The Secret Book of Flora Lea

by Patti Callahan Henry

Between the drug and the hypothermia and the childhood shock, Dot might never fully remember, many evacuees never did, but she would take the faded scraps of her memory and tell the truth. Writing at 2 a.m., Dot was now at the very part where the woman who went by many names—Aunt Imogene, the nurse, the babysitter—called her name, her original name, Flora, and then pulled her from the river. Dot typed faster now, feeling the story rise like a full-moon’s tide. “I’m cold,” the River Child said, her body quivering so her teeth slammed on each other. “Oh, my girl!” The nurse took off her gray coat, wrapped it around the child. Under her coat, she wore her white and starched uniform with blood on her sleeve, a rusty stain. She picked Flora up, held her against her chest and cheek. The nurse, her babysitter named Imogene, smelled clean. Carrying Flora, Imogene ran, bolted across the field and away from Flora’s sister, Hazel, and toward the church. Flora knew the way through the fields of gold grass back to the cottage and they were going the wrong way. Flora tried to point toward the cottage, toward home, but she was bundled tight in a thick coat. “It’s going to be all right,” said Imogene. “Breathe. Breathe.” “Berry,” Flora cried out, as she was jostled in Imogene’s arms. Flora’s sister, Hazel, had warned her: If you go into the river or try to become the river, you can never return to Bridie or Harry or even to me. But Flora hadn’t entered on purpose; the nurse had scared her...