A Haven for Her Heart Read online

  Olivia’s jaw dropped. This poised, confident woman had been through an illegitimate pregnancy? Olivia could only imagine how difficult it would have been for Ruth fifty years earlier. Yet she had obviously survived and gone on to lead a good life.

  Perhaps there was hope for Olivia too.

  “Like you,” Ruth continued, “my family disowned me. It wasn’t until I met my husband that I truly began to feel whole again. Henry overlooked my past and loved me unconditionally. Which is why, since he died, I haven’t felt quite anchored to this world.” A look of sorrow passed over her features. “My heart remains with Henry, wherever he is.”

  Olivia winced at an unexpected wave of grief for Rory. She would never have the chance to build such a long-lasting relationship with him. How much harder would it have been to lose him after forty years? “What did you do after the baby?” she asked.

  “I was fortunate to have a great-aunt who took me in. She lived in Montreal and spoke more French than English, but we managed to get along. I worked for her husband in his printing shop, which is where I met Henry.”

  “How did you end up in Toronto?”

  “Henry’s family was here, and he wanted to move back. He decided to open his own print shop, which did very well.” She fingered the necklace at her throat. “Eventually we were blessed with a son and, for the most part, led a happy life. Still, there always remained a void within me that never went away.”

  Olivia pressed a hand to her chest. “Your first child.”

  Ruth nodded. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wonder what became of her. All I could ever do was trust her to the Lord and pray she had a happy life too.”

  Olivia held back the bitter words that sprang to her tongue. How could Ruth trust God? Where was He when these babies were snatched from their mothers’ arms?

  “It saddens me greatly,” Ruth went on, “that as a society we still haven’t learned from our mistakes. That young women and children are treated with such callousness.”

  “Or worse.” Olivia hadn’t told Ruth the entirety of her horrific experience in the reformatory. Certain details were better left unsaid.

  Ruth blinked in the sunlight, seeming to collect herself. “Have you considered trying to find out what happened to your son?”

  “There’s no point.” Olivia gripped her fingers together until her bones ached. “The Children’s Aid worker made it clear that I wasn’t entitled to any information about Matteo. That I no longer had any rights to my son.” She closed her eyes against the shaft of pain in her chest. Would the agony of those words ever lessen?

  “That’s so unfair.” Ruth reached over to pat her arm. “Am I correct in assuming you have nowhere to go now? Or is there someone who will take you in as my aunt did for me?”

  Another wave of hopelessness threatened to engulf her, but Olivia pushed it back. “There’s no one. That’s why I was in the church, working up the nerve to approach the minister for help.”

  Ruth pulled herself up tall, her regal bearing returning. “Then you would be doing me a great favor if you would consider staying here with me. At least until you figure out your next move.”

  Olivia exhaled slowly. Conflicting emotions warred within her. Would it hurt to stay a few more days until she could secure some type of work? The idea of being a live-in maid for someone like Ruth had filtered through her thoughts. That way she’d have a place to sleep, food to eat, and a modicum of respectability—as long as any potential employer never learned of her past. “I would appreciate staying a little longer. Just until I can find a way to support myself.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Ruth’s eyes brightened in a way that solidified Olivia’s fears about being Ruth’s raison d’être. That was more responsibility than she could bear in her current fragile state.

  “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful,” Olivia said, “but you need to understand that I cannot be your salvation. You must find your own reason to live.”

  Ruth only gave her an enigmatic smile.

  Olivia set her jaw, her stubborn streak rearing its head. After being abused both physically and mentally these many months, she was tired of trying to live up to other people’s expectations. Tired of letting everyone down when she failed to meet them.

  From now on, she would worry only about herself, at least until she could safely put one foot in front of the other again.

  4

  Darius entered the auto repair shop, his nose wrinkling at the overpowering odor of grease and motor oil. He pulled his briefcase tighter to his side, loath to get any dirt on the new leather or on his good clothes.

  A black sedan sat in the first bay, its hood raised. Darius strode around to the front bumper. Denim-clad legs and worn work boots stuck out from under the chassis, and the clank of tools echoed in the garage.

  “Hello, Papá.”

  The noise ceased, and the rest of his father’s torso appeared, followed by a face blackened with sweat and grime. “Darius. What brings you by?” He pulled himself to his feet and reached for a rag, dragging it over his face. His unruly dark hair stood up in tufts, his overalls frayed and stained.

  Darius’s gaze dropped to the perpetual black under his father’s fingernails, and his gut tightened. “I needed to speak to you without Mamá around.”

  The smile faded from his father’s weathered features. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  Best to just get it out. “I want you to stop teaching Sofia Greek words. She’s going to start school in the fall, and I won’t have the other kids making fun of her.”

  As expected, his father’s face hardened. “My granddaughter will learn Greek. She will learn her family’s traditions.”

  “No, she won’t. She will fit in with the other children in her class and give them no cause for bullying.” Memories of his own school days, ones he fought to keep buried, burst to the surface. The taunts of the other boys. The constant humiliation. The frequent beatings. “Sofia is Canadian, and she will act like a Canadian.”

  “Canadian is good. But she is also Greek. She will learn of her heritage.” His father wiped off his wrench with vicious strokes.

  “How can you say that after what happened to Selene? Do you want Sofia to suffer a similar fate?” Darius’s fingers tightened into fists at the mere mention of the hatred that had incited violence against Selene and her parents. Every time he thought of someone deliberately setting fire to their family restaurant, of Selene and his in-laws perishing in such a horrific way, outrage burned through him, hotter than any flame.

  His father turned his back to rifle through his toolbox. The rigid set of his shoulders told Darius he was not ready to concede defeat.

  “Isn’t that why you changed our last name?” Darius pressed. “To make us sound more Canadian? To avoid the persecution you experienced when you first came to this country?”

  He whirled around, dark eyes blazing. “You throw my actions back in my face? Is this how a son respects his father?”

  Darius closed his eyes, counted to ten, and opened them. “That’s not why I brought it up. I only want to remind you of the hardships you faced—we faced.” He softened his voice. “I know you want a better life for Sofia.”

  Papá tossed the rag down, not meeting Darius’s gaze.

  Darius let out a breath. “What about a compromise? Once she’s old enough to understand when to use Greek and when not to, you can teach her our customs. Until then, I’m asking you to respect my wishes.”

  Several seconds passed in silence. At last his father nodded. “Tell your mother I will be working late.” He stuck his head under the hood and started to tighten the oil cap.

  Regret settled like a stone in Darius’s gut as he left. He didn’t want to hurt his father, but if it meant protecting Sofia, he had no choice.

  Twenty minutes later, Darius walked into his parents’ house. Mamá and Sofia would be happy he was home early tonight. They could eat dinner together and maybe go for a walk afterward.

 
; In the kitchen, he found his mother at the stove, stirring a steaming pot.

  He bent to kiss her cheek, then opened the icebox to grab a bottle of milk. Whistling, he took a glass from the cupboard and filled it up.

  “How was your day?” he asked before he gulped down half the glass in one long swallow.

  “Fine. Sofia helped me with the laundry. Wore herself out, poor thing. She’s having a nap.”

  “Wow. She must have worked hard.” He laughed. His four-year-old had long outgrown her afternoon nap and usually protested loudly if one was suggested.

  Mamá put a lid on the pot, then turned around, wiping her hands on her striped apron. Hurt shone in her eyes. “She told me today that she wants a new mother.”

  His heart pinched. “Oh, Mamá. She didn’t mean anything by that. She adores spending time with you.”

  “Yes, but I’m still her yiayiá, not her mother.” She pulled out a chair and sank down onto it. “Perhaps it’s time, Darius. Time to find a good Greek girl and start over. Make a new home for Sofia with brothers and sisters.”

  Darius wiped the milk from his upper lip, his gut clenching. “I don’t want a Greek wife, Mamá.” After losing Selene at the hand of lawless thugs, he’d vowed never to experience that type of pain again and to shield his daughter from the hatred that had killed her mother. He rose and placed his glass in the enamel sink. Perhaps the time had come to tell his family about Meredith. He leaned a hip against the counter and crossed his arms. “I need to tell you something, Mamá. I’ve been seeing someone for a while now. She comes from a good family here in Toronto.”

  His mother’s eyes narrowed. “Is she Greek?”

  Darius held back an exasperated groan. “No, she’s Canadian, of British descent, I believe. Her name is Meredith Cheeseman.”

  “Cheeseman?” Mamá snorted. “Does her family make cheese?”

  Despite his frustration, Darius chuckled. “They don’t make cheese. Her father is a business associate of mine.”

  Mamá shook her head. With a great sigh, she heaved herself up from the chair. “Cheeseman. What kind of name is that?” She muttered something in Greek and resumed her position at the stove.

  Darius pushed away from the counter, reining in the urge to defend himself. His mother just needed time to become accustomed to the idea. Best to leave her be for the moment. He trudged up the narrow staircase to Sofia’s room and peeked inside. She lay curled on her bed, the princess book tucked under one arm.

  Darius walked over and quietly pulled the quilt up to her chin. “One day you’ll have a new mother, Mouse. One who will love you as much as I do. I promise.”

  The door slammed shut behind her. Olivia absorbed the vibration that shuddered through the air before setting off down the sidewalk. Another job interview, another rejection. The meetings always started off well, but as soon as Olivia tried to fabricate an explanation about where she’d been for the past year and a half, the interviewers picked up on her evasiveness and promptly showed her the door.

  She’d been living with Ruth for two weeks now, and with each day that passed, her hope of obtaining a job dimmed. It looked like she would have to swallow her pride and ask for Ruth’s help. With the woman’s many connections in the city, surely she could find someone willing to hire her. At this point, any type of work would do, no matter how menial.

  Olivia attempted to shake off her gloomy mood. The next stop of the day—a visit with her friends at the reformatory—would require putting on a brave front. As much as it might pain her to do so, Joannie and Mabel deserved a visitor filled with hope, not one who looked like she was facing the gallows.

  With renewed determination, Olivia continued down King Street. The fact that her interview had been mere blocks from the reformatory had spurred her to keep her promise to visit the friends she’d left behind. In particular, Olivia worried about Joannie, who had always looked so frail, despite her pregnancy. Her due date had passed, so it was entirely possible that she’d had her baby by now.

  At the corner of King Street and Jefferson Avenue, Olivia’s feet slowed to a stop. A bus whizzed by, creating a gust of wind that fluttered her skirt about her knees. Up ahead, the Mercer Reformatory occupied most of the block. Her stomach tightened at the sight of the tall brick building with its menacing turrets that towered above the rooftop. Legions of iron spikes created a high fence surrounding the prison, their ominous shadows increasing the dread building within her.

  How could she go back into that chamber of torture? What if they said there’d been a mistake, that she’d have to serve the rest of her sentence after all?

  She gulped in several deep breaths, willing her nerves to settle, yet her legs continued to balk at her efforts to move forward.

  “They can’t force me to stay,” she said aloud. “I can walk out the door any time I choose.”

  Hiking her purse higher onto her shoulder, she entered the gate and started up the walkway toward the entrance, attempting to ignore the ghoulish memories that haunted her. The same hollowness she’d felt the day she arrived sat in the pit of her stomach. She recalled the stern matron standing on the steps to supervise the intake process, her disapproval evident in her perpetual scowl. Now, Olivia entered the vast entry hall on shaking legs, once again feeling as insignificant as an ant. Yet as frightened as she’d been then, nothing could have prepared her for the horrors that had awaited her.

  Olivia’s heart beat too rapidly in her chest. With a quick prayer for courage, she headed to the front office, where she paused to check her reflection in the window. She’d taken great pains with her appearance today, dressing in the new suit Ruth had insisted on buying her for her job search. She’d wanted to look professional for the interview as well as for any of the Mercer staff she might encounter. Prove to them that she was not the incorrigible young woman they’d proclaimed her to be.

  Plus, she wanted to give Joannie and Mabel hope.

  Hope that one day they too would be able to return to a normal life.

  Olivia followed a matron, one who thankfully didn’t seem to recognize her, to the visitors’ area. Since she’d never had any visitors, she’d never been in this room before. Not even Mamma had come to see her in the eighteen months she’d been imprisoned. Now she looked around, noticing the several metal tables and uncomfortable-looking chairs. A guard hovered by the door to the hallway. Today must be a slow day, as only one other woman occupied the area. Olivia chose a seat on the opposite side of the room, clasping her clammy hands on the table and willing her heart to quit racing in her chest.

  A few minutes later, Joannie appeared. Her face lit up when she saw Olivia, and she rushed over to the table. Since hugging or touching of any type was forbidden, Olivia settled for giving the girl a big smile. One that faltered when she took in Joannie’s appearance.

  Her limp brown hair was pulled back from her face in a long tail. The basketball-sized bump that had once protruded in front of her was gone, and the prison uniform now swallowed her thin frame, making her appear even younger than her seventeen years.

  The chair legs scraped the floor as she sat down. “You came. I didn’t think you would.”

  “I promised, didn’t I?” Olivia fought to keep her expression pleasant. “How are you? I see you’ve had your baby.”

  Joannie nodded. “A little girl.”

  Olivia wet her dry lips. “Is she here with you?” Some of the women who gave birth while incarcerated were allowed to bring their babies back from the hospital and keep them in the makeshift nursery on the third floor. But others, like Olivia, weren’t so lucky. She had no idea what criteria was required to be allowed to keep one’s baby and had never dared to ask. She did know that anyone as young as Joannie usually had her child taken to the Infants’ Home, since the authorities deemed them incapable of providing for a baby.

  Sorrow flitted across the girl’s face. “A lady from Children’s Aid came and took her away.”

  Visions of the tall, slender woman wh
o’d come to see Olivia in the hospital came to mind. “Mrs. Linder?”

  “Yes.”

  “She took my baby too.” Spasms shot through Olivia’s chest. Having to return to this horrid place without her baby had been one of the worst days of her life.

  Joannie’s lips trembled. “She said my little girl would have a better life with people who could give her a real family.” A tear slid down her face.

  Olivia closed her eyes briefly. “I’m so sorry, Joannie.” Most of the women here had no way of knowing where their babies ended up or how they fared. It was all so unfair. “I’m sure your baby will be just fine.”

  Joannie nodded, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes. “I hope so.”

  After a few somber seconds, Olivia attempted to lift the mood. “Where’s Mabel? I thought she’d be here too, or would they not allow you both to visit at the same time?” Maybe Mabel was working her shift in the factory and was unable to get away. It seemed strange for Olivia to think of the world inside the prison continuing without her. The drudgery of work every day, the silent meals in the dining room where talking was forbidden, the precious minutes allowed outdoors.

  More tears flooded Joannie’s eyes. “Mabel’s gone.” The strangled words were barely audible.

  “Gone? Did they grant her an early release too?” A cold feeling opened up in Olivia’s stomach. “I thought she had another six months to go.”

  Joannie shook her head. “S-she’s dead.”

  Olivia gasped, jerking back on the hard plastic seat. She held a trembling hand to her lips as images of the plump blond girl with laughing eyes sprang to mind. Of all the people Olivia had met here, Mabel was the last one she’d ever worried about succumbing to illness. “How? What happened?”

  “They won’t say. Rumors are going around that she had some sort of venereal disease.”