The Lilac Tunnel: My Journey with Samantha

Samantha breaks the silence, saying Uncle Gard’s new friend Cornelia believes women should have all the same opportunities as men: the vote, their own earnings, not depending on men for everything. Mrs. Ryland’s mouth falls open in surprise, and before she can respond, Grandmary interjects sharply that Cornelia’s notions are none of Samantha’s concern. We should focus on our food instead. The conversation is clearly over.

Samantha stares silently at her plate while Mrs. Ryland, still fired up, declares loudly that Mary is raising a young suffragist. Mr. Ryland just reaches silently for more bread, matching every word from his wife with another slow bite. Apparently he doesn’t get much say in his own household either.

The food keeps coming in steady waves, salads, tarts, fruit, and nuts, and I’m amazed by everything Mrs. Hawkins made in that old-fashioned kitchen. I take a messy bite of tart, the sweet filling sticking to my fingers, and drop crumbs in my lap, but Samantha doesn’t notice. She’s fidgeting with her napkin, hasn’t spoken since Grandmary’s scolding, and her own tart sits untouched.

It’s late by the time we go upstairs, two nightgowns already laid out and the bedspread turned down, somehow, despite everything Elsa had to do tonight.

Samantha hands me a spare toothbrush and pours cool, clear water into a nightstand bowl. Instead of toothpaste, she taps black powder from a tin labeled “tooth powder.” It tastes salty and gritty, but afterward my teeth feel surprisingly smooth. Checking the mirror closely, I scan for red blisters, still itchy since the doctor’s office, but find none yet, and breathe a sigh of relief.

Once we’re nestled in bed, the quilt heavy and warm over us, I ask Samantha what’s wrong. She’s been too quiet. She doesn’t understand Mrs. Ryland: why shouldn’t women do interesting work, like Mom or Dr. Ross? We should all help people whenever we can. She isn’t really asking for an answer, just admitting, wistfully, that she’d like a job like that someday, unsure if it’ll ever happen. I wish I could tell her things will change, that women will vote and become doctors, but I wouldn’t know how to explain how I know it.

Instead I joke about what it’d be like having Mrs. Ryland as a mother, and Samantha counters right away that having Eddie as a brother would be even worse. We dissolve into giggles until Grandmary passes by sternly to shush us. Samantha switches off the lamp, and under the covers she says she can imagine something even better than surviving the Rylands: having me as a sister.

My heart swells, remembering how Samantha cared for me at the doctor’s office. Then worry creeps back in about chicken pox, whether I’ll break out, whether I’ll carry it home to my family. I picture my little stepsister covered in blisters and squeeze my eyes shut, then stare at the ceiling instead, watching the shadows shift overhead. Will sleep ever come?