Phebe

Bizarre, Tuckahoe, Richmond and now Newport. Even back at Tuckahoe, Phebe struggled to feel at home. She had left as a girl and returned a woman, but the rush of disappointment at finding her mother gone had made her young again. Tears had flooded her eyes.

"Your mama's been sold." Cilla ran her hands down Phebe's face and arms like a blind woman trying to see. "Haven't had no word of her in years. But it does my old heart good to see you stayed safe."

"I missed you, Gramma."

"I missed you too, child. But what about them people at Bizarre? Name of Ellis? They a nice family? Treat you good?"

"Good enough."

"And there's no young man you gonna tell me about? You've no husband? No chillern?"

"I don't want no children, Gramma."

Cilla frowned, cupped Phebe's face in her hands, peered in close. "Why not?"

"And have them sold away from me? Like Mama from you? Or die having them, like Mae?" She watched a tear slide down the old woman's face.

"When d'you get so sad, girl?" Phebe didn't reply, and Cilla sighed. "We thought going with Miss Nancy be the best thing for you. I was certain of it. But then we heard the stories. Want to tell your old Gramma what really happened? Sometimes talkin' helps."

"I promised her," Phebe whispered.

"I'm sure you did."

Cilla struggled to her feet, shuffled to the wide hearth and set more water on to boil. The smell of cornbread, the familiar grain of the table under her fingers, those same pots hanging on the wall and the comforting silence washed over Phebe. It was time. She told Cilla everything that happened at Bizarre. At Glentivar.

"She believes the child died?" Cilla said.

"And blames herself."

"What she doing? Pretending nothing happened? Does she talk to God? Pray?"

"I don't think so."

"That's a heavy burden."

"I've tried to look after her, Gramma. Like you told me. But the child? I never asked Syphax what really happened. And now I never will. Did I do wrong?"

Cilla rubbed at her forehead. "Sounds to me like you done nothing wrong. Past is past and best left there, I say. How's it going to be now, that's my question. You tied to her. You hers. And what she got but you? Nothing. No home. No husband. No prospects."

"She's strong, Gramma. And so am I. We gonna be fine. You'll see."

But that was before Richmond. Before they arrived at a cold, windy town called Newport and Miss Nancy lost her mind.

"Don't send it, miss. What good will it do?" She watched her mistress fold and unfold the letter, reading it time and again.

"You wouldn't understand."

"No? Ain't I been with you every step? Seen what you been through?"

"You don't have a sister."

Phebe stepped back as if she'd been slapped. She'd had a sister. Did Miss Nancy not remember? She reached for the door handle, her other hand dashing the hot tears that blurred her vision.

"Mae." Miss Nancy's voice was soft. "I'm sorry, Phebe. Forgive me."

Phebe stopped, and the door stayed closed. "It was a long time ago."

Nancy nodded. "I wronged my sister."

"And you done paid for that."

"I had thought so."

"So . . ." Phebe's eyes dropped to the letter and then over to the small fire burning in the corner grate.

"No. It has been written, and it will be sent. She's my sister. These things need to be said."