11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
Savannah, Georgia
December 2008
E mily had been dreaming about a cactus and a bottle of Coke when the school bell rang. Weird strands of thoughts dissipating, she snapped to attention. Around her, students packed up their books, rushing out of the classroom in groups of three or four to catch the next class.
Oh, foot! Had she dozed off? She couldn’t remember the last few minutes, but that was not necessarily the result of her falling asleep. It was History; Emily wouldn’t have remembered what happened if someone taped her eyes open and forced her to repeat the teacher’s sentences, word by word.
She cleared her desk, hoisted her worn brown leather bag onto her shoulder, and ran to catch up with the rest of the students. All good; nobody seemed to—
“ Miss Willburne.”
Gulping, Emily turned around to face her jailer. There were stories of people liking Mrs. Spencer. Emily put them in the same bin with the standard ghost stories of the city—entertaining to consider, but definitely not true.
With heavy feet, she walked to the teacher’s desk. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Is this topic a joke to you?”
“Not at all, ma’am.” If it were, Emily would be laughing, not—presumably—sleeping.
“I’ve noticed your distinct lack of interest.”
What was she supposed to say to that? It was true, but such was life, and this class was obligatory, and now they were all forced to suffer?
“Your grades are sadly lacking, too.” Mrs. Spencer sifted through her grade book with swift, determined moves. Those pages were in danger of getting ripped out. Her movements went perfectly with her voice, and the wasp-like z she got out of miss . She sounded the most wasp-like when that title was followed by Emily’s surname. “I wouldn’t predict you to get out of that C range… especially when you’re wasting your time sleeping.”
Sleeping is the least wasteful thing I can do in this class, Emily wanted to say. She didn’t. There was defiant, and then there was straight suicidal.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t think you are.” The teacher’s eyes, dark and unforgiving, drilled into hers. The vintage cat-eye glasses made them look smaller and even more piercing. “You don’t like history.”
Emily opened her mouth.
“That’s fine,” Mrs. Spencer cut her off. “I don’t expect everyone to like it. You should, however, understand it. This is what I’m trying to teach you.”
As if Mrs. Spencer’s monotone blabbering could make Emily understand. At least throw in a documentary, would you? They were deep in the Civil War right now—there had to be a ton of documentaries on the subject. Or a movie. That would be even better.
“What you need is initiative,” Mrs. Spencer said. “Perhaps some personal research would be the solution? Clearly, the information I provide isn’t sufficient.”
Oh, no. Personal research sounded like sitting in a dusty archive basement, not seeing the sun for three weeks straight.
“Yes… a research paper. Now, what do we have here…” Mrs. Spencer examined the textbook. She pressed her lips together, making them almost disappear, until she formed the tiniest—and pretty strange-looking—smile. “ Development of technology and its influence on the war . And I’ll want concrete examples from different fields, Miss Willburne. Don’t you come back with half a page on how ‘railroads were useful’. Due to be presented before the Christmas break.” She slapped the book shut. “That will be all. Are we clear?”
Emily jotted down the title. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And, Miss Willburne… this isn’t a punishment. It’s an opportunity. You can’t know yourself if you don’t know your history.”
From the corner of her eye, Emily caught a group of students standing a few feet away, waiting to talk to the teacher. Her pets from the History Club, no doubt. Embarrassed they’d overheard the degrading conversation, she nodded to Mrs. Spencer and hurried out.
Know her history! Did it matter what some politician ate for breakfast two hundred years ago? Or if a battle was fought on a particular day, and not one day later? It changed nothing. She didn’t need history to tell her who she was. Emily Willburne, age seventeen, of Savannah, Georgia: best described by putting the word medium in front of everything. Medium height, medium built; medium brown hair, medium light complexion. Well, Miss Iris did once say that her eyes were “like the fresh spring grass”, but Emily couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or not. Miss Iris was a kind-hearted soul, but she was on the strange side. What else? Average achievements, average grades? Except for history, that is. Perhaps one thing was true, at least. Those who didn’t know their history were doomed to repeat it.
As a class during summer school.
“But she can’t fail you, right?” Sarah peeked through a gap in the bookshelf. “She wouldn’t dare.”
Emily added another book to the pile in her lap. “Does she look like someone who wouldn’t dare?” If there was a thing Mrs. Spencer wouldn’t dare, it would probably be “have fun”. “Not that she’ll get the chance. If she wants a paper, she’ll get one.”
Which was why Emily was fighting off a sneeze in a forgotten section of the school library. Best to get this over with. Sarah—her oldest and, as it frequently went with the definition, best friend—accompanied her, and was currently engrossed in a book on the other side of the shelf.
“Just half a year more. Remember.”
Emily nodded, closed her eyes and repeated that as a mantra. No history required in senior year, and you could bet that class was going off her list faster than green grass through a goose.
She scanned the bookshelf for anything else useful. Inconveniently, there was no book titled Perfect Examples of How Technology Affected the Civil War . She grabbed a General History of Civil War— good enough, and it wasn’t too thick. Suppose they saved that for the Detailed History .
“Oh! Here it is,” Sarah exclaimed. “This is the one about the creepy ranch in Utah.”
Emily fought back an eye-roll. At least Sarah’s new obsession with conspiracy theories and unexplained phenomena meant she was out of the westerns phase.
Sarah appeared at the end of the bookshelf. Her eyes widened at the tower of books in Emily’s hands.
“I need help,” Emily squeezed out.
“With carrying books or life in general?” Sarah relieved her of half the pile.
“Super funny.”
Sarah skeptically eyed the books. “You’re still going to the movies tomorrow night?”
“Of course. Mrs. Spencer won’t rob me of all my fun. Can you take those to the counter?”
“Sure.” Sarah sauntered away, while Emily did one last check of the shelves. Come on, Technology!
“By the way.” Sarah’s upper body reappeared around the bookshelf, and she waved the General History book. “This is Part Two .”
Emily groaned and butted her head on the solid block of books.
On the outside, Emily’s house was a perfectly respectable two-story colonial with a pale green clapboard facade and a white-painted front porch, plopped in the middle of a perfectly respectable neighborhood with matching backyards and neat little fences to dispute over. Emily pushed the front door in, fighting against four pairs of scattered shoes, and finally kicked those against the wall.
The sound of crying drew her toward the open archway to the living room. The TV was on, and a man and a woman with puffy red eyes hugged as Emily leaned on the archway. Her sister, Debbie, sat on the couch, buried in textbooks and shaking a remote. Strange, since Debbie usually kept to her room—the living room was Aunt Nicky’s domain, her sanctuary of nail polish and daytime TV, evident by the coffee table holding a rich array of nail products, creams, and an assortment of yellow-press magazines.
“Are you watching Nicky’s soap?”
Debbie lifted her eyes. “Of course not. I’m trying to get to a documentary I need for my paper. But the remote doesn’t work because no one in this house ever bothers to fix anything, and the channel is stuck on… this.” She curled her lip at the crying woman.
“Yeah, I think that’s intentional.” Emily headed for the stairs.
“You’re twenty minutes later than usual,” Debbie’s voice stopped her.
Slouched, she went back to the living room. “And you’re three years younger than me.”
Debbie stared at her, unimpressed.
“I went to the library.” Emily tugged at her bag, where the edge of General History peeked out. “Surprise! I could read all this time. Anyway, have fun with your soap.”
“I’m not watching—”
Emily cut her sister off with a sweet, fake smile, and bounded up the stairs to her room. Not that she wanted to be like Debbie, but perhaps she could skim over those two General Histories , do a quick draft. Job done for the day. Nodding to herself, she put those on the side, and her eyes stopped on a small, leather-bound book.
“Huh.” She lifted it. It was light and slim; maybe she accidentally grabbed it with the others. It looked strange, though. Old.
She opened it, the yellow pages creaking. Most were filled with cursive handwriting. Did she take another student’s diary? Awkward.
But that didn’t explain its age or the strange writing. Barely legible would be putting it nicely. It reminded her of writing in old documents, but it was less elegant and very pointed, making it difficult to distinguish between certain letters. Or maybe that was because—Emily looked at the words again, narrowing her eyes—it was in… French ?
She tilted her head. Her French was tourist-level at best, but a few words looked familiar. One in particular jumped out at her: Confederate . This part was in English. Something something, were in New Orleans , illegible again, went in the spring 18 …
“Sixty-two,” she whispered. The date was 1862.
She flipped pages. More of ‘62, lots of ‘64. This was something personal. And related to the Civil War.
Two front pages were stuck together, so she carefully pried them apart with a ruler. Blank, save for an inscription at the bottom—same writing, different ink.
Fabienne Beaumont
Brignoles, France
1866
pour mon Guillaume
She stared at it as if that would make it all clear. It didn’t. She had the name of this mysterious owner, a date, and a place that explained why most of it was in French.
It didn’t explain how it got here, though.
She put the diary aside, open in the middle. Translating French would be too much of a bother, and the entries would probably turn out to be about washing clothes or picking potatoes or whatever people used to do back then.
She spread open General History and grabbed her laptop to make notes. After writing two lines, her attention wavered— personal research, great idea! —and she glanced back at the diary.
It had shifted to a new page. The spread was filled with drawings—sketches of the same object, a pocket watch, words crammed in around them.
Emily brought the diary closer to her face, furrowing her eyebrows. Whoever had done it wasn’t the greatest artist, but she recognized the watch.
As in, this particular watch.
She rushed out and ran to the room at the end of the hallway. With her hand already on the doorknob, she paused.
Stop it. It’s just a room.
It wasn’t the room—it was the memories it’d bring back. The reminder of why it was empty, the gripping fear of wondering for how long it will stay empty still, and if it will ever—
No, don’t even think about that. Nodding to herself in encouragement, she decisively walked in.
What did she expect? It was as they’d left it a year ago. A thin ray of sunshine made its way through the drawn curtains. The bed was neatly made, the carpet freshly cleaned, a book and an adorable vintage alarm clock sat on the bedside table; more of a showroom than an actual bedroom. Only a cardboard box, set by the bed, marred the view.
Emily laser-focused her mind on the box. Mama’s things, collected from the crash. A scarf, shoes, her purse… She vividly remembered Nicky receiving it once the police were done with the investigation, then putting it here. “She’ll unpack it when she comes back,” her aunt had said.
It sat here ever since, undisturbed. Almost a year now.
When they got the box, they checked it to make sure all of Mama’s things were there. She had that bracelet she loved and always wore, and would be so upset if it got lost. But there was something else, as well.
Emily dug through the box, found the pocket watch still wrapped in the shawl, and took it to her room. Her gaze flicked from the sketches to the shiny, round object in her hand. The floral engraving on the lid matched, the design of the dials—curiously, there was no glass cover—matched. But Mama hadn’t owned this watch—or Emily hadn’t seen it before.
The front door clicked. “Emily! Debbie! I brought supper!” Aunt Nicky’s voice boomed.
“Coming!” Emily grabbed the watch and the diary and covered them with other books. Nobody would snoop through her room, but for some reason, she didn’t feel comfortable leaving them out in the open.
She headed downstairs and pushed away the annoying thought telling her she was taking initiative, being interested in something historical—just like Mrs. Spencer wanted her to be. No, I’m not. I’m not giving her the satisfaction.
She just needed, out of natural curiosity, to know who Fabienne Beaumont was. And why the mysterious watch was also in her diary.