“I am married, actually. But that’s never changed my desire to be independent, financially or otherwise.”
Giselle sat back, satisfied. “Well that’s refreshing. He must be an unusual man, your husband.”
“He is,” Annie said, feeling an unexpected lump in her throat.
That should have been enough of their mutual prying, but Annie didn’t have any of the props that Giselle had—binoculars, a book—behind which she might look occupied. All week, she’d stayed in her cabin whenever possible, passing the time by embroidering two new skirts. She didn’t mind embroidery, but enough was enough. She needed to ride a horse, walk with a dog into the woods, or even this: simply converse with a person, but only the kind of person who wouldn’t talk about trivial things.
Annie asked, “So you work with people who are . . . or were . . . ?”
“Rescued. I work with young girls, mostly.”
“How do they do, later in life?”
“Some do very well. And some don’t.”
“Why the difference?”
“I wish I knew. People can have the same set of experiences, and some sail onward while others sink. But what I see most often is girls who seem perfectly well, who appear productive and even gay. You find out later they’re not the same people underneath.” Giselle must have caught the shift in Annie’s expression, because she added, “It isn’t all so discouraging, I promise you! It’s one reason I travel to meet other women—to be instructed and encouraged. Have you heard of Bertha Pappenheim?”
“Sorry.”
“She’s unified most of the Jewish women’s organizations in Germany. It’s even more impressive if you know her personal history. Before she discovered activism, she was a very sick young woman. Paralysis, loss of speech, not to mention the nightmares and hallucinations she suffered!”
Giselle turned back to the topic of Pappenheim’s published writings and organizing triumphs. Annie knew she was supposed to be interested in that part—women’s rights, labor issues, various kinds of reform. But she couldn’t resist asking, “The hallucinations, what were they caused by?”
“Hysteria, supposedly.” Giselle wrinkled her nose apologetically. “It’s a ridiculous, overly generic diagnosis—a way of ignoring women’s real complaints, most of the time.”
“Did they perform surgery on her?” Annie had heard of that, as well as strange manipulations involving a woman’s intimate regions.
“Nothing so drastic. She was treated by a Viennese doctor. But here’s the curious thing, which I find hopeful in my line of work. He gave her no medicines. He didn’t bathe her in ice water or confine her with straps or do anything to her physical person.”
“Then how was she cured?”
“They talked.”
“About?”
“Whatever emotional upset was producing her symptoms, which made them vanish entirely.”
“They only talked?”
“That’s all.”
4
Ruth
When Ruth stepped into the house, a 1970s relic with a moss-covered roof, surrounded by black spruce and balsam fir trees, her landline was ringing. She got to the phone on the fourth ring. It was Jane Holloway, calling to apologize for the security hassle.
Ruth reached for her purse. “I can be back in fifteen minutes.” There would be time for a few slides at least, and then she’d leave Holloway with the handouts she’d prepared. Better than nothing.
“Let’s reschedule instead. How’s next Thursday?”
“Let me see.” As if she had some packed agenda to check.
“And as long as we’re starting over, I have a second class I’d like you to speak to, the same day. They’re younger, not as familiar with the time period, but now I’ll have time to get them ready.”
It was gracious of the teacher to pretend this redo was an enhancement, allowing Ruth to maintain her dignity.
After another round of apologies, Ruth microwaved a cup of tea, grabbed an ice pack and went outside, lowering herself into an Adirondack chair on the porch. Once she started reading the journal, she would ignore everything else. If she didn’t ice, she wouldn’t sleep well tonight, and here, on the porch, there was sun, at least, one of autumn’s final gentle days in advance of a long northern winter.
The cold had just worked its way through her pants and into the muscles around her leg when a car pulled into her driveway and the boy stepped out. He called to her, “I told you it was only three minutes by car.”
She looked at her watch. “School can’t possibly be over yet.”
“Soon enough. Holloway let us go to the library. I told her I was helping you with your laptop, so she said I could take off a few minutes early, plus give you this.”
He held up her thumb drive like a winning ticket—but for what? She couldn’t imagine why anyone, never mind a teenager, would be so interested in paying her a call.
“You want to work on the laptop now?”
“Nothing better to do.”
He was still carrying his jacket. He’d taken off his flannel and tied it around his waist; underneath was a close-fitting, bright purple T-shirt that said rockets. She noticed that he was thin, but not scrawny, as she’d thought. And he didn’t slouch. He had the confident, conscientious, shoulders-back posture of someone who performed. Thespian crowd, maybe.
“You don’t have homework?” she said.
“Only the most boring stuff.”
Boredom she could understand well. Ruth had been in the hospital for several weeks, then home with a cast and in too much pain to do anything for months. With a broken body and a brain clouded by meds, she had found little to do but doze with television on in the background: The Crown at first, then sitcoms and finally cooking shows—the only two possible outcomes being whether the dishes were delicious or inedible.
Scott had recommended Reece. Holloway likewise knew he was heading over to help her and evidently thought that was normal and positive. Ruth didn’t feel uneasy in Reece’s presence, she just felt . . . a surprising familiarity.
“We haven’t even talked about how much you charge,” she said as he stepped up to the porch.
“Fifty dollars. My standard fee for a tune-up.”
“That’s not much.”
“It’s easier money than making espresso, which I also do.”
“So you’ve worked on laptops before.”