The Woman in the Photo (7 page)

“Nervous as hell,” Valerie said.

Abby smiled. “I'm wondering how Lee feels, too.”

Lee paused. How did she feel?
Nervous?
Yeah.
Excited?
Yeah. She felt so many different emotions she couldn't put her finger on one alone. Out of the blue, a thought popped into her mind. She said, “I feel like I'm about to meet myself.”

At that moment, all doubt vanished like chimney smoke on a cold desert night. “Let 'er rip,” she said.

Abby opened the skinny file. Over its top edge, Val and Lee again watched her eyeballs move left and right. “Oh,” she spurted. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?” Lee and Valerie echoed the same word at the same time.

“Are you familiar with the Ashkenazi tribe?”

“Indians?” Lee asked. “I mean, Native Americans?”

“No. The Ashkenazim are an ancient tribe of Jews.”

“I'm Jewish?”

“Yes, actually. On the maternal side of your birth genetics is a direct line back to the Ashkenazim. Probably from Germany. Maybe Palestine.”

“Neat,” Lee said, grinning.

“The only reason this is potentially important information is
because recent genetic testing has revealed that there are some elevated medical risks particular to Ashkenazi women. That's why your file was flagged.”

“Risks? Like what?” Valerie leaned forward.

Abby said, “Again, genetic risks can be relatively small. Although, Ashkenazi women who inherit a certain gene mutation do have to be vigilant. The reason we inform adoptees is so they can make sure this information is a part of their medical record. Your doctor will help you decide if genetic testing is appropriate.”

“Genetic testing for what?” Lee gripped the armrests again.

“Well, breast and ovarian cancers are the biggest concerns,” she said, gently.

“Cancer?” Valerie blanched.

“And some other diseases like—” Abby's fingers returned to the computer keyboard. She read: “Bloom syndrome, Canavan disease, Gaucher disease.”

“I've never even
heard
of those. Is my daughter in danger?”

Abby replied, “We advise all adoptees and their families to discuss this information with a licensed genetics physician. I can give you a list of referrals in your area.”

“Thanks,” Val said, still pale. Lee felt numb. She'd come all this way to find out she might get cancer?

“While I get that for you,” Abby said in a bright voice, “there's something in your file you might want to see. I have no idea how we ended up with it. Maybe your birth mother attached it to her paperwork? At any rate, I see no harm in showing you if you want to see it.”

“See what?” Lee blurted.

“A photograph of your maternal ancestor.”

Lee's mouth flew open. “What?” Valerie scooted to the edge of her seat as Abby pulled an old black-and-white photo out of the manila folder. She handed it to Lee, who was surprised to feel her hands tremble. The photo was a small snapshot of two women—one tall, like her, the other short. Both were regal in their way—staring straight into the camera lens. All around them was dirt and rubble. Leaning in to take a look, Valerie squealed, “Honey! That's you!”

It was true. The tall woman on the right, slightly in the background, looked just like her. She had dark messily upswept hair, wavy bangs that danced across her forehead, intense eyes like espresso beans. Like Lee's. In her placid face, Lee saw her own slightly pointed nose, the heart-shaped curve of her upper lip, the same two valleys just below her cheekbones. Lee felt an instant connection. At last, she'd found her people.

“What's her name?” she asked, excited.

“I'm sorry, I can't tell you that,” Abby said. “As you know, yours was a closed adoption. All identifying information is sealed.”

“Can I keep the photo?”

“I'm afraid not. It stays with the file. But, go ahead and take a few minutes to look at one of your blood relatives. I'll be right back.”

While Abby left to get the physician referrals, Lee gripped the picture tightly in both fists. She lifted it up and held it close to her eyes, examining every millimeter of the tall woman's body. Every fold in her long skirt, the high collar on her puffy white shirt, the wisps of hair bouncing about her pretty face,
the way she stood so very erect in the aftermath of what had obviously been some kind of disaster. Just as Lee was reaching into her pocket for her iPhone—what harm could a quick photo do?—Valerie leaned close to her daughter and read the tiny printing on the back of the snapshot: “‘Woman with Clara Barton.'”

Pulling back, she looked at Lee quizzically. “Isn't Clara Barton the woman who started the Red Cross?”

Just then, Abby returned to the cubicle and plucked the photo out of Lee's hands. Turning it over, she read the back and said, “You probably shouldn't have seen that.”

“Is Lee related to Clara Barton?” Valerie's eyes were as round and shiny as new quarters.

“For the record, I believe that Clara Barton is the woman on the
left
. Lee's ancestor is the unidentified woman on the right.”

“Great, great, great,” Lee said, almost to herself.

“Isn't it?” Valerie excitedly cupped her daughter's chin.

Sitting back in her chair, Lee grinned. Judging by the Victorian hair and clothes in the photograph, she figured the photo was taken sometime in the nineteenth century. Which meant five generations ago. Maybe six. At twenty-five years per generation, the unidentified woman on the right—the one who looked just like her—would be her great-great-great-grandmother. At the very least.

Thank goodness she was a whiz at math. She now had a starting point.

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

SOUTH FORK FISHING AND HUNTING CLUB

Summer 1888

A
re you unwell, miss?” Nettie's hazel eyes regard me with concern as I stomp into the cottage and call her to my room.

“Not in the slightest. Could you please help me out of these clothes?”

“A royal family is arriving from England today, miss.”

“They're
not
royal. Besides, I don't care.”

On my way up the stairs, I reach my hand into my upswept hair to pull out the amethyst-tipped clips. To Nettie I say, “I'll wear my brown box-pleat skirt today.”

Now she looks alarmed. “Surely the other ladies will be dressed in their best sport finery.”

“Surely. And my plain shirtwaist, too.”

“Is something wrong with the lavender cotton?”

“Yes. It's too lovely for a day alone in my room.”

Scurrying after me, Nettie watches me yank the final clip from my hair to release my bound-up locks. In a tumble of dark curls, my hair falls nearly all the way to the small of my back. Like a wet dog, I shake my head and feel delicious freedom. Today will be my happiest day of the whole summer. Solitude and liberty. Glorious!

Inside my room—decorated in the same heliotrope colors as my bedroom in Upper St. Clair—I stand in front of the pier glass between the windows and wait for Nettie to unbutton me. My cheeks are still flushed with indignation. In the reflection of the mirror I see my maid's freckled hands clasped in front of her. Her body shape is unfortunate. As plump in back as she is in front. Strands of her red hair are stuck to the perspiration on her forehead. Clearly, she fears I've gone mad.

“I'm behind on my correspondence,” I say, by way of explanation. Not that I owe her one. “I've decided to stay indoors today. Could you please tell Ida I'll be taking my meals in my room? Mother, Father, and Henry will be dining at the clubhouse, no doubt.”

“Are you certain, Miss Elizabeth?”

“I am. Now help me out of this dress.”

As Nettie works to extricate me from my corset and layers, I inhale deeply and know that I'm making the right decision. With my debut only a year away, I must focus my efforts solely on gentlemen of
substance.
Not foreign men who think American ladies are his playthings. The nerve of him.

Although, I now sigh, the thought of marrying one of the men—
boys
—from the club depresses me. Julian has the same roly-poly middle as my little brother, Henry. His cheeks are two pomegranates. Roderick—Mr. Vanderhoff's son—has the swagger of his father. His hair appears to have a mind of its own. And his hands, once encircling my own at a ball, felt as rough as a gardener's. Roderick's attempt to grow a mustache and beard like Mr. Carnegie's and Mr. Frick's is laughable. One can clearly see the skin within them. Edmond and Oscar are the opposite: barefaced and as soft as baby thighs. All would bore me into spending my days in bed, weeping.

Mother has already advised me to lower my standards. “You'll never find a
perfect
husband,” she said.

“What about Father?”

“No man is perfect.”

What I have yet to mention is my desire to find the ideal husband for
me.
I don't care the slightest bit if he's perfect for anyone else.

After Nettie helps me out of my lavender skirt and petticoat, she removes my matching blouse and lays the entire outfit on my bed to prepare it for another day's wear. In my underclothes, I sit at my dressing table and brush my hair. “You needn't fuss over those frocks now,” I tell her. “Have Ida pack you a picnic and enjoy a day at the lake.”

“What about your hair, miss? Your washbasin—”

“I will take care of myself.”

She poorly contains her glee. “You're certain?”

“I am. But first, please open the green hatbox at the back of my wardrobe.” Now
I
poorly contain my glee. A giggle escapes through my lips.

As instructed, Nettie trundles over to the corner of my room and opens the wardrobe. Bending over to retrieve the hatbox, she slides it out of its hiding place and opens it. Inside is my favorite summer straw hat.

“
Under
the hat,” I chirp.

When Nettie peers beneath the hat, her eyes open as round as ivory buttons. I put my finger to my lips. “Mother needn't know.”

“
Bloomers,
Miss Elizabeth?”

“Why corset myself up just to sit alone in my room?”

Nettie reaches into the hatbox and gently removes the scandalous cotton and lace undergarment, holding it aloft.

“Isn't it divine?” I leap up to join her. “Tilly brought it back for me from her holiday in France. There, they have all sorts. See the beautiful stitching.”

The world is changing. Why can't I be modern, too?

“Today,” I say to my maid, “we are both liberated.”

Nettie grins and whispers, “I won't breathe a word.”

Before she leaves, Nettie sets out the plain brown clothes I've brought to the lake for solitary walks in the woods. It can get terribly muddy after a rainfall. She helps me out of my ordinary drawers and into my extraordinary new bloomers. Together, we both admire the prettiness of the pink satin ribbon that se
cures the soft fabric to my knees. The sensation of liberty is almost sinful. I want to skip through the cottage singing.

Let the other girls have the counterfeit royal, Mr. Tottinger. I have something much more desirable:
freedom.

“Have an enjoyable day, miss,” Nettie says, leaving me alone to finish dressing. With only a basic skirt and shirtwaist to slip over my bloomers and camisole, it takes but a minute to dress. I even remove my leather shoes and stockings to let my toes wiggle in bare abandonment. Why haven't I thought of this before? A lady needs occasional solitude to gather her wits about her. Mother has said so often.

“Let James Tottinger impress
himself,
” I say out loud.

The cottage is blessedly silent. As is—it seems—the entire world. From my second-story window, the view is splendid. A vast sparkling sapphire. Our cottage feels as though it's floating on top of the lake itself. A huge houseboat, adrift. I notice the gentle bobbing of our skiff secured to our dock. Father often uses our small rowboat to patrol this far section of Lake Conemaugh for driftwood and dead foliage that would mar our blue view. The dense woods surrounding our lake are forever shedding branches into the water. Colonel Unger, the club's caretaker, often bemoans the clogged spillway. The heavy mesh fish guards installed to prevent the lake's bounty from swimming downstream into Johnstown is a catchall for every manner of lake debris.

“We can't have townspeople fishing from our stock,” he'd exclaimed when someone suggested removing the mesh to let the lake's runoff flow freely into the valley rivers down below.

Of course not. Lake Conemaugh is
our
lake. The “No Tres
passing” sign before the dam crossing (and other spots throughout the woods) makes that abundantly clear.

In my room, I place both hands on my torso and feel it rise and fall. With each unfettered inhalation, I rejoice in the emancipation of my lungs. Air rushes in and out as nature intended. It's an almost indescribable joy. As if I were sleeping while awake. I feel complete calm.

On a cushioned seat in front of my window, I sit and feel the deliciously forbidden weight of my long swirling hair down my back. To launch my relaxing day, I open the book I've been reading nightly. Thomas Hardy's
Wessex Tales
. I begin to read. Then I stop. Ribbons of yellow sunlight angle through the glass. The glare bounces off the page oddly. It makes me squint. I move away from the window to my settee in the corner, but I can't find a comfortable position. Perhaps I'll read later this afternoon, when a cloud forms.

Feeling the cool of the polished wood floor beneath my bare feet, I skip over to my desk, sit down, and retrieve paper and pen from the top drawer. A thank-you letter to my New York friend, Tilly Hinton, is overdue. Though it requires a bit of subterfuge since Mother has recently taken to reading my correspondence to ensure my grammar and diction are suitable for a young lady on the verge of her debut.

“Nothing can be the slightest bit amiss,” Mother said. “Only if we are extremely careful will
you
be the belle of the ball.”

If Mother had suspected I'd returned from my visit with Tilly hiding bloomers in my trunk, well, surely her reins would be pulled ever tighter.

For inspiration, I gaze out my window over the sparkling
lake, its water now as blue as Bristol glassware. “Oh, Tilly, to be strolling through Central Park, deeply inhaling the green scent, on a day such as this,” I write. Then, grinning, I add, “On your recent visit to France, were you free to roam the Tuileries unfettered?”

Tilly will know exactly what I mean.

Pen in hand, I find it difficult to compose a third sentence. Especially when Lake Conemaugh seems to extend all the way to the horizon. As yet undisturbed by boats, its surface is as smooth as ironed silk.
Has Colonel Unger cut back on the fish stock?
I wonder.
Is the water warm or cold?
When I go for a sail later in the week, will I
see fish dart away through the transparent swells?

Setting Tilly's unfinished note aside, I decide to write a different letter to a friend from school who has moved to a horse farm in Vermont.

“How lovely it must be to look out over a pasture of viridian green.” (We both excelled in literature class.) Again, I gaze out my window for inspiration. The lake, I notice, is trimmed all the way around in trees of every possible shade of green. Emerald, olive, sage, and yes,
viridian
. The pines are vibrant beryl where their peaks puncture the sunlight; below the tree line, their needles darkened to moss. At nightfall, when the lake is so black it seems to swallow the jagged mountains surrounding it, the trees are the very definition of forest green. How terribly interesting, I ponder. Nature produces more color variations than humans can devise proper words to describe. Why, there should be
dozens
of words for green. And in fall, how could one ever adequately capture the spectrum of reds alone?

Curiously, the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the far corner
of my room suddenly seems to grow both louder and slower. As I sit at my desk, I begin to anticipate the
tick,
then the
tock
. Then the
tick
again. How have I managed to sleep through such noise?

I set my pen aside. I consider walking downstairs to practice the piano, but I'm not in the mood. Instead, I twirl my bracelet around and around my wrist to watch its rose-cut diamonds send flickers of light bouncing about the room. Just looking at the exquisite swirling stones makes me happy.

Soon my thoughts drift back to life in Pittsburgh. It's a plain fact for a woman born into my circumstances: every day is as predictable as a sunrise and sunset. Nettie attempts to wake me with the swooshing of velvet drapes across my shiny bedroom floor. She's never successful. Not even direct sunlight on my face can rouse me. My maid tells me it takes a full minute of shoulder jostling for me just to open my eyes. It's no secret that mornings are my least favorite time of day. All that bustle when I'm barely awake.

“My daughter, the somnambulist.”

Without fail, Father greets me in the breakfast room by tipping down the corner of his open newspaper. Mother, in turn, regards him reproachfully. She disapproves of reading at the dining table, considers it the height of bad manners. But Father dismisses her with a smile. “How else can I keep up with my patients?”

At precisely eight o'clock in our Upper St. Clair home—Father insists on early rising, much to my dismay—our butler, Mr. Tilson, enters the breakfast room carrying a platter of freshly fried meats. Unfailingly, Father exclaims, “Splendid.”
He then lifts himself up with a grunt and makes his way to the buffet at the end of our long paneled room. That's the moment Mother and Mr. Tilson exchange glances. Theirs are two expressions I know well. My mother's pleading eyes beg our butler, “Can't you please fill our breakfast buffet with healthful foods?”

Of course, Mother doesn't eat pork, nor any organ meats or shellfish, but she insists there are plenty of other delicious options. Mr. Tilson's unspoken reply lets her know he is powerless to defy Dr. Haberlin's wishes. If the doctor asks for bacon or deviled kidneys or plump sausages or all three—which he often does—the staff is obliged to comply. Mother can only sigh—which
she
often does.

Day after day it is the same routine. How many scales and arpeggios can a person practice in an afternoon? How many peacocks and pastoral scenes can one girl needlepoint without noting the pointlessness of it all? I take my seat across from Mother with a slice of toast and milk tea.