is when people rally around you. She’ll consider it her problem, too. We’re here for support.”
Harmony hadn’t experienced much of that as a child. No Stoddard talked about anything that went on at home for fear of retaliation from the master of the house. “Support” was a word best used in conjunction with a mattress or a bra and never for friends. How could anybody support her if they didn’t know she needed it?
Of course, things had changed since she left home. Taylor’s own mother, Charlotte, had been responsible for the difference. She had supported Harmony, a complete stranger, when she most needed it, and before her death she had gathered a group of women around her who continued to support each other.
Sometimes, though, Harmony forgot everything she had learned from Charlotte. The lessons of her childhood were powerful.
“I’ll talk to Taylor if you like,” Rilla said. “But right now I have to talk to Cooper.”
“You don’t mind calling Brad?”
“I never mind calling Brad. He never minds helping.”
Cooper screeched again and Rilla left, closing the door behind her to give Harmony some privacy.
Before Harmony could get back to the computer, Lottie began to stir, jiggling the soft sides of the Pack ’n Play until it was clear that in moments she would sit up and start making demands.
Harmony hurried over to scoop her up and hold her close. She breathed in the sweet fragrance of her daughter’s hair until she realized Lottie was beginning to fuss. While these days she got a healthy portion of her calories from other sources, Lottie still liked the closeness of breast-feeding as she woke up, and Harmony liked providing it.
She took the baby to a chair across the room and settled her, tossing a shawl over her shoulder to wrap around the baby for a little privacy.
What would her mother have thought of Lottie? Would she have seen traces of Harmony as a little girl? Lottie’s hair was going to be dark, like her father’s, but her face was shaped like her mother’s, and everybody said the resemblance between them was unmistakable.
Would Janine have seen that? Would it have pleased her? Although she had her father’s paler coloring, Harmony resembled her mother. Dark-haired Lottie might well look like her grandmother had as a baby. There were no photos, of course, and now Harmony would never be able to ask her.
For years, more than anything, she had wanted to help her mother escape. Janine could have come to Asheville with her and started a new life. But she had been too frightened. Harmony knew that at least part of her mother’s refusal had been a desire to protect her beloved daughter. Had Janine disappeared, Rex Stoddard would have turned the world on end searching for his wife. Janine belonged to him, and he would have done anything to find her. Janine had not wanted to lead him in Harmony’s direction.
But what else had played a part? Harmony really didn’t know. Was her mother afraid to be on her own? Had she lost the ability to make decisions for herself because she had been allowed to make so few? Had she begun to believe Rex’s degrading lectures about her incompetence, her lack of skills and talents, her inability to take care of herself? How could those things not play into Janine’s reluctance to abandon everything she knew, even as terrible as her life had become? Could a woman suffer brainwashing all those years and not carry the scars?
Getting away had been hard enough for Harmony, but through the years her hours at school had helped her develop strength and inner resources, fueled at least partly by the contempt she felt for her father. Her mother had encouraged her, too, building up her confidence whenever she could, making it clear that the problems at home had nothing to do with Harmony. At the first opportunity Janine had helped her daughter escape, despite knowing she would pay a heavy price when her husband found out.
Harmony had been so lucky to have Janine to help her, but who had stood up for Janine?
Nobody.
“I wanted to save her,” she told Lottie, brushing her daughter’s silky hair over one ear. “I wanted us to be a family, a real family....” Tears filled her eyes again. She was sure there were more in her future, floods of tears.
“You would have loved her,” she whispered.
Someone knocked on the door, and before she could answer, it opened. Rilla stood on the threshold, a strange expression on her face. “Harmony...”
“You couldn’t have found out anything yet.” Harmony hoped it was true. She wasn’t ready.
“I haven’t even called Brad. No, it’s something else.” She paused, as if she was trying to figure out how best to say what was on her mind.
“Just tell me.” Lottie pushed away and struggled to sit up, and Harmony adjusted her blouse and bra. Then she looked up, as ready as she was going to be.
“There’s a woman at the door. She says she’s here to talk to you about your mother. She wanted to know if she had the right house.”
Harmony could hear a buzzing in her ears. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths before she opened them again. “Who is she, did she say?”
“Do you have an aunt?”
The question seemed so strange that for a moment Harmony thought she’d heard wrong. “Aunt?”
“Does your mother have a sister?”
“No. Like I said, she has—had—no family.”
“She’s in the living room waiting.”
“She didn’t give you her name?”
“She refused. She doesn’t seem...comfortable? I think you ought to get out there right now.”
Harmony stood, moving Lottie to her hip. She was probably wet, possibly worse, after her nap, but changing her was the last thing on Harmony’s mind.
Rilla strode over and took the baby. “I’ll change her. You go. I’ll bring her to you when I’m finished.”
“Who do you think the woman is, Rilla? I can tell you have an idea. Is she a cop? Somebody from a newspaper who traced me here?”
Rilla shook her head, but Harmony wouldn’t let it go. She raised her voice. “Who?”
“I don’t want you to be disappointed if I’m wrong.” Rilla paused; then she turned her eyes to the baby for a moment, only looking up when Harmony refused to move.
“I’m not sure she’s planning to stay, so you need to get out there quickly.” Concern and something else shone in her eyes. “Harmony, I think she might be your mother.”
From the audio journal of a forty-five-year-old woman, taped for the files of Moving On, an underground highway for abused women.
My parents shielded me from life’s darker side, and whatever their reasoning, they never encouraged me to be independent. I was their
