Chapter Twenty-Three #3
“Both.” In an imitation of that lazy drawl of Mina’s, which she had once thought sounded sophisticated, Julia said, “Haven Point is cut off from the world, you know. The old Protestant aristocracy keeping the barbarians at bay. And you know how dismissive she always was of the Liberty Island books.”
“I never felt anything but welcome on Haven Point,” Louisa said.
“And Mina knew Liberty Island marked you as special. As well it should. I came here as a little girl so grief-stricken I could not even speak. But you just took my hand and folded me into the magical world you had created. With that accepting, confiding way of yours, you healed me, Julia.”
“Thank you,” Julia said, feeling as if she might cry.
They were quiet for a while, and Julia assumed Louisa had grown too weary to talk more. But then she spoke again.
“I am glad Margaret gave you that illustration from Liberty Island. She was right that it belongs to you. That’s you, Julia, always pointing at the light.”
Seeing the question in Julia’s eye, Louisa searched for more words.
“My Irish grandmother used to say, ‘Open the curtains and let out the dark.’” She smiled, her expression sweetly tender. “You don’t need to look to anyone else for answers, Julia. The fact is, you are meant to love. You’re made for love. All you need to do is let out the dark.”
Eight days later, just after dawn, Julia went downstairs and found her mother sitting on the porch. She sank into the wicker love seat next to her.
Mother took her hand. “Do you feel all right? I know it is a lot to ask of you, speaking today.”
“I wrote something, finally. It might not be enough, but I did my best.”
“It will be enough. And Julia—I have not forgotten that I promised we would talk.”
“There’s nothing you need to say, Mother,” Julia said. The past few weeks had revealed Elizabeth to her daughter in a new light. “I’m the one who owes you an apology. I am sorry for how much and how long I so willfully misunderstood you.”
“I know I do not try hard enough to make myself understood.” Mother gave her a wry smile. “I have been reliably informed that I assume too much.”
“You assume everyone means well, and expect the same in return. You deserve that, especially from me. I won’t forget it again.”
Julia felt anxious as she sat in the front pew of the little church on Haven Point. Anna had come by Fourwinds yesterday and found Julia in her room, weeping over a nearly blank sheet of paper.
“I am no writer. I can’t do this. There are no words that can properly honor her.”
“We are all more than what can be captured on a page,” Anna replied. “Even a full biography is inevitably inadequate, never mind a eulogy. Your love for Louisa will come through, whatever you say.”
Julia hoped so, but she was not at all sure.
When the time came, she rose from the pew and approached the lectern, her legs wobbly.
She got encouraging smiles from her family—Father and Mother, who had Julia’s nephews by their side, and from her aunt and Uncle Harley, and their sons, who had come up for the service.
Tomorrow they would all go to Boston for the full Mass at Louisa’s church, where she would be buried beside her mother.
Louisa had not lived in South Boston for years, but she never lost ties with her old neighborhood.
Friends from Washington were also traveling up for the service.
Her life would be well celebrated there.
Yet when Julia glanced up, she saw that this little church was full, too.
Most people gathered here did not know Louisa’s history, that Haven Point was not just where she died but also where she was born. They knew nothing of the bittersweet ties that bound her to this place. They came because here, as everywhere, Louisa had touched many lives in her quiet way.
As Julia scanned the faces, she spotted one that surprised her. It was Michael, sitting on the aisle, halfway back. She smiled at him, and he lifted his hand and touched his index finger to his thumb. His wink.
Julia’s tremors eased. With more confidence, she looked down at her paper and began to read.
Louisa was eight years old when she was first brought to us here, for the benefit of her health. Once, when we were still very young, she told me that Haven Point was a bath for her lungs, that she could feel the air washing her breath.
She was so independent, it was hard for her to let us take her in, no matter how often we told her how much we loved and needed her.
She only relented because she knew, although I did not, that she had only so many breaths to spare.
She wanted to do as much good as she could before they were depleted.
If being here on Haven Point would help her save them up—to bank them, if you will—it was a bargain she was willing to strike.
Louisa saw us as giving her the gift of breath, but the truth is, that is what she gave to everyone else.
I used to feel about Louisa as I imagined a boat feels about its mooring. I often tugged at the line, yearning to enter the current. But if it was dark, or the current was too swift and dangerous, she kept me anchored. When I did wander, I knew I could return, and that she would hold me fast.
I have come to think of her in a more elemental way.
When we were in college, we attended the suffrage march in Washington.
A crowd of rough men swarmed the parade route, and Louisa was knocked to the ground unconscious, with a wound on her head.
I remember thinking she needed a circle of space around her so that she could breathe.
Louisa was the figurative version of the circle I literally sought that day.
Everyone who entered Louisa’s circle breathed more easily.
You could tell her your secrets, and she would keep them.
You could betray your idiosyncrasies, and she would accept them.
You could come to her with your sorrows, and she would listen.
Oh, how she would listen.
Louisa’s serenity was such that she was hardly ever roused to anger, and on the rare times she was, it was almost always directed at those who exploited the poor working women to whose needs and interests she dedicated her life.
She helped them breathe more easily, too. Literally, in fighting for better ventilation and fire protection in factories, and figuratively, in pressing for better wages and shorter hours.
Louisa used to say that people were too enamored of the idea of what could be. She could not think about an imagined, idyllic tomorrow. She was far too concerned with what is.
When I first learned she was coming here to die, I remembered that and thought, “The reason she must think about what is, and not what could be, was that she only had so many remaining breaths.”
The truth, though, has since hit me quite forcefully. What was true for her is true for all of us. We all have only so many breaths.
In that bargain Louisa struck all those years ago, I got the better end.
She might have been small, humble, and frail, but she had more strength and courage in her little finger than I have in my whole body.
She did more with her short life than most do with a long one.
I only hope that with my own remaining breaths, I will remember her goodness and follow the example of the life she lived.
Mother had planned a luncheon reception, but after the service, Julia had to navigate a gauntlet of people offering kind words and sympathy, and by the time she was through, her family had already left for Fourwinds.
As she walked back alone, her mind returned to that moment when she had spotted Michael in the church. She’d had no idea he was coming, and seeing him there had steadied her instantly.
The day before Louisa died, she had taken Julia’s hand. “I have a confession to make.”
“For me or a priest?”
Louisa smiled. “This one’s for you.”
“All right. I can handle it.”
“I always wished you could love Michael.”
“Me, too,” Julia had said sadly.
Michael was the one person who knew Julia almost as well as Louisa had, and who, like Louisa, had never tried to change her, who wanted nothing but her happiness. Suddenly, Julia felt keen to see him. She had no idea what his plans were, but she picked up her pace, hoping he would be at Fourwinds.
She entered the house and paused in the hall, where she could see into the living room. To her relief, she spotted Michael talking to Anna. When he caught her eye, he excused himself and came to meet her, his smile kind and sympathetic.
He is so handsome! Why had she never seen that? Julia felt something stir inside her, something tentative and tender. And for some strange reason, she began to cry.
Michael pulled her into a hug. “You were perfect,” he said into her hair.
When he pulled back, he kept one hand on her shoulder, brought the other to her face, and brushed a tear away with his thumb.
“You were good to come, Michael. I felt all right when I saw you there.”
“You did, Jules? I’m glad.”
“How long are you staying?”
“I have to leave Haven Point this afternoon, but as it happens, I won’t be going far. I know you’re going to Boston tomorrow. I can meet you back here in a week if you would like?”
“I would. Very much,” Julia said, though her heart sank. Genevieve Carter’s family had a house in Bar Harbor. Other than seeing her, Julia could not imagine what other business he would have in Maine.
Julia already felt as if her heart had been cracked wide open. She was not sure it could take another blow.
Julia had thought her time after the Knickerbocker disaster might prepare her somewhat for living without Louisa. Had it not been good practice, those long months when she had felt so bereft of her presence?