Annie's Stories Read online

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  Annie’s Stories

  Copyright © 2014 by Cindy Thomson. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover frame copyright © Ozerina Anna/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Beth Sparkman

  Edited by Erin E. Smith

  The author is represented by Chip MacGregor of MacGregor Literary Inc., 2373 NW 185th Avenue, Suite 165, Hillsboro, OR 97124

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Annie’s Stories is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Thomson, Cindy, date.

  Annie’s stories / Cindy Thomson.

  pages cm. — (Ellis Island)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-6845-0 (sc)

  1. Young women—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 2. Irish—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 4. Storytelling—Fiction. 5. Self-realization in women—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3620.H7447A56 2014

  813'.6—dc23 2014001580

  ISBN 978-1-4143-9610-1 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8438-2 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4143-9611-8 (Apple)

  Build: 2014-06-02 10:26:29

  In fond memory of my father, Lloyd “Pete” Peters, who wore many hats during his lifetime, including that of a whistling postman.

  Acknowledgments

  DURING THE PROCESS of writing Annie’s Stories, I gained a keen awareness of how much I had to be truly thankful for. God is good, all the time, and I realized that even during the times I struggled with aspects of this story, the goodness of my Creator still blanketed me, reassuring me that, as Annie learns in the story, good always wins out. I realized that this was the important truth I needed to remember along my storytelling yellow brick road. I’m thankful God still teaches me to remember what I have no excuse for forgetting at times.

  I’m grateful that so many of the modern-day survivors of Magdalene Laundries shared their stories online so the world could see that it’s possible to step out on the other side of oppression and work to see that wrongs are acknowledged and not repeated. May God continue to guide and heal all those affected.

  I’ve been blessed to have many helpers travel this road with me.

  I’m thankful for my editor Stephanie Broene, whose grace, kindness, discernment, and interest in my characters and their stories has blessed me so much. My editor Erin Smith’s incredible talents helped this story in immeasurable ways. All the folks at Tyndale House are such outstanding people to work with, and I’m grateful for each one.

  Thanks to Chip MacGregor for continuing to believe in my storytelling.

  Many people supported me with their prayers during the writing process, and I’m a firm believer that the most powerful thing we can do for each other is pray in earnest. Thank you, Etna UMC prayer group and my Writer Sisters.

  A long list of fellow writers blessed me with their insights and brainstorming, including Nicole O’Dell, Cara Putman, Lisa Samson, and Rachel Hauck. A huge thank-you to Rachel, who not only helped me think through some difficulties I was having with the plot, but also called me and prayed over the phone.

  For my research I used many of the same resources I acknowledged in Grace’s Pictures, but it’s important to mention again the Ellis Island Foundation and to suggest that readers with ancestors who passed through Ellis Island, and anyone interested in this era, visit www.ellisisland.org.

  Thank you to Sandra Thomson and Susanne Fox for your advice regarding the German words in the story. If there are any errors, they are mine alone.

  My heart swells with gratitude that God has blessed me with family. I love them all near and far and want to acknowledge the support of my mom, Golden Peters; my mother-in-law, Eileen Thomson; my sister, Beverly Wallace; my handsome sons, Dan, Jeff, and Kyle; and my beautiful daughter-in-law, Kelsey. So many friends all over the world have encouraged me as I worked on this story. Thank you all. Without my cheerleaders, this task would be beyond daunting.

  And to my husband, Tom, whose support and love never wavers. Thanks for allowing me the time to write and for accompanying me on so many research trips and book signings, and for giving me the inspiration for Annie’s sweet tooth. My writing journey would not be nearly as much fun without you!

  And finally, thank you, for reading and for reaching out on Facebook and other sites and through e-mail. If we haven’t yet met, please visit my site, www.cindyswriting.com, to find out the many places where you can find me. I enjoy hearing from readers, and this story is truly for you!

  PS—Subscribers to my newsletter have the opportunity to read one of Annie’s stories. Please sign up at www.cindyswriting.com.

  No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home.

  L. FRANK BAUM, THE WONDERFUL WIZARD OF OZ

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Preview of Grace’s Pictures

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  1

  LATE AUGUST, 1901

  SOMETIMES THE SMALLEST THINGS ignited memories Annie Gallagher would sooner forget. This time all it took was a glimpse of a half-finished tapestry Mrs. Hawkins had left on her parlor chair: Home Sweet Home. Annie pressed her palm against her heart, trying to shut out the realization that she was far from home—and not just because she now lived in America.

  In a few days it would be her birthday, but she wanted to forget. Birthdays held no significance when your parents had gone to heaven.

  For most of her life Annie had traveled with her father, a seanchaí, a storyteller from the old Irish tradition. She had learned the age-old stories of the great warrior Cuchulain and the tragic tale of a cruel stepmother in “The Children of Lir.” She learned of kings and monks and lords and wild beasts. But when night came and he tucked her into whatever straw cot they had borrowed for the night, he told her tales that were just for her—Annie’s stories, he called them. Now that her father was gon
e, those stories were all she had, her only connection to a place, intangible as it might have been, that she called home.

  She held on to them, brought them out from time to time to remind her she’d once lived in someone’s heart. Without that, she feared she might plunge again into darkness.

  Annie approached the breakfront cabinet gracing the wall opposite a substantial parlor window that looked out to the street. She opened the door, revealing her special lap desk. Suddenly her father’s voice lived again in her mind.

  “Look here, Annie lass,” her da called one day from his mat by Uncle Neil’s hearth. Neil O’Shannon was her mother’s brother, and he hadn’t wanted Annie and her father in his home, but her father—who was just as dismayed to be there but had found no other open hearth in that sparsely populated countryside—had been too ill to move on.

  Annie had just come inside from gathering seaweed on the shore. She set her reed basket on the table and came closer. Da held a box of some sort.

  “See here. ’Tis a writing desk—pens and even paper inside.” He opened the box and showed her how the top folded into a writing surface.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Annie rubbed her hand across the inlaid design on the edges. Swirls, flowers—so beautiful.

  “I should write down your tales for you.”

  “Which ones, Da?” She examined the ink pot. Full.

  “Why, Annie’s stories, darlin’. Those that are yours. I won’t be here forever to tell them to you.”

  She shook her head. “Don’t talk like that, Da. And don’t you know, I won’t be forgetting them.”

  “Don’t suppose you will. But I’ll write them just the same. I’ll add some drawings. You’d like that, so.”

  She had not thought he’d done it, not until after he’d passed on and Father Weldon helped her find those pages, those precious hand-scribed stories, the day he’d rescued her from that evil Magdalene Laundry, a prison-like place for young girls who had committed no crime except being homeless and unwanted.

  She sat down on the piano stool in Mrs. Hawkins’s parlor as the memories flooded her mind like a swarm of midsummer gnats. She heard Father Weldon’s voice. “Hold on to the good memories. The Magdalene Laundry you were in does not speak for the church, child. There are those who are compassionate, even within its walls, but they allow fear to overshadow what’s right. I implore you to focus on the good now, the good you have seen among my parishioners. And know that God will provide,” he had said.

  Perhaps Father Weldon had been right about the laundry. The church wasn’t evil. Sister Catherine and a couple of the other nuns seemed to care. But Annie was sure God had not been in that laundry. God couldn’t be bothered, she’d realized.

  “Don’t give Neil O’Shannon a second thought, child,” Father Weldon had told her, his eyes soft. “Your father was a remarkable man. You have your memories now, don’t you?”

  Painful memories she could not forget. Not so far.

  Her sorrow had begun on a day in January in the year nineteen hundred, the day they’d buried her father.

  “A wanderer is only at home in the hearts of those who love him.”

  Annie had heard her father say this, and now that he was gone, Annie had no place in the world. She had been born of a great love between two people separated by hatred, as tragic a tale as Romeo and Juliet.

  She had heard the story from her father many times. Annie’s parents had fallen in love, but the O’Shannons did not want their daughter to marry a Protestant, especially a seanchaí. But they’d done it anyway, run off to Dublin, where an Anglican minister married them. A month later, while her father and mother traveled on the road to Limerick, Annie’s mother’s family tracked her down, locked Annie’s father in a cowshed, and then stole her mother away. After some time, her father found her mother, but tragically she died in childbirth, and from then on, it had only been Annie and her father.

  Now, just Annie.

  “Marty Gallagher was a magnificent storyteller,” the priest had said to those gathered in the churchyard. “Not only could he recite entire Shakespearean plays by memory, but he told his own tales as well. Many of you gathered here were privileged to be entertained by him.”

  A man she didn’t know—but was told was Mr. Barrows from Dublin—had approached her after prayers were said. “My deepest sympathies, Miss Gallagher.”

  She thanked him, but his condolences seemed to slide right by. There was nothing anyone could have said to make that better.

  “The entire world will mourn his passing.” He extended his black umbrella over his dipped head and backed away.

  People say all kinds of odd things when someone dies. Paying respects at a funeral was fine and good for that man, whoever he had been. He’d gone back to Dublin and carried on. But Annie? She was only twenty years of age, and her life spread out before her now like a long, lonely highway spilling into distant hills beyond where the eye can see.

  It was what had happened after the funeral that had led to her imprisonment in that unspeakable place.

  She rose now, shut the door to the breakfront, and wiped it down, though she’d noted no dust. Glancing out the front window at the pedestrians populating Lower Manhattan’s sidewalks, she observed men carrying large black satchels. Businessmen. Not a seanchaí in the lot, she supposed. If she ever married, it would be to someone who appreciated the power of a story.

  Sighing, Annie brushed her feather duster along the windowsill and the glass globes of the oil lamps. How she’d come to be the housekeeper at Hawkins House was by chance, a stroke of incredible luck, to be sure. Father Weldon had sent her there.

  “I will arrange for a woman named Agnes Hawkins to take you in. She and her charity supporters are opening a home for girls in New York, and she needs a housekeeper to help her get started.”

  “Why would you do this for me, Father?”

  This man, a British priest in the west of Ireland, was such an oddity. Even Da in his storytelling could not have created such an unlikely rescuer.

  “I had great admiration for your father, Annie. He was a fine man, God rest his soul. Being a storyteller, he wandered, going from place to place to do his work. In a small way I’m like he was. I am in a foreign land. My sister, the woman who will take you in, is as well. But God directs our paths. We don’t always end up in the places we’d imagined. I’m to see you get away from here safely and begin life anew with hope.”

  Annie knew as well as winter follows autumn that God had not directed her. If he had, he never would have allowed her to end up in that horrible laundry. Without her father, without God, Annie was adrift on a dark, choppy sea. She’d hoped living in America at Hawkins House would lead her out of the nefarious hole she’d been plunged into since her father died, and it had been a fortuitous beginning. Mrs. Hawkins was nice, and Annie truly was grateful to her. But her father had said home is where the people who love you are, the people who truly want you. He had not said home was where people were just nice to you.

  Annie had been fortunate to come here, indeed. However, everyone knew luck ran out. There were many chapters of Annie’s life yet to be written. No one in Ireland had believed Annie capable of directing her own destiny. But now? Now she needed to make her own way without Da . . . and without even God’s help.

  2

  STEPHEN ADAMS often wondered about the people who wrote the letters he delivered. They came from distant lands like Ireland, Germany, Russia, and every once in a while from as far away as Australia. Stephen had never been anywhere but New York. Born and raised. So were his father and mother. As far as he could tell, his ancestors had all been born in the city, back to the original Dutch planters perhaps. But he didn’t really know. No one did. The only thing he knew for sure was that none of that old immigrant money had been passed on in his family, and he was the only one left. His parents—God rest their souls—along with his brother, who had died last year in a construction accident, were buried in Cypress H
ills over in Brooklyn. Oh, he had some cousins here and there, but none had stayed in touch, and if they had, Stephen would have to keep making excuses for his father’s death. He was glad not to have to do that.

  These folks on his route? Many of them had no family in America, and they’d pressed on, making do, striving for better. Their stories were inspiring. Stephen could press on too.

  “Howdy, Mr. Adams!” Matty, one of the kids he often saw on his route, greeted him.

  “Hi there, fella. Have breakfast today?”

  The kid shrugged and kicked some pebbles with his too-small shoes. “I’m not hungry. Ma gave me a bit a coffee in my milk.”

  “Today?”

  “Not today.”

  Stephen reached into his mailbag and pulled out the apple he’d brought for his lunch. “Take this then, for later, when you get hungry.”

  The boy beamed. “Thanks!”

  Stephen continued down the street, whistling one of his favorite Irish ballads and thinking about the folks he would likely see today.

  Hawkins House was one of his favorite stops on his mail route because Annie Gallagher was the housekeeper there. He made sure to stomp heavily on the front stoop. As he’d hoped, the front latch opened. He held out some letters. “Morning, Miss Gallagher. Got a letter from home for you and a postcard for Mrs. Hawkins. Seems her nephew and his wife have been to Coney Island again.”

  “You must be mistaken.” Her face turned pasty. “Not a letter for me.”

  He held it up. “Miss Annie Gallagher. It’s from County Mayo, Father Joseph Weldon.”

  “Father Weldon wrote to me? He writes often to Mrs. Hawkins—he’s her brother—but this is the first I’ve received.”

  He reached into his bag. “I almost forgot. Got a new boarder, don’t you? A Miss Wagner?”

  “We do.”

  He waved a long envelope in front of his face. “Seems there is plenty of news, judging from how thick this is.” He handed the letter to Annie. Their hands brushed for just a moment.