The Point of Vanishing - Maryka Biaggio (large ebook reader TXT) 📗

father, he does not live here?”

“No, he lives in the United States.”

It did not take many words for Teyah to give her grandfather’s response. “He cannot say about someone who lives so far away. He does not have such powers.”

Barbara nodded. She’d expected too much. Perhaps she could try a different tack. “Let’s say this woman has cast a spell over him. Is there anything I can do to rid him of it?”

Teyah conveyed her question, and Malohi pursed his wrinkled lips a moment before speaking to his granddaughter.

Teyah paused as if thinking how best to render her grandfather’s message. “He says he cannot see into this man’s heart. Only someone who understands his heart can know who possesses it.”

“So, there’s nothing I can do?”

The exchange that followed contained far more words than Barbara had uttered. At one point, Teyah asked, “Have you spoken to your father about his wishes?”

“We’ve exchanged letters. Or I should say I have sent him many letters since he left the family a year ago, and he has written only one to me. He says he wants to stay with this woman.”

Again, the back and forth between Teyah and Malohi went on a few minutes.

Finally, Teyah turned to her again. “My grandfather says you must look into your own heart. Only there can you find the answer to your sorrow.”

That was about as helpful as Dr. Lowry’s advice—to understand her reaction to her father’s conduct. As if she wasn’t already steeped in that. She asked Teyah to thank Malohi for his wisdom, though she didn’t expect to benefit from it.

Her mother would have chided her for even believing a healer might somehow help. She’d assured Richard she’d tell her mother of the encounter, which she planned to do that evening.

But when she returned from her shopping errands that afternoon, her mother snapped, “Get in here and sit down.”

Barbara plopped down at their table and looked over their typewriters and papers at her mother.

Her mother stared at her, all pucker-faced. “I know you visited a healer without telling me. About chasing away your father’s evil spirits.”

“So? It did no harm. I don’t see why you’re so upset.”

“You have to give up this obsession with your father. It only hurts you.”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“You don’t act like it. It’s time I told you some things about your father.” Her mother pulled a chair out and sat, screeching its legs up to the table. “You should know the whole truth about your father. Painful as it may be.”

“Humph,” Barbara said. “What more can there be? He’s neglecting his family.”

“There was another woman. Before Margaret Whipple. A poet that he took up with when you were about seven.”

“How do you know that?”

“He admitted it to me. They’d been writing to each other, and she wanted to meet him.”

“And did they meet?”

“I told him it wouldn’t be proper, that he shouldn’t have kept their correspondence a secret, that a faithful husband doesn’t do such things. So he said he wouldn’t see her. But now I wonder. Look how long he deceived us about Margaret Whipple.”

“He’s a complete dastard. Is that what you want me to think?”

Her mother’s shoulders heaved up and down. “Ours isn’t the first family he spurned.”

Barbara studied her mother. “What do you mean?”

“He was married before he met me.” Her mother smoothed a palm over her forehead. “His first wife died in childbirth. But the baby lived.”

“He has another child?”

“Yes, a daughter named Grace. She’s three years older than you.”

Barbara asked, “Where is she?”

“Living with your Grandma Follett in Attleboro.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We couldn’t decide how to tell you, and your father thought it best to keep the two families separate.”

“Then you both lied to me.”

“Yes, we did. And I’m not proud of it.” Her mother flicked aside the tresses flopping over her face. “Your father saw very little of Grace while she was growing up. What kind of man would turn his back on a child like that?”

“What’s she like?” Barbara asked.

Her mother told her what she knew about Grace—how much Grace admired and missed her father, how her Grandma Follett never visited because she was tied up raising Grace.

“I want you to know,” her mother said, “how he behaved all these years—all the time you thought he was the most wonderful father a daughter could have.”

“Well, I don’t think that anymore.”

“Then I hope you won’t let him spoil your future. Look what he’s done to Grace—the poor girl has had to settle for crumbs all these years.”

Barbara couldn’t listen to any more of this. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m going for a swim.”

“Not without me, you’re not.”

“Honestly, do you have to watch my every move?”

“Yes, this sneaking around has gotten out of hand. As soon as we finish Richard’s manuscript, we’re leaving for Hawaii. From there, we’ll return to the States. And that’s final.”

God, her mother was exasperating. Always telling her what to do. Always watching her. One of these days, she’d just up and leave. Somehow, someday, she’d be free.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

HELEN

Tonga, May 1929

May 21, 1929

Dear Anne,

So much has happened, and I’ve often thought of writing to you, but between nursing Barbara back to health and earning our keep in Tonga, there simply wasn’t time.

The worst has happened. Barbara completely broke down from the strain of a full year’s agony. It’s almost impossible to fathom—Barbara, who has always been so vital and exuberant, falling apart. But her father managed to utterly smash her spirit. Just after her birthday, she received a brash and reckless letter from him that plunged her into despair. Someday I’ll tell you all about it, but not in a letter.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she then contracted some exotic disease that left her in bed for three weeks. She’s finally recovering from her fever and regaining her physical health. But she’s turned morose and irrational. I’m so worried about her. She’s at that time of life when she needs a father’s