Disclaimer: I don't own any of the American Girl characters.
A/N: I've never read anything similar to this in the American Girl section, but I'm sure many people have thought of it before. This is dedicated to all of us who used to devour the American Girl books and play endlessly with our dolls.
Felicity Merriman's beautiful, even script filled the page of her diary. The small parlor was warm in the spring morning sunlight.
What had possessed her to begin this diary, she didn't know. She had begun with her own story, her first knowledge of the patriots and George Washington, the creation of the United States of America from her perspective. She was eighteen now, newly engaged, and she felt that these events needed to be recorded from her own eyes.
Her mother called her from another room and Felicity set the diary down, only to come back hours later and stash it away in a trunk for a few years.
She found it again when she was visiting with her parents. Her newborn son was the center of attention and with his father, Ben, more than willing to look after him, Felicity had roamed around the house and rediscovered the diary. As she scanned the pages she was struck by the naiveté of her voice and, with a small smile, she sat down and added a few lines to the pages.
Years passed and after laying her parents to rest, Ben (as hotheaded as ever) got frustrated with Virginia and moved the Davidson family to New York. Felicity adjusted to this new environment with great gusto and loved it.
She died leaving the diary tucked into a little bookshelf. Her great-granddaughter found it, tucked it away for her move to Chicago, and forgot it in a little boarding house.
Kirsten Larson was grateful for the boarding house--how much more wonderful to be here than on that train! She played with her doll and her best friend until nightfall, when her parents shooed them into their small room and told their children to sleep.
The nine year old had far too much energy to sleep and pretended to be a cat, prowling silently around the room. Her hand fell onto a book and, after giving it a perplexed look, she took it to bed with her.
In the morning she found it to be full of unintelligible words, but she put it in her trunk for safekeeping, in case it turned out to be important.
Kirsten shoved the little book to the side of her trunk for years until she was Kirsten Kristianson, with her own home near to her parents and her cousins. As her daughter slept and her husband was out chopping wood, Kirsten finally opened the book and gasped at the find.
June 15, 1784
I am writing this diary with the aim of leaving a note for posterity. Nevertheless, I have no delusions of my diary being cherished for years to come, as I hardly can say what I shall do with it.
As Kirsten read on, Felicity Merriman--Felicity Davidson, as she became--eloquently described the life during the American Revolution, the changes that had made Kirsten's life here in America possible. Kirsten felt strangely connected with this woman, however long ago she may have lived, as she laughed along with Felicity's short complaints about dealing with babies and husbands who acted like babies. The diary was sparse, yet it told so much. It ended abruptly and with a deliberate sigh, Kirsten looked for a pencil and began to write her own note for posterity, telling of her immigration and her life here on the Minnesota plains.
She tucked it back into her trunk, nestled among blankets, and eventually forgot it was there.
Addy Abraham yawned as the wagon bumped beneath her and gave her husband a look that said quite clearly It's time to find somewhere to stay for the night. At the request of some vocal Abolitionists they were up here, roaming around Minnesota, and Addy was just thankful it was spring and not any other month.
This route had been unique for the pastor and his wife, who were used to their own community and church. But God had blessed them greatly, and even in the face of prejudices and misunderstandings they found their brothers that saw beyond the color of their skin. And John, Addy's husband, had been blessed to preach about Christ in many small towns. These communities were also amazed to hear about Addy's escape from slavery.
"We're supposed to be staying with the Kristiansons. . . A Swedish family, not too far off the road."
"That's fine, let's just get there." Addy's eyes twinkled as she chided her husband.
The Kristiansons proved to be a very large, pale, blonde family. Their kids ran about happily and couple brought Addy and John into their nice, clapboard home.
Kirsten talked as she worked on their meal, her voice tinged with a slight accent. Addy was intrigued by it until Kirsten commented on Addy's strong accent, and both women laughed.
Later that night Addy listened to Kirsten's story of immigrating from Sweden to America--the woman was only ten years older than herself and Addy felt a strange, inexplicable camaraderie with her. As she told Kirsten her own story of her escape from slavery, Kirsten's eyes seemed to widen with anticipation.
"Wait a moment," she said, then dashed off into another room and returned with a small, yellowed book. "This was a diary I found by a woman named Felicity Davidson. I felt the same friendship reading her letters as I do with you right now and. . . Well, I think you should have it." Kirsten held out the book and Addy took it uncertainly. "I wrote in my own story, " Kirsten added, "you should, too."
Addy did the very thing once she and John returned to Philadelphia, carefully scrolling out her years as a slave and her life now as a pastor's wife. She kept it safe in an old desk and it went with her when the family moved to New York, reading over Felicity's memories of her new life in New York as well as Kirsten's memories of the changes from moving from home. All this was inked in, right after the other women's, and like those before her Addy tucked it away and nearly forgot about it.
Samantha Parkington gave up on the cigarette she was trying to light and looked sadly into the downpour falling on New York, wishing she had taken Eddie Ryland's offer for a ride home. They'd just reunited at a party, and after all these years he'd grown from the most annoying boy she knew to a handsome young man. Still, she hadn't and now she would have to walk back to her aunt and uncle's in the downpour.
It didn't matter, really. The party had been dull and focused solely on the war, as every conversation was nowadays. She was getting tired of hearing about it, for it always brought to mind the fact that her dearest male friends were there in the trenches. Eddie was leaving a week from now.
Samantha groaned as her shoe sunk into a puddle. Whatever Grandmary might say about Samantha's inappropriate dress, she would hate to be wearing a long, trailing skirt at this moment.
She looked around and realized she had no idea where in New York she was. Groaning again, she wiped away some of the hair that was plastered to her forehead and looked around. Only an old black woman was out, rocking slowly back and forth on her porch.
"Excuse me, but do you think you could give me directions?" Samantha gave the woman her sweetest smile, but the woman only gave her a sideways glance. Samantha's smile faded a bit. Was she deaf? "Excuse me--"
"I heard you the first time, child. Why don't you come sit with me?"
Samantha nearly excused herself but realized that it was pouring down rain and the woman was her only clue as to where to go, so she plucked up her courage and sat herself in an old rocker next to the woman. She could feel her brown eyes boring into her and tried not to glance over.
"War's hitting you hard, isn't it?"
Samantha gave her a quick glance. "I'm not going."
The woman gave her a cheeky grin. "I didn't fight in the Civil War, honey, but it was still hard."
Samantha let her eyes linger on the woman a moment longer this time. She had a cowrie shell hanging around her neck and her white hair was hidden haphazardly under a hat. Samantha wanted to say something, but found herself lost for words, and awkwardly rocked her chair.
"A true little princess, aren't you? How much have you seen of the other side of the city?"
"Plenty," Samantha said bitterly, "my adopted sister, Nellie, nearly ended up in one of the factories."
The woman nodded, rocking slowly back and forth. "The Lord protects us."
Samantha glanced at her and didn't respond. The last time she had been to church had been with Grandmary, and the church had been just as boring as she remembered it.
The woman closed her eyes. "I'm getting old, honey, and I've been waiting for a girl like you to show up on my doorstep. She opened one eye. "Come with me."
Samantha hesitated for a moment and then, out of pure curiosity, followed her into the little building. The old woman retrieved a yellowed, cracked book from a drawer. "Don't get it wet."
She then gave Samantha directions. Samantha left the book in her aunt's wardrobe and didn't look at it for a year.
When she found it again, she was old enough to be intrigued by the ancient book--and even more so by what she found. First was Felicity Davidson, a spunky woman from the colonial days. Then was Kirsten Kristianson, a Swedish immigrant. Samantha was most intrigued by the story of Addy Abraham, who could only be the old woman who'd given her this diary. A runaway slave, a pastor's wife. . . Samantha was amazed by her, as well as the other two women. Because of Addy's story, she went back to church; because of Felicity's, she poured her efforts into helping the men across seas; because of Kirsten's, she longed for a family.
Samantha Parkington became Samantha Fischers and over the years she added her own delicate script, as well as investing in having the pages better preserved. She left the diary in an old roll-top desk and waited for the right person to come looking for it.
Molly McIntire had never, never met a woman like Samantha Fischers. At nearly sixty years old, she was the most elegant woman Molly had ever seen. And, as part of her journalism class at her high school, she was supposed to interview this stately woman.
"So. . . Um. . . First things first, I guess."
Mrs. Fishers smiled warmly and leaned forward.
"I've done the research so I know a lot about your foundation, but, um, is there anything special you would like to make sure I include?" She was nervous. Mrs. Fischers' foundation for disadvantaged children of all ages and races was infamous all throughout the state and she was hailed as a legendary humanitarian. Molly had heard that she had even gone to Germany to help deal with the aftermath of the war.
What she was doing letting a high school student interview her, Molly didn't know. Molly wiped one of her clammy hands against her skirt as Mrs. Fischers' soft, beautiful voice filled the lovely sitting room. Molly scrolled everything onto the page and tried not to fumble over her words for the rest of the interview.
As she got up to leave, Mrs. Fischers put a hand on her arm. "Stay for a moment, won't you, Molly? I have something for you."
Molly had never felt quite so awkward as she did right now, standing in the elegant (though sparsely decorated) sitting room. Mrs. Fischers returned with a cracked, dirty, yellow book.
"I want you to have this," she said holding it out. Molly took it, afraid it would crumble at her touch, and looked uncertainly at Mrs. Fischers.
"Thank you?"
Mrs. Fischers smiled. "It's a diary. The first few entries are by a woman named Felicity Davidson, in 1784. Next is Kirsten Kristianson, and then Addy Abraham, who gave the book to me, and then my entry."
"What do you want me to do with this?"
"Add your own story, and give it to another girl." Samantha Fischers smiled kindly and showed Molly to the door. Molly stayed up late that night, reading the careful script of four women of ages long past.
She stored it on a bookshelf and didn't pull it out until she was a mother and a nurse, and her surname was Phillips.
"Thank you so much for being here, Mrs. Phillips. . . I'd just have Mary take care of things but it makes me uncomfortable. . ."
"She is sixteen, dear, you let her drive, for goodness sakes! But I'm more than happy to help."
The woman sighed in relief, gave a few instructions about homework, and raced out the door. Molly Phillips rested herself on the couch, reaching into her handbag for her crossword puzzle. She was getting too old for this.
David, a ten year old, was fully engaged in his Xbox up the stairs and Mary, who was sixteen and more than capable of holding down the fort on her own (though her mother didn't seem to think so) was in her room doing who-knows-what. Molly pulled out her pencil.
"Mrs. Phillips?" Mary came into the living room, carrying her white laptop computer. Molly sighed and smiled at the young woman.
"What can I do for you?"
Mary flopped onto a chair, tucking her long legs underneath her. She was a fashionable young woman, as far as Molly could tell, even if her clothing choices were a little strange. "How much do you know about the Civil War?"
"Quite a bit, and about a few other wars, too. What's the problem?"
Mary sighed and rubbed her forehead. "My American history class. It's so boring. . . I mean, when will I ever use this?"
Molly sat, dumbfounded, for a moment before finding her voice. "I'm sorry you feel that way."
Mary shrugged.
"C'mon, Mary, you just have to think about it differently. I grew up during World War II. You study that now, don't you?"
"Yeah."
"Well, it was different for me. I was living it. That's all history is, really. A story of people's lives, crisscrossing and shaping each others. You're connected to all of them."
Mary rolled her eyes. "No one around now lived during the Civil War, and besides that, I'm still not intrigued. Sorry, Mrs. Phillips."
Molly sighed, hesitating before she reached into her purse. She didn't want to give the diary away, didn't want to give away the stories of the four women she felt so connected to. But she knew their stories by heart, and she also knew that Mary was the next in line. She pulled out the ancient diary and held it out.
"What's that?" Mary said, her nose crinkled slightly.
"It's a diary. Just read it, and take care of it, and then add your own entry." Molly leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes. "You'll understand."
Mary took the diary and, to Molly's knowledge, spent the rest of the evening reading it. She knew the feeling well, the discovery of those in the past who had lived and laughed and breathed just as you did.
History wasn't stale and dusty, but familiar, intertwined into the modern world and influencing that which would come. Molly took a deep breath, mind filled with the stories of Felicity, Kirsten, Addy, Samantha, and her own pen. Mary would read and be changed and write, too. And so it went on, the diary that never should have survived connecting women of different times.