The Point of Vanishing, Maryka Biaggio [top inspirational books TXT] 📗

eyelids, and beads of sweat broke on her brow. She imagined the cool water closing around her. Ah, sweet nothingness. The end of worry. The obliteration of torment.

She could do it now. Just rush out the front door and take the trolley to the harbor.

“Mother,” Barbara called from the yard. “What are you doing?”

She jerked her hand from the window edge. Had Barbara divined her thoughts?

“Nothing, dear,” she called, backing away from the window. She clutched her hollowed-out stomach.

My God, what had she come to? How had she allowed Wilson’s degeneracy to push her to this brink? He’d abandoned not just her but Barbara and Sabra. She couldn’t; she mustn’t do the same to them. Her heart ached for her dear, innocent girls. She must fight on, somehow, some way. If not for herself, then for Barbara and Sabra.

Oh, Lord. Drowning herself in the harbor? No, no, she wouldn’t have done anything so foolish. It was only a fantasy she’d contrived to escape the agony of this moment.

She leaned out the window and called, forcing normalcy into her manner, “I’ll fix lunch soon.”

She traipsed down the stairs, back to the drudgery of her life, thinking: I must find some way out of this hell.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BARBARA AT FOURTEEN

New Haven, August 1928

She hadn’t seen her father since December. He hadn’t even replied to her letters. All her mother did was mope around their barren house. And she hated August’s steamy heat. She’d go crazy if she didn’t get away from this miserable place.

And she had the means—her royalties—and a plan. She typed a note, signed it Helen Follett, and took it to the bank: “Please allow my daughter Barbara Follett to withdraw $30 from her savings account.”

The teller chatted with her about annoying nothings and then asked her to sign a slip of paper. “I imagine you’ve got big plans for this money. Somebody’s birthday coming up?”

“No, it’s for a personal matter.” Barbara wished he weren’t so friendly. She just wanted to get her money and leave.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll use it wisely.”

By gosh, she thought, I can’t imagine a wiser use of my money. A few days earlier, she’d read in The Shipping News that her trusty square-rigger would be putting in at Port Newark. She’d track down her old shipmate from the Norman D and ask him to plead her case with the captain: She’d love to sail again, perhaps for a month or two. She could earn her keep on board. Hadn’t she proved herself a worthy cabin boy?

Mother would surely have a fit when she discovered her missing. Once she simmered down, she’d inform her father, who’d be plenty upset to learn she’d stolen away. Fine, she thought, let him be the one to worry and agonize for a change.

Late the next morning, while her mother and Sabra grocery shopped, she wrote a note telling her mother not to worry; she just needed a holiday and would write soon. She packed her suitcase and walked to the train station.

“I’d like a ticket to Newark,” she told the ticket master.

He nudged his narrow-brimmed hat up a notch and squinted at her. “Are you traveling alone?”

“Yes, sir. I have a permission slip from my mother.” She’d already typed and signed that, too. She pulled it out of her pocket and handed it to him.

He pushed his glasses up his nose and studied the note. “Hmm. Yes, well, the next train for Newark departs at 2:15 this afternoon.”

“There’s nothing earlier?”

“No. Would you like me to keep your luggage until then? You can have lunch or something. I’ll hold a ticket for you.”

She hated the thought of waiting so long, but what choice did she have? She preferred not to lug her suitcase around all afternoon. It’d make her easy to spot if her mother came hunting. “All right. I’ll be back by then.”

She took herself off for a ramble of downtown New Haven, past Rebecca’s Fabric Shoppe and by Malley’s Department Store, pausing at a window display of children’s back-to-school wear—girls in flowing frocks and boys in smart suits and snug caps. She smiled at her reflection in the glass: She needn’t concern herself with such banal matters as clothes or school.

She strolled to the luncheonette, took a booth away from the window, and ordered a chocolate milkshake and toasted cheese sandwich. Opening her father’s copy of Nicholas Nickleby, she read as she munched her sandwich and sipped her shake. This was nice—being on her own, setting out on an adventure. She’d just sit and read for a while. She had plenty of time. She was at the part in the book where Nicholas leaves for Portsmouth to become a sailor. How providential!

“Barbara, what are you doing?” Her mother stood looking down on her. Barbara could tell she was mad, the kind of mad that made her nostrils flare and eyes bulge.

“I’m taking a holiday, that’s all.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Her mother slid into the booth opposite her. “I have your luggage in the car. You’re coming straight home. And you’ve plenty of explaining to do.”

“I can’t stay at the house. It’s maddening. I hate it.”

“You don’t make such decisions on your own. You just don’t,” her mother whispered, but it came out like a hard hiss.

“I can’t stand it anymore. I’m leaving.”

Her mother thumped a hand on the table. “Oh no, you’re not. What makes you think you can sneak off like this?”

The eyes of the people at the counter turned on them. Barbara wanted to storm out and give them a reason to stare—or cheer. Instead, she glared at her mother.

Her mother stood and pointed at the door. “Now, let’s go.”

✭

The next morning Barbara lay in bed, staring at the ceiling’s gray starkness. It was exasperating, how long it took darkness to turn to dawn. If it weren’t overcast from the night-time thunderstorm, she’d go outside and look at the stars, just so she could pretend to be at sea.

She hated feeling stuck with