Authors: Diane Chamberlain
Tags: #Fiction, #General
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For the women and men
who had no choice
As you can imagine,
was a research-heavy novel and I have many people to thank for their various contributions.
I’ll be forever grateful that I stumbled across the book
Choice and Coercion: Birth Control, Sterilization, and Abortion in Public Health and Welfare
by Johanna Schoen, Ph.D. Not only was the book itself enlightening and helpful, but Johanna proved to be most generous with her time and research as well, sharing records from the Eugenics Board meetings and transcripts from her interviews with social workers and other professionals involved in the program. Johanna’s work helped me understand both the mechanics of the sterilization program as well as the toll it took on its victims.
In 1960, I was a kid in suburban New Jersey, so the rural South and tobacco farming were not even on my radar. Once I moved to North Carolina, however, I quickly discovered that I couldn’t walk into a party without meeting at least a few people who had “worked tobacca” as kids. I was grateful to be able to gather information from all of them, but I’m particularly indebted to my friend, mystery author Margaret Maron, for sharing her memories of growing up on a tobacco farm. Margaret read the entire manuscript of
for accuracy, and she and her friend Ann Stephenson drove me all over their rural county—the inspiration for my fictional Grace County—regaling me with tales of how life used to be. Ann also gave me a tour of her family’s old tobacco farm and I’m indebted to both of them for answering my endless questions with patience and enthusiasm.
For brainstorming help and constant support, I’m grateful to the six other writers of the “Weymouth Seven”: Mary Kay Andrews, Brynn Bonner, Katy Munger, Sarah Shaber, Alexandra Sokoloff, and again, Margaret Maron. We retreat a couple of times each year to the Weymouth Center for the Arts in Southern Pines, North Carolina, to write and commiserate, and I pinch myself every time I head up that long driveway to the mansion for a solid week of writing. Thank you to the Weymouth Center for its generous support of North Carolina writers.
Retired psychologist Mary Kilburn and retired social worker Mel Adair both worked in North Carolina during the era of the Eugenics Program and both were generous in sharing their experiences with me.
I’m grateful to Kathy Williamson, who proved to be a skillful researcher as she helped me track down even the most esoteric bits of information I needed for my story.
For various contributions, thank you to the late Sterling Bryson, Patricia McLinn, Glen Pierce, Helen Ramsey, and Eleanor Smith.
It was my lucky day when I joined forces with my agent, Susan Ginsburg. Her knowledge of the publishing world is surpassed only by her genuine warmth. Thanks for everything you do, Susan. I’m also grateful to my agent in the United Kingdom, Angharad Kowal, for all the work she’s done on my behalf, and to Wayne Brookes, publishing director at Pan Macmillan in the UK for his faith in
and his endless enthusiasm.
I’ve wanted to work with editor Jen Enderlin since I was a newbie author way back when, and Jen has certainly been worth the wait! Thank you, Jen, for being such an insightful editor and good friend. I’m grateful to the entire team at St. Martin’s Press, particularly Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, Jeff Dodes, Paul Hochman, Dori Weintraub, Lisa Senz, Sarah Goldstein, and the entire Broadway and Fifth Avenue sales forces. I couldn’t ask for better people to work with.
Finally, thank you to John Pagliuca, my significant other, muse, critic, brainstorming partner, resident photographer, and first reader. Thanks, John, for helping me think out loud, for letting me know when I’ve gone way off track, and for once again putting up with all those take-out meals.
JUNE 22, 2011
It was an odd request—visit a stranger’s house and peer inside a closet—and as I drove through the neighborhood searching for the address, I felt my anxiety mounting.
There it was: number 247. I hadn’t expected the house to be so large. It stood apart from its neighbors on the gently winding road, flanked on either side by huge magnolia trees, tall oaks, and crape myrtle. It was painted a soft buttery yellow with white trim, and everything about it looked crisp and clean in the early morning sun. Every house I’d passed, although different in architecture, had the same stately yet inviting look. I didn’t know Raleigh well at all, but this had to be one of the most beautiful old neighborhoods in the city.
I parked close to the curb and headed up the walk. Potted plants lined either side of the broad steps that led up to the wraparound porch. I glanced at my watch. I had an hour before I needed to be back at the hotel. No rush, though my nerves were really acting up. There was so much I hoped would go well today, and so much of it was out of my control.
I rang the bell and heard it chime inside the house. I could see someone pass behind the sidelight and then the door opened. The woman—forty, maybe? At least ten years younger than me—smiled, although that didn’t mask her harried expression. I felt bad for bothering her this early. She wore white shorts, a pink striped T-shirt, and tennis shoes, and sported a glowing tan. She was the petite, toned, and well-put-together sort of woman that always made me feel sloppy, even though I knew I looked fine in my black pants and blue blouse.
“Brenna?” She ran her fingers through her short-short, spiky blond hair.
“Yes,” I said. “And you must be Jennifer.”
Jennifer peered behind me. “She’s not with you?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I thought she’d come, but at the last minute she said she just couldn’t.”
Jennifer nodded. “Today must be really hard for her.” She took a step back from the doorway. “Come on in,” she said. “My kids are done with school for the summer, but they have swim-team practice this morning, so we’re in luck. We have the house to ourselves. The kids are always too full of questions.”
“Thanks.” I walked past her into the foyer. I was glad no one else was home. I wished I had the house totally to myself, to be honest. I would have loved to explore it. But that wasn’t why I was here.
“Can I get you anything?” Jennifer asked. “Coffee?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“Well, come on then. I’ll show you.”
She led me to the broad, winding staircase and we climbed it without speaking, my shoes on the shiny dark hardwood treads making the only sound.
“How long have you been in the house?” I asked when we reached the second story.
“Five years,” she said. “We redid everything. I mean, we painted every single room and every inch of molding. And every closet, too, except for that one.”
“Why didn’t you paint that one?” I asked as I followed her down a short hallway.
“The woman we bought the house from specifically told us not to. She said that the couple
bought the house from had also told her not to, but nobody seemed to understand why not. The woman we bought it from showed us the writing. My husband thought we should just paint over it—I think he was spooked by it—but I talked him out of it. It’s a
What would it hurt to leave it unpainted?” We’d reached the closed door at the end of the hall. “I had no idea what it meant until I spoke to you on the phone.” She pushed open the door. “It’s my daughter’s room now,” she said, “so excuse the mess.”
It wasn’t what I’d call messy at all. My twin daughters’ rooms had been far worse. “How old’s your daughter?” I asked.
“Ten. Thus the Justin Bieber obsession.” She swept her arm through the air to take in the lavender room and its nearly wall-to-wall posters.
“It only gets worse.” I smiled. “I barely survived my girls’ teen years.” I thought of my family—my husband and my daughters and their babies—up in Maryland and suddenly missed them. I hoped I’d be home by the weekend, when all of this would be over.
Jennifer opened the closet door. It was a small closet, the type you’d find in these older homes, and it was crammed with clothes on hangers and shoes helter-skelter on the floor. I felt a chill, as though a ghost had slipped past me into the room. I hugged my arms as Jennifer pulled a cord to turn on the light. She pressed the clothes to one side of the closet.
“There,” she said, pointing to the left wall at about the level of my knees. “Maybe we need a flashlight?” she asked. “Or I can just take a bunch of these clothes out. I should have done that before you got here.” She lifted an armload of the clothes and struggled to disengage the hangers before carrying them from the closet. Without the clothing, the closet filled with light and I squatted inside the tight space, pushing pink sneakers and a pair of sandals out of my way.
I ran my fingers over the words carved into the wall. Ancient paint snagged my fingertips where it had chipped away around the letters.
“Ivy and Mary was here.”
All at once, I felt overwhelmed by the fear they must have felt back then, and by their courage. When I stood up, I was brushing tears from my eyes.
Jennifer touched my arm. “You okay?” she asked.
“Fine,” I said. “I’m grateful to you for not covering that over. It makes it real to me.”
“If we ever move out of this house, we’ll tell the new owners to leave it alone, too. It’s a little bit of history, isn’t it?”
I nodded. I remembered my phone in my purse. “May I take a picture of it?”
“Of course!” Jennifer said, then added with a laugh, “Just don’t get my daughter’s messy closet in it.”
I pulled out my phone and knelt down near the writing on the wall. I snapped the picture and felt the presence of a ghost again, but this time it wrapped around me like an embrace.
I swept the ground by the tobacco barn, hoping for a chance to talk to Henry Allen. He was on the other side of the field, though, working with the mules, and it didn’t look like he’d be done soon. No point in me staying any longer. All the day labor was gone already and if Mr. Gardiner spotted me he’d wonder why I was still here. Mary Ella was gone, too, of course. I didn’t want to know which of the boys—or men—she went off with. Most likely she was someplace in the woods. Down by the crick, maybe, where the trees and that tangle of honeysuckle made a private place where you could do anything. I knew that place so well. Maybe Mary Ella knew it, too. Henry Allen told me “just don’t think about it,” so I tried to put it out of my head. My sister was going to do what she wanted to do. Nothing me or nobody else could do about it. I told her we couldn’t have another baby in the house and she gave me that hollow-eyed look like I was speaking a foreign tongue. Couldn’t get through to Mary Ella when she gave you that look. She was seventeen—two years older than me—but you’d think I was her mama trying to keep her on the straight-and-narrow path to heaven. Some days I felt like I was everybody’s mama.