The Hope of Hattie Phelan: Volume II

1

January News

(NOTICE: In the latest draft of BK 1, Wally almost confesses his love for her and she stops him. Just a heads up)

Da sent a telegram.

After months of no word, a tiny envelope became the bearer of anticipated information as a new year's surprise. I held the envelope tightly in my gloved hand and rushed into the house, kicking the snow off of my boots. Entering the dining room, Aunt Margarette sat at the table, peeling potatoes.

"Da sent news," I spat out, whipping off my scarf and gloves. I scrambled to rip open the telegram as my aunt glanced up from her work, setting it aside, her eyes widening.

"What does it say?" she asked intently, wiping her hands on a towel. 

I quickly read over the contents of the telegram, my stomach rolling with the news. "He's sick."

"Any other news?" Aunt Margarette asked, looking up at me from her spot at the dining table. I set the telegram down in front of her, leaning over her shoulder to watch her read it as I bit my nails.

"No," I said, my head spinning from the message as well as the dismay from its contents.

"'Sick. Sorry for the delay. Da,'" Aunt Margarette read off, placing her hand on her chin in thought. "We at least know he is alright."

"Yes, but for how long?" I asked, wondering how Da would recover in such horrible conditions where he lived. When I lived with him in the slums of Chicago, the living circumstances were less than reasonable. It was humid, dirty, and practically unlivable. I shuddered at the memory of the stench alone. "I wish he could come here."

"We sent him money in a letter a couple of months ago," Aunt Margarette frowned, tapping her fingers on the table. "I would think that he would have used it to buy a ticket. We asked him to."

"You know how proud the Irish get," I said, dejectedly. "Da wouldn't use it. He probably used it to help someone else, knowing him."

Aunt Margarette shook her head as she set aside the telegram. "That's a shame. I was hoping he would come."

"I sure hope he is alright." My mind wandered to my father all alone in Chicago with no one to help him. If he was sick, then he surely had no income.

Maybe I could write to Wally.

My ginger friend moved to Chicago last month and I had given him my da's address in exchange for him being able to write to me (which he had not yet fulfilled). "I could write to Wally, though I don't know his address."

"Patience, Hattie," Aunt Margarette said, tenderly touching my hand which rested on her shoulder. "Wally is probably just settling into his new life. He'll write you."

His new life. One that was away from here and that I wasn't a part of anymore. Part of me wondered what life would've been like if he had stayed, but there was no use daydreaming about it. That wouldn't change a thing.

"I don't know," I said, sitting down beside her at the table as I buried my head in my hands. "I don't want it to be too late for Da."

"Pray, Hattie." Aunt Margarette rubbed my back before getting up. "I'll be in the garden if you need me."

I sat there unmoving as Aunt Margarette left the room. I sighed at the sound of the door shutting. And that sigh turned into a sob. God help Da, I prayed. Heal him, Lord. Please. Don't let me lose him, too.

Ma died over two years ago along with my baby brother and Da was all I had left. Yes, I lived with Aunt Margarette, Uncle Gillan, and cousins, but what were eight months of knowing them compared to the 16 years with my father? Though I loved them, this was Da. Losing him would be like losing the world.

I knew that it wasn't entirely true because of God and His plans, but I couldn't imagine a world of never seeing Da again. If I lost Da, Aunt Margarette would be the last connection I had to Ma.

Standing up, I entered the kitchen, looking out of the window at my aunt. She stood watching the empty flower garden, snow falling around her. She looked somewhat morose and I guessed it was due to the news of my da. My aunt had never officially met Da, but he was the one who wrote to her when Ma died and they kept in minimal touch via letters.

I grabbed my scarf again before I exited the building, striding over to Aunt Margarette. She seemed lost in her thoughts as she tucked her hands underneath her arms for warmth.

"Aunt Margarette, are you alright?" I asked, shivering from the cold.

"Yes," she said, shaking herself from her thoughts. "My mind is everywhere right now."

"Want to talk about it?" I asked, before asking, "Is it about Da?"

"No, no." she shook her head. "The lack of flowers just reminds me of..." She didn't try to finish.

"Lincoln?" I asked, mentioning the name of Aunt Margarette's first husband, the father of my eldest cousin, Bernie. Lincoln died in the Civil War, though.

She clenched her teeth, shaking her head as a hurt look crossed her face. "My mother," she clarified, her voice thickening. "She always loved flower gardens, but hated the winter since her lilacs died."

"Do you miss her?" I asked, my aunt's somberness almost radiating off of her.

"Sometimes more than others." Aunt Margarette suddenly looked ten years older at the mention of her mother. I wondered what happened. This was my grandmother she was talking about.

"Maybe she and Ma are together." The thought made my heart warm in contentment. That made it seem less sad.

Aunt Margarette's face darkened. "I doubt it."

All warmth from the previous thought faded into an icy chill. "Is she not dead?"

"We are to her," she stated bluntly. "She made that clear when I married Lincoln." I watched as many emotions shifted across her face before she turned abruptly.

"I'm sorry," was all I could muster out. My grandmother was alive and disowned my aunt? Did that mean my grandparents disowned my mother, too?

"All is well." Aunt Margarette gave a curt smiled, before quickly adding, "I am going to wash the laundry." And she was gone.

I was unable to imagine being ostracized by my da. But then I recalled that I did not remember my grandparents visiting me. They could have helped us. And if they had, would Ma have lived?

I felt anger rise up in the pit of my stomach. But what could I do?