Chapter 6: Visits and Secrets

At first, it seemed like the Westfields were doomed, like they’d be executed any day. But a year passed with no word.

Rumors spread through the city like wildfire. People gossiped in the market, but the Westfields’ fate remained a mystery. I kept Pearl close and prayed for the best.

I sewed warm clothes, brought wine and food, and took Pearl to visit her dad, mom, brothers, and aunt. She happily wore the new red jacket and pants I’d made, clinging to my hand and bouncing with joy.

Every visit, I’d bundle her up in my latest sewing project—a puffy red jacket with mismatched buttons. She’d skip beside me, her cheeks glowing, swinging our basket of food.

The jail wasn’t as strict as last year. I handed the guard some cash, and he let us in.

The guard wore a worn Yankees cap, barely glancing up as he pocketed the money. In this city, a little cash could open most doors.

The place reeked of bleach and old sweat, the kind of smell that stuck to your clothes even after you left. Pearl, timid, clung to my hand, her eyes wide and lost like a startled rabbit. I patted her hand and told her it was all right, her big sister was here. She smiled, and two little dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth.

The whole family was locked up together. I could barely recognize Mrs. Westfield, Mr. Westfield, and their aunt—they were so thin and pale, almost unrecognizable. Of the three sons, only two remained. The oldest was missing. I’d only seen them a few times, and now, couldn’t tell who was who.

The boys looked older—haunted eyes and bony shoulders. The aunt’s hair had gone almost entirely gray. I wondered how much hope they had left.

As for the missing one, no one knew where he was.

Their faces would tense if anyone mentioned his name. It was like a wound they didn’t want touched.

But at least those who remained still looked human.

There was still a flicker of something in their eyes—something that said they hadn’t given up yet.

The guard opened the door and gave us half an hour.

He set a battered alarm clock on the table, the kind you’d find in any old American home. The ticking seemed impossibly loud in the silence.

There was a pile of old blankets in the corner—probably their bedding.

The blankets were threadbare, more holes than fabric. I made a mental note to bring them something warmer next time.

Pearl gazed at her long-lost parents but didn’t recognize them. But they recognized her. Seeing her peeking out from behind me, Mr. Westfield finally called her “Natalie” after a long moment.

His voice cracked, but when he spoke, it was gentle. It took her a second, like she was trying to remember a dream she’d almost forgotten.

She remembered her name. She looked at her father for a long time, and maybe recognizing him, finally called out, “Dad.” Tears streamed down her pale cheeks, and after hesitating, she flung herself into his arms.

That moment, every wall between them broke down. The family huddled together, sobbing and whispering memories, Pearl pressed tight between them, finally letting herself cry.

The family looked at her again and again, and wept again and again.

Their tears fell silently, years of heartbreak and longing poured out in those precious minutes. I stood to the side, feeling both like an intruder and a protector.

Mr. Westfield didn’t recognize me. There’d been more than a dozen maids in the house, and he came and went so much—how could he remember us all?

He looked through me like I was a shadow in the corner. I didn’t blame him; people like us came and went all the time.

Mrs. Westfield, though not yet forty, had hair white as snow, her face aged to sixty, but she still recognized me.

Her eyes softened when she saw me, and for a second, she almost smiled—a ghost of the woman I remembered.

“Are you Bonnie?” Her eyes were dull, even speaking was an effort.

Her voice barely carried across the room, but I nodded, heart pounding, grateful she remembered.

“Mom, she’s my big sister,” Pearl answered, clutching my hand.

Pearl said it with such pride, like I was some kind of hero. I squeezed her hand and tried to smile for both of us.

“Mr. and Mrs. Westfield, please forgive me. I didn’t dare let the second daughter use her real name, for fear the authorities might come looking. I had no choice but to let her take my last name and call her Pearl.”

I ducked my head, like a kid caught sneaking cookies, feeling the old shame creep in, but their faces were only grateful.

“What crime is there in that, Bonnie? My whole family is in trouble, leaving only her behind. Everything happened so fast, we didn’t even have time to find a place for my daughter. If not for you, who knows if she’d still be alive? I can’t thank you enough. Who would have thought that since our downfall, not a single relative has come, and the only visitor is a maid from the house? I gave you back your contract—you’re no longer a servant. What harm is there in being Pearl’s big sister? If we ever see the light of day again, Bonnie will be a daughter of our house.”

Tears pricked my eyes at her words. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged somewhere, even if only in this tiny moment.

Judging by Mr. Westfield’s bearing, his spirit hadn’t been crushed. Maybe there was still hope. I was glad for Pearl. As for me, part of me wanted to cry, to say yes, but another part remembered the farm and my own mom’s hands, raw from scrubbing. I just wanted to go home to see my parents and siblings, or keep working as a boatwoman on the river. That was good enough.

I realized then that freedom was all I wanted—a life of my own choosing, however rough. If I could give Pearl the same, that would be enough.