Forgive Me

Pendant in 203

A whirlwind of emotions accompanied us on our way to Boston. Death watched silently from the window, like it always has.

-1/19/1920

The remaining processes of our immigration are unimportant and uninteresting. If you must know, Lars and I claimed marriage and were allowed to stick together, on the condition of his ownership of any and all currency I earn. June, the poor thing, was inspected for her missing eye and deemed fit to set foot on American soil; the inspectors warned me to prepare her for work with visual impairment later in the future.

The rest of the Begum family, it turned out, had scattered all over the country and barely kept in contact with one another. The closest living relative was in Boston, Massachusetts-- some woman named Abigail Pendant, who acquired the surname as a young woman to further distinguish herself from her family in Pennsylvania. She was contacted over the next week and affirmed her willingness to house me and my family.

So there we sat on the train to Boston, feeling the weight of the stares sink into our toes. We must have looked so peculiar to the Americans, who all had square cheeks and business cases, while we sat wrapped in worn, gray blankets, faces melting like wax figures. It startled me how pristine the men and women of New York could be; just staring at their well-kept facial hair or dusted ties made me feel smaller in comparison.

The steady rocking of the train was certainly better than the jostling ship but it reminded me all too much of the fire. We were later told almost half of the immigrants had not survived and instead drowned or burned to death. Many of those on Ellis Island also were injured when the boat crashed into the harbor and had been deemed unfit for the United States.

I rested my head on Lars' shoulder and heaved a large, empty sigh.

When I was a teenager, bordering on womanhood, my heart was timid and fragile. I preferred my mother solve the unsolvable while I hide behind her back, gripping her coat sleeve and waiting for the puzzle pieces to fit. She often scolded me when I asked for advice, saying my issues were not her's to fix and, one day, I would be met with something I would't know how to face.

On the train, I felt that part of myself-- the girl who wanted to cower behind her mother and let others fix her messes-- sneak up on me. Where was my mother to fix the fire in my blood? Where was my mother to cut out the memories I never wanted to see?

The brakes of the locomotive screeched and we lugged to a stop. Lars stood and I with him; together, we stepped outside the train and into the streets of Boston.

The place was bustling at that hour and, everywhere my eyes landed, there were people. In every business, in every corner, on every street was human life. The buildings-- placed like dominoes-- contained several shops and businesses on all floors that screamed at the bland, rust-colored city with signs and lights and sound. It was really the aroma that drew me in: strong lavender, biscuits and coffee, and just a hint of mint leaves.

The bright embrace of a shop window caught my eye and I squinted to examine it. Accessories fit for royalty, draped in the mark of the rich, beamed from behind the glass. Head wraps, sporting the peaks of silver black jewels underneath, hung from lit hooks beside the bounty of feathered bands. Royal gloves bound themselves to the set, aching to rest upon the dripping hands of a feisty woman. Despite the number of eye-catching objects, however, only one tugged at my sea-bitten heart: pearls. A wrap of golden chains and honey-colored leaves, twirling around the encasement of nineteen glistening beads. Even through the thick glass, the sun dripped through their irises and created a stunning halo around the pearls.

We made our way downtown, the three of us, hugging our suitcases to our chests. Never, in the half hour I had been in this magnificent city, did the ground stop clattering! The traffic of skirted women and capped men stamped with thick heels along the tight streets. The steady flow of carriages and automobiles clapped. And there were the pearls again-- standing like pristine school-girls under a dazzling theatre light! The smell of hundreds of thousands of warm bodies engulfed my nostrils, but not as much as the aromas of licked postal stamps and bubbling gasoline.

However, this shell of wealth and success ended at the harbor. Just as much as there were families sauntering about like they had their worth floating above their heads there were also children with aprons for dresses and misplaced mothers begging on the streets.

Upon hearing the snickers from passing, extravagantly dressed ladies, I became self-aware of how under-dressed I was compared to the Americans. Their skirts were not plain plaid like mine but frilled in almost every imaginable way possible. Their tight-fitted hats allowed the locks of golden hair to billow out of the brims, accented only by the bloody red encasing their lips. Some even wore animal fur draped over their petite shoulders just to give the wealthy an extra flare.

"She looks like a slave," I caught whispering in the wind.

"Gal, slaves never have dirt on their cheeks or sea in their hair."

I ran fingers through my cinder tresses, pulling my palm away to see it drenched in the salty ocean air. It never occurred to me in my walk toward our complex that perhaps I was unfit to live in such a luxuriant city. Where was I to be when no such man or woman could look me in the eye and see anything more than poverty or poor taste? I was here to provide for June and work until my heart was healed but what if it was a mistake?

As if reading my mind, Lars wrapped an arm around my shoulder and steered me away from the judging eyes of the city, instead bringing me down an unpaved pathway.

"Do not think of them," he murmured, gripping the end of my shoulder-blade in a comforting, gentle touch. "If they knew you, no longer would they stare at you in disgust. Instead, they would be left in awe. Do not let the ignorant people discourage you."

His kind words swept me from my forlorn manner immediately.

My lips brushed his bristled chin and I felt grateful. Grateful is not the correct word in this situation, however; no, the right word was something far more powerful:

I felt alive.

We arrived at the complex not long after our detour and basked in the intimidating growl of the apartment. The building cast an elongated shadow over our bodies and seemed to lengthen in size with every passing second, despite its permanent stoutness. I had seen inns about the city on our journey and wondered with little aberrant thought why they were so beautiful compared to our new home. The one we had passed by earlier was dotted with marble stone and multiple cases of sticky-clean windows. Stealing a glance inside, the hotel was just as much of a castle on the inside as it was the outside.

Here, our shared home was not independent of surrounding businesses but secluded, sandwiched between a gloomy cafe and a blank building. It traveled up only two floors with an extra basement level below where a drifting smoke came crawling out from underneath every door. The porch was sagging, the windows shattered, and much of the brick holes boarded up with plywood. But I could tell, just from staring at them long enough, that the flimsy material didn't stop pickers from using crowbars.

I stepped inside the lopsided front door with a click of my tongue and a hand through June's hair.

The stench of burning plaster immediately met the crevices of my nostrils and I gagged, hacking up the dying smell in my throat. Before June could experience a similar drowning feeling, I cupped a hand over her nose and lifted her scarf to her mouth. She understood (barely awake now) and held the cloth to her nose as she breathed in. Lars was not so fortunate, stepping in and staggering against the door. It was brief, but I caught liquid welling in his eyes before he quickly shook them away.

"What is that?" I wheezed, making my way up the stairs at the pace of a limping doe.

"Whatever it is, it's everywhere," he replied, though struggling to keep a steady voice. He pointed to a door just above the staircase. "We're in 203. Hurry before we suffocate."

I stood before the door and grimaced. Something wicked had wormed its way through my heart and I wanted to vomit it up onto the concrete. This wicked something was cowardice. I wished to flee back to the boats-- perhaps plead mistake. That would keep me from opening the door I so feared might have a monster behind it.

I set down the two, thin suitcases the inspectors had provided us and rapped my knuckles on 203, whispering a soft prayer to my Lord and asking of him someone considerate.

The door swung open so suddenly, I yelped. I was underwhelmed, however, when I saw who was really standing at the door. The almond-skinned woman stood tall and thin, like the door frame, with two hands on her hips and a grin wide enough to cleanse the entire building of the excruciating smell. Her hair was big, to say the least-- big and in an organized mess of curls. It reached perhaps eleven centimeters above where I am sure her skull ended and licked the ceiling of the doorway. Her face was petite and too round, ending in not enough of a chin to be distinguished from her throat. And yet, even with the crude but mesmerizing show she put on just by standing there, I found her to be the most interesting person I had ever seen in my life.

Within not even a second, her high-pitched voice rang from her chords into a shrill squeal. Her arms extended and wrapped my daughter and me in an inescapable embrace.

"Oh my Lord, oh my Lord!" she gasped, pulling away for only a moment to take in the confused look on my face. "It's you, it's you, it's you! Oh my Lord!" She said this again, slurring 'Lord' as if her o's could not go a length shorter than her entire sentence. "Missy and Lars Begum, it is such a pleasure to finally meet you!"

She held out a hand to me and I, reluctantly, shook it. Her palm was warm and gooey, instinctively causing my hand to lurch back out of her grip.

The warm woman bellowed laughter from the bottom of her toes all the way to her lungs. "Apologies, apologies. I was just helping Willie with his sandwich and I must have left some jam on my fingers." To my utter disgust and complete surprise, she began lapping up the substance from her fingers like a child. "I was planning for you to arrive tomorrow, otherwise the place would be a lot better. Oh well, plans change! And you're here now! Oh my Lord, you are here!"

Lars stepped forward and gave her a firm handshake, his expression fumbling over itself. "It is a pleasure to meet you too, Ms. Pendant."

"Oh please, call me Abigail! We're family, after all!" She gasped and squated to meet the face of June, who turned away and blushed. "And you must be June! What a cute little family! I already love you!"

When I gave her a blank (but admittedly relieved) stare, she creaked open the doorway and waved her arm inside. "Come in! Come in! And be sure not to trample anyone!"

Holding my arm out for June (who was quite enjoying the frazzled manner of our flatmate), we stepped inside. I swear to you, I thought I had been attacked. With the battle cries of three small voices, small bodies leaped up at me, voices shrieking and laughing, until I lost my balance and fell backward. My head spun with confusion and pain, not sure what manner of beast had suddenly torn me from reality and dropped me into a tiger cage.

"Boys! Boys! You get off her right now!" The weights on top of me were carried off and replaced with the worried, but the somewhat amused expression of the woman. "You okay, Missy? I apologize for the boys, they always get excited when they see someone new."

I sat up from the floor, rubbing the sore spot on my abdomen, and gazed into the wild living room with nothing but amazement in my eyes. The bright eyes of three young boys met me-- their cheeks covered in jam and peanut butter-- and their smiles spoke only of Abigail's liking. The apartment at first glance was not at all able to fit so many, but they managed by locating every available spot they could and filling it with toys. It was a chaotic environment full of the constant screams of the children but, in some peculiar way, the most hospitable place in the entire building.

Lars met my eyes and couldn't control the smile forming on his lips. Nor could I help the laughter bubbling from my throat. And so we sat, laughing, wondering why we were ever worried in the first place.