July 16, 1999
Katrina,
I stumbled today, Sister, falling against the wall in Father’s office while getting out of my chair. Bruised but not seriously injured, I am, and much surprised at the secret that fell from behind a plank in the wall when it gave way at the weight of my body falling against it. It was a series of letters packaged within an envelope for safe keeping. Perhaps an invasion of privacy, but I read the letters when curiosity got the best of me.
The letters that had been mailed to others appeared to be copies and the letters received from others appeared to have been previously opened, the seal upon each broken and the pages within no longer perfectly flat as if hands had held them and tangled them somewhat, staining them with tears. The letters were written by Father, on Betsy’s behalf, asking various Heads of State to assist with locating a child birthed by Betsy when she was quite young. According to the letters, Betsy had had a troubled past which she had never shared with us, and why the letters were hidden in the wall I still do not know.
It would seem, from the letters, that Betsy was quite young when she moved to Mother’s household, having been moved there by her family who was worried that a child might come since a stranger had had his way with Betsy, a child herself at the time. Betsy had been given a drink by her family thought to rid the body of what they felt to be an abomination, but no drink could remove the humiliation felt by her family and, a few months later, a child came about anyway. Somewhere between Betsy's parents and Mother’s parents, a decision was made to give away the baby, and the child was taken away before Betsy had ever seen the child, before she had ever determined if it was a boy or a girl. It was a decision made more, it would seem, by Mother’s parents, according to the letters Father wrote for Betsy, since they felt Betsy would not have time to care for an infant, perform her household duties, and care for Mother, a child herself at the time, and since Betsy's family could not afford to care for the infant. Yet, in the letters, Father also wrote of Betsy speaking of ambivalence towards the child at the time of birth.
According to the dates, letters drifted back and forth between Father and various people for a couple of years until a decided answer had been received. There were letters in the package to and from church officials and governmental leaders and some of Father’s business associates with connections that could gain access to information. Betsy’s child, they learned, had been placed with a family through a local church, but had died of unknown circumstances before learning to walk, and buried in an unmarked plot at the edge of a small town near Mother’s home without Betsy ever having seen her child. She had bore a son.
As you know, Sister, Betsy went on to marry a field worker here at The Oak, giving birth to two other children of her own in addition to caring for us. Betsy and her children lived here in the house with us, you’ll recall, after her husband died, his heart giving out in the fields one summer day. But, how sad a life must be to feel a need to deny such life-changing experiences. Today, I’ve wondered, did Betsy ever tell her husband or her children of her first-born, of her horrific experience, of the exile from her family for an event that was no fault of her own?
Yet, when I remember Betsy, I remember a maternal figure who smiled often and found hope in each day. I remember a woman who made certain we understood our prayers and did not merely recite them; a woman who, with Mother, would sit beside us if we were ill; a woman who could explain how to heal a calf and how to make sourdough bread. Though she worked in the house, Betsy understood how to work the fields and taught us about the Earth and the elements nourishing seeds so that they would become corn or wheat or trees. And, on those days when we were allowed to help her in the kitchen, I remember Betsy singing or humming old hymns as she would go about her work. No matter the past, Betsy never lost hope.
Mother and Betsy were close in age, Betsy being the older of the two, and, like sisters, they could be seen chatting on the porch over glasses of lemonade on warm summer nights when Father was away, deciding menus or talking about the weather or discussing our behavior of the day. Did Mother know of Betsy’s trials, Mother having been so young at the time?
Betsy knew that Father was a respectable man, righting wrongs when possible, comforting the heartbroken, and searching for the best in everyone. Though relieved that Betsy trusted Father to learn of this part of her history and not judge her, I’ve wondered today if Betsy was comforted by the information she received about her child, her first-born, or if not knowing was somehow easier.
I am troubled by these letters, and have returned them to their hiding place in the wall of this house. How many secrets do these walls hold, Katrina, and why, after all the years that we knew one another, did Betsy never tell us of this? But, then, I think I already know the answers to those questions. Yes, I already know. But, that’s a story for another time.
Forever Sisters,
Christina
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