The Woman in the Photo (31 page)

“And the dam?”

“Down that way. It's totally gone now. But Colonel Unger's old farmhouse is still on the north shore, so to speak. The Park Service bought it after he died.”

“He
lived
there after the flood?”

“He did. He returned to South Fork and, for the rest of his life, he walked out of his house to see the gaping hole that was once his lake. I think he probably stayed here to pay penance for what he did, or what he allowed to happen.”

York was bursting with questions, but he wisely remained mute. They had a long train ride back to Pittsburgh that night. Elizabeth would explain it all then.

“Want to see a cottage?” Vida asked.

Elizabeth's heart pinged. “The Haberlin cottage?”

“I
wish
we still had that house in our family. No, it was torn down years ago. As far as we know, after the flood, Elizabeth Haberlin never came up here again. Her family cut her off when she refused to return to Pittsburgh. And when she married Eugene, well—”

Nothing more needed to be said. Elizabeth Haberlin had done the unthinkable in those days: she chose love over money.

“Follow me,” Vida said. Elizabeth and York followed.

As they walked along the narrow road that was once the boardwalk at the edge of Lake Conemaugh, Vida led Elizabeth and York on a journey into the late 1880s. “Elizabeth Haberlin was an amazing woman,” she began. “When she
married Eugene Eggar—a blacksmith from Johnstown—her parents disowned her. As did everyone in her social circle. I heard there was an attempt at reconciliation after their son was born.”

“Did they?” Elizabeth asked.

“No. Her mother could never accept the new life she chose. Her brother visited once, years later. He became some Wall Street bigwig. Ever hear of the Haberlin Fund?”

Elizabeth and York both shook their heads no.

“Henry Haberlin made fortunes for all his friends before losing everyone's money in the stock-market crash of 1929.”

“Ouch,” said York.

“Yeah. Though it was hard at times, Elizabeth Haberlin had a happier life. Did you know she worked with Clara Barton?” Vida asked.

“Sort of. I knew they met here.”

“Clara stayed in Johnstown for five months after the flood. She supervised the building of five Red Cross hotels. Elizabeth Haberlin helped her run them. She brought her piano down from the cottage and hosted elegant teas each afternoon. Clara—and Elizabeth—both believed in the healing power of civility. Wouldn't the world be a better place if we all thought that way today?”

“Tea instead of Kalashnikovs,” said York.

With York a few steps ahead, they wound around the neighborhood that was filled with the chirping sounds of kids playing.

“Throw the ball! Catch it, catch it!”

How many of those kids know they are playing at the bottom of a lake?
Elizabeth wondered.
Do they pass by the clubhouse so frequently they don't even see it? Does anyone still care about what happened here?

“There.” Vida pointed up a small incline. “One of the remaining cottages.”

York laughed. “That's a
cottage
?”

Resembling a turreted castle, the three-story maroon-brick house had a pointed roof, peaked dormers, and a wide slatted veranda that ran the length of its front façade.

Always a porch,
Elizabeth thought.
Where her
blood
relatives sat and rocked and stared at the ripples in their private bass-stocked lake.

“I think there are six cottages left from the original sixteen,” Vida said. “Some of the flood's homeless survivors eventually made their way up to the abandoned cottages, but Eugene Eggar was a blacksmith at the steel mill. He would want to live in town. And, when his son grew up, he, too, worked at the mill. As did Eugene's grandson. They considered it the family business.”

York was impressed. “Cambria Iron kept on kicking.”

“Thank God for that mill.
Generations
have worked there. A few years after the flood, it became Cambria Steel, then Midvale Steel, then the biggie: Bethlehem Steel. Our mill helped build America. My dad—your granddad, Elizabeth—was a machinist there until the mill closed for good in the 1990s.”

Elizabeth swallowed at the mention of a grandfather. How could a man she'd never met be her grandfather?

“Ready for lunch?” Vida asked. She reached up and ran her long fingers down the length of Elizabeth's wavy hair. They both knew what “lunch” meant: getting back in the car and driving down the mountain to the Johnstown, Pennsylvania,
home where Vera Sinclair Eggar was born, grew up, lived, loved, and (maybe) conceived her.

Elizabeth Parker—daughter of Val and Gil, sister of Scott, niece of Vida—felt a surprising rush of calm.

“I'm ready.”

Beneath the impossibly blue sky in the stunning Allegheny Mountains near the old South Fork Fishing and Hunting Club, she was—at last—prepared to hear the rest of her story.

JOHNSTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA

Present

T
he Eggar home was a brick box of a house compared to the spacious cottage up the mountain. As they pulled into the driveway in the seasoned residential neighborhood—alongside other compact homes with a similar look—Vida said, “Eugene Eggar built this house after the flood. Dad has rebuilt it over the years.”

Once again, Elizabeth was stunned to see a structure from the nineteenth century still standing. And the same family living in it. In Southern California, so few people even had an old
face
. And if a building wasn't shiny and new, developers tore it down to make it so.

“Progress,” they said. “Evolve or go extinct.”

It was a comfort to see residents living
with
history. How narcissistic to believe that
now
was the only important moment.

Vida cut the engine and stepped out of the car. Elizabeth and York followed. A bursting apple tree grew in the center of the yard. The one-car garage—obviously an addition—was open and filled to capacity. A large workbench occupied the car space. Every imaginable tool was hung neatly on pegboards along all the walls. A lawn mower, circular saw, lathe, and air compressor were lined up on the cement floor like eager employees ready to go to work. A metal garbage can was filled with wood scraps. York gawked, openmouthed.

“There you are.” A man in his seventies pushed open the front screen door with fingers bent by arthritis. His hair was fog gray and wispy; his eyes were two green grapes.

“Dad, meet Elizabeth and York.”

“Elizabeth,” he said, gruffly. “I see.”

Vida climbed the front steps and held the door. As Elizabeth opened her mouth to greet the old man, Gene Eggar turned his back and walked into the house. Vida shot Elizabeth a commiserating look. York was undeterred.

“Nice to meet you, sir.” He marched into the living room with an extended hand. Gene was already seated in his favorite chair. “Looks like you're handy with power tools.”

Gene grunted and shook York's hand before flicking his wrist as if to invite them to sit anywhere. Elizabeth's heart pounded so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it. The tight room was crammed with mismatched furniture. A sagging brown plaid sofa, Shaker-style rocker, a frayed easy chair with a red velvet pillow on the seat. It smelled of lemon Pledge and stale cigars. Something garlicky? An old upright piano blocked a portion of the front window. Gene sat on a vinyl recliner and stared at his
Velcro-strapped shoes. Vida said, “Make yourselves comfortable. Apple cider? I made some this morning from our own apples.”

“Wow. Yes. Please.” As before, Elizabeth had the strong urge to flee. Real cider or not. How far was that train station? Walkable? Runnable?

“Sit, sit,” said Vida as she disappeared into the kitchen. “I won't be but a minute.”

They sat on the brown plaid couch. York leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Elizabeth set her backpack on the floor at her feet. She breathed with deliberation.
In. Out. Repeat.
Scanning the dingy room, she noticed a smattering of framed family photos on the mantel over the fireplace, its brick facing blackened by use. A surge of electricity shot down her arms. Was her birth mother pictured there? Had she sat exactly where Elizabeth was sitting now?

“Original oak?” York bobbed his head toward the staircase to the left of the front door.

“Throughout,” Gene said.

“These old houses were sure built to last.”

Gene grunted again. “I've fixed it up here and there. Though I wouldn't call linoleum an improvement.”

York chuckled. Elizabeth fiddled with the sharp spike of a hangnail on her thumb. Glasses clattered in the kitchen. Abruptly, Gene looked straight at Elizabeth and said, “Vida tells me you live in that godforsaken state, California.”

Elizabeth's cheeks reddened. “I do, for now. But I don't like it very much. Too sunny.”

“Your mother also disliked the sun.”

At the mention of her birth mother, another current of electricity shot down Elizabeth's arms. Again she felt disloyal to Valerie—the only mother she'd ever known.

“You're the spitting image of her,” Gene said, flatly. “But I guess Vida told you that.” Twisting his neck toward the kitchen, he shouted, “Vida!”

“Coming.”

York asked, “Have you lived here your whole life?”

“No reason to go anyplace else. Vida!”

His daughter scuttled in with four sweating glasses on a tray. “Here we are,” she said, breathless.

“Let me help you with that.” York stood and flew over to her. Elizabeth sat like a wart on a witch's nose. She felt paralyzed, unable to do more than furtively examine Gene Eggar's face for traces of herself. Had his genetic pool contributed her cheekbones, the slight ridge at the tip of her nose? Would her fingers look like knotted rope when she was old? Gene glanced at her with a downturned mouth.

“The chicken is almost done,” Vida said, looking slightly sweaty. “A few more minutes in the oven.”

Elizabeth nearly groaned out loud. She was roasting a
chicken
? It was so formal, so time-consuming. No way could they swallow a few bites and run. York set the cider tray down on the oak coffee table. Vida sat on the red velvet chair. Elizabeth tried to help in some way, but she didn't trust her hands to grip anything. They, too, felt numb. Her ears buzzed. She'd made a huge mistake.
What exactly
had she hoped to find here?

York took one sip of his apple cider and his eyes fluttered shut. “Now,
that's
what I'm talking about.”

Overlaughing, Vida said, “Our apple tree is over a hundred years old.”

“No need to waste money on dormant oil,” Gene said. “You can make your own with canola and baking soda.”

Without a clue what he was talking about, Elizabeth grinned idiotically. Gene grabbed a cider glass and took a large, loud swallow. Had elegant Elizabeth Haberlin married someone like
him
?

Setting his own glass back on the tray, York asked Gene, “Any chance I can get a tour of your workshop? I'm a bit of a carpenter. In my dreams, anyway.”

When Gene Eggar pulled himself out of his chair and left the room, Elizabeth wanted to kiss York on the lips.

“Call us when lunch is ready,” Gene said over his shoulder. With York on his heels, he made his way to the rear door without looking back at Elizabeth once.

“He hates me,” Elizabeth said as soon as they were out of earshot. She sipped her cider and felt the cool, sweet liquid stream down her throat.

Vida stood and walked over to the fireplace. Picking up a framed photograph, she brought it to the couch where Elizabeth sat.

“He can't even see you. He only sees
her
.”

There she was.

Elizabeth took the photo into her shaky grip. She looked down and couldn't believe her eyes. Wearing Capri jeans and a spaghetti-strap top, was a woman with her face and build. Tall, slim. The woman stood in front of a brick wall and stared at the lens as if she were looking straight through it. Her smile
was faint, yet intense; her eyes and brows were as dark as coal. There were two peaks in her upper lip. Her jaw was a jutting right angle. An ebony mane tumbled messily down her back. A profound sadness emanated from those eyes. Elizabeth wondered,
Was I already growing inside of her?

“Freaky, isn't it?” Vida said.

“She seems so, so—”

“Intense? Yeah, Vera felt everything deeply. Too deeply.” Then she added, “That photo was probably taken in the morning. Vera never fully woke up before noon.”

Elizabeth stared at the picture. At the woman she'd wondered about since she was old enough to wonder. There, in her hands, was a photograph of the person who created her, carried her inside for nearly a year, cradled her in arms—for a minute or two, at least. There, at last, was the mother who had first counted her long fingers and toes, examined every inch of her face in search of similarities.
My eyelashes
.
My nose
. Elizabeth breathed in the moment, eighteen years in the making. She waited for the magical connection to transport her into the picture, next to her birth mother. She braced herself for the jolt of cellular attachment.

Yet she felt something else entirely.

Here is a relative who looks like me.

A relative. Not a mother. Valerie Parker was her mother. The morning person with light eyes and blond hair and a disposition as sunny as Southern California.

Maybe DNA
wasn't
destiny after all.

Vida sat next to her on the couch. She leaned forward and pulled open a drawer in the coffee table. She retrieved an old
photo album. It smelled like a vintage purse. It opened with a cracking sound. On the first page was a wedding photo. The bride wore a simple white gown with a gathered skirt that dusted the floor in a plain ruffle. Flowing down the back of her head was a long veil topped with wispy white flowers. She held a petite bouquet of asters. The black vest of her husband's suit was buttoned high. His stiff color was fastened with a white bow tie.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. She pressed her palm against her chest.
Now
she felt a connection. There was the woman in the photo—the familiar face and body she'd seen in her adoption file. The blood relative who had started it all: Elizabeth Haberlin. Next to her new husband, Eugene.

“Eugene Eggar's entire family was killed in the flood,” Vida said, softly. “His young sister, Elsie, his parents. They never even found his mother's body. Which wasn't that unusual. More than seven hundred and fifty people were so mutilated by the barbed wire and glass and
stuff
barreling down on them, they were never able to be identified. Lots of poor souls were buried so deeply in the mud no one ever got to them.”

“You mean—?”

“Off Millcreek Road is the Johnstown cemetery. There's a Plot of the Unknown there. But no one knows who may still be beneath our feet.”

Elizabeth's forehead creased in sadness. Vida pointed to other old snapshots. “That's their son, Silas. And their daughter, Victoria.” She looked up. “You know we're Jewish, right?”

“Right.” Elizabeth nodded. “Ashkenazi.”

Vida's eyebrows peaked. “I'm impressed. You're Jewish, too?”

Elizabeth laughed. “I'm not very good at it yet.”

“Me neither. A seder at Passover is about it.”

Ah yes,
Elizabeth thought.
The bitter herbs, ground-up fruit-and-nut paste, middle matzo.

“I was named after Victoria Eggar, and your mother—”

“
Birth
mother.”

“Yes. Sorry. Your birth mother was named after Vera Sinclair. You, of course, were named after
her
.” She pointed to a photograph of Elizabeth Haberlin's back as she sat at a piano. Dressed in a dark color, her waist cinched, her spine upright, Elizabeth Haberlin rested both hands expertly on the keys. Her dark hair was wound neatly in a braided bun. On her wrist, a diamond bracelet sparkled in the light from the window beside her.

Elizabeth Parker knew
this
woman in the photo as clearly as she knew herself. The stillness of playing piano, the need for good posture, the ability to shut everything else out as you played. She fingered the vintage bracelet on her own wrist—the one she never took off. This woman in the photo was her. On the
inside
. The other woman, Vera—her birth mother—had similar features. But Elizabeth Haberlin—her namesake—had passed down her soul.

“Great-great-great,” Elizabeth said, almost to herself.

“Isn't it?”

With a smile, Elizabeth explained, “I'd been wondering if Elizabeth Haberlin was my great-great-grandmother, or great-great-
great
.”

“Oh.” Vida laughed. “Yeah. Great-great-great. And she really was. Elizabeth Haberlin was extraordinary.”

Finally, Elizabeth Parker found her peep.

From the kitchen, a timer went
ping
. Vida leaped up. “Lunch is calling.” Elizabeth shut the photo album and rose to her feet, too. As she followed Vida out of the living room, she stopped by the window.

“This is it, isn't it?”

Vida turned around and nodded. “It's a bit clinky. No one has played it, or tuned it, in years.”

“Mind if I try?”

“I'd love it.” She grabbed a chair.

Elizabeth sat before the old upright piano and rested her fingers lightly on the yellowed ivory keys. She felt Elizabeth Haberlin's energy in her fingertips. With her back rigid and her neck elongated, she played Giovanni Marradi's “Just for You.” Her favorite.