What She Left Behind Read Online Free PDF Page A

door.
    “What is it?” her father bellowed.
    “It’s me,” she said, the words catching in her throat. She coughed softly, and then continued. “It’s me, Clara. May I come in?”
    “Enter!” her father said.
    Clara put her hand on the doorknob and began to turn it, then realized her other hand was still on her lower abdomen. Blood rose to her cheeks and she pushed her fists down to her sides. She knew her mother had been watching, scrutinizing the width of her waistline, gauging her appetite in the mornings, counting the number of feminine napkins below the bathroom sink. If Clara walked into her father’s study with a protective hand over her stomach, her mother would know in an instant that her worst fears had come true.
    Clara took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
    Her mother sat on a rose-colored settee next to the brick fireplace, fanning herself with a flowered fan, her feet on a cushioned stool. As usual, her auburn hair was swept up in the Gibson girl style, pinned on top of her head in a loose bun. To Clara’s surprise, her mother’s floor-length, bustled skirt was pulled up, revealing pale ankles above pointy, lace-up boots. Ruth believed a proper woman should always keep her arms and legs covered, no matter what. She must be really upset, Clara thought.
    Clara wasn’t sure when it happened, but she had come to despise her mother’s Victorian dresses, her out-of-date hairdos, her cameo brooches and rings. Every traditional mannerism and old-fashioned saying reminded Clara of her mother’s prudish ways. Just the sound of Ruth’s layered skirts rustling along the hallways, her hard shoes clacking along the floors, was enough to make Clara cringe.
    Now, Ruth stood and ran her hands along her dress, her swan-billed corset extenuating her tiny waist. Instinctively, Clara put her shoulders back and held in her stomach, hoping her mother wouldn’t notice she wasn’t wearing a corset.
    Clara had been forced into her first corset at the age of six, after her mother measured her waist and said it was horribly thick and clumsy. Ruth had proclaimed that if preventive measures weren’t taken right away, Clara’s posture and health would suffer, and no man in his right mind would marry a romping girl with a waist measuring more than seventeen inches. That night, her mother laced her into heavily boned stays, insisting they come off only in times of illness, and to bathe. A week later, Clara undid the straps in the middle of the night so she could sleep. The next morning, Ruth found the corset lying on the floor next to Clara’s bed and yanked Clara out of a sound sleep to properly spank her. After that, every night for the next two weeks, she tied Clara’s wrists together with a silk handkerchief to keep her hands out of mischief. As Clara grew older, her corsets were drawn in tighter and tighter by the muscular arms of a sturdy, waiting maid. At eighteen, Clara’s waist measured seventeen inches, and still her mother scoffed, reminding her repeatedly that hers was sixteen, forgetting that Clara was two inches taller.
    Now, in her father’s study, Clara glanced in her mother’s direction. Ruth would be appalled if she found the bangles, hair feathers, and fringed dresses hidden in the back of Clara’s closet, tucked inside her steamer trunk beneath an old wool suit. As if reading Clara’s mind, Ruth sniffed and turned her gaze toward the window, pressing her lips into a thin, hard line. Her father raised his eyebrows, tapped a silver lighter on his desk, and chomped down on his cigar. As usual, he was wearing a chalk-striped business suit, his walrus mustache curling over his upper lip.
    “What is it?” he said.
    Clara released her fists and clasped her hands in front of her waist, trying to keep them from shaking.
    “May I speak to you about something?” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
    Her mother mumbled under her breath and went to the window, her skirts rustling. She pulled