too, of course.” He turned and gently pressed Geraldine’s palm as well. She gave him a brilliant smile, and her cheeks flushed. Her blonde hair fell around her face in ringlets as she tilted her head forward and tittered nervously. “How was your trip? Abe tells me you saved over a dozen people.” “That might be a little exaggerated,” Peter said as he turned and gave Dr. Hart a dour look. The doctor grinned. “I think not, my boy. I don’t say I gave you enough credit.” “There’s no credit in what we do.” “I’m sure those folks who still have hands and feet because of your actions wouldn’t mind doling out thanks.” Peter gave a slight nod, frowned, then shoved his hands in his pockets and jockeyed from foot to foot.

“Leave the young man alone, dear,” Loretta Hart said. “He likes to work in the background. No shame in that.” She turned to Peter. “Abe thinks the accolades measure worth. The Good Book says that the things done in secret without seeking recognition are the proper Christian way.” “Now, dear, we don’t want to bore young Peter here with your prattle.” Loretta harrumphed and tutted before finding a seat. She said loudly to the room, “Men! Roosters, nothing more than roosters.” She looked at Peter and said in a hushed tone, “I believe you to be a delightful exception.” Peter couldn’t help but grin. He caught Geraldine’s glance, and she smiled before looking away. “Can I get you a drink before supper?” Dr. Hart asked. “Can’t go spoiling your supper,” Loretta said. “Henrietta’s been slaving in the kitchen all evening.” “Mrs. Hart is right. I’ll take you up on your offer after we’ve eaten.” Peter looked at Dr. Hart, who nodded. “I suppose you’re right, dear.” Dr. Hart grinned at his wife and took her hand. She smiled at him. “Loretta has to keep me in line,” he said with a glance at Peter. Geraldine moved closer, hands wringing near her waist. She looked up at Peter. “When did you get back?” “Two days ago. I was gone for nigh on three weeks.” “Father said you saved a lot of people.” “That’s my work, Geraldine, and I enjoy doing it.” “I believe it must be . . . ” Her brow furrowed as she searched for the word. “. . .

rewarding to save people.” “I didn’t look at it like that. But it is satisfying.” “I imagine it is, especially when they don’t know they are being saved.” Peter gave a slight shake of his head before asking, “What about you? Have you decided on a course of study? Your father said you still weren’t sure what you wanted to do.” “I guess I’m blessed more than some. I have the indulgence to decide what I want to do. Most girls my age would be working several years now, or they’d probably have three or four babies.” “Geraldine,” Loretta interrupted. “Check with Henrietta about supper. Peter must be starved.” Geraldine nodded to her mother, smiled up at Peter again, and left the room. “Have a seat, Peter,” Loretta said. “It won’t be much longer. Have some comfort in the meantime.” Peter sat on the chair near the fire and stretched his hands out toward its warmth. It was a reflex after the last few weeks. “Geraldine is still free.” “Loretta . . .” “I’m just stating the truth. I’m sure all the women in St. John’s are aware that poor Martha is gone a year now. Such a fine boy you’re raising, too. He needs a mother’s hands. Geraldine would do well by you.” “Loretta,” Dr. Hart onished. “I’m sorry, Peter.” “Geraldine is a lovely girl. I’m sure she can do better than me.” Peter tried to remain rigid in the chair under the scrutiny of Loretta. “I’ve been thinking about moving away, actually.” “Really?” Dr. Hart’s eyes bulged. “I wasn’t aware.”

“I wasn’t, either. I had a lot of time to think when I was in Trinity Bay. I haven’t decided yet, but I expect I’ll consider it more in the coming month and then let you know my decision.” “I think I’ll have that drink now,” Dr. Hart said. He grabbed a decanter from a table behind the long sofa and poured amber liquid into a small glass. He gulped it down. “It would be a big loss for the hospital with you gone. I’m getting old, Peter. I was hoping you’d be willing to take my place.” “I haven’t fully decided about going yet. I have a few things to think about first. And I thank you for your consideration.” “I know that look. It’s a sweetheart. You have a woman somewhere.” Loretta gasped after she got the words out and covered her mouth with her fingertips in an attempt to pretend she didn’t meant it. “No, that’s not the case. I want to go back to where I grew up, though. I’ll decide after that trip whether I’ll be staying here or not. There are lots of people needing care who have no access to a doctor.” Geraldine gulped behind him. “You’re leaving?” She couldn’t hide the astonishment in her voice nor the colour that rose on her cheeks. “When?” “Nothing’s settled yet, darling,” Loretta said. “All is not lost.” Peter squirmed in the chair. How had this—whatever this was—happened? “Where are you going?” Dr. Hart asked after he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and gave a heavy sigh. “St. Mary’s Bay.”

11

Peter’s trepidation increased with each mile the steamer drew closer to John’s Pond. Two constables got off in Treey Bay to begin the investigation into the fire aboard the SS Abyssinia. Peter’s job was to lend Dr. Liam Parker assistance with the patients in John’s Pond and North Harbour—at least that was what the government wanted. Peter’s thoughts raced through conversations he would like to have with Mary Ro. He would have to face her. That was assuming she was still there, she was unmarried, and she’d want to see him. He’d had the best of intentions when he’d stepped on the boat, but now he was scared, maybe even terrified, of seeing her. He couldn’t even think about the possibility she could be dead after the diphtheria epidemic that had spread through the country a few years before. He shook his head and blinked as the boat tapped off the dock and he stepped into his past on the weathered wharf in John’s Pond. He was home. At least it might be considered home, as it was where he and Ed had been raised by Aunt Johannah. He looked toward the old homestead, now a meadow waiting for spring to take hold and bring it to life. He paused for a moment. Aunt Johannah had been too harsh a woman to have been rearing two growing boys. He gazed in the opposite direction to where Mary’s house was nestled below the hill and behind a rise in the land. He saw smoke curl from the chimney, the only thing visible from where he stood. Peter closed his eyes as he recalled the day he and Ed had run away. He’d hurt then as well, a physical hurt, but it was the day his life changed. Mary’s parents had saved them from the beatings they’d endured at their aunt’s hands. Her father had guided both him and Ed and kept them in line like a father would. Her mother had been the influence that put him in medicine. Perhaps he shouldn’t be there. He stopped himself from turning around. Familiar faces of the older folks in the community greeted him. The younger ones he wouldn’t know. He identified himself as Dr. Peter Nolan and was escorted to the church.

In the coming hours, he came to learn a few things. Mary was here. She wasn’t married. She had worked with Dr. Liam Parker to help patients. She’d gone to Colinet for help. She was the talk of the town and was worshipped for her sterling efforts during the epidemic and this disaster. Peter had new visions of her in his head with each piece of information he gathered. Hope—the least being forgiveness, and the most being she still loved him—swelled in his chest.

12

North Harbour, Newfoundland Present day, June 2021

“Mom, are you still reading? Stephen’s mother is here.” “Oh. I was so caught up in the journal, I didn’t see her. We could have gotten Aunt Ammie her lunch.” Darlene closed the book, glanced at her watch, scrambled out of the chair, and bustled into the house from the gallery. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you,” she said. “I’m Darlene Carter. You must be Karen.” “Pleased to meet you.” Karen was about Darlene’s age, and the first thing Darlene noticed was her pleasant smile. “I’m so sorry. I meant to tell Ammie that we’d get lunch and let you have the day off.” The table was set and food laid out. “Looks like I fell down on that job,” Darlene said wryly. “I have lunch with Ammie almost every day. It’s not a chore, believe me. Now I have some extra company, and my son can even sit with us, something I missed when he was at university this past year.” Stephen blushed on the other side of the table. He made a chipmunk-cheeks smile, raised his eyebrows, and bobbed his head around in acknowledgement. “Yes, Mom. We get to have lunch together today.” “See, he’s even happy about it.” Karen ruffled her son’s hair. “I’ve brought baked beans. If you don’t like them, I can get you something else.”

“I haven’t had them in a long time,” Darlene said. “Neither have I,” said Tiffany. “But I’d love some.” “They go great with bread,” Karen said. “Well, I’m all over that,” Tiffany said. “You don’t need to wait on us,” Darlene said. “My goodness, I feel like a spoiled princess. Let me do something.” “Sit down and enjoy. I had to cook, anyway. What’s a few more mouths to feed?” Karen said. “It’s my pleasure. I love the company over facing an empty house if I stay home.” “Karen is a great cook. She missed her calling,” Ammie said. “She’s got her downfall, mind you. She’s been trying to get me to eat some of that newfangled food, but I told her I didn’t live over a hundred years eating what the rabbits eat.” Darlene nearly choked on her tea. She coughed and sputtered. “Are you all right, dear?” Ammie asked. “Yes, Aunt Ammie, I’m just fine.” Darlene grinned behind the lip of the cup. They ate and chatted and finished with a second cup of tea. “Try the bakeapple jam,” Aunt Ammie insisted. “Don’t be confused with baked apple jam,” Stephen said. “It doesn’t even have apples. Bakeapples are a berry. They’ll be ripe around the end of June.” He took a crock of golden jam from the cupboard and laid it on the table. His and Tiffany’s hands grazed off each other over the plate of bread slices. They both laughed. He gestured for her to take the top one. “So, where are you in the journals?” Ammie asked. Tiffany spoke first. “I couldn’t believe Mary lived through a pandemic. Well, an epidemic of diphtheria. She had to treat her own mother and father, and they still

died. That reminded me of Grandma in many ways, and you, Mom.” She reached across the table to squeeze her mother’s hand. “Mary became a kind of recluse after that, but she was determined to make it on her own. That reminded me of Grandma, too. Raising you by herself, then me, too. She was determined to make things work.” “Indeed she was,” Darlene said. “I just want to clarify that I’m not a recluse.” She smiled at everyone around the room. “Hopefully you’ll see what I mean when you read the journal. Anyway, Mary was by herself and still ing Peter,” Tiffany said. “It was quite sad.” “That Peter Nolan, he was quite the swashbuckler, from what I’ve read. No wonder she ed him,” Darlene said. “He is just back in John’s Pond now, but he hasn’t met Mary yet. Well, he hasn’t met her since his wife died is a better statement. I kind of felt sorry for him.” “What?” Tiffany exclaimed. “He broke Mary’s heart! He left her at the altar.” “I didn’t read that.” “Well, it wasn’t really at the altar,” Tiffany went on. “But he promised to marry her. He gave her a ring made of line from the grocery store. Then he went away and returned with a wife.” “Yes, but he left her so that his dead brother’s girlfriend wouldn’t be stuck having a baby on her own. They’d be homeless, she’d become a scarlet woman, and the baby would be destitute. He made a sacrifice out of honour for his brother.” “Oh,” said Tiffany. “That explains a few things, then. I’m just past the part where there’s a killer in town and Mary is hiding a handsome man.” “In John’s Pond?” Stephen said as he looked from one to the other. “I hadn’t heard of that before.” “There was a boat wreck,” Tiffany said, her hands flying in animation. “That’s what brought Peter there,” Darlene said. “That boat wreck.”

They began to make connections to the story of their somehow ancestors. Tiffany went on to explain that Mary had walked for hours to get help for the people on the boat. She returned and worked with the doctor to save some of them. Mary rescued two young women from a killer’s grasp at great risk to herself. “You sure that was in John’s Pond?” Stephen asked Ammie, his voice holding an air of you’re putting me on. “It was indeed,” Ammie said. “Go on, child.” “Her friend got shot at the house, and that’s where Peter comes into it. He arrives on a boat from St. John’s and saves the girl. Mary first nurses the man back to health and then saves him at a gunfight. That’s who the killer was after.” “My mother, Elizabeth Cooper, or Betsie, as my father called her, was the daughter of that man, Danol Cooper.” They all turned and stared at Ammie wide-eyed. “Really?” Stephen asked. “Yes. Grandfather Danol was a fine man. He became smitten with and married Erith Lock from here in North Harbour. They had many children, and one of them was my mother.” “He was from Boston, right?” Tiffany asked. “He got Mary to go to Boston with him to study to be a doctor.” Ammie nodded her approval. “You have it right.” “So, in Peter’s journal, he comes here but has to return to St. John’s because of a fire,” Darlene interjects. “Yes, the Great Fire of 1892. Almost all of St. John’s—at least the downtown area—was destroyed,” Ammie said. “It was a terrible time. He asked Mary to marry him and then went to find his son, whom he feared had perished.” “Oh, that’s so sad and . . . fated,” Tiffany said. “Did he marry Mary then?” “Keep reading. The rest of the story will become clear,” Ammie said.

“I’d like to visit their graves now that I have a better sense of them.” “The plot is at the top of the hill, not far from here,” Ammie said. “The path up around the grave is mowed and shouldn’t be too hard to find.” “I feel like I’m getting to know them, at least Peter, now,” Darlene said. “Me too,” Tiffany said. “I want to see where Mary is. And the other grandparents. Are they there?” “Danol and Erith Cooper are there, too, as are my parents, Peter and Elizabeth.” “Do you want to go, Aunt Ammie? I can get the side by side,” Stephen said. “Perhaps I will, now that you mention it. All this talk about the journals is bringing back lots of memories.” A short time later, Darlene and Tiffany strolled arm in arm toward the graveyard. Stephen kept a slow pace beside them on the road so that Ammie could talk with them. They parted ways at the graveyard gate. The two women took the churchyard lane while Stephen drove the vehicle on a route around the fence that would lead to the plot in the end. He told them he didn’t want to “tear up” the lane with bike tires because Ammie would kill him. “Mom, I’m so sad that Grandma couldn’t come. She would have loved this,” Tiffany said wistfully as she rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I know, sweetheart. But she’s here in spirit.” “Do you really believe that?” “I’m starting to.” A fairy breeze scurried along the tall grass around the headstones near the path and followed them up the lane to the top. Stephen assisted Ammie, and Darlene and Tiffany rushed to help when they arrived on the plateau. The area had been mowed recently, and according to Ammie, it was a practice they kept for longer than she could . “One set of my great-grandparents are here, Dorothy and David Rourke.” She

pointed toward the greyed marble at the corner of the plot. “They died in the diphtheria epidemic. As I mentioned at the house, both sets of grandparents are here, Peter and Mary Nolan, and Danol and Erith Cooper. My parents are here,” she went on, pointing all around the plot as she spoke. “My Charlie is here waiting patiently for me. He didn’t have patience in life, so I think this is the Lord’s way of getting back at him.” Ammie grinned as she lovingly stroked the cold of the double stone. Her name was there—Amelia Power—with the date 1920 and a dash. Her dash was still going nearly 101 years later. Charlie’s read “1918–1963.” “Your husband was a young man when he died,” Darlene observed. “Yes, he had a bad heart, God rest him. He went sudden over in the yard going to the stable to feed the horse. Three of my children are here, too, waiting for their spouses.” Ammie pointed out three newer stones. “This old heart has seen hard times. But it keeps on ticking until the Good Lord says it’s time to stop.” Darlene hugged her. “I’m sorry, Aunt Ammie. We shouldn’t have brought you over here.” “I came over here of my own accord. I do it often. It’s nice to have a place to go to . We keep this place mowed for that reason. Grief is sly, sneaks up on you, and brings a tear sometimes, but that’s just missing them. Most times they’re sweet memories when I think of all that’s worth ing. It will be like that for your mother, too. It won’t always feel so hard.” Darlene squeezed her hand. “Thank you for letting us come along to such a special place for you.” “I’m glad you came.” Darlene helped her from stone to stone. Ammie whispered a little prayer at each one. Then she led Darlene to the all-terrain vehicle. “Stephen, I’m ready to go.” He and Tiffany were wandering near the old church. He rushed to the bike to help her in.

“We’ll see you at the house,” Ammie said. “I can come back for you,” Stephen said to Tiffany. “I don’t mind.” Tiffany looked at her mother, who nodded. “I’d like that,” Tiffany said. A short time later, as Darlene and Tiffany roamed around the sizable plot, Stephen returned. The bike eased up the same path and stopped on the level near them. “Tiff, you go on,” Darlene suggested. “Take a drive or something. I want some more time here to explore.” She turned to Stephen. “You’ll be careful, I’m sure.” “Yes, ma’am.” “I can stay with you if you want. Really, Mom, it’s fine.” “No, no. Go on. I want to take some pictures of the stones,” Darlene said. “I won’t be long. I’ll start another journal then.” “If you’re sure.” “I can come back for you, too,” Stephen said. Darlene shook her head and gently swept her forearm toward them. “I’ll walk. Honest. I can do with the fresh air.” Stephen handed Tiffany a helmet and helped her with the chinstrap. Darlene waved as they drove off, content in the loud giggles of her daughter as the bike traversed the bumpy path—a little speedier than it had with Ammie aboard. Darlene meandered around and between the stones, getting close enough that the lettering would show clear for the camera. She read the names out loud. One lone stone stood nearest Peter and Mary. James Nolan, loving son of Peter and Mary Nolan, Missing in Action, WWI, . Aged 17. Seventeen. That was young for war. His parents must have been devastated.

Darlene thought of Tiffany, two years older than him, going to war. She couldn’t imagine what her life would be like without her daughter. Especially gone forever. Darlene snapped a picture. She would ask Ammie about him.

13

1894

When Peter asked Mary Rourke to marry him before rushing off to St. John’s, he hadn’t given her much information beyond Martha was dead and he wanted to marry her. He told her he would await her reply in St. John’s, because it was imperative that he find out if his son were alive or dead after the fire swept through the city. He was so out of his mind about Eddy’s welfare, he didn’t have time to fill her in on what had really happened and why he married Martha in the first place. He figured she needed time and wouldn’t pressure her. In hindsight, though, he hadn’t said enough. He didn’t write her because she deserved to hear it from his lips. He did nothing but wait that punishing winter. After fending off attempts by Dr. Hart and his wife to marry him and Geraldine, Peter decided that he’d leave St. John’s and set up a clinic somewhere, maybe even in John’s Pond. That way, he could torture himself for his mistakes and watch Mary continue on with her life without him, maybe even with somebody else. On the other hand, living near her, he might be brave enough to entice her to reconsider what he assumed would be a definitive “no” to his lacklustre proposal. He had already resolved that he’d either pine for her for the rest of his natural life, or she’d say yes and he’d make sure it would never be a regret for her, and nothing or nobody would get in the way of either one. When the kid from the docks rushed to the hospital one day in late spring with news that a woman was waiting for him on the Angel Endeavours at the wharf, he was elated. Mary was there, she was with Danol, she was studying to be a doctor, and she wanted to marry him. He got the only thing he’d ever wanted—Mary Ro would be his wife. He moved to John’s Pond with her where his happy life would finally begin. Peter stepped off the dock in John’s Pond with Mary on his arm. He heard David

Rourke, Mary’s father, say one time that he was ten feet tall in his stocking vamps after he caught his first rabbit. Well, today he was twelve feet tall, if there was such a thing. Chin up and chest puffed out, he was the proudest man, and in his mind, the happiest man alive. Mary was his at long last. Then there were the questions and observations. Where are you going to live? In Mary’s house. Where will you practise? On Mary and Danol’s boat. Then he realized they were eating Mary’s vegetables, Mary’s meat, Mary’s eggs, and Mary’s chickens. It was Mary’s bill at the store. Patients wanted to see Mary. Everything at the house was Mary’s, and he was Mary’s husband. His wife was fondly called Mary Ro, short for Rourke. There were two other Marys in John’s Pond—Mary Will, married to Will Power, and Mary John, married to John Dalton. Maybe she’d be Mary Peter now. Luckily, he was the only Peter in the community, so it wasn’t likely that he’d be Peter Mary. He didn’t think he could tolerate that. His Aunt Johannah’s words ed between his ears: pride before the fall. She’d said it often when she was hitting him for one thing or another, or for something Ed did and he took the blame to save his brother. Everything was prideful to her: a good mark from school, a few trout from the river, eggs from Mrs. Rourke for fetching something or other. He rubbed the tips of his fingers across his skull, just above his ear. He felt her knuckle there as if she hadn’t been dead these twenty years and she was scolding him for bringing Mary home without the piousness she’d expect of him. Tomorrow he would follow Mary on the water, and later in August he would go with her to Boston. Although he was excited, his zealousness was overshadowed by a frenzy of subtleties seeping through the cracks of their perfect life and taking root in his heart. He couldn’t explain it, nor could he stop it.

“Peter, did you hear me? Darling.” “Sorry, Mary, my head was somewhere else.” “Not too far from me, I hope.”

“It will never be far from you again,” he said as he grabbed her from behind and twirled her around to banish the internal ghosts of doubt. She laughed and shrieked before swatting at him to put her down. “Only if I get a kiss.” “That can be arranged,” she said as she slid from his embrace and turned and kissed him. He circled her in his arms once more and hugged her tight. “Now, we better stop this, or we’ll get nothing done. Danol will be here soon.” Mary pushed lightly on Peter’s shoulders, then eased out of his arms before focusing on the medical supplies on the table. She point-touched things as she counted. “Care to help?” When he didn’t answer, she stopped and turned to him. “Peter, you seem distracted. Are you all right?” Mary ed him and followed his gaze to the boat and crew. She put her arms around his waist and rested her head on his arm. “You know this wouldn’t have been possible without you.” Peter gave his head a slight shake and moved his arm around her. “Of course it would have. You didn’t need me for this.” “I doubt we could have gone this year without you. You know that’s true. I only have a year of schooling behind me. What could I do? It would be hard enough to convince folks a woman was a doctor, and besides, I’m not really a doctor yet. Not like you.” “You will be fine.” “I know, because you are with me.” “Nonsense, Mary. You’ll make a great doctor.” “That’s not what I’m saying. I know I will be a good doctor eventually. But I’m not one yet.” “I’ll be with you.” “I have so much to learn, Peter.”

Peter heard the doubt knit its way into her voice. He turned her, and she looked up. They locked eyes. “You will be as fine a doctor as ever practised, Mary Nolan.” “You don’t know that.” “I know you.” “You knew me, Peter.” That cut deeper than he would have liked. “I know you, Mary. I know your determination. I know your heart.” “Am I being a fool?” “Where is this coming from? We’ll go on this trip. We’ll make people’s lives better. Then we’ll go to Boston, and you will get back to studying and practising. You’re nervous. That’s understandable. I’d be nervous, too.” “But you’re not.” “I hide it better, that’s all. When I treat somebody, I respect that I must do my best, but that doesn’t always mean a good outcome. You’re going to have to learn that you can’t save everyone. It’s a hard lesson.” “I think of Mom and Da when you say that.” “I’m sorry, Mary. That’s not what I meant.” She had told Peter of her struggle to save her parents and how helpless she’d felt. “Diphtheria was an awful plague. You couldn’t have done more than what you did.” She dipped her head and rested her forehead on his chest as she clutched his arms. He embraced her when he heard a sniffle. “Come on, Mary. There’s work to be done.” He gave her a tight squeeze, then pushed her away. “That’s enough of this feeling sorry for yourself,” he said gently as he smiled. She wiped at a tear in her eye. “You’re right. I just want you to know that I’m

glad we are going together.” “That’s right. It’s together. Don’t forget that. I’ll be with you, whatever we face.” He led her to the table and surveyed the stock. “I think we have what we need. Maybe next time we’re in St. John’s I can stop by the hospital and pick up extras like bandages and scissors. I’m sure Dr. Hart will be generous. But for now we’re well-prepared.” Mary beamed at him, and he breathed deeply to allow room for his heart to swell. He loved this woman.

14

The excitement in the outports when they arrived was contagious. This was what Peter liked most about being a doctor—not the fanfare that came with being in a profession that was looked up to, but the alleviating of suffering. Infections were treated, bones were set or reset, coughs were cleared up, babies were seen to, women were given appropriate care pre- and post-birth, and many other ailments and maladies were eased. The women were surprisingly less accepting of Mary as a doctor than the men. That would change over time, as Mary was capable and would earn that reputation before too long. In Fermeuse, they were signalled from the shore that there was urgent need in the community. Men shouted and beckoned from the shoreline and the wharf as soon as they got within earshot. Danol docked the boat, and the two doctors were ushered off the Angel Endeavours and guided to a two-storeyed house not far from the beach. They heard a little boy crying before they entered. The mother was in tears, and a little fellow, not more than six, was doubled over in pain on the daybed. Mary felt his forehead while Peter performed a cursory inspection. “Appendix?” Mary questioned. “Could be.” Peter turned to the mother. “We have to take the boy to the ship.” He scooped up the lad, and he and Mary raced to the boat with the mother close on their heels and weeping. Danol kept her on the deck while they made their way below to the surgical room. Mary stripped off her coat and unwrapped supplies from the storage box while Peter undressed the boy. With her soothing touch, she stroked the boy’s head and helped Peter determine if he’d ruptured his appendix or not. “We have to operate immediately,” Peter said.

“I know you’re right,” Mary answered. Her confidence in him gave him a lift. “You get the chloroform, and I’ll keep the boy still.” Mary nodded. She grabbed a mask, and Peter leaned over the boy while she fastened it around his head. She did the same for herself. Then she grabbed a small brown bottle and placed a few drops of clear liquid onto a cloth and placed it over the boy’s face. Within moments, he was still. Mary laid the bottle close in case they needed to add more. She unwrapped gloves, surgical instruments, and gauze as they set to work. “Have you done this before?” “I’ve assisted on a few,” Mary replied. “With your small hands, this will be easy. You take the lead, and I’ll be here if you need me.” “Are you sure?” Mary looked into his eyes. “I’m certain,” Peter said. “I’ll be here if you have questions.” They leaned in over the boy, and Mary closed her eyes for a moment. She looked back at Peter and said, “I asked Mom to guide my hands.” He nodded, and she began. With swiftness and precision, Mary removed the inflamed appendix, then stitched and bandaged the child. “Well done, Mary. You’re skilled as a surgeon. Don’t ever doubt yourself.” Mary smiled beneath her mask. “Clean yourself up and go tell the mother her boy will be just fine. I’ll stay with him until he wakes up.” “I guess we’d better bring him along to St. John’s to the hospital.” “You can ask her if she’d like to come,” Peter said. “If not, we will return him to her when we come back this way. I assume that will be all right with Danol.” “We discussed this. Danol knew what he could be getting into. He’ll go along with it. I’m sure of that.”

The mother was glad her son would be all right. She couldn’t accompany him to the hospital, as she had several more children at home with nobody to look out for them. Mary assured her they would take good care of him. The boy, Jamie, made a surprising rebound. They kept him on board the Angel Endeavours under their care and returned him to Fermeuse on their way back to John’s Pond. Peter was glad that Eddy had come with them. The boy kept Jamie company, though Jamie was four years his junior.

15

Peter watched from the stairwell while Mary carried on a lively conversation with Danol. The boat was pulling into the dock at the wharf in St. John’s. As he approached, Mary’s head pulled backward in laughter. Danol spoke first. “Won’t be long now. We’ll have you on dry land shortly.” Peter nodded. “Something’s got you in a fine mood this morning.” Mary took his arm and composed herself. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said before she burst out laughing again. “We were talking about something in Boston,” Danol said as he looked from one to the other. Then he cleared his throat. “I’d better get to helping the lads.” He nodded and headed toward the stern. Mary watched him go and then looked to Peter. Her crinkled nose and narrowed eyes inspected his face. She opened her mouth to say something, but he spoke first. “Do you want to accompany me to the hospital?” “I have things to attend to here. Did you need me to go?” “No, I don’t mind going on my own. I thought I’d introduce you to Dr. Hart.” “All right,” she said, her words more resignation than excitement. “I’m not ready. But if you don’t mind waiting, I can go change. I’m not sure what I brought. I didn’t think of meeting the doctor.” “No, no. I’ll go. We can do that another time.” Mary couldn’t hide the look of relief that crossed her face. Peter’s heart sank a little, but he understood.

“If you’re sure. I’m not really prepared to meet him,” she said absently. “Like I said, we can do it another time. Is there anything you need specifically?” “After that surgery on young Jamie, we will certainly need bandages. That’s what you had planned, I believe.” Peter nodded as he stared at her. The sun streamed through her hair, and her face was in shadow. She ducked her head slightly and smoothed out her tresses. “I should have put it up this morning.” “You look beautiful just as you are.” He leaned ahead and dipped in for a kiss. Moments later, there was a flurry of activity around them as lines were thrown and the boat secured. The gangway lowered, and Peter made his way there. He watched Mary approach Danol as he climbed down to the wharf. He strode off toward the hospital without a backward glance. Dr. Hart wasn’t at the hospital. He was tending to his wife. According to one of the nurses, she’d taken to the bed a few months before. Peter presided over gathering supplies, deciding to check on Loretta before leaving. He hadn’t seen them since he’d married Mary a few months prior. “Abe, I heard Loretta’s not well. I wanted to stop by before leaving. Is there anything I can do?” Dr. Hart invited him in as far as the drawing room. “It’s good to see you, Peter. You left in such a hurry, I didn’t have a chance to wish you well.” Peter recalled showing up at the dock at Mary’s summons a few months prior. Before he knew it, they were a few miles off shore on the boat she’d just come in on and he was promising his undying love to Mary at their wedding ceremony led by Danol. He smiled. “Consequences of a dalliance?” Abe asked. “I didn’t realize. Geraldine was broken-hearted, you know. She and Loretta had their sights set on you.” “No, no, nothing like that. I married the woman I’d asked to marry me a long time ago and again last year after I got back from that sealing disaster in Trinity.”

“I see. Childhood sweetheart nonsense.” The heat coloured his face, and he shifted from foot to foot. “Her name is Mary,” Peter said abruptly. “She’s studying to be a doctor.” “Well, now. There’s a thought.” Abe put his hand up to his mouth to direct his next words to Peter alone. “Better get control of her before you end up like me.” Controlling Mary. That made Peter smile into his pursed lips. “Abraham, who’s there?” a voice called. “See,” he whispered. “I’m telling you, Peter, get control before it’s too late.” Then he called out, “It’s Peter Nolan, darling. He came to see how you are doing, dear.” “Ah, Peter. Come. Come.” Muffled sounds drifted out the hallway as Abe led Peter to see Loretta. She was in a dressing gown in the parlour, her legs covered with a blanket. Geraldine was fussing over her. Geraldine didn’t meet Peter’s eyes as she nodded in his direction and left. “Loretta, good to see you,” Peter said as he took her hand and kissed her cheek. “You look well.” “It does a body good to see you, Peter.” Loretta stroked his face and squeezed his hand. “I knew you’d come back for Geraldine. I told her so.” Peter reddened once again. He glanced toward Abe, who gave a slight shake of his head. “I came to see you, Loretta.” “I told Geraldine to wait. I said you’d be back. You’re back, aren’t you Peter?” “Loretta, leave the boy alone. He came to see you.” “It’s not true, is it, Peter? You didn’t get married and break my Geraldine’s heart. I told her you were different.” “I got married a few months ago,” he said softly.

She pushed his hand away. “Then it is true. You’re just like all the rest.” Her eyes turned glassy and wild. “Get out. Get out, the both of you.” “Come on, Peter,” Abe said. “It’s no use talking to her when she’s like this.” Peter exited while Abe stopped to close the parlour door. Loretta’s voice followed them to the den, where Abe closed that door, too. “Sorry, Peter. She’s lucid most of the time. Today must be one of her bad days.” “It’s me who’s sorry, Abe. I didn’t know. Is there anything I can do?” “No, no. Geraldine is managing. We don’t want anyone to know. You understand, right? Loretta would be mortified if she were in her right mind.” “When did it start?” “She had episodes years ago, but it’s been a while. She’s been in and out for months now. Not long after you left. I gave up the hospital, at least for the year. Had to. I couldn’t leave Geraldine here by herself.” Geraldine entered the den a short time later. “Peter.” “Geraldine. Sorry to hear about your mother.” “I’m sorry, Peter. I should have warned you. But Mother’s hearing is as good as ever. She would have been furious if I said anything to you.” “That’s all right.” He took her hands. “How are you doing? This can’t be easy. Last time we spoke, you were talking about university.” “Everything is held up now. I guess it has been for a while. I have to take care of Mother.” “There’s lots of time.” Tears welled in Geraldine’s eyes. She threw her arms around Peter and cried. He was a little stunned and hesitant but held her while she wept. She backed away from him, and he let his arms drop. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she ran from the room.

“Poor girl,” Abe said. “She’s ill-equipped for this sort of thing. Our fault, I know. We were too soft on her.” “She’ll be fine,” Peter said as he again shifted from one foot to the other. “I’d better be going,” he said hurriedly. “There’s a boat waiting on me.” “Thanks for stopping by, Peter. I hope you will be discreet. As I said, Loretta would be mortified.” Peter scribbled his address on a piece of paper on the side table. “Let me know how she’s doing. We are going to Boston later in August. I can send you our address when we get there. We’ll return in the spring.” “I’d like that,” Abe said as he clapped Peter on the back.

16

Less than two weeks later, they returned to John’s Pond after bringing medical care to forty-seven small communities around Conception and Trinity Bays. They had been gone almost four weeks in total with stops in Placentia Bay and along the Southern Shore before docking in St. John’s. “I think we are going to need a nurse aboard,” Peter said. “Maybe a surgical nurse.” “Yes, I mentioned that to Danol,” Mary replied. “He agreed. He’ll put out a notice in the spring for next summer.” She dismissed Peter’s raised eyebrow. “We’ll be in Boston, after all.” “When did you mention it?” “I don’t know. Maybe when you were gone to the hospital.” “Why didn’t you say anything to me?” “I was thinking of you when I said it.” “Really? You were thinking of me?” Peter’s voice carried a hint of sarcasm. “Yes, I was. You were with the boy and couldn’t come up with me. If we had a nurse, you could have met with the mother as well.” “Oh, I see.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing at all. I get the feeling that Danol knows you better than I do. You laugh with him, you talk with him, you discuss a nurse with him.” “Peter?” Mary’s hand stopped in mid-air between the supplies and the shelf. She rested it on the table and pulled out the chair across from him. “Okay, what’s

going on? Don’t give me that ‘nothing at all’ business. I want to know what’s going on.” “Nothing is going on. At least nothing that I know of,” he said. He couldn’t look at her. Instead, he stared at his hands as his thumbs circled one another. Mary’s loud laugh struck him like an arrow. The following silence became hard to handle. Peter felt her eyes on him, boring into him. He shifted on the chair in an attempt to quell feelings that had been foreign to him up to this moment. “Peter, look at me.” He didn’t. Mary’s chair shifted, and the rustle of clothing approached him. Her dress and shoes came into view and stopped in front of him. He didn’t move but figured she had to hear the galloping hooves in his chest. She stayed there. He sighed heavily, then slowly, deliberately, looked up, first noticing her arms crossed on her chest before he saw the scowl on her face. “Peter Nolan, we have a lot to talk about.” Mary’s voice was calm through nearly clenched teeth. Her face was flushed and her jaw tense in allegiance with her rigid demeanour. “I’ll ask you again, what’s going on, Peter?” “Maybe that’s a question you should be answering.” The words left his lips before he could stop them. That had been immature, and he knew it, but it was out now, and he couldn’t unsay it. “If somebody deserved a slap, it would be you right about now.” He pushed back the chair to give himself some room, if for nothing else but to breathe. He stood. “You are absolutely right. I’m sorry.” His voice was sombre and eyes big and glassy as he turned his cheek out to her. “Here, go ahead.” “Peter.” Her voice rose, as did the flush in her face. She studied him. “You’re not sorry. You’re putting me off right now. You have something to say, so say it.” “No, there’s nothing. I am sorry. I’m being childish.” He pulled away and stood with shoulders drooping.

“No, Peter, it’s coming from somewhere. Now tell me,” she demanded calmly. “There is nothing to tell.” “Well, you listen here. I have something to tell you,” Mary said, her tone no longer calm, making Peter cringe. Her next words tumbled out as if she couldn’t stop them. “You did not have to come with me on the boat. I’m more than happy that you did, and I’m sorry that I just assumed you wanted to go. You do not have to come with me to Boston. You can stay here, you can go to St. John’s, you can do what you want. I’m going to Boston. I’m going to Boston with Danol. He is leaving me in Boston and coming back here. I would love it if you came with me, but make no mistake, I’m going to Boston with or without you. I’m going to finish my studies and become a doctor. Hopefully, I will someday become as good a doctor as you are.” Peter lifted his head to look at her. The fire crackled in the stove as they locked eyes. “I am sorry, Mary. I shouldn’t have said that. I wasn’t thinking.” “Let me finish while we are at it. I waited here for you for years. You broke my heart, but you always had it, broken and whole. That has not changed. I understand why, but that doesn’t change who I became while I waited. When Danol came along, he did something for me. He put the life back in me and gave me a reason for living. That reason didn’t change. My love for you has changed. It’s no longer the schoolgirl innocence that I had—it is that of a woman for a man. But it has not wavered—it has grown. It is you that’s in here.” Mary laced her hands over her heart. “But I have to it, Danol is also in there, too.” Mary reached out for his arm when she heard his sharp intake of breath. “Let me finish. Please. I’m connected to Danol like I’m connected to my brother and my sisters. I love him like my family. That won’t change. He’s alone, Peter. He’s my dearest friend. I’m not changing that for you. Don’t ask. The nurse thing was going to be a surprise for you next year. But you’re right—I should have talked to you about it. Now, like I said, you decide about Boston. I won’t assume you’re going, and I won’t be anything other than sad that you’re not going, just because I will miss you so much. But that’s about me, not about you. So, I’ll leave it to you to make up your mind.” Peter reached for her, pulled her into his arms, and buried his head in her hair. He held her until the stiffness left her and her warmth enveloped him. When he

closed his eyes, he realized the tension was in him as well. He relaxed. “I am so sorry, Mary. I’m acting like a schoolboy and not like a man who desperately loves the woman before him, the woman who’s haunted his thoughts for as long as he could , the woman he dreamt of marrying for as long as he could . Please forgive me. I’ve been looking at love through a window my entire adult life. It was always out of my reach until you came back into my life. I guess I’m not prepared to handle it. Please be patient with me. Get mad with me, set me to rights, and please . . . take me to Boston with you.” “No, Peter, I won’t take you to Boston with me, but I want you to come with me. There’s a difference, and you should realize that.” “Mary, this is my fault, my stupidity, and is not about you or anything you did or said. I can’t believe I might be jealous. I didn’t think I had it in me.” He grinned sheepishly at her. “Please forgive me.” Mary hugged him. “You need to get to know Danol, Peter. He could use a friend that’s not me. I’m not telling. I’m asking. I think it would do you both good.” “I’ll be mindful. I’ll make an effort on the way to Boston.” “On the way to Boston?” she replied softly. “Well, on the way back, too.” Peter grinned. “In the spring, of course. I can see that loving Mary Ro is going to be quite the challenge, but I’m up to it. I’m learning every day.” “Peter, seriously, are you going to stay in Boston?” “Yes, I’ll stay. There was never any doubt about that in my head. I was feeling sorry for myself or something. I don’t even know. I enjoyed the doctoring business you and Danol have started. I’m glad I was part of the inaugural voyage and will be proud to accompany you in the future.” “I was serious when I said it wouldn’t have gone ahead this year without you. I’m happy you were there. You’re my partner, Peter, in everything.” “I love you.”

“Now, about Boston, I have something to tell you,” Mary said. “Should I be scared?” “Maybe.” Mary blushed. “You’re sure you’re going?” “Without question, yes.” “Good, because there will be more of us coming back.” “More? As in your sisters? They’ll need the house?” “No, but we’ll have to make some changes here.” “Okay, changes for . . .” “Our baby.” Confusion changed to elation. Peter stammered out the words “our baby” and watched her nod. He yipped and hooted before grabbing her. “A baby. Our baby!” He caught her shoulders, moved her away, looked her up and down, and pulled her to him again. “Mary, you have made me the happiest man alive.” “Well, you had something to do with that, too.” He twirled her around, then stopped. “Wait. School. What will that mean for you?” Mary searched his eyes. “We’ll figure it out together.” Peter placed his hands over hers and nodded before kissing her sweetly.

17

Present day

Stephen parked the car on the sandy point of land just beside the road. “We walk up the hill to the crest of the ridge and down into John’s Pond. It will take less than an hour.” “It’s nice to get perspective on the town,” Darlene said. “Yes, I can’t wait to see John’s Pond,” Tiffany added. “Then I can better picture the stories from the journal.” Darlene nodded and draped her sweater over her shoulders, making a loose knot with the sleeves to keep it in place. She reached inside the pocket of her pants and ran her fingers along her mother’s urn. This is the day I let you go. “Ms. Carter?” Stephen asked. “I’m sorry. Did you ask me something?” “I can go back and get the side by side.” “Indeed you won’t. A nice walk will do us good.” Stephen and Tiffany started up the hill with Darlene close on their heels. Darlene noticed the youngsters brushing hands and hooking fingers for a second before pulling apart. She ed those times and grinned. Twice she stopped on the upward climb to catch her breath. “Boy, am I out of shape or what? You two go on. I’ll take my time and catch up with you. I assume I can’t get lost.” “One way in, one way out, no way to go astray,” Stephen said. “We got loads of

time.” “Yes, Mom. There might be animals.” “There could be dinosaurs,” Stephen teased. Tiffany made a swipe at him and rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Mom. We’re all going together.” Tiffany discreetly patted her side and nodded toward her mother. Darlene placed her hand over the bulge in her pocket and nodded back. “How long is this hill, Stephen?” Darlene asked between gasps. “You are almost at the top. One more break away, perhaps.” “Okay, let’s go.” Darlene forced herself to move forward. They were almost at the top when she believed her air intake was coming through a straw. She huffed and puffed and slowed but didn’t stop. As she crested the hill, the pull on her body lessened, and she caught her breath. Tiffany danced around her. “You did it,” she exclaimed and high-fived her mother. “That’s the worst of it,” Stephen said. “It’s a gradual incline from here to the top of the ridge and then a gradual decline to John’s Pond. On the way back, you only have to go down that sucker.” He pointed to the path they had just scaled. Darlene turned around and kicked some rocks in the direction from which they had just come. “That’s right. It didn’t stop me.” She laughed as Tiffany scuffed rocks toward the hill as well. “Conquered, Mom. You totally conquered it.” “Look at Aunt Ammie’s house. A tiny dot across the harbour. This view is spectacular,” Darlene said as she leaned forward with her hands on her knees for . She took in several deep breaths and stood up again, turning in the direction they

were headed. The day grew hot as they walked. A cool breeze gave some reprieve when they ed a bog, but where there was forest on both sides, the air was still and sultry. Tiffany moved to the edge of the path and let her hand graze the tall hay. “Feel this, Mom,” she said. “The little tufts at the top are so soft.” Darlene followed suit and smiled to herself. Where would she have experienced this in Boston? Such a simple thing. “We’ll need to get in the ocean when we get there,” Tiffany said as she fanned herself with her hand. “Oh, Stephen, can we get in the ocean?” “I wouldn’t recommend it. For one thing, it would be a bit cold, and as we have to come back, it would be quite the challenge in wet clothes, no towels or anything to change into. But you could surely dip your feet. And there are sharks.” He laughed when Tiffany gasped. “Well, I might have overdone it on the shark thing.” “Is this where Mary Nolan would have walked to get help after the boat disaster?” she asked. “No. She went to Colinet. That’s along the shore. The trail has pretty well grown over now, but that would be perhaps fifteen kilometres.” “Fifteen kilometres like this,” Darlene said. “Well, God bless her for taking that trip.” “She wouldn’t have had these hills. But she had a mighty river to cross,” Stephen said. “Really?” Tiffany nodded. “Yes, but there was a raft on it. I reading that.” She turned to Stephen and all but jumped up and down, making Darlene smile. “Do you think we could do that one day, Stephen? Is the raft still there?” “We could go as far as the river and get somebody to pick us up by the bridge. I’m sure some of the crowd will want to go.”

“I’m out. That’s thirty kilometres return, like close to twenty miles, I believe, if I did my math right.” “Something like that,” Stephen agreed. “Imagine, Mary walking that distance to get help,” Tiffany said as she craned her neck to look through the trees for signs of the blue of the bay. “Then returning and working with patients until just after dawn the next day. Then finding a strange man near death in her shed. She had pluck back in her day.” “Where did you hear that word?” Darlene asked. “And don’t tell me anything else about Mary. I want to read that for myself.” “Aunt Ammie told me, and I won’t unless you ask.” “Ah, I see.” “I’m glad we came. I think Grandma sent us for a reason.” Darlene nodded. “I believe she did.” “We’re here,” Stephen declared. A short time later, they walked out of the rocky, wood-lined trail and into the open meadows of John’s Pond. Darlene and Tiffany gasped in unison at the beauty of the place—hilly meadows overrun with hay and wildflowers that waved and sashayed in harmony with the welcoming breeze from the ocean. The trees shivered beyond them and greeted the trio with a gentle nod as they, too, were caught in the excitement of the moment. Tiffany raised her hands skyward and twirled in the sun. Darlene, caught up in the moment and ing her promise, followed suit. Stephen grabbed their hands, and they circled around. They giggled and pranced before Darlene shouted, “What the hell are we doing right now?” “We’re celebrating John’s Pond,” Tiffany said breathlessly. “We’re paying tribute to Mary and Peter Nolan.” She threw her arms up in the air and twirled once more. “Whoever you were, or whoever you are, thank you for bringing us here,” she shouted to the heavens.

Stephen laughed and came to a stop. “Good thing nobody can see us. They’d think we’d gone off our heads.” He took Tiffany’s hand. “Come on, let’s get our feet wet.” He looked at Darlene. “You go on. I want to savour this moment. I will you shortly.” Tiffany and Stephen raced off, hand in hand, Stephen leading the way. Tiffany skidded to a halt and rushed back to her mother. She looked over her shoulder and motioned for Stephen to stay. He stared after her, his eyes wide and confused. “You won’t do anything without me, will you, Mom?” Tiffany was panting when she spoke. “No, of course not. Go on, now.” Tiffany stood her ground and crossed her arms. “Mom, it’s the two of us in this. Don’t do anything without me. Don’t try to protect me.” “What are you talking about? I told you I won’t do anything.” “I know you, Mom. Promise you won’t do anything with Grandma unless I’m there.” “Tiffany, I told you I wouldn’t. Now, go on. I just want to spend some time on my own. That doesn’t mean there is anything wrong or that I’ll do anything with Mom.” “Taking ashes everywhere you go is kind of creepy.” “Tiffany,” Darlene said incredulously. “That’s not fair.” “Well, it’s true.” Tiffany twisted the toe of her sandal in the dirt. “You’ve got to let Grandma go. Or at least leave her home.” “Tiffany,” Darlene said again, louder this time. “I loved Grandma. That’s not the point. You brought her today to spread her ashes.”

Darlene huffed. She closed her eyes for a moment and then looked back at Tiffany. “I am thinking of spreading her ashes here, yes. But I promise I won’t do anything without you. Now, is that what you want to hear?” “Promise?” “Yes, Tiffany. I promise. Now, go on. Grandma wouldn’t want us starting a quarrel the first time we’re in John’s Pond.” Tiffany scanned her mother’s face. She nodded. Her smile fell short of its newly revived conviviality as she softly squeezed Darlene’s hand. Absently, she patted the pocket of her mother’s pants where it bulged over the urn. “No offence, Grandma.” Turning, Tiffany ran to Stephen. She took his hand, and they rushed toward the beach. Darlene strolled a little in their direction. The tall hay had obscured the pond that lay between them and the beach to the right. It was breathtaking, with dark, still water hugging the shoreline. She pulled her mother’s urn from her pocket. “Is this where you want to be?” Darlene whispered as she rolled the cool metal in her palm. “Is this to be your resting place, or do we need to know more?” A breeze rustled the grass around her. Aunt Ammie’s words resounded in her ear. It’s nice to have a place to go to our loved ones. Darlene’s thoughts brought her back to a conversation she’d had with her mother. What was it she had said when she was researching her genealogy through her DNA? We are all connected to something, Darlene. You had me as your first connection, and then our beautiful Tiffany. I just don’t know where mine started, where ours started. What are the threads that connect us to the past and its people? Our people, who were they? Who are they? Darlene gulped at the memory and realized that it was her turn not to know where she started. Her mother must have felt unfastened and adrift. Maybe the anonymity of dropping her ashes here with just her and Tiffany, and of course Stephen, was another injustice. Her mother wanted people. She wanted family— she wanted ties. Here it would be private, and she’d be eternally alone.

No, it wasn’t fair at all. Her mother wanted something they hadn’t found yet. Before Darlene reached the beach, she had it settled in her mind. Her mother wasn’t going anywhere today. She would ask Ammie’s advice later. She moved ahead to find Tiffany and Stephen had left their footwear and socks on the rocks, and with pant legs rolled up, they were out ankle high in the ocean. “Come on, Mom! It’s freezing at first but not so bad when you get used to it. , our ancestors probably did this.” “I doubt that, Tiffany. They might be like me and not always ready to plunge into things.” “Come on, Mom, do something spontaneous for a change.” “Tiffany,” Darlene onished her. She hesitated for a moment, then Tiffany let out a hoot when her mother dropped to the beach and pulled off her sneakers and socks. The breeze met her bare toes. She stood and picked her way to the edge of the sea, grumbling and wincing as she went along. Tiffany and Stephen stood on either side of her, each with an outstretched hand. She grabbed hold and scrunched her eyes closed, let out another “What the hell are we doing,” then gently dipped her toes in the water. Darlene squealed, pulled out of their grip, and backed up. “Never mind. That was my spontaneity. I’m done.” “Oh, Mom, come on.” “Nope. I dipped my toes. That was enough.” “You never even got wet.” “I did. I’m wet enough, thank you. That’s it, Tiffany. I’m not getting in.” She held her palms up and immediately regretted pulling off her socks and sneakers so far from the water’s edge. She picked up her belongings, hobbled to a big rock nearby, and sat down.

Once she’d dressed, she eyed the place from her perch. Kelp bladders lazed in sparkling waters near the rotted and sea-washed wooden pilings that had once been a community wharf. It was the only thing left in sight to be repatriated to nature. Otherwise, as was her initial assessment, John’s Pond was oblivious to humanity. “Colinet is that way,” Stephen said, pointing along the shoreline. “You asked earlier.” “Where Mary went for help?” Tiffany interjected. “What about their secret place that Peter talked about in his journal?” Darlene asked. “I’m not sure. I’m guessing that could be anywhere,” Stephen replied. “There would have been lots of paths weaving in and out through the woods. Everything is overgrown now. Nobody has lived here since the 1960s.” “I can imagine it now, anyway,” Darlene said. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Thanks for taking us over here, Stephen. It makes the journals so much more real.” He nodded and smiled. Darlene stood, put her hands on her hips, and raised her face to the sun as she closed her eyes. She concentrated on breathing deeply. “Now I know what salt sea air smells like. It’s certainly not the same in Boston.” “This place just fascinates me,” Tiffany said. “I’m quite . . . curious, too,” Darlene said softly. She needed to think about that, because she was unsure if that was even the right word for it. What could be so intriguing about an abandoned community? Her thoughts took an immediate downward spiral. Was she getting caught up in a fantasy that had no basis in fact and would lead to nothing but hurt for her and Tiffany? She shook her head to dispel the notion that she was bewitched. “Curious enough to come in?” “I said no and I meant no,” Darlene said. “Now, get out of there before your feet

turn to prunes.” “Exfoliating, Mom. People pay a lot of money for that.” Stephen took Tiffany’s hand and helped her out of the water and back to their footwear. “If you like, I’ll take you to the rock foundation of Mary’s and Peter’s house,” he suggested. “It’s over there.” He pointed toward a mosaic of overgrown meadows. After drying off, they ventured carefree in through the waist-high wild flowers and tall grasses. The foliage closed in around them, each flower and straw of hay vying for the warmth of the sun as it recovered from the disturbance of human age. A tiny bird screamed and dived at them, and they hurried past. Stephen was in the lead. He held Tiffany’s hand, and she dragged her mother. They ran and laughed, as lighthearted as if they were children. Darlene couldn’t recall a time from her childhood that this simplicity didn’t outshine. Stephen stopped near a low rock wall in the tangled hay. He pulled Tiffany up onto it, and they walked the square that Darlene now understood to be the ruins of a house. Their giggling, and Stephen’s pointing out the rooms that used to be there, seeped into her consciousness. Then her eyes focused on the fluttering wings of a purple butterfly that was dancing around her. It pitched on her hand, and she raised her arm to inspect it. Stephen stepped off the foundation and helped Tiffany down. They both stared at Darlene, who was hypnotized by the butterfly. “Wow, this is kind of early in the season for a butterfly to emerge,” Stephen said as he leaned closer. A thought that it might be late in the season flashed through Darlene’s mind. It vanished in a fog that turned her into a butterfly, and she flew away. She shook her head. The movement disturbed the butterfly, and it flew off into the hay. She was definitely losing her mind. “Violet. Grandma’s favourite colour,” Tiffany said as she watched the insect disappear. “Violet for mystery and the future. Funny that we’re trying to solve the mystery of the past.”

“I think I’m getting heatstroke or something,” Darlene said as a memory of her mother’s smiling face came to her. She staggered sideways. “Mom, are you all right?” “Yes, of course. Just a little fuzzy-headed.” “You probably need some water,” Stephen said. “I brought a small lunch in my backpack. We could eat near Ansalem’s Well. It’s right here. Best water around.” “My throats a little dry.” Tiffany linked arms with Darlene, and they headed toward the well. “I’m anxious now to get to the journals again,” Darlene said.

18

Boston, 1893

Peter and Mary Nolan arrived in Boston harbour on the last day of August 1893. He had been here before. The city had its appeal, but he could say with certitude that it would wear on him, and he’d be glad to get back to John’s Pond in the spring. He eased into a friendship with Danol and found he really did like the guy. “I’ll stay on for a week or so,” Danol said. “You might need the moral .” “You think so? Why?” “Bridie can be a bit—I don’t know—overwhelming. I’m sure Mary mentioned about the letters she wrote to you.” “The ones Bridie didn’t send.” Danol nodded. “They made up, though,” Peter said. “At least that’s what Mary said.” “You know Mary. She might be a little biased toward her sister. She’d think good of her. I know Bridie’s type. Just be careful around her.” “It can’t be that bad.” Danol pursed his lips. “Bridie is the type that gets what she wants, no matter how she gets it. She wanted me with Mary, but that’s not why I’m staying on. I’m staying on to make it clear that you are Mary’s husband and to leave me out of it.”

“Though I do appreciate that, I think I can handle Bridie.” “Don’t underestimate her, Peter. Robert Ayre keeps her in check, but sometimes I think he’d just as soon not deal with her nonsense. Be careful, that’s all.”

“You must be Peter. Come in, come in,” Bridie said as she swept through the vestibule dressed in a ball gown and waved him in. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she said from somewhere out of his view. “Mary, darling, you look like you’ve put on weight.” Bridie held Mary’s shoulders and looked her up and down. “My, what do you dress like that for?” “For travelling on a ship,” Mary said a little sarcastically. “I hope that husband of yours is treating you like a doctor should be treated.” “I’m not a doctor yet. Peter is, though,” Mary said as she reached for him and linked into his arm. “Maybe I should be treating him better.” “Nonsense,” Bridie said. She turned to Danol and wrapped her arms around him. “You’re not taken yet, I assume?” Danol laughed. “Not yet.” “Too bad Mary got away.” “I wasn’t trying to catch her,” Danol said sweetly. “Besides, she’s married to the fine man here.” He clapped Peter on the back and grinned. “And a doctor, at that. I’ve turned into a scoundrel.” Bridie laughed and ran her hand over Danol’s cheek. “You are such a sweet man,” she said. “Now, if you’ll all follow me.” Peter believed Bridie was trying too hard to be civil to his liking. If he were younger, he figured he’d have to constantly try to prove he was good enough for Bridie’s sister. She was all for Mary being a doctor as it brought prestige to her family, but she considered him to be lesser, and he just couldn’t shake that feeling.

A week later, Peter accompanied Mary to school on her first day. He looked at the attached Boston General Hospital and paused. Go back to Bridie’s, or . . . ? He walked into the building and asked for a job. “You’re a doctor, you say. Do you have proof of this?” “Yes, I did say that, but any work will do. My wife is here studying to become a doctor, and I have free time on my hands. I do have papers from Newfoundland, but I’m not certain they are acknowledged here.” “This is quite unusual. I’ll have to ask the chief of staff. Give me a moment.” Thirty minutes later, the clerk returned with a short, stocky man. “I’m Dr. Reynolds.” “Dr. Peter Nolan from Newfoundland.” “A doctor, you say. Are you specialized?” “No, sir. I practised as a ship’s surgeon between Boston and England for a number of years before taking a job in St. John’s. I worked out of the hospital there until the past spring. Since then I’ve been a sort of community doctor.” Peter explained his relationship with the Angel Endeavours and Mary. “Which Mary is it? There are two.” “Mary Nolan. You probably know her as Rourke.” “Ah, yes, indeed I do. I, as my wife would say, travel in circles with her sister and husband. Robert and Bridie Ayre.” “That’s where we are staying,” Peter offered. “Well, now, any kin of Bridie’s is most welcome here. They are quite the generous philanthropists when it comes to this hospital.” “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get a position on my own merit. It can be anything here.”

“Nonsense. You’re a doctor. If you want to come back tomorrow, you can me on rounds, and we’ll take it from there.” Peter shook his hand and left. He walked around the area and bought a few items for the baby. He waited at a café for an hour or more before he met up with Mary at the end of her school day. She introduced him to her two female classmates before he hailed a carriage to bring them to Bridie’s. The next day, Peter followed Dr. Reynolds on his rounds. The American doctor questioned Peter on how he would treat the people or what type of illness Peter might think they had. He gave Peter leeway on the second day, and by the third, Dr. Reynolds said he had seen enough. He discussed salary and hours, and by the following week, Dr. Reynolds put Peter’s surgical skills to use and had him performing several general surgeries most days. He was complimentary toward Peter’s talent. A few times, the medical students observed operations, and he beamed with pride when Mary was in the audience. Most days, Peter and Mary travelled together. He helped her with her studies at night. Danol came by twice between September and Christmas and brought news of Eddy. Peter missed the boy. Eddy was spending most days with Meg Dalton and nights with Danol at Mary’s house. He smiled when he realized that even he had resigned himself to call it that. Danol was building his own house in North Harbour, and they were grateful for his care of Eddy. Peter talked to Danol about Bridie and her subtle—at least to this point— interference. Danol was aware she was still plotting to put Mary with him despite the fact she knew that Mary would soon have Peter’s child.“You should talk to Mary about it,” he warned. “I don’t want to do that. She has enough on her mind now with school. She doesn’t need my being offended by Bridie on that list. I’ll make do.” “It won’t get any better. Bridie was persistent last year and still hasn’t given up on the notion of me and Mary together.” “I know. She says things under her breath. She knows I can hear her.” Danol laughed. “I can imagine. She did the same with me last year. I only kept coming back because Mary was here and I owed her so much. What about the baby?”

“That’s another story. Bridie is sure the baby is a girl. She’s painting a room and everything.” “Did Mary mention her father coming here years ago?” “Yes. Mary was only young then,” Peter replied. “Bridie had a daughter who died shortly after birth. I believe her husband sent for her father at the time.” Danol nodded. “Mary told me that Bridie spent some time getting treatment in the Boston infirmary.” “Yes, that’s right. She had a hard time after the baby died,” Peter said. “Her father came here. He stayed in Boston for a few months to help her get on her feet. She looked up to him. It was two years later when she had young David.” “That might be why she’s fixated on a girl.” “That’s what I’m afraid of. Well, not really afraid,” Peter corrected. “But if Mary has a girl, it might remind Bridie of what she lost. Maybe I’m overstating the issue. Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful to stay with them. Bridie is overly attentive to Mary. It makes things easier for my wife.” “It could also make things harder on her husband.” “I’m sure I can handle Bridie.”

Peter was wrong. She invited Dr. Reynolds and his wife over and all but belittled Peter in front of the good doctor. He believed she called him a good-for-nothing lout. Whatever she’d said, it left Dr. Reynolds stuttering over his food. Just before Christmas, Peter asked Mary to get an apartment with him. He didn’t want to bring an infant into the Ayres’ residence, especially under Bridie’s influence. Mary confessed she had wanted to ask him the same thing. “I don’t think Bridie understands that I’m not a little girl anymore,” Mary said. “I hear the things she says about you when you’re not around. Don’t look at me like that, Peter Nolan. You know what I mean. I continue to fight with her about it, but it only makes her worse. Now she says you are trying to drive us apart.

I’ve had enough. “She’s buying all these infant clothes for a little girl. She is sure one of the Rourkes will have a girl and that it will be me. She even has a room painted and ready to decorate. It’s no good for me to tell her I’m going back home. She keeps saying things will work out.” Mary sat beside Peter on the bed, and he took her hand. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Everything will work out. And it will work out the way we want.” “What will we do when the baby is born?” “I’ll take care of the baby. You finish your schooling.” “Peter, is that appropriate?” “Why not?” “I don’t know. It’s very unconventional.” “Unconventional be damned. I’m talking to one of the few women doctors in the state of Massachusetts and probably the first woman doctor who will practise in Newfoundland. Let’s not call it unconventional—let’s call it groundbreaking. It has a better sound. You are not giving up just because you’re having a baby.” “Oh, Peter.” Mary hugged him. “I must it I’ve been worried.” “Don’t be.” He laughed and kissed her. “Now, about that baby. When is a good time to deliver?” It was Mary’s turn to laugh. “I think if I make February I’ll be lucky.” “I’ll let Dr. Reynolds know I won’t be in after January.” “Peter, I hate that you have to do that for us.” “I’m not doing anything for you, Mrs. Nolan. You are not that important.” She swatted him, then kissed him. “Trying to prove you’re important, now that’s another story.”

He eased her back on the bed.

They moved to a lovely apartment nearer to Mary’s school, and Peter continued working at the hospital for the remainder of the month. “Peter, I need your assistance on the maternity ward,” Dr. Reynolds said as he rushed down the hall toward him. “Right now.” “A difficult birth?” “Something like that.” Dr. Reynolds pulled away the curtain, and there on the gurney was Mary. Panic rose in his chest and pushed out to his extremities. His legs were shaking, and his hands trembled as he fumbled his way to Mary’s side. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking from Mary to Dr. Reynolds. Mary held his hand. “Nothing’s wrong. I wanted you to be here for the delivery.” “It was a demand,” Dr. Reynolds said with a grin. “She wouldn’t let anybody touch her. She asked for you specifically.” He went to the other side of the bed. “We’ve made an exception for you. My best student and my best doctor.” “It was the only way I could have you here,” Mary said. “I told them I wasn’t doing it without you.” “I believed her, too,” Dr. Reynolds said with a chuckle. “Now, I’ll leave you to examine your wife. I’ll look in on you later.” Mary gasped as a contraction rolled over her. Peter sat on the chair. “A lot of help you’re going to be,” she said between gritted teeth. Peter pressed his hands against his face and pushed his fingers through his hair. “Mary, you’re having the baby.” “Peter, you’ve seen to how many births now?” “I don’t know.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said. Peter ground his fist into his palm and took a deep breath. He kissed her forehead and stood up. “What’s wrong with me?” Mary laughed. “Peter, look at me. Peter.” She waited until he met her eyes. “We’ll be fine.” She said the words slowly and with conviction. “Don’t make me call Dr. Reynolds. I’ll never live it down in class.” Peter stood tall and took a deep breath. He tried to pull closed the imaginary curtain that separated his personal life from his professional, but he couldn’t do it. “You’ll be fine, my darling Mary. I know you will. I just don’t know about me.” He grinned and took her hand. “Now, lets see what’s going on.”

Peter’s eyes were big and wet when he brought the swaddled infant to her. “It’s a boy.” “Peter Nolan,” Mary said as he laid the baby in her arms. “This is Peter Nolan. Peter David Nolan. We predicted this moment all those years ago. Our first son would be named after you. I know how much it means to you to have a namesake.” “But what about your father, Mary? We were only children when we promised that.” “Da would understand. Da would be happy for us.” “Oh, Mary. I don’t know how I can love you more.” Peter followed the nurse to the infirmary where the babies were kept. He caught sight of Bridie as she was leaving. The next day, he followed Dr. Reynolds out into the hall after he came by to check up on Mary. “Did I see Bridie on the ward yesterday?”

“Yes, she asked me to call her. She was hoping for a girl.” “I see.” Peter thought about that for a moment. “You understand I won’t be back to the hospital now?” Dr. Reynolds took Peter’s arm. “I’m sorry to see you go. I do understand. I’m a bit relieved, to tell you the truth. I’ve been getting not-so-subtle remarks that I could be losing a big sponsorship for research at the hospital if you’re still here. You understand that wouldn’t influence me, of course.” “Of course,” Peter said. “I trust you won’t return next year, either?” “You can count on that.” Dr. Reynolds eyed him but didn’t say a word. He nodded and turned on his heel and left. Peter told Mary that her sister had been in the hospital. “Bridie must miss us,” she said. “I hope she comes by. I hate to be at odds with her. I know she misses our sisters and their families. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but wonder if Bridie’s interference is why Theresa and Nellie moved to California.” Later that day, a bouquet of flowers arrived with a brightly wrapped present that read, “For baby boy Rourke.” Mary smiled wryly and shook her head. Bridie had to get a dig in.

Mary stayed at the hospital for five days and then rested for five more at the apartment. By mid-February she was attending school once again. Peter loved his time with his little boy. He wrote to Eddy and Meg Dalton in John’s Pond. Meg replied that Danol had been doing most of the looking out for Eddy, teaching him things about sailing ships. Although he was in good hands, the boy was almost fourteen. Peter would stay home with him and the baby the next winter. Eddy needed a father, and Peter had

been lacking in that area and knew it. He had lots of excuses, but in the end, they were just that, excuses. He’d do better by Petie.

19

Peter rinsed the blood from his hands in a bowl on the nightstand. He grabbed a towel, drying off as he rushed to Mary. She was stretched in across Kate, and her face was hidden by the hair that had fallen loose from her bun. He squeezed her shoulder, and she leaned into his hand. “We did all we could,” Peter said. “How come we can’t do more?” “That’s not for us to answer. You know that.” Mary bowed her head once more and rested her forehead on Kate’s arm. “I’m sorry, Kate.” She sniffed and then inhaled deeply before sitting up straight. The baby cried. “At least we saved the little one.” Mary picked up the baby and cradled her to her shoulder. She cooed and hummed a tune her mother had taught her. “I’ll tell Tom,” Peter said as he squeezed her shoulder once more. “The women will have to be told so they can get her ready.” “I’ll help with that,” Mary said as she laid the dozing child in a cradle nearby. Peter left the room weighed down by sadness and exhaustion. He and Mary had done all they could, but Kate had hemorrhaged after nearly two days of labour and a breach baby they couldn’t turn. Thankfully, losing mothers was less frequent now that he and Mary were tending to the births. Tom paced the kitchen. “Can I see her?” Peter went to him. “Tom, I’m afraid Kate didn’t make it.”

“What do you mean, didn’t make it? I heard her cries only a little while ago.” “We couldn’t save her. I’m sorry.” “Couldn’t save her?” Tom staggered backwards until his legs reached the chair, and he collapsed onto it. “Kate. Gone?” Peter followed him and pulled out a chair. He sat beside Tom. The only sound in the room was the crackling fire. “This can’t be. What will I do? Seven youngsters to rear. How am I going to do that?” “Eight, Tom. You have another daughter.” “What? No. No. No. I can’t look after a baby.” Tom was quiet for a while, his face buried in his palms. He stood and paced the kitchen before he threw his hands in the air. “Peter, I can’t look after a baby.” “Is there anyone around who can take her for a few days? Things might look different then,” Peter said calmly. “No. Kate’s people are from the island. She hasn’t seen them in years. My crowd got crowds of their own. What am I going to do?” Tom collapsed on the chair, leaned forward, and rested his face in his hands. “What am I going to do?” he repeated. “I’ll talk to Mary. I’m sure she won’t mind taking the baby home with us for the night until things are figured out. You don’t have to worry about that.” Tom raised his head and gazed off in the direction of the room. “How am I going to tell the youngsters their mother is gone?” “We’ll figure it out, Tom. I’ll help you. Mary will help you.” Tom gulped for air and wiped a tear from his eye. “Much obliged, Peter.” He stood up and went to the stove, shook the kettle, and laid it on the damper to boil. “Kate’s gone. I can’t believe it.” He fumbled with the teapot and asked if Peter would like a cup. Peter accepted with a slight nod.

Tom rolled a cigarette and offered one to Peter, who shook his head. “I have to go next door for Isabelle. I won’t be long,” Peter said. “I’ll be back before the tea is ready.” Tom turned away as he lit the cigarette. Peter crossed the meadow and climbed the fence instead of going out one lane and in the other. He told Isabelle the news of Kate Dalton’s death and asked if she could help gather the women to tend to the body. “Them poor motherless children,” Isabelle said. “I’ll dart out to Lucy’s and let them know.” “We’ll take the baby home with us for the night.” Isabelle nodded and grabbed her coat while Peter headed across the garden. Tom was on the chair in a smoky haze, staring at the door, the tea forgotten. Peter went in to see if Mary needed help. Mary had changed the bedsheets and put Kate in a clean dress. “Isabelle will be here shortly.” The baby whimpered in the cradle. “Poor little thing,” Mary said. “Motherless.” “Mary, about the baby. I told Tom we’d take her home for the night. Poor man doesn’t know what to do.” “That’s fine, Peter. We have the room.” “It’ll only be for a day, or maybe two. When things settle down here, we’ll see what happens.” “Their oldest girl is only five or six. She won’t be able to help him. This is a terrible situation for them all.” “Exactly. I told him you wouldn’t mind. I’ll go make him a cup of tea and see if he wants to come in.” Peter left the room and found a distraught Tom.

“Do you want to go in?” “No,” Tom said abruptly. “I’m sorry, Peter. No. I’ll wait until the women come.” By the time Peter had fixed the tea, three women entered. He motioned with his head for them to go on in with Mary. Two boys, around ten and eight, burst in through the door moments later. They rushed to their father and embraced him. Awkwardly, he clapped them on the back. The two boys cried in their father’s arms while he gazed at the stove. Mary came out with the little girl, and Tom’s eyes flicked over her above his sons’ heads. He gave a slight shake of his head when Mary offered the baby to him, and he buried his face in the boys’ hair. Mary nodded to Peter. Peter lifted Mary’s coat from the hook behind the door and helped her into it. “I’ll walk you home. You must be tired.” “I’m all right but would appreciate the company.” He helped her bundle the baby, and they made a silent exit and headed home.

The baby fussed, and Mary stirred beside Peter. “I’ll get her,” he whispered softly. Mary mumbled something before dozing off again. Peter’s bare feet protested against the cold planks on the floor. He didn’t spare time to haul on socks for fear the little one would wail and wake the two boys. Scooping her up in his arms, he brought her downstairs to the kitchen and laid her on the daybed. He made the fire to warm some milk, changed her diaper, and settled in for feeding. Staring at her down-covered head, he smiled as the little girl paused from her suckling and opened her eyes. “What’s going to become of you?” he murmured. “Your mamma is gone, and you have no home.” “Daddy,” Petie muttered from the bottom of the stairs as he rubbed his eyes. “What are you doing up so early? Come here and lie down by me. Don’t wake your mother.”

The little boy stumbled across the kitchen, climbed on the daybed, and snuggled in near his father. Peter fetched a blanket for his son and returned to finish up with the baby. Mary nudged him sometime later and took the baby from his arms. Petie was still asleep. Peter eased out from beneath his head. “Busy morning?” Mary whispered as she pecked him on the lips. “A little.” “I could have gotten up.” “So could I,” he replied as he kissed her again. “I can’t go telling any of the women around that you get up with the babies. I’ll have to beat them off with a stick.” Mary laughed and cupped his face with her free hand. “You are one of a kind, Peter Nolan. It’s a guilty delight that you’re mine.” “Make me breakfast, woman,” he said in an exaggerated harsh tone. “Mind yourself, now, or I will tell all the other women.” Peter laughed. “I’m afraid I can barely handle the one I have.” He made breakfast while Mary washed and fed the baby. Two days later, they attended the service for Kate Dalton. Three of her kin had come from the island. Tom and the children lined up at the graveside, the smaller ones too young to understand what was happening—or perhaps they might all be too young. Mary and Peter gave their condolences, and Tom said he would be over to see them later in the day.

“I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl,” Tom said. “I don’t if you told me.” “It’s a girl,” Peter said. “She’s upstairs. I’ll get her for you.”

“No,” Tom said quickly. “No. I don’t want to see her.” He moved to sit on the daybed beneath the window. “You must think me cruel, but I can’t think about a baby right now.” “I understand, Tom. There is no hurry.” “You misunderstand me. Kate’s sister has taken the two youngest boys and young Hannah. I have no way to look after them. It’s what’s best.” Tom stopped and gazed out the window. “Hannah is almost six now. She’d be able to help with the other three boys in a year or so, but I couldn’t expect her to watch out for the wee ones, too. My brothers’ families will help with the older boys for now. Kate’s sister wouldn’t take the infant because she has a small one, too, and my brothers can’t take her, either. That leaves me with nowhere for the baby. Do you know anything about the orphanage?” Peter sat beside him. “Yes, I can tell you a few things about it.” “Will the baby be cared for? I’m not heartless, you know.” “I’m sure the baby will be cared for. I don’t know how long she’d be there before somebody took her in. I have to be frank with you, Tom. Most people look for sons. That’s not saying she won’t find a home, though—it just might take some time.” “I never dreamt I’d be in this situation. My Kate is gone, my youngest are gone, and I don’t know how I’m going to keep the rest together.” “Folks are good around here. They’ll help you get by. Mary and I will do what we can for you. You know that.” Mary came into the room and eyed Peter. “Tom is asking about the orphanage for the baby,” he said. “Did you mention what we talked about?” “Not yet.” Peter turned to Tom. “Both Mary and I talked about the baby. We were going to offer to keep her for you until she has grown some. She’s a dandy little thing. Right quiet, too.”

Tom shook his head. “I don’t want her,” he said loudly. Then a little softer, “I don’t want her.” “You might feel differently later on when the shock of Kate’s ing is gone.” “I don’t want her. She’s the reason my Kate is gone.” Tom leaned forward and put his hands over his ears, staring at the floor with his elbows resting on his knees. He sat up again moments later. “I know that’s not fair, but that’s the way I’ll think of her. I won’t be cruel, but I don’t know if I can be kind.” “In the end, it’s your decision. We’ll abide by whatever you say.” Peter looked at Mary, and she nodded. A look of sadness clouded her eyes and matched the feelings he was trying to cloak. “You say you’ll keep her,” Tom said at length. “Yes,” Mary and Peter said in unison. “Yes, most definitely,” Peter said. “Let me chew on it until tomorrow. As I said, I’m not heartless.”

“I don’t know what it is about this little one that has me spellbound,” Peter said as he moved aside the flannel to gaze at the baby. “Poor little child doesn’t even have a name,” Mary said. “Nameless, motherless, homeless—she’s not off to a good start.” “What do you think of Tom?” asked Peter. “Well, it’s not unexpected that he’d want to give her away. The fact that he is keeping some of the children is a testament to him. Many wouldn’t want to keep any. I think he is doing his best.” “Do you think he will let us keep the baby? Are you sure you want to do this?” Peter reached out and put his arms around Mary, and they nestled the child between them.

Mary searched his eyes. “You know we can’t keep doing this, right?” “I know. But there is something special about this one. I’d hate to see her go.” “You are just . . . I don’t know, but whatever you are, that is one of the many things I love about you.” “You make me a better man, Mary.” He kissed the top of her head and bent to kiss the child’s forehead. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Can you imagine how hard it would be to let her go in five, six, ten years? I doubt either of us could do it.” “Let’s wait and see what Tom says.”

The baby girl was baptized Catherine Mary Nolan later that summer when the priest came for his first church visit.

20

Present day, June 2021

Karen laid lasagna on the oven door when Darlene came in from the deck. “My, that smells so good.” “I’m not eating that,” Ammie said quickly. “I know,” said Karen. “I have something for you, too.” “Did you make this for us?” Darlene asked. “Of course I did. I’m so happy to make something other than meat and potatoes.” Karen grinned as she cut squares of the steaming delicacy from the glass dish. She sprinkled Parmesan cheese on top and laid plates in front of the three of them, as it seemed like Stephen was a fixture at the house now, too. Karen also dished one up for herself. “I’ll stick to the stew,” Ammie said. She wrinkled her nose at their plates. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Darlene said after the first bite. “This is delicious.” “Thanks,” Karen said and blushed. “We are so spoiled,” Tiffany said. “I feel bad about all the work you’re doing for us while we sit around and read or explore.” “But Darlene, I love cooking. Besides, I’ll have a few weeks off after Friday, so I’ll get lots of rest.”

“You’re still coming this weekend, though?” Ammie asked. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll make potato salad. Rose says that’s my job. And I think I have a ham to cook.” “Do we have a job, Aunt Ammie?” Tiffany asked. “I’m sure we can find you something. Rose is making the arrangements.” “We want to contribute,” Darlene offered. “Mmm! This is so good. I need bread, though,” Tiffany exclaimed. “I think I’m in love with Newfoundland bread.” “Oh, my goodness, I almost forgot. I made garlic bread.” “Woot, woot,” Tiffany and Stephen said excitedly. “Let me get it,” Darlene said. She grabbed the plate and laid it on the table. “Aunt Ammie, at least try this.” “No, I’m afraid it will kill me, and I’ll miss the party. It would be a shame for all that money to go to waste.” Darlene laughed. “You’re one of a kind, Aunt Ammie. We’ve only been here a few days and it feels like home. I don’t even know if home felt like this.” “I know,” Tiffany agreed. “It’s like we’ve been coming here all our lives.” “You both are coming home,” Ammie said. “That’s what coming home feels like.” Darlene laid down her fork and hugged Ammie. “You are such a dear woman. I’m so glad we’re here.” Ammie sighed, and tears welled in her eyes. “Let me eat my stew,” she said gruffly. “You go eat that concoction and leave this old woman to have her meal in peace.” She smiled at Darlene and caught her sleeve. “No tears at the table.” She chuckled and patted her arm. “Are you ready for a question, then?”

“Yes, I believe I am.” “Mary and Peter had five children. The eldest, Eddy, he was Peter’s brother’s son and the son of his first wife, Martha. Did I read that right?” “Yes, that’s true.” “Was Catherine their child or the child of the neighbour?” “I missed that part of the journal,” Tiffany said. “Mary didn’t mention that.” “It’s not really stated in Peter’s, either. But I think it can be inferred.” “Catherine married an American soldier and went away after the war,” said Ammie. “She did come home a few times, from what I know from my youth. I don’t know if Mary or Peter ever told her that she was a neighbour’s child before she was theirs. I do know Peter doted on her, as did Mary. If she wasn’t theirs, you’d never say by looking at them, at least when I was growing up. Family to them was family—it didn’t matter where or how it came.” “Are any of Catherine’s grandchildren or great-grandchildren coming home?” Darlene prodded. “No. We lost touch with them after Catherine died. She’s buried down in Texas somewhere, from what I know. I believe there’s an obituary for her here somewhere. Maybe in the Bible. I’ll see if I can find it. But I don’t think she was theirs, and if she wasn’t, then none of her kin would show that were related to her.” “Okay, so Eddy and Catherine are ruled out. James was killed as a young man in the war. That leaves your father and David. The journals are providing some answers. Or at least they are narrowing down the answers.” “I’m reading where Mary was accosted by a killer on a ship when she first went to Boston,” Tiffany said between mouthfuls of pasta. “She dressed as a man but was found out on the boat. Mary was a bit of a swashbuckler herself. There’s a great deal of information in there about Danol Cooper as well. Nothing on his wife yet, though.” “Keep reading,” Ammie said. “She was a dear friend to Mary, like a sister,

really. As I said, Mary and Peter put a lot of stock in family no matter what way it came to be.” Darlene pondered Ammie’s words. Family no matter what way it came to be. That was them. “I have a confession to make,” Darlene blurted out. “Actually, we both have a confession to make.” Tiffany looked at her with questioning eyes. Darlene pulled the urn from her pocket and laid it on the table as if it were hot. “I get the sense that secrets are not the best thing. These are my mother’s ashes. We had planned to sprinkle them in John’s Pond yesterday, but your words, Aunt Ammie, kept me from doing that. You talked about a place to people. If I put my mother’s ashes there, without anyone knowing except me and Tiff, then I think I’m not being fair to my mother. She wanted family so desperately.” She burst out crying. Tiffany circled the table and hugged her mother, crying along with her. When Darlene composed herself, she waited for Tiffany to take a seat again. Stephen took Tiffany’s hand as she ed him and switched one hand for the other when she sat down on the far side of him. “I’m sorry, Aunt Ammie. I know, no tears at the table. I wasn’t expecting that.” Darlene wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater as her cheeks burned. “I only meant my tears.” Ammie placed her hand on Darlene’s arm. Darlene half laughed, half cried at that. “Now, what’s this about your mother?” “She was looking forward to this trip. She planned for it for a year, and then, you know . . .” Darlene sucked in a deep breath. “She’s missing out on so much. She would have loved you. I’m sad for her. I’m sad because I’ll have no place special to her.” “Oh, darling, your mother is in your heart. This has been a horrible year, and you lost your mother on top of that. You have a right to be sad.” “Oh, Aunt Ammie, what should I do?” “I can’t tell you that, my child. But I can tell you that whatever stopped you from spreading her ashes yesterday will guide you to do what you think is best.”

Darlene closed her eyes to hold back new tears. “Give it some time. You are both healing here. Give that time, too.” Ammie paused for a moment. “Now, come on. No more tears at the table. Eat that concoction.” Darlene massaged her forehead and pulled her thumb and forefinger across her eyelids before straightening. “I will,” she said. She took a bite. “It is delicious. You should try it.”

21

Newfoundland, 1897

Peter hoisted Mary from the bow of the skiff. He pushed through the sea and placed her on the beach above the tidal mark. Plodding back through the waves, he leaned forward to pull the bags from the forecastle. Water from the choppy surf had overflowed his rubbers. Truth was, if it hadn’t been urgent, they wouldn’t have been on the water. Peter hadn’t wanted Mary to come this time for fear of a bad end to the journey. But Mary, being Mary Ro, had insisted, and for him to protest otherwise would have been futile. Eddy, Petie, and little Catherine were left with Danol and Erith in North Harbour. Even Danol had been hesitant about their going, but in the end, he, too, relented to Mary. Martin Nash pointed to the house before moving off to make his way to the wharf farther along the coast in Branch. He’d done a great job of navigating the sea from John’s Pond. Peter figured the man’s family were in the window, waiting for him and probably praying for his safe return. Peter stopped beside Mary, pulled off his rubbers, and emptied them before taking her arm to help her up off the beach. The sea spray across the open boat had left them both closer to sodden than damp. Mary’s hair was hanging in long strings around her face, and even the wind found it difficult to move the weight of it. Mary would take it all in stride and wouldn’t complain. She was much like Peter in that respect. The shoreline underfoot was sandy near the water’s edge, but sharp rocks stuck out of the embankment in a ragged comb-like fashion, making climbing tricky. Mary was quiet as they picked their way to the low, grassy bluff. Once he pushed her up the last few feet, she turned and grabbed his hand to pull him along the final few steps. At the top, they surveyed the three houses in the meadows

nearby. “Did Martin say which one she was in?” “No. Let’s ask at the closest.” They hadn’t landed in Beckford before—patients would have travelled to Branch on other occasions. This time, it couldn’t be helped. Nobody was home when they tried the nearest dwelling, so they hurried on, mindful of the urgency. A shout from the house in the distance caught their attention, and a woman in a dress and apron was waving a cloth in the air and beckoning them to her. Peter took Mary’s arm, and they swiftly covered the distance. They were out of breath from the hilly climb by the time they reached the door. The woman pulled away and let them enter before closing the door behind them. “Caroline is in here.” She pointed to the door off the kitchen, and her second finger wag was to the stove. “The babies are there.” Mary hauled off her coat as Peter shifted toward the oven door. There in a small wooden box—probably a bureau drawer, by the looks of it—were three little babies each peeking out from inside the leg of a woollen sock. The woman was frantic. “We didn’t know what else to do to keep them warm.” “You did a good thing,” Peter assured her. Each baby was no bigger than his palm. “Where’s the mother?” Mary asked, taking a glimpse at the babies before the woman showed her to the room. Peter pushed his hand toward the stove, fearing it was too hot for the children, but the fire was low. “When were they born?” “Earlier this morning,” the woman said. “I’m Margie.” “Peter.” He nodded toward her, still staring at the little ones. He took his medical bag and the chair and pulled them close to the oven door. Taking out his scope, he warmed the cup before laying it near the face of the first child. He could feel

Margie’s eyes on him. “Are they girls or boys?” “Two boys and a girl.” “Were you here for the birth?” “Got here just in time.” “Who sent for us?” “Caroline had been complaining with pain for a few days. She was real bad overnight. George went to Branch to get somebody to fetch you.” “Martin Nash?” “Yes, that’s him. George dropped in to get me on the way back. When I arrived, they were ready to be borned.” “Why didn’t somebody come earlier?” “The baby, or babies, weren’t supposed to come for months. Maybe two. George didn’t realize. Neither did Caroline. This is her first.” “Is there any milk in the house? I need some sterile cloth.” “There’s milk. I don’t know what the other thing is.” “Is there water boiled?” Margie grabbed the kettle and weighed it in her hand. “Yes, there’s water.” “Can you get me a piece of cloth? Something thin. I need a small bowl, too.” Margie ran from the kitchen. Her heavy steps echoed on the stairs and again as she returned with a pillowcase. She reached for a bowl from a shelf above the table. Peter ripped a few strips from the material and poured some water in the bowl, then asked her to throw it out. He added more water and soaked the strips of cotton. After waiting for the water to cool, he extracted the first baby from the sock. Holding the baby to his lips, he blew gently on the little boy’s face. The

baby moved his head and made a mewling sound. Peter laid him back and repeated the process with the other two. The third one, the little girl, didn’t move. Peter took his scope and laid it on her chest. There was a faint heartbeat. He rubbed his hands over the child and listened again. Quashing the lump that rose in his throat, he closed his eyes in an attempt to turn off the feelings he had for the situation. He gently laid her in the sock that was farthest from the firebox. “Can you rinse a cup from the cupboard and add a little milk?” Margie did as he asked. He added a little water from the kettle so that the milk was cool and not too thick. Next, he covered the head of a dropper with the piece of cloth, squeezed the rubber top, and dipped the cloth in the milk. He laid the makeshift bottle on the first boy’s lips. The instinct to suck was strong, and the little fellow’s lips moved on the cloth. Peter slowly released the rubber so as not to overwhelm the child. He repeated this for the second boy, who gave the same response. The little girl didn’t move her lips. He tried to gently stimulate her by rubbing the sock, but she was lethargic and didn’t react. “Margie, can you fetch my wife?” Mary came to him a few moments later. “How’s the mother?” “She’s in a bad way. She’s lost a lot of blood, but I think I’ve stopped it. She’ll be a while but should recover. What about these dear little things?” “The girl is almost gone. Might be a good idea to lay her on her mother. What do you think? You’ve been in there.” “I don’t know. She’s weak and sleeping now. I can do it, though. I’ll sit with her and wait.” Mary squeezed her husband’s shoulder. He eyed her. “I’m sure. If she wakes, I’ll transfer the baby.”

Mary gently scooped the tiny girl from the box and returned to the mother. She would lay the baby on her skin beneath her dress and wait for the baby to finish her short life with the warmth of a woman’s touch. Within moments, Mary’s humming started. Low whispers emanated from the room, followed by a woman’s soft sobbing. Peter wasn’t sure if it was Mary or the mother. Peter worked on the two boys. He fed them through the dropper as Margie kept in the fire. “Where’s George? George, right?” “Yes, it’s George. He’s over with my Will. He won’t come handy. Doesn’t know there’s three yet. He’s waiting for me to come home.” The second boy stopped responding to the feeding. Mary returned with the baby girl. The infant, cradled in her small hand, was covered by a piece of a checkered shirt that probably belonged to George. Mary shook her head, and Margie gasped. “Does Caroline know?” “Yes, but she’s weak and didn’t get more than a glimpse of her.” Margie took the child from Mary and gently held the bundle. “Poor little one. It would be a miracle if any of them live. I’ve never seen anything so tiny.” Peter made eye with Mary. “This one won’t make it, either.” Mary took him and brought him to his mother. Soft sobs came through the door. Mary’s low humming presided over the room once again. Then there was silence, followed by a mother’s weeping, mournful and pained. A short time later, Mary came out with another tiny bundle wrapped in a frayed piece of the same shirt that held the tiny girl. Margie hiccupped and sniffled as she accepted the second infant. “Poor Caroline. She’ll not get over this.” Peter gave Margie the wooden drawer from the oven door. She laid the two bodies side by side at one end. Mary spoke quietly in his ear. “She can’t take much more. Each time she cries,

the bleeding starts again. I don’t know if she’ll make it. She’s weak and sad. If the last one dies, I fear she’ll go with them.” Peter, with the baby on his palm, was feeding him once again with the dropper. The child wasn’t suckling like he had before. Tiny bleats were no longer audible. Only the slight movement of his lips and the uneven rise and fall of his little chest showed that life continued. Peter’s eyes were big when they met Mary’s. “I’m doing all I know how.” “I know that, darling. I wouldn’t do anything different.” Mary put her arms around his neck and leaned in over him as he fed the child. She stroked his hair and rubbed his shoulders as he ministered to the baby. They were so engrossed in the baby that they didn’t see Margie leave. She returned much later with a tasty pot of turr stew and a loaf of bread. “I told George what was happening. He won’t be back tonight. I warned him there could be four gone in this house before morning.” Peter nodded. “We’re not going anywhere, Margie. We’ll see it through. Hopefully we can rally the child and the mother.” “Some things are above our heads and out of our hands. Out here, with not more than a struggle to get through, how’s a little thing like him going to make out? Maybe the child is better off.” “We’re going to do everything we can,” Mary said. “I’ve seen babies this size go on to be big strapping young men.” “Is that the truth?” Peter nodded again. “It certainly is.” A thump from the room got Mary and Margie’s attention. They both went to check and found a flurry of activity. “You can’t be up,” Mary said.

“Now, Caroline, you have to get back into bed!” Peter watched the baby’s skin turn greyish and then blue as the life drained from him. He rested the child inside his shirt in the hope that his own heartbeat would cause a miracle to happen. The baby squirmed once, and then he was gone. Peter gently lowered his chin until it met the softness of the baby’s head. He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily while his insides, coiled in tension for hours, released. He wanted to hit something or kick something or scream to the heavens. Instead, he forced himself to stay seated and swallowed hard to quell whatever was coming. Something shifted in him, and a dark veil smothered his emotions. He concentrated on breathing. What could he have done better? If they had gotten here when the babies were born, would things have been different? Three lives gone with Mary working on the fourth. It was going to be a long night. Margie was saying something. She shook his shoulder. “Mary wants your help.” “Can you get me the pillowcase to wrap this one in? He’s gone, too.” Margie’s silent tears fell on him as she handed him the cloth. He wrapped the child snugly and handed him to Margie. She laid him in the box next to the other two. Peter turned and went to Mary’s side. Being in her presence calmed him. She was a balm who made things all right. Even the dire things. He went to work, and they fell into stride together, each knowing what to do, each knowing what the other would do to save a life. Peter gave Caroline a sedative. “That should settle her.” Mary nodded. They brought in chairs and sat on each side of Caroline’s bed throughout the night. Each had a little rest on the daybed in the kitchen while the other stood vigil. They kept Caroline sedated into the next day, too. She’d lost a lot of blood and had further aggravated the situation when she’d tried to get up. Peter rubbed his lower back as he peered through the window and waited for the kettle to boil. The babies were still in the drawer on the table. Margie was gone. A lone figure left the house across the meadow. It moved out of sight around the house and then came back into view with a garden gruff and shovel slung over

its slumped shoulders. The figure headed toward the treeline at the top of the meadow, its drooped head helping navigate the steep incline. Before the figure reached the upper fence, Margie came through the door of yonder house. She carried a bucket covered with a cloth and headed back to Caroline’s home. Peter watched her until she disappeared out of view, and he continued to gaze through the window when she came in from the porch behind him. “Is that George?” “Yes, gone to make a resting place for the youngsters.” “I’ll go and help him.” Peter fetched his coat without waiting for a reply and ed the cool morning air. He took his time as he climbed the grade to the top of the meadow. The man there was cutting out a square on the grass when Peter reached him. “Peter Nolan,” he said as he reached out his hand. “George McGrath.” George didn’t meet Peter’s eyes and went to work on the ground. The man had no concept of the space he’d need, so Peter extended his hand for the gruff. “Let me help you with that.” The man gave up the gruff and picked up the shovel from the yellowed spring grass. Peter scraped the grass off a small square and then moved away. George looked at him, his eyes questioning. “That’s all you’ll need.” George’s brow knotted, and his lips squeezed together in a pained grimace. “How’s Caroline this morning?” “We have hope that she’ll recover. She’s young and strong.” George’s stance relaxed just a bit as he stuck the shovel in the ground and

stomped on it with his boot, giving it a hearty shove. Peter worked off some of his own frustration. Digging was as close to hitting something as he could get, he reckoned. He put some force into the gruff. He stayed with George until community folk from Branch arrived. Finally, he stood back as prayers were said and the single box was buried, covered, and then marked by a few rocks.

22

Fox Harbour Spring 1900

The doctors received a telegraph in February asking for their assistance. “You can’t go, Mary. Not in your condition,” Peter said. “I’ll go.” “They asked for me.” “I know they did, but they couldn’t have known you were about to give birth.” “About? Really? I’ve still got maybe two more months.” “You know that means nothing on your second. Consider what you’re risking.” “I wouldn’t put our child at risk,” she said calmly. “Just by going, you’re tempting fate. Imagine how you’d feel if something happened.” “Don’t be so dramatic. I’ll be fine. You’ll be with me.” “Make no mistake, I’ll be with you. But I’ll be with you here.” “Well, I’m going with or without you,” Mary said defiantly. “Do you hear yourself? You don’t have to prove anything. You have the papers that say you’re a doctor.” “It’s not about proving anything. How dare you even suggest that.”

“What else am I to think? Your senses have left you.” “I’m not fighting about this. I’m going, and that’s that.” “Mary always has to do things Mary’s way. Well, I forbid it,” Peter said as he pushed his hands through the hair on his temples and turned his back to her. “I forbid it.” The second utterance held more confidence and was a little louder. “Peter Nolan, who do you think you are?” “I’m your husband, dammit. I’m not the one who forgets.” He turned to her, his eyes wide, and raked his hands through his hair once more. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Why can’t you be like the rest of the women around here? The ones who actually listen to their husbands.” He paced the kitchen without looking at her. With a frustrated groan, he leaned over and grabbed the edge of the table, staring down at the grain of the wood. He shook his head several times before pushing himself upright again. “Mary, you’re going to be the death of me,” he said, his voice calmer now. “You’ve said that before. It hasn’t happened yet.” Her soft tone coaxed him to look at her. “Stop it, Mary. I want to be mad for just a little bit longer.” “Okay. I’ll sit here quietly.” “That is impossible.” “Watch me. I can do that part. Be the perfect silent wife that you seem to want so badly.” She pursed her lips and clamped them shut, her eyes big, bright, and challenging. “I see what you’re trying to do. You think I’ll feel better if I think I’m going to get my way.” Peter grabbed the kettle and shook it, then poked the fire before moving the kettle over the damper. “Tea?”

Her exaggerated tight-lipped nod gave him cause to close his eyes and shake his head—he was close to letting a grin form, but he was still mad. The wood popped in the stove as the wind whistled in the chimney. The only other sound was the rattle of dishes as Peter set the cups and saucers on the table with a little too much force. He fetched the tea can from the sideboard and filled the pot on the hot damper. Peter reached for a pipe on the shelf. Mary’s eyes darkened, and her brow furrowed. With slow and steady movements, he stuffed tobacco inside the bowl, all the while keeping his eyes on her. Grabbing a spall from one of the splits near the stove, he stuck it in the firebox and brought it to the chamber. He watched Mary as he puffed several times to ignite the brown leaves before discarding the burning wood. Pulling away suddenly, he yelped and shook his hand when the brand got too close. He winced. She didn’t respond. Grinning now, with another nod toward her, Peter sucked hard on the pipe stem and held her gaze. Blowing the smoke into the air, he let out a loud sigh of contentment. He puffed out his chest as he took another draw on the stem, his eyes challenging Mary to voice her discontent. She glowered at him, but she didn’t speak. When the tea had steeped, he tapped out the tobacco into the stove, made a poor attempt to conceal a cough, ed her at the table, and braced for a lambasting. “Okay, that’s enough. Unseal your lips,” Peter said when the silence had stretched taut like elastic near to bursting. “Yes, darling,” Mary said, too sweetly. She nodded toward the pipe. “You know that’s going to kill you, don’t you?” “So you keep reminding me. Now, let me see the letter,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of defeat. Mary ed him the folded paper and placed her hand on his arm while he read. “You know I want what’s best for you, Mary. That will always be how it is.” “I know, sweetheart. I know.” “So, what are we going to do?” “What would you like to do?”

“I’ve already told you what I thought. Obviously, that has no bearing on the situation.” “That’s unfair, Peter.” “It might sound unfair to you, but it’s true. However, I know we are going. I know it’s the right thing to do. I can’t imagine those poor parents. So, what would you like to do?” “Can we go a few weeks earlier than requested? We can stay on for however long is necessary. Who knows? Maybe our child will be born in Fox Harbour.” “Better than on the ship in the middle of a gale,” Peter muttered. “I’m concerned, Mary. Very concerned.” “I am, too. But I promise to do everything you tell me.” “That would be a dream come true,” he said as he rolled his eyes. She laughed and hugged him. “What am I going to do with you, my dear Mary? I think it’s the question I’ll be asking for eternity.” “You love it,” she said. “I love you,” he said. “I have always loved you.”

23

Two weeks after that conversation, the Angel Endeavours tied up at the wharf in Fox Harbour. Mary and Peter were ushered to the house of Tommy and Nell Duke. With great enthusiasm, Tommy came to them and took Mary’s shoulders in his hands. He stared at her. “Look at you, Mary Rourke, a doctor now. Was it really that long ago you were going to Boston with us?” Mary hugged him. “Tommy, you were only a young lad when I saw you. Now look at you.” She stood back and looked him up and down before turning to Peter. “Tommy looked out for me on my first trip to Boston.” Peter stepped forward and extended his hand. “I’m her husband, Peter Nolan.” “Yes, of course.” Tommy released Mary and shook his hand. “I sure am grateful to your Mary. She fixed my arm on the Newfoundland. No trouble with it since.” Peter nodded. “That’s Mary for you.” “Nell just laid in the little one. She’ll be along shortly. Is Danol here?” “Yes,” Mary said. “He said to tell you he’ll be up soon. He’ll bring our bags.” “I’ll lend a hand,” Tommy offered. “Nell, I’m going to the wharf. Mary and her husband are here. Nell?” Tommy glanced from Mary to Peter, lowered his head, and sheepishly backed into the room off the kitchen. Mumbles and hushed whispers told of a disagreement. A baby coughed several times. At length, Tommy all but pushed Nell into the room. Nell came to a stop in the middle of the kitchen. She smoothed her skirt and apron, and her eyes were fixed on the floor. “Hello,” Mary said. “You must be Nell. I’m Mary, and this is Peter, my husband.”

Nell looked up and gasped. “You’re with child! Come sit here. Tommy, where are your manners?” She pulled out the chair, and Peter helped Mary sit. Peter squeezed Mary’s shoulder. “If you’re all right here, I’ll go make sure we don’t forget anything on board.” “I’m fine. I’ve been lying down for two days,” she said as she smiled up at him. “I’ll go, then.” He gave her shoulder another gentle squeeze before leaving with Tommy. “Let me take your coat,” Nell said. She helped Mary stand and moved behind to ease her out of the garment. “I’ll get you a cup of tea.” “We don’t want to be trouble,” Mary said. “No trouble. We don’t have much here, but what we have is yours.” Nell went about getting Mary some tea. “We have duck soup for supper.” “I love duck soup.” With the tea on the table, Nell busied herself about the kitchen. “Sit with me, Nell. There’s no need for all this fussing. Tell me about you and Tommy.” The baby coughed. “I better go see to him.” “Would you like me to have a look?” Nell declined, a little too forcefully, and Mary nodded. Blinking rapidly, Nell’s face turned ashen. Her hands trembled before she turned and ran from the room. It was some time later before Mary called, “Is everything all right in there, Nell?” Feet shuffled on the wooden planks before Nell appeared in the doorway once more. Her eyes were glassy.

Mary pushed herself off the chair. “My God, Nell. Is the baby all right?” “Please don’t hurt him,” Nell said as she blocked the door. Her eyes were frantic, and her lips trembled when she spoke. “Hurt him? What are you talking about?” “Please don’t hurt my baby.” Just as Mary crossed the room, a cramp besieged her. She leaned to one side and paused for a moment until it subsided before continuing to the girl. “Nell, I’m not sure what’s going on, but I would never hurt your baby—or any baby, for that matter. I don’t know where you’d get such an idea.” Mary’s voice was low and calm. “Nell, please tell me what’s going on.” The baby coughed again. “Check on him,” Mary commanded. Nell let go of the door frame. Mary stayed put and didn’t go in. There were soft rustling sounds, then cooing, before the baby gasped and let out a bawl. Mary hesitated, though every instinct was pushing her into the room. Nell returned moments later. Her cheeks flushed as she stammered, “He’s settled.” Mary moved to the table. Hesitantly, Nell followed her, keeping her eyes on Mary. She bit her bottom lip, and her hand trembled as she reached for the chair. “Nell, are you afraid of me?” Nell nodded and cast her head downward as her cheeks flushed once more. “Why?” Nell sat and pushed the chair back from the table. She stared at Mary. “You know,” Nell said. Her trembling voice was almost a whisper. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.” Mary’s tone was soft as she reached toward the young

woman and laid her hand on her arm. Nell flinched, and Mary pulled away. “I can’t say it.” Nell glanced toward the darkened room door and then at Mary. “I can’t say it.” “Can’t say what?” Nell made the sign of the Cross and blurted out, “People say you’re the Poison Witch.” “The what?” Mary straightened in her chair. “Poison Witch,” Nell said, her tone a little more subdued. Pain vibrated across Mary’s belly. She winced and scrunched her face into a grimace. She rubbed her stomach for relief. “The baby is very active.” “Is this your first?” “No. This is our third, and Peter has a son from his first marriage.” Nell nodded. Mary waited for her to say something. “Nell, please tell me what’s going on,” she repeated, her tone gentle and coaxing. “I’m sorry.” Nell buried her face in her hands. “Tommy will kill me for this.” “Nell, look at me,” Mary commanded. “Nell, please look at me.” The girl met Mary’s gaze. “I will not hurt your baby. I’m a doctor. I try to save lives, not destroy them. Now, why would you think I’d harm your little boy?” “Are you the Poison Witch?” Nell made the sign of the Cross once more as the words left her lips. “As I mentioned, I don’t know what that is. So, no, I’m not this Poison Witch

that you think I am. Where would you get such a notion? What is it, anyway?” “There’s been talk . . . since you were in Beckford last fall. The triplets died.” “Yes, that was sad.” Mary’s eyes centred on a spot above the door as she recalled that visit. She closed her eyes and ed her hands together, massaging one thumb over the other as she spoke. “Peter worked on the children while I tended to the mother. We managed to save her, but we had gotten there after the babies were born. They were in a box on the oven door, already a few hours old. They were so tiny, almost unrecognizable.” Her voice trailed off, and a single tear escaped. She wiped it away before continuing. “If we had known about Caroline sooner . . .” Her voice trailed off again, and she rested her forehead on her hands. Straightening in the chair again, she looked at Nell. She took a moment to compose herself before she spoke again, her words confident now. “If we had gotten there in time, we might have delayed the birth. It’s hard to save them when they come months too soon.” The heavy silence was broken by the snap of the logs in the fire. Nell leaned forward, hesitated, then reached for Mary’s arm. She patted Mary’s sleeve, then left her hand there. A sheepish smile crossed her face. “I should’ve listened to Tommy instead of letting my fear get the better of me.” “It’s okay, Nell. That’s the worry that comes with motherhood.” Mary laid her hand over Nell’s. “Please forgive me for thinking the worst.” “Nothing to forgive, but I need to know what’s going on. I can’t have people thinking this of me.” “I’ll tell you what I know.”

24

The baby had another fit of coughing, and this time Nell allowed Mary to examine him. She rubbed vapour cream on his chest to relieve the congestion, and Nell put him to sleep with a full belly. “We’re plain and ordinary people, Nell. Simple as that. Now, come sit. I want to know about the Sampsons.” Nell shook her head, and tears welled in her eyes. “It’s all so sad. Poor Mary Sampson. I don’t know how she’s going to get over this. Tommy says that John cries in the shed so she won’t see him. The menfolk find it hard, too, when they can’t do nothing for them.” “The telegram said the boys went out just before New Year’s and haven’t been seen since.” “That’s right. Rabbit hunting, they were. Set the snares on Christmas Eve and left to haul them on the twenty-seventh. Not a sign of them after that morning.” “They have other children?” “Yes, and the one she’s expecting any day. Six months along when she got the news.” “So, I understand there was a search.” “When the boys didn’t come home that day, every man and boy who could carry a gun was in that woods. They used up their winter shot that night. Tommy got back here just before daylight. Same as every man. They changed their clothes and went again until dark the next day. Not a trace was seen of Bernard, nor Michael.” “That is terrible,” Mary said. “Folks say the fairies took them. Seems so. But the men have been going again.

Tommy would be gone today but for expecting you.” “He should have gone. The search is more important. Perhaps Peter and Danol and the crew can the men tomorrow.” “I’m sure they’d be grateful,” Nell said. Mary sipped her tea while Nell spoke in detail of the search. Mary didn’t know the area, but it was obviously important for Nell to relay Tommy’s role to her. “Why did Tommy send for me?” “Mary Sampson insisted.” “Has she needed help before?” “Molly has attended before. Mary wouldn’t say why this time. Maybe she doesn’t feel right carrying the child with such sadness surrounding her. Maybe she doesn’t want to take the chance of losing another.” Mary felt a stitch in her side and fidgeted in her chair. She rubbed her hand along her belly. “Pardon my boldness,” said Nell, “but by the looks of you, you could be having your own any day. Did that bother you?” “My husband will stay with me. I’ll be fine. I couldn’t stay home under the circumstances.” “Mary will be grateful for all you’re doing,” Nell said. She got up to tend to the soup. The low thump of footsteps outside was followed by a gust of wintry air as the men returned. When Danol heard of the search, he assured Tommy the boat’s crew would stay for a few days. Tommy insisted that Mary and Peter stay with them, where it would be more comfortable. It would be warmer at their house than on the boat. Later that night, Mary fidgeted next to Peter.

“What’s wrong?” “I can’t seem to lie right.” “There’s something else. I knew by your eyes this evening.” Peter moved his arm, and she laid her head on his shoulder. She rocked to and fro until she was comfortable enough that she thought she might be able to get some sleep. Mary stared up at him in the dim light of the oil lamp. “Have you ever heard of the Poison Witch?” “The Poison Witch?” Peter repeated it several times, contemplatively. “Yes, I recall something about it. From where, I’m not sure.” His eyebrows furrowed and then released. “Yes. I heard about it in Trinity a few years ago. What would make you bring that up? An old wives’ tale, I believe.” “I hadn’t heard of it until today. Nell asked me if I was the Poison Witch.” “What?” Peter turned so he could see her face. “What did you say?” “Nell asked me, you know, if I was it—or should I say, she.” “I don’t know what to say.” “But you know what it is, right?” “I know what I heard from a man who thought he was dying. What did Nell tell you?” They compared stories. “This could be the end of me as a doctor.” “Now, Mary, I think you’re getting carried away.” “I don’t think so. If women are afraid to bring their babies to me or let me see them, then what I wanted to do is for naught.” “I know you, Mary. It will be all right.”

“Yes, you know me. But Nell didn’t, and she believed it, despite Tommy telling her differently. I’m worried, Peter. I’m really worried.” “That’s all the stress of travelling today. Sleep on it here in my arms. Things will look better in the light of day.” “I pray you’re right.” Peter lay sleepless for a long time afterward.

25

Peter led Mary through the frozen footpath to the home of Mary and John Sampson. Danol and the crew were out with the men searching the pond that had recently shed its icy bodice for open water. The grim sojourn was willingly accepted by the men of the Angel Endeavours. None could imagine themselves being in the boots of John Sampson. “We’ll stay on until it’s over,” Danol said that morning. “The men, all in agreement, said they’d give up their wages to the family. We have a fine crew.” “Indeed we do,” Mary said. Mary hadn’t slept well. Pains were becoming regular every hour or so. She didn’t know how long she could keep it from Peter. She didn’t want him to worry. He had been opposed to her coming, and she didn’t want to it that this was exactly why. Mary held out hope that it would if she rested, but she couldn’t do that until she met Mary Sampson. They were welcomed into a warm kitchen. The smell of fresh bread hung in the air. Mrs. Sampson had been in bed for over a week, about the same time as the search had resumed. Her niece, Ada, was keeping house and making sure she ate. Mary and Peter were ushered to the woman’s bedside, where they made their introductions. The woman’s long brown hair was a tangled mass across the pillows. Her skin was sallow, her eyes sunken. Peter felt her forehead and shook his head. There was no fever. She looked from one to the other as they bent over her from either side of the bed. Her eyes went to Mary’s belly as she straightened. She reached out and touched Mary’s stomach, then felt her own. Mary sat beside the bed while Peter examined Mrs. Sampson across from her. Mary cringed as a pain overtook her, but she swallowed hard and turned her face so Peter wouldn’t see. She counted in her head until the pain subsided, then turned to the woman.

Peter was thorough. “The baby is ready. It could be any time now.” “Mrs. Sampson, you must eat and keep up your strength,” Mary instructed her. Mrs. Sampson’s big eyes focused on Mary. She stared for a few moments, and then she wept. Big hearty sobs escaped her. With great effort, she turned toward Mary. Mary reached for her hands. “Did you come for this one?” “Mrs. Sampson, I came because you wanted me here,” Mary said. “I’m not sure why. As you can see, I’m not really in a state for travelling.” The patient glanced over her shoulder at Peter. Mary locked eyes with him. “I’ll go get you some soup,” he said. Mrs. Sampson followed his movements with her eyes. Once he left the room, she pulled Mary close. “Do you know if my boys are gone? Do you know where they are?” “How would I know that?” Mary’s words were soft and soothing as she patted the woman’s hand and brushed the hair from her face. “If this baby dies, I want you to take me, too.” Mrs. Sampson’s eyes were frantic. “You hear me? I give you permission. I can’t lose three.” “Mrs. Sampson, my husband and I will do all we can to make sure both you and the baby are healthy. You have my word on that.” “If the baby dies, take me, too.” “Mrs. Sampson, I can’t say I know what you’re going through. I’d be out of my mind with worry, as I’m sure you are. But that’s enough of this talk. We are not going to let anything happen to either of you.” “My boys are gone. I can feel it. They say the fairies took them. But I don’t think it was the fairies. I’d know.” The patient wept once more and drew her knees upward as if to shrink into the mattress.

“You have to stop this, Mrs. Sampson. For the sake of this baby you have right here. You have to stop this.” “My boys are gone.” Mary rubbed the woman’s arm. “I wish there were something I could say or do that could help that pain. You have to find the strength to carry on. For the sake of this little one you carry. He or she needs a chance that only you can give. You have the other children to think of, too.” Mary hummed and comforted Mrs. Sampson as she wept. She stared at Mary as her body heaved with sobs that were pained and raw. “Are you going to keep the baby safe?” Mrs. Sampson asked. “I’m going to do my best. So will Peter.” The patient nodded and reached for Mary once more. “Please promise me that if anything happens, you’ll take me, too.” She locked eyes with Mary and said in a hoarse whisper, “Take me to where they are.” “Mrs. Sampson, I’m not sure what idea you have of me, but I can assure you that I take no one. I save who I can, and I weep for those I can’t.” Mary’s nostrils flared. She crossed her arms and rested them on her baby. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave. It was a mistake coming here.” Mary positioned herself to get up, but Mrs. Sampson called after her. “Please don’t go!” Mary turned toward the woman. “I’ll have no more of that talk.” Mrs. Sampson nodded. “I’m sorry. You must understand that I’m not in my right mind.” “You need to get out of this bed, that’s all. I’ll get Peter to help you up. Ada can wash you, if you want. You’ll feel better then. I know nothing will take away the other pain, but what would your boys think if they came home today?”

“They’re not coming home. I know that. I just can’t accept it.” “I want you and this little one to have every chance you can. You would both do better if you get up.” Mary grimaced as another pain overtook her, and Mrs. Sampson stared at her. “You should have your husband look to you.” “I’m all right. I just need rest.” Mary called to Ada for help. Peter peeked in around the door, but Mary waved for him to go back to the kitchen. “He’s making a broth,” Ada remarked. “I can’t imagine any man cooking for me.” “Maybe you should,” Mary said under her breath. She caught a look from Mrs. Sampson that said she sided with Ada. “Peter’s a fine cook,” she said simply. Ada helped Mary Sampson put her hair in a bun and don a loose frock that covered her head to toe. Before too long, the woman was sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of soup in front of her. After some coaxing, she finished it off and ate a slice of bread besides. Peter went outside to see if there was news from the men. “You got a good man there,” Mrs. Sampson said. “I have a good man, too. He’s been worried about me. I’ve been selfish hiding away in there. It didn’t change anything for me, nor for my boys, but it did for John.” “I’m sure he’s worried about you. He’ll be happy to see you up.” “I’m sorry for what I said. I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s a sin against God for me to even have such a thought and for me to ask you such a thing.” “I understand, Mrs. Sampson.” “Mary, please.”

“I understand, Mary. You have a world of worry to carry. Don’t let me add to it.” Mrs. Sampson nodded, her face pinched from an ache that Mary hoped to never feel. “We’ll stay on until after the baby is born. It shouldn’t be more than a week or so.” “You look after yourself. I don’t want to have anything else on my conscience for bringing you here.” Mary nodded. She grimaced when another pain overtook her. “Ada, get Peter for me, please.”

26

Mary Nolan heaved forward, her face twisted and pinched, and pushed as Peter coaxed her on. Nell wiped the perspiration from her brow and smoothed the damp hair from her eyes. Wave after wave of pain overtook her. She clenched her jaw as Peter held her hands to her and so she could have something to hang on to. “That’s it, Mary. You are almost there.” Mary screamed from deep in her throat and fell back on the pillows as the spasm ebbed. Before she could catch her breath, another pain came, she pushed forward again, and she felt the exchange of baby for the fleeting air of emptiness. Exhausted, she let herself collapse into the bedding and cried out. Moments later, her pain forgotten, she looked on anxiously as Peter worked on their baby. Then the infant cried. Tears streamed down Mary’s cheeks as she reached for their child. She trusted her husband with the life they’d made, but she was anxious to hold the infant close. “He’s beautiful, Mary.” Her husband patted and squeezed her ankle. “He’s perfect.” She smiled broadly. “It’s a boy. A son, Peter. A son.” “He’s almost ready,” Peter said as he cleaned him, wrapped him, and brought him to rest on Mary’s bosom. He kissed Mary’s temple with tenderness. “Thank you.” Her grin was the full of her flushed face. “We’ll call him David.” “After your father,” Peter said with a nod. “What about your brother? Did you want him named for his sake?” Mary nuzzled her baby. “David Edward. You like that, don’t you?” she said to the little

one. Peter kissed her temple again. “I won’t argue with you. Now we have a few more things to attend to.” He handed the baby to Nell, and once the birthing was finished, the bed freshened, and her clothes changed, he placed the baby in Mary’s arms once again. “Oh, Peter, I can’t believe he’s here. You’re not mad, are you?” “Mad? I was. Why didn’t you say anything?” Mary shrugged and lowered her eyes behind wisps of hair. “You know why. You’ll say I’m stubborn, and I know I am.” “Now that he’s here, how could I be mad? We have a son.” “I was hoping the pains would go away once I rested. Honest. If I didn’t think that, I would have told you.” “Stubborn woman,” Peter said with a grin. She snickered. “I know. I said it first.” “I hope you weren’t in pain before we left.” “No, Peter,” she snapped. She glared at him. He gave a hesitant nod and looked away. Then her tone softened. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have come. It happened here, like you suspected. I should have listened to you.” Peter chuckled. “Those are pretty bold words, Mary Nolan.” “Enjoy them. You won’t hear them again.” Mary smiled widely before lowering her gaze to the baby. “Things will be different now that this little fellow is here.” “Promise me you’ll stay in bed.” She rocked the child gently in her arms. “I promise.” Peter caressed her hair as he sat beside her. “You’ve made me a happy man.” “I thought I did that when I married you. Or when we had Petie, or when we got

Catherine,” Mary quipped. “I thought you did, too. But each time is different. He’s ours, Mary. I love you more today than I did the day you married me or any day since.” He gently touched her hair again and tucked a loose strand behind her ear. “You were never more beautiful than you are right here, right now.” He eased her toward him and hugged her while he moved the blanket on his son’s face. “David Edward. Are you sure?” “Da would be happy. Da would be more than happy.” She leaned her head against his chest. “I’m a happy woman, Peter.” There was a commotion in the kitchen before Nell burst through the door. “Mary Sampson’s in trouble. Can you come?” Peter could see Mary wanted to react, but he gave her a stern look. “Rest,” he commanded. “I will.”

“It’s a boy, John. A healthy baby boy. Mary is asking for you.” “Thank you, Peter, for all you’ve done for my Mary.” John’s voice had a catch when he spoke. “She did all the work.” “You’re sure they are both in good health?” Peter nodded. “We’ll stay on for another few days, but there shouldn’t be any trouble. We’ll take care of your missus and your son.” John Sampson doubled over as if gut-punched and sobbed like a child. Peter clapped him on the back. “It’s a trying time for you, John. I can’t imagine being in your place. My own son just born—I can’t imagine.” Peter shook his head and stared at a strand of hay that hung from the beams in the barn.

They were silent for a short while as each contemplated his fate. John, two sons gone and another one born this night. How could he be happy? How could he be sad? Peter couldn’t fathom what the man must be going through. He, a stranger who’d be gone in a few days, would stay here and let the man, the father, do what was probably foreign to him—share his grief. Peter was sympathetic to the man’s earnest struggle. John composed himself in the dim light of the barn. He stood near Peter with only the chewing sounds from the mare breaking the quiet. “Mary would like to see you. When you’re ready.” “She blames me, you know.” “Blames you?” “Yes. I shouldn’t have let them go. Bernard only eleven, and Michael, eight. They were too young to be in the woods.” “John, how old were you when you went snaring rabbits on your own?” “I suppose I was ten or so.” “What about the rest of the boys around here?” “I know what you’re getting at. But by God, where could they be? We searched for two days when they went missing. Then the storm came and snowed everything in. I just want to bring them home to Mary.” “There’s still a little more of the pond that needs to be searched, from what I’ve been told. I know the talk was that they may have drowned there.” John gasped. “As bad as it sounds, I hope to God that is what happened.” “But that’s not what you’re thinking?” “Somebody took them. Although that might be my wishful mind. At least if they were taken, they’d make it home someday. I know my boys. They wouldn’t stop until they got home. Maybe that’s what happened. They got lost, got turned around somehow, and wandered farther and farther away. I’m going out of my

mind. They’d been on the same rabbit trail that I used as a boy. Hell, I taught them the way. They’d made a couple of dozen trips by themselves already this winter. The day was nice. The path was beaten. I just don’t understand.” John sighed and put his face in his hands. “I won’t be teaching the next ones that trail. They’ll be staying home from now on. Did you know people are saying the fairies took them? The bloody fairies. Such nonsense, but the missus believes it. She says it’s better than thinking they’re cold, or hungry, or scared.” “I heard that, too, John.” “Nonsense. Calling you here, risking your wife. Same thing. She thought your missus was some sort of witch.” John’s eyes flicked to Peter. “Sorry for suggesting that. We couldn’t convince her otherwise. Look how that almost turned out for you. Your woman coming here when she so near to borning.” “No harm done. Mary is perfectly fine.” “You should be home.” “Don’t blame yourself for that. Mary was coming, and that was that.” “Yes, but my Mary shouldn’t have asked her.” “We have no regrets coming. We are happy to have helped with the search. Danol Cooper and the crew will stay as long as they can.” “Don’t get me wrong, we appreciate the extra hands. I’m just saying—” Peter cut him off. “Don’t you add that to your worries. We’re here, and that’s that. The two Marys are okay, and there is new life in the community. Though your boys may be gone and can’t be replaced, you have a new son to think of now. Your wife needs you, too.” They stood in silence for a little longer before Peter suggested John go meet his child. A week later, they said goodbye to Tommy, Nell, the Sampsons, and their new son, Richard. It was bittersweet. Round Pond had been searched thoroughly, as had the trail and surrounding area. A few places where drifts had gathered over

the winter were shovelled out, but no trace was found. With no sign of the two missing children, John Sampson decided they had done all they could do. The community had to get on with living.

27

Present day, June 2021

“I need a break from reading. These journals are hard this morning,” Darlene said as she shifted the kettle on the stove. “Do you want a cup of tea, Aunt Ammie?” “Sure, I’ll you.” “I’m just past the part where David was born. Mary was tough. Tougher than I think I’d have been. I think maybe you had to be tough back then to make it. Not just as a woman, but just to make it. And as a woman. And Peter’s struggling with that and all,” Darlene said over her shoulder to Tiffany. “He’s having a hard time with the . . . the non-traditional nature of the way they both lived, I guess you’d say.” Tiffany shook her head. “There’s men, even today, who wouldn’t be able to handle a woman who was their equal, let alone if they thought their better,” Ammie said, speaking with the conviction of someone who had met at least one such man before. “He was a hundred years ahead of his time in a lot of ways. They both were. Like they were plucked from today and put back there, more modern than they would ever know. They influenced me as a young girl, that’s for sure. Poor Charlie, God rest him, he took on something when he took on me, what with my being so close to them.” Ammie’s smile and the faraway look in her eyes spoke of love and loss. Sounds of tea-making and the clock ticking on the wall filled the room. “I was saddened to learn about the Sampsons in Fox Harbour,” Darlene said quickly as she laid a cup of tea in front of Ammie.

“What about them?” Tiffany asked. “There was a family in Fox Harbour who had two children just . . . disappear. They were just gone.” Tiffany shook her head. “I don’t believe that. Kids don’t just . . . vanish. Into nowhere?” She looked at the faces in the room. “That can’t be real.” “Indeed it was back then,” said Ammie. “Very sad affair.” “Never found them?” Tiffany asked as she leaned forward and put her elbows on the table, attentive to Ammie. “The poor parents went to their graves not knowing. It’s bad enough that two of mine are over in the graveyard. But at least I know where they are. I can’t imagine not knowing.” She tut-tutted and gave her head a gentle shake as she closed her eyes. Tiffany reached over and patted the woman’s hand. “I’m sorry, Aunt Ammie. We shouldn’t be making you sad.” Ammie turned her palms up and held Tiffany’s hands. “I’m just reminiscing. Besides, though the parents weren’t alive to know, the rest of the family found out after some forty years what happened to them.” “Forty years? How?” “Somebody who hailed from Fox Harbour called a priest to his deathbed and confessed to murdering them.” Tiffany gasped. “He lived there among them?” “No, child. This confession happened in Boston.” “In Boston? No way.” “Coward,” Ammie spat, her eyes dark. “He left home and moved there. Not uncommon back then.” “Mom, I want to read about that.”

“I can bring you there tomorrow if you want to see the storyboard erected in their memory,” Stephen said, a hint of excitement in his voice. “Fox Harbour’s about an hour from here.” Over tea, they chatted about the journals before Tiffany and Stephen left in a sudden flurry, intent on getting through the relevant reading before the adventure the next day. Ammie returned to her rocking chair while Darlene washed the dishes and placed them in the cupboard. When she was done, she perched on the daybed in the quiet of the kitchen. She smiled lovingly at Ammie, her own faraway look mirroring that of the old woman moments before. “You’re thinking about your mother?” Darlene’s shoulders dropped as she pulled her feet up under her on the daybed and a wave of sadness washed over her. She stared at her hands and concentrated on the ticking clock, waiting for her emotions to level out. She didn’t hear Ammie approach until the woman put an arm around her. Ammie handed her a tissue as she settled herself on the cushion beside Darlene. “I’m sorry, Aunt Ammie.” “For what?” Ammie asked gruffly as she pulled Darlene to her. Darlene resisted for a moment before leaning stiffly on Ammie’s shoulder. She relaxed for just a moment, then pulled herself upright again. “I guess I was thinking about Mom, about the triplets, about Mrs. Sampson, about you burying your children. Having some place to go, having no place to go. I just want to be at peace with any decision about her. I want to know I did the right thing.” “A small torment can become a heavy load,” Ammie said. “Did she—what do they say now—express any wishes?” “She didn’t have time. Mom was perfectly healthy, excited about coming here, and then . . . she was gone. I still don’t believe it. We didn’t say goodbye. That’s the hardest part.” “Well, maybe that’s your answer. You need a goodbye.” “But I couldn’t do that.” Darlene sniffled and blew her nose. “I don’t want to do

that,” she said flatly. “You couldn’t do any of this alone,” Ammie said. “Now you don’t have to.” “I can’t put a stranger’s loss on you.” “You’re not a stranger. It is your loss and Tiffany’s loss. You’re family.” “We’re already here, living off your kindness. I won’t add a burden.” “Stop this burden nonsense.” “I can’t help it,” Darlene said. “We are all going to the boil-up this Sunday. There’s room in John’s Pond for a few ashes. We can give your mother a family send-off. There’s room in the family plot, too.” Ammie rubbed her hand across Darlene’s shoulders. “That way we know you have to come back.” “Oh, Aunt Ammie.” Darlene embraced her. “It’s a lot to think about and a lot to impose.” “Stop that imposition nonsense, too. Think about it. If not this weekend, we can do it before you both leave. Darlene, in the end it is up to you. We’ll do whatever you want and when you want it.” “I’d like to have the mystery of who we are resolved before I make a final commitment. Just for Mom’s sake.” “Well, you better get to reading,” Ammie said with a chuckle. She pushed Darlene to her feet and reached for her hand. “Now help this old woman get back to her rocker.”

28

Newfoundland, 1900

“Who left that game out?” Mary asked as she laid her medical bag on the bench nearest the stove. “You’re too soft on that child, Peter.” Peter smiled. “How was the delivery?” “There was no talk of that other foolishness, if that’s what you mean.” She pressed her lips together and avoided his eyes. He lightly kissed the side of her head. “I know how much that bothers you.” “Imelda will be up and around by tomorrow morning, if I know her. Healthy little boy to add to their family.” “I’m sure you warned her otherwise.” Peter retrieved the plates from the oven and set a place for them both at the far end of the table. She took off her coat and washed her hands, calling to him over her shoulder. “You should’ve eaten, Peter. You didn’t need to wait for me.” “If you could wait, I could wait,” he said. He gently rubbed her shoulders, and she leaned her head into his forearm. While they ate, they chatted about the delivery, how Ben was loving the fact that it wasn’t a girl. Mary scolded him, of course. With four girls already, he was worried about who would take over the fishing enterprise. “I never heard such foolishness,” Mary laughed. But the reality was she had. More than once. She was finishing her last bite of roast when she nodded toward the board at the

other end of the table. “What’s that all about?” “Petie made me promise that I’d play Sociable Snakes with you when you got home,” said Peter. “He’s got his daddy figured out. You just can’t say no, can you?” “It’s such a simple thing. There’s no need to say no.” “When you look at it that way, I suppose you’re right.” They cleared away after supper, and Peter moved the lamp to the end of the table. There was a square board there covered with etchings marked to 100, criss-crossed with pressed images of snakes and ladders. Mary’s sister Bridie had sent it from Boston a few weeks ago. She wasn’t sure if there was some symbolism in it, even though Bridie was trying her best to remind her of their connection. Eddy and Peter were constantly playing it and looked forward to the rainy days that would pardon them from their work and let them play even more. Mary watched them on occasion, the joy and merriment, but didn’t play. Though Petie was a little young for it, Peter was teaching him the game. Peter was a wonderful father—Mary didn’t have to be concerned about that or whether there was something lacking when she was gone on calls. They sat across from each other at either end of the table. Peter turned the wick on the lamp to give them lots of light. He gave her a quick summary of what the game was about. Mary took the red wooden coin, and Peter the blue. “Ladies first,” he said. “That’s very kind of you. Good thing you’re not Ben Dalton.” Peter laughed. “Mary, if he only heard you.” Mary moved the die between her thumb and fingers. “You know, I wondered if it was a girl, if I would be asked.”

“You are thinking about this too much.” Mary’s hand stilled. “I can’t help it.” “We’ll fix it together. Just not tonight.” “It will be another week or more before Danol returns. He might not even know anything then.” “Come on, now, roll, or are you planning on rubbing the ink off that thing?” Mary grinned, the warmth not reaching her eyes, and rolled the die. “Come on, Mary, you’ll put yourself in an early grave if you don’t stop thinking about this. Let’s just wait and see what he has to say.” “I know you’re right.” “Two,” Peter said. “Impressive.” “Peter Nolan, was that sarcasm? I plan to win this game.” “Over my dead corpse,” he said as he grabbed the die. “If that’s how you want it.” Mary laughed. Her eyes met his, and she smiled. “Oh, now your true colours are coming through and we’ve only just begun,” he said, casting the alabaster cube. “Six, you sculpin. That’s okay, I’ll catch up.” Mary rolled again. “One! Not like that, you won’t,” Peter teased. He rolled two fives and a six to her two threes and a two. Mary’s brow relaxed, and the sparkle returned to her eyes as they played. “I like this,” she said. “Thanks for leaving it out.” “It was all Petie’s doing. He senses something.”

“I’m sure you had nothing to do with it.” Mary groaned when she hit a snake and swatted Peter for sporting too broad of a grin. “This is too easy,” he said. Peter had gotten a ladder at ten, which took him up to tile twenty-four, and another one, two rolls later, which took him to forty-six. He was almost halfway up the board before Mary got off the bottom line. “I believe you’re cheating,” she said. “Who, me? Why, Mrs. Nolan, I am hurt by that charge,” he said too sweetly. She rolled another two and landed on a snake. “Oh, single digits for you again, Mary.” “Now I think you’ve done something with this die,” she said as she turned it over in her hand, inspecting it. “Nonsense. You just don’t like to lose.” “Those are quarrelling words, Mr. Nolan,” she said, her voice rising on the Mr. Nolan for effect. He laughed as he rolled a four and got another ladder. “Why, I love this game,” he said. “Oh, you would, wouldn’t you? Especially when things are going your way. I’ll catch you yet.” “I’m too fast for you, Mary.” Peter squeezed the cube between his palms and blew in between his thumbs before releasing it. He cheered at the five. “Where did you suddenly get all the luck?” Mary gave him an exaggerated frown as she rolled a three. “My luck changed when I married you,” Peter said sweetly. “I swear you did something with this thing, and now you’re trying to distract me.” “Impossible.”

“There is something going on with it,” Mary said as she rolled a four. “Snake again,” Peter announced as he picked up her red chip and counted out the one, two, three, four, with emphasis on each one. Mary made a swat at him and laughed. “You are enjoying beating me too much,” she said. “But the game’s not over yet.” They sparred back and forth until Mary was at tile thirty-six and Peter at ninetyeight. “What are the rules up there? Or are you just going to make them up?” “You can ask Eddy in the morning if you don’t believe me. I have to roll a three or more and I will win.” “That should be easy. I haven’t seen you roll a small one yet.” “That’s a bit of an exaggeration.” “Only a bit,” Mary said with a dramatic sigh. Peter took the die between his palms once more. He carefully rolled it around while he stared at her. The click of the alabaster on his wedding band was loud against the silence. “You’re going to rub the spots of it,” Mary said. He grinned widely as he let it go on the board. The die clicked and hopped as they stared intently. One. Mary hooted and grabbed his blue chip. She moved him ahead one, to the mouth of the snake, then carefully, and with great pleasure, slid the chip down over every twist and turn of the serpent until it reached its destination. “Not grinning now, are you, Mr. Nolan? The snake has you in its fangs,” Mary said as she tapped tile number forty-three several times.

“You enjoyed that a bit too much,” Peter accused her. Mary grinned. She stared at him for a moment, then her eyes clouded, and she bit her bottom lip. “There’s a lesson in that for you, Peter.” “And what might that be, my dear Mary?” “When you think you are winning, the biggest price might yet be paid.” Peter stared at her before handing her the die. His hand lingered on hers. “That is very extreme for a game of Sociable Snakes,” he said. “The purpose of this game was to get your mind off those bothersome thoughts and have some fun. You see, Mary, I can’t lose. I have you.” “Peter, I worry that you wouldn’t know a snake if it bit you.” “You worry too much.” He leaned over and kissed her lips, softly. “We are in this together.” She leaned into his embrace. Their eyes met and held. She felt heat rise in her face. “Peter Nolan, don’t you be trying to distract me. I plan on winning this game,” she said as she gently pushed him away. “Well, you’d better get to rolling something bigger, Mary, my dear. At your pace, we’ll be here all night.” Mary rolled a six. “My luck is about to change,” she teased.

29

“Danol’s coming,” Peter said as he pushed back the curtain. Mary laid the baby in the cradle and ed Peter at the door. Peter’s arm went around her waist as Danol came in. She moved out of Peter’s embrace and hugged Danol. Peter shook his hand while Danol still held Mary. “Danol,” he said with a nod. “Peter.” Danol nodded over Mary’s shoulder and smiled. “It’s good to see you. Where’s my little godchild?” Mary took his coat, and Danol strode across the floor to the cradle. He smiled at the boy. “He’s getting so big.” “Yes, he sure is,” Peter said. “Tea or something stronger?” “Tea is fine.” “Mary?” “Yes, for me, too.” They gathered at the table, and after exchanging pleasantries, Mary asked, “So, did you hear anything from Constable Jeffries?” “It was interesting. He said there was some talk from years ago, but nothing that he could say was specific to the Poison Witch. He said he doubted he’d hear anything.” Mary’s smile faded as she listened to Danol. He pulled a newspaper article from his pocket. “I thought this was interesting, though.” He gave Mary the paper.

— Charges dropped — Sarah Perry case ends in nolle prosequi. A special jury convened to hear the case of The King represented by CA Hutchings vs Sarah Perry represented by FJ Morris have been dismissed from their duty. The crown is unwilling to pursue the case. Sarah Perry had been charged with Concealment of Birth. A baby boy was found deceased by one of the Sisters of Mercy on a sick call to the residence. The coroner established the child to be a few hours old. Coroner Wilson determined the death suspicious. However, FJ Morris pleaded the case of Miss Perry, who, at sixteen years old, was living in poverty and squalor, hunger and cold, and he believed this contributed to the child’s death. Mr. Morris went on to berate the wealthy of the city for allowing such conditions to exist. The crown believed they wouldn’t be able to convict the girl and so the Judge CJ Little allowed the plea of nolle prosequi and dismissed the jury.

Mary folded the paper and raised her eyebrows at Danol. “By itself, maybe nothing, but how about these four?” he said as he pulled papers from a box he handed to Peter. “That’s the supplies from the hospital. Dr. Hart sends his regards.” Mary read the other news items. They were all similar to the first, most recent case. “Babies die, Danol.” “Yes, but each time the coroner declared them suspicious and nothing happened.” He moved to Mary’s side while Peter laid the box on the sideboard. “That’s interesting,” Peter said. “The nuns are mentioned, too . . .” His voice trailed off. “Peter Nolan!” Mary exclaimed loudly and sent the dishcloth flying his way. “Well, he is right,” Danol said.

“Danol. The nuns. Really?” “Yes, Mary, really.” She read the articles again. “The nuns. What would your wife, Erith, say about this?” “I haven’t mentioned it,” Danol said. “She did spend a lot of time there.” “Yes, she’d still be in with the older ones. They might know something.” “I can ask her. I know the Sisters were good to her and helped her keep the children. She won’t say anything against them.” “I don’t want her to,” said Mary. “I don’t believe it, myself. But if they were there when the babies were found, they might know something.” “I’ll talk to her tonight, and we’ll come over tomorrow. Now, speaking of Erith, I’ve got to get home to my lovely wife. If you’ll excuse me.” Peter shook Danol’s hand as he was leaving. “Thanks for the package, too.” “All in the line of work, Peter.” Mary laid the articles side by side on the table. “Not front-page news, by the look of the size of them,” she remarked. “The babies aren’t worth the ink, I guess. Not exciting enough for folks.” “Let’s wait to see what Erith says. That might lead us somewhere.” Peter took the box to the pantry and stocked the supplies on the shelf. At the bottom was a small package of pipe tobacco. He grinned, looked behind him to make sure Mary wasn’t looking, and stuffed it in his pocket. David fussed and Mary’s skirts rustled before soft cooing sounds came from the other room, followed by her footfalls on the stairs. Peter took the tobacco from his pocket and tossed it from hand to hand before shoving it back in hiding again. He eyed the top of the stairs and lifted the damper, making as if to chuck the package in the flames. Instead, he fingered it one last time, then shoved it in his pocket and replaced the damper.

“That was a heavy sigh,” Mary said. He twitched and turned toward her. “Just thinking about all this business.” “Exactly what you told me not to do.” Mary grinned and reached for his hand. “Is there something else?” “No.” Mary was keen, he’d give her that. “No, darling. Nothing at all.”

“I heard from Sister Mary Clement just the other day,” Erith said. “You know the rumour about me, right?” “Yes, Danol told me.” Erith jostled in the chair before taking a sip of tea. “Mary, Danol told me about the articles from the Evening Telegram. I won’t believe that the Sisters had anything to do with it. At least not the ones I know. Even the ones I don’t. I just won’t.” Mary patted her hand. “I’m not asking you to, Erith. But I’d like to know their thoughts on what is happening. Do you think it would be a good idea for me to speak to Sister Clement?” “Danol is going to St. John’s in a few days. I can go, if you like.” “How about we both go?”

30

“Erith, my dear, it is truly good to see you. And you looking so well.” “Ah, Sister Clement, it’s good to see you, too.” Erith embraced the nun. “This is my friend Mary. I’m not sure if you her.” “Yes, the doctor. Welcome, Mary.” Sister Mary Clement nodded. “Thank you, Sister.” “Where are the children?” “They didn’t make this trip.” “Oh, the little dears. What about the others? They must be so big now.” “George is almost a man. He’s out working with Danol. Tommy is talking about college, and Annie is just Annie.” “Where has the time gone? Goodness me, I’m getting old.” The nun laughed and guided them into the parlour of St. Michael’s Convent. “Sister Francis will bring tea.” Once they were settled and the tea poured, Erith said, “I’m afraid we are here under unfortunate circumstances. We were hoping you could help us.” “Oh dear, this sounds serious.” “It is.” Erith nodded to Mary. “Sister have you ever heard of the Poison Witch?” Mary asked. The nun’s cup halted halfway to her mouth. Her eyes bulged, and she laid the cup on the saucer. Her hand trembled, spilling some tea.

“I take that as a yes.” The nun got up and closed the parlour room door before returning to her seat. “I have. But just rumours, mind you.” “Folks around the bays think I’m the Poison Witch. I scarce have any idea of what it is. But babies are dying, and we are losing mothers, because women are becoming afraid of me.” Mary clenched her jaw and swallowed hard, blinking to clear the blur of tears that were threatening. “I don’t know what to do.” “Oh dear,” Sister Mary Clement said. “I’m very sorry.” “Sister, I want to rectify it. I want to find who is doing this so I can do what I trained to do, what I want to do.” “How do you think I can help you?” “There was a case recently, a young girl. It was in the papers.” “Sarah Perry?” “Yes.” “What do you want to know?” “What happened?” “Poor girl was a child, herself. She had the baby, and her mother sent for us. Sister Francis and Sister Xavier went. There were deplorable conditions. Poor Sarah was near death, and the baby took its last breath soon after they got there. The mother was ranting and raving about not looking after the child. Sarah looked like she’d been beaten. Poor thing was so thin. “Sister Xavier did all she could for the baby. They sent the mother to fetch me, and I called for the constables, since the baby was dead when I got there.” “Could somebody have killed the baby?” “I don’t think so. I’ve been around enough births to know. The poor baby came out starving. All I had to do was look at the mother.”

“Why did the coroner call it a suspicious death?” “I don’t know. I thought it was a waste of time, myself. It went to court. A jury was sworn in. As far as I could tell, it was the same jury from a couple of similar cases before. I recognized some of the parishioners.” “What do you mean by the cases before?” “Same as this one. The baby died just after birth, and the mother was charged. It went to court, but nothing happened. The judge heard all the witnesses, who were mostly just the family and us. That was why Sister Xavier called for me. She figured it would go to court again.” “Do you find this odd?” Mary asked, leaning forward, her hands folded and resting on her knees. “Yes. The court piece began to transpire about two, maybe three years ago. Then whisperings of a Poison Witch taking the babies started to surface. People say the unwanted ones are dying at the hands of the Witch. “We get called more often now because people think we can fend off the Witch. But in cases like Sarah Perry’s, where the babies are perhaps not wanted, at least by the family, we get called too late to do anything. So, like you, Mary, we too are feeling the effects of this so-called Witch.” Mary shook her head and pushed herself back on the chair. “This is so incredible. Why do people believe in this Witch? Do you believe there is such a thing?” “It doesn’t matter what I believe. The people believe it.” “I’m sorry, Sister, I have to ask. Do you think either one of the other Sisters could have anything to do with it?” Sister Mary Clement gasped and made the sign of the Cross before she spoke. “None of the girls here have anything to do with this. They are just as concerned as I am.” “I’m sorry. I know they are. I don’t believe it, either, but I had to ask. Do you know if the convents anywhere else have heard of this terrible Witch?”

“I haven’t heard, but I can send out requests to find out.” “Thank you, Sister. I would appreciate that. I’m sorry if I upset you.” “That’s all right, dear. I know you’re worried. If you don’t mind, that’s enough of this nasty business.” The nun turned her attention to Erith and asked her about Danol. They chatted for a while. Mary brought her cup to her lips but didn’t drink. She held it to occupy her hands. Sister Francis knocked sometime later and told them their wagon was outside. Mary stood first and waited as Erith hugged the nun. “I hope you can bring the children with you next visit.” “I promise,” Erith said. “Thank you for your candour,” Mary said. “Again, I’d like to apologize.” Sister Mary Clement reached for Mary’s hands and clasped them in her own. “I’ll send Erith word if I hear any news from the others.” Mary squeezed her hands and stood back, allowing her to lead them out. Erith hugged Sister Mary Clement once again when they reached the door. The pair rode the carriage to the Angel Endeavours in silence.

31

“Well, if it isn’t Peter Nolan,” Loretta Hart said. “It’s good to see you. Abe will be anxious to see you.” “Oh, Loretta, it is so nice to see you so well.” Peter gave her a hug. Loretta invited him in and went to find her husband. “Dr. Hart.” The men shook hands. “Call me Abe. You are not at the hospital now. No need for those formalities.” “Good to see you, Abe.” “This is an unexpected visit.” “My wife is tending to some personal business, and I thought I’d drop in.” “You got my package, I assume.” “Yes. I thank you for that.” “That tobacco is all the way from Jamaica. Part of my personal stash,” Abe said in a loud whisper with his hand to the side of his cheek, as if that would keep Loretta from hearing him. “I appreciate the sentiment and the quality,” Peter said with a smile in a similar hushed tone. “I do have a fondness for it.” “Come me for a drink in the study.” Peter followed Abe through the house to the room overlooking the garden. Loretta came to see him, followed by Geraldine. “Geraldine hasn’t married yet,” Loretta said.

“Loretta, Peter’s a married man.” “There is always the possibility. Poor girl was broken-hearted when you up and married that other woman.” “Her name is Mary, and she’s a doctor,” Peter said. He smiled at Loretta. “We’re very happy.” “Where did you meet her? It was awful sudden. Not a whisper of her anywhere.” “We were childhood sweethearts.” “Oh, I see. Too bad for my Geraldine.” “What’s too bad for me, Mother?” “We were just discussing Peter’s bride.” “How is your wife, Peter?” Geraldine asked. “I didn’t get a chance to congratulate you both back then. Though it’s been a few years since you’ve been here.” Peter explained their trips around the tiny outports during the summer and his clinics closer to John’s Pond in the winter. He beamed with pride when he talked about Mary and their children. “You seem very happy,” Geraldine said. “I’m glad for you. I’ll fetch a cup of tea. Mother, do you want one?” “No, dear.” After Geraldine left, Loretta said, “Poor girl, she was devastated after you ran off with that girl. She didn’t come out of her room for months.” “I’m sorry to hear that. I had no idea.” “Of course, you wouldn’t. She’s been smitten with you for quite a while. We were hopeful, as you know.” Peter took the amber liquid offered by Abe and drank it in one belt. He coughed a little at the strength, and Abe’s slight nod and raised eyebrow told him it was

meant to be strong. Abe reached for the glass, made a motion toward the liquor table, and Peter nodded. “That’s enough of that now, Loretta. The boy’s married off. Leave him alone.” “One could always dream,” Loretta said with a sweet smile. When Geraldine returned, she sat near Peter on the couch and sipped her tea. She whispered “I’m sorry” his way, and Peter nodded. “What brings you here today?” Abe asked him. Peter finished the second drink and laid the glass on the small table beside his arm. He was a little lightheaded, unused to alcohol at the best of times. He hadn’t indulged in a drink in years. He blinked to focus. “Have you heard of a Poison Witch from around the hospital or from the nurses there?” Abe laid down his glass and regarded Peter with a grimace. “Poison Witch, you say. Tell me more.” “I don’t know more, I’m afraid. My wife, Mary, is having some trouble with her practice because people think she’s this Witch.” Abe looked from his wife to his daughter and then to Peter. “I can’t say as I have heard the name. Why would you think I’d know?” “I just figured if there was that kind of talk around the hospital, you might have heard something.” Dr. Hart sipped his drink. “I recall a conversation with an older man in Trinity,” Peter went on. “Something about this same sort of thing. But I wasn’t paying attention.” “And you think it’s the same thing?” “Well, he said something about it being years ago, so I very much doubt it’s the same thing. I know it has my wife very worried. People are becoming afraid to

call on her.” Geraldine refilled the men’s drinks. Peter took his glass in hand but didn’t partake. Abe gulped his back. “I guess that means they think there will be a bad end?” “We don’t know for sure, but there is fear. Nobody has died, that we can tell, but we may not hear everything. Our friend is checking with the Constabulary. Mary is over speaking with the nuns.” “The nuns? Why on earth would she be there?” “Our friend gave us some newspaper articles about women being charged with concealing birth, and infanticide, though nothing ever seemed to come of it. The nuns were there for the ones that made the papers. Mary is gone to see what she can learn about it.” “The nuns. I see.” “This all sounds quite far-fetched,” Loretta said. “Who would come up with such a thing?” “There is rarely a lie told that isn’t some stretch of the truth,” Peter said. “So, you think it’s real?” Geraldine asked, her voice a whisper. “I’m not saying that, exactly, but something has happened that has led to the rumours. We are just trying to make sure we know what that something is.” “All this business sounds dreadful, Peter,” Geraldine said. She reached over and squeezed his hand. Peter looked at her, and she pulled away and picked up her cup. “I’d better go fill this again.” “I’d better be going.” Peter laid his glass on the table and stood. “Mary will be on the ship by now. I’ve said too much. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” “Not at all, Peter. You are always welcome here,” Abe said as he stood. “I’ll ask around about this—what did you call it?”

“Poison Witch.” “Yes, that’s it. This Poison Witch.” The fresh air cleared the buzzing from his head. His legs were leaden as he made his way to the docks. Damned liquor. He knew there had been a reason he didn’t drink.

“Any luck?” Peter asked. “No. The nuns had heard about this Witch thing but are very guarded. I’m glad Erith was with me. Where did you go?” Mary asked. She leaned closer and wrinkled her nose. “Peter, is that rum I smell on you?” “I went to visit Dr. Hart to see if he’d heard tell of it. The Jamaican rum he served is powerful stuff.” “So, did he get wind of anything?” “No, not a word.” “Strange,” Mary said.

32

Sister Mary Clement ushered Mary and Erith into the study. She offered tea and cake. After the greetings, Sister Mary Clement introduced Sister Mary Domenic, who had been waiting for them. “Sister Domenic, this is Erith and Mary. I believe Erith was gone when you moved to the Mother House.” “Pleasure,” said Sister Mary Domenic. “As requested, I made some inquiries with the Sisters, and Sister Domenic came forward with some news. Sister Domenic, go ahead.” Sister Mary Domenic flushed beneath her black habit and bowed her head. “Go ahead, Sister. You are among friends here,” Sister Mary Clement urged her. “I hail from Trinity,” the nun said, her voice quiet with a stilted quiver. “My name was Eileen Lockyer before I took my vows.” Mary and Erith leaned on as the nun told her story. “I had just had my fifteenth birthday when I was set upon by some men while I was returning from the store. They were new to the community, claimed to be fishermen, and left shortly after.” She lowered her head and fell silent for a few moments. Erith rose from her chair and went to sit beside her on the chesterfield. “I was just sixteen when it happened to me,” Erith said as she gently squeezed the nun’s hand. Sister Mary Domenic looked at Erith, her eyes wide. She met Erith’s slight nod and held her gaze, searching for an unwelcomed fellowship that deeply scored them both.

“I tried to hide what happened, but my mother saw the marks on my arms. She beat me terribly for flaunting myself to men. And she told me that was what happens to bad girls. She made me stay home for months in shame. A new family moved into the community. The postmistress told my mother they were looking for a girl and suggested that I go over. I was there a few months when I knew the horrible truth. I quit and stayed under my mother’s thumb until the baby was born.” Sister Mary Domenic lowered her head. Her body shook silently. “What happened to the baby?” Erith asked gently. “The baby died. My mother said it was stillborn, but I heard his cries.” Sister Mary Domenic gulped for air and closed her eyes. Her jaw tightened as she grimaced. She brought her head up and looked around the room. “I want you to know the Poison Witch was real. I had seen my mother bring a bottle of some kind of dark liquid home. It wasn’t from the shop—the bottle was tiny and had a little rubber dropper. I didn’t know what it was, but I found it one day when I was wiping down the cupboard. It hadn’t been there earlier that week when I put away the cans she’d bought at the store. “It was just the midwife at the birth. She gave the baby to my mother, who left the room. The midwife said the baby was dead. They buried the little one later that day, coming on dark, out behind the house, just past the potato garden. My mother had already dug the hole. I didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl.” Sister Mary Domenic let out a sob. She leaned her head on Erith’s shoulder and cried until she couldn’t cry any more. Erith consoled her, her own tears flowing. Mary and Sister Mary Clement waited in silence, each one dabbing her eyes. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Erith said when the nun pulled away. “It was a terrible thing.” Sister Mary Domenic nodded and wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I haven’t thought of that dreadful situation in years.” “How did you know it was the Witch?” Mary asked. “I found the little bottle in the trash heap. I heard the whispers. I asked my mother about it, and she slapped me and told me to never speak of it again.”

“What about the midwife?” “She was someone local. I don’t rightly her name. Lol Pinhorn, I believe, or something like that. She had nursing training—I think. Long ago, you understand. I didn’t stay around long. I left Trinity ten days after the baby died. I found my way here to the convent, and I haven’t left since. My parents are dead, at least so I’m told. I didn’t have the kindest upbringing. I’ve been in the convent since I was sixteen. I found my home here and in other places around the island, wherever we are needed.” The nun smiled and nodded at Sister Mary Clement. “The Sisters are my family, the only one I’ve really known.” “I hate to ask this,” Erith said. “I thought my baby dead as well but found her many years later. My stepmother told me she had died.” Sister Mary Domenic gasped. Erith nodded before asking, “Are you convinced the baby died?” “I know it as fact,” she said. “Before I left home, I crept out into the garden in the middle of the night. I dug by the light of the lamp where my mother had gathered a couple of big stones. I found the baby stuffed inside a flour sack. I had a son.” Sister Mary Domenic closed her eyes as she continued. “I wrapped my baby in a white shawl I had knitted the year before. I pulled some hay out from the meadow to soften his resting place. I stayed with him a while, long after the lamp went out, until just after the sun rose.” She opened her eyes and shook her head from side to side. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be telling you this.” “Go ahead, dear,” Mary said. “We’re here to listen.” Erith put her arm around the nun’s shoulder. “When the sun rose, I knew I had to get back before my mother missed me. I gave the baby one last cradling and kissed the shawl before committing him to the ground once again. I called him Michael and circled the clay around him with rocks. I foolishly thought that would keep him safe.” “That’s not foolishness,” Erith said. “Don’t ever think it. Thank you for confiding in us.”

“I didn’t want you dismissing this Poison Witch business. I hadn’t heard of it for a long time, but when Sister Clement asked me, I had to come forward. I’m sure my Michael wasn’t the only one, according to the whispers around Trinity. That was over twenty years ago, though.” “Do you recall anything else about the Witch?” Mary asked. “Back then, there was talk among my friends about this sharp-toothed, longnosed, green creature that scavenged the area looking for wayward girls. I believe their mothers told them that to scare them. But let me be clear, I don’t think there is any such thing. There were harsher things to fear.” Sister Mary Domenic bowed her head once more. “I know it’s a person, but who that person is, I can’t tell you. As I said, I left shortly after, you know . . .” “My husband mentioned being there in ’92, and the talk was that it was gone.” “I didn’t keep in , so I can’t tell you. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’d like to go the chapel for prayer.” Erith hugged Sister Mary Domenic. They thanked her again. “I don’t know if that was any help to you,” Sister Mary Clement said. “Everything is a help,” Mary replied. “As I mentioned before, I don’t think there is anything untoward going on. Not like Sister Domenic just mentioned, anyway. We are out with the poor and teaching the older girls up at St. Bride’s College. I’m sure we would have heard something.” Mary and Erith thanked her and took their leave.

33

Mary grasped the handle on the kettle and moved it to the back of the stove. Her hand rested there as she gathered her thoughts. The chair clattered near the table, and Peter swore under his breath. Mary bit her bottom lip, closed her eyes, and then quickly turned to face her husband. “Peter, you are awful testy lately. Are you feeling all right?” “That’s the fourth time you’ve asked me that today. I’m fine,” he said as he shoved the chair out of his way. “I don’t know. I think there’s something,” she said hesitantly. “Mary, that’s enough. I’d know if I were sick.” His voice rose.“I’m a doctor, after all.” “This is so unlike you, Peter. I’m worried.” “Don’t be. I can take care of myself.” Peter struck the table with the palm of his hand. The oil lamp rattled. “Go to bed, woman, and leave me alone.” “I certainly will,” Mary said. “I don’t know why I’d want to stay up with you in such a foul mood.” Peter grabbed his pipe and stormed out of the house. He sat on the sawhorse and puffed his worries away. Later, he stumbled to bed and turned away from Mary.

His eyes opened, not in fright but perhaps in anticipation of pending doom. Peter couldn’t breathe. He was paralyzed. How did she do it? Surely he would have known. Stop, Peter. Think. She wouldn’t do this. Not Mary. Try to take a breath.

Concentrate. Close your eyes. Breathe. Just inhale. It’s not that hard. Dammit, why wouldn’t his lungs work? His heart was beating—at least he believed it was. Don’t panic. Force yourself to how it’s done. Move your hand. Wake Mary. Move, dammit. From somewhere above the bed, he watched the life seep out of himself. He lay on his back, his eyes open and vacant, while Mary breathed softly beside him. He couldn’t reach her. Then she turned over. Mary, help me. The words went unuttered. They formed in his mind but didn’t escape his lips. Mary leaned on one elbow and looked down at him. A grin formed on her features as her long red hair spilled down around his face. There was a time when he would have lived for that moment. Now he knew. Mary, what have you done? A silent plea. He saw the light of recognition in her eyes, but still his question went unanswered. She nudged his arm, but he couldn’t feel it. He was moving farther away. She pushed him harder. He was gone. Mary stared at him for a few moments, then tossed back the quilt and slid out of the bed. She opened the door and spoke to somebody, motioning them inside. “It’s done,” she said. “He’s dead.” Danol Cooper stepped into the room, and Mary put her arms around him. I should have known, Peter thought. I should have known.

“You’d better be sure,” Danol said. Mary slid in beside him and poked his arm. “Peter.” His name came through a fog. Persistent, then clear. Peter. Peter, wake up. He yelped. “Peter, what’s wrong with you? Wake up.” Peter opened his eyes and stared up at Mary in the pre-dawn gloom. He brushed his hand over his skin where she’d pinched him. Pushing her away, he sat up. “Peter, what are you doing?” Gasping for breath, he put his hands to his throat. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and was reassured by the coolness of the floor beneath his bare feet. Mary tossed aside the quilt and came around the bed to stand in front of him. “Peter, what’s wrong?” But he wouldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at her. She sat on the bed beside him and reached for his hands as his breathing normalized. “Peter, you’re scaring me.” He patted her hand. “Just a dream.” “It must have been some dream,” she said. Brushing the hair away from her eyes, she stared at him. She turned his face around to look at her. “Peter, what aren’t you telling me? This is the second time in as many nights that you’ve woken up like this.” “It’s nothing.” “I don’t believe you. You’ve broken out in a cold sweat. Are you sure you’re not sick?” Mary placed the back of her hand on his forehead and then his cheeks.

He shoved her hands away with more force than he intended. “I’m not sick. This Poison Witch business must be getting to me.” “We’ll figure that out together. Now get into the bed.” She lifted the blanket and helped him get settled. “I’m not a child.” Mary went around the bed and got back in beside him. She burrowed close, buried her head in the crook of his arm, and gently smoothed her hand across his chest. “I know you’re not,” she said with a grin. “I don’t know what’s going on, and I won’t ask again. I love you. That’s all.” Much later, she lay beside him, her even breathing a comfort to his thoughts. He kissed the top of her head and pulled her tighter. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he whispered to the beams in the ceiling.

34

Peter retrieved the pipe from the high shelf and stretched his fingers inward until the tips touched the pouch, then seized it with such force he had to remind himself he was alone and needn’t hurry. He took the tobacco and stuffed the chamber full, then struck the match and sucked on the stem until the leaves reddened and smoke spiralled into the air. His hand trembled on the lifter, and the damper crashed in place after he discarded the match. He stared at his hand as if to will it to stay still. Thinking straight was impossible these days. His temper had gotten the better of him an hour before, when he’d forced Eddy and Petie to cross the ridge and their mother, who had gone to see Erith. Over the last few weeks, he’d refused to go to clinics with Mary—he hadn’t been well enough to attend. He avoided Danol, who seemed to be at the house all the time. Nightmares kept him awake at night, and his bad moods kept him alone in the days. He’d sit outside on the sawhorse or go to the barn to clear his head, but nothing worked. Peter could hardly stand to keep himself company. He had a notion he was being poisoned, but he couldn’t figure out how. His murky thoughts never cleared long enough to make sense of it. Peter refused to think it was Mary’s doing, though his dreams were telling him otherwise. He was mad at himself for thinking such things. He knew the old saying “what goes in drunk comes out sober,” and he wondered if it was the same for somebody being poisoned. Did he really think that Mary was being unfaithful? He knew the answer in his soul, but his head was unreasonable and pressing him now. Peter sat at the end of the table to keep his knees from buckling under him as a wave of nausea overtook him. He didn’t hear the rocks scuffing in the lane nor the door opening and closing. She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips. Danol was behind her. “Am I dreaming?” he muttered before the pipe fell from his hands, spilling its contents on the canvas. He slouched over to the side and struck the table,

pushing it across the floor amidst Mary’s screams. Danol rushed forward and lifted him up. He dragged Peter to the daybed. “Is this how it ends?” he whispered to Mary as she leaned over him and unbuttoned his shirt. She smoothed her palm across his cheek, wiping away the wetness. They weren’t his tears, but hers. Mary’s wounded sobs gained intensity as she bent over him. She held his hands in hers. In the coming hours, he was aware of what was going on around him in short bursts of consciousness. Mary stripped him and washed him in their bed. She was forcing him to drink, first water and then some mustard concoction that made him vomit. By nightfall, his stomach was sore, and his body was spent. He fell into a fitful sleep, anchored to life by the warm hand that clasped his and wouldn’t let go. The soothing hum of an ancient song kept the dreams at bay and stitched him back to reality. When he awoke, two days had ed. Mary still held his hand, and her face was resting on his bare chest. Her eyes opened, and she smiled before she straightened in the chair and felt his temple. “Peter,” she whispered. “Do you feel any better?” “What happened?” His harsh whisper was almost indecipherable. He cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?” “You’ve been poisoned.” “I believed I had been, but I didn’t know how.” “What do you mean you believed you had been? How long have you known?” Mary’s temper flared. “How long has it been that you didn’t say anything? How could you not say anything?” “I thought it impossible.” “But you thought it.” “Yes, but I still don’t know how.”

“Danol believes it is the tobacco.” “The tobacco?” He paused. “The tobacco! I would never have thought of that.” Peter reeled at what this meant. “I can’t believe it. How did he come to that conclusion?” “When we found you and put you on the daybed, Danol searched the house for something only you would have had. He focused on the pipe he’d laid on the stove. He found the tobacco on the shelf, and the bottom of the package was damp, with dark liquid forming on the wrap. It was barely noticeable. He left yesterday to catch the train to St. John’s to get it examined. We’ll know for sure later today.” “How long have I been out?” “This is the third day.” “Where are the children?” “With Erith.” “How could I have been so stupid? I’ve risked everything.” “Let’s not dwell on that. We have to figure out who would do this to you and, more importantly, why. Danol notified the constables in St. John’s as well.” “The tobacco came from Dr. Hart. It could only be him, though I don’t know why.” “Maybe when your head clears we can look at it together.”

Danol returned by nightfall. “It was arsenic, as near as the Constabulary can figure,” Danol said. “Abe Hart would have easy access at the hospital,” Peter said. “Why would Dr. Hart want to poison you?” Mary asked. “There must be a reason we’re not seeing.”

“Maybe Hart was mad that I didn’t stay on at the hospital. He’s had it rough with his wife being sick. Maybe he just couldn’t handle it any longer.” “That makes no sense. You’ve been gone for over five years. Why now?” “I asked him about the Poison Witch. Maybe he thought I knew something.” “When was that?” Danol asked. “A few weeks ago. When Mary went to the convent, I went to Hart’s. I told you about it. You said I smelled of rum.” “Right. But weren’t you feeling sick before that?” “Maybe. I’m not sure.” “Well, I’m sure. You haven’t been yourself for a few months. Maybe you were being slowly poisoned.” “It was definitely the tobacco,” Danol said. “I found an old pouch on the shelf, and that had a few leaves in it. There was arsenic.” “Abe has been sending me that for years.” “Years!” Mary exclaimed. “I thought you only smoked the pipe on occasion.” “Those occasions became frequent,” Peter said sheepishly. “No more, though. That pipe is going in the stove when I am strong enough to get down those stairs.” “The pipe is gone,” Mary said. “The stove has had it for a few days now.” “Danol, you’re the detective,” Mary said. “Who did this?” “What do we know? The tobacco came from Hart’s. That’s where the poison came from. Who is at the Harts’? The doctor, his wife, his daughter, and the hired help, correct? It could be any of them.” “I have to get my notes,” Mary said. She rifled through her medical bag and pulled out a slip of paper. “According to the nun who hailed from Trinity, a Lol Pinhorn was the midwife when her baby was poisoned. Maybe we can go there

and find her. She is the only person I know who might have a clue as to who this is. She may not even be there. Or living. Can we wire Trinity and find out?” “Pinhorn. That name sounds familiar. But it was a man,” Peter said. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “I believe I met a Leo Pinhorn at Hart’s Christmas party years ago. He was Loretta’s brother. I’m sorry. I can’t think clearly. I may not be right. Abe told me that Loretta’s people were from Trinity.” “What are you saying, Peter?” “Loretta could be the Witch.” “I thought you said she was frail and weak and out of her mind.” “She was after we were married, but she was her old impetuous self when I saw her last.” “So, the Witch could be Abe or Loretta,” said Danol. “How are we going to know?” “I can’t believe it is either of them. I think we have it wrong,” Peter said with a shake of his head. “Peter, I told you one time that you wouldn’t know a snake if it bit you. I think you’ve been bitten,” Mary said. “I’ll have to inform Constable Jeffries,” Danol said. “Danol, did you tell anyone that Peter had been poisoned?” “Well, I told the constables. Most of them knew Peter.” “I have an idea,” Mary said. “I need to get to St. John’s.”

35

“You wired the Evening Telegram?” Mary asked. “Yes, the notice is prepared. The newspaper will be circulated today.” “Constable Jeffries is aware?” Peter asked. “You shouldn’t have come, Peter. You’re not recovered yet.” Mary reached out and tenderly stroked his face. “Like hell I was staying home while you do this.” He shook his head and lowered his eyes. “It’s no good of me saying I don’t want you to go. I know that. But Mary, please be careful. Just because somebody wanted me dead doesn’t mean they’d stop there.” “I’ll be careful. You stay below. How would that look? Your death in the paper, and you here, large as life.” She kissed him. “I’ll be back. Danol will come with me and be there if I need him.” Peter shook Danol’s hand. “You’d better look out for her.” “You don’t have to worry about that. She’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of that.”

Mary, dressed in black from her hat and veil to her shoes, knocked once before strutting her way into the Hart household. A girl in a maid’s uniform was coming toward the foyer when Mary entered. “Can I help you, ma’am?” the girl asked, her voice uncertain. “I’m here to see the Harts.”

“Which one, ma’am?” “All of them,” Mary said with confidence. “I’ll be in here. Make it quick.” She stepped into the den. Peter had told her and Danol the layout of the house. She moved to the stone fireplace and stood facing the door. Moments after the maid left, Dr. Hart, his wife, and daughter rushed into the room. “What’s the meaning of this? Who are you?” Dr. Hart asked. “It’s done,” Mary said. “Peter Nolan is dead.” “What? What are you talking about?” “Peter Nolan is dead,” Mary said again, enlivened by her task, pushing her chin out for effect. “Peter? Dr. Peter Nolan?” Dr. Hart faltered and, upon Mary’s nod, reached for a drink. “How? When?” Mary threw the newspaper on the table in front of him. Dr. Hart’s trembling hand reached for the paper. His wife grabbed it first. “It’s right there in print.” The woman’s head lowered in reading. Her fancy knitted shawl—imported was Mary’s guess—draped over sagging shoulders. Her hair obstructed her face from view in the dim light of the room. “For God’s sake, Lol, read it out loud,” Dr. Hart muttered. “Death. After a short illness, borne with Christian resignation, Dr. Peter Nolan, (doctor), in the 34th year of his age. Funeral on Friday next, 16th, at 2.30 p.m., from his late residence in John’s Pond. Dr. Peter will be best known for the care and attention he gave to patients for the years leading up to and during the Great Fire of 92. He will also be ed for the bravery he showed during the Trinity Bay Disaster that same year. Dr. Nolan leaves behind a wife and four

children. - R.I.P. - Boston papers please copy.” Geraldine stood unwavering across the room from Mary. She stared at the chandelier and didn’t the words that Loretta Hart had read. Mary couldn’t tell if either of the Hart women were satisfied or not. “Good God, this is so unexpected. Who are you?” Abe asked. Perspiration shone on his forehead. He mopped it with a cloth he pulled from the pocket of his tros. Mary lifted her black veil. “I’m his widow.” “Get out, Abe,” Loretta commanded. “Get out. Take Geraldine with you.” “I’ll do no such thing. What’s going on here? What happened to Peter?” “Get out, Abe. I mean it. Get out!” “Loretta?” “Abe, I’ll take care of this. Peter Nolan is dead. Yes. He was your friend. Now take Geraldine and go back to your supper. I’ll be in soon.” “You’ll take care of what?” “I’ll take care of things like you could never do.” Geraldine took her father’s arm and guided him out of the room. The doors shut before Loretta sat down. The woman’s fingers drummed on the table as she read the notice again. She drilled the wood faster and faster until she finished with the article and looked up. Then she picked up the paper, folded it, and threw it toward Mary. “I want in on your scheme,” Mary said. “Why, dearie, what ever are you speaking of?” “I know you poisoned my husband. I know you’ve been doing this for years, as far back to when you were a midwife in Trinity Bay.” Loretta raised an eyebrow. “Well done,” she said. “You understand that I can’t

just take your word for it.” “I have the tea leaves that you sent.” Mary patted her empty dress pocket for show. “I’ll hold them for the constables unless we come to some agreement.” “Ah, yes, the tea,” Loretta murmured. “You knew he had a fondness for that special stuff your husband gets from Jamaica,” Mary said. She hoped there was such a thing or that Loretta would be too vain to it she didn’t know of such a thing. Her heart thumped, and she forced herself to remain calm. “I hope you’ll have better luck than the last one,” Loretta said, her tone belligerent. “What?” “The last one. She used it on herself instead.” The last one? Did she mean another one recently? How many more were there? Martha, perhaps? That didn’t make sense. How could Mary know? Her mind gnawed on the words. She hoped her pause was imperceptible. “I have more of an appetite for it, I guess.” “It would seem so. Looks like Peter Nolan didn’t escape this time, though. If you want to do something right, do it yourself.” “Can we come to some arrangement?” Mary drawled. “I’ll take it under consideration.” “Don’t take too long.” Mary had to stop herself from moving in on the woman and sounding too eager. “Who are you going to tell?” Mary whipped the paper from the table and turned to leave. “What’s to tell? I got what I wanted whether you’re interested or not,” she said with a cat-like grin. “I’m satisfied.” Her stride to the door slowed after the woman gave a hushed

reply. “Don’t be too hasty, now.” Mary paused. “Come back two days from now. I’ll have what you want.” “I’m grieving, ,” Mary said. “It will have to be next week.” “Next week it is.” When Mary opened the double doors of the den, she met Danol and several constables, who were stationed on either side of her. “Peter’s outside,” Danol said as he took her aside to let the policemen . “I had to stop him from coming in.” “What am I going to do with that man? He should be home in bed.” Constable Jeffries came up behind Danol. “Mrs. Nolan, good to see you again.” “It wasn’t her. At least not this time,” Mary said as she grasped Jeffries’s coat sleeve to keep him from following the officers. “I think she knows it was her daughter. She’s protecting her.” “How can you tell that?” Jeffries asked as he leaned in attentively, his eyes wide. “I told her the tea was poisoned. She went along with it.” Mary released him and gestured toward the kitchen with her head. “Dr. Hart was in shock. He clearly knows nothing about this. Geraldine was despondent. I’m sure she’s the one. They both went that way.” “We’ll straighten it out,” Jeffries said. He called to the men. “Harvey, you stay with Mrs. Hart. The rest of you, that way.” He pointed where Mary had indicated. Moments later, there was a ruckus somewhere farther inside the house. A constable came running to Jeffries. “The young woman has run upstairs and barred herself in her room.”

“Well, go get her,” Jeffries said. “She took the kitchen knife with her.” Peter staggered in through the foyer. “Where’s Mary?” Mary ran to him. “I’m right here.” She put her shoulder under his arm and helped him find a place to sit. Dr. Hart staggered out from the kitchen towards them. “Peter. Peter? Is that you? What’s going on? Your wife, the paper, they say you’re dead.” “Abe, come sit in the den.” “I can’t. I think Geraldine might hurt herself. Where’s Loretta? Peter, what’s happening?” As the constable tried to restrain her, Loretta’s screams to her husband and daughter rang out through the house. Mary, with Danol’s help, took Peter and Abe into the den. Loretta plunked down in the chair and wept. Peter told Abe what had happened. “Peter, you can’t be serious. My Loretta? My Geraldine? The tobacco? I didn’t send you tobacco. Not lately. It can’t be them.” “Abe, I know this is hard to believe. I’m sorry.” “Peter, don’t let anything happen to Geraldine.” Dr. Hart fidgeted in the chair before standing. “Please go to her. She’s my girl, Peter. Please.” Peter nodded. Jeffries led Peter and Mary to her door. Mary was holding Peter up. Danol moved in on the other side of him to keep him on his feet. He knocked on the door. “Geraldine. It’s me, Peter.” “Peter, I thought you were dead. I thought she’d killed you. It was my mother’s doing. It was all her.” “No. I’m still here. She didn’t succeed. I need you to come out.” There was a long silence from the room before the sounds of weeping seeped

through to the hall. “I can’t come out. You understand why.” “Come on out. We’ll talk about it.” “I can’t. I’ve done bad things,” Geraldine shouted hysterically. “Nothing that can’t be fixed. Come out.” “Where’s your wife?” Her voice was hesitant. Mary put her finger to her lips. “She’s gone.” “Really?” “Yes, she’s gone for good.” The dull thump of Geraldine’s head against the door, though soft, was unmistakable. “I’m happy to hear that. She shouldn’t be a doctor. She should have looked after you. I tried to help you. I spread rumours to discredit her, and I raised complaints to the police to add to it. But even after more than two years, she still didn’t stay home with you.” “Come out, Geraldine. You can stay home with me.” “I can’t!” she screamed. Her head tapped off the door three or four more times. “I made you sick. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to harm you. I wanted you to come to me. I thought if you were sick, and your wife away all the time, you’d come to me. It wasn’t working, and you didn’t. So I added more. Mommy wanted to finish you off after you got married, but I made her see the error of her ways.” Peter glanced wide-eyed at Mary and Danol. Danol shrugged his shoulders. Mary whispered in his ear. “Thank you for saving me, Geraldine. Please come out. I’ll make it all right.”

“I can’t!” she screamed again. “It’s too late.” She sobbed and wailed like a wounded animal. “What have you done?” Peter demanded. “Geraldine!” “It’s too late.” There was a thud from the other side of the door. “Break it down,” Danol said. He and Mary pulled Peter out of the way.

Three months later, Peter had regained his strength. His hair was growing thick again like it used to, the nightmares had stopped, and he was back to his old self. Even the children noticed. But it was his turn to worry. Either Mary had changed—maybe she was mad with him and wouldn’t say—or something else was wrong. She was sad. That was the only way he could describe her. He asked her over and over again if she was all right, and she assured him she was. But he knew differently. They slept as far apart as the bed would allow, and he wasn’t doing anything to fix it. He felt so guilty that he’d put them all at risk, and he hoped someday she would forgive him. “Mary, I’m worried. I can’t help it. There is something wrong. Please tell me.” “Make the tea,” she said as she sat at the table. “You’re going to find out pretty soon.” He did as she asked, and they sat together in the peace that came from a crackling fire and the children’s voices playing outside—the peace they no longer enjoyed. Peter waited, and several sips of tea later, she spoke. “I’m having a baby,” Mary said softly. “A baby? When? How?” Mary smirked. “How do you think, Peter?” “I don’t mean that. I’m sorry. A baby. That’s wonderful news! You caught me by surprise, that’s all.” “You could be more enthused.”

“I’m confused, that’s all,” he said. “It’s been months.” He paused. “You know.” She didn’t speak, so he asked, “When can we expect this baby? You’re normally bursting to tell.” “ one night you were having a terrible nightmare?” “There were so many nights like that. Which one?” “It was the night before you collapsed. That’s when it was.” “Oh, Mary, I was so out of my mind then, I didn’t know what I was doing. Everything is still hazy.” “Exactly. That’s why I’m worried. I don’t feel right. The baby isn’t like the others. I’m afraid he or she has been poisoned.” Mary’s tears came then, silent and lonely. Peter drew a long breath and crossed the space between them. He pulled her to him and cradled her head on his chest. He kissed her hair and rocked her while she cried. “Why are you trying to do this alone?” “You’ve been sick. I didn’t want to worry you.” “Oh, Mary. You are such a stubborn woman—and I mean that with love and affection, before you get mad at me. I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” He guided her to the rocking chair by the window. “You sit there, and I will look after you like nobody has been looked after before.” “Indeed you won’t. I’m not an invalid. But I’m telling you there’s something wrong.” He put his hand on her belly. “We’ll deal with whatever comes.”

Almost three months later, Mary dug her finger into his back. “Peter. Peter. Wake up. There’s something wrong.” He threw off the bedclothes and rushed to her side of the bed. “What is it?” “Light the lamp. I’m wet.” “Do you have pain?” he asked as he struck the match and lit the wick. He held the light over her and grimaced. “It’s blood.” “Peter, it’s too early.” “I know. Lie still. I’ll send Eddy for Erith.” Within minutes there was a ruckus across the hall and boots on the stairs. “It’s dark, son. Be careful. Get Richard up if you’re afraid. Take the horse.” “There’s constant pain now. Hold on, little one,” Mary said as she gently rubbed her belly. “Peter, if you have to make a choice, it’s not a choice. I’ve lived a good life.” “Mary, let’s not talk like that. You can guide me. You’ve spent enough hours at the lying-in hospital and seen enough difficult births to tell me what this is and what to do.” “I have toxemia. Chances are I need a hysterectomy.” “You’re sure?” “As sure as I can be.” Mary’s voice was fading and slow. “Peter, no matter what, I love you. We’re in your hands now. Always , I love . . .” Peter’s pulse raced. His Mary, these conditions, bleeding. His mind went to the surgeries he had performed on the boats and when he operated on the table downstairs. They were nothing compared to this. He would save Mary no matter what it took and no matter what she said. He’d live with the consequences of his decision. Someone shouted from downstairs. “Up here!” Peter replied.

Meg bolted through the door and came to an abrupt stop when she saw the blood. She covered her mouth, her eyes wide and frightened. “Meg, boil water.” Meg nodded while her hand still covered her mouth. She rushed around the bed and stretched across to kiss Mary’s forehead. “Peter saved me here all those years ago. He’ll save you now.” She grabbed Peter’s wrist. “You save her, Peter Nolan.” “I’ll do my best. Now, go boil water. Mary’s losing blood fast, and I have to take every precaution.” Meg pushed herself off the bed and raced out the door. Her heels on the stairs mimicked the thump in Peter’s chest—rushed and frightened. He listened for the baby’s heartbeat and nodded to Mary. “The little one is still there. I have to put you out now. I’ll see you later with a baby in my arms. I promise.” His words fell on deaf ears, but that didn’t matter. “I love you, darling,” he said. “, I love you.” Erith and Danol arrived, and Peter shouted for Erith to help. The children were up now, and Eddy took them to Meg’s. Erith gasped, and Peter told her to wash her hands. “Danol, I need boiled water from the kettle in a pan.” He couldn’t allow this to be his Mary any longer—this was a stranger, and he was a doctor. His surgical hands knew what to do, and he had to leave his heart out of it. Peter handed the newborn to Erith. She knew what to do. He focused on his patient. He shouted orders to Danol and Meg. They did what he asked. The tick of the timepiece on the washstand both soothed and crowded him as he worked in the silence where they held their breaths collectively. He finished stitching Mary and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. Peter allowed his emotions free to take the legs from under him as he collapsed on a chair beside her. He recovered quickly when Erith handed him the tiny infant. Peter looked him over, kissed his head, and laid the baby on Mary’s skin.

“Go to work, my son,” he said as he stroked the baby. “Bring her back.” He placed a blanket over Mary and the baby as he settled in the chair beside her, his countenance shattered. Time was in charge now. Peter put his head in his palms and cried. It was an exhausted, unsure, and fearful kind of cry that he felt to his core. His body wracked with spasms as he let go of that which he could no longer control. Mary had to get well. She just had to. Danol pulled in a chair and sat with them both. Erith and Meg followed. Peter’s worry and heartbreak permeated every corner of the dimly lit room. No one dared disturb him. Daylight broke. Simple, everyday noises flowed up from downstairs—the damper lifts, the woodbox thumps, and the firebox snaps— followed by silence. Erith tapped Peter’s arm. “I’ll take the baby. He needs to be fed.” Peter looked up from his intertwined fingers and nodded. He sat up and rubbed his face. “I’ll get him.” The baby squirmed beneath the soft covering. “I need a blanket,” he said. “He’s nice and warm there. We want to keep him like that.” Erith nodded and handed him a square of flannel she had retrieved from their room. Peter eased his hand in under the tiny body. He was startled by Mary’s dazed humming as he lifted the child from her skin. “Mary. Oh my God, Mary! Mary, we have a son! Can you hear me?” Her smile was slow in forming, but she’d heard him. Suddenly, the mood in the room went from sombre to joyous. Peter caught movement through the window as he made his way to Mary. “My God, everyone is out there.” Danol stood and looked over Peter’s shoulder. “They are. Can we give them the good news?” Peter nodded. “I’ll do it,” Meg said. “You stay here.” Moments later, a cheer rose outside. People celebrated the news that Mary and the baby were sure to recover.

Two days later, Danol laid the child on his mother. She was weak but alert, as was the baby. “James,” she said. “I want to call him James.”

36

Present day

“I was so sad when I was reading about James being born. They couldn’t know he’d go missing during the war. “And Peter, so heartbroken by the thought that he could lose Mary. He was so genuine and honest, I wanted to go back there and give him a hug and tell him everything would be all right,” Darlene said. “I guess I know what we have to research at The Rooms,” said Tiffany. “Everything James, and you said your father, Peter, was over there as well.” Ammie nodded. “I’m also curious about what happened to the Harts. Who was charged, their sentence, and anything else we can think of.” “Too bad there’s nothing in either of the journals about court,” Darlene said. “I know we haven’t come to the war journal yet, but I’m sure we’ll find anything we can about James and your father, Ammie. There are as many questions now as there are answers. The more we read, the more I want to know about them.” “Mom, I took a picture of the storyboard in Fox Harbour for you. We can add it to Grandma’s evidence. I couldn’t believe it was all true about the Sampsons. I wonder if there are court records.” “I doubt it,” Stephen told her. “The man confessed many years later in Boston. Might be something there in the archives, though.” “Hmm. Maybe something for me and Mom to look into when we go back home.” Ammie had been quiet at the head of the table. Darlene smiled at her.

“Maybe we should talk about your party, Aunt Ammie. You must be sick of us talking about the journals. We’re here because of you, and it seems like we’re taking over.” “No, no, no,” Ammie said. “I love the sound of noise in the house, that’s all. I’m taking it all in.” “Are we too loud for you?” Tiffany asked her. “You misunderstand, child. This reminds me of when my children were growing up. I’m lamenting, that’s all. I was thinking about how close Peter came to death . . . then Mary would have died if Peter weren’t there. Just imagine, if that had to happen, none of us would be here now.” “That’s so true.” “You know, you are learning about your family, but we are not learning anything about you two,” Ammie said. Darlene shrugged. “Not much to tell. Mom was a single mother, and I’m a single mother. We were all we had. Our lives are not nearly as exciting as those of Mary and Peter.” “Want to watch paint dry or hear ?” Tiffany asked. “Paint is seriously more exciting.” “Your lives are not over yet. Make the most of them. That’s what you can learn from Mary and Peter’s stories. They certainly did live a full and exciting life. It wasn’t all roses for them, either.” They both looked at Aunt Ammie and smiled as she looked from one to the other. “You have more than just the two of you now.” “It’ll be difficult to leave after your birthday celebrations,” Darlene said. “You are growing on us, Aunt Ammie.” “Hello? Anyone order food?” Karen called from the doorway.

Darlene groaned. “I’m going to need all new clothes before I leave.” “Shopping,” Tiffany said merrily. Darlene laughed, but she was beginning to have doubts. Three weeks were all they had left. They were intruders, sharing lives from a journal and hoping for connections. Spending time with a nice old woman who welcomed them. They had no idea if they would find anything to even suggest who they were or how they fit. DNA didn’t lie, but it also didn’t make family. This fantasy that Darlene and her daughter were living was just that, a fantasy. A fabrication. A lie. Darlene, her mother, and Tiffany were a three-piece puzzle. The hole left vacant by her mother’s death would grow over, her tab that ed her to her mother would fall off, and then they’d be a two-piece puzzle. There were no knobs and valleys to fit their pieces here and them to a bigger whole, a bigger picture. Their edges only had one fitting—it was to each other. Perhaps they’d enjoy the fictional roles they thought they played in this family. But in the end, it was fiction. A good story, but a story nonetheless. The weekend would tell just how much this family wanted them. For Tiffany’s sake, Darlene hoped it would be something to fondly so that Tiffany would have some idea of what a happy family was—if that was to be the path she chose. Darlene’s mother had done the best she could, and so had Darlene. But that single and struggling life was all they knew. She wanted more for her daughter. Maybe that was why her own mother was trying so hard to find a family. Maybe she was doing it for her and Tiffany. And maybe that was why she needed to see Tiffany being here, being part of this family for a few weeks, a role play for the good of her daughter. The only trouble with that was her heart. It was telling her it was real. Darlene wasn’t sure if she should discourage it or not. She felt uneasy by how comfortable she had become and how quickly it had happened. Darlene had walked in and, within a day, let go of everything that existed outside this place. But her bubble would burst. She had to go back. She had a job. She had a daughter. Perhaps four weeks had been too long, and perhaps it wouldn’t be long enough. Either way, she would lose something in the bargain. Could she

lose again? Damn the promise she’d made to Tiffany! It might be the end of her.

37

Friday was a day of cooking and baking. The first of the family would arrive that evening, and the rest in the morning. Karen came early. “You should have taken the day for yourself,” Darlene said. “Nonsense. I want to see if I can learn from you.” “You might be disappointed in my skills.” “That’s not true,” Tiffany said, quickly coming to her mother’s defence. They set to work roasting turkeys and hams in three of the trailers while the things that needed attention were made in the house. Darlene made a leek and parsnip soup, which Ammie tried and loved. “How’s that for progress?” Darlene asked Karen. They both laughed. Darlene helped as Karen made the pasta sauce from scratch. They prepared vegetable, potato, mustard, and beet salads. Darlene hadn’t heard of the latter and was anxious to try it. Rose came by after lunch and proclaimed she would only be in the way. They enlisted her to peel potatoes despite her objections. Tiffany and Stephen disappeared for most of the day. Darlene figured they were exploring some place. However, they brought four cheesecakes in from the trailers in the afternoon. “This one is partridgeberry, this one is bakeapple, this one is blueberry, and the last one is raspberry. All jams from here in Ammie’s kitchen.” “Well, I don’t know about them being from my kitchen, because Rose or Tess probably bottled them. But they’re from the hills behind here, that’s for sure. The cakes look lovely,” Ammie added. “I thought you might have gone out somewhere,” Darlene said as she whipped potatoes for the salad.

“I was baking, and Stephen read journals to me. He has a voice for audiobooks. He is missing his calling,” Tiffany said with a blush. “Am not, but I have to it, you are a good baker.” Tiffany blushed again. “Lay them out in the pantry,” Ammie said. “There’s an extra fridge there.” “It’s pretty full,” Darlene said. “All this food. I think it’s more than I served in a week at the café.” Tiffany grinned. “Mom and I—oh, and Grandma—all worked at the same diner. Ray didn’t have to change the name when he took it over from his father. He was Ray, too. There’s an economic advantage to naming your child after yourself if you’re a business owner. Trademarks aren’t cheap, and now Ray Junior fancies having a chain someday. That’s where we did some cooking. Mom makes a mean fried chicken.” “That’s next. Just got to clean some bowls.” “I’ll do that,” Rose said. “I’m going to stick around and see how you make it. If that’s all right with you ladies.” “Of course. I’ll share Ray’s secret recipe. It’s so secret, even Ray doesn’t know it.” They all laughed. The kitchen began to fill around five o’clock. Darlene was busy making and taking orders. It did remind her of Ray’s. She loved the busy atmosphere and camaraderie as family came and greeted one another over the next few hours. By 8:30 p.m. the last dish was washed, and she was exhausted. Ammie said good night. “Couldn’t get a snooze in today,” she said. “Won’t get one in tomorrow, either. I’m almost a hundred and one you know.” “I think I’ll turn in, too,” Darlene said as she laid a damp tea towel on the oven door. “Nonsense,” Rose said. “Have a glass of wine with us out on the gallery. You can sleep in Boston.”

Darlene choked back a laugh. “Aren’t you tired?” “Of course we are,” Rose said. “But that’s no difference. Come on. Come out and cool off.” Darlene hesitated. Nikki handed Rose a glass of white wine and turned and touched Darlene’s arm. “White or red?” Darlene shook her head. “I’ll come out for a little while, but no wine for me.” “I want red,” Tess said. “White for me,” said Karen. “I’m not your bartender, folks,” Nikki said as she filled their glasses. They herded Darlene out to the front porch with them. She sat nearest the door, intending to make a quick escape. However, she was glad for the cool air on her skin, and before she knew it, she was listening to tales and laughter from the group. When Nikki went to fetch the two wine bottles, she stopped. “Want me to get you a glass?” “You know what? Perhaps I will have one,” Darlene said. “I can come with you.” Nikki laid a hand on Darlene’s shoulder to stop her from getting up. “I’ll get it.” Darlene had trouble understanding parts of the conversation as the women relaxed into a fast-paced dialogue. She enjoyed it just the same. Tiffany had gone out by the fire at the back of the house with Stephen and some of the boys she had met the weekend before. Her mind was willing, but her body was not. Darlene’s head was dropping, and she couldn’t stay up any longer. She was in bed by 11:00 p.m. She woke to the sounds of the kitchen in full swing at 8:00 a.m. after having the best night’s sleep. Uncles Earle, Sam, and Walter, all sporting aprons, greeted her when she entered the kitchen. Earle escorted her to a chair beside Nikki. Darlene raised her eyebrows.

Nikki rested her elbows on the table and gave her a contented smile from behind the rim of a mug. She recited an overview of the day. Ammie and Tiffany were already gone, but Nikki explained that vehicles had to make multiple runs, and she should eat her breakfast. The kitchen smells of bacon, ham, and toast were too tempting to deny. Darlene tried moose sausages for the first time. Uncle Earle’s overly polite voice, with the air of an English accent as he laid a plate in front of her, made her giggle. He gave Darlene a broad grin and flicked the white dishcloth he’d held under the plate onto his shoulder before returning to the stove. Uncle Walter served juice and tea with a faux French accent so as not to be outdone by his brother. Nikki’s eye-rolls added to the teasing as Uncle Walter saluted with the spatula and clicked his heels together. Darlene couldn’t help but laugh. The table was constantly full. Men were tending the stove, others were taking away and washing dishes as children and adults alike arrived, were fed, and then left. With the churning efficiency of the day, Darlene and Tiffany were on their way to John’s Pond in their turn. Nikki pointed out where Danol and Erith and Ammie’s mother lived as they changed car rides for ATV rides to get to their final destination. Nikki told them that the day in John’s Pond before Ammie’s birthday was a tradition held every year. The train of ATVs struck out over the hill. They crept along to keep the dust to a minimum. Within ten minutes the engers touched down, shouted their thanks, and the bikes set out once more for another load of guests. Four gazebo-style tents were set up on the beach. Tables lined each of them, and all but one had chairs. That one turned out to be the food central tent. Nikki showed Darlene around, pointing out where people lived and how they would have been related to Ammie. She explained how John’s Pond had fallen under the province’s resettlement program of the early 1960s—it was cheaper to move people out than to move public services like roads and lights in. Pickup trucks came last, honking to sound the beginning of a whirlwind day at a family boil-up. Tiffany and Stephen wanted Darlene to try fly-fishing. After some coaxing, she said yes. As luck would have it, she caught the only trout of the morning. She played in the outfield of her first-ever softball game in the afternoon, she hit the

ball twice, she ate lobster, she tried salt fish from a paper bag and potatoes roasted in the embers on the beach. Darlene had the first taste of toutons on a stick, moose stew, and moose bologna. She played hide-and-seek in the grass with the children. Darlene agreed as Tiffany described it as the best day of her life. She ed the cleanup squad to leave the place as they had found it. Then she plunked herself down beside Ammie. The horizon, tinged with yellows, oranges, and reds, mixed with grey hues and blended on the painter’s palette of a sky before it perished onto the blackest canvas Darlene had ever seen. It was perfect to enjoy the brilliant, bursting fireworks. Children ran in and out of view from the campfires on the beach, giggling, marshmallows ablaze. Others were playing near the edge of the sea looking for baby crabs and clams in the fading light of the day. Tiffany sat on the beach at one of the distant fires making s’mores with Stephen’s tutoring. Ammie expressed her utmost delight at having her family around her. Darlene looked at Tiffany again as she sprang up from the beach and squealed while Stephen chased her with a crab. A tear rolled down her cheek as the traitorous need to cry came over her. “You are truly blessed,” she mouthed into the cooling night air. Her voice had failed her. By 11:00 p.m. she had helped Ammie navigate the stairs, boiled the kettle, made tea, wrapped herself in a sweater, sat on the deck, and looked to the stars. The silvery moon peeked over the horizon and cast a ghostly outstretched beam to her on the still water. She pulled her legs in under her and watched the lights of the ATVs come out over the hill, headlights and tail lights breaking the darkness, then disappearing again as one crowd headed home and the bikes returned for more. The crowd was coming home. Darlene twisted her mother’s urn in her pocket and realized she was crying again—she had been for some time. She inhaled sobs quietly in the darkness and she wept into the night, baring her soul to the darkness. Shaking and rocking, she rolled herself into a fetal ball to contain her misery. When she was spent, her despair quieted. She went inside and washed her face.

Tiffany would be home soon. Home.

38

North Harbour, Newfoundland 1897

Mary and Peter burst through the door of Ken Ryan’s house. Ada was wailing and shouting for them to hurry. Ken was seated at the end of the table, his head resting in his palms. He didn’t look up. A few neighbours stood around and parted to let the doctors through. Peter and Mary followed Ada’s voice to the front room. Elsie was on the daybed in the middle of the room. She whimpered as they neared. Her body trembled beneath the sheet. “We need lots of water!” Mary shouted. Footsteps left the house and returned moments later. A wooden pail was laid in around the door. “We need more! Ada, you should go.” “I’m not leaving her. I’m not leaving her.” Ada moved around the daybed and reached for her daughter’s head. Before she touched the blonde-haired child, she drew back and covered her face with her hands and wailed once more. Peter pulled off his coat and moved around one side while Mary stripped off her own jacket and moved to the other. “Ada, get out,” Mary said firmly without looking at her. Then she gulped, took a deep breath, and slowly turned to the woman. “Let us do our work. We’ll call you in when we’re ready.” Ada’s tearful sobs echoed through the house. Peter and Mary locked eyes, and he shook his head. The child whimpered, and Mary cooed and hummed the old song she’d learned from her mother. The words were long gone, but the melody

was one that had soothed her for as long as she could . Peter cut away the sheet so that only the portion that touched the child remained. Ada hovered near the door while somebody held onto her from the other room. “What happened?” Peter asked. Between sobs, Ada spat out the story while the doctors went to work to soak the sheet. Ada had opened the drafter door on the stove to let the fire get hot for the oven. Elsie was just up, and Ada was going to make her toast on the damper. Elsie had gotten too close, and her nightdress was drawn into the open flame of the firebox. She’d run around the kitchen screaming as Ada tried to put her out. Ken heard the shouts, ran in, and threw his coat over her to douse the flames. “I tried to pull the clothing off of her . . .” Ada faltered and couldn’t finish. Mary closed her eyes and paused in her task. Peter covered her hand with his. “Do you need a few minutes?” he asked in a hushed voice. “This child needs all the minutes we can give her,” Mary whispered as she continued to dab the sheet with wet rags. “We need more water!” Peter called out. “We need some bedsheets, torn in strips!” Mary yelled. The kitchen was teeming with people who continued to follow their directions over the next hour. Ada looked on, her anguish overflowing, but steadfast in her vigil. Mary and Peter worked on the young girl, deciding that comfort of some sort was all they could provide. Peter had tried to peel away the material at first, but glimpsing beneath the crusted edges, they both agreed not to put the child through that agony. Instead, they laid wet strips across her to ease the pain. The strips closest to the skin on her face, arms, and torso were systematically replaced by fresh ones to soothe the child. Mary entered the kitchen after telling Peter to stay with the girl.

“Ada, Ken, it’s not good. We can’t do anything for her beyond keeping her settled.” Ada buried her head in her husband’s arms, and he helped her to the chair. “How long?” he asked. “We can’t say for certain. She is a tough little girl. It could be hours, or it could be days.” “No!” Ada screamed. “Not my Elsie. What have I done? Please save her. Please save her!” “Ada, she can hear you,” Mary said, gesturing for her to lower her voice. Ada covered her face with her hands and wept silently. “Why don’t you bring in a chair and sit with her?” “We’ll say the rosary out here,” Mrs. Walsh said. Others murmured their agreement. Elsie survived that night, her cries muffled as she drifted in and out of sleep. Peter kept giving her a tonic for pain. Mary spent the night weighing conflicting emotions and inner turmoil as they tended to the child. “Peter, is there anything we can do? I hate to see her like this.” “What are you asking, Mary?” “I don’t know.” Frustration and annoyance at the predicament muddied the air in the room. Mary leaned forward and tucked her face into her hands. “I don’t know. She’s suffering so much.” “I’ll keep her sedated. She will rest quietly.” “I wonder what led Loretta to do what she did,” Mary said through her fingers. “Was it something like this that made her do it?” “Loretta is sick, Mary. That’s what led her to it. She probably justified the first one. Then the second. Then it got easier. What she thought was best for Sister Mary Domenic’s baby benefited neither of the two.”

“I know. I just can’t help but think that if this were my child, what would I want? What would I do?” “Mary, if we weren’t here, the child would live as long as the child lived. She would suffer more than she’s suffering now. Take comfort in that.” “I know you’re right.” “You have the most loving heart. There is nothing wrong with that. At some point, we all question things, Mary. That comes with doing what we do. You’re not Loretta, nor am I. Let’s do what we can while we are able to do it.” Mary ed him on his side of the bed. She sat with him and held his hand. Closing her eyes, she followed along with the crowd in the kitchen as the drone of their combined voices recited the rosary. Then she hummed to the girl in hopes it would bring some mutual comfort. Elsie Ryan died peacefully the next morning. She was ten years old.

39

1902

The cool afternoon breeze sent a shiver down his spine. But he liked the sound of the waves splashing against the wood and the movement of the boat beneath his feet. It cleared his head. Mary came up beside him and nestled herself into his arm. “The heat is not in the air yet,” Mary said. Peter smiled into her hair. “I have you to keep me warm.” As she kissed him, Petie’s voice asked what they were doing, which sent them both into gales of laughter. Peter quickly smooched her again while Petie covered his eyes. His whispered, “I love you,” and she burrowed closer in his arms. He turned to Petie. “Take your brother and go see what’s in the galley, young man.” “Yes, Dad,” came the reply from the child, who was already on the way there with David by the hand. “About that,” she said. “About what? The galley? Are you hungry?” “About ‘I love you.’” “What about it?” “I love you, too, but . . .” He turned her to face him and searched her eyes as he gently held her shoulders.

“But what? You know I love you.” “Without question,” she said solemnly. “You know I love you enough, right?” “I’m afraid I’m lost, Mary. Is this going to be one of those ‘women’ things?” His frightened expression made her smile. “What women things?” “You know, where you think something that you think I’m thinking but I’m not thinking it sort of thing.” “What? That doesn’t even make sense.” Mary grinned and shook her head. “What?” “Okay, let’s just go with the ‘but what.’ By the way, it makes perfect sense to me.” He quickly leaned in and kissed the top of her nose. It was her turn to search his face. Her eyes held his in a steady gaze. “You’re not happy. I know that.” “What?” he asked, quickly and with surprise. “That’s not true. Mary, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world. What are you getting on with?” “I see something in your eyes. You mourn for . . .” “What? You’re really making no sense.” Peter pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, but she brushed it away. “You have something missing,” Mary continued. “I know that’s no reflection on me or our family. I’m not saying it like that.” “I honestly have no idea what you’re saying.” He squinted at her and looked her up and down to see if there was anything out of place. Mary leaned on the rail and looked into the sea before turning to him again. Her voice was soft and wistful. “Peter, this is my dream. The Angel Endeavours, the doctoring work in the outports, women’s health, and being able to have a family with you. It’s my dream. It’s perfect. But it’s still my dream. I do long for the summer when I can live it to the fullest and visit the people in the bays.”

“I love this work, Mary.” Peter stared into her eyes. “Don’t ever think otherwise.” “I’m sure you do. But I’m also sure there is more.” Mary softly stroked his cheek with her palm. “I’m sorry. I’m not following you.” “That’s just it, Peter. I don’t want you to follow me. I want you to follow you.” “Mary, are you all right?” “I don’t think it’s confusing at all. You’re sidestepping. I listen to your stories. I want you to know that I hear what you’re saying. I really hear you.” “Hear me say what?” Peter’s confusion was bordering on irritation now. “It’s what you don’t say that bothers me,” Mary said with a gentleness that was beguiling. “I don’t want us to end up in a disagreement,” Peter said as he reached for her hand. “I think we are going that route, and it’s not what I want.” “Nor do I.” Mary turned her face to the sky. “Peter, look at the sun,” she said, her voice more of a plea than a command. He did as she asked. “Now look a little to the right of the sun. What do you see?” “Have you taken leave of your senses, woman? I see the sky.” Heat rushed to his cheeks, and a sense of dread overtook him. “No, what do you really see? When I look at the sun, I see the sun. When I look away, I glimpse the ghost of the sun for just a moment.” “Yes, I see that, too. But I’m not following.” “The sun I see is this.” She waved her arms to encom the ship and the children, and then she laid her palm over his heart. “That’s my sun. My ghost is possibilities, but the sun is enough. It’s more than enough. When you look at the sun, you are seeing my possibilities, and the ghost is your dream.”

“You’ve lost me.” “I don’t think so. Since you came to my kitchen all those years ago as a young boy, you’ve been doing something for somebody else. You took beatings for Ed, you went on that ship for Ed, you married Martha for Ed. You stayed with Martha for young Eddy.” “I married you for me.” “You did that after Martha died. If she were still alive, you’d still be in St. John’s married to Martha. You know I’m right.” “I have always loved you, Mary Nolan.” “I’m not doubting that. What I’m saying is exactly that. You sacrificed your happiness for somebody else. You have always done that. That’s what I’m afraid you’re doing now.” A look of concern crossed her face as she squinted up at him. Peter opened his mouth several times as if to speak, his eyes looking for words as if what he needed to say could be found in the air. His thoughts were fragmented, one rebuttal after another, rethinking and recalibrating, knowing his wife too well, knowing what her return would be and to where it would lead. Finally, it came into focus, and the words he needed were simple. “I love you. I love our life together. I love our children.” “Oh, Peter,” she said as she put her two hands on his cheeks and gazed into his eyes. “I know you love me. I love that you would give up anything for me. I know that in my heart. But I don’t want you to give up something for me. I want to be the reason you come home, not the reason you stay home. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m saying is true.” Peter stared at her as he mentally excavated all the things she said. He pulled them to the surface and examined them, all the while staring into her eyes. As he deliberated on her words, he felt something pivot inside him. He let out a prolonged sigh, as if a purge was happening. He pulled her to him, wrapped her in his arms, and buried his face in her hair as a frenzy of emotions overtook him. They gently rocked back and forth in one another’s embrace before he whispered, “I can’t believe you know me better

than I know myself.” “I came close to losing you, and I believe I’ve taken you for granted,” Mary said so softly he had to strain to hear her. “Not only do I believe it, I know it. You make life easier for me, Peter Nolan. You allow me to do things that many women wouldn’t even dream of doing. Even simple things like getting supper when I’m on a call or putting the children to bed.” “You do that for me, too, Mary. I want you to be happy.” He kissed the top of her head. “I want that for you, too. I really do. I love John’s Pond, I love my dream, but I love you more.” “Do you mean you want to move?” “No and yes. It is your turn, Peter. If that means we go with you, we go with you. If that means we stay in John’s Pond and you come home to us, we stay. What I’m saying is I want you to do what you want because you want to do it.” “What about if what I have is what I want?” He pried her away from him and held her shoulders. “Peter, we both know that’s not entirely true. What you have is what I want. I’m not complaining, you understand.” “How did I ever get tangled up with such a smart woman?” His attempt to deflect her questioning didn’t have the desired effect. “Peter, I’m serious. I will go anywhere with you. In a few years, the children will be gone, and it will just be us.” A smile lit up her face. “I don’t want a grumpy old man living with me.” He laughed. “I’m not grumpy.” “Don’t grow old without doing something that you want to do. Look at Danol. He gave up policing for this,” Mary said as she patted the rail of the ship. “I worried about him, too. But now that he has Erith and the children, he is a happier man. He was happy before—he’d tell you that. But it was a different happy that doesn’t compare to his new life.” Mary’s face grew serious again. “I

want you to find out for yourself.” “I need to think about this. I don’t know if I can stand to be away from you or the children for too long, and I don’t know if I want you to be here alone, either.” “You’re fixing things, Peter. You’re coming up with reasons why you can’t do something. We are not going to be one of those reasons. We’ll go with you. You are a brilliant doctor and a wonderful husband and father. I just want you to know that. That’s it. Promise me you will think about it.” “I promise. Have I told you I loved you?” “It never hurts to hear it again,” Mary teased. They both faced the sea together. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Mary Ro. I’m still waiting for people to start calling you Mary Peter.” He grinned at her, and she swatted him. “Dad, Mom, are you coming?” “On our way,” they said in unison.

40

Six weeks later, Peter answered a call from Dr. Wilfred Grenfell to him for a summer on the Labrador coast aboard the Strathcona. Peter, like Grenfell, was lured by the adventure, and now, the newly realized freedom. Mary had been right—he needed to use his skills to ease the serious medical needs of the people and their terrible living conditions. Peter was rejuvenated when he returned and told Mary he’d like to go back the next summer as well. “Mary, supper is ready! It’s getting cold.” Mary came down the stairs a little later. “I told you you’d become a grumpy old man,” she teased as she approached the table. “I might be grumpy, but I’m never too old to do this.” He met her before she reached the table, wrapped his arms around her, dipped her backwards, and kissed her soundly. “Supper is getting cold,” she said as she pushed away from him, stood on her toes, and glanced over his shoulder. “Let it.” He smiled down at her, then pulled her closer. “What a dull life I would have had if I hadn’t found you, my dearest Mary Ro. I missed you terribly these past few months.” “That’s Mary Peter to you,” she said as she winked at him. “Now, our son wants to discuss something with us. He says it’s important. I think it might have something to do with young Annie Ryan.” No sooner had the words left her lips when she eyed Eddy strolling in the lane, and she pushed Peter away from her. Peter laughed. “It’s good to be home. Some things don’t change.” He feigned a grab for her.

Mary evaded his grasp and pulled away. “Stop it,” she said in a hushed jovial tone as she raced for the chair at the end of the table and sat waiting for Eddy to come in. She flicked her eyes to Peter, the twinkle unmistakable. She pointed from Peter to the chair at the other end of the table. Peter grinned and sat down just as Eddy came in. “Son, you’re back early.” “Father, Mary, I’ve been to see Danol. I’ve asked him for Annie’s hand in marriage.” Eddy’s words came out quick and confident, but they were belied by the tremor in his hand as he grabbed the back of the chair and plunked himself down. Before Danol or Mary could speak, he held up his hands. “I love Annie more than anything in this world. I’ve loved her since I first saw her.” He paused to pull the chair away from the table to give himself some room. Mary and Peter stared at Eddy. “I don’t know what to say,” Peter said. “What did Danol say?” “He told me to talk to the two of you.” Eddy lowered his head and fidgeted with his hands. Mary gestured with her head for Peter so say something. He raised his shoulders and gave her a wide-eyed, “save me” kind of look, but she gently shook her head. Peter cleared his throat. “Have you thought about where you’re going to live? It’s important that a man have that settled in his head before he thinks about getting married.” “Oh, for God’s sake, Peter. Eddy, the two of us are happy for you,” Mary said as she gave Peter an incredulous look followed quickly by an affectionate smile. Eddy looked from Mary to Peter and nodded slowly. “Yes, of course we are,” Peter said. He quickly stood up, striking the seat with the back of his knees and knocking the chair against the wall. He reached out to shake Eddy’s hand. “I’m proud of you, son. You’ll be a fine husband to Annie. Danol couldn’t hope for better.”

Eddy took his hand, then stood up and hugged Peter. Mary sniffled at the end of the table as she watched their embrace. “You’ve grown to be a fine man, son. I really am proud of who you’ve become. I’m assuming you’ll stay on with Danol at the freight. That’s a good living.” Eddy hauled the toe of his boot across the floor, then jostled from foot to foot. “About that.” “Don’t tell me Danol let you go because you want to marry Annie,” Peter said. “Danol wouldn’t do that,” Mary said. Then she looked at Eddy. “Would he?” “I won’t be on the boats this fall, but it has nothing to do with Danol.” “Okay, I think we’d better sit again,” Peter said and returned to his chair. “What’s going on?” Eddy sat and pulled his chair in to the table. “I do have something to tell you.” “You know you can tell us anything,” Mary offered. “Yes,” Peter said as he leaned forward and crossed his forearms on the table. “Anything. Do you have to marry Annie?” Eddy looked confused. Then realization set in. “God, no! Dad, I wouldn’t do that to Annie. Danol would kill me.” Peter’s shoulders relaxed, and he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Okay, what is it?” “I want to be a doctor like you two.” Peter gaped at Eddy. “A doctor? We always thought you’d be a sailor like Danol.” “I thought about it a lot. I see what you do, and I want to do that, too.” “This is a shock. You’ve never shown any . . .” Peter searched for the right thing to say.

Mary got up from the table and hugged Eddy. Peter followed suit and embraced them both. “We will you with whatever you decide,” Mary said. “If that’s what you want to do, that’s what you will do. And Annie is as fine a girl as you’ll ever find.” “Yes, that’s what I was going to say,” Peter said. “It’s just such a surprise.” “Annie wants to be a nurse. She told her mother and father this evening, too.” “That’s a lot for Danol to take in,” Mary said with a grin. “I’m sure you left him reeling.” “He wasn’t too happy when I left.” “That’s just Danol. You’ll know what it’s like when you have little girls of your own,” Peter said. “The first fellow who comes for Catherine . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know.” “I know,” Eddy blurted out as heat rose in his cheeks. “I know.” “You know what, son?” “I see you and Mary together. Danol and Mrs. Cooper, too. I want that for me and Annie.” Mary and Peter looked at each other and sat down again. “I hope you have that with Annie,” Peter said as he patted Eddy’s arm again and reached for Mary’s hand. “No. I mean yes. No,” Eddy said, confused and reddening at the same time. “That’s not what I’m trying to say. I you and Mom.” “Okay,” Peter said stiffly. “I loved your mother, Martha.” “Not like you love Mary.” “Where’s this going? I loved your mother.” “It’s okay, Dad. I know,” Eddy said as he stared at his father. “Mom was sick, wasn’t she?”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say. She was a good woman and a good mother to you.” “Yes, Dad,” Eddy said as he pushed he fingers through his hair. “I know she loved me. She was good to me. That’s not what I’m saying.” “Well, spit it out.” “She loved your brother, Edward, and not you, didn’t she?” Peter froze. “Dad, it’s all right. I know it. She used to talk about him when she was sick. I didn’t understand at the time. Now, loving Annie the way I do, I understand.” Peter’s lips pinched back the quiver of emotion that was coming to life inside him. “I loved your mother,” he said simply. He rose from the table, his eyes wide and his heart pounding. “I loved your mother, and I loved you,” he muttered hoarsely. “I believe I’m his son. I know you know it.” “To me, you’re my son,” Peter said forcefully. “You’re my son.” “Dad, I want you to know that I never felt like I wasn’t your son.” The air rushed out of Peter. He threw his arms around Eddy. “You have always been my boy. I hope you really know that. I was going to tell you after your mother died, but then I met Mary again, and we married so quickly, I was afraid that it would be too much change and you’d think that I didn’t want you.” The words poured out, and he couldn’t stop them. Eddy hugged his father and wiped at a tear in his eye. “I know how different things could have been for me if you weren’t there. I have always felt that I’m your son. Nothing’s changed.” “That’s because you are my son. Simple as that.” “And you, Mary, I didn’t call you Mom, but you were as good to me as any son could ever have it.”

Mary hugged Eddy, then pushed him back from her and studied his face. “Now, I know you. I think there’s more.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’ve applied to medical school in Boston and in Toronto. I’ve been accepted to both.” “When did all this happen?” Peter asked. “Annie and I have been making plans. I applied in January. Thing is, I want to take Annie with me.” “Did you tell Danol that, too?” “Yes. He said to come here and let you two talk some sense into me.” “We can talk to him,” Mary offered. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. I know you went to school in Boston and you have a sister there, but we want to go to Toronto, in Canada. Annie’s friend Beatrice is going, too. But if you really want us to go to Boston, I’ll respect your wishes.” Peter and Mary said no in unison. “You will get a good education in Toronto,” Mary said. After Eddy left, Mary hugged Peter and kissed him. “You did a good job on that boy. He’ll never know what you sacrificed for him.” “That piece . . . we’ll never speak of.”

41

Present day, June 2021

“I checked my email this morning. There was one about my DNA profile being updated. Do you know what that means?” “I got the same one,” Tiffany said. “As more and more people get their DNA ed, the companies are able to predict more precisely where our ancestors came from.” “Oh, that’s wonderful. It might be what we need.” “No, Mom, it doesn’t work like that. So, last year I was a certain per cent Danish, Irish, and Scottish. This year, those percentages changed. The database refines your ethnicity, that’s all.” “Oh, so not helpful?” “Not helpful,” Tiffany said, shaking her head. “We should compare the commonalities,” Nikki said. “Your mother connected with us through the application. It was all quite foreign to us. It was a good thing she was active, or we wouldn’t know you.” “Grandma made us get ours done,” Tiffany said. “She said the more of us in the database, the better chance of a connection. We haven’t really looked at ours since she died.” “Is your profile open?” “Grandma managed ours. I’m not entirely sure what that means.” Tiffany tittered. “But it’s strange not to get emails, so I’d say probably not.”

“Do you have your grandma’s information? Or can you log on to her ? There might be more items in there.” “Mom, should we check?” “I’m sure we can. She printed her things, so we probably have everything.” “Everything we have from Grandma is more than a year old now, though.” Darlene shrugged at Tiffany’s words. “What about you?” Tiffany asked Nikki. “Why did you get yours done?” “We all had ours done. It was through the government.” “The government is collecting DNA now?” Tiffany’s eyes bulged at the concept. “No, no, not like that,” Nikki said with a chuckle. “A few years ago, I believe it was around 2016, at an archaeological dig in Belgium, a piece of a soldier’s uniform was found. It dated back to World War I and the Newfoundland Regiment. Based on their records, the army narrowed down the remains to thirteen soldiers it could possibly be. One was James Nolan, who was listed as MIA. They went on a campaign to the thirteen families. Nana got a letter because of James. He was Mary and Peter’s youngest son, as you know. All of us had our DNA profile taken and sent off to a lab to be tested.” “Wow, that’s incredible! Was it James? Do you know yet? Did they find out who the remains belonged to?” Tiffany asked, rapid-fire. “Hold on,” Nikki said as she put up her hands and chuckled. “Though we were hopeful, it wasn’t James. It was a seventeen-year-old kid from St. John’s, though. The remains of John Lambert were confirmed through DNA. It took about three years. We were happy for the family.” “What? That is . . . incredible,” Tiffany said, astonished. “I should be paying more attention to mine.” “The government gave us the option to release our DNA, so both Nana and I, and many others, submitted ours. That’s how we got in with you.” “Grandma was like a dog with a bone, that’s for sure,” Tiffany said.

“I’m not very active, either,” Nikki itted. “I don’t know when I looked at mine last. She happened to be online at the right time, I guess. It was new to us, and we were interested in it back then because of all the publicity about the soldier.” “That was fortunate for us,” Tiffany said. “I was reading about Eddy Nolan this morning,” said Darlene. “He didn’t need his DNA to know who family was.” That notion from more than a century ago had been pestering her thoughts since she’d read it. “We’re putting a lot of stock into this DNA idea so we can define the technicality of a family. We might never know. What happens then?” “Maybe we’ll find some clues at The Rooms today,” Nikki said. “I’m going with Stephen,” Tiffany said. “We made an appointment for today, too. We can split Grandma’s list.” “I think most of the things on Grandma’s list have been answered. Can we at least get together for lunch? I’ll tell you then,” Darlene said. “We’re already booked at the café there. Table for four,” Tiffany said. “Be there at noon. Better warn you, Mom, it’s no Ray’s.” “I think I can put up with that. Okay, it’s settled, then.” “By the way, we booked the table next to yours at the archives. We can compare notes.” “Okay. You go on, and be careful on the roads.” Stephen pulled into the lane, and Tiffany grabbed her coat. “He thinks he’s driving us all. Oh well. Since it’s just the two of us, maybe we will stay in for a movie.” Tiffany gave Ammie a kiss on the head, did the same with her mother, and rushed out the door. “Young love,” Ammie said. “Her heart will be put to the test when we leave. Tiff’s never been interested in a boy before. I don’t even know if she knows she interested.”

“What comes by nature costs no money,” Ammie said. “The heart wants what the heart wants. If it’s meant to be, they’ll find a way.” “I often forget she’s a grown-up,” Darlene said. “I’m afraid I’ve failed her.” “She is a bright, funny, and carefree girl,” Nikki said. “You’ve done well by her.” “She’s been working since she was fourteen. Kind of like me. I wonder sometimes if I could have done more . . . if she could have been a teenager and didn’t have to adopt the troubles of an adult world sooner than she did.” “She’s a great kid, Darlene. You did something right.”

The Rooms was a bright, glassy building with considerable natural light to make it a pleasant place to visit. On the third floor, Tiffany and Stephen waved at Darlene and Nikki from a table behind the glass doors of the archival room. Several boxes were spread out before them. By the time Nikki and Darlene were ed and seated, Tiffany had already found something. It was an article about the Angel Endeavours. A black and white picture that ran with the article showed dark figures posing aboard the vessel at the wharf in St. John’s. Though it was too pixelated to make out features, they requested a copy to show Aunt Ammie. Nikki and Darlene researched the war side of things. They requested World War I records but were told that was too generic and the volumes too big. They narrowed down the search criteria to ships that carried soldiers to Europe. After hours of searching ships’ enger lists, they found the name James Nolan of John’s Pond. His age was listed as eighteen years old. “Was there another James Nolan in John’s Pond?” Darlene asked. “No,” Nikki replied. “He would have lied about his age so he could go. That was not uncommon.” “December 1915. He would have been about fifteen and a half.”

“That’s what Peter’s journal indicated. You haven’t read that yet, but I had it for a project last year. I believe I mentioned that.” “Yes, I . So, James Nolan went by train to Port aux Basques, got on a ship to Saint John, New Brunswick, and then travelled from there to Europe on the SS Corinthian.” “Here’s a picture of the ship.” Nikki moved the book she was reading so Darlene could get a look at the picture. Then she showed her the map. “Let’s see if we can find James’s brother, Peter and Elizabeth,” Nikki said. “Peter went the same year as James. I should say James went the same year as Peter, just later than Peter. Elizabeth volunteered as a nurse, and I think she left when Peter went. They were engaged, from what Nana told me. They got married later in Boston.” “How did they end up in Boston?” Darlene asked. “I have no idea. Maybe Nana will know.” In silence, they waded through lists from 1915. Finally, Darlene found Peter’s name. “He was on the SS Calgarian with the F Company. They went directly from St. John’s to Liverpool, England, on June 20. We’ve found him.” She pushed the book toward Nikki. “That’s him.” Nikki rifled through the papers and gave Darlene a photo of the ship. The archivist mentioned that the soldiers were photographed by Holloway Studios before they left. Nikki gave her James and Peter’s names from H and F Company, respectively, in the Newfoundland Regiment. They left and had lunch at the café on the top floor in a window seat overlooking St. John’s harbour. Darlene fished out her mother’s list. “I believe everything here is answered.” Nikki pointed to one question about Peter dying twice, which had a check mark next to it. She looked at Darlene. “That was a question? Why?” “Mom had the death notice from the paper when Mary faked his death and the picture from the graveyard site on the DNA tree. The dates were different. She

wasn’t sure which Peter Nolan was which, but it turned out to be the same person.” “Gotcha. I haven’t read that journal yet,” Nikki said. Tiffany and Stephen planned to leave after lunch. “Maybe we’ll go to a movie,” Stephen said. Tiffany was behind him with her finger to her lips. “What a lovely idea,” Darlene said with a grin. “We’ll take the articles you’ve gathered. I’ll show Aunt Ammie.” “Let us know if you get pictures of James or Peter,” Tiffany said. “I’ll text if there is anything.” They parted ways on the floor below, with Stephen taking Tiffany’s hand as they bounded down the steps. “I want to check out the souvenirs,” Tiffany said before the huge glass doors swung closed in front of Darlene. Darlene watched the joy on her daughter’s face as Tiffany went one way and Stephen pulled her the other. She laughed and ed her arm with his as they followed the arrows to the gift shop. Darlene smiled again and caught up with Nikki at the archivist’s desk. “This is so exciting. There are two pictures of James and one of Peter. James has one with his Company, and another is a single shot. Peter’s is a stand-alone shot. It might be the one Nana has on the wall in the room you’re in.” “I believe you’re right,” said Darlene. “These are all black and white, and so is the one Aunt Ammie has. In Boston, I’ve seen places that colourize pictures. Do you think there’s something around here like that? I’d like to do that for Ammie for her birthday.” “What a great idea.” Nikki checked her phone for a few minutes. “Yes, there is, and it’s walking distance if you want to go. I messaged the owner, and he says he can have them ready in a couple of hours.” “What about Betsie? I’d like to find something about her.” The archivist overheard their conversation and asked Nikki about the role Betsie

played in the war. “I can look for information on Newfoundland nurses and have it ready if you want to come back.” Darlene and Nikki agreed. Forty minutes later, they returned to The Rooms. Their table was laid out with resources that could help them. They were poring over the material from a second box when the archivist came to the table. “I found this letter. It was donated to the old archives in the ’60s. It’s a letter claiming Peter Nolan had been killed in the war. The note on the file said it was issued in error. I printed copies in case you wanted it.” She laid two papers on the table. “Thanks,” Nikki said. The letter read:

Dear Sir: I beg to tender you, on behalf of the Government, as well as for myself, sincerest sympathy on the death from wounds, on the 19th of July, of your son Private Peter David Nolan, of the First Newfoundland Regiment. Your son’s name will stand high on the Roll of Honour, he being one of the first to fall on the field of battle, yielding up his life, and, with much unselfish devotion. He died for his King and Country, and in the defence of the principles of Righteousness and Justice. It will no doubt be solace to you to realize that he did his part even to the utmost, and his name will ever be kept in memory by those whom he went forth to defend, and for whom he ultimately gave up his life. I am Sympathetically yours, Colonial Secretary.

Nikki shook her head in wonder. “Imagine how many families were devastated by these letters. This one was almost true, but you won’t know what I mean until you read the journal.”

“I’ll do that tonight.” Darlene flipped through the papers. “There are several letters here about Peter. Two of them say the same thing: Regret to inform you that the Record Office London officially reports Peter David Nolan has been reported wounded. Upon receipt of further information I shall immediately wire you and trust that the next report will be of his convalescence. Colonial Secretary.” “When were they dated?” Darlene looked at both. “One is July 1917, and the other is dated September 1918.” “Here’s another one,” Nikki said. “No, wait, this one is similar but is about James. Regret to inform you . . .” She skipped some words with her finger, then added, “. . . officially reports Private James Nolan as missing in action. Upon receipt, etc. etc.” “When was that one dated?” “July 1917.” “Wait, isn’t that the around the same time Peter was wounded?” “Yes,” Nikki confirmed. “Imagine what Mary and Peter must have felt when they got this one.” Darlene read another letter, dated November 1917, out loud.

“Dear Sir, For some time past, the Imperial Government has been making inquiries in relation to those men of the First Newfoundland Regiment who have been reported missing since action of battle in July at chendaele. I very much regret to state, however, that from the correspondence which has taken place, a copy of which I enclose, it is evident that none of them are Prisoners of War in , and authorities are, therefore, reluctantly forced to the conclusion that all these gallant men, whose names are given in the enclosed list, and one of

whom was very dear to you, were killed in fatal action in July. I desire to express to you on behalf of the Government, as well as for myself, the sincerest sympathy in this time of sorrow. We feel the loss of our loved ones, but it will, no doubt, be some consolation to you to think that he, for whom you now mourn, willingly answered the call of King and Country, did his part nobly, and fell, facing the foe, in defence of the principles of Righteousness, Truth, and Liberty. Though he has laid down the earthly weapons of warfare, he now wears the Soldier’s Crown of Victory, and his name will be inscribed upon the Glorious Roll of Honour and be held in memory by all his fellow-countrymen. When the Victory is won, and Peace again reigns upon the earth, it will be a comforting thought to you that in this glorious achievement he bore no small part. I trust that you may have the Grace and consolation of the Great Father of us all at this time. With sincere sympathy, believe me to be, your obedient servant, Colonial Secretary.”

“I can’t even imagine,” Nikki said. “Mary wrote about it in her journal, as did Peter. You might want to read them both back to back.” “I’ll do that,” Darlene replied. “There’s another two letters here about pay. Seems the pay form letter wasn’t as personable as the others. I enclose herewith cheque for $63.59, being the balance of the estate of your late son, No. 969, James Nolan. You will note that the cheque is payable to yourself and Mary Nolan. It will therefore be necessary for both of you to endorse it before presenting it for payment.” “Here’s an even shorter and more abrupt one, three months later,” Nikki said. “Re: No. 969, James Nolan. Referring to your letter of August 21st, I beg to state that the amount paid in continuance of the above mentioned soldier’s allotment is $725.60.” Darlene pursed her lips in thought. “Wouldn’t that have been a great deal of money in those days?”

“I suspect many of the young soldiers were lured by the pay.” They looked at other records of both James and Peter. Even their papers were there. “Whatever else you can say about the army, they were great record keepers,” Darlene said absently. “This one here says that Peter was sent to Boston after his second wound.” “Wounded a month before the armistice.” Darlene shook her head at the thought. “Oh, what those poor fellows must have seen and suffered through,” Nikki said as she closed the file. Darlene closed the box, laid the pen on the table, and brushed her hand over the cardboard. She sighed heavily to prevent despair from setting in. Though she had learned lots of information about the war history of the family, she was still no closer to solving the mystery of where she and Tiffany fitted into the story. She carried the box to the registration desk to check it back in as required. The girl at the desk asked her name. She pointed to the sheet. “There. Darlene Carter.” The girl smiled and nodded before rifling through the box. “All there and in order. Thank you.” If that were only true, Darlene thought. Time was running out, and she was losing hope. The journals had to be the key.

42

Darlene opened her laptop and laid her mother’s portfolio of items on the table. Tiffany and Stephen sat with her and sifted through the paperwork. “This is Grandma’s ID and on DNA Strands, Mom.” Darlene searched for the site and entered the information. A family tree popped up as well as a welcome-back message box. “I wish,” Darlene whispered to herself. She turned to the others. “What am I looking for?” “See if there are any messages for Grandma or if she ed any groups. I can take a look if you like,” Tiffany offered. Darlene moved the laptop toward her daughter and pushed her chair over so the three of them could see the screen. “So, this is Nikki, here. I can tell by the email address. All these people here seem to be connected to Nikki. That’s the side of the family Grandma had me look up things about because there were so many connections.” “What’s this over here?” “Grandma had a question mark in her mother and father’s tab, so, on this site, that means she didn’t know and she was looking. See here, the DNA strands are linked to Nikki, but there’s a space. It shows that there is a familial match at the fifth to seventh cousin mark. Ammie’s was first to third. Somebody else must have their DNA here, too, because there are links to them and Nikki in a closer match.” “What is that there?” Darlene pointed to a bouncing exclamation point. “That looks like a message board. I can go through and see what messages Grandma left there.” Tiffany scrolled back through the messages history to a time before her grandmother died. “Grandma asked about Whispering Willows,

Boston.” “Let me see,” Darlene said. “Looking for familial ties to Whispering Willows, Boston.” Darlene knitted her brow. “What or where is that?” Stephen spoke up after checking on his phone. “It was an orphanage in Boston. It closed in 1945, and children were sent to foster care from there.” “Do you think that’s where Grandma was raised?” “I have no idea. Mom didn’t talk about that.” “There’s a reply to her post. It’s dated October 2020,” Tiffany said. “Grandma was gone seven months by then,” Darlene said. “It’s a email. Looks like a business. Maybe a law firm with all those names together,” Tiffany said. “Want me to reach out to them?” “Is it—I don’t know—illegal to impersonate somebody, or anything, on here?” “No, Mom. These things don’t run like that. I can send an email and say who I am and that I was following Grandma’s lead.” “Okay,” Darlene said. “This seems so cloak-and-dagger to me.” Together they crafted a simple message saying that they were seeking information on behalf of Emma Carter. Tiffany looked at Darlene and waited for her nod. Darlene read it three times before she said, “Add my email, and then hit send.” They read through the rest of Emma’s messages and found nothing significant. “So, it seems that DNA Strands has nothing more to tell than we already know.” “Except for the message board,” Tiffany corrected her.

43

August 1917

“Who let these people in here? Medical personnel and patients only,” the sergeant barked. He strode toward them, and the young lad beside them stood at attention. “Speak, young man.” “They are doctors, sir.” The sergeant gave a dismissive wave to the young man, who turned and left. He reached toward Peter to shake his hand. “I’m Dr. Tom Hayward. And you are . . . ?” “Dr. Peter Nolan, and this is my wife, Dr. Mary Nolan.” Dr. Hayward eyed Mary up and down. “That’s interesting.” He turned to Peter. “What can I do for you?” Mary’s eyes were big and wet as she said, “Our son is here. We were informed he suffered wounds three weeks ago and was sent to the field hospital and then here to the convalescent hospital.” “This is highly inappropriate,” the sergeant muttered as he walked down a long aisle between beds of patients. “However, you’re here now, so, what’s his name and regiment?” He grabbed a stack of sheets on a desk at the far end of the tent. “Peter David Nolan,” Mary said softly. “With the First Newfoundland Regiment.” Dr. Hayward turned abruptly and faced them. “First Newfoundland Regiment? How in the hell did you get here?” “We came over on the Llandovery Castle as far as Liverpool and another

hospital boat across the Channel to Dunkirk,” said Peter. “We got a ride with a medical transport van that was coming here for patients.” “That is quite a long way. You know if your son is here, he is here to stay unless medically released to go home or back to the field.” Peter nodded. “We are aware.” “Then why all this way? The war office would write to inform you of his progress.” “Our son James enlisted. We haven’t heard from him. One of the lads from the area was medically discharged and came home. He told us he saw Peter and James at chendaele before he was injured and discharged. A few days later, we got word that Peter was in the field hospital and would be coming here.” “It’s a long way to come in wartime. Especially a woman who is not wearing a red cross.” He looked Mary up and down again. “Do you have a son, Doctor?” Mary asked him. “I do. He’s ten. I hope to live beyond this damnedified place so I can see him again.” “Mine is barely sixteen and has suffered lung issues all his life. He shouldn’t be here.” “If he’s on the battlefield, he could be anywhere.” Dr. Hayward continued to scan the papers, flipping to the next sheet and the next as he addressed them. “He’s with F Company, and according to the War Secretary, if he’s alive, he’s still in chendaele,” Peter said. “You would have been notified if he died.” Dr. Hayward finished sorting the papers and started at the first sheet, using his finger to quickly scan through the names. “We realize that,” Peter said impatiently. “We have a paper from the War Secretary to discharge him. We have to give it to the man in charge of F Company, and then we can take our boy home.”

“And you’re just going to walk up to the Company sergeant and hand him the paper?” Dr. Hayward laid down the stack of papers and reached for another. “We made it as far as here, didn’t we?” Peter said in a low and even tone, his eyes holding Dr. Hayward’s. The sergeant glanced at the documents and asked, “What if the boy won’t go?” “We’ll worry about that when we find him. His mother can be quite persuasive.” “Are you really a doctor?” the sergeant addressed Mary. “Yes, sir. I trained at Boston General. I’ve been practising for almost ten years now.” “At Bost . . .” The man’s voice trailed off. “I’ll be back momentarily.” He strode out through the rear door of the tent. Mary and Peter looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “It’s been a hard few weeks. We made it, though.” “It’s been a hard year.” Mary’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. It hadn’t lately. Peter nodded. His belly grumbled. He wasn’t sure when they’d eaten last. However, he hardly cared. Neither of them had bothered much with their own sustenance. Worry had cast a long shadow as of late. Peter wondered how many of the men lying beneath the fly net–draped cots had somebody at home worrying about them. There were fifty or so in this tent, and another fifty tents just like it. Each young man had a grey wool blanket as a bedfellow and a doctor deciding his fate. He turned to the sound of boots on the packed dirt floor. Dr. Hayward led a man in uniform who was now holding the papers he had left with. The sergeant’s grimace and the man’s blank stare heralded bad news. Peter reached for Mary and draped his arm around her shoulder. “Mr. and Mrs. Nolan, I am Master Sergeant Pawson. I’d like you to come with me.”

The man turned and exited the way he had just come in. Mary and Peter stepped around Dr. Hayward and followed the man. Peter’s insides churned, and his shoulders sagged with each step as he followed the man. Mary was his crutch. She didn’t sense what he did. They went out onto a square of dirt between several tents beneath a brooding sky. The officer’s face bore the dutiful mask of somebody who had done this sort of thing too often. Mary reached for Peter’s hand. She sensed something now. Mary’s scream was ear-splitting as he started his “I regret to inform you” talk. Peter was numb. He made a conscious effort to keep his knees from buckling. “. . . hours ago . . .” “. . . taken to . . .” “. . . for burial . . .” “. . . mass grave . . .” “. . . wall of honour . . .” “. . . for your loss.” Mary cried, and Peter crushed her in his arms. He couldn’t take her pain—he had no room for it. He looked everywhere but at her: around him, beneath him, to the grey sky above him. The stench of death and dying clawed at him, unforgiving, unrelenting in its torment. “We can’t leave him here,” he whispered to the stagnant space around him. “We can’t leave him here.” He moved Mary out of his embrace and held her shoulders. “We can’t leave him here,” he repeated once again. Mary nodded solemnly. “We want to take him home.” “That’s impossible, sir.” “Don’t tell me what’s impossible. I’m taking my son home.”

“It’s too late. Not more than an hour ago, his body was shipped to a mass burial site about a mile from here.” “We won’t take no for an answer. We will walk to that damned grave and dig up every soldier there if we have to. We are taking him home. Do you understand?” Peter demanded. Master Sergeant Pawson’s demeanour didn’t change. He merely nodded. “Come with me. I’ll drive you myself.” He strode away along the rear of the tents to an opening in the distance. Mary clung to Peter as he guided her along. The master sergeant signalled to another soldier seated beneath the open flaps of canvas shelter and pointed toward an army truck in the lot just beyond them. “Keys are in it, sir.” Pawson nodded and redirected toward the vehicle, not looking back once to see if they were following. Peter helped Mary into the seat and pushed in beside her. She bundled into his arms as they set out. Peter’s senses must have left him, he thought, because he hadn’t asked if Pawson was sure. He asked him now. “We keep accurate records, sir.” “It’s been weeks since he was wounded. We believed he’d be mending by now.” Peter tried to keep his tone even. “I understand that, sir. He was sent here immediately from the field hospital. He was hit by shrapnel. The doctors operated there and then again here. But the wounds had been mortal, and he didn’t survive.” Mary had been silent until now. Her body heaved with each sob; her cries, muffled by his coat, reverberated through him. Peter’s mind raced. He closed his eyes and ed the day little Petie was placed in his arms. The happiness he felt then was mirrored on the day David was born, and again when James was born and Mary recovered. How could he go on after this? How could they?

The car turned off the gravelled road and headed down a small incline to a wooded area. When they ed through the cover of the trees, Peter was taken aback by the sight. Mary felt him tense and slowly pulled herself upright. As far as the eye could see in one direction, the land was scraped clean of its grassy flesh and replaced by the dark soil that encased the bodies of what they believed must be thousands. The truck veered hard to the right and bounced along the uneven ground near the edge of the disfigured earthen tomb. An empty flatbed truck sat in the distance. Nearby, several soldiers were shovelling clay. “As I figured, it’s too late.” Pawson stopped the truck and moved the gear. His hand paused on the mechanism a moment as he took in the scene. Mary let out a cry, pulled the handle on the door, and flew out over Peter. She stumbled to the ground, and he tried to grab her to keep her from falling. She caught the open door and swung around it and took off toward the men. “My Petie!” she shouted. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” Pawson cursed, and Peter swung out onto the ground and chased his wife along the edge of the graves. The men heard them and stopped shovelling as they watched their approach. Pawson slammed the door, moved the car into gear, and drove along behind the pair. Mary slid on her knees into the edge of the grave. She cried out to Petie over and over in mournful sobs. Peter came up behind her and tried to help her up, but she refused to budge and fought him off. The soldiers stood quietly, some with shovels full, some ready to put their boot to the back of the one they held. They straightened to attention as Pawson approached. He circled Mary and Peter and gathered them to the opposite corner of the grave. Moments later, one fellow broke from the circle and skirted around the edge of the hole to Mary. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. We’ll get him for you,” he said as he crouched beside her. Mary pushed him away. She pointed at the partially covered body. “He moved.” “Which one, Mary?” Peter asked.

“Right there. His thumb moved.” Peter followed her gaze and saw the hand above the surface where the dirt was only inches thick. She tried to get down in the hole. “Right there. Listen to me. Right there!” “Ma’am. It’s how the bodies are laid. We haven’t covered them yet.” Peter saw movement, and his jaw dropped. Mary screamed and tried to get past the soldier. Peter launched himself into the dirt. Then one of the soldiers on the other side shouted that he saw something move, too, and three of them moved in from the other side. Peter dragged himself along the few hundred feet on his elbows, trembling with awareness of what lay beneath the pliable earth and intent on getting to the young soldier. He brushed away the dirt from the lad’s face. “It’s Petie,” he yelled. “My God, Mary, it’s Petie.” Hope, fear, and desperation collided in his voice. Peter grabbed his son’s hand and, in one motion, swung him up out of the dirt and over his shoulder. He crawled his way to the edge of the hole. The soldiers caught hold of them, but Peter refused to release his son. Mary clung to her husband as he pulled Petie into his arms and collapsed near the base of a tree. He cried then. He wailed into Petie’s hair as he embraced and gently swayed with his boy. Mary’s urgency penetrated his head as a flatbed truck stopped by his feet. “Peter, get him up here.” With renewed strength, Peter stood, carried his son, and surged backwards in across the planks of the truck bed to keep Petie in his arms. He propped himself against the cab as Mary collapsed beside them. She lovingly stroked Petie’s face and cried for him to hold on. A soldier guided Peter from the truck’s bed when they reached the hospital, and another helped Mary down. A commotion erupted all around them as Pawson rounded the truck at a run and shouted for everyone to clear the way. Peter strode into the tent and laid Petie on the stretcher while Mary fixed him in

place. “I love you, son,” Peter whispered in his ear. Petie stirred as he was brought into the inner sanctum of the hospital. Dr. Hayward burst through the door. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded as he brushed past the soldiers and confronted Peter and Mary. “How dare you ask,” Peter said ferociously. He grabbed Dr. Hayward by the lapels of his white coat. “How dare you ask . . . you almost killed my son!” Master Sergeant Pawson pushed himself between Peter and the doctor. “Mr. Nolan, you’re upset.” “Upset? This is not upset. This is livid—no. This is somewhere beyond livid and ready to kill someone.” Mary reached for his arm and pulled on his sleeve. “Peter. Don’t.” Every muscle in his neck and arms was tensed, but her simple touch calmed him. His arms went limp, and he dropped his hands to his sides as he drew in a great breath. Dr. Hayward fidgeted with his coat before straightening his collar. His red face drained to his original pallor. “I could have you arrested,” he growled. “Sir,” Pawson interjected. “We found his son. He was alive.” “What?” “Yes, sir.” Dr. Hayward stumbled backward. “That can’t be,” he stammered. “It can’t be.” Pawson explained what had transpired at the gravesite. Dr. Hayward thrust his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “Get me his records. I want to know how this happened,” he demanded to the room. Three people scurried away. Dr. Hayward approached Peter again under the watchful eyes of Pawson. He held out his hand. “It’s cold comfort to say I’m sorry, but I am sorry. I’ll get to

the bottom of this.” He kept his hand extended until Peter slowly reached out and shook it. “Now, if you’ll both come with me—” “We are not leaving,” Mary and Peter said in unison, cutting him off. “I was going to say, if you’ll both come with me, I’ll take you inside.” He moved toward the area where Petie had been taken. Mary and Peter moved to follow him, when Pawson stopped Dr. Hayward. “Sir, only medical personnel can enter.” “These two are doctors. They will be allowed in.” Mary and Peter followed the doctor through the tented archway. He led them to a sink and told them they might want to wash up. Peter looked at his hands and nodded. He and Mary fell into habit, soaping and scrubbing their hands, and pulled on white coats provided by Dr. Hayward. Petie was laid out on a cot surrounded by curtains, an intravenous in his arm. He’d been cleaned up save for a few specks of clay in his ear, which Mary gently wiped away as she caressed his face. “You listen to your mother, young man. You have Betsie waiting for you. Don’t you let her down.” She covered his hand with hers and crumpled into the chair beside the bed. Peter flanked him in a chair on the other side. “Can you when Petie was five or six and he wanted to learn to whistle?” Peter’s voice was low and languid. “He was determined. Every single day I sat with him outside the stable in the tall hay. He couldn’t get the knack of it at first, and I didn’t know how to do it, so I brought him to old Mr. Vince. He showed Petie how to whistle. Oh, he was so proud the day of your birthday when he could whistle along to the tune your mother taught you. I can still see his face bursting with pride.” He rubbed his eyes. “How could this have happened? If we hadn’t been here—I can’t even let myself think of what would have happened.” “We were here, Peter. We just have to pray now that Petie will come back to us.” Mary bowed her head and closed her eyes. She softly hummed like her mother used to do. It brought them both comfort. She pulled in closer and took Petie’s

hand in hers as she rested her elbows on the bed. The musical lilt drifted beyond the curtained quarters and silenced the restlessness in the adjacent cots. “Mrs. Nolan.” A nurse brushed Mary’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry to disturb you. A lad from Ireland is asking if that song is ‘The Harp That Once through Tara’s Halls.’ He said his mamma used to sing it for him.” “I have no idea,” Mary told the young woman. “It could be. My mother taught me the air of it but didn’t have the words. I’m sorry if I disturbed him.” “Oh, just the opposite. He thought he was in a dream or that the angels called him home. He said his pain has subsided. Please don’t stop,” the nurse went on as she saw Mary blush. “Either bit of brightness in this place is welcome.” Peter felt his son’s forehead and face. “Nurse, can you get Dr. Hayward?” She nodded and left. Mary pushed back her chair, and she and Peter took the blanket off their son. Petie’s thigh was swollen and red beneath his bandage. Dr. Hayward rushed in. “I need to get this dressing off of him.” He nodded, left, and returned moments later with a kit. He called out to the nurse to bring iodine. Peter cut the bandage and took the pan of water from the nurse and the bottle of iodine. She tried to edge in around the bed, but Mary protested. “I’ll do it,” she said. The nurse hesitated, but Dr. Hayward motioned for her to stand back. The doctor looked on as Peter and Mary cleaned the affected area. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I believe you really are a doctor.” Peter glanced at him over Mary’s shoulder. “He needs surgery. We can’t do it here.” “Amputations are left to surgeons in the operating rooms.” “This boy will not lose his leg,” Mary spat out as she turned on Dr. Hayward. “There’s something left in there that’s causing it to swell. It needs to be removed and the infection treated.” Dr. Hayward looked to Peter for confirmation.

“Mary’s right. We’ll do it here if we must.” “Now see here,” Dr. Hayward said. “This is still my hospital.” “This is our son,” Peter said. “And as far as your records show, the boy died yesterday.” Dr. Hayward relented. He began shouting orders to the nurse.

A few hours later, Petie was still running a fever. Mary asked the nurse if there was anywhere to get honey. She stared at Mary blankly at first, so Mary asked her again. The nurse nodded and left, returning later with a small jar of honey tucked in the pocket of her skirt. Mary and Peter stripped the bandage once again, and Mary coated the fresh wound with honey, tucking the sheet around Petie’s leg so the wound could get air. “What the blazes?” Dr. Hayward asked when he came to check on them. He rushed to the bed. “What have you done?” “It’s honey,” Peter said. Dr. Hayward threw up his hands and left. Evening set in, and the nurses changed shifts. “Hi, I’m Emma. Folks call me Birdie. I’ve brought you some food. You really must eat. I’ll stay with your boy. I promise.” The nurse pointed toward the dining tent. Peter stood and rubbed the small of his back and took Mary’s hand. “We should get something.” “You’ll stay with him?” “I will.” True to her word, the nurse was there when they returned. “His fever is easing,” she said. “My mom used honey on us when we were little.” She put her hand on Mary’s arm. “Worked every time.”

Mary took her seat near Petie. She fixed his pillow and stroked his hand. “Mrs. Nolan, if it’s not too much trouble, Liam’s been asking if you’d come to see him.” “Liam?” “He’s been here a few weeks. He hails from Ireland.” Mary looked at Peter, who nodded for her to go. She followed Birdie past several cots. Liam, a fellow not more than twenty, had a bandage wrapped around his head. It covered one eye and ear, and a bluish yellow bruise crept down his jawline and along his neck. Birdie told him Mary was there. The nurse pointed to her eyes and shook her head. “Begging your pardon, ma’am.” Liam reached out to Mary. She took his palm in hers, and the nurse sat in a chair. “Your tune made me lonesome for home. Would you mind letting me hear it again?” “I’d be happy to,” Mary said, taking a seat. Humming came easy to her. It was always a comfort. Mary closed her eyes and held on firmly to the young man’s hand. She imagined he was Petie in a foreign land asking a stranger to ease his suffering as she began. To her surprise, the young man had a rich baritone, and he sang a song she hadn’t heard before. It had the same melody her mother had taught her. His voice rose, and Mary followed his lead. She felt the presence of others gathering around them but kept her eyes closed as they finished the song. Cheers and applause greeted them both. Mary opened her eyes to see the young man was crying. “Thank you,” he whispered. “You’ve revived me.” Mary patted his hand and stroked his jaw. “You’re welcome, young man. You have a beautiful voice. You’ll have all the young girls chasing you when this is all over.” She returned to Petie. Her husband smiled at her. “Liam is it,” he said. “I think

you have an irer.” Petie stirred, and Mary looked up when a faint whistling on an expelled breath caught her attention. Petie’s lips were trying to form an “O” shape, and he blew again to make a faint sound. Mary scrambled from the chair and placed her hands on each cheek. “Oh, Petie,” she said. “We’re here.”

Dr. Hayward was taken aback. “I have to say, I thought I’d have to get you both removed from here.” He shook his head slowly. “Honey? I won’t ask where you got it, but you’ve left me with something—actually, a lot—to think about.” The doctor examined Petie, who, though groggy, was awake for short periods. “You’re a lucky young man. That’s something to say in the middle of a war. You owe your life to your parents.” Petie’s grin was slow to form. “I believe you’re going to be all right, son. A severe concussion from the explosion and shrapnel in your leg.” Dr. Hayward laid his hand on Petie’s foot and squeezed it before he left. “Is there any news?” Mary asked the doctor when he returned for his next rounds. “I’m afraid not. I check with the field hospitals every day.” “Poor James, Peter. He’s out there somewhere.”

Two days later, Petie spoke James’s name. At least Peter thought that’s what he’d said. He didn’t want to mention it to Mary. She was already sad enough. Birdie set up a place for them to lie down, and they took turns staying with their son. On the third day, Peter was sure he said “James.”

“What about James, son?” Peter helped him sip water. “James brought me here.” “You came here on a transport from the field hospital. It wasn’t James.” “James carried me.” “James carried you?” Petie nodded and drifted off. Peter asked for Master Sergeant Pawson. He requested information about Petie being brought to the first hospital. Pawson nodded and left. Soon, he returned with news for him. “According to the notes on his file, he was carried in by a young soldier from the same regiment. Not a medic. He brought your son in, made sure the medical team had assessed his wounds, and then vanished. I’m assuming to go to the battlefield. Witnesses from his Company said that young Nolan here had been shot and this soldier raced across the mud at great personal risk, leaping over felled soldiers, weaving to avoid bullets. He threw Nolan over his shoulder and raced to the safety of the trench. I don’t have the name of this young soldier.” “Petie says it was James,” said Peter. “His younger brother.” “I see,” said Pawson. “I also have information here that James Nolan answered roll call—” He looked at the paper from Petie’s ission and compared the dates with those on James’s information. “—the next day, but not any day since. He made it to the Front. However, as Dr. Hayward mentioned, he has not been brought to any of the field hospitals. We have asked and have given his description in case he’s not able to answer for himself. You understand I didn’t want to give you this information in front of your wife.” Peter nodded. “Please keep looking.” “Yes, sir,” Pawson said. “I must also inform you that eight other of that regiment did not answer roll call on the same morning that James missed and have not answered since. They have not been ed as hospitalized or deceased, either.” “What does that mean for James? Will you continue to look?”

“Of course. We will reach out to the enemy and inquire about prisoners of war. You understand that is a formality for the most part. If we find no record of James, he will be declared missing in action after four months.” Peter debated whether to tell Mary. He didn’t want to get her hopes up, but he also didn’t want her to sit here with the unreasonable expectation that James would show up to see Petie. Petie was going to Liverpool to convalesce, and this hospital was moving to be nearer to the fighting. They only remained at the hospital encampment at the favour of Dr. Hayward. He was transferring in a week. To his best estimate, they had three days left on Belgian or French soil. Mary returned long after the master sergeant left. Peter’s internal debate was raging when Petie mentioned James again. Now Peter had to tell her what Pawson had told him. Mary was distraught, but he didn’t regret telling her. They continued to ask the new soldiers coming for treatment whether they had heard of James Nolan. The answer was mostly all the same—no, or they’d heard of him but didn’t know him, or they knew him but hadn’t seen him in a month or more. There were too many young men in this awful war. They had to hope and pray that James would come home.

Despite Mary’s protests, they set sail for Liverpool at the end of the week. Petie was recuperating well. He was awake most of the day but slept fitfully at night. “Mother, Father, I’m not going home,” Petie said. “I ed the war, and I intend to see it through.” “You’ve already given enough. We’ve already given enough,” Mary said. She squeezed her eyes shut as if to still the face of James in her thoughts. A sudden rush of emotion overtook her. “We could make a recommendation that you be discharged,” she finished quietly. “Mother, I’m a grown man. I’m almost twenty years old. It’s not you who says what I do. It hasn’t been for a long time,” he said as he stared at her. “Mom, Betsie is here in London. We plan to marry after the war. I’m staying on this side of the ocean as long as she is over here, too.” Peter laid his hand on Mary’s forearm and gave her a gentle nudge. She gazed at

him, and he shook his head. Mary opened her mouth to speak again, but she couldn’t find the words. “I love you, Mother. Besides, I can be your eyes and ears over here and will keep an eye out for James.” Mary swallowed hard. “Tell us again what he said, what he did. Anything. I know you already told us, and more than once, as you’ll point out, but I really need to hear it again. Just once more.” Petie gave her details of the war and his encounters with James. When he was shot, he ed James bending over him, bullets whistling around them, and then James picking him up and running. He didn’t anything after that until he woke to the sound of her song and thought he was home. After Petie went back to sleep, Mary nestled in beside Peter. “I telling you one time that it would be a blessing if young Elsie Ryan was gone because she’d been burned so badly. I meant it then. I wasn’t inclined to think like you, that we’d do everything we possibly could. If you weren’t there, I wouldn’t have done everything I could. How selfish of me. Now here I am, condemning the very thing I would have done myself. Do you think they stopped caring? Did they do all they could?” Peter ran his thumb over his chin. “I think they try to save the ones who have the best chance and work their way backwards. Is that fair? I don’t know which side weighs the fairness. You cared about Elsie. Maybe I cared too much about propriety and should have let her go. What would Elsie say if she had a choice? There’s no right or wrong in this, Mary. I think they did their best. “I have come to discover that you, my dear wife, see what you believe,” Peter said as he pulled Mary into his arms. “You didn’t see Elsie as a young girl burned—you saw her suffering and her being better off. However, I believed what I saw—a patient with burns—and I was a doctor and had to treat her for burns until she was untreatable. Is either way wrong? I doubt that very much. We are human, Mary. It’s as simple as that.” Mary leaned into him. “Over here, in this war, I don’t think they have the luxury of being either. They treat and move on, treat and move on. As we’ve seen, they treat as quickly as possible to get to the next. I don’t know if I could do that. I’m

glad we came, Peter. I have to stop thinking about the possibilities.”

44

Present day

Thursday began in chaos. More trailers arrived, parcels were dropped off, and food preparation for Saturday’s party got under way. Darlene had finished the last journal from Peter and had read some of Mary’s as well. The last one Mary wrote troubled her. She was sad that they had stopped writing after the war. Mary had attempted to write something, evidenced by the fact that the last pages had been torn from the book. Darlene had learned so much yet somehow not enough. The thought reminded Darlene to check her email. She checked it and noticed one with the subject “The estate of Emma Carter,” sent from the email address they had found in DNA Strands. Her hands were shaking as she hit the button to open the content. The email was from a law firm representing victims of Whispering Willows. Darlene steeled herself. She thought of her mother as a little girl, and all the abuse-related scandals she’d heard about orphanages, and whispered, “Please don’t let it be true that anything bad happened to you, Mom.” But there was nothing really informative. The lady from the firm simply said there was a package for the estate of Emma Carter, and they wanted a mailing address. Darlene let out a deep breath. She replied and shut off her laptop. Her thoughts were momentarily abuzz with possibilities. What kind of package was her mother expecting? What information had she requested? These questions were quickly forgotten when she reached the busy kitchen. Stephen’s mother, Karen, cooked at her own house, and according to Rose, Tiffany went to help her. Rose and company fried, roasted, steamed, grilled, and baked at Ammie’s and used the trailers as overflow for their ovens and fridges.

Darlene stayed with Ammie and helped prepare the daily meals for the people who were around. They laughed and talked and had numerous conversations going on simultaneously. Darlene was in her glee. This was not something that she had ever encountered before, but she liked it. Working at Ray’s had pockets of this, but this was a different, friendlier noisiness. She was glad that Tiffany was getting the full meal deal of what a large family looked like and felt free enough to come and go like everyone else here. Tiffany and Stephen dropped off sandwiches and cookies for Friday’s lunch. Tiffany bounced in, ponytail flying and a smile from ear to ear. “Mom, this is so exciting. It’s busier at Karen’s than any day at Ray’s.” “Ray’s?” asked Rose. “Mom and I and Grandma have worked there for years. Well, not me for years, but you know what I mean. This will be my sixth year, though.” “Wow, you started working young.” “It was mostly helping out Grandma at first, but Ray Senior paid me, anyway. I think he was sweet on Grandma, just like Ray Junior is sweet on Mom.” “Ooo, tell me more,” Rose said. Darlene put up her hands. “Nuh, uh. We have work to do. No gossiping in the kitchen. I can assure you it’s nothing more than gossip.” Tiffany laughed. “I’ll be back after supper. I’m going to eat with Karen and Stephen. See you later.” Like a tornado, she left as quickly as she’d arrived. “Is she always like that?” Rose asked. “No, my Tiff is a worrywart. She works when she can. She became an adult too fast.” Darlene felt the sting of Rose’s comment about Tiffany working so young.

“It was certainly no harm to her,” Ammie said. “Look at her. She’s thriving here.” “I’m happy for her,” Darlene said. “You don’t know what this place, and you all, have done for her. Only for my hands are in this dough, I would hug you.” Ammie laughed as she rocked in her chair. “She’s a likable child, that’s for sure. You did a good job with that one.” “It couldn’t be easy raising a child by yourself in a big city,” Rose said. “It’s not like here. Folks can help you if you’re in hard times.” “I had my mother, who, as you know, did the same thing. Mom was a godsend. I hope I can be as good to Tiff as Mom was to me.” “I don’t think you have to worry,” Ammie said. “She wouldn’t be like she is without some influence.” Darlene blushed. “Are you coming to the hall with us?” Rose asked. “We are going over after supper to decorate.” “Are you going, Aunt Ammie?” “No, that’s for you young folks. I’ll stay here, perfectly content. Soon enough, I’ll be over there.” “I can stay with you,” Darlene offered. “Indeed you won’t. I’m completely fine here. You go on and have a good time.” “It’s decorating. How can it be a good time?” “It’s decorating like you’ve never seen before,” Rose said. Sure enough, they gathered in the hall at 7:30 p.m. They washed the dishes, spread the tables out, and hoisted a few decorations just before the band started. At 11:30 p.m., Darlene wanted to check on Ammie while the party was still going strong.

“Friday night we get right down to business,” Rose said. “There’s no need to go back. Mom is fine.” “I know, but my old Boston bones are not built like yours. I’m going as much for myself as I am to check on Aunt Ammie.” “You’d better be rested for Saturday night. We’re not letting you leave early that night.” Darlene chuckled the whole way home. Home.

Friday, a hairdresser came to see Ammie. The others baked and cooked furiously. They even prepared lunch for the next day. Darlene had never seen anything like this before. Hundreds came and went, some to say they would be there Saturday night, some to say hello, and some to get something to eat. Darlene was getting to know a few names and faces, but there were too many to keep track. She asked Tiffany to get birthday wrapping paper. They had to pick up a cake in nearby Placentia, so it worked out perfectly. They’d bought a card in Boston, but she asked Tiffany to look for something a little more personal than the generic one they had. After supper, she returned to the hall. There was no band tonight—it was strictly preparation. There was music, though, and everyone was upbeat and smiling and laughing. It was quite enjoyable, Darlene thought as she walked back to the house with Rose around 10:00 p.m.

Chaos ramped up a notch on Saturday. The bathrooms were in constant use with people showering. Tiffany went off to Stephen’s to get ready. She said she’d be there before the party. “It’s not a party, Mom. It’s a time,” Tiffany said. “That’s what Stephen says to call it. He said only tourists call it a party.”

“Well, see you before the time, then.” Darlene helped Ammie into her sparkly dress around 5:00 p.m. She pulled on her red flowing dress and added makeup just before they had to leave. “Look at you,” Rose said. Tiffany came in with Stephen behind her. “Mom, you look beautiful. Oh, Aunt Ammie, look at you!” “Three beauties,” Stephen said. “I assume I’m the third,” Rose said. “Four—I didn’t see you there,” Stephen answered quickly. “There’s four beauties.” They all laughed. Rose took Ammie while Stephen drove Tiffany and Darlene to the hall. There were at least 300 people there. Some were already inside and seated, and a crowd milled around on the deck while others were filing in when they got there. There were cheers and shouts to Ammie as she made her way inside. Darlene ed the end of the line with the others, and before long, they were all in the building. Children were running around, parents were following, and there was a lineup at the table as people asked where they were seated. Darlene protested when she learned that she was at the table with Ammie. “We don’t want to hear tell of any arguments. That’s what Ammie wants.” “But she has sons, daughters, grandchildren . . .” “She has you,” Rose said. “We’ll be right there, Mom,” Tiffany said as she pointed to where Karen was seated. Darlene’s stomach churned as she sidled between the wall and the table to make it to the chair next to Ammie. She dreaded the look on the faces of her family, but all looked up and smiled—genuine smiles—as she ed them. “Aunt Ammie, I shouldn’t be up here,” she whispered.

“Well, where else would you be?” “Maybe down with Tiffany, at that table.” “If you want to sit there, go ahead,” Ammie said. “But you’ll have to take this chair. There’s not much room there.” “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” “You’re part of this family whether you can acknowledge it or not. Look around. We have all acknowledged it.” “Oh, Aunt Ammie, I just don’t want to put anyone out who would have been at this table.” “Nobody, and I mean nobody, is put out.” Before too long, Ammie’s grandson, Jamie, asked everyone to take their seats. “I’m the emcee again this year, so you know how it goes.” Everyone cheered, and he told them to quiet down, so they all laughed again. “They torment him like that every year,” Ammie said as she leaned over and spoke to Darlene. Faces she didn’t recognize brought plated food from the kitchen. “We get some help from Colinet to serve the food. That way nobody will have to miss their supper.” Darlene nodded. The meal was served, and a low murmur rose in the room, interspersed with laughter here and there. Darlene chatted with Ammie on one side and her son, Nelson, on the other as she ate. Tea and coffee was served, and Jamie stood up again. “Let’s get the formalities out of the way,” he said. “At the stroke of midnight tonight, Amelia Nolan Power turns a hundred and one years old. We couldn’t celebrate here together last year for her hundredth, so we’ll have to do double duty this year.” A cheer went up. Everyone stood and clapped. When they sat back down,

Ammie stood and nodded around the room. Her thanks were inaudible as the crowd rose again and clapped for her. Soon, Ammie was invited to cut her cake, accompanied by her great-great-great-grandson, Charlie, who turned one the next day. Ammie returned after pictures were taken. “As tradition holds,” Jamie said, “we have our Nolan-Power medallions and Tshirts for the newest of our family. This year we welcomed Taylor.” Taylor’s parents brought her up to get her medallion and T-shirt that said John’s Pond Crowd, John’s Pond Proud. Then there was Leyla, followed by Porter and Charlie. “Next we have Darlene Carter and Tiffany Carter.” Ammie nudged her. “He called you and Tiffany,” she said. Darlene looked wide-eyed at Tiffany. She was beckoning for her mother to her. Darlene fumbled to get up from her chair. She was in a daze when she ed Jamie at the podium. “We shouldn’t be getting these,” she said to Tiffany under her breath, and then to Jamie. Jamie ignored her and placed the medals around their necks. “With these comes great responsibility,” he said. “Raise your hands and recite after me.” Tiffany raised her hand and pushed her mother’s up to the laughter of the crowd. “I—say your name,” Jamie said, “will promise to be here every year for Ammie’s birthday for as long as I live.” Tiffany and Darlene repeated the promise in turn. “Now you have to accept these T-shirts as part of the ceremony. We all wear them tomorrow at the cleanup.” They took their T-shirts and returned to their seats. Ammie put her hand over on Darlene’s arm. “You’re definitely one of us now,” she said. “You got the T-shirt.” She laughed.

“Aunt Ammie, this is too much.” “It’s a T-shirt, Darlene, and a five-dollar medal. How can that be too much?” Ammie onished. “It’s the symbolism.” She stared at Ammie, her eyes threatening to overflow. “And the promise.” “We don’t take this lightly,” Ammie said. “Exactly.” “What I mean is that we wouldn’t give it to just anyone. You are one of us. Every single person here believes that. With the exception of possibly you.” “Oh, Aunt Ammie, I don’t mean any disrespect. I’m worried, that’s all.” “About what? The worst can happen is the DNA lied and you’ll be like Eddy or Catherine. Their families are welcomed here as one of ours. Mary and Peter welcomed them—we welcome them. Somewhere in there, you are tangled up. You’re welcome here. You’re one of ours. You need to let go of whatever is holding you back and be one of ours.” “I want to be.” And she did. She just didn’t know how. “Let me ask you what you thought would happen when you came here.” “I don’t know. I guess I thought we’d stay in a hotel, come to see you, then go away until the party. Then go home. Maybe do some touristy things. I don’t honestly know. But not this.” “Is this so bad?” “This is perfect.” “Well, enjoy, and stop overthinking it. Let happen whatever happens.” “You are so wise and so right. Besides, I don’t want to spoil your party.” “My time, child. My time,” Ammie teased.

Darlene laughed. “Your time. I forgot.” Next, Ammie received provincial and federal certificates and lastly, one from the Queen of England. Darlene watched as thoughts churned in her head. “Now, ain’t I something?” “I do believe you are.” Darlene hugged her. “You are something to me.” She squeezed harder. She loved this woman. A weight of gigantic proportion shifted inside her. There didn’t need to be a reason for it. She stifled a gasp. Tiffany had it right all along. She let her heart lead her home. It wasn’t long before the band came to life and the dance started. Ammie stayed until after midnight so they could all sing her happy birthday. Darlene walked home at 3:00 a.m., and the party was still going strong. She got up the next morning with Ammie. “You’re one hundred and one years old.” “I feel it today,” Ammie said. Darlene made her tea and toast, and they sat together in the stillness of the morning. “This won’t last long,” Darlene said. The words hadn’t left her mouth before Tiffany and Stephen came in, followed by Karen. “We’re not too late,” Tiffany said. “We wanted to have breakfast with you.” “Late night?” Darlene asked her. “I checked on you this morning.” “We haven’t gone to bed yet. We just left the hall and went to pick up Karen before coming back here.” “It certainly is a late night, then.” “I’ll have a nap later.” “Me too,” said Stephen. “Me three,” said Karen. “I went home at four. You had a wonderful time, as

usual.” “We have a trunk full of presents,” Stephen said. “We’ll bring them in.” “Wait until you eat,” Ammie said. “They’re not going anywhere.” “Speaking of presents,” Darlene said, getting up to go upstairs, “I’ve got a couple for you.” Darlene brought down two packages. Ammie opened the big one first. She stroked her hand along the stitching of the top quilt, a rainbow mosaic trimmed with a sky blue. Underneath was a quilt with more subdued tones. “Grandma made them,” Tiffany said. Darlene smiled and told them all about the time her mother had decided she was old and took up quilting. “We still don’t know how or why she associated quilting with being old, but that was Mom. We thought they would make a great gift.” “We have a dozen more at home,” Tiffany said. “Poor Grandma, she went all out when she started.” “I will cherish these. I’ll put the blue one on the bed tonight. I’ll put the other one on you, Darlene.” “I’ll smother with the heat, but I’ll take it.” She paused and stared at them, unblinking. “I think this is the first time I talked about Mom that didn’t make me cry.” Ammie reached over and squeezed her hand. “These are beautiful gifts. But that is the most precious of all.” “There’s more.” Ammie tore the paper from a smaller gift that held the colourized pictures of her father, Peter, and her uncle James before the war. She laid her hand on her father’s face and closed her eyes. “I am so grateful to have such fond memories of my father and mother. Thank you. This is so thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome, Aunt Ammie. And thank you.”

Later that day, they donned their bright blue John’s Pond Crowd, John’s Pond Proud T-shirts and helped the others clean up the hall. “Many hands make light work,” Rose said as she put the last plate in the cupboard an hour later. On the way back, Darlene saw the banner on the house proclaiming Ammie’s one hundredth birthday. The zero had a slash through it and was replaced by the number one. The band from last night, who had just picked up their equipment from the hall, were setting up on the lawn, and there were blue shirts everywhere. “Party all day,” Rose said with a smile. “Time all day?” Darlene asked. “There’s a time all day, for sure.”

45

“I have something for you,” Ammie said as she ed them at the kitchen table for a cup of tea. “You have given me—us—so much,” Darlene said. “There is no way to repay you for your kindness, your wisdom, and your love.” “There is one thing left. Your answers.” “How? We’ve read everything there is. We’ve searched through records. There is nowhere else to look. I’m afraid who we are will always be a mystery.” “There are a few final journal entries. My grandmother handed them to me upon her deathbed. She made me vow that I wouldn’t share it with my mother. Grandmother told me I could read it when she died but not before, as it would break her oath. She said I could share it when the time was right. That time never came, until now. Mine are the only eyes that have seen this other than my grandmother, Mary. I never told my mother, and I only read it once before I hid it.” Ammie asked Darlene to get her Bible from her bedside table. Darlene returned with the book. Ammie opened it flat and used her butter knife to push several yellowed papers from the cover lining. The uneven edge foretold that these were the missing pages from Mary’s last journal. Ammie closed her eyes. “Would you mind reading them aloud, Darlene? These old eyes are not what they used to be.” “Of course not, Aunt Ammie.” With trembling fingers, Darlene picked up the pages and began to read.

“July 1919,

I have grieved for my James with such profound sadness and guilt that I fear my soul has ruptured. I still wonder if he’s dead at all, but what other possibilities could there be? I carry a guilt that is mine alone for not being able to stop him from leaving and for not being there when he drew his last breath. Sometimes I wake in the morning after dreaming of my James. The curtains dance at the will of the breeze through the open window. It carries the smell of him the countless times he roamed the beach watching the boats, or when he helped his father carry wood, or when he stomped the bog from his boots after picking berries. All happy memories. I forget for the moment that he is gone. It is the most peaceful sense, and I want it to go on forever. Then the reality closes in. It is not that I want to be at peace, but because I want to be in a world where he still walks, and breathes, and lives a life that he was worthy of, and I’d gladly suffer to see him in it. I thank God for my dear friend Erith. She had known that pain and survived, and she is helping me get through mine. She tells me that death is not about the dead but about the living. I’m beginning to understand that, but understanding is a long way from accepting. Peter says it will take time for it to be different. I think it will take time for this pain not to be such a constant. I forget it’s not the way it was before. I’m grateful for the short years I got to spend with my son. I will have to be satisfied with that. I still pray that there will be a miracle, but I know that is so for millions of others on both sides of that damnedified line. The wars of those in charge are borne by the hearts of the grieving mothers and fathers. I’m distracted from my grief by this second war of a different sort. A horrible flu has taken hold of the world, raging uncaring of who it claims. My darling Peter and I have been waging a never-ending battle to quash its spread. In our little world here, we are finally gaining ground on it, but mine is not the only empty heart in our beloved place. Even this horrible flu has made its way here, and many are without family because of it. I pray that we never see the likes of it again. Once is one time too many. I’ve witnessed too much suffering in my own agonized state. There is one bright consolation in all of this. My darling Petie is recovering nicely in Boston. His letters are cheerier than usual. It must be his new bride. Betsie will take good care of my boy. I miss them both. Danol and Erith will take

us to see them when this pandemic is finally over and we can travel again.”

“December 1919, I haven’t cared to write much since the war. I make an entry now after hearing good news from Petie and Betsie. They will have a baby in the early spring. Maybe that’s what I need. Eddy and Annie have two now. I miss them so much and hope to visit them in Toronto soon. David’s children visit often from St. John’s. Catherine has followed her heart to another shore. I don’t know when she’ll be back. Peter is grieving her going as, like the children said growing up, she was his favourite, though he denies it. I can’t wait for Petie and Betsie’s return. I haven’t seen them in so long, and they bring the promise of new lives to my weary heart. I’ve made a decision that pains me greatly. I must leave James to rest. My constant thoughts are keeping his ghost wandering with other lost souls. Peter has ordered a monument, and we will place it in the spring by Mom and Da. My heart doesn’t need a reminder that he’s gone, but the stone will be a place to go with his memory. He deserves that. He wouldn’t want the blame of me not being present in the lives of the children. The wildflowers can bloom around him in the spring, and I will visit him often. I will tell the children stories of his antics. Rest in peace, my little James. You’ll always be my baby.”

“July 1920, We leave now for Boston to escort Peter and Betsie home. Their little Amelia will come with them, but her twin sister did not survive. Betsie is devastated. I know that feeling. She has known it too young. I must take care of her so she can take care of little Ammie.”

“My God, Aunt Ammie, did you know you were a twin?” Tiffany asked softly. Darlene’s face was streaked with tears, and Tiffany reached for her hand. Ammie shook her head. “Not until I read this after my grandmother died.”

“Your mother didn’t tell you?” “No. It wasn’t something anyone did back then. Those were hard times. She had children to look out for. She couldn’t dwell on her loss.” “This is so beautiful. Mary is pained and short in her writing. Not at all like the other entries.” “Keep reading,” Ammie said softly. “There’s more.” “Mom, do you want me to finish it?” Darlene nodded. They both looked at Ammie, and she nodded. Darlene reached for Ammie’s hand while Tiffany smoothed out the pages.

“June 1927, I dare to write this in hopes that by writing it, I will prove myself to be of foolish mind. My worst fears have come home to roost. They might even be beyond fears that I could have ever imagined. Danol and Erith came to see Peter and me after a return trip from Boston. He brought home a Boston newspaper that showcased the Boston Park Hotel opening in March. The first office to open in the building was that of Ayre and Sons Law Firm. In the picture, David Ayre was front and centre with Bridie, and they were flanked by his three sons and a small girl. Danol ordered the picture from the paper and brought it back. I swear the girl is the spitting image of our dear sweet Ammie. Danol confronted David, who told him that Bridie had had the child late in life and that they were thrilled to finally get a little girl. They called her Clara. Danol doesn’t have ties to the police department like he used to have and could get no more information. He and Peter planned a kidnapping, but Erith and I talked them out of it. We both acknowledged that in the end, we wouldn’t have stopped them. All four of us suspect that this child is Ammie’s twin. We have no way to prove it. Bridie will claim that some cousins do look alike. We tried to conceive of ways that she could have done it. David would have to know. He’d know if his wife were with child. But knowing Bridie, she’d fix that somehow. Peter acknowledged they had given a lot of money to the hospital and

were friends with the head doctor there. In the end, we believed it of Bridie but not of David, and that was the deciding factor that kept Danol and Peter from going. Besides that, with Betsie and Peter having already been through the most horrific traumas of war, a failed attempt to prove that Clara is Ammie’s twin would destroy the two of them. I, knowing the terrible ache of being without a child and what this news would do to Betsie, will carry the suspicion to my grave for the sakes of our children. We believe the little girl will be well cared for, so we won’t pursue actions on those grounds alone. I hope we can sustain the will to not go to her. Bridie will never be forgiven for what she’s done. My greatest hope and prayer is that someday the truth will be found out and everything will be set right. God help us all.

“That’s it. That’s the end of it,” Tiffany said as she laid the paper on the table. “This is so sad. There are places where the lettering is blurred. I believe it’s tear stains on the paper from years ago.” “They might be mine,” Ammie said. “I cried when I read what she’d written, because I knew I had family out there somewhere whom I believed I would never have a chance to meet.” “Like us,” Tiffany said sadly before realization set in. “Like us!” she shouted. “Like us, Mom! Like us!” She jumped up from the chair, grabbed Stephen, and swung him around. “Nana, could this be true?” Nikki took the papers from the table and scanned the last entry. “This is certainly Mary’s handwriting.” “DNA doesn’t lie,” Ammie said. “That’s what somebody here said. Mary’s prayer was answered.” Darlene ran from the room and bolted up the stairs. She grabbed her mother’s urn and rushed back. “I don’t want Mom to miss this,” she said. “This is what she wanted.” “Now,” Nikki interrupted their revelry, “you two ladies can accept the fact that

you are part of this family, or you can dig some more.” Tiffany held up her hands. “I have what I need right here,” she said. “What about you, Mom?” Darlene put her arms around Ammie’s neck. “What say you, Great-Aunt Ammie from North Harbour, St. Mary’s Bay? Can you accept two snobby tourists from Boston as your kin?” “I love two snobby kids from Boston. If you fit that description, I’m sure I could consider it. And, well, DNA doesn’t lie.” “I don’t know about the kid part, but I’m so glad that Mom found all of you.” “I understand this must be hard for you. We have always had family around and take all this—not really for granted, but for granted in a sense of it is what it always has been,” Ammie said softly. “That’s not the case for you. You’ve had to look for your family, look for a place to belong. I hope you found it here.” “Aunt Ammie, we have more than found it. Lots of people are connected by DNA, but you have shown us what it is to be connected by family,” Darlene said as she wiped at a tear. “I’ve come to think that this is not what Mom wanted for herself, but what she wanted for us more than anything. I see the difference this has made for Tiffany, like she will see the difference it made for me.” “Why don’t you leave your mother’s ashes here with us?” Ammie asked softly. “That way you’ll have a place to come back to.” “I can’t leave her here forever,” Darlene said. “Your mother is right here,” Ammie said as she pointed to Darlene’s heart. “You will carry her forever and wherever you go. that.” “Mom, you’re using Grandma’s ashes as a punishment for something you think you’ve done. She wouldn’t want that. You know that in your heart. Like Mary wrote, a hundred years ago, she couldn’t be with James when he died, but she could let him rest. You have to let Grandma rest, for your sake.” Darlene scooped her mother’s urn from the table. She brought it reverently to her lips, kissed it lightly, and stared at it. She squeezed her eyes tight and pursed her

lips as she slowly reached toward Ammie. She released a groan from somewhere deep down and pulled her elbows to her sides. Every muscle in her tensed as she fought to let go. Her mother’s face appeared in the blank space that she’d created. She was smiling. Darlene opened her eyes and pushed her open palms forward. “Yours for safekeeping. Like Mary entrusted you with the secret of our beginnings, I’m entrusting Mom to you, as family who helped us unlock that mystery. And as family who welcomed us without knowing anything other than we had a family connection.” Ammie delicately took the offering. She stretched out her arms, and Darlene rushed into her embrace. Darlene cried until she could cry no more while Ammie consoled her. Tiffany ed them. Ammie pulled her into the crook of her arm and let her cry, too. Tiffany was the first to break away. “We’re breaking all of Ammie’s rules. No tears at the table. We’ve failed miserably at that one,” she said as she tried to compose herself and wiped at her tears. Stephen reached for her, and she went easily into his embrace. Darlene chuckled amid her tears and pulled away from Ammie. She took Ammie’s warm and aged hands, folded them over her mother’s urn, and covered them with her own. “She is in my heart, and like Mary and Peter did for James, maybe she needs a stone so she can rest. What better place to do that than in a family plot? We’ll have to come back to do that. If that’s okay?” “No, it’s not okay any longer,” Ammie said matter-of-factly. “It’s expected from now on.” She nodded at Darlene. “Don’t let this old woman down.” “I won’t. I promise.” “This has been so exciting,” Nikki said, drying her eyes with a tissue. “Please come home for Christmas. Don’t wait until next summer.” “Will there be a boil-up?” Tiffany asked. “Something like that. Mostly it’s shed parties in the winter. But there’s always

mummers.” “Mummers?” “You’ll have to come back to find out.” “Shed parties or shed times?” Darlene asked. She nodded—she was finally getting the concept. “A time in the shed, a.k.a. shed party. We use both for that,” Nikki said with a wink. Darlene looked at Tiffany. She had blossomed in the last few weeks. What a gift her mother had given them. Darlene closed her eyes and ed the last time she’d had coffee with her mother at Ray’s. She grinned. It was the second time her mother’s memory made her smile. “We’ll make it work,” Darlene said.

The next day, they said their tearful goodbyes in the kitchen. Nikki commented on their purple luggage. “It’s violet,” Darlene said. “Mom bought that. She said violet symbolized mystery and the future. I don’t know if she knew the future would happen without her or that she’d be the one to put us on the path to resolve the mystery of who we were.” She smiled wryly. “Though I guess we didn’t really do that.” “Your mother’s persistence gave me proof that I had a twin.” Ammie shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. “That was on my mind since Grandma Mary entrusted me with the secret. It solved a mystery for me.” “We don’t know what happened and probably never will. I can’t believe I’m even saying that or that I’m okay with that,” Darlene said as she grabbed for Ammie’s hand and smiled. She reached for Tiffany. “Unresolved or not, we know that you are family, and that’s what matters. We’re definitely okay with that.” “And before any of the rest of you go asking why I didn’t say anything before,”

Ammie said as she looked around the room, “it was Grandma Mary’s secret entrusted to me. I didn’t see any good that could come out of it by telling.” She reached out and stroked Tiffany’s hair. “Seeing young Tiffany here, the spit of Grandma Mary, proved she was right, though.” Tiffany hugged Ammie, then wiped at her tears. “But this one here,” Ammie said as she coaxed Darlene into her embrace, “she was a bit more stubborn. She wasn’t about to take this old woman’s word for it.” “Oh, Aunt Ammie, I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry, child. You needed the truth, and I believe somehow Grandma Mary knew that day would come. In the end, it was my grandparents who solved it,” Ammie said. “Grandma Mary was so certain, she wrote it down, knowing it would be important sometime. And it was.” Stephen honked the horn, and they all broke Ammie’s rule as tears ensued.

On the plane to Boston, Tiffany said, “I’m thinking about getting a student visa and applying to Memorial University in January.” Darlene swallowed hard. “Is it a long process?” “What? No ‘Don’t go, Tiffany’?” she asked sardonically. She stared at her mother’s blank expression. “I think I’m disappointed.” “I think you should stay home with me,” Darlene said flatly. “That’s what I’d like to say.” “That’s it?” Tiffany’s eyes bulged, and her face flushed. They stared at each other before Darlene lowered her head. She watched her finger swing to and fro on the lip of the plastic cup on her tray table. “No, Tiffany, that’s not ‘it.’ My stomach is heaving, my brain is screaming no, and my heart is aching. So, that’s not ‘it.’” Darlene spoke slowly and softly and air-quoted both times. “I knew this day was coming. I’d like you to stay home forever. But that’s not my job. My job is to get you to this point. My job is to

love you enough and trust you enough not to interfere.” Tiffany leaned and rested her head on Darlene’s shoulder. “I love that I’m your job. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have it.” “Really?” Darlene asked as she pulled back to see her daughter’s face. “Of course, Mom.” Tiffany straightened in the seat and eyed her mother. “You’re serious?” “Well, if you had a mom and dad and didn’t have to work so hard, you might have had an easier life. I know you’re only young, but you’re only young once.” “Every kid in school was jealous of me. I had a grandma who took care of me instead of strangers, I got to go to bingo, my mom and grandma showed up for all the school plays. I had money to buy my own things in high school. I was the envy of everyone who mattered.” “Oh, Tiff. Really?” Tiffany nodded slowly, and Darlene hugged her. “You make me so proud.” “Mom, you’re young, you’re beautiful, you have lots of life to live and love to give. Don’t write yourself off.” Tiffany reached inside the neck of her sweatshirt and pulled out a chain. She ran her fingers along the silver links until she touched a piece of white line. “Stephen went to fourteen different little stores in fourteen different little communities, driving hundreds of miles, to find this old-fashioned twine like Peter Nolan gave Mary Rourke. He said it had to be just right. He asked me to wear this so I would him. I like him, Mom. I like him a lot.” Darlene listened and struggled to keep from crying. “If I can’t get into Memorial University or I can’t get a student visa, Stephen’s also applying to Boston U in January, as am I. We want to see where this goes. We’ll see what happens at Christmas. Then we have to bury Grandma. Aunt Ammie no longer needs air quotes because she is our actual aunt, and she won’t live forever. I want to go back as often as I can so I get to know our family. It’s exciting to be part of something so big.”

“That it is. I have some reflecting to do, too. I can work from anywhere. Not that I’m going to follow you, but I might just follow you, Tiffany.” “I’m going to take as many shifts as I can at Ray’s. I like working there. So many around, it reminds me of home.” She smiled tenderly then. “Maybe you can come have coffee more than just on nights that I work. Who knows? Maybe you’ll hit it off with Ray Junior.” “Maybe. I’ll consider it.” They hugged once more and prepared for landing.

Darlene made supper for Tiffany, who had an early shift at Ray’s. Despite Tiffany’s encouragement for her mother to go there for tea, Darlene refrained. “If Ray Junior waited for me this long, he can wait until next weekend,” she said. “Oh, next weekend. I’ll tell him you’ll be there.” “Don’t you dare, Tiff. I’m warning you.” “It’s a joke, Mom. Well, maybe.” She hurried out the door before Darlene could counter. Darlene packed away the last of her laundered clothes and spent the day thinking about her new-found family. Tiffany said she had a spring in her step since she came home, and maybe she did. Darlene had a cup of tea in the Boston silence that stood out more now that she’d experienced a different kind in a not so far away land. When Tiffany came home, she brought the mail. “There’s a letter here to Grandma’s estate. Looks like that law firm from the DNA Strands website.” Darlene and Tiffany sat on the couch and opened it. There was another envelope inside as well as a letter. The letter from the law firm simply stated that they were in charge of assets from Whispering Willows Orphanage—1930 to 1947. There was an apology for the delay, as the office had been closed for several months due to the COVID-19 pandemic, and they were getting through the backlog now. The letter also stated that the records had been held in storage

because the building was slated to be demolished and records digitized. The attached letter was addressed to Emma Carter. Orphanage records show she was there from 1942 to 1947. State records showed she was seven years old when she went into foster care from the orphanage. Parents unknown. Darlene picked up the yellowed envelope. Emma Carter was printed in neat letters on the front. “Should we?” “Yes,” Tiffany said. “Why not?” “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll find something we don’t want to know.” “Maybe it’ll fill in the gap between Grandma and Bridie.” Darlene hesitated before opening the flap. The letter was written in the same neat handwriting as the envelope. It was dated September 12, 1942.

My dearest Emmie, It saddens me to no end that I must leave you here for a month or two while I travel to Newfoundland to investigate the notion that I was stolen as a child. After my brother told me, and when I brought it up to Mother many years ago, she put me in the Danvers Lunatic Asylum for over five years. I got out when I was eighteen. I met a wonderful man, and we were married. When you were born, your grammy became very different. After your father was shot down and killed in the war, Mother had been acting even more possessive over you. She’d been putting the idea in my head that I’m not fit to be a parent and that she should raise you. Before too long, my fate in the Asylum will be sealed and you will be lost to me. Tomorrow, I leave on the ocean liner Flicka, to find my twin sister and my true parents. Though your name is Emma Miller, I leave you here as Emma Carter in order to protect you from Mother. Maybe if all goes well in Newfoundland and my fate can be proven, I will return

for you and move there, away from Mother’s influences. If I find it wasn’t true, I’ll take you to Nevada, where we can live with your father’s parents. His name was Lieutenant Harold Miller, and he was a good man. The Millers are good people, though they don’t rise to Mother’s standards. She doesn’t approve. I pray for safe age and that I’ll come for you before too long. If something is to happen, when you get this letter, please go to the First Boston Bank on Creedon Street with the attached instructions. A safety deposit box has your father’s enlistment papers and a bearer bond that you can redeem to set yourself up for a good life. I love you, my darling Emmie. I’m doing this to protect you. I pray I’ll be back for you soon. Love, Your mamma

Note to First Boston Bank, Creedon Street: The bearer of this letter is entitled to the contents of safety deposit box #514. My signature is required: Clara Ayre Miller.

“Oh my God, Mom, do you know what this means?” “I think it means we were right. The journals were right. We found the missing information for Grandma. Clara was Grandma’s mother—and Ammie’s twin stolen by Bridie.” “We’ll have to tell Aunt Ammie what we’ve found. Our last name is Miller?” “Yes, seems so,” Darlene said in wonderment. “Our last name is Miller.” They sat in silence, digesting the information.

“Aunt Ammie, it’s Darlene. I’m here with Tiffany. Can you see us?” “Stephen, is that them?” “Tiffany, move the phone. She can’t see us.” “Mom, we’re there in the top little box.” “I’ll never get used to this phone. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into it. Aunt Ammie?” “Yes, Aunt Ammie, they can hear you. Move this here. Just say hello,” Stephen said. The dark picture twisted and moved, and Ammie came into focus as Stephen wrangled his phone farther away from her. “Aunt Ammie, we can hear you,” Darlene said. “Hello, girls. Look, Stephen, it’s them.” “We’re here!” They waved wildly. Ammie’s wave was a little more hesitant as her eyes darted from the screen to Stephen off camera. “I don’t understand these things,” Ammie said. “Me either, Aunt Ammie,” Darlene said. “Stephen will help you. Did you hear our news yet?” “There’s been so much. You’d better tell me, anyway. I’m a hundred and one. I forget things.” “We found the Flicka’s enger log. It looks like a woman, last name Carter, perished when the ship went down. We believe it had to be Clara. I’m so sorry, Aunt Ammie.” Ammie nodded and heaved a sigh. She glanced off camera again, and Stephen’s hand moved to squeeze her shoulder. “There were no Millers or Ayres on the ship. We can’t find any records to say for certain it was her. Regardless, all the engers were lost.”

“Aunt Ammie,” Tiffany said, “I checked the records for the Danvers Asylum. I could only get the visitors’ information, as the rest was hidden. Privacy issues. David Ayre visited weekly for almost five years.” “Did Bridie ever go?” “There was no record of her. Just David Ayre,” Darlene said. “There is a plaque dedicated to the engers of the Flicka in a park downtown, but no names are on it,” Tiffany went on. “She has no headstone or graveyard record, either—not that we can find, anyway. There was a missing person’s record in the archives and some newspaper clippings of Clara and Grandma as a baby.” The camera moved, and Ammie came into view once again, this time with a tissue in her hand and dabbing her eyes. She nodded to Stephen, then turned her focus to them. “You’re still coming for Christmas?” “Yes, we are,” Tiffany replied. “We’ll bring the clippings and anything else we can find.” “Did Stephen tell you Tiffany got accepted to Memorial University in January?” Darlene asked her. “She’ll be staying.” “Yes, it’s all the boy talks about.” “Aunt Ammie, that’s not true,” Stephen said as he flicked the phone toward himself, smiled, then panned back to Ammie. “I do talk about other things.” They all laughed. “It’s good news. What about you, Darlene?” Ammie asked. “Are you staying?” “Just for a couple of weeks.” “She has to get back to Ray Junior,” Tiffany said. “Bring him along,” Ammie said. Darlene blushed. “I’ll see how it goes first. I’ve only had tea with him a few

times.” “Maybe in the spring when you come home to bury your Mom?” Ammie pressed. “It’s bad enough Tiffany is on my case. Don’t you start, too, Aunt Ammie.” Darlene wagged her finger at the phone. “I was thinking I’ll get a stone for Clara,” Darlene continued. “She belongs there, too. Especially since it was really you who she—and it turns out Mom, too —was trying to get to. What do you think?” “We were talking about that, too. Rose mentioned it,” Ammie said. “Clara.” Her voice faltered. “My twin sister was coming to find me, and I didn’t know it.” “You couldn’t have known,” Darlene said. “I’ll order monuments from North Harbour when we’re home for Christmas.” “Home for Christmas, listen to you two. That makes this old woman’s heart jolly.” “Aunt Ammie, I’ll be able to come out every weekend,” Tiffany said excitedly. “You’re welcome here, my child, but I doubt I’ll see much of you without this young fellow here. But I can stand him, too,” Ammie said with a smile as she glanced at Stephen. He swivelled the camera, smiled, then focused back on Ammie. “Did you get your money straightened out yet?” “Yes, we should have it by next week.” “I don’t have to tell you to be wise with it. I know you will.” “I just wish Mom were alive to enjoy a little bit of peace and freedom.” “You can’t live in the past, Darlene. Your mother found her peace and happiness, and she put you on the path for finding yours. She didn’t need money for that.” “I know, Aunt Ammie. I’m so happy she sent us your way. We both love you.”

“I love you, too, girls. See you in a few months.” “We certainly will,” they both said in unison before g off. “I’ll call you later,” Tiffany squeezed in as she waved furiously at Stephen before they hung up. “Mom, I was thinking about looking for the Millers. Do you think Grandma would have wanted that?” “Want to to her on DNA Strands and see what we can come up with?” “I’m game,” Tiffany said. “Bring on the Millers.”

Historical Notes

Buried Alive Eleazar Saunders from Point Leamington was pulled from a mass grave in WWI after somebody spotted his thumb moving.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/newfoundland-labrador/8-stories-ed-onthrough-generations-from-world-war-one-1.3606902

History of the Trinity Bay Disaster of 1892

https://www.math.muc.ca/~dapike/family_history/storm1892.html

Fox Harbour A storyboard for Sampson’s Peak tells the tale of two young boys, Bernard and Michael Sampson, who disappeared just after Christmas, 1899. Their bodies were never recovered. A former resident of Fox Harbour confessed to the murder on his deathbed some forty years later in Boston.

The Poison Witch The Poison Witch was a real woman who lived in Eastern Europe. She started out by poisoning babies and later progressed to murder for hire. She created a network of witches, and her business flourished until she was caught and

convicted in the late 1800s.

DNA Strands In 2016, at an archaeological dig in Belgium, a piece of a soldier’s uniform called a “title” was found. It dated back to World War I and was identified as belonging to the Newfoundland Regiment. DNA helped identify the remains of the soldier, Private John Lambert, from St. John’s, who had been missing in action. His remains were interred in a war grave in 2020.

About the Author

First and foremost, Ida Linehan Young is a grandmother to the most precious little boys, Parker and Samuel, a mother to three adult children, Sharon, Stacey, and Shawna, and a wife to Thomas. In her busy daily life, Ida works in the information technology sector of the federal government of Canada, and she volunteers her time in the community of Conception Bay South with the Kiwanis Club of Kelligrews. Ida had a fascination with writing in her high school days, when she dabbled in poetry and essays. In 2012, she became serious about her writing with a story to tell, and that led to her memoir, No Turning Back: Surviving the Linehan Family Tragedy, in 2014. Having found a ion for writing, and with a love of local history and lore, she published several works of historical fiction: Being Mary Ro (2018), The Promise (2019), and The Liars (2020). In June 2021, the three novels were issued the Silver Medal for Best Series—Fiction by the Independent Publisher Book Awards. (continued) With strong influences from the familial art of storytelling ed down by her father, Ed Linehan, and her maternal grandfather, Frank Power, Ida writes stories about her beloved province, Newfoundland and Labrador. She enjoys researching events of the late nineteenth century and weaving fictional characters through historical tales that complement that cultural richness, renewing interest in the province’s storied past.

Follow Ida on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram: @idalinehanyoung Or on her website: www.idalinehanyoung.ca