Dear James,
I have some good news at last.
A whole series of small things happened that have made life in here just a little better. The first wonderful thing that happened was that I got some clothes that actually fit me properly, and even some new blankets for my bed. Mrs Baxter was showing a new girl around the home one day when she saw me struggling with my too-tight trousers, and she asked me about it. I explained the situation, and then the next day, like magic, there was a bunch of new clothing in my locker with a little note asking me not to mention it to anyone. I haven’t, of course, but every time I saw her after that I flashed her my brightest smile. She is so very kind, but she does not seem very happy, and I really hoped that seeing how happy she had made me would cheer her up somehow.
A few days later, I came into my room from dinner one night and there on my bed was a new blanket. No note this time, but I know who arranged it – there’s no one else here who could or even would, other than Mrs Baxter.
Just being warm at night has helped me a lot with my sleep. I am getting up on time, getting my shower, and sometimes even have time for a quick chat with the girls from the laundry before we go to work. I wouldn’t say I’ve made friends . . . but I’m not the newest girl now, and I feel a bit less an outsider.
Then, yesterday, out of the blue, Mrs Baxter came to take me from the laundry in the middle of the morning. She suggested we take a walk around the block, out in the sunshine. I know you’re probably thinking that I might not find that idea appealing, given that I’m heavily pregnant and hardly interested in walking at the best of times. But things are different here, we are not allowed outside except to walk across the road to work or to church . . . and even then we do it in a group and under supervision. There is no outside leisure time allowed, I guess because they are trying to hide us away in here. So yesterday, I felt like Mrs Baxter was offering to bust me out of prison for an hour.
We walked very slowly around the hospital block. There was ice and snow in the gutters, and the wind was so bitter that my lips were stiff and it was hard to talk – yes, even harder than it usually is. But I talked anyway because Mrs Baxter had a million questions for me and she seemed like she really wanted to hear the answers even if it took me a while to get them out. She asked me all about my family, and school, and then we talked about you and me.
I loved telling her about us. When I talk about you . . . when I write to you . . . when I think about your baby inside me . . . those things make me feel warm, even if I’m freezing like I was on that walk. And Mrs Baxter . . . well, she really seems to understand about us. I feel like everyone else might think we’re just stupid kids, but she told me that she knows teenagers can love as deeply as adults.
We talked a lot about the future. I told her about how I had always wanted to study history, and she told me not to let go of that dream as it might still be possible. I think she’s a little naïve, to be honest . . . I mean, I obviously can’t go to university now that we are having a baby! But then again, Mrs Baxter told me that she does not have children of her own, so I guess she might not understand how impossible it would be to study with kids.
I explained to her about your course, and how you’re learning about technological farming, so that we can have an easier life than our parents . . . and how guilty I feel that you’re not going to get to live that dream now. Mrs Baxter told me a little bit about herself too; that she is new in town, and her husband is an accountant over at the hospital. I think that maybe she loves him like I love you. Her voice changes when she talks about him – it gets softer and higher, as if she still thinks he’s perfectly dreamy even after years of marriage.
I can tell that Mrs Baxter does not like her job here very much and that makes me like her even more. I asked her why they don’t have kids, and she said that they are finding it difficult to have their family, but that she is still hopeful for the future. It’s so unfair that such a nice lady is struggling to have children of her own but has to work around us pregnant girls all day. It must be hard for her to be kind, but it doesn’t seem hard for her . . . she genuinely seems nice.
When we’d finished our very slow walk around the block and it was time for me to go back into the laundry, Mrs Baxter asked me to think about what I’ll do if you don’t come for us. I can understand why she’d ask that. I know that not all boys are like you.
But I know that you will come for us. I’m as sure about that as I am that the sun will rise tomorrow morning.
I actually know you’ll read this letter too, and it makes it so much easier to write. The very last thing Mrs Baxter said to me today was that if I can sneak my letters into my clothes tomorrow, she will come and take me for another walk, and we will find a way to post them to you.
I’ll see you soon, James. You’re all but on your way to come get us and I can’t wait to see you.
Love,
Lilly