Ghosts of the Unremembered Past by Tom Wooldridge

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PREFACE

Dottie felt a sense of dread building in her stomach as she made her way to the nursery. Her husband, Henry, had brought home an old bassinet one evening a few months ago, in celebration of the couple’s expected child. He had held it out for her inspection, though she had turned away immediately, occupied with the business of frying chicken. The offering had made her strangely uncomfortable, as had most of the pregnancy. Her belly had been swollen for near four weeks before she’d told him that she was expecting. Though he had been delighted, hugging her tightly upon hearing the news, she had quickly disentangled from his embrace, revolted by the idea that a child grew inside her. Now that wicker cradle, its inside covered with light blue cloth, held their son, born only days earlier.

This was the first time she had been alone with her son. In the weeks before labor, her husband had brought in help: a middle-aged black woman with a weathered face and hands, the remnants of a youth spent picking cotton. As she lay in bed one afternoon, ripe with her pregnancy, he had come into the bedroom with the woman in tow.

“Dottie, I’ve brought in help for you.”