In the Shadow of Blackbirds(25)
Stephen’s photographs watched over me from beyond the foot of the bed the entire time, their presence a source of both comfort and anguish. Sometimes, when I let my body relax and my mind go numb, I almost believed I saw him standing there, directly in front of his photos. I almost believed the lightning had indeed brought me in touch with the spirit world.
And sometimes, when I was feeling strong enough to lift my head, I investigated another odd new phenomenon I’d discovered shortly after Aunt Eva first put me into that bed. It involved Uncle Wilfred’s brass compass in the wooden case, which I kept on my bedside table.
The needle no longer pointed north.
It pointed to me, even if I moved the compass around. It followed me.
“Holy smoke,” I whispered every single time I saw the needle swing my way.
I was now magnetic.
ONE WEEK INTO MY CONVALESCENCE, WHEN I WAS ABLE to sit upright without feeling like someone was whacking my spine with a sledgehammer, Aunt Eva came into my room with a forced smile on her face. “I’ve sewn a covering for Oberon’s cage to keep him quieter during the day while you recover.” She carried a long beige cloth as well as a white envelope.
I tilted my head for a better look at the envelope. “What’s that?”
She drew in her breath. “It’s from your father.”
“My father?”
“I forgot to look at yesterday’s mail. I just found this below the bills.” She gave me the letter. “I’ll let you read it in peace, but try not to get agitated by whatever he has to say. Let me know if you need me to come back.”
I nodded, and murmured, “Thank you.”
She left me alone to stare at the top line of the return address—the name of my father’s new home:
PORTLAND CITY JAIL
Those three brutal words churned up all the hurt and rage from the night he left me—the night before I climbed aboard that train crammed with paranoid passengers bound for San Diego.
I remembered the two of us huddled around the kitchen table, finishing a bland meal of rice and beans and dry bread made of cornstarch instead of wheat. Dad ran his fingers through his whitening brown hair and told me, “Mary Shelley, if anything happens to me—”
“You’re not going to die from a measly flu germ, Dad,” I said.
“I don’t necessarily mean dying. If something—”
“What? What’s going to happen to you?”
“Shh. Let me speak.” He wrapped his sturdy fingers around my hand. “If something happens, I would like you to go straight to Aunt Eva’s. The weather’s not so cold there. You’d be more likely to survive the flu with open windows and sunshine. And we’d keep the Oregon side of the family out of trouble.”
“What type of trouble?”
He avoided my questioning stare.
“Tell me, Dad.”
He cleared his throat. “Trouble that comes from doing the right thing, even if it’s not safe. That’s all I’m going to say about it, because I don’t want anyone pressing you for information.” He swallowed down a sip of coffee. “Eva’s been living all alone in that house ever since Wilfred succumbed to his illness. I’m sure she’d be grateful for the company. Pack your bags after supper, just in case.”
I glared at him, my nostrils flaring.
“Mary, please don’t ask any questions. I’m not going to give you answers.”
He only dropped the second part of my name when he was deadly serious.
I jabbed at my food with my fork until the tongs screeched against the porcelain and made him wince, but I didn’t ask anything else. There was no point. If he didn’t want to elaborate, he wouldn’t. He was as bullheaded as I.
And here I was, more than a thousand miles away, all alone except for a jittery aunt, a chattering magpie, a broken heart, and an envelope with the words PORTLAND CITY JAIL.
I inhaled a calming breath and ripped open the paper.
October 20, 1918
Dear Mary Shelley,
I hope you are safe. I hope you are healthy. I hope you can forgive me for what I have forced you to endure. You may not be able to understand the reasoning behind my sacrifices, but one day when you’re older and your anger at me has diminished, perhaps you will see the two of us are alike. We have a great deal of fight inside us, and sometimes our strength of spirit forces us to choose truth and integrity over comfort and security.
I know the world seems terrifying right now and the future seems bleak. Just remember human beings have always managed to find the greatest strength within themselves during the darkest hours. When faced with the worst horrors the world has to offer, a person either cracks and succumbs to the ugliness, or they salvage the inner core of who they are and fight to right wrongs.
Never let hatred, fear, and ignorance get the best of you. Keep bettering yourself so you can make the world around you better, for nothing can ever improve without the brightest, bravest, kindest, and most imaginative individuals rising above the chaos.
I am healthy and, for the most part, doing well. No need to worry about me or the store. I’m letting the bank take possession of the business so we don’t have to trouble your uncles. Take care of yourself. Please write me soon so I know you are still alive.
Your loving father