The Palmer Pool

29 | Above the Flood

I alternated pacing the porch and the living room while I waited for Liz to return from work. Eventually when my legs got tired, I sat on the hard bench at the base of the staircase. Through the screen door, I watched low grey clouds overlap the clear blue sky and listened to the swell of shushing leaves in the wind as a storm approached.

Liz walked in the door as Ruth finished setting the dining room table. I wanted to drag her straight to the scrapbook to show her Clara's photograph, but I got the impression we were expected to join everyone for dinner. There were two other boarders: a young teacher with cat-eye glasses, and Mrs. Barry's nephew, a middle-aged man who sat down with a sigh, unbuttoned the cuffs of his white shirt and communicated for the rest of the meal in disinterested slow blinks.

"My nephew is here to keep an eye on me," Mrs. Barry explained with an eye roll and a wink when she introduced me to them.

Dishes of cold sliced ham, corn on the cob and potato salad were passed around while I sat wringing my sweaty hands and nervously shifting in my chair. If Rose had actually gone to 1886, could she get back on her own? Was it an accident or did she know what she was doing? Had she done it before? Should I wait around for her to come back or try to go back to 1886 to get her?

"I heard that the Coast Guard will call off the search after twenty-four hours," Ruth said. "So sad." The rest of the table murmured and shook their heads in agreement. Liz's eyes caught mine and then returned to her plate. Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back. I was holding on to hope that the Coast Guard wouldn't find her anyway.

Near the end of the meal, a breeze cut through the stuffy dining room, lifting the curtains and tinkling the crystals hanging from the chandelier. Rain began to splatter on the porch and everyone stood and scattered to close the windows throughout the house.

I caught Liz as she was headed up the stairs.

"I have to show you something," I whispered, knowing excitement was written all over my face.

"Now? I want to change and-"

"Yeah, now. Please."

The scrapbook was still on the table in the living room and I fumbled through the pages while Liz pulled the windows down, cutting off the air circulation and the earthy smell of rain.

"I've seen this before. Mrs. Barry loves to talk about this old hotel."

"I think I found her. Look." Liz chewed her nails as she read the article. "So what are the odds that the actual Clara Bartlett washed up alive on the banks of the St. Clair River? My grand-... Rose looks just like her. Could it be her?"

"Could be," Liz said with indifference, before she turned away and walked to the staircase. She beat me to our room, shut the door in my face and locked it.

"Hey!" I said through the door.

"I'm changing. Wait a minute."

After a few minutes the lock clicked again. I knocked gently and opened the door. Liz was sitting at the desk rifling through the pages of one of her journals.

"So, what should I do?" I asked.

"Whatever you think," she said coolly.

"Should I wait for her to come back?"

She stopped flicking through the book and traced her finger down one page.

"No. You should go get her. If they think she's some rich guy's daughter, she could be sent back to the city anytime. And she won't have any say in it. If she says she's not Clara Bartlett, they'll assume her poor little female brain has been traumatized."