Chapter 19
May 30th, 1898, Eagle Creek, Montana
Dear Miss Caitlin,
Are you ever going to trust me with your surname? I am intrigued by the fact that you never sign your full name, but given that this world can be a dangerous place, I admire your caution. It is probably most wise.
You absolutely should attend the theater as soon as you can. I have not gone often, but the times I have, it has transported me to another world, where anything is possible and my troubles vanish into thin air, at least for the night. The more fantastical the better. I saw A Midsummer Night’s Dream a few years ago, and it was utterly wondrous. I must confess that it would be fascinating if they were ever to put Alice on the stage. How they would go about creating all the creatures and disappearances and such would be fascinating to see.
I have not had much time recently to read or pursue other interests outside of my work, though, sadly. Eagle Creek, the town where I am currently working, has unfortunately been struck by a terrible outbreak of influenza. It has been eye-opening for me to see how much of an impact such a rash of disease can have on a small town like this. Every family has been touched by it, whether through the passing of a loved one, or the impact a prolonged illness can have on a business. It is quite frightening how quickly a comfortable, healthy life can be turned on end.
And yet, this crisis also showed me how much people care and pull together when times are tough in places like this. The mayor organized a fund, so that those unable to work could continue to pay their bills and feed their families. The medical clinic where I work created a small hospital for the worst cases, and undertook more home visits and created a clinic at the church for other injuries and ailments. Everyone at some time received a casserole or two, made by a kindly neighbor, or had their errands run for them. We sadly lost some of our patients, but the town rallied round those they left behind.
It is strange that with all my experiences in life, this is a side of others I had never really seen, and it has been both life-affirming and life-changing for me in many ways. I have always considered myself to be sufficient, that I need nobody else. But I have learned that we all need someone to lean on, someone who cares when times are hard, and when they improve, as a celebration with others to enjoy the successes is so much more fulfilling than one alone.
I say this, because as the outbreak of influenza passed, as spring came, this year’s May Day celebrations in Eagle Creek were quite wonderful. The children sang and danced, with flowers in their hair, everyone laughed and enjoyed their time together. I have never really felt that I belonged anywhere, But I have learned that we all need someone to lean on, someone who cares when times are hard. And when times improve, celebrating with others to enjoy the successes is so much more fulfilling than celebrating alone.
But sadly, just a few days later, my current employer and friend, Andrew had a most terrible accident. He managed to slice open his leg with a scythe, and I feared we might lose him. But it seems he is made of hardy stuff, and though the risk of him losing his leg has been ever-present, he seems to be healing well. I cannot tell you how worried about him I was. I have not often grown close to people in my travels, but he has become like a father to me in many ways.
Which leads me, I suppose, to your other question, and at his urging and the urging of a friend of mine here, I think it is perhaps time that I did talk about the things I usually hold tightly within me. And I must apologize to you for unburdening myself after all this time, on you, who I do not even really know at all. But strangely, I feel like I have known you forever. It is so easy to write to you. The words just seem to fall out onto the page.
And, well, you asked, so while it is unpleasant and shameful, it would not be right to keep it from you.
My father, not that he in any way deserves such an honorary title, was a wealthy Bostonian. He was married and had two daughters, but that was not enough for him. He took a mistress, my mother. She was too young, and too foolish to see that he only cared for her because she was beautiful, and she let him sweep her off her feet, and whisked her away to the city, away from her family who were ashamed but did nothing to prevent it. When she told him she was with child, he disappeared from her life, leaving her with nothing.
She managed to scrape enough money to go home to her parents, in Ohio, begging them to help her, but they turned her away. She had nothing and nobody to turn to. She did not wish to shame her family further, so she went as far away as she could afford to go – to Chicago, and did her best to raise me, and refused to tell me who my father was. She worked all the hours she could, cleaning houses and factories, as it was the only work she could get.
But it was hard on her, and eventually it took its toll and she grew sick with consumption. She died unable to afford a doctor’s care, and left me alone. With my mother gone, our landlord threw me out onto the street. I took with me all I could, including some of my mother’s diaries, papers and a jewel that I presume my father had once given her that she had not been able to bring herself to sell. Whether she had thought it might be useful if things had been even more desperate, or if it was sentimentality that made her keep it, I will never know. But it made me angry that she still had it after all he had done to her.
Amongst her papers were letters from him, and so I was able to learn who he was. I tracked him down and presented myself, in my rags and filth, on his fancy doorstep in the middle of the day so every neighbor would see me and hear me tell him how he had killed my mother. I am not ashamed of doing this, but I am ashamed of what I did next.
He ushered me inside, out of sight and earshot. He told me he had not known that I existed, that my mother had not told him and that she had just up and left one day. I was just a lonely boy. I wanted to believe him, and that is the thing I am ashamed of, that I wanted that so very badly.
But believing him meant that my mother must have lied to me all my life, and that tore me in two. He told me that he would have taken me in, would have gladly acknowledged me as his son, and I wanted to believe that, too. But he showed me who he really was when he did not do that, once he had the opportunity to do so.
Instead, he offered me money and a place in a fine school, but I was never to tell a soul who was paying the bills.
I took his money. I had no other choice. I let him pay for my schooling, my studies at university and my time at medical school. I let him think that he was safe. I never called on him, or wrote to him again. When I needed money, I visited his lawyer and he gave me whatever I asked for. But, the day I left medical school, I wanted to let my father know that he could buy my silence no longer, and I called on him at his house.
One of his daughters answered the door. She was pretty and insipid, as most wealthy young ladies are trained to be. She didn’t want to let me in. After all, she did not know who I was. I told her to ask her father who I was. She went to ask him, and he returned moments later, his face puce with rage. He yelled at me to get out, that he never wanted to see me again, that I’d had my last penny from him and if I thought I had any chance of a career in medicine I should think again, that he would ruin me.
Then he clutched at his left arm, cried out and collapsed on the hallway floor.
His death was my fault. And though I know I should feel guilty, I never have. He got all he deserved. And I got all I needed from him, the money to study and become a doctor, so I could one day help people like my mother, people without the money to help themselves. My life could have been very different, if I had been raised with two loving parents, but I was not. I was raised on lies. But I survived, despite everything.
His family tried all they could to ruin my career, before it had even started. But the military needed doctors. They could not afford to turn me away. But, the fear that they might one day learn where I am, and try and leave me with nothing, again, means I dare not stay anywhere too long, and can never return to Boston where they live.
But this truth, I fear, will show you a side of my character that I know many would not care to know about. I have never had any desire to exact my revenge on anyone else. With my father’s death, I felt that the score was settled, but his family probably still feel the need to exact theirs, I don’t harbor any malice towards them. I understand what it is to feel the way they do, that someone robbed them of everything they loved. I deserve to be hunted, I suppose, and so I let them do it, and I keep moving before I can ever find love or connection anywhere – and before they can find me and ruin my reputation.
But I have been asked to stay here. And with Andrew so unwell, I have to stay or the town has no doctor. I want to be the one to set up the new hospital here. I want that challenge more than I have ever wanted anything, and I want to stay with the friends I have made here and keep working with the wonderful people I get to call my colleagues. Yet, I cannot. Because eventually, they will know the truth and they will turn their backs on me, and I will be alone again.
And now I have told you, I do not expect you to want to continue to write to me. But if you truly do think that we might have any kind of future, you need to know who I truly am. I am not a good man. And you deserve the very best of men, my dearest Caitlin.
Yours, most humbly
Matthew Inglis
Rachel could feel the tears pouring down her cheeks as she read Matthew’s stark and tragic confession. She felt honored that he had entrusted it to her, but then she remembered that he had done no such thing. He had entrusted his truth to Caitlin, a woman who did not even exist. It made her feel dirty, for lying to him when all he had ever known was lies from those who were supposed to love him and care for him. She would lose him forever if he ever learned that she was Caitlin, for he would never be able to forgive her.
But how could she extricate herself from this predicament, and keep him in her life? Even if he did not love her as she loved him, she wanted to be his friend. He so clearly needed people in his life who would be there for him, and help to teach him how to trust and love again. And he was clearly learning those lessons. He had told Caitlin something he had never told a single soul. He had trusted her with his darkest and deepest truth. For his sake, Caitlin could not turn away from him now. He could not be left alone with this all over again, when he had grown enough to bare his soul.
But continuing to write to him would break her. Rachel was sure of that. She could not continue to learn more about the man she loved, and know that she could never share that she knew it with him, never hold him or comfort him. She bit her lip and tapped her fingers on the table, as she tried to think of what to do. She pulled out a sheet of paper and picked up her pen and began to write, but she could think of nothing to say.
How did you reply to such a letter? She wanted him to know she felt his pain, but how could she? She had never known such neglect. She might have lost her mother, but her family had been loving and honest with one another, and still were. She had never been left alone to bear the weight of such a burden as Matthew had. She wanted to tell him that she would meet him, so he would know that she still cared enough not to turn away. But she could not, for then he would know she had lied to him like everyone else had.
Instead, she took a deep breath and wrote what she could, praying that it would be enough to offer him comfort. It seemed so inconsequential, nowhere close to enough, but it was all she could offer him without revealing everything. While so much of what she wrote was heartfelt and honest, she felt dreadful as she brought her letter to a close, knowing that the only way to do what was right was to lie just one last time to bring the correspondence to an end.