Dear Harriet

Rachel Morgan went through the attic. She huffed and sighed and wished she had put her hair up into a ponytail because it was sticking to her sweaty neck. Grumbling to herself, she moved the last box and lamented about how other thirteen-year-olds were at the mall with their friends.

“I miss curfew one lousy night and I gotta clean up this mess. My parent’s mess.” She groaned again while crouching and finagled the last dusty box from the attic entryway and put it in the unused bedroom that was opposite her own.

She was putting her ponytail up when he mother, Helen, poked her head around the frame of the door. “No breaks, ma’am. Not yet, at least.”

Rachel felt her face pucker and she scowled. “I’m not taking a break, ma. I’m just putting my hair up. It’s hot and shi—stuff up there,” she said while gesturing through the small doors in the middle of the wall that led up into the attack.

Her mother cut her eyes at Rachel about the near slip of the tongue and she felt her face heat up. “I’ll check back in an hour or so.” She gave the room a cursory glance that inspired Rachel to do the same. “And I better see some organization around here.”

When she stepped around the corner, Rachel couldn’t help herself from doling out an obscene hand gesture and sending it towards the vacant doorway.

“I saw that,” sang her mother and Rachel shrugged her shoulders, an act seen minutely in the dresser’s mirror.

“Yeah, you saw that,” she muttered to herself. But Rachel couldn’t help wondering if her mother would’ve said anything if Rachel hadn’t done anything. She looked at the filthy boxes and down at her dust-laden clothes. She picked up a box and put it on the bed, ever mindful that she was getting the comforter a little dirty in the process. “She said clean the attic, not the bedroom,” Rachel said to herself, quietly, mindful that her mother might exhibit how superhuman her hearing was if she spoke any louder.

Opening the flaps and sending dust through the air, Rachel saw that the box was filled with notebooks. This was the last box she had dragged out of the attic, and that told Rachel it was probably one of the first boxes put into the attic. She could also tell this from the way the box looked: it was rippled and discolored from when the roof had slowly leaked into the attic for years, unbeknown to the Morgans.

She reached along both sides of the interior and tried bringing the books all out at once. The ones on the bottom were thick with absorption and she imagined they were heavier for it. Rachel tried again, but with fewer books in her grip, and managed to pull some out. There were all kinds of notebooks: spiral bound, several composition, a couple three-ring binders that held loose leaf paper, and even an empty Trapper Keeper.

Rachel put the books on the bed and took the rest out, one at a time. A notebook on the bottom caught her eye: its cover was worn with doodles and swirls, flowers and butterflies. Rachel couldn’t explain it but she was compelled to open the notebook.

She found herself leafing through the pages: they were crisp and crinkled. Most of the ink was washed out and some pages had faint markings of what could’ve been pencil. In the heart of the notebook, she found some legible passages and was shocked to discover that it was a journal, a diary. She knew this despite the fact that there were no dates marking the pages, but because most parts were marked with the same heading: Dear Harriet.

Unable to focus on the task at hand, Rachel sat on the floor at the foot of the bed and read by the crisp, near-noon light that burned through the window and colored the room in accordance to the shade: in peachy, somber tones.



Dear Harriet:

No one talked to me at school today. They all think I ratted out on Nancy and the rest. I don’t care. They’re stupid. Everyone’s so stupid. Mom’s the worst. She’s always prying. I once caught her reading you and then I started yelling and she said that I needed to go back to that jerk, Dr. Huff. He’ll just say I need to write out my thoughts and get over the issues, blah blah blah. I hate Dr. Huff. I told Mom that she said that I shouldn’t hate anyone. I told her I hated her and she started crying. Dad slapped me. It hurt alot and I ran up to my room. He always takes her side. Never fails. Maybe someone will talk to me tomorrow maybe. I hope so. I had to eat lunch with Stella Cruella today. Gross! Time for bed. Night.



Rachel stopped reading and looked at the wall. She had no idea whose diary she was reading but she knew it sounded like that of a kid. “I have a diary and it’s not as childish as this,” she muttered. Then she paused, thinking of the passage. “But Dad never hits me. Mom either.” Rachel chewed her lip a second before she turned the page.



Dear Harriet:

I found out Stella doesn’t wear a bra yet! Can you believe it? She’s got to be almost fifteen! I would’ve told Nancy, but I only found out because I had to sit with Stella at lunch today, again. Ugh! UGH! I can’t believe how long today was. I think someone threw a spitball at me in math. I was washing my hair tonight and I saw alot of little paper bits in the tub. One stuck between my toes! Oh my God! I almost fell in the shower! Can you believe what Dad would’ve done if I had fell in the shower and tore the curtain? Mom would’ve cried, for sure! Speaking of which…



The passage ended. Rachel huffed about that and immediately turned the page.



Dear Harriet:

I got some lame presents for Christmas but that’s not why I’m here. I haven’t written in such a long time because Mom took you away. She said I couldn’t have you back until I saw Dr. Huff. I finally went but I didn’t want to write anything until I got you back. And here you are! Mom’s not bugging me as much. Dad’s not around alot. I think he got a second job. I hope Mom didn’t read you! If she read about what Mark did, I’d die! Thinking about it makes me want to die! Ugh! Shit! Dad…



Rachel grumbled about the abrupt ending but was impressed to see a swear word. “No point in knowing them if you ain’t gonna use them,” she mumbled softly while turning the page. She scanned the next few passages and noted how the author seemed to go for days or even weeks without writing an entry. Finally, one of interest caught Rachel’s eye.



Dear Harriet:

I’m pregnant. Mark won’t talk to me. I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell Mom or Dad because they’ll have heartattacks. Stella says I should get it aborted. Nancy called me a slut in the hall today, when I was coming out of French. I’m scared. Stella said she’d go with me to the clinic. She said she knows where to go because her older sister took her when she got her baby done. She said she sat in the back seat and her sister came out crying. I can’t tell Mom and Dad. They’ll kill me. I’m pregnant Mark won’t do anything Nancy won’t listen I’m pregnant pregnant baby pregnant!! I wonder what Dr. Huff would say. I’m not going to ask. If I say I want to see Dr. Huff, they’ll all think that I’m trying to hide something, and they’ll know if I see Dr. Huff. I’ll go with Stella. She good. I’ll go with Stella.



Rachel was numb after reading the entry. The pages started softening under her fingertips as she manipulated them more and she found herself reading that passage over and over again, wishing she had known the date or who the diary was about. After reading it a fourth time, she resolutely turned the page.

She wished she hadn’t.



Dear Harriet:

I went with Stella but I couldn’t do that. That fucking place was filled with so much death and sadness that I just couldn’t do it. So I went home and Stella went with me and I told my Mom. Dad overheard. I can barely write. He hit me so hard. I’ve been cramping for hours. I’m bleeding down there. I can’t…



Putting the notebook down, Rachel put her hands to her mouth to muffle the sniffling that she couldn’t stop from coming. She felt minute tears trace around the edge of her fingers and she closed her eyes to flush out anymore unwanted waterworks. After a few moments, Rachel wiped her hand on her sleeve and sneezed when she inhaled some dust. She didn’t want to but she reread the passage once more before firmly turning the page.



Dear Harriet:

Dr. Huff says hello. I was going to name the baby Harriet. It seemed like a good idea. But she didn’t make it. I thought she might but Dad made sure she didn’t. Dr. Huff is getting fat. Mom isn’t talking to Dad and he’s not talking to me. I think he’s going to leave. That’ll leave me with Mom. I was hoping to leave once she was born, but now there’s no baby. So no leaving. Stella told me today that her parents are moving to Idaho. I don’t know what’s in fucking Idaho but I’m gonna miss her. I already miss her. Nancy is so fat. We make fun of her behind her back all the time. Harriet would’ve been a good name. Or Stella.



Rachel turned the page quickly, not letting too much time pass between reads.



Dear Harriet:

I want to work in a hospital. Or something. I want to help people with babies or babies or something! I don’t know what that’s called but I know I want to do it. Mom says I should. That it’ll be good for me. I think I’ll do good.



That was the last visible entry but Rachel was crying again already, this time without bothering to cover her mouth and stifle the fact. She looked around the room and noticed that the once-peaceful peach tones were now darker mango tones: the sun was already on the other side of the house. She looked at the doorway and was surprised.

Her mother, Helen, stood there with her arms behind her back, leaning against one side of the frame and looking down at Rachel with a pained expression. She was wearing her scrubs, a telltale sign that she was about to head to the hospital she’d worked at for nearly fifteen years.

Rachel couldn’t stop herself. She forced herself up and reached out to her mother and held her tightly. Her mother took the embrace and lightly stroked the top of Rachel’s head, cooing to her that everything would be okay.

She also said, “I saw you were reading the diary. I knew I should’ve stopped you but you looked like you wanted to keep reading. So I let you.”

Through sniffles and sobs, Rachel couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Who’s Harriet?”

A tense moment passed between the pair and her mother finally spoke. “She was my sister. She died when we were very young.” Rachel could tell it was hard for her mother to say and she held ever tighter.

“I love you, Mom,” floated out on gasps of air.

“I love you too, Rachel. I love you too.”

Word Count: 1,982