Read Innocent Online

Authors: Eric Walters

Tags: #JUV013060, #JUV039220, #JUV013050

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BOOK: Innocent
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This was getting even more uncomfortable, and confusing, and I was feeling anxious.

“This is little Lizzy,” Mrs. Remington said.

Mrs. Meyers’s expression mirrored my confusion.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Lizzy. Our Lizzy. The little girl who lived in this house,” Mrs. Remington said.

“This is Lizzy?” Mrs. Meyers questioned. “It can’t be… can it?”

“You said it yourself—she looks familiar. Can you see it?” Mrs. Remington asked. “I’m sure there’s a resemblance.”

Mrs. Meyers bent over and stared at me. I looked down in embarrassment.

“My goodness gracious, is it really true?” Mrs. Meyers asked.

“It is,” Mrs. Remington said. “Can’t you tell by the voice, the look? She’s even as tiny as her mother.”

“My mother?” I gasped. “You knew my mother?”

“Was your mother Vicki Roberts?” Mrs. Meyers asked.

“No, her name was Victoria—wait, that’s the same, isn’t it?”

“Are you her daughter?” Mrs. Meyers asked.

“I think I am. I was told that Victoria Roberts was my mother. You knew her?” I asked.

“Of course I knew her,” Mrs. Meyers said. “She worked here as a maid.”

“We all knew her and
loved
her,” Mrs. Remington said.

I gasped again. “But how is it possible that I’m here now?”

“That’s my doing. Your matron, Mrs. Hazelton, contacted a dear friend of mine about the possibility of a young girl returning here, a girl of almost eighteen.”

“But there are lots of girls my age.”

“Not who were born here, not who were orphaned through tragedy, not who shared a birthdate with the little girl who left us,” Mrs. Remington said. “I knew it had to be you.”

“It has to be,” Mrs. Meyers said. “When I look at you, I see her. You really do look like your mother.”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never even seen a picture of her.”

Mrs. Meyers burst into laughter. “Tonight, after dinner, you’ll see pictures of her and of you.”

“Me?”

“After you were born, it was hard to take a photograph of one of you without the other,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“I think I might have a few pictures in my albums too,” Mrs. Remington said. “Do you think I could be part of it?”

“Of course you can!” Mrs. Meyers exclaimed. “If that’s all right with Lizzy…I mean, Elizabeth.”

“Of course it is, of course. The more the merrier.”

“You know, that’s something your mother might have said,” Mrs. Meyers said.

“No,” Mrs. Remington said. “That’s something I know she
did
say. Let’s finish dinner and move on to the more important part.”

Seven

I SAT ON
my bed the next morning, looking at
the pictures they’d given me and going over in my head the stories they’d told me.
It wasn’t just Mrs. Meyers and Mrs. Remington—Nigel and James had joined us too.
Each had stories that went along with the pictures. And now here I was, sitting in
the room where my mother used to sleep, looking at pictures of her and of me. This
was all so much, so quickly, that I was having trouble absorbing all of it.

Only two days ago I was living in an orphanage in Hope. My best friend—my sister—Toni
and I shared a room. My name was Betty Shirley and I knew nothing about my
mother—not her name or what she looked like or what had happened to her—or about my
past. Now I was Elizabeth Anne—Lizzy Roberts—and I lived in Kingston, in a room that
had been my mother’s. I’d seen dozens of pictures of her and a little girl they said
was me, and I knew far more about my history than I ever thought was possible.

When I saw the photographs, I knew why I had looked familiar to everyone. My mother
could have been me, with a slightly different hairstyle and slightly lighter hair.
That’s what made it so difficult to comprehend. I could almost believe that the
pictures were of me
and
a little girl rather than me
being
the little
girl.

Of course I’d never had any pictures of the time before I came to the orphanage, and
there were very few pictures of me taken since then. An occasional snapshot of a
group of us or a class picture. Those were the only pictures I was in, and now they
were all gone, destroyed in the fire.

There was one picture they’d given me that stood out. I’d stared at it before going
to sleep—although sleep had been hard to come by—and dreamed about it. It was a
picture that seemed more real than the others, as if I could remember it. It was
taken only a few weeks before my mother’s death, so I was almost four. I guess it
made sense that if there was any picture I could remember, this would be it.

It was taken on the grounds of the property, with a little house in the background. I
was told it was the guest cottage, the place where my mother and I had lived after
my birth. The Remingtons, rather than asking her to leave when she had me, had made
a place for us, and the staff had been like my family. They all had tales to tell
about me—my first steps, first words, funny things I had done or said. It was all so
wonderful and unreal and overwhelming.

In the picture, my mother was holding me by the hand. In the other hand, I held a
doll. Something about that doll seemed instantly familiar. And then I remembered.
Her name was Rosie. She was unmistakable. This was the doll I’d brought to the
orphanage, the doll I’d always had with me with when I was little. I hadn’t known
where Rosie had come from, but I’d practically loved her to death. She was always
being accidentally banged and bruised, and more than once Mrs. Hazelton had repaired
a rip or even a torn limb.

As we both got older, Rosie had stopped going everywhere with me and I’d placed her
on the top of my dresser. Over the past few years she had slept in my bottom dresser
drawer. I hadn’t held Rosie for years, but I’d always known she was there. That’s
where she’d been when we fled our room ahead of the fire. In hindsight I felt bad
that I hadn’t brought Rosie as we stumbled out of the Home. I had not rescued her.

I ran my finger against the picture, touching the doll the only way I could.

There was something about the picture. My mother was smiling—we were both smiling—but
there was something else. I brought the picture up close and stared directly into
her eyes. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes weren’t. There was a hint of worry.
No, it was more than worry—it was fear. As if she knew what was going to happen.

I wished I could have been there to reassure her or warn her. But wait—I
was
there. That was me, that little girl standing beside her and holding her hand,
smiling and carefree. Neither of us could have known what was going to happen only a
few weeks later. And there was one thing I didn’t understand. I was told we’d lived
in the guest cottage, but when my mother was killed, we were living someplace else.
That’s what the newspaper article said—
the backyard of the house where the victim
resided with her daughter, at the corner of Charles and Montreal.
Why were
we living there instead of here? Why had we moved?

It was still early—just before seven in the morning. I had another hour before I had
to report to the kitchen. There was plenty of time to get ready and to do something
else as well.

I climbed out of bed and quickly changed into my clothes, slipping on my shoes. I
opened the door to my room and then went back to get the picture. The house was
silent, and I tried to move quietly, without disturbing or alerting anybody. I took
a few steps in one direction before I realized I was going the wrong way. The house
was so big and there were so many passages. Coming to the kitchen, I could hear the
sounds of movement and activity. I passed by the entrance and caught sight of Nigel,
his back to me, working at the counter. He didn’t see me as I quickly walked past,
heading for the back door. Stepping outside, I closed the door behind me and took a
deep breath, filling my lungs with air. It was fresh and clean and cool.

The grounds were large, with well-tended flower beds, rich green lawns and manicured
red-gravel paths. A large fountain stood in the center of the garden, and there were
also a couple of smaller buildings and, in the back corner, what I thought was the
guest cottage. I held up the picture to compare. It was unmistakable. This was the
background of the last picture taken of my mother and me.

I walked until I was standing in front of the cottage. I looked at the picture again,
trying to position myself as closely as possible to where it was taken. I looked
back and forth from the picture to the cottage, shuffling a little in one direction
and then another until it felt like I was in the exact spot. Maybe I thought
standing there would bring me closer to my mother. I looked down; in my hand was the
picture and not my doll. The other hand was empty. Standing where my mother had been
standing was—nobody. If I was hoping for magic in that moment, I wasn’t feeling it.
I was just feeling alone.

“Good morning, Lizzy,” a man said.

I looked up, startled and jumped slightly backward.

“Sorry,” he said.

The man was older, maybe in his forties or even fifties, unshaven and dressed in work
clothing, and he held a shovel. He had a smile on his face, but he was standing too
close to me, and he was as big as I was small. He towered over me, making me feel
uneasy. I’d met all the other staff already, so this had to be Ralph, the gardener.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

“It’s not your fault. I guess I’m just a little jumpy, and I wasn’t paying
attention.”

“You were paying attention to whatever is in your hand. What is it?”

His voice was very mechanical. There was something strange about it—about him.

“It’s a picture.”

“Can I see it?” he asked, reaching out his free hand.

I hesitated for a split second, then handed it to him.

“I took this picture,” he said.

“You did?”

“I like pictures. I like cameras. I have seven of them. If you’d like some pictures
taken, I can take them.”

“Thank you. I’m surprised you remember taking the picture.”

“I remember all the pictures I’ve taken. It’s like they’re up here,” he said, tapping
a finger against the side of his head. “I liked taking pictures of your mother. She
was very pretty.” He scrunched up his face like he was thinking. “You look like
her…you are very pretty.”

“Thank you,” I said. I was getting more uncomfortable. “The gardens are very pretty
too.”

“Yes, they are.”

“You’ve done a great job. You’re a very good gardener.”

“I’m not the gardener. Ralph is the gardener.”

“Oh, I thought you were Ralph.” Now I felt even more uneasy. Who was this man? I
looked around for somebody—anybody—else, but we were alone in the back of the
garden, just the top of the main house visible. “Who are you?”

“I’m Richie.”

“Richard Remington?” I asked.

He nodded his head. “I’m the oldest son. You can call me Richie—everybody does.”

“Oh, I’m pleased to meet you, Richie. I’m sorry for thinking you were the gardener.”

He shrugged. “Ralph is a good gardener. He’s my friend. He’s nice to my pigeons.
Would you like to see my pigeons?”

I didn’t want to say yes, but I didn’t want to offend him. “I’d like to see them, but
I don’t think I have time now. I have to get back and help with breakfast.”

He looked at his watch. “There is time for a short visit. Come.”

Before I could object, he turned on his heels and started walking. I had no choice,
did I? He was my employer’s son. Then I remembered something James, the driver, had
said about Richard:
He’s friendly enough and completely harmless.
Trailing
behind Richard, I hoped that was true.

He stopped and held open the door to a fancy little house. This couldn’t be the coop,
could it? I hesitated at the door and looked inside. I could see pigeons.

“Thank you,” I said and stepped in.

There was a large cage filled with birds. A couple fluttered across the open area in
the center of it, but most sat on little perches around the outer edge.

Richie closed the door behind him and then opened up the wire door that led into the
cage. He stepped inside and motioned for me to join him. I hesitated.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Birds never hurt anybody.”

Reluctantly, I again did what he asked. He leaned his shovel against the mesh and
then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of seed. Within seconds, birds
were flying over and perching on his hand and arm, pushing each other out of the way
to get at the seed.

“Aren’t they pretty?” he asked.

“Very pretty, and there are so many different types.” They were various sizes and
colors, and some looked as if they were wearing feather hats or overcoats.

“Some are show pigeons—different types of rock pigeons that are bred to have
different characteristics. I also have homing pigeons. Would you like to know all of
their names?”

Before I could answer, he started to rattle them off. If he hadn’t been so serious,
and so many of the pigeons distinctive, I would have thought he was making them up
as he went.

“You don’t have to know all their names,” he said.

“That’s good,” I said. I didn’t think I could correctly name a single one.

He continued talking about them. As he did, he’d stroke the back of one or make sure
another got more seed. He was so caring toward his birds, so gentle, that I knew he
had to be gentle and caring toward people too.

“Do you think I could feed them?” I asked.

He broke into a gigantic smile and reached into his pocket and pulled out some seed.
He placed it in my outstretched hand. Almost instantly a pigeon lit on my arm. I
worked to stay steady and still. It pecked at the seed and that seemed to signal to
the other pigeons that it was safe, and another four fluttered over and settled onto
my arm.

“They like you,” he said.

“They like seed.”

“They like both. Pigeons know people. They won’t take feed from somebody who’s bad.
They know you’re nice.”

“Then they must think you’re even nicer,” I said.

He looked away, and I could see that he was blushing. I hadn’t meant to embarrass
him.

“You know a lot about pigeons,” I said, changing the topic.

“No, not a lot. I know
everything
about pigeons. Everything. Go ahead, ask me
a question, any question.”

I didn’t really know enough to even ask a question. “Um…how many pigeons do you
have?”

“I have thirty-five fancy pigeons and twelve homing pigeons.”

“Thanks for letting me see them. I better get inside now and help with breakfast.”

“You can come back if you’d like,” he said.

“That would be nice. I will come back.”

“Your mother liked to come out here. She even went to some races with me.”

“Races?”

“Some of us drive our birds far away, more than a hundred miles, and then we see
which birds return fastest,” he explained.

“That’s interesting. Do they always come back?”

“Almost always, but sometimes one or two get caught by a falcon.”

“That’s awful.”

“It’s sad, but even falcons have to live. People have been racing pigeons for
thousands of years. They are very good athletes, and I have the best birds in the
county, probably the whole province.”

He started talking to the birds, making cooing sounds and giving one a little kiss.
It was almost as if I suddenly wasn’t there. I’d just slip out and—

“Would you like to come and see them racing sometime?” he asked.

“I don’t get much time off. Just Sundays and Monday afternoon.”

“We only race them on Sunday. So you’ll come with me?”

I nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

“That will be nice. The pigeons will be happy. I will be happy.”

BOOK: Innocent
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