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ONE
leaving home
Standingin the middle of our small cottage, I hold all of my earthly possessions inside the worn fabric of my filthy apron. Being the oldest of nine children, I’m in charge of the girls, while my brother, Charles, oversees the boys.
“Elsbeth, make sure the girls have all their belongings,” Mama says as she swaddles the baby and places it in the bog. The smallest member of our family hasn’t received a name yet. After losing three young babies, Mama refuses to name them until they make it through the unforgiving Scottish winter.
I look into the face of the baby boy she’s holding close. I’ve nicknamed him Aaron, after my father. Black circles underline his wide eyes, and he’s smaller than he should be at five months old. “Elsbeth, did ya hear me?”
“Aye. Sorry, Mum.” I turn toward the three girlsstanding in front of me. Each holds a small bundle similar to mine. “You three have all your things?”
Each girl nods. My sisters are young. After I was born, there seemed to be a time when Mama couldn’t have anything but boys. The three-, five-, and six-year-old girls stare at me, wide-eyed and terrified.
“Charles, how about the boys?” she asks my brother.
“We’re good,” he answers.
“Good. Let’s go.” Mama takes a deep breath before leading us away from the cottage for the last time.
The walk to the marina is long and cold as the winter winds have already begun to blow. The sun is sinking lower in the sky as we slowly make our way toward town. “Elsbeth, make sure the girls keep up,” she demands.
I turn, finding the youngest of my sisters lagging. The fabric that’s tied around her feet has begun to tear, and her toes are sticking out. The one pair of shoes the girls share is too big for her right now, meaning she’s wearing a flour sack wrapped around her feet.
“Bonnie, keep up.”
“I can’t,” she cries. “My feet aren’t working.”
I turn around and pick her up, pulling her to my side. She barely weighs anything. She sniffs deeply and sinks her face into my shoulder. “Thank you, Elsie.”
In the distance, I see the tops of large sails, letting me know we’re close. I sigh in relief. Truthfully, my feethurt, too, and with the added weight of Bonnie, the walk has gotten harder.
We enter the outskirts of the village, catching the stares of strangers and people we’ve known all our lives. Each judges us as we pass. Some are whispering, telling stories of why we’re leaving. Most don’t know the truth…only what they believe to be the truth.
“Keep up,” Mama warns from in front.
“Wow,” Bonnie whispers over my shoulder. “Is that what we’re riding on to America?”
“That’s it. Stay quiet now,” I warn as we approach. Men of all different shapes and sizes stop what they’re doing and stare at the ten of us as we approach.
An older man with a round belly steps forward first. “What can I help you with, milady?” The crowd around him erupts into laughter at his formal greeting for my mother.
She pulls a paper from her bosom. “My children and I have paid for passage to America.”
The man looks at the paper, turning it in several different directions. “Is that what this says?”
“It is,” Mama answers. “My name is Eleanor Abernathy, and these are my children.”
“Yourchildren?” the man asks. “You look too young to have all these children. Where’s your husband?” He turns toward the line behind her. We’re standing as we always do, in order of height.
“Dead,” she answers plainly.
“I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.” His words are monotone and flat.
Even though Charles is a year younger than me, he’s been taller than me for years, which means he’s at the head of the line, directly behind Mama. The man takes in my brother’s features, giving me an uncomfortable feeling. When he moves closer to me, he stops. “Aren’t you a lovely one?” Picking up a piece of my dark hair, he rubs it between his fingers. “How old are you, dearie?”
“Nineteen,” I answer truthfully.
“Nineteen and no husband? How is someone so lovely not married with a few wee bairns?”
