Helen had been lying to her neighbours about her daughter for years, too ashamed to tell the truth. In the bundle prepared for her burial lay lettersletters from her daughter. Maggie pulled them out and tucked them beneath the pillow of the departed. Let her take them to the grave, along with… her terrible shame.
From the Unimagined. A Terrible Shame
Helen had always believed in dreams. Somehow, it had always been that way. Back when she was younger, the girls in the village would tell her their dreams, and she would think for a moment… then explain what they meant. She was rarely wrong. She always interpreted her own dreams, too. And in themshe could fly! Sometimes, so vividly, she would rise above the rooftops and soar! It took her breath away. One dream returned to her again and again. White horses, dappled grey, pulling a sleighher and Alex holding the reins. The horses gathered such speed, they shot straight into the sky! The rush of it stole their breath. Theyd drop the reins, huddle together in the sleigh flying That dream came to her often while Alex was alive. After he was gone, she still rode the horses in her sleep, but he stood beside her now, never taking the reins just smiling She loved those night-time “flights,” though she knew dreaming of horses meant sicknessor worse, death. Shed wake from soaring, only to find her heart pounding, her blood pressure high
That night, they stood together in the sleigh again. But no one was steering the “flight.” The reins were gone. The horses climbed higher and higher, up into the clouds. On a wisp of cloud sat a little angel with tiny wings, smiling at them. “Lucy! My Lucy!” Helen cried out so loudly in her dream that she startled herself awake.
“Its time Its time to get ready,” she murmured to herself. No sorrow, no despair.
She had always kept a tidy home, so she wiped the floors and shook out the woven rugs. She took out the bundlethe one she had long kept for the endand laid everything out, even scribbling notes about what went where. No one else would know. Strangers would rummage through her things Or Maggie would comewho else? She was the only one left who visited, both friend and sister to her now. Few of her old companions remained, and none would make the trip to see her, not with her aching legs. But Maggie was quick. Shed hurry over
Helen took out an old school notebook and a pen and began to write.
“Forgive me, Maggie. You are the closest thing I have to family. We have lived like sisters all these years Do not tell anyone, I beg you, my terrible shame. It wont hurt me anymore when people talk, but still, I ask For years I liedto everyone, even to you, my sisterabout having a loving daughter, saying she didnt visit because she was ill The truth is, I dont know where she is. I think shes alive, but she left me long ago. And because I couldnt bear the shame, I spun tales for everyone, even you Dont wait for my daughter, dont try to find her Bury me beside Alex, where Ive kept the spot. The house and everything in it is yours. Maybe your children can use some of it. I failed to raise my daughter right The shame of it is unbearable. Let it go with me to the grave I beg you, sister”
Helen stoked the stove and the fireplace, closed the flue, and lay down to sleep
Maggie had noticed the night before that her friends house was oddly darkbut how could she have guessed?
“Did she leave any note?” asked the policeman whod come to record the death of the lonely woman.
“Nothing Nothing The loneliness was too much, thats all,” Maggie said, fingering the crumpled farewell letter in her pocket.
* * *
Her Lucy had been beautiful and clever. Her only, her beloved. Alex, the married farm manager, had fallen for a simple farmhand. By the laws of the time, he should have lost his job, been expelled from the partybut somehow, he was only reprimanded and quietly forgotten. He and his wife had no children, and here was this farm girl, pregnant with his child! They said even the farm chairman had his own secrets, so he helped Alex divorce quickly and marry Helen. “None of this ‘fatherless child’ business,” hed thundered, slamming his fist on the table. Alexs ex-wife moved to the city, found herself a well-off man, and Helen and Alex lived in harmony, raising their daughter but not for long, and not happily.
Horsesjust like the ones in her dreams, but realbrought the tragedy. Alex was riding his bicycle home late from the fields when they struck him in the dark. The rider was drunk and never saw him. If only someone had found him sooner! Helen waited all night, sleepless. They discovered him in the morning already gone. He might have lived, if only someone had seen him. Such was fate, she supposed.
There had been suitors over the years but Helen paid them no mind. She lived only for her daughter. And Lucy was everything a mother could wish for. She did brilliantly in school. She sang and danced in the village performances, even won prizes at county level! Everyone said she was talented. Lucky, too! Got into a prestigious London arts college on her first try!
Helen couldnt have been prouder. She saved every penny to visit her child, bringing food, desperate to see her. The first year, Lucy was delightedshe even came home at every chance. But over time, she grew distant. Started snapping at her mother. Nothing was ever right. Helen arrived once, twiceno sign of Lucy at the dorm. Rumours spread that shed found some foreign boyfriend. Soon, she was expelled. Former classmates whispered that the foreigner had hooked her on drugs. Back then, the villages had never heard of such horror. The shame! The terrible shame! A year passed without word, then Lucy wrote: “Forget me. Dont look for me. I have my own life now.”
Helen would labour in the beet fields, each row stretching for miles, wishing they were longerso she wouldnt have to straighten up, wouldnt have to meet anyones eyes. Tears dripped into the soil
Then one autumn, after the harvest, she finally dared to tell the women in her crew that her Lucy had married. Just last week, shed gone to London, and now she confessed: “I was at my daughters wedding! Didnt say a word, didnt want to jinx it! Lucys found a proper mana high-up manager. Travels all over for work. I wont see much of her now. But Ill treat you all to a proper celebration!”
And she did! By village custom, the women always brought something to share. Helen outdid them all. She brought tinned fish, sausagesthings her friends had never tasted. Said her son-in-law had sent them. Of course, after the feast, the whole village buzzed with the news. Now and then, Helen would go to London, supposedly to visit. In truth, she wandered the streets, hoping to glimpse her daughter among the crowds
As she aged, Helen made fewer “visits.” Instead, her daughter “wrote.” Helen would travel all the way to the county town to collect the lettersjust in case the post went astray
“Sit down, Maggie, let me read you Lucys latest,” shed say, so proud. “Shed love to visit, poor thing, but shes not well No children yet, but her husband dotes on her. So generouslook, he sends me hampers! Next week, Ill fetch another from town!”
And then shed pull out treats from the fridgethings Maggie had never seen. “Ive had proper cooked ham! Melts in your mouth! And yogurtdo you know what that is? Helen gave me some! She always has bananas!” Maggie would tell the others by the shop, and theyd gape in envy.
Every year, the local paper printed birthday greetings from Lucy to her mother. Such lovely words! What a good daughter!
In time, the village stopped caring whether Helens daughter existed at all. The woman aged quietly, alone, never speaking the truth
* * *
Maggie read her friends last letter again and again. “Dear God,” she scolded herself silently. “I ate those treats, never once thinking Helen bought them with her pensionjust to fool me, so Id spread the tale If only shed told me the truth! It might have eased her heart Oh, Id never have done such a thing”
“Well bury her without her daughter,” she told the villagers filing into the house. “Shes ill, poor thingcant even walk down from her high-rise flat Her husbands abroad for work. Well manage” Her voice caught. She grieved as if for her own kin.
In the bundle prepared for burial lay lettersletters from a daughter
