I could see ghostly eraser lines that hinted at a diligent writing process, going through multiple revisions. Dr. Bellanger; November of 1969. Eight months before my infamous conception in July of 1970. “We,” I said, touching the words on the page like they could transmit this hidden history through my fingertips. We. Us. Plural pronouns, scattered all over the page, a collective voice rising out of the past. Before this, I’d only seen our mothers as given context by Bellanger. “Deb was right. Our mothers knew each other already.”
“Yup. Bellanger was the last to join the Homestead, not the first.” Cate sat on the edge of the bed, stretching her legs, pointing her toes. Flecks of grass still striped one shin.
“But I barely ever saw a photo of our mothers together without Bellanger there too. And after his death, we all just scattered. He was our—our nucleus.”
“Nucleus,” Cate repeated. “Pretty fancy.”
I ignored this. Heat rose into my face. “If our mothers knew each other already, if they were friends, or colleagues, or whatever was going on, wouldn’t they stay close?” But even as I said it, I remembered Deb’s words: She drew us together, the nine of us, and then she tore us apart. Cate watched me as I worked it out, feeling more and more flustered, my voice rushing ahead of me. “Yeah, I don’t get it. Bellanger wasn’t famous until he created us. How did they know about his—” I consulted the letter. “His ‘wild and wonderful brain’？ Jesus. My mother never showed any interest in science. I would’ve known. This is crazy.”
This had been the topic of plenty of think pieces written about the Homestead. Much was made of the fact that women who’d never even completed a college-level biology course would now grace the covers of Scientific American.
“You seem pretty upset by this, Morrow.”
“Maybe it’s old news to you. But it’s— Look. I’ve met Emily now, and Bonnie, and you. Every one of your mothers told you about the Homestead. My mother shut me out of it. She just didn’t trust me. And it’s okay. We weren’t close, that’s all.” I was stumbling along, trying to make it sound casual, hide my hurt. “I had to learn everything from Bellanger’s letters—”
“Oh right,” Cate said. “Your letters. My mom mentioned those.” She shifted. “Can I be blunt, Morrow?” That little lizard gleamed at Cate’s throat as she idly twisted it, back and forth. “You say you aren’t close to your mother, but here you are, hundreds of miles from home, in a stranger’s house, trying to find her.”
I brushed this away, impatient. “Anyone would do that.”
“Nah. No way. A lot of people would let the authorities deal with it. This little road trip of yours isn’t exactly standard procedure.” Cate gestured at the notebook. “Where’d you find it?”
“Oh. Uh, inside the clock.”
“The clock? Funny place to keep something. How did you know to look for it?”
“My mother always hid things inside there, it was like her secret spot when I was little.”
“Hid them from—”
“From me. Until I got wise to it.” I looked at the notebook, realization dawning, warm and heady. I flipped to the page with the message, dog-eared by now. Maybe the instruction to tell the world about Fiona was a purposeful message. A directive my mother had left, not to herself, but to somebody else.
To me.
* * *
“I was thinking,” Tom said. “It’s obvious something was going on with Fiona. Margaret clearly thought so too. If we figure out what was happening with Fiona, we’ll figure out where your mother went. Two birds, one stone. So. Who did Fiona spend the most time with? Who were the two women who stayed at the Homestead till the very end? Margaret Morrow”—a nod at me—“and Patricia Bishop. Patricia must have a full picture of what went on with Fiona, right up until the moment Fiona—” He stopped.
“Died,” Cate supplied calmly. “You can say that here. We’re grown-ups.”
“Patricia’s still right there in Daybury,” Tom went on. “If anyone can shed some light on your mother’s life at the Homestead, it would be her. She can explain this letter too. And what Deb said about how she owned the Homestead’s land.”
I took a sip of tea to stall for time. “Arkansas to Vermont. That’s two days of driving if we make good time. Two days back. If I’m not in Chicago by the weekend, I could lose my place in the program. If I haven’t already.” I sighed, restless. “This is the worst possible time for this to happen.”