The Woman in the Photo (14 page)

Courtesy of the Johnstown Flood Museum Archives, Johnstown Area Heritage Association

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

Summer 1888

A
lmost instantly, croquet bores us both. On her turns as striker, Ivy grips the mallet too tightly, foolishly uses the side face despite patient instructions not to, crookedly aims, and carelessly takes her shots. The first falls far short of the hoop, the second veers off in a spinning wiggle. The third—
walloped in frustration—flies past two wickets straight into the underbrush.

“Is there more to it?” she asks me.

I camouflage my peevishness with a smile. Did she not ask me to teach her the game? “It's more fun once you're able to sharpen your aim,” I say. For a brief moment I am tempted to display my expertise by knocking my yellow ball through all six wickets so that I might hear the satisfying
thunk
of a win. But I contain myself. Ivy would surely report back to her brother that I am as conceited as he.

“Know what I'd
really
like to do?” Ivy drops the mallet in the dirt.

Silently, I pray that she does not wish to attempt badminton. “The clubhouse has draughts and dominoes,” I say.

“Certainly not,” she replies. “Now that I am free, I plan to stay outside. Mother treats me like a toddler. She's afraid I'll mature and marry and leave her. Which, of course, I desperately want to do. But am I not entitled?”

“Surely she wants you to have a life of your own one day.”

“No.” Ivy's ringlets bounce childishly when she shakes her head. “Raising me is Mother's only purpose. Once I am on my own, she will cease to be useful. She has told me so herself.”

My heart softens as I picture my own mother. Without Henry to fret over, how would she fill her days? I, too, have bristled under the chafe of a mother's grip on my spirit. The longing to be set
loose.
Feeling more kindly toward this girl who is so clearly a different person away from her suffocating mother, I say, “Okay, then. Today we are both free. How shall we make the most of it?”

Ivy's green eyes go round. They are lit by a fire within her. Like her brother's. Both contain the soul of a rapscallion. “Please, Miss Haberlin,” she says with a pixie's grin, “will you take me
sailing
? Mother won't allow me on the water. She frets over every possible moment of my fun.”

I glance at the discarded croquet mallet. As smart as a whippet, Ivy adds, “
Real
fun.”

Now I laugh. I remember my delight when Mother allowed me to race in last summer's clubhouse regatta. Who am I to squash the same?

“Come,” I say, reaching up to cup Ivy's chin the way Mother does mine from time to time. “We'll row across the lake in our private skiff. No one needs to know about our
real
fun except you and me.”

Clapping her hands like a toddler, Ivy grins with her whole face.

“But you must promise me one thing,” I say.

“Anything.”

“You will call me
Elizabeth
from this moment on.”

“Yes, Elizabeth. Most certainly, yes!”

“Good. Now, follow me. We have one stop to make first.”

Wending along the shaded path behind the boardwalk, Ivy and I both feel the cool kiss of low-hanging trees. The dirt is soft beneath our feet and the silence of the woods is glorious. It speaks of the freedom to be ourselves. To
breathe
. To shake off the shackles of propriety. Everyone is at the clubhouse. No doubt preening around Ivy's family like squawking mallards diving for bread crusts thrown on the lake. For the moment, I
am utterly content to leave all that nonsense behind. My spirit is renewed by glimpses of twinkling sunlight and the melodic warble of water thrush.

“Our cottage is up ahead,” I say.

“Oh, joy!” Ivy replies. “May I see it?”

“Of course. I want to change my skirt.”

“Not the cottage. The
dress
.”

I smile. She reminds me of a younger me. As I did earlier at the clubhouse, I take her hand and squeeze it. A bit shyly, Ivy asks, “What possessed you to do it?”

“Do what?” Not that I don't know.

“Walk through the clubhouse in that gown?”

Between the thick groupings of hemlock trees, with their glossy spinach-green needles and ammonia-like scent, I stop and turn toward the impressionable young girl. “Sometimes a woman must stir the pot.” Then I turn away and walk on. Over my shoulder, I add, “If my maid is there to help, I'll let you try it on.”

Never before have I seen a happier girl.

“
N
ETTIE!”
I
VY AND
I are pink-cheeked by the time we reach the cottage at the far end of the access road. I call out to the back of the house as we scurry up the stairs to my room.

“Coming, miss!”

Inside my room, Ivy rushes over to the window seat to marvel at the lake view. Only from this height can one see the full breadth of Lake Conemaugh. From up here, its beauty and serenity can't help but melt other cares away. Nettie thumps
up the stairway. In my open doorway, she dries her wet hands on her apron and says, “I didn't expect to see you before it was time to dress for supper.”

“Change of plans. Could you please help me out of these clothes and into something suitable for a row across the lake?”

“Certainly, miss.”

“And my young friend here would like to try on my Charles Worth.”

Nettie stops. “The
gown
?”

“Whatever else?” I stand before the vanity mirror and smooth the thick waves in my braided bun. “Plus we must do something about her ringlets. Can you do a quick French twist?”

Ivy squeals and leaps up. “Might you frazzle my bangs, too, Nettie?”

Upon hearing Ivy's British accent, Nettie darts a knowing look at my reflection in the mirror. Perhaps I had mentioned that James Tottinger had a sister; perhaps Nettie had heard Mother speak of it from the other side of my closed bedroom door. “What hairstyles do proper ladies wear in England, then?” she asks.

Frowning, Ivy says, “We are hopelessly behind you Americans. Absolutely
everything
in London is old, old, old. But I shall watch carefully, Nettie, so that I can teach my maid something new.”

“Let's get to it, then.” With expertise born from years of dressing and undressing me, Nettie quickly has me out of my lavender cotton and into a suitable white linen ensemble that will look splendid against the beryl backdrop of Lake
Conemaugh. While I search for a matching sunbonnet, she bustles over to my wardrobe to gently remove my Charles Frederick Worth original from its linen covering. Upon first glimpse, Ivy gasps. “I only dreamed of feeling the softness of this satin!”

“Yes,” I say, with a hint of superiority, “Mr. Worth dresses royalty.”

With Nettie's help, young Ivy steps out of her frilly girl's dress and into the luxury I felt against my skin a mere day ago. When Nettie turns Ivy toward the pier glass, she squeals with delight at the sight of herself. Poor girl, she has yet to develop breasts worthy of such a gown. Still, in watching her swing left and right in front of the mirror, I feel a flush of pride at how lovely I must have looked with my powdered bosom rising up from that spiderweb of lace. What a thrill to feel everyone's attention on me alone!

“I doubt I'll ever be as beautiful as you, Elizabeth.” Ivy sighs.

I hug her in a sisterly way. “You'll be your own kind of beauty. Which is the only kind of beauty to be.”

In her grateful smile I feel a twinge of regret that Mother and Father never provided me with a sister to shape and school. I'm quite sure I would have been spectacular.

“Nettie?” I say, quietly, as Ivy is still riveted by her reflection. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Yes, miss.”

We excuse ourselves and leave the room. As soon as we are beyond Ivy's hearing, I say, “When it's time to pack my things at the end of the summer, I want you to leave my Charles Worth gown here, at the cottage.”

“Here? Whatever for? Won't you be wearing it to the ball?”

“That's just it,” I whisper. “Now that everyone has seen it, and Miss Tottinger has
worn
it, I can't possibly appear in it again. Father will squawk at the cost of a new gown, but what can I do? My Charles Worth was left at the cottage—during damp winter—it will be too ruined to properly present.”

Nettie presses her lips together.

“Don't worry,” I say. “I'll make sure to tell Father that you left it here by accident. You won't be blamed.”

Swirling around, I sweep back into my bedroom and lightheartedly tell Ivy Tottinger, “Time to give me back my gown and let Nettie fix your hair. Our adventure awaits.”

NORTH BEVERLY PARK

Present

M
om!” When Lee got home at dinnertime, with a Baja Fresh burrito for her mom and three soft corn tacos for her, she could barely contain herself. She'd found it. The field of rubble where her maternal ancestor had stood with Clara Barton. Disaster had struck a small town at the foot of the Allegheny Mountains. Clara's Red Cross had swooped in to help. Lee's great-great-great-grandmother had been there, too. At least, she was fairly certain of it. Though Lee hadn't found the exact adoption file photo online, she'd seen many others like it. Same time, same place, same rubble, same hairstyle.

“You won't believe all the interesting things I found out,” she chirped while unpacking the takeout bags. The steamy aroma of cilantro and lime infused the air. “We're talking holy days up the
wazoo
.”

Of course, Lee had decided not to tell her mom about her
birth-mother search. Valerie didn't deserve another emotional blow. So Lee came home prepared. At the library, after she'd unearthed information about the disaster in Johnstown, she Googled something else: what it meant to be Jewish.

“Talk to me,” Valerie said. Still dressed in her maid's uniform, she poured herself a glass of wine and shimmied onto a stool in front of the kitchenette counter.

“Tisha B'Av is coming up and I don't have the faintest idea how to pronounce it.”

I
T HAD BEEN
enlightening, to say the least. Lee's brief research into Judaistic divinity had highlighted how lax her parents' religious cherry picking had been. She faintly remembered attending a church of some kind (the vibration of the organ music in her chest was thrilling), but her mother told her they stopped going to services when the family decided to “replace organized religion with spirituality.”

“Can you just
do
that?” young Lee had asked. “I mean, is God
okay
with that?”

Valerie had replied, “God is everywhere, honey. It says so in the Bible.” Then she tucked an errant clump of hair behind her daughter's ear and asked if she wanted pancakes.

At the time, Lee had loved sleeping in on Sundays and eating pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse and hanging out with Shelby, whose parents were heathens, too. Now, with her life in upheaval, the thought of a loving father figure keeping his eyes on her eternal soul was a comfort. Living was hard when you had to do it by yourself. Even with a mom as caring as Valerie. She had her own issues.

Lee was excited to try Judaism on for size. Not that it would be easy.

First, there were all those unpronounceable holidays. Tu B'Shevat, Yom Ha-Atzma'ut, Shavuot. Even Hanukkah had thirteen different spellings. And, no matter what Hallmark would have you believe, Hanukkah was
not
a Jewish Christmas. As far as Lee could tell, that whole gifting thing was merely a way to make Jewish kids not feel left out at the end of December.

Second, she was shocked to discover that the religious service was on
Friday
night. Which felt plain wrong. Friday night was movie night. No way could she stream movies with her mom on Sunday mornings. The sun blared through their wall of windows, for one thing.

Lee decided to do more research to see if there was wiggle room on that rule. Like, the way midnight mass on Christmas Eve exempted you from church on Christmas morning. Perhaps she could swing by the synagogue after her late shift on Thursday?

For now, Lee was busy wrapping her head around the weird food rituals. Vegetables dipped in salt water, hidden matzo, bitter herbs, a roasted egg. How, exactly, does one
roast
an egg? Particularly tricky since she only had a microwave. During a holiday called Sukkot, Lee was supposed to eat all her meals outside, beneath a thatched roof. Since Mrs. Adell would go berserk if Lee constructed a little hut by the pool, could she sneak a sandwich into the outside shower while wearing a straw hat?

Lee had loads of questions.

At some point she would have to schedule an appointment with a rabbi, though she feared he would insist she have a Bat Mitzvah and she read that they cost as much as a wedding.

“Any new info about your genes?” Valerie asked, lifting the wineglass to her lips.

“Nothing we need to worry about.”

“That's a relief.” Valerie took a bite of her burrito, chewed, swallowed. Then she pasted a smile on her face and asked, “What about that woman in the photo? Did you search any archives in the library? Find a copy of the photo buried in the depths of the Internet?”

Lee hopped off the stool and leaned over to circle both arms around her mother. Softly, she said, “You are the only mother I'll ever need. Who cares about a woman in a photo who is long dead and gone?”

Yom Kippur—the Jewish day of atonement—was a few weeks away. She'd confess her white lie then.