45

BERNICE SAT STARING at Charlotte’s journal as though it were the Holy Grail, a tiny gasp threading her lips. She and I were the only ones in the bedroom, yet I sensed another presence with us. Something eternal. Someone inviting me to take a step closer. And I wanted with all my heart to take that step. I just didn’t know how.

The thrill in Bernice’s eyes warmed my heart. “I haven’t even finished reading it myself. But you’re not going to believe what you find in there!”

She carefully opened the cover, her hands shaking. “Tell me, Claire.”

“Nettie, Bernice.”

“Get out! Charlotte Thursmann mentions a Nettie?”

“More than mentions her. She was like a mother to Charlotte. But I don’t want to spoil it for you. You need to read it for yourself.”

“But you’re not going to let this out of your sight, and I have to leave to pick up my granddaughter soon.”

“Tell you what, I can email you what I’ve already transcribed. That way, you can start reading it.”

“Seriously? That would be fabulous!”

“Between Charlotte’s handwriting and the condition of the pages, it takes forever to decipher. I’m getting close to the end, but the last few pages are barely legible. Water damage or mildew or something got to them. I can only make out every third or fourth word. Sometimes not even that. And it’s killing me not to be able to finish.”

She delicately turned to the back. “It does look like mildew. Humidity hasn’t been good for it. Or heat. No telling how hot it got in that room, and for all this time.” Squinting, she held the journal closer. “Looks like iron gall ink. Homemade, of course. And bad about fading. It can also cause the paper to become brittle once exposed to air, a common problem with documents from the ninth to twentieth centuries.”

I stared. “Is there anything you don’t know about this stuff?”

“Oh, gracious, there’s plenty. Like whether I’m related to the Nettie in this journal. Can you imagine?”

I grabbed my laptop and sent a copy of my transcription file to her inbox. “Call me the minute you’re done reading it.”

On the way downstairs, Bernice recommended a photo scanning app that could produce an image of the pages sharper than the original. As soon as she was gone, I downloaded it, set up shop in the kitchen, and tried it. It took some practice, but I finally got the hang of it. Excited beyond words with the results, I knew how I’d be spending my next several hours. And they’d be far more productive than any previous with reading and transcribing.

Scarcely two hours into it, a text from Bernice popped up on my phone.

My heart is breaking for these women, Claire! I’m weeping as I type this. If I could strangle Achan Crowley right now, I would—with my bare hands. Should be done reading within an hour. Eager to see what comes next!

I got an idea and was about to text her back when a message from Stephen came through.

Talked with Maggie. She’s fine. Still getting a grip on things but doing well. Told me to tell you thanks for your texts.

So she was getting my texts but not responding. And yet she’d pick up when dear ol’ Dad called. That hurt, but I had vowed not to use our daughter as a pawn in this. My precious Maggie was hurting and no doubt confused. We’d turned her world upside down, and I had no idea how to make it right again.

Thanks for letting me know, I texted. Been really worried about her.

Me too. It’s just going to take time.

I responded with a thumbs up.

Knowing Bernice was probably puzzled by my silence, I texted her: How about you come over for a working slumber party? We can scan and read and transcribe together! I pressed Send and listened for her squeal from somewhere across town.

In seconds she texted back: BE THERE ASAP! Will bring chocolate!

I opened the photo scanning app again, when another text from Stephen popped up.

Appreciated your honesty last night. Brutal, but deserved. Will file the papers next week.

I braced myself on the kitchen table. Next week? I thought I would have to go at least a few more rounds with him on this. I should have been relieved, but . . . it just surprised me he wasn’t putting up more of a fight.

With a sob in my throat, I typed: Brutal to share too. Thank you on the latter. But I held off pushing Send. Why, I didn’t know. Finally I just did it and waited for a sense of relief. That did not come.

Another text from Bernice appeared: Anything else you want me to bring? Besides my panda jammies?

I texted back: Just heard from Stephen. He’s filing next week.

Oh my dear friend, I’m so so sorry. Praying! Will bring wine with the chocolate.

Eager to escape my own world and return to Charlotte and Nettie’s, I started reading.

Someone is relaying my comings and goings to Achan, including my daily walks to help strengthen my body for the coming birth. Nettie warns me to take greater care with my actions, both what I pen in this journal and where I hide it. I have considered burning it but cannot bring myself to. It has become like a precious friend to whom I entrust my heart.

Someday I hope to bequeath it to the baby within me, and these pages will bear witness to God’s steadfastness and to my love for this child—despite its earthly father’s cruelty to us both. . . .