Page 62 of My Darling Girls

“Tell her, Flora,” Lula says. “It’s Grace. It’s okay to tell her.”

“Sally got some awful sickness from a customer,” Flora says in a soft, whispery voice. She looks at Grace, drawing a quick, sharp breath, and continues, “The doctor who comes here to check on us every month said there was nothing he could do for her. The day before the doctor’s visit, she’d packed her trunk and told us that in a few days she was running away with you. Said the two of you were taking a train to Omaha to some place that’s taking girls in. She promised to let us know if that place was safe, and maybe we could come too.” Her mouth curves down in a horrible, twisted line. “But then the doctor came, and Ada wouldn’t let her work after that. Asked her to move out immediately. Instead of waiting for you, telling you what was going on, Sally locked herself in the room and—”

“She hung herself, Grace,” Lula cuts in. “Right above her bed. Hank had to break the door down.” Lula pulls out a cigarette from the pocket of her frock, lights it up with a single stroke of a match, and blows a stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

Grace drops heavily into the empty chair by her side. “Sally wouldn’t do it. I knew her. Loved her. We had plans. No, she wouldn’t kill herself. It must’ve been a client, someone else, and Ira’s trying to make it look like Sally did it to herself.”

“Grace,” Jo says. “Sometimes people do things in times of extreme distress, things that others don’t fully comprehend.”

“Why didn’t she tell me? I don’t care if she was sick. I don’t care about any of it. Why didn’t she talk to me?”

“Probably didn’t want to give you what she had,” Lula says. Her words are slow and measured. But there’s a tremor in her voice, as if she’s trying to control the sadness that’s pouring out of her and seeping into the room. “Didn’t want to make you take care of her while she was dying.” She holds Grace’s gaze for a few seconds before turning away from her. “Thought it would be better that way.”

“Oh, Sally.” Grace’s voice trails off, her face crumbling. Her shoulders cave, and she puts her hands over her face, leaning forward, shaking so violently the chair screeches in ominous warning.

Jo remembers how dead Sally’s eyes widened at Jo’s camera and glistened with the otherworldly light. Arms with dark bruises, bony knees jutting out, and a thick welt around Sally’s crooked, broken neck. A swollen black tongue. Tell Grace I’m sorry. An apology for her decision. For the life they’ll never have. For the future they’ll never build.

A heavy, almost physical weight settles in the room. The walls seem closer, the air seems tighter. A floorboard groans overhead. Other girls must be waking up.

“Grace, Sally’s very sorry for what she’s done,” Jo says.

Grace stares at Jo, her eyes two deep wells of sorrow. “How do you know, Jo?”

“Sally spoke to me. That day when we took her pictures.”

The girls gasp.

“Why does everyone always lie to me,” Grace exhales. Maybe it’s a trick of the murky daylight, but just for a second, Grace looks normal—angry and disappointed—but not broken.

“I keep hearing Sally’s singing,” Flora says. The odd play of shadows and light emphasizes the depth of her eyes, making them seem smaller and deeper, almost like cavities. “When I woke up today, I heard Sally. She was singing. Just like she used to when she was getting ready for bed.” Flora’s voice is hollow. Fear flickers across her small face. “I know she’s still in her room,” she whispers.

Lula pulls on her cigarette. “I should’ve left this godforsaken place when I could. Our photographer, August, told us about the place in Omaha. He helped those of us who wanted to leave. He called it a sanctuary for those in need of a fresh start.” Her cigarette is burning between her fingers as she’s watching Grace closely. “If you dare to go there.”

When Jo hears August’s name, a sharp pain ruptures through her heart. She wants to ask Lula to tell her more about August, but she cannot find a sound in her vocal cords. As though this news about August took all her strength away from her. Finally she rasps, “August was helping the girls? He was getting them out?”

Flora shifts uncomfortably in her chair. “He was good to us. Took the pictures, made his money, and then used it for something decent, something good. He got four girls out before he died.”

“Four?” Jo whispers. A ray of light breaks through the night in her mind. He wasn’t working for Ira. He was working for the girls.

“All of them are in Omaha now,” Flora says.

Licking her dry lips, Rose says, “A mad witch takes strays in. Like us.”

“Waifs,” Lula adds.

“Difficult girls,” Flora says.

Lula nods. “Unruly girls.”

“Broken.” That’s Rose again.

“Where is this place?” Grace’s voice is full of pain, and Jo wants to touch her, comfort her somehow, but she isn’t sure she can help.

Lula chuckles darkly. “The place’s run by a woman who talks to the dead. The house is full of ghosts. August offered to get me out, but I refused. I didn’t want to be trapped in the house with a witch.” Lula sighs, and her expression changes from bitterness to something haunted. She takes a sip of coffee and taps herself on her forehead with a broken fingernail. “I wasn’t thinking straight. But now I reckon I made a grave mistake. The dead are less scary than your family, Grace.”

“Sally and I were supposed to leave together.” Grace’s eyes are blurry and utterly blank. She has the look of someone who is peering over the edge of a cliff, about to take a leap into the abyss. “Sally said there was a place for us. Didn’t tell me where. Said better if I didn’t know.” She gulps, inhales, and closes her eyes, as if she’s suppressing a sob.

Lula and Rose exchange a bemused glance.