“I can feel her moving,” I told Will. He said it’s too early, but I do feel her, I swear, little flutterings, a moth beating its delicate wings inside me.

I dance around the kitchen, singing, “ ‘Yes sir, that’s my baby. No sir, I don’t mean maybe’!” Will laughs, takes my hands, and dances with me.

* * *

Eliza wrote with wonderful news: Little Charles Woodcock is able to move his legs! He stood up for the first time and took his first stumbling steps. It is, she wrote, a true miracle! The family is delighted and will be staying on at the hotel for two more weeks so he can continue taking the waters.

* * *

My sister Bernice sent us a quilt she made for the baby—a cheerful little thing covered in bright yellow stars. I sewed curtains for her nursery, sitting at the Singer, pumping the treadle, humming along with the machine as I worked. I am Mrs. Monroe and I am sewing curtains for the nursery! The curtains are a lovely cream color with yellow edges that will match the stars in the quilt my sister sent perfectly! Will painted the cradle white, and I have started filling the little dresser with tiny outfits: soft cotton gowns, rompers, knit hats and socks. The tiniest little white shoes I have ever seen—I hold them in my fingers and say, “Hello, shoes,” and then make them dance a jig. I bought a colorful picture of a peacock that reminded me of the hotel and the springs. I’ve hung it just over her cradle so the bird can watch over her while she sleeps. Oh, what grand and colorful dreams she’ll have, this little creature growing inside me!

I keep terribly busy with the foliage festival, which is less than a month away! I have endless lists and charts and timetables to help keep track of each detail. Will tells me I am like a general planning a battle! He cautions me to take it easy, to not tire myself. But it’s good to have something to do. Something to keep me busy. It makes the time go by so much faster. And oh, the dreams I’d been having! I dream of the hotel and springs almost every night.

I dream that the springs are calling my name. “Come swimming,” they call. “Come swimming, my sweet little thing.”

And I go to the water, slip into it, let it caress and rock me. The water whispers in my ear like a lover. Tells me secrets no one else can ever know. That it has a name. I ask what it is.

The water whispers, “My name is the sound of water running deep underground. My name seeps through bedrock, erodes fossils, rusts iron. My name, my name, you could not speak it, even if you tried.”

I dreamed that I was in the water and lifted a baby out—my baby, born from the water, a gift from deep beneath the surface and not entirely of this earth. She had gills and fins. And I loved her, I love her, I love her as I’ve never loved anyone or anything.

“She is ours,” the water whispers. “Yours and mine.”

* * *

September 9, 1929

A new letter from Eliza arrived today.

Dear Ethel,

I write with terrible news. Little Martha Woodcock has drowned in the springs. Her brother, Charles, is walking now, his legs growing stronger each day. The family had so much to be thankful for. Then, yesterday, Martha wandered off from the dining room—she was like that, always flitting around, saying hello to all the guests, coming to find me in the garden. They found her in the springs. Her parents pulled her out, but it was too late. They are, as you can imagine, devastated, as are we all.

Benson has shut down the hotel. We will reopen in a week with new safety precautions in place: a sturdy fence surrounding the springs, life buoys and ropes, and a lifeguard on duty whenever guests are bathing.

It seems impossible that something so terrible could have happened. I can still see little Martha’s bright face, feel her small hand in mine as we walk through the rose garden. I am heartbroken.

I hear whispering from some of the people in town, including members of my own family. They say it is a tragedy, but no surprise. “The spring does not give without taking,” they say. Could they be right? It is a chilling thought; one that keeps me up late into the night.

Yours,

Eliza Harding

I read the letter again and again, hands trembling. I could not tell Will about the drowning. I tried. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words dried up on my tongue. I went into the bathroom and pricked myself eight times with a pin, making a perfect circle with the dots on my thigh, letting the blood bloom like the tiniest flowers on my pale skin. Then I went back out and joined Will at the dinner table, smiling and nodding and chirping like a funny little bird. All the while I told myself, I am Mrs. Monroe. I am having a fine dinner with my husband. We live in a lovely house. We are expecting a baby. Everything is fine, fine, fine.

The blood seeped through my stockings, leaving little tattletale stains: Liar, Liar, Liar!

chapter thirteen

June 18, 2019

My father fell asleep in the car on the way back to Sparrow Crest. We’d stopped off at an office supplies place, and I’d picked up some three-ring binders, plastic sleeves, and folders to help me start organizing Lexie’s journals and notes. I ran into the pet shop next door for more cat food, litter, treats, and even some little catnip-stuffed toy mice. I woke Ted up once we were back at Sparrow Crest. He opened his eyes. “Jesus,” he said, looking up at the house and giving a dramatic shiver. “Dracula’s castle.”

Once we got inside, he said he needed a “power nap.” I helped him get settled into the bedroom next to mine—Lexie’s childhood room. The last year, she’d been using Gram’s old room at the end of the hall, so all her stuff was still in there. We’d have to go through it—a task I couldn’t imagine myself ever being ready to face. For now, I’d just shut the door, sure I’d heard Lexie chiding, Outta sight, outta mind, huh?

The cat wandered in, and my father called out, “Pig!” He brushed against my father’s ankles, then disappeared under the bed.

Of course Ted knew about the cat.

I took in a breath, told myself to let go of the jealousy—the distance was my own doing. The healthy thing, my therapist brain told me, would be to acknowledge my feelings of resentment, then reframe and focus on the positive—wasn’t it wonderful that Lexie and Ted had been so close, that my sister had someone to tell all about Pig?