Abigail’s Fortune

There’s a knocking at the door. A light tapping, at first. Abigail, fully engrossed in her romance novel, is unaware.

“Miss White. . .,” Tap, tap, tap.

“Miss White. . .,” A stern voice calls from the other side.

Then a rapid pounding fist rattles the wooden frame.

“Miss White! Miss White!”

Abigail, startled from her fantasy, quickly shoves her book under her mattress and runs to open the door.

“Yes ma’am?” Abigail brushes a wisp of light brown hair from her face.

“You look flushed,” says Head Mistress Trulock. “You were reading that trash again, weren’t you?”

Before Abigail can respond, Head Mistress Trulock takes her by the hand.

“Come with me. There is something we need to discuss.”

Abigail dutifully follows the Head Mistress down the narrow corridor toward the stairwell. Miss Trulock’s sturdy stride is accompanied by a clinking sound. Step – clink. Step – clink. The familiar sound captures the attention of a group of girls watching TV in the rec room. They give Abigail a worried look. A personal escort from Miss Trulock is a rare occurrence – one that is usually precluded by an invitation to leave the premises. If Abigail is gone, the girls will have no ally. No one to read to them at night. No one to wipe away their tears. No one to hug away their sadness.

Abigail smiles and gives them a thumb’s up. She isn’t worried. Miss Trulock has always treated her firmly, but fairly. Like when Abigail was seven and got caught sneaking an extra piece of chocolate cake at dinnertime. Miss Trulock could have punished her the same way she did all the other girls who disobeyed. Instead, she was merely ordered to scrub the bathrooms and skip dinner for the next three nights. Despite going to bed hungry, Abigail recalls the relief of not having to endure the bloody pain from kneeling on the oatmeal pile. She had learned her lesson and was grateful to Miss Trulock for sparring her.

Standing outside the steel door, Abigail tries to peer through the frosted glass pane. Miss Trulock produces a large metal ring from her side pocket, containing at least 50 keys, one for every room in the home. Fidgeting with the brass lock, she opens the door, inviting Abigail inside.

“Have a seat, dear,” Miss Trulock says.

“Yes Ma’am.” Abigail sits with her back ram rod straight, smooths her plaid skirt over her knees and crosses her legs at the ankle, like a lady. Just as she and the other girls were taught. Even now at 24, Abigail still seeks Miss Trulock’s approval.

Miss Trulock scans Abigail’s form with once over inspection.

“Hands must be folded in your lap, dear.”

“Yes Ma’am.” A warm rush of shame creeps up from the collar. Despite trying her best to be mindful of all the details, Abigail knows she disappointed the Head Mistress.

“Do you know what happens next week, dear?” says Miss Trulock.

“Yes Ma’am.” Abigail pauses for a moment. “It’s my birthday.”

“That’s right. And do you know what happens when you turn 25?” Miss Trulock quizzes her.

Abigail excitedly runs a mental list of possibilities. Are Miss Trulock and the girls planning to throw her a birthday party? Are they going for a fancy dinner where the waiters pull out your chair and the tables are covered with white linen; the kind of place that’s described in her romance story? Or maybe she’ll finally get her first ever birthday gift, wrapped in foil paper with a big velvet bow.

Abigail’s apprehension stops her from responding. Afraid she will say the wrong thing and aggravate Miss Trulock, or worse yet, utter Miss Trulock’s most detested phrase, “I don’t know,” and risk ruining any birthday surprise, at all. But the honest truth is that no one has ever lived in the home past the age of 18. She wonders if this is a trick question.

Before Abigail settles on an answer, Miss Trulock reaches for her top, right side desk drawer. She attempts to slide it open, but dampness of the air in the old building causes the wood to stick. She gives it an undignified shake and a hard tug. The drawer torpedoes open, sending it and paper clips, pens and a heavy glass paperweight tumbling to the floor.

Miss Trulock looks down at the debris and sends a quick look back up to Abigail.

“For heaven’s sake, young lady. Get that hair out of face,” she says. “You look a fright.”

Abigail stands and turns to look in the mirror. She adjusts her headband and carefully tucks her hair away from her face. She returns to her seat to see Miss Trulock fully composed with hands folded in front of her. The drawer and it’s belonging are back in place. Except for the little black book wedged between her arms and the desktop.

“Abigail, have you ever heard the name John-Pierre LeBlanc?” she asks, carefully studying Abigail’s face for any sign of recollection.

Perplexed, Abigail silently mouths the name over and over. John-Pierre LeBlanc . . . John-Pierre LeBlanc . . .Being asked to recall a stranger’s name is a foreign concept. The entire expanse of her social circle comes from right, inside these walls. John-Pierre LeBlanc . . . while she would love to have the acquaintance of someone with such a lyrical and romantic name, her memory evokes nothing.

“Mr. LeBlanc is from Etretat, France. He was your grandfather’s brother; your great uncle.” Explains Miss Trulock.

“My great uncle? I have a great uncle? From France?” Abigail’s head is spinning. “What do mean? Why are you asking me about him? Am I supposed to know him? Is he coming for me?” Questions dart from her mouth in rapid fire succession. “How old is he? Does he have any children? Are there cousins?” Before she is even aware, she has conjured an entirely new life in France with a family; her family. She imagines strolling down a French lane, arm in arm with John-Pierre’s daughter. They are speaking French and laughing. Abigail is happy.

“Miss White!” Miss Trulock wraps her knuckles on the desk, startling Abigail back to reality.

“For heaven’s sake. Get your head out of the clouds and listen to me.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Trulock,” Abigail says. “But I just don’t understand. I’ve been living here for as long as I can remember. How is that I have family and do not know about it?”

“Abigail – not family. He’s one man. One very old man. From very far away.

Abigail straightens herself and resumes her lady-like position.

“After the accident, there was nowhere else for you.” Miss Trulock casts a brief but dominating stare over Abigail. “You’ve been well cared for here. Don’t you agree.”

“Well, yes but. . .,”

“As I’m sure you can imagine, taking care of a child, seeing to her every need, feeding her, clothing her. . . nurturing her, is an immense responsibility.” Miss Trulock persists.

“I’m sorry to have been such a burden to you, Miss Trulock,” Abigail says. “But now that we know about my family. . .”

“Eh, no dear. Just Mr. LeBlanc.” Miss Trulock turns the small black notebook toward Abigail and opens the worn leather cover.

Baby girl: Abigail LeBlanc

Only surviving child of: Millie and Claude LeBlanc

Surviving relatives: John-Pierre LeBlanc

Last known residence: Etretat, France

Contributing assets: Trust fund to be dispersed on 25th birthday.

Abigail is silent. There is an official looking piece of paper tucked into the fold of the notebook. She spies the works, Bank and France. And then . . . In the amount of $20,000.

Abigail raises her eyes to meet Miss Trulock’s.

“You’ve known this all along? And you changed my name?” Her entire body trembles as rage erupts from inside her gut.

“We thought “White” would be easier for you to. . .”

“I want to meet him.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“I want to meet him!” Abigail is surprised by the decibel level of her tone. “I want my money. I’m going to fly to France. And I’m going to meet my great uncle.” She raises to a stance. “And you can’t stop me. Now give me my money! You bit. . .”

“He’s dead.” Miss Trulock dominantly rises to meet Abigail’s challenge. There is a long silence as the weight of those crushing words hangs in space between them. “And I’d be very careful with your tone, young lady.” Miss Trulock’s threatens.

Abigail plops down into her seat. Crumbling under the broken promise of a new life, she grieves for the loss of something she never knew she could have. Her eyes fill with hot tears. For the first time in her life, she puts full emotions on display in front of Miss Trulock; without fear of repercussion.

“For heaven’s sake. Get a hold of yourself.” Miss Trulock says in disgust. “Get that hair off your face. Stand up and let’s get this matter settled.”

Abigail looks up at her from hooded and swollen eyelids. She wipes that snot from her upper lip with the back of her hand and rises to her feet.

Miss Trulock takes a seat and gestures for Abigail to do the same.

“I’ll stand.” She is surprised by her own assertion.

“Suit yourself.” Miss Trulock says, giving up a small, but uncharacteristic win. “I want you to look at this.” She flips through the pages of the black book. “See here. In one year, I spent seventy-five dollars on clothes and shoes, just for you. And then there were all the school supplies. And have any idea how much a young girl eats?” Miss Trulock continues to flip through the book revealing a lifetime of expenses. “And remember when you fell down steps and broke your arm? That little stunt cost me over two-hundred dollars.”

“This wasn’t your money. The state paid for my care. Why did you record all this?” Abigail is perplexed.

“Abigail, do you think every child who comes through these doors is the recipient of trust fund? If the state was aware of your good fortune, they would have seized would have seized it in a heartbeat. I was protecting you. I took care of you. So now you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you a thing.” Abigail swipes the check from Miss Trulock’s desk and dashes toward the door. She stops short when the frosted window explodes into shards all around her. Looking down, she sees the glass paperweight wobbling on the wood floor.

Without thinking she takes off running down the hall.

Miss Trulock grabs the paperweight, arm cocked and ready to throw, she stomps toward Abigail. She picks up speed as she makes her way past the rec room. As she rounds the corner, she sees the white pile of grain on the floor but cannot stop in time. The paperweight tumbles down the spiral staircase before her. Miss Trulock hits the landing with a thud, face down.

“Call an ambulance!” hollers Abigail.

The sirens blare past her as she runs past the treelined lane toward her new life.