Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
FOUR YEARS LATER
My story was never going to have a happy ending. Professor Bell was right, in the end. In war, everyone bleeds. In every story like ours, there’s a Ralston and a Bell. And we all have to choose which one we’re going to be.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter while I’m washing dishes. I hurry to dry my hands when I see it’s a phone call from a number I don’t recognize. I hesitate, but answer.
“Is this Lila Parks?”
I recognize her voice, though I don’t know where from. “Who is this?”
“It’s Stella Cameron.” Her voice is calm but urgent. It drags me right back to Havenport.
“Stella Cameron from the documentary?” My heart skips a beat. I’d nearly forgotten about Ralston’s documentary. It was released even after her removal from Havenport, but whatever success it might’ve had got lost in the chaos of that time.
“Yeah. Listen, I know you might not want to talk to me, but I got your phone number from my agent. I hope that’s okay.”
I prop my phone between my shoulder and ear, drying my hands further. “Sure, I guess. What’s this about?” If she asks me to give a quote for Ralston’s next documentary, I might scream.
“I’ve been following your story for a while. And I just want to say…well, I believe you. About everything. I’m sorry I didn’t before. I want to tell the real story about Dr. Ralston. The one no one’s been brave enough to tell on camera.”
A wave of ice passes to my extremities. “Why now?”
“Because it’s time, I guess. Long past time, really.”
I’m quiet, thinking. Eventually, I toss the towel down, turning to lean against the counter. “Althea Ralston has taken enough from me. There are others who need to be taken down. People worse than Ralston.”
“Then tell me those stories,” she rushes to say. “Please. I want to help you. I want to do my part, whatever that looks like.”
“Why now?” I repeat.
Her voice is soft and shaky when she finally answers. “Because I finally listened to one of the podcasts you were on. I heard what you said about Dean Carlyle.”
“It’s true—”
“I know. You’re the…first person who has spoken truth to what I experienced with him.”
My breathing hitches. “What did you say?”
“Everything you said. I… No one talks about it. No one.”
“He hurt you? You knew him?”
“I…attended Havenport. I was one of the girls he was talking about, the ones you mentioned. He stole my girlfriend’s manuscript.
When I confronted him, he assaulted me. It was the worst day of my life.
I… Dr. Ralston protected me. Or I thought she did.
It’s why I was so determined to do the documentary.
I trusted her. I loved her. But then I heard what you said.
Is it true? That she was involved? That she knew what he was? ”
“Yes.” I can barely utter the syllable, still processing.
“Then I want to expose them all. I’m ready. I’m sorry it’s taken this long.”
I listen—hope, fear, and rage tangled in my chest like the vines on Havenport’s stone walls.
“I know you have no reason to trust me, but—”
“No, I’m in,” I say, cutting her off. “I do trust you. I believe you.” I’m working on that again. Trusting people just because I can. “We’re both guilty of not believing the warnings. Of wanting them to be better.”
We schedule a meeting, a chance to talk through everything. To game plan. The allure of finally being heard, no longer censored or erased, is all I can think of.
But before the cameras can roll, the world shifts again. I open Threads as I’m arriving at our filming location to see her name trending.
#AltheaRalston
My blood goes cold, and I freeze in my tracks. The tray of iced coffees sloshes onto my arm.
Then it hits me all at once, the headline.
Althea Ralston—Activist, Author, Educator—Dead at 64
Her obituary floods my feed, being shared by every news station, every influencer. My world tilts on its axis. At some point, both hands are on my phone, and my feet are soaked. I realize I dropped the tray of coffees, though I don’t remember when or how it happened.
Posts and articles pop up within minutes of the news breaking, celebrating her pioneering contributions to feminist theory, her indelible mark on women’s studies, and her legacy of courage and intellect.
I stand there for what feels like days but must only be minutes as my world ends.
By the time I finally make it into the small building where we’re meant to film, Havenport has already sent out a press release. A small scholarship is being established in Ralston’s name. She will be remembered. She will be missed.
Even in disgrace, she’s a martyr to most—proof that the system forgives the sins it needs to. When I find Stella, I know before she says a word she’s already seen the news. She draws her lips in, tears in her eyes, and she doesn’t have to say it.
It’s over. For now, at least, it’s over.
If we attack a dead woman, no one will listen. The time for vitriol has passed. My heart pounds while I sit across from the small desk Stella’s camped behind.
There’s no mention of the women Ralston stole from in any of the articles, no hints to the rumors, the silenced voices. When you Google Althea Ralston now, all that comes up is a legacy of fighting for women, not against them.
Back at home I lie in bed, reading the same articles, the same words over and over. I cry, I scream, I check my bank account—which is dwindling.
No offer ever came for a second book, so—luckily?—I was spared the agonizing decision of whether to accept it. My royalties have all but dried up. I’m back to working freelance journalism, and just last week I accepted a job copyediting a manuscript.
It’s fiction and remarkably well-written, but it’s just another way I’ll be erased. I’ll be lucky to get a line in the acknowledgments of someone else’s dream.
The words aren’t mine. The story isn’t mine.
Even in death—especially in death—Ralston won.