One Was Left

Rural Minnesota, 1915

“Lottie!”

My eyes snap open, heavy with exhaustion. It couldn’t be more than an hour since he summoned me last. If only I could sleep during the day as he does. I push the wool blanket aside and sit up, shivering in the cold.

“Lottie!”

He's been calling me by my mother's name, a woman who's been dead for fifty-four years.

“Coming, Papa.”

The sofa springs groan as I lean forward and strike a match with stiff, aching fingers, the sulfur sharp in my nostrils. I lift the chimney and touch the flame to the wick. Fwoomph. The wick flares. The glass fills with a soft, amber glow.

I hold it aloft as I make my way toward his room. Shadows stretch long across the cold floorboards. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Unusual for October.

I set the lamp down and step close to the bed. “I’m here, Papa.”

The simple wooden frame creaks when he shifts. He looks smaller somehow, pulled into the hollow of the mattress.

His eyes narrow. His expression turns—sharp, contemptuous. “You’re not Lottie.” Spittle flies, his voice raspy, guttural.

“No, Papa. Mama died in 1861 when I was seven. That was the year the war broke out. Remember?” I lean nearer, searching his rheumy eyes for a spark of recognition.

“I loved her.” A tear slips down his gaunt cheek. “But I… couldn’t fix it. Had to… make it… right.”

“Make what right?” I pull the blankets around him.

“Give her… just one… child.”

“That’s me, Papa. Catherine Eliza. Your only daughter. The one who always comes, no matter what you call me.”

His eyes stare past me. “Eliza?” He frowns. “Eliza… beth. That was the other one’s name.”

I pick up the tin cup of water and bring it to his lips. “What other one?”

He sips, sputtering, coughing violently. “There were two.”

“No—” My mother lost five children before me. Three miscarriages. One stillborn boy. Another dead in his cradle. Their small graves lie beyond the fence of the Catholic cemetery where Papa worked. Where I still do.

I shake my head, dabbing the water from his chin.

I remain longer than I need to before pressing my lips to his cool, waxen cheek. “Sleep well, Papa.”

I take up the lamp and turn, pausing in the doorway.

Listening.

The faint, uneven pull of his breath reaches me through the dark.

I stand there until I hear it again.

Only then do I go.

But his words haunt me. There were two.

It lingers like a chill I cannot shake.

I wrap my thin sweater tighter, inadequate against the late October chill. The air is thick and damp. My boots sink into the spongy ground, mud caking their tips.

I pull my old work gloves from my apron pocket and slide them over my stiff fingers. Ignoring the pain in my back and knees, I crouch in front of a stone, brushing wet leaves from around the base. The smell of wet soil is metallic. Raw. The leaves bunch and cling, sticking to my hands as I drop them into my pail. I wipe the stone, darkened with moisture, covered in lichen.

When I’m satisfied, I move on to the next. Elizabeth March. I’ve seen the name a thousand times. She died in 1832. Long before I was born. I never knew her. It’s not the grave itself that gives me pause, it’s what he said—that was the other one’s name. I don’t know what to make of it. Why should I try? Papa makes sense rarely these days. But this one buries itself cold and deep.

I push the thought away, working faster. This job needs my full focus, and Doctor Jennings is arriving at ten. He sometimes comes early. It’s once a week now, to check how he’s faring. The outlook grows grimmer each time.

I wipe the strands of silver hair from my face that escape my bun. I don’t feel the cold anymore, but my joints do. They don’t like the damp. The chill. The winter. It’s not here yet, I tell myself.

I tend nine more graves and visit Mama’s last. Hers I give the most care and attention. Charlotte Matilda Tierney. Beloved wife and mother. After clearing the leaves, I remove my glove and wipe the stone with my bare hand. And the two small footstones. My brothers, Matthew and James. If they’d lived, we could have been playmates. But I had no one. Papa kept me away from other children.

There were two.

That was the other one’s name.

I put the kettle on and keep an eye out for Doctor Jennings. He arrives at ten on the dot.

“Good morning, Miss Tierney.” He removes his hat and steps inside, wiping his feet on the straw mat. At seventy, the small, bespectacled man is still making rounds.

“Good morning, Doctor. He’s asleep.”

“I expected as much. I’ll examine him and be on my way.”

I make tea and wait.

When he emerges, I offer him a cup. “How does he seem?”

He takes a seat at the rickety table. “He hasn’t much time now, I’m afraid.”

“How long?”

He clears his throat. “It’s hard to say. Perhaps a few weeks. A month.”

“What can be done?”

“Nothing can be done, Miss Tierney, but to keep him comfortable.”

“He hardly eats.”

“That’s expected. And he’ll sleep more and more.”

“He’s only awake at night. And lately, he thinks I’m my mother.”

“It’s not uncommon at this stage.”

“So his rambling… it doesn’t mean anything? It’s simply nonsense?”

“Perhaps. It’s likelier that memories are surfacing.”

I stir my tea, brow furrowed. “Who was my mother’s physician when I was born?”

“That would have been my father.”

“Are those records still available?”

“Oh, yes. What year was that?”

“The spring of 1854. April.”

“I’ll take a look.” He finishes his tea and rises.

I give him a dozen eggs and two apple pies I baked the night before. I wish I could do more.

I sit in the rocker, pulling my shawl around my thin shoulders.

There were two.

That was the other one’s name.

I rock until exhaustion obliterates thought.

When Doctor Jennings returns, wet snow clings to his hat and coat. A pile of laundry and mending I’ve finished sits by the door waiting to be collected. My hands are raw.

He examines Papa and joins me at the table again. I wish I’d put the kettle on, but thoughts of what he might have found in Mama’s records distract me.

“I think it’s time for morphine. He’s unusually agitated.”

“Is that to be expected?”

“Not necessarily. Sometimes at the end, one dwells on a certain person or event. Regrets perhaps.”

I bite my lip. It’s as raw as my hands. “About those records…”

“Ah, yes. At least on paper, your mother had only one live birth, and that was James in June of ’51. I could find no record of yours in April of ’54.”

I steady myself. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, nothing of consequence. My father kept excellent records, but occasionally something would slip through the cracks. I suggest you search your parents’ old papers and documents. They likely kept a copy of your birth certificate. Otherwise, the county courthouse.”

I let my breath out slowly. “I see.”

He opens his bag and extracts a small glass bottle of morphine solution. “Administer a few drops if he’s restless. When he grows agitated, give him a little more. It won’t hasten the end—simply make it more peaceful.”

He rises and collects his hat on the way out.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

I don’t check any papers or documents. The ground already feels unsteady beneath my feet. Like a ship lurching in a stormy sea. I want no more uncertainty. No more revelations.

That was the other one’s name.

There were two.

I could find no record of yours.

I am Catherine Eliza Tierney. I am sixty-one years old. I am the daughter of William and Charlotte. There is no Elizabeth.

I make a cup of tea while I repeat the words.

I feed the wood stove and sit in the rocker, pulling my shawl around my thin shoulders.

Rocking back and forth, my mind drifts. Mama’s sweet voice singing me to sleep. Mama’s gentle fingers braiding my black hair. Hers was golden. Her eyes cornflower blue, mine hazel. Her skin pale, mine ruddy—a color that never fades, no matter the season. Papa’s hair was copper. His eyes green, his skin freckled. Would I have looked like Matthew and James? Or am I the only piece that doesn’t fit?

Sweat runs down my aching back. Steam fogs the windows from hours of boiling water—Papa’s linens, the Lindholms’ wash, lye biting my skin. I’ve heard their talk: that good-for-nothing Will Tierney, never sober a day in his life. What does it matter? They still pay—lard, eggs, a few cents.

I light the lamp and go toward the cellar for apples. Six ought to do. The latch is cold against my burning fingers. My hand lingers. I don’t need the apples now. I lift the latch anyway.

The air shifts as I descend. Cooler, closer. The smell of damp earth rises to meet me. Shadows cling to the low beams. Cobwebs catch at my sleeve as I hold the lamp higher.

Apples first. Six in the deep pocket of my apron. One onion, three potatoes.

Storage trunks sit along the far wall. I keep my back to them. A glance before turning toward the stairs.

I stop.

Look again.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve set the lamp down and approached the trunks. A spider skitters beneath a crate.

I lift the first lid.

Cedar. Mothballs. Old blankets. Papers, yellowed and brittle. Nothing of interest.

I close it.

The second trunk creaks as it opens.

I gasp.

Betsy.

I lift her carefully. Her button eye stares up at me, the other hanging from a thread. Straw spills from her torn side. “Betsy,” I murmur. “Short for… Elizabeth.”

“This is nonsense.” I set her back inside, dropping the lid harder than I mean to.

I take up the lamp and climb the stairs.

Dusk presses against the window as I coax the stove back to life, haul cold water to the kettle, and chop two soft potatoes with a half-withered onion. The damp laundry brushes my shoulders as I move.

An hour later, I carry a bowl of pale, watery broth to his room.

“Wake up, Papa. You have to eat.”

He stirs, brow already furrowing like a petulant child. Reluctantly his lids lift. “Don’t want it.”

“Please.”

I set the bowl down and raise him, then bring the spoon to his lips. He clamps them shut, and it runs down his chin. A long, weary sigh leaves me.

“Papa… what did you mean? When you said there were two?”

His eyes drift closed.

“Elizabeth,” I press. “The other one. What did you mean?”

A soft snore. I remain a moment longer. Then I take the bowl and leave.

The house is eerily quiet as I light the lamp. The cellar door waits.

The stairs creak with each step, the air heavier now. I go straight to the trunks. Lids open. Close. Papers shift beneath my hands.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Then—

A bundle at the bottom. Wrapped in yellowed cloth. Tied with twine.

I don’t remember seeing it before.

My fingers hesitate at the knot.

I loosen it.

The twine slips free.

The cloth falls open.

A folded slip rests inside. Thin. Worn at the creases.

I open it, squint, bring it closer to the lamp.

St. Agnes Catholic Charity—St. Paul.

May 1856

Two female children received.

I frown. Papa worked at the cemetery. Children were buried. It means nothing.

But—

Even as I think it, I know it isn’t true. I scan the page.

A single line jumps out.

My eyes widen. A soft gasp from my lips.

One to Mr. William Tierney.

I grip the paper tighter.

The signature is his. Uneven. Shaky. And beneath it:

The other left.

No.

I read the words again.

They don’t change.

Father Brennan anoints Papa’s forehead, his hands.

He whispers prayers in Latin, the syllables soft and steady, ancient and familiar.

Papa’s heart still beats, but there’s no life left.

I stand nearby, hands clasped, feeling both comfort and anguish.

I don’t sleep. I hover. Shortly after six in the morning, Papa’s breath stills for the last time.

The ground is frozen. The coffin arrives by wagon. They take his body to the cemetery’s receiving vault until spring.

I mourn alone.

Time stands still. But my mind won’t rest—won’t let go of what it now holds. Two female children received. One taken. The other left.

I’m determined to reach the Catholic charity office in town.

In January.

A tattered sweater, a thin coat. Wool socks and boots. Mittens and a scarf I knitted years ago.

From the cemetery, the walk into town takes close to an hour. I tire quickly. Wind howls, my cheeks burn. Eyes water.

My thoughts churn. And memories flow. “Mama loves her Catybug. I love you, my girl.”

Not Papa. Never him. Men are typically stoic, reserved. But not with Mama—he adored her and said so often. Never once to me. In sixty-one years, he never said it.

My throat is raw, fingers and toes numb when the smell of coal reaches me—the rail yards, the distant clang of streetcars.

The charity building is on the corner. A dim light burns inside.

A woman greets me.

My lips are numb as I give her dates. A name.

She listens. “We wouldn’t have those records here.”

My heart plummets. “Where then?”

“They’re archived. There was a fire. Some lost.” She studies me. “Let’s see what I can find.”

She goes upstairs.

The clock ticks. I sway from side to side, back aching. My fingers and toes prickle as they thaw.

She returns with a box. Sets it down. “1856. Cholera year. What’s the name again?”

“William Tierney. He took a child from here in May.”

She searches, pulling out a file. “Yes, here.” She adjusts her glasses. “The Harrison girls. Identical twins. Age two. Orphaned—both parents dead. They weren’t meant to be separated, but he took one before other arrangements could be made.” A pause. “Catherine, and the other—Elizabeth.”

My legs give way. A chair catches me on the way down.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m her.” My voice sounds distant. “Catherine.”

I don’t remember leaving. Only the cold. And the shock loosening something inside me. A memory—long buried. Mama crying. Not weeping. Sobbing. Papa’s voice, bitter. “I can’t love her. She’s not mine.”

No—

My sobs erupt in ragged gasps.

That’s not—

But it is.

I double over, grief rising in sharp waves. Marriage. My own children. Grandchildren. He took it all!

I stop. No. Not taken. Given. All of it. The caring, the tending. The love.

I sacrificed my life. And for what?

Silence.

The winter passes. Snow piles against the door until it won’t open. I leave it.

In March, I visit Father Brennan.

He’s kind but cautious. “The odds aren’t good, I’m afraid.”

All I have is a name. Elizabeth. Not Harrison—she’d have the name of the family who took her. Then married, likely. Still, he promises to inquire with other parishes in the community.

I wait. The snow thaws. Green buds shoot from the branches.

I tend the graves, Mama’s most of all. What was Mrs. Harrison like? I wonder.

I work, wash, mend, carry. Days pass without notice.

I’m gathering eggs from my one surviving chicken when Father Brennan’s wagon arrives.

I look up, shielding my eyes from the sun.

“I’ve asked around,” he says. “There are several Elizabeths.”

My chest grows heavy. “Of course.”

“But—”

A breath.

“There is one born in 1854.”

“How do you know?”

“Baptism records. Elizabeth Goddard. St. Francis’ Church. Sycamore Street. She attends regularly.”

On Sunday morning, I dress with care. Pin my hat neatly in the cracked mirror above the sink. Gloves. Purse.

St. Francis sits across town. The walk is long. I hardly notice as I try to imagine the moment we see each other across a crowded church. Will she care for me simply because I’m part of her? Or will it come slowly? A friendship first, perhaps. I’m in no hurry. The years I gave were not wasted. They proved my worth. Not to him, but to me.

Inside the church, I take a seat near the back, eyes scanning faces in the crowd. I don’t see her. Not yet.

I receive communion, sit through the service, and slip out.

I stand on the grass, near the walk, eyes peeled. My heart beats in my throat, pulse roaring in my ears. Legs weak; palms damp.

A couple emerges. A tall man. A woman on his arm. Silver hair. Hazel eyes. Ruddy complexion. They pass me—

She stops.

Turns.

Her lips part. She blinks once, sharply—like she's seeing something her mind cannot grasp.

I step forward, holding out my hand.

She takes it, still staring—then her mouth softens into a smile.

I draw a breath. “Hello, Elizabeth. I’m Catherine.”