The Great Alone

Leni slipped out of her room. Her bare feet made no sound on the plush wool carpeting. Her hand gliding down the smooth mahogany banister, she hurried down the steps. At the bottom, the black-and-white marble felt cold beneath her feet.

Mama was in the living room with her parents. Leni carefully edged forward, just enough so she could see:

Mama sitting on the burnt-orange sofa, with her parents sitting across from her in matching paisley wingback chairs. Between them, the maple coffee table was decorated with a forest of ornate china figurines.

“They think he killed us,” Mama said. “I read the local paper today.”

“He easily might have,” Grandma responded. “I warned you, you recall, not to go to Alaska.”

“Not to marry him,” Grandpa said.

“Do you think I need I-told-you-sos?” Mama said. She sighed heavily. “I loved him.”

Leni heard the sorrow and regret that eddied between the three of them. She wouldn’t have understood that kind of regret even a year ago. She did now.

“I don’t know what to do from here,” Mama said. “I’ve screwed up Leni’s life and my own, and now I’ve dragged you into it.”

“Are you kidding?” Grandma said. “Of course you dragged us into it. We’re your parents.”

Grandpa said, “This is for you.”

Leni wanted to peer around but didn’t dare. She heard the squeaking of a chair, then heels clicking on hardwood floors (Grandpa always wore dress shoes, from breakfast to bedtime), and finally a crumpling paper sound.

“It’s a birth certificate,” Mama said after a moment. “For an Evelyn Chesterfield. Born April 4, 1939. Why are you giving it to me?”

Leni heard the squeaking chair again. “And here’s a falsified marriage license. You married a man name Chad Grant. With these two documents, you’ll be able to go to the DMV and get a license and a new Social Security card. I have a birth certificate for Leni, too. She’ll be your daughter, Susan Grant. You two will rent a house not far from here. We will tell everyone you are a relative, or our housekeeper. Something. Anything to keep you safe,” Grandpa said, his voice rough with emotion.

“How did you get these?”

“I’m a lawyer. I know people. I paid a client of mine, a man of … flexible morals.”

“That’s not who you are,” Mama said quietly.

There was a pause, then: “We are all of us changed,” Grandpa said. “We’ve learned the hard way, haven’t we? By making mistakes. We should have listened to you when you were sixteen.”

“And I should have listened to you.”

The doorbell rang.

The sound was so unexpected at this time of night, that Leni felt a clutch of fear. She heard the sound of footsteps, then the rustle of wooden blinds.

“Police,” she heard her grandpa say.

Mama hurried out of the living room and saw Leni.

“Go upstairs,” Grandpa said, following Mama out of the living room.

Mama took Leni’s hand and led her up the stairs. “This way,” Mama said. “Quiet.”

They hurried up the stairs and tiptoed down the unlit hallway into the master bedroom—a huge room with mullioned windows and olive green carpet. A four-poster bed was dressed in lace that matched the carpet precisely.

Mama led Leni to a heating vent in the floor. With care, she pulled the vent out and set it aside.

Mama knelt down, motioned for Leni to scoot beside her. “I used to eavesdrop on the nuns when they came to expel me.”

Leni heard footsteps echo through the metal vent slats.

Men’s voices.