Page 28 of Counting Backwards

“I’m going to tell him,” I hedged. “I mean, I’ll have to. It’s not as if I can move forward on a case like this in secret. But I’m not ready to talk to him yet.”

“I want to argue with you,” Gram said, pausing as her gaze seemed to shift inward. Then she shook her head. “But who am I to preach brutal honesty when I only just told you about my father and all the ways his crusade affected our family?” She picked up another utensil but then put it back down. “Sometimes we’re just not ready to share certain things, and I suppose that has to be all right. You don’t have to beat yourself up over needing a moment to come clean.”

My nose prickled, the level of understanding in her words threatening to make me weepy.

“Thanks, Gram,” I said, clearing my throat.

“Well, that’s settled then.” She tapped her hand against the counter before coming to sit beside me. “Let’s find ourselves a photo.” Pulling the box of pictures closer, she began riffling through them.

“Maybe this one,” she said, lifting one from the messy pile. “One of my all-time favorites.”

It was a picture of me and Mom. We were at some zoo in Florida where we’d been allowed to feed milk to a baby tiger from a dropper. When the cub yawned, my mom had screamed in terror, thinking the animal was going to bite little eight-year-old me. When Gram snapped the photo, we were laughing over Mom’s oversized reaction, our faces pink. Our grins stretched wide as ever as we looked at each other with glee.

“I can’t believe that place actually let people hold the tigers,” I said, staring down at the picture with a smile. “It’s hard to imagine anyone allowing something like that now.” I often thought about how much the world had changed since my parents died, all the things that would be new to them—iPhones, Uber, streaming services, my trusty Alexa. But then I thought about what was going on at Hydeford and worried that maybe there were still too many things that hadn’t changed at all.

Gram pulled out another photo and held it up. It was my mom as a toddler in the 1960s, sitting in a sandbox with two little boys. My eyes drifted to the swing set behind them and the old-fashioned cars in the background before I looked back at the kids.

“I mean, the clothes these poor children are wearing.” I laughed lightly as I examined the sweater vests and saddle shoes for another moment and then glanced up at Gram.

“I used to love to dress your mother,” she said wistfully. “The sailor dresses and bows.” She shook her head. “It was a different time, not like when you were a kid with your neon sweatshirts and ripped jeans. How we made it through.” She looked toward the ceiling with awhat can you do?gesture.

“I still don’t understand why you won’t just put these in an album.”

“Don’t start.” She looked back at me with a mock frown. “We all have our quirks. Leave me be.”

Except maybe I did understand now. After I’d heard more about Gram’s childhood, everything was clearer. That day when Gram and I went walking in the freezing cold, she’d opened up about so much I’d never heard before. She told me that Grandpa Harry had been part of a tight-knit community of scientists and medical professionals, many of whom had been investigating methods of eradicating certain human genetic abnormalities. When Carrie Buck’s case went to trial, everything came to a head. Gram’s voice had faltered as she’d restated the facts of the case and what had led Carrie to court—how frighteningly similar it was to what was happening at Hydeford. Grandpa Harry stood up to the scientists and politicians though, filing his own brief with the court in hopes of defeating their agenda and defending Carrie’s rights. Gram said his activism cost him his job and his good name.

No research institutions would hire him after that. The eugenics community had dubbed him a troublemaker and a naysayer,smearing his reputation however they could. When Gram’s family’s money began to run out, they had to leave their home on Long Island to start over in a new place. They even changed their last name so the negative publicity wouldn’t follow them. It was years before they were back on their feet. Eventually, my great-grandpa was able to open the clinic I’d always heard about, but as Gram had made clear, the years in between were incredibly difficult. Their family had been ostracized by so many along the way.

It was no wonder she often avoided talking about parts of her past. Unlike Gram, I had the luxury of looking back at her story and seeing only the heroism and selflessness of it all, but for her, so many upsetting memories remained.

Rather than argue, I did as she bid, continuing to sort through the remaining pictures. We finally settled on a photo for the frame, a shot of Gram and Grandpa Walt as young adults on a tourist trip to London. After positioning the picture inside the glass, I returned the frame to its spot in the living room and then stepped back to study the younger versions of my grandparents. They were huddled under a red umbrella with wide, toothy grins on their faces and Big Ben in the background. Neither of them had any idea then that they’d have only a few more years to enjoy each other. I’d long known that my grandparents had an intense love affair, one that lasted until the day my grandpa died. I wondered if they’d have been that blissful if Gram had kept secrets from her husband too.

My phone let out another little chime, and I remembered that Tate might be looking for me. We had talked earlier in the week about meeting for a walk at the Reservoir that afternoon.

I returned to the kitchen and nudged Gram away from the sink so I could extract the trash bin from the cabinet beneath it.

“What else can I do for you before I head out?” I asked as I hoisted the full bag out of the bin and tied the handles closed.

“I’ve been taking care of myself just fine for decades. Go enjoy your Sunday.” She gave me a gentle shove on the arm. “If I need anything else, I’ll ask Manny.” The weekend doorman, Manny, had been doting on her forever, becoming indispensable to her as both handyman and friend.

After I hugged Gram goodbye, I carried the trash to the rubbish room in the hallway on my way to the elevators. While I waited, I pulled out my phone and saw that Tate had indeed texted. Instead of an outdoor walk, she suggested we avoid the rainstorm that was now predicted for the afternoon and meet to sample cosmetics at Bloomingdale’s instead.

Below Tate’s text was another message from a number I didn’t recognize, all written in Spanish. As the elevator doors opened and I stepped inside, I lamented that Spanish was a language I’d never learned. I puzzled over the message, deciphering only a few of the words.

“Si, podría hablar con usted, pero no hablo inglés. Espero que no sea problema. Yo trabajo hasta las seis y media, pero usted podría venir a mi casa después de esa hora. Estoy libre el miércoles. Déjeme saber si le parece bien.”

Then a follow-up came through from the same number.

“Soy Jacinta Morales,” the message announced.

“Oh!” I said aloud as I saw her name.

When the nurse had handed me that note at the detention facility, she’d written down the nameJacinta Moraleswith a partial address. After just a little digging, I’d been able to find a phone number for a Jacinta Morales on the very street listed. A landline. I hadn’t determined yet how the woman was connected to Hydeford, whether as an inmate or maybe another nurse or staff member. But I felt certain the nurse at the facility had been trying to help by slipping the name into my hand. With any luck, the woman would be able to corroborate some aspect of what washappening at Hydeford and maybe even provide some insight into how to convince Isobel and Denise to take action.

I had called Jacinta’s number the day before and left a voicemail, saying I hoped she might be able to shed light on services a client at Hydeford needed. I’d kept the message intentionally vague, worried that if I disclosed the true nature of my call, she’d get frightened and refuse to meet.

I examined the message again. The only information I was able to cull from the text was that Jacinta didn’t speak English. Three years studying Mandarin during high school was completely useless in this moment. I wondered if maybe Jacinta could understand spoken English but struggled to write it. I pressed my thumb to the phone number above the text, considering trying my luck with another call—but then I thought better of it. I was too anxious to find out why the nurse had pointed me in Jacinta’s direction and didn’t want to bungle anything by trying to communicate too hastily.