GLORIA

After lunch and a second shower, just because it felt so good to be clean, Gloria helped Iris into the nest of sleeping bags and blankets in the back of the Subaru wagon. Their bellies were full, and they had a plan: drive to the library and call Lexi from the pay phone. Gloria draped the worn quilt around Iris’s shoulders, running her finger along the spring-green leaves and faded roses. She tucked her garbage bag of clothes between the old woman and the back window. As she went to close the back door, a sob from the faded roses stopped her.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Gloria asked.

Iris wiped her eyes. “You are being so kind to me. I’m not used to such warmth from people. And I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“I feel that way too,” Gloria said.

“I’m sad because I’m thinking about my friend Harriet and what my husband did to her. I know that Harriet’s dead, but I don’t know how she died. I don’t know if anyone was kind to her. If she had something soft around her. If anyone held her at the end.”

Gloria sat next to her and patted her hand. “I’m so sorry. What can I do?”

“Can we visit Harriet? At the burial grounds. To say goodbye?”

Gloria didn’t know how to answer. It was probably a very bad idea.

“I know it’s risky,” Iris said. “But I need to go there. Please?”

“The cops might be keeping an eye on the place.”

“Maybe, but I doubt they know anything about Harriet, or why I left, so hopefully they’re not looking for me there.”

It felt odd to park in her usual spot, as though weeks had passed instead of hours. Gloria insisted that Iris wear her new red plaid winter poncho from the free rack at the Survival Center rather than her own coat.

“They’ll be looking for your blue hooded jacket,” she explained.

The rain had ended overnight, and the temperature had plummeted. The fields sparkled with ice crystals in the afternoon sun. Iris leaned on her cane, and their walk to the burial ground was slow. Much of the old woman’s energy seemed to have been drained from her body. Gloria worried about Iris’s weariness. What would she do if Iris collapsed?

They arrived at the burial ground, grateful that they saw no one except three college-aged women running in skimpy track clothes. Iris and Gloria sank onto the stone bench and exchanged glances as the girls passed, chatting as they ran, apparently oblivious to the cold.

“Harriet is buried somewhere in that field. I think she’d like it here, actually. She’d especially like the dandelions when spring comes. When we were kids, we loved to blow dandelion seeds at each other. When I think of Harriet as a child, I picture her with those white feathery seeds in her eyelashes.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She loved hay fields. Loved the stunted shrub pines on our island and the huge fields of ferns. She liked maple trees too, but not the red ones. She preferred the golden leaves. And birches.” Iris pointed across the field. “She’d love that stand of tall birches. I hope she can see it from where she’s buried. I wish I knew her exact burial site.”

“What did she look like?”

“Wild curly hair that never minded. A long thin face. Growing up, the mean kids called it horsey, but it wasn’t really. It was strong. I don’t know when her strength deserted her.”

“Did she have mental illness?”

Iris shook her head. “I don’t think so. She wrote me that she saw a counselor after she got out of prison. Said she felt unmoored. Lost. But was that mental illness, or just a reasonable response to awful things happening to her? I don’t know.”

“If she wasn’t mentally ill, how did your husband have her committed?”

Iris made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “All he had to do was scribble his name on a form. Maybe he had to get one of his shrink buddies to cosign, maybe a judge to okay it. There were few patient rights back then. No formal court hearings or full evaluations. My Asher was God.”

“I’m so sorry.” Gloria took Iris’s hand. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

“At my wedding. But we wrote letters, almost every day. I was so unhappy leaving Brooklyn, and I hated it here. Asher wasn’t much help. He tried to pay attention to me, but he was completely involved in his work. The only things that kept me afloat were Harriet’s letters. I got a box at the post office under my maiden name and Asher never knew. After Harriet was released from prison, I begged her to move here.” Iris’s voice cracked. “But she had no use for Asher. I didn’t know then that my husband was the reason she lost her job and went to prison. She didn’t tell me, to spare my feelings I suppose. If only I knew. If only she had come here. We kept writing, less frequently after she was released from prison, and then one day in 1956 the letters stopped. I was frantic.”

“Did you try to search for her?”

“Of course. I called everyone who might know her—friends from school and our families in Maine. I even called the police department in Brooklyn, the missing persons department. No one knew anything.”

“When did you find out she was a patient at the hospital?”

Iris turned to face Gloria, her face glistening. “About a month ago. From Asher’s papers.” She patted her purse, stuffed with a folded stack of yellowed pages. “He kept them in his desk in his study. In my house. How can I ever forgive that? How can I ever forgive the things he did to her?”

“I can’t imagine forgiving him. You must hate him now.”

Iris shook her head. “I don’t know what I feel.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“Do you feel any better, sitting here where Harriet is buried?”

Iris sniffled. “Not really. I dreamed about her last night. I could see her so clearly. She was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t grasp it and then I woke up and she was gone. Now, I can’t feel her at all. Not here; she’s not here. It’s like she died and left me all over again, and I can’t bear thinking of her dead and alone.

Gloria took her hand. “Maybe she’s not alone. Have you noticed the old, hand-lettered sign on the river trail for Rebecca’s Way? I don’t know who Rebecca is, or was, but maybe she was here the same time as your Harriet. I’d like to believe they were friends.”