Millicent Glenn's Last Wish: A Novel Read online

  PRAISE FOR MILLICENT GLENN’S LAST WISH

  “A heartwarming and affecting novel centered around the love between mothers and daughters, of what we share and the secrets we keep . . . Whitaker brings us back to the 1950s, highlighting the old gender norms and the cost paid by those who tried to shake them . . . an engaging and illuminating walk through the not-so-distant past . . . with a worthy heroine to lead readers through a life full of loss, love, heartbreak, and, ultimately, forgiveness.”

  —Karen White, New York Times bestselling author of A Long Time Gone and the Tradd Street Series

  “Tori Whitaker explores the depths of mother love with insight, care, and heart-wrenching honesty in this post–World War II story brimming with exceptional historical detail. A moving and emotionally charged debut by a writer to watch.”

  —Susan Meissner, bestselling author of The Last Year of the War

  “A novel about the legacies women pass to their daughters—and the price of the secrets they keep. Millie is a heroine to cheer for as she makes her journey from . . . working wife and mom to grandmother seeking forgiveness for her decisions—made because of jaw-dropping challenges you will never forget. You’ll miss her long after the book’s cover is closed.”

  —Jenna Blum, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Family and Those Who Save Us

  “I loved this story. Tori Whitaker has created characters who are irresistibly real and hard to leave behind! A meticulously crafted debut.”

  —Lynn Cullen, bestselling author of The Sisters of Summit Avenue and Mrs. Poe

  “Packed with midcentury nostalgia and Cincinnati local interest, Whitaker’s dual-timeline debut walks a tightrope between a mother’s yearning to be truly known and what makes her eminently unknowable: a desire to protect her daughter that was born of love. Mothers and daughters alike will not soon forget Millicent’s last wish; they’ll recognize it as their own.”

  —Kathryn Craft, award-winning author of The Far End of Happy and The Art of Falling

  “Get ready to meet your new favorite author as Tori Whitaker moves deftly forward and back in time in a lyrical exploration of motherhood and longing, secrets and regrets, mistakes and, ultimately, absolution. This is an author with great insight into both history and the female heart, and I highly recommend this heartfelt, beautifully written debut.”

  —Joshilyn Jackson, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Never Have I Ever and The Almost Sisters

  “Tenderly told and full of heart, Millicent Glenn’s Last Wish is a deeply satisfying story that hooked me from the first page. Tori Whitaker’s debut offers a fresh and poignant perspective on motherhood, loss, and, ultimately, forgiveness.”

  —Lynda Cohen Loigman, nationally bestselling author of The Two-Family House and The Wartime Sisters

  “Attend the debut of a bright new talent . . . It’s alternately joyous and sad, scary and hopeful, but always wise and warm and overflowing with the wonder of being human.”

  —William Martin, New York Times bestselling author of Cape Cod and Bound for Gold

  “Millicent Glenn’s Last Wish is a delight of a book that explores how one long-held secret can shape a family. Tori Whitaker’s characters sparkle with warmth and humanity, especially ninety-year-old Mil, whose voice rings clear and true throughout these charming pages.”

  —Tara Conklin, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Romantics

  “A poignant and touching story of three generations of women and the secret family tragedy that unwittingly binds them. With rich settings and fully realized characters that you’ll root for, this book broke my heart—and then stitched it back together again.”

  —Colleen Oakley, author of You Were There Too

  “A page-turner . . . of the lives of three generations of women, spanning the post–World War II baby boom into the modern age. Each has experienced life at a different phase of emerging feminism. As the layered revelation of long-held secrets peels away, these women discover healing for years of misunderstanding, grief, and betrayal . . . a masterwork.”

  —Diane C. McPhail, author of The Abolitionist’s Daughter

  “Tori Whitaker’s moving novel . . . offers a clear-eyed look at how ‘the good old days’ were not always so good, particularly when it came to women’s reproductive health and autonomy. This well-researched and timely novel made me thankful for past generations of women, who, like the titular character, fought hard for the rights I hold so dear today. An impressive debut.”

  —Susan Rebecca White, author of We Are All Good People Here

  “A beautifully told and astonishing tale of the mysterious ties that hold a family together . . . Rich in detail and imbued with compassion, these characters struggle toward necessary forgiveness of a shocking maternity ward tragedy that feels all too relevant, even today. Whitaker cuts close to the bone from page one!”

  —Kimberly Brock, award-winning author of The River Witch

  “Readers, meet Millicent Glenn, a tough, savvy lady who has survived many challenges in her ninety-one years. But now she’s facing her biggest one yet . . . I rooted for Millicent and found the tenderness and complexity of the mother-daughter relationship so lovingly woven through this emotional and gripping story.”

  —Marybeth Mayhew Whalen, author of This Secret Thing and cofounder of She Reads

  “Written with compassion and grace, Tori Whitaker’s Millicent Glenn’s Last Wish is a nuanced debut illuminating the multigenerational strength of love, loss, survival, and the limitless power of family. I dare you to read without shedding a tear. Readers will think on these characters long after turning the last page.”

  —Sarah McCoy, New York Times and international bestselling author of Marilla of Green Gables

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Tori Whitaker

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542023313

  ISBN-10: 1542023319

  Cover design by Black Kat Design

  For her

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  Baby boom: a...

  2015

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  2015

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  2015

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  2015

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  2015

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  2015

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  2015

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  2015

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  2015

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  2015

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  2015

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  2015

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  2015

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  2015

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  2015

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Had I but known the cost of wisdom, might I have carried on in a state of folly?

  —Anonymous

  Baby boom: a temporary marked increase in the birth rate, especially the one following World War II.

  2015

  Cincinnati

  September

  They say we shouldn’t ask a question if we can’t handle the answer. So I almost hadn’t asked mine. Almost. I’d been a young wife and willful, and I’d imagined how I would feel when I got old—ancient, maybe ninety years old—lying listless on a mattress in a nursing home, looking back on my life and lamenting: Why hadn’t I placed the call?

  No matter what I would learn by asking, I had reasoned, surely knowing would be better than not knowing.

  Now here I was, Millicent Glenn, soon to be ninety-one and not in a nursing home after all—I had my own house in the suburbs and took care of my own self, too. I pulled on my garden gloves and bent over a pot on my stoop. Getting down in the border beds was hard on my knees these days. And my hands couldn’t take digging up rocks and dry soil. Arthritis had won that battle. But I wasn’t an invalid; I didn’t do water aerobics twice a week for nothing. If it took me all day, I’d have the prettiest pots of mums on the block, yellow and purple and deep fall orange. Nourishing these plants was my way to keep something alive.

  I dipped into a bag of potting mix, inhaling its clean, earthy smell of compost and peat. A car engine startled me, and I turned to see a white sedan rolling into my drive, one I didn’t recognize. I squinted into the morning sun. A woman? I stepped off my stoop with my trowel in hand and onto my sidewalk’s brick pavers. I patted my cell phone in the pocket of my smock, feeling safer as I watched the car door open. The woman climbed out. She waved.

  “Surprise,” she said, her longish, silver-streaked hair gently blowing across her forehead.

  Jane? What was she doing here? I hadn’t seen my daughter since Christmas the year before. I felt jittery all over—thrilled to see her and on guard both at once.

  “Jane, my goodness,” I called out as she came my way. Thankfully I had mind enough not to call her Janie, the nickname she’d hated since she turned seventeen. I wouldn’t set things off on the wrong foot right from the get-go. If I’d known she was coming, I’d have worn the gold sweater she’d shipped up last Mother’s Day. I stripped off my gloves and tossed them atop one of the inkberry shrubs.

  “You’re looking at a freshly minted retiree,” she said.

  “A retiree?” I tapped my left hearing aid. Had I heard her right?

  “Back in Ohio to stay,” she said, setting a covered basket down in the grass and giving me an awkward hug. Jane’s greetings usually consisted of simple how-are-yous and quick pecks on the cheek.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. “It’s wonderful news.” My heart pounded so hard I pressed my hand to my chest to try to settle it. It wasn’t the first time Jane had arrived home unannounced—she had done this once before more than thirty years ago. But I doubted we’d rehash that memory. So Jane had finally retired. She was sixty-five, after all. I glanced again at her car, empty of suitcases or boxes. Was she staying with Kelsey? Surely my granddaughter, Jane’s only child, would’ve let me know. I stiffened.

  “Does Kelsey know you’re back?” I asked. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? And when did you get that car?” Jane and I hadn’t talked since August’s once-a-month-whether-we-needed-it-or-not phone call.

  “Glad to see you, too. Nothing like a Mommy interrogation to greet me,” she said. Jane picked up the basket and handed it to me. I lifted the thick cotton toweling that covered it.

  “Oranges,” I said. My daughter remembered my childhood story of growing up in the tenements; a charity lady had delivered oranges to my family one Christmas, and I’d had a soft spot for them ever since. At this moment, my soft spot was all mushy. “Thank you, honey. What a kind thing to do.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, and I thought I saw a note of sadness pass across her face. I hoped I was wrong. “Guess I’m just in time to help you plant?”

  “Yes. But first come in, come in. Let me look at you.” I opened my colonial-blue front door, and my security system tinkled its friendly hello.

  “Something smells delicious,” Jane said as she stepped into my small foyer.

  “Just so happens I baked a batch of brownies.” I’d stirred them up the night before and popped them in the oven that morning. I’d known I’d want a treat after working outside all day—and it was a good thing, too, given I now had company. I hung Jane’s jean jacket in the closet of this house her late father had built.

  “Not sure I’m ready for this glacial cold weather,” Jane said, faking a shiver.

  It was fifty-nine degrees, for Pete’s sake, on its way to sixty-two. A perfectly sunny September day in Cincinnati. “You aren’t a Georgia Peach anymore,” I said.

  “Like I was ever the eyelash-batting Southern belle type,” she said. I was still getting used to her sporadic drawl, though.

  She wore her Levi’s with a Habitat for Humanity long-sleeved jersey. Jane had worked at Habitat’s world headquarters a couple of hours from Atlanta in a town that held some charm. She’d been bitten by the home-building bug years ago, thanks to her father, but her journey in constructing homes had taken a very different course. I studied the face of my baby from across my kitchen island. Jane was tall and attractive in her seventh decade. She’d hardly ever needed a smidge of makeup. In her hippie youth, a crown of daisies had been adornment enough. Still, her pretty face revealed the deepening crevasses of age, or stress, or both—though nothing hid her small childhood scar. It’d marked its territory above her left brow so I would never forget.

  I poured us mugs of milk and sliced the brownies. They were chewy with crispy edges, just the way Jane and her daddy had always liked them.

  “Any marijuana in these?” she said, the word marijuana sounding long and slow off her tongue.

  “If only I’d known you were coming,” I quipped back.

  I thought I saw a smile but couldn’t be sure. Were we really ready to joke about her youthful rebellions? They hadn’t been funny at the time.

  “You bake the best brownies in the galaxy,” Jane said, mimicking what she’d said as a kid. A memory flashed of her at age four, scooting a kitchen chair up to the counter, climbing atop, and helping me bake. We wore matching bibbed aprons I’d made myself, white with red rickrack sewn around the edges. I could still see Janie cracking the eggs and leveling the flour with the flat side of a knife. She’d been the cutest little thing.

  Sitting in my breakfast bay lined with windows, her plate in hand, Jane surveyed the room. My cane rested against the wall for the occasional day when I needed it. I couldn’t help suspecting that something besides retirement had brought Jane back to Ohio after twenty years away.

  “I always adored these knotty pine cabinets,” she said. “Did Daddy pick them out, or did you?”

  “I did,” I said with satisfaction. I’d helped Dennis in the home-building business once upon a time. Well, I’d more than helped him. I’d been his partner. “Honey, where are you going to be staying? With Kelsey?”

  “Me and Kelsey and her husband in a loft? Huh. She offered, but three’s a crowd. I rented a place over in Milford. The movers arrive tomorrow.”

  So Kelsey had known about Jane’s move but not informed me. “Milford, oh good,” I said, trying to mask my dismay. Kelsey and I talked three or four times a week. We enjoyed grandma-granddaughter days at least twice a month. I felt as if she and Jane had thrown a part
y and not invited me. Yet I was so glad to see my daughter home. “Milford’s a great place,” I said, managing a smile. “Nice and close.”

  We chatted for a while about safe topics: Kelsey’s job at the museum, Jane’s drive up from Georgia. Then, before we ever got back to my mums, Jane said she’d better go to her new place to prepare for the movers.

  “I’ll wrap up these brownies,” I said. “You can take them with you.”

  “Let me help,” she said.

  “I can do this.” I was frustrated that she’d caught me in one of my daily struggles. Tasks took me twice as long as before, but I’d get them done. Except for opening jars and fighting with plastic wrap.

  “Just let me do it,” she said, reaching in as I was trying to rip the plastic from its box.

  “Ouch!” My thumb grated along the serrated metal lip and started to bleed.

  “Oh my gosh,” Jane said. “I’m sorry.” She tore a paper towel off the roll and dabbed the cut.

  “It’s not your fault,” I said. “These days my skin is as thin as that cellophane. Band-Aids are in the cabinet where I keep the measuring cups.”

  Would my child need to care for me one day? I still tidied my own house. I drove my own car. No one had taken my keys away yet, and they wouldn’t if I had my say. I might not contribute to society the way I had when I worked—and I wasn’t treasurer of the neighborhood association anymore—but I wasn’t useless, was I? The baggers at the grocery loaded the bags for young mothers, too, not just me. And I wasn’t the only resident on the street for whom the kind young man next door cleared the driveway with his snowblower each winter. But I was getting slower all the time, cautious and deliberate with each step. A simple slip in the tub could lead to a broken hip. For women my age that was a death sentence.

  “Let me kiss your boo-boo,” Jane said then, and she pressed her lips lightly to my bandaged thumb. “It’ll make it all better.” I had used those same words when she was seven. She’d fallen off her bike and scraped her shin on the greasy metal chain. Her words now sounded so touching and ridiculous and out of the blue, they made me laugh.