Millie’s mother, Gertrude, is insistent. She leans across the tea table toward Reginald and Millie, her hands outstretched. I will pay for the transit, she says. I went to the bank and I withdrew all my savings. There’s enough for the ticket there and back. She looks at Reginald, and he sees what he fears Millie will become. What she already has become at certain moments of the day, certain days of the week. An angry and sad woman disconnected from her life.
Millie looks at her mother, shaking her head. Mother, she says, speaking slowly and clearly, we can’t go to America now. It’s not safe. She’s there because we want her to be safe. It doesn’t make sense to put ourselves in danger just to see her. She’s fine. She’ll be back before you know it. But I have the money, Gertrude says, her voice escalating. She rushes out to the front room, where her desk is, and comes back with fistfuls of cash. It’s enough, she says, I checked the current passage rate. You can go, Millie, you can go and see her and make sure everything’s okay. Reg tries to find some sympathy for her. Albert’s death, three months earlier, was a shock for them all, lung cancer that was found too late. Millie’s been up here, in the country, on and off since then, helping out. She’s told him that things are bad, but he hadn’t realized the extent.
Gertrude runs her hands through her hair. You said how worried you are about her. What better thing to do than to go and see if she’s all right? She’s fine, Mother, Millie says again. She’s fine. Please stop. Gertrude begins to count out the money, saying the amounts under her breath. She doesn’t respond to Millie, and Millie begins to clear the table. Let’s go for a walk, Mother, we can walk down by the canal. It’s beautiful out today, and I want to see the gardens along the way.
Later, lying in Millie’s childhood bed, Millie reaches over and touches Reg’s face in the dark. Thanks for coming up to see us, she says. It’s not easy, being here with her. He turns toward her, surprised by her touch, by her words. I know, he says. I didn’t really understand. Millie rolls onto her side, facing him. It’s my own stupid fault, she says. I told her how I heard about someone who went to visit their daughter in Maryland.
I’m surprised, Reg says, that anyone would take that risk. To get on a ship right now. I know, she says, but this woman did it. She went over there and, Reg, it was awful. Her daughter was sharing a room with three other girls from London. Two girls to a bed. It wasn’t clear whether they were going to school much at all.
Reg cuts her off. Now, Millie, he says, we know that’s not the case with Beatrix. We know all is well. She’s excelling in school! I know, she says, I wasn’t saying that. I’m telling you about this one woman’s experience. It made me realize that we’re very lucky. He nods, relieved not to fight. I just feel very far away from her, that’s all. She’s turning thirteen next week. She’s not a girl anymore.
Reg wraps his arms around her in the small bed. She tucks her body up against his and sighs. They’re silent for a few moments. I’ve been daydreaming about it, though, Millie says. Going there to see her. Don’t you want to see this grand house where she lives? To meet Nancy and Ethan and those boys? To understand what it means when she writes about setting up that business with William? Reg smiles in the darkness. That had come in the last letter: Beatrix and William have been doing garden work for families in Maine. Each morning they row over to the mainland and spend much of the day mowing lawns and weeding gardens. Sometimes they sell berries and other produce in town. They’re donating most of the money they earn to the war effort. They even named their business: WB Landscaping. He’s proud of her for this. The girl who left them almost two years ago has changed. Of course she has. She is coming into her own.
Let’s paint the picture, he says. They haven’t done this in a long time. Back at the beginning, when Beatrix first left, they would imagine her together: on the ship, in her new home. But then it got too difficult for them to see. We get off the train in Boston, Reg says now, and they’re waiting for us in the station. Ethan is, what, what do you think he looks like? Oh, Millie says, he’s a little overweight. That way that men get, their stomach bulging over their belt. Mustache, but no beard. Glasses, definitely. Yes, Reg says, agreed, and balding, perhaps. Definitely balding, Millie replies, running her hand through his curls. Unlike my handsome husband. They grin at each other in the dark. How long has it been since they’ve talked like this? She hasn’t even touched him in months. And Nancy, he says, wanting to keep this going as long as possible, what does she look like? Well, we know she’s blond, right? Millie says, with an edge to her voice. Beatrix has said that. Bottle blond, though, one of those women who can’t face losing their youth. Okay, he says, laughing, a little nasty, but okay. And a little overweight, too, I think. All that baking that happens all the time. Now they’re both laughing, and Millie covers her mouth with her hands. Oh, Reginald, she says, we’re terrible. We shouldn’t be making fun. It’s okay, he says, we’re allowed.
They imagine both boys and the station and the skyline, neither one of them wanting to truly see Beatrix in that world. They head for the cars—because they had to bring two, given how many of them they all are—and they end up in the car driven by Ethan. Reg sits in the front, and Millie and Beatrix are in the back seat. It is only then that Millie turns to look at Beatrix, to really see her. She’s beautiful, she tells Reg, she’s such a gorgeous girl, with that glossy dark hair pulled back with combs and her lovely eyes, laughing. Her face is more angular, her cheekbones more prominent. She’s wearing a pink linen dress. She’s tan, you know, from spending so much time outside. She has freckles, Reg, on her nose and cheeks. And the best part, the very best part? Millie’s crying now, and Reg can feel the tears on his chest. She looks so very happy. This, Reg believes, is not a fantasy. It is the truth.