I shook my head slowly. She was wrong. I know I won’t. I asked her to please talk to that family for me, but she refused to talk to them yet.

I looked toward the window, thinking about handing my baby over to another woman. A woman who would never attach horror to a little innocent child, the way I always would. I looked back at Aunt Jewel and asked her if she’d tell them how the baby was conceived.

“No, Sugar,” she said. “I sure won’t.” She said my “little one” deserves a fresh start. That nobody should hear about the sins of the father.

“Or the mother,” I added wryly.

Aunt Jewel leaned forward, resting her hand on mine, and she told me that I did what anyone would have done to save her life.

“But … maybe he wasn’t really going to kill me,” I said.

“He kilt somethin’ in you,” she said to me. “The way I see it, that’s just as bad.”

Tuesday, October 29, 1940

I’m shocked to see how long it’s been since I wrote in this journal. It used to be my everyday friend, but now it feels like a reminder of all the wrong turns I’ve made in my life.

I’m so big now, I feel like a hippopotamus moving around this house. I can’t believe I still have about two months left to go, according to Aunt Jewel. My appearance has changed in other ways, too. I’ve always been fair, but now I’m downright paper white from being inside all this time. My black hair hangs down past my shoulders. The bangs I’ve worn all my life are gone and I now sweep my hair away from my face. I wanted to keep it in the style I’ve loved for the past few years—that little bob with short bangs—but Aunt Jewel says this is better. When I leave, I’ll be far less recognizable without that distinctive haircut. I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. Who is that white-skinned, long-haired, rotund woman? I don’t know her.

Actually, I do know her. She looks very different than she used to and she’s been through a lot, but she finally has her sanity back. I read through this journal before writing in it tonight, and I am shocked to see how thoroughly I lost my mind after what happened with M.D. (I can no longer bear to write his name.) I don’t know who that woman was who painted the motorcycle in the mural. The knife in Freda’s teeth. I wish I could erase those weeks and months from my history. In retrospect, Jesse was extremely tolerant of my insanity. I’m sure he’d been waiting and hoping for it to pass.

Where are you, Jesse?