Page 83

"Where's my baby? I want to see my baby," I demanded. He stepped toward me and started to raise his hand again. "You can beat me and beat me, Papa, but I won't budge until I see the baby, and when people come to Mamma's funeral and see my bruises, there'll be plenty of chatter about the Booths," I added.

His hand froze in the air. He fumed, but he didn't strike me.

"I thought," he said, lowering it slowly, "that you might have learned some humility from all this, but I see you still have a rebellious streak in you."

"I'm tired,Papa, tired of lies and deceptions, tired of hate and anger, tired of hearing about the devil and sin when the only sin I have been apparently guilty of is being born and brought to this horrid family. Where's baby Charlotte?" I repeated.

He stared at me a moment.

"You're not to refer to her as your baby," he ordered.

"I know."

"I had a nursery made for her in Eugenia's old room and I hired a nanny to care for her. The nanny's name is Mrs. Clark. Don't you say anything to her to lead her to believe anything but what we've told her," he warned quickly. "Hear?" I nodded. "All right," he said, stepping back. "You can go see her, but keep everything I said in mind, Lillian."

"When will we have Mamma's funeral?" I asked.

"Two days," he said. "I'm sending for the doctor now and then for the morticians to prepare her."

I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. Then, without looking at him again, I walked past him and to the stairway. I seemed to float down and drift through the corridor to what was once Eugenia's world.

Mrs. Clark looked to be a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with light-brown hair and soft, chestnut eyes. She was a small woman with a grandmotherly smile and pleasant voice. I wondered how Papa had managed to find someone so appropriate, someone so gentle and perfect for the job. Apparently very professional, she was dressed in a white uniform.

I was surprised at how completely changed Eugenia's room was. A crib with matching dresser and changing table had been exchanged for all of Eugenia's old furniture, and the wallpaper had been lightened to coordinate with the new, brighter curtains. Anyone who came to see the child, and especially the new nanny, Mrs. Clark, would believe Papa loved his new baby.

But it didn't surprise me that he wanted the baby downstairs and away from his bedroom and Emily's and mine. Charlotte had come by accident and in Emily's mind for sure, she was a child of sin. Papa didn't want to confront the reality of what he had done and every time baby Charlotte cried, he would be reminded. This way he could see her minimally.

Mrs. Clark rose from the chair beside the crib as I entered the room.

"Hello," I said. "I'm Lillian."

"Yes, dear. Your sister Emily has told me all about you. I'm sorry you haven't been feeling well. You haven't even seen your new sister yet, have you?" she asked, and then beamed a smile down at my baby in her crib.

"No," I lied.

"The little dear is sleeping, but you can come over and gaze at her," Mrs. Clark said.

I approached the crib and looked down at Charlotte. She looked so tiny, her head no bigger than an apple. Her tiny fists were clenched as she slept, the fingers pink and lily-white. I longed to reach in and take her into my arms, press her to my bosom and cover her little face with kisses. It was so hard to believe that someone so precious and beautiful had come from all that pain and agony. I even thought I might resent her when I first laid eyes on her, but the moment I gazed at that tiny nose and mouth, that small chin and doll-like body, I felt only great love and warmth.

"She has blue eyes now, but babies' eyes often change color as they grow," Mrs. Clark said. "And, as you can see, her hair is coming in light-brown with an awful lot of gold in it—just like yours. But that's not unusual. Sisters often have the same color hair, even when they're this many years apart. What color is your mother's hair?" she asked innocently, and I began to shudder, slightly at first and then harder and harder. The tears rolled down my cheeks. "What's wrong, dear?" Mrs. Clark said, stepping back. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes, Mrs. Clark . . . great, great pain. My mother . . . my mother has passed away. The birth of the baby and her weakened condition were too much," I mouthed, feeling like Papa was a ventriloquist and I was his dummy. Mrs. Clark's mouth dropped open and then she embraced me quickly.

"You poor dear." She looked at baby Charlotte.

"You poor, poor darlings," she said. "On the heels of such happiness to be struck with so much sorrow."

I had just met this nice lady and I hardly knew a thing about her, but her arms were comforting me and her shoulder was soft. I buried my face in it and I cried my heart out. My sobbing woke baby Charlotte. Quickly, I wiped my face and watched as Mrs. Clark lifted her out of the crib.

"Do you want to hold her?" she asked.

"Oh yes," I said. "Very much."

I took her in my arms and rocked her gently, kissing her tiny cheek and forehead. In moments her wails ended and she was asleep again.

"You did that so well," Mrs. Clark said. "Someday you'll make a wonderful mother, I'm sure."

Unable to say another word, I handed baby Charlotte back to Mrs. Clark and then fled from the nursery, my heart so shattered it skipped as many beats as it made.