The Story She Left Behind

Chapter 52 Bronwyn

CHAPTER 52? brONWYN

Lake District, England

Wynnie walked next to Bronwyn.

“Grandma,” Wynnie said. “Can I call you that, since I’ve been calling you Grandma all along?”

“Yes, I’d love that,” Bronwyn said, and took her granddaughter’s mittened hand.

“I need to know something.”

Bronwyn looked down at this marvel of a girl named after her, the daughter of her daughter. Bronwyn’s breath caught and held with the dishonor of leaving her. “Tell me what you need to know,” Bronwyn said. She would tell the child anything she needed.

“Did you create Emjie, or did she come visit you like she visited me?”

“She visited me, and I told her story. Or that’s how it felt.”

“We share her, then,” Wynnie said, then stopped to straighten her little glasses and look straight into Bronwyn’s eyes. “Mama doesn’t see her or know her.”

“Your mama is most likely angry with me and therefore can’t see Emjie. And that’s okay. That’s what she needs for now. But you, you needed a friend.” Bronwyn stopped and pointed at the long, wide acreage near Hill Top. “That, my darling girl, is where Peter Rabbit lives.”

“I know. I came here with Mama a few days ago.” Wynnie stopped at the gate. “Mama really likes Beatrix Potter. We have all her books, and Mama has even framed some pictures of Jemima Puddle-Duck.”

“I read those books to her when she was little.”

“She told me,” Wynnie said.

Bronwyn set both hands on the fence post, for she needed to settle herself, to find a way to keep from crumpling to the ground in regret and loss. She steadied herself. “Beatrix loved the country just as I do, and you know, Wynnie, she also created a language.”

“We saw it when we visited.”

“Beatrix’s language was more of a code than a new language, but just like me, she needed to hide parts of herself from the world.”

“Why do we need to hide parts of ourselves from the world?” Wynnie tilted her head, and Bronwyn nearly bent over with the grief of ever missing a day of Clara’s and Wynnie’s lives.

She took a breath and answered as best she could. “Sometimes the world isn’t so kind to people who are different, especially women,” Bronwyn said.

“Yes. At school, Billy makes fun of my glasses, and my desk mate Florrie teases me for my little stories, and some moms look funny at Mama when she arrives at school with paint in her hair and on her shirt. So maybe hiding is something… we need to do?”

“It shouldn’t be, little one. And I’m sorry I hid from you,” Bronwyn said, and the tears felt warm on her cheeks. “That is my loss, Wynnie.”

“Don’t cry,” Wynnie said. “You sent me Emjie.”

Bronwyn sat on a wooden bench and patted the seat for Wynnie.

“Mr. McGregor is scary,” Wynnie said. “He cooked Peter Rabbit’s father.”

Bronwyn laughed. “Indeed he did. The scary bits are always there.”

“Why the scary bits?” Wynnie asked, and scooted closer, rested her hand on Bronwyn’s leg.

Bronwyn paused and twisted to face this wise granddaughter and her inquisitive eyes. “Because the world has scary bits. Where is a better place to see it first than with Peter Rabbit?”

Wynnie nodded and pressed her lips together. “I see. Yes. And then we can know that there are still good parts.”

“Yes.” Bronwyn reached over and hugged the child and desperately hoped that for the rest of her life she might be lucky enough to take this chatter and stretch it for years. There was so much more to say about banishing terror and conquering darkness. “Tell me how you met Emjie,” Bronwyn said. “I want to hear everything.”

“I met her when I was making an oyster shell castle on the beach in front of Papa’s house. We live there now, but we didn’t live there when I was tiny. I was sad that day. No one was around to build the castle with me, then Emjie showed up. She hasn’t left me yet. I know she will someday.”

“She doesn’t have to leave. Unless you want her to.”

“Mama thinks I met her after she read your book to me, but that’s not true. When she read it to me, I already knew Emjie. She told Papa that I must have heard them talking about Emjie. I know Emjie isn’t just mine. I know she’s yours, too—mostly yours. But I do love her.”

“She’s not mine,” Bronwyn said. “No more than Peter Rabbit belongs to Beatrix Potter.”

They sat quietly with the chirp of an unseen bird. Wynnie broke the silence with a wish she must have kept so deep that it burst out. “I want to make up words with you.”

Bronwyn laughed. “Let’s do it!”

“I can?” Wynnie asked. “I’m allowed to do that?”

“No one needs permission to define what they think and feel, Wynnie. No one. What in your life do you feel like no one can understand? Only you? A feeling. A person. A thing.”

Wynnie stared off at the fells. She watched the bulky cotton of clouds lazily cross the blue, blue sky. They listened to the calls of birds, each different.

“I can’t see well.” Wynnie touched her glasses. “People forget that sometimes I can’t see everything, even with these clunky things.”

“Make a word, Wynnie. Tell me what that feeling is.” Bronwyn pulled her close, her arm around Wynnie’s shoulders.