A/N: There is a brief mention of Uncle Bartlett at the end of this chapter.

Recap of Previous Chapter: Sookie experiences a traumatic re-hospitalization for a late post-partum hemorrhage. Tara helps her make sense of the puzzling new information she's learned about L.L., Leclerq, Lorena Ball, and Eric. Jason calls Sookie to tell her that a pipe burst in her house, and old letters from Gran to Fintan were found.

Disclaimer: All SVM characters belong to Charlaine Harris. I'm just taking them on a tour of New England and introducing them to Miss Royall, Miss Balch, and Mr. Harney, Edith Wharton characters.

Chapter 16: Herstories

Jason brought the letters by the hospital the next day in a big brown envelope, overstuffed. Some, sadly enough, weren't salvageable, their ink smeared and blurred beyond legibility. Regretfully, I let them go, putting them in a pile for recycling.

Many weren't dated. What's more, in an effort to dry them, Jason had spread them out, separating the letters from their postmarked envelopes. It was overwhelming, really, sifting through those pieces, trying to fit them into some semblance of order, not knowing whether I was doing it right. I needed it to be right. For once, I wanted those puzzle pieces to fit together just so.

When I picked them up, I noticed their once smooth surfaces were now pockmarked and warbled from their swim in the water. They made a crinkling noise, and felt textured in my hands—real and alive—like I was holding a living, breathing piece of Gran. I listened hard for her voice and could hear it again, as if she were reading them aloud to me. I needed her to speak to me.

The letters went back decades, longer than I'd ever realized she'd known Fintan. Page after page told of all the newsy kinds of things going on in Gran's life, out there in western Massachusetts with her husband, my Grandpa Mitchell, and their two children, Linda and Corbett, my father.

Of course the Christmas season was busy as usual. You know how hard it is to say no at this time of the year. But it's always nice to see hard work bringing good things. The church bazaar was extremely successful, raising enough money to finally make those parsonage roof repairs. And the food pantry managed to gather up some last minute donations so that no one was turned away. It's sad to see that money is tight this year for a lot of folks.

...

Corbett made the varsity basketball team for the first time this year. All of those practices and games have taken up most of his free time, but he seems to like it, and is doing very well. Linda has been busy too with her sewing. She's picked it up so fast that she's even sewing her own prom dress this year.

...

The leaf peepers will be headed our way soon. Whole busloads of them will empty out and flood the town. You should see them, always looking for the best view or trying to time their visit to view the mountains at their peak color. And they leave with picture postcards and gallon jugs of maple syrup-from last spring of course-and jars of apple butter.

...

Thank you for the crate of oranges you sent from Florida. You know how long the winters can be out here. I hope we'll be able to visit you again this summer, but Mitchell is making noise about taking a trip to Vermont instead.

I paged through letter after letter, looking for clues that would tell me when they were written and putting them in order. Not too long into this project, I had the impression that Gran had lived what I would call a normal, pleasant enough kind of life out there in western Massachusetts. Maybe even a little sedate. Oh, they were cheerful enough, and true to her character, she didn't complain. But before I read these letters, I had pictured her doing things like hosting nighttime sledding parties. Building a campfire in the back yard and roasting marshmallows just for fun. Planting messy, crazy gardens full of mismatched flowers. Lighting up birthday cakes with sparklers.

This Gran from western Massachusetts was…well, kinda boring. They lacked that spark that I knew of Gran. Then there was this snippet of a letter, the only portion of it that I could read, and the first clue that there was more.

I remember you said one time that a life without love is like a year without summer. But what if all we ever knew were fall and winter and spring? Would we miss the summer?

I abandoned my project of ordering, set down my sorted pile, and just started digging.

We arrived home safely after an uneventful trip. Please know how hard this is for me. I never expected to be faced with this kind of decision, at least not in a way that would truly test my beliefs. If I decline, it will be out of my moral responsibility to my marriage, and not for lack of dear and passionate love for you.

Test my beliefs…responsibility to my marriage…dear and passionate love for you…

Well, hello! I blushed, realizing what I was uncovering here. If I was looking for a spark, I'd need look no further. Nighttime sledding parties? Boy, did I call that one wrong. It was still hard to believe, but if I was reading this right, Gran had fallen in love with another man outside of her marriage with Grandpa Mitchell. When? How? I'd always thought their marriage strong.

Here I paused, considering carefully. Gran was revealing personal things about herself in ways she might not have ever intended, in ways that were out of her control now. Maybe one day she would have told me, but obviously these letters weren't addressed to me. I'd felt no compunction about reading the ones that read like newsletters from the Stackhouse family's Christmas card. It was quite another thing to read about a secret love life.

A secret love life.

We were like soul sisters in a way. Decades apart, here on the Cape, we'd each found our own complicated summer…flings, romances, love connections, or whatever it was that we were calling them. If she were here with me now, I wondered what she'd advise me to do.

Maybe it was that tie I felt with her—the way our love lives seemed to have certain parallels—that made my decision for me. Gran couldn't have known that one day we'd have reason to connect this way, but I felt like she would have shared this part of her past with me if she were here now. Probably not in this way, but…

I think she would have shared it with me.

Maybe my moral reasoning was weak, at best.

In any case, I'd made my decision. Call it selfish, but I needed to glean whatever I could from those letters. I hoped that wherever she was now, she'd understand.

Skimming through a bunch more letters, I finally found this one:

I am writing this letter to you with great regret.

You must know already what I am about to say—that I cannot accept your proposal. I cannot disrupt all of our lives so greatly. Believe me when I say that if I could find a way to take back all the hurt, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Maybe my other news will help you understand my decision. I am expecting a child in the spring. Please know that after years of trying—and expecting to not ever have children—this brings me great joy as well as pain and regret that I'm not sharing it with you.

This letter was short and sad, but stapled to it was another letter.

It was so kind and thoughtful of you to send your congratulations. I had expected that I would need to say goodbye to you even in friendship, but I look forward to becoming an old friend of yours.

Yes, it was scary going into labor so early. After all of the heartache of waiting to become pregnant, and then getting so close to having a baby, the thought of losing him at a time when I could nearly hold him was unthinkable. He really was our little miracle baby, born almost five weeks early, but as hearty and healthy as if he had been to full term.

There were some numbers and notes scribbled in the margins of this letter in handwriting that wasn't Gran's. I puzzled over the numbers. It looked like 7 minus 4 and some other scrawling. I turned the paper around in my hands, looking at it from all angles, but nothing made any obvious sense to me.

I set the letters down, my brain oddly frozen in place.

I had a sudden urge to move.

A trip back and forth to the bathroom wasn't going to cut it for me this time. Sure, getting rid of that catheter had been a real treat; I had a new-found appreciation for peeing on my own. But this was the first time since I'd been re-hospitalized that I really wanted to move. I still wasn't sure where I was going, or what my purpose would be. I'd figure that out along the way.

After stacking all the letters into a neat pile, I touched my feet tentatively down on the ground.

The moment of truth.

In spite of all those trips to the bathroom, I still wasn't wholly convinced my feet were going to do what they were supposed to do, or more importantly, that the rest of the world was going to cooperate.

Would the floor yank itself out from under me?

No?

We were good?

Okay, then.

E.J.'s little bassinet was nothing more than a plastic box on wheels, inelegant, but totally practical, sturdy, and steadying. I managed to hook my IV pole aside the bassinet without getting the wheels tangled; maybe there was a better way to do all this, but I wasn't about to ask a nurse, who would just tell me to get back in bed.

I poked my head out the door, caught a glimpse of that hulking nurse I called Squirt, and then ducked back inside my room. Squirt had been there with me the first time I had "emptied my bladder," as she liked to call it, and had wielded a very vigorous perineal wash bottle. I like to handle my own squirt bottle, thank you very much.

After another minute, all was clear. I headed out again, but escaped into a little kitchenette area when I heard motion coming from a nearby patient's room. A quick look around this well-equipped space told me I'd been missing out on the party here on the maternity ward. Opening some cabinets, I found a stash of cups and napkins. Though I wasn't really thirsty, I poured myself a glass of water, and added ice from the ice machine.

Inside one of the drawers, I found a good supply of wrapped disposable utensils, tea bags, and packets of sugar, ketchup, mustard, salt, and pepper. The salt-and-pepper packets were a scrambled mess, but it took me only a few minutes to pick through and separate them into their compartments.

There was a clean refrigerator and a microwave too, and next to the microwave was a big basket of individually-wrapped Saltine packets, which didn't interest me too much because I associated them with a queasy stomach. They seemed like a whole heap of trouble too—all those little plastic wrappers that would need to be wrangled just to get two dry, measly crackers. But opening another cupboard door, I found the mother lode: stacks and stacks of graham crackers, which—next to the Saltines—suddenly looked pretty tasty. I grabbed a whole sleeve for myself and tucked them into the bottom of E.J.'s bassinet.

When the motion finally cleared in the hallway, I shuffled out again, noticing for the first time how peaceful it was there, when I wasn't busy evading nurses. The floor was carpeted. The lighting was serene. The walls were painted a rich brown color. And it was surprisingly quiet. I guessed not all babies screamed as much as E.J.. I would have stayed right there wandering the halls if it wouldn't have left me so exposed.

Was there a nice waiting room like this? Probably, but then again, that didn't seem to be the place for me, either. I didn't want to freak out any of the new parents. (Yeah, had the baby a week ago, and then almost bled to death from a late post partum hemorrhage. It was a bitch, but I'm great now. See? No bag of urine.) Likewise, I didn't think it would be too thoughtful of me to complain to the new families who hadn't fared as well, whose moms were still recovering (or not) from a traumatic birth or whose babies were in the neonatal intensive care unit.

No, there probably wasn't exactly a place for me to fit. No special waiting room for the single moms whose ex-boyfriends are mysteriously plotting to screw them out of their homes. Hmph. Maybe I'd have a talk with hospital administrators.

Soon I came to a short hallway that exited into a stairwell. There was a window on one side opposite a door that looked like a closet. It was locked. I might have stayed there just looking out the window if it weren't for the fact that the intersecting hallway seemed to be a busy one. Resignedly, I pushed my way toward the stairwell.

The stairwell, to be sure, was no beautiful setting, with its harsh fluorescent lighting, dingy white paint, and cold industrial tile floors, trudged and gritty. I had a brief bout of panic when a single thought flashed through my mind: what if I lost control of the bassinet and E.J. went tumbling down the stairs? Did all new moms imagine these kinds of perils, or only the ones who seemed peril-prone themselves? To reassure myself, I immediately wheeled E.J. away from the steps—it was actually a wide landing space—and tucked him into a little alcove with a window. There. I had a window view of the parking lot in a quiet spot with a pack of graham crackers. What more could a gal ask for? Above that parking lot, there was even a slice of blue sky. Well, it was kinda blue, where there weren't clouds. No one would intrude to "take a look" at me while I was there. And, oh yeah, E.J. wasn't crying.

Looking down at him, I noticed that I wasn't just imagining it: his cheeks really had filled out. I decided at that moment that they were the cutest cheeks ever, so adorable that I would have to refrain from pinching them. Surely none of the other little babies in the nursery had those pudgy cheeks, summer sky eyes, and crazy hair—the trifecta of cuteness. I looked around automatically, but of course nobody else was there. I was in a stairwell, having my own little proud mom moment all by myself.

I opened the pack of graham crackers for an impromptu picnic and started crunching away. Gran's voice popped immediately back into my head, as though she'd never gone anywhere. I felt relieved.

She was still Gran.

I still loved her. There was no black mark on her soul that made me think any different about her. Sure, the fact that she'd had an affair was surprising. I worried a little about Grandpa Mitchell. And I wondered whether there was a whole middle section of Gran's life when she'd been happy with Grandpa Mitchell and my dad and Aunt Linda, but not in a place where she really belonged. None of that mattered, though, when it came to my overall feelings about her. She was still the same Gran to me.

One thing was still puzzling, though. What had motivated Fintan to keep in touch with her for more than a decade after she had rejected him? Clearly he continued to carry a torch for her. Why else would he have saved her letters? They ended up together, after Grandpa Mitchell had died, but Fintan couldn't have predicted that outcome. There was no mention in the letters of their ever getting back together again, other than visits during their summer vacations to the Cape. He might have tormented himself with an entire lifetime of unrequited love had things not worked out the way they did. There must have been something else.

What was it with that letter that had been stapled to the Dear John letter? That one was gnawing at me. It was the only stapled letter, and the only one I'd come across so far with any other notes on it. 7 – 4. Seven minus four is three. Three what? Three peas in a pod. Three sides to a triangle. Three wheels on a tricycle. Three…this was getting me nowhere.

7 – 4. Was it a date? July 4th? Maybe. But why would it matter? July 4th was always spent in North Dormer, if my dad's stories about fireworks were true. They always went to the Cape later in the month. July was the 7th month. April was the 4th month. My dad and Aunt Linda had birthdays in April. I hadn't known how unusual that was, given that he should have been born in May. It was lucky for all of us that he'd been such a healthy, sturdy baby. Five weeks seemed pretty early to me. Three weeks early might not have surprised me so much, as normal gestation is anywhere from 37 – 40 weeks. But didn't some important lung development happen there at the end? I would have thought that even a couple extra weeks earlier than 37 weeks could have been a problem, especially back then when preemie care wasn't as advanced as it is now…So I guess my dad had been especially healthy and lucky…unless…

Unless…Gran had gotten her dates wrong…

Sweet Jesus! What if he really hadn't been born early? I ticked the months off on my fingers. From July to April was nine months. What if her real due date was in April? That would mean that it was entirely possible that Fintan was my dad's father. My grandfather.

I let this thought settle. Or stir things up. Or whatever it was doing in my head. I wasn't sure.

Maybe Fintan had suspected, and that's why he had kept in touch. What about Gran? Had she suspected too? Or, geez, how about Grandpa Mitchell? Gran had mentioned that she'd had a hard time getting pregnant. Had they just accepted the pregnancy for all of the joy it had brought them without questioning it too hard? And good grief, what about Aunt Linda? Could she be Fintan's too? No wonder Grandpa Mitchell had been making noise about going to Vermont for vacation. He was probably starting to wonder whether there was something in the water on the Cape.

I shook my head. I'd had a drink of that Cape water myself.

How had Gran managed to sneak away for a romantic tryst with Fintan? I shook my head again. Some things felt wrong imagining.

And some things would never be known.

There was no way for me to figure this one out with certainty. Oh sure, there were clues that pointed in a particular direction, but the bottom line was this: I would never know for sure. I decided then and there that it simply didn't matter to me. It had been their business, and it didn't change how I felt about any of them. And it was out of my control. No matter how badly I might have wanted to know, there was no way to know.

I was done there.

I looked down, suddenly realizing that I had polished off an entire sleeve of graham crackers. Poor E.J. was covered in crumbs. They jumped like fleas and resettled in his blankets as I swiped at them. I would have to remove him from the bassinet and turn the whole blasted thing upside down to get rid of them all, which wouldn't be happening anytime soon. I had another one of those brief flashes of panic—that E.J. would choke or have some kind of allergic reaction to one of those crumbs—which I quelled by making sure nothing was around his face. The rest of them would just have to stay for now.

Then I noticed there were parts of me that were starting to throb in pain, and that I had probably overdone my little stairwell excursion. It took quite a bit of maneuvering to get back through the door and into the hallway since I was feeling so tired and sore. Still, I felt a little jolt of excited glee when I successfully dodged Squirt once again. I realized I didn't need to skulk anymore, so I took the shortest route back, straight down the middle of the corridor.

That's where I ran nearly straight into Nurse Smith, who always seemed to be cropping up when I needed her most. (Some people are great that way, you know?) She helped me back to my room, checked me out, and got me resettled and comfortable. I fed E.J. and then took a nap with him for a little while, before picking the letters up again and rifling through them, somewhat aimlessly.

It was my own name that captured my attention on one of them.

Clearly there are still some troubles here, so I'm glad I took some time to come out for another visit. Sookie got in trouble at school today for being "fresh" with her teacher, Miss Royall. Apparently Sookie told her that she shouldn't waste any more time with Mr. Harney—I guess he's another teacher—because Mr. Harney has his eyes on Miss Balch.

Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if it were true. I can just see it in her eyes—the way she watches people around her like a hawk.

Immediately, I teared up and felt ill-at-ease, like I needed to crouch low and ready. Maybe because I was geared up this way, something about the next letter jumped out at me before I could even stop it. It was only one word, a name: Bartlett. Uncle Bartlett. His name leapt off the page, flashing itself right in front of my face. I could hear Gran say his name with that grim set to her mouth.

His hands had touched.

I'd worked hard at pushing that particular memory outside of myself, where I'd thought it couldn't touch me. But just the reminder of him made me feel his hands all over again. That was the most awful thing about it, really—that I would always know his hands and the gnashing and churning inside. My heart pounded hard and heavy, harassed by that panicky, vulnerable feeling that comes from someone's knowing me in a way I don't want them to. Out of my control.

For a brief moment, I wanted to rip that letter to shreds and throw it away forever. If I thought it would have helped, I would have done it. I wished I could. Oh, I'd already done a whole world of wishing it away. I'd even tried making some scary bargains with God. But God doesn't play "Would You Rather…"

The thing about memories, too, is that the ones you try hardest to forget are the same ones that come back and bite you in the ass most viciously. You can't ever really forget the ferocious ones. Sometimes they sneak up from behind, and sometimes they flat out flaunt themselves. Relentlessly. The best I could figure to do was to acknowledge them. To accept them for what they would always be. Maybe that was the only way I'd ever be able to feel as though they weren't controlling me. Maybe that was just wishful thinking too.

I guessed I'd sat there with that letter long enough feeling sorry for myself. At least I didn't do anything fruitless, like tearing it up. No, I didn't want to waste any more energy on it if I could help it. Instead, I folded it up, and folded it up again and again until it was just a tidy little square, tucked it in the bottom of the big envelope, and then stuffed all the other letters on top. That was the best I could do right then.

And that's all I'm saying.

A/N: Summer has finally given us a big, sloppy kiss here in New England, which means that now's about the time of the year when a) the call of my garden is too wild to resist *raises itchy green thumb,* b) the wild call of my children released from school can't be ignored, and c) Mr. MNM and I leave town with said wild-calling children, journey for many hours in a small car, and end up in even wilder environs, with (gasp) no Internet connection.

So...what's my point here? Well, somehow, in the middle of all of this wildness, my sanity is, eh, usually mostly restored, and I'll probably post the next update sometime during the week after July 4.

Hope all of you US-ians have a whiz-bang July 4th. Well, I suppose it will be July 4th everywhere else too, so I'll just go ahead and wish everyone a whiz-bang day. ;)

~Thanks for reading!~

And thanks, makesmyheadspin & peppermintyrose!