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Later that afternoon, Sophie sat on the side of her bed. An impenetrable pall had settled over the nursery. Louise especially was increasingly on edge the longer Dr. Couney was in jail. For the most part, Sophie was able to avoid Jane, but Sophie couldn’t shake the feeling she had failed Mercy.
She needed to find a way to clear her head, but where could she go? She had no escort. And asking Louise for time away was out of the question.
Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her face. Tears of hopelessness. Tears of being an orphan. Tears for her sisters. Tears that she was, in fact, tenement trash. Tears that traced the path Achille’s filthy finger had traced down her neck.
“Whatever is the matter?” Bridget said.
Sophie hadn’t heard her come in.
Bridget sat down and put an arm around her.
The warmth of her friend’s touch made Sophie cry even harder, the camaraderie and gentleness something she didn’t realize she missed so deeply until she lost the constant presence of her mother and sisters until it was gone.
“I wished to be free of them,” she sobbed.
“You what?” Bridget said, bewildered.
“I wished to be free of my mother...my sisters...” Sophie covered her face with her hands.
“Oh, Sophie, you can’t possibly blame yourself for anything that happened to them...”
“Can’t I?” Sophie choked.
“No. First, they would not want you to live with that. Molly told you as much, yes? When she told you to keep Mercy alive? In that, she was telling you to stay alive, too.”
Sophie considered this. Surely Bridget was right. None of them would want her to carry such guilt. But that was only part of the reason for her despair. “Maybe you are right. But even so, I am a wretched girl.”
Bridget turned toward her. “Whatever do you mean? Of course you’re not—”
“Aren’t I? The inspector said as much. I’m a street person. Tenement trash.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Then why won’t Achille leave me alone?”
“What do you mean?”
Sophie told her about the incident hanging laundry, and the note she’d burned. “I fear he will not stop...until...until something bad happens...”
“George won’t let that happen. We need to tell Dr. Couney—”
“No, Bridget, we can’t. If Louise found out, I’d lose my job.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong. They could help protect you.”
Sophie grabbed Bridget’s hands. “No. You must promise. Please don’t tell them.”
Bridget searched Sophie’s eyes. She hesitated, started to say something, then stopped. Then, “Okay. I promise. I won’t tell the Couneys. But if he comes near you again...”
Sophie nodded.
Bridget sighed. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We can do that?” Sophie asked.
“The sun is still out, and we’re allowed a walk along the beach as long as they know, and we stay together.”
“That would be delightful,” Sophie said, wiping her tear-stained face.
As soon as they’d dressed in their street clothes and obtained permission from Louise, they walked the three blocks to the beach, daytime crowds thinning. Once they reached the sand, they removed their shoes and stockings and tucked them alongside the boardwalk.
Sophie had never felt such comfort. The sand was cool and soft against her hot and weary feet. “What a wonderful idea, Bridget.”
Bridget smiled. “I couldn’t stand it there another minute, everyone so woebegone and short-tempered.”
They lifted their skirts and let the chilly spring ocean lap at their ankles. They laughed and ran, teasing and chasing the foamy edge of the water, kicking spray at each other, acting like the girls they once were.
Facing eastward with nothing but the sea and a smattering of distant ships before her, Sophie felt the emotion of the last few days begin to lift from her weary soul. The inspector’s sharp accusations, the shame of being stalked by Achille, and Jane’s relentless abuse and sabotage. A lone seagull passed so close Sophie could see its eyes, its parted beak, and the individual feathers of its wings as it soared on an unseen river of air.
Tenement trash. Even with Bridget’s assurances, the phrase clung to her like tar she couldn’t scrub away. Was it so obvious that she’d come from a life of sweatshops and daily foraging and grappling for food in the markets, from the stench of privies overflowing on rainy nights? Had Ludlow Street already laid claim on her life? At the same time, regretting her life to date meant dishonoring her beloved family and how hard they all worked for what they’d had. Ambivalence washed over her, nearly taking her breath away.
She focused on the thin blue line where the sea met the sky. She thought of Edna Pontellier marching herself into the sea in Kate Chopin’s book, Awakenings. The image lingered, but Sophie knew there would be no liberation from the pain of the last few weeks in forcing herself to drown. Besides that, there were still things... people... to live for. Bridget had reminded her of that much.
She allowed herself to relish the pulsing of the tide against her legs, the currents pushing and pulling, her toes disappearing under a layer of sand.
“One moment at a time, friend,” Bridget said, joining her there.
Sophie closed her eyes and nodded.
The two friends clasped hands and stood a few more moments together. Breathing. Being. Grateful.
The sun began to set as the girls headed back, the mid-May evening crisp and edged with the energy of the coming night. Dreamland from this perspective offered a beauty Sophie had not anticipated, its creamy white buildings glowing against the darkening sky. The electric lights flickered on, highlighting the ring tosses, weight guessers, wheels of fortune, photo booths, calliopes, and posters advertising human oddities and attractions. Gone were the daytime, acrid exhaust from the trucks, gas lights, whale oil lanterns, and generators, and the scent of oil and hot duck cloth when the sun heated the canvas tents. They passed animal barns where trainers and other workers spread soft, new straw and sawdust, and filled buckets with sweet oats for horses. Sideshow workers polished their booths and touched-up paint. To her delight, one of the massive elephants lumbered down the street towards her, the beast’s trainer with a bull hook in one hand and a light hold on the leather leads in the other.
“You’ve never seen one before?” Bridget said.
“I saw one when I first came to Coney Island, but that night everything was a blur.”
Bridget nodded with understanding. “We’ll have to get you to a proper show.”
“I’d like that,” Sophie replied.
Before going to bed, Sophie stopped and checked on Mercy. She slept peacefully, as if the choking had never happened.
“May I rock her?” she asked Dinah, who was tending an infant nearby.
“Of course.”
Sophie pulled a rocker beside the incubator, then gingerly lifted her niece and held her to her chest right over her heart. She felt Mercy’s slight and fragile chest rise and fall, reminiscent of one of Pearl’s stray kittens. She rested her head against Mercy’s small, warm one, covered with scant, silken hair. “I’m so sorry Mercy,” Sophie whispered, tears threatening once again. “I almost broke my promise to your mama... to you. I’ll never do anything like that again.”
Mercy stirred, then sighed as if acknowledging the apology.
No wonder Dr. Couney called them miracles.