Sweet Karoline (12 page)

My
dear, knowing the way that you think, I imagine that you are asking my forgiveness just now. Instead I am asking for yours. For one instance of hurt, I was willing to trade years of love and friendship. I am very ashamed and I am begging you to forgive me. I am now happier than I have been in my whole life. I have always loved Paolo, which somewhat explains my behavior when I knew that you had been with him. But I do not want to end our relationship. I am hoping that you will see me in the future.

Alison
finished first, then glanced up at me with a cool, appraising look.

"
On top of one pile of letters there was a note from Paolo. It said that he was returning all of Giulio's letters as Karoline requested. See?"

I
held it up for their scrutiny. Perhaps they recognized Paolo's writing because they both nodded.

Dear
Karoline and Anne, Enclosed please find, as requested, your letters. Paolo

"
Giulio always was a bit of a packrat, so they're all here. This one's an example. I did not, and would never, write something like this."

Dear
Giulio, I never want to see you again. Your partnership with that man disgusts me. How can you possibly trust him, let alone love him?

"
This was the last one he sent. At least, I assume it is, because there were no others in the packet."

Dear
Anne, Karoline has at last told me about your continued affair with Paolo. Now I understand why you never came to visit. Now I see where Paolo went on all those business trips. I do not wish to confront him, for reasons that I do not care to share with you. I want you to know that when I leave, I wish you as much love and joy as I experienced with this wonderful man.

"
And this is the horrid response."

Giulio
, I'm sure you know that I am not interested in taking Paolo from you. I don't want him. He means nothing to me other than an occasional fuck. This works for him, too. Since he is obviously bisexual and does not want you to know, I am a safe choice. I would suggest pretending you don't know. Keep imagining that you mean everything to him.

"
Karoline didn't move anywhere, either." It was childish to add this detail, but I was seething once more.

They
were silent again. Phil's eyes remained on me, while Alison's focused on the papers.

"
I loved Giulio," I said. "I would never have ignored his illness or turned away from him because of some paltry disagreement. I was led to believe that he never returned from Italy. I grieved for him. You have to believe me."

I
never know whether it's my looks or my oratory skill that usually convinces people to agree with me, believe me or follow me. But it's a documented fact that good-looking people are more persuasive and win the job interviews. Whatever it was didn't matter at that moment. Phil and Alison Kwan decided I was genuine.

"
I can't imagine that Giulio believed this final letter. Yes, Paolo went away on business quite often, but he always called and talked to Giulio for hours. Maybe he was feeling vulnerable or wasn't thinking straight because of his illness. For Karoline to do this when she knew how sick he was is—well, it's unforgivable."

"
Clearly Karoline is mentally ill. The person we knew never demonstrated a mean bone in her body," Alison said. "If she ever does reach out, and wants to get better, as vacuous as this might sound, we would totally be there for her."

"
I'm not sure I will be." Phil doesn't disappoint me in his bluntness. "This response is dated very close to his death. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the cause of his suicide."

I
agreed thoroughly with Phil. I would never forgive Karoline. I wanted to go home and rip her face in half. The rage was massive. A startling, crippling fury that blurred my vision and made my head ache. She will pay. Mentally ill was just a nice word for psychopath in Karoline's case.

"
Paolo must not have read these letters. At least, not that last one. He would have dealt with Karoline."

Ripped
her face in half
?

"
Maybe it wasn't part of the bunch Karoline asked Paolo to return," I suggested. "Maybe she took the correspondence between Giulio and me when she came for the funeral. The fact that I found them all together in her closet doesn't really mean they were put there at the same time."

They
were silent in the wake of my theory. Perhaps they were in shock, just as I was when I first read these letters. My horror was deepened now that I knew the result of Karoline's treachery. Giulio was dead.

"
We have another little shock for you," Phil eventually said.

I
smiled, a fairly weak spark amid my swollen eyes and tear tracks.

"
I'm ready. I think."

"
Among Paolo's possessions…well, let me show you."

Once
again, Phil disappeared. This time he returned with a beautiful deep blue urn, a bird in flight painted across the ceramic sky. I gasped.

"
Paolo wanted to bury Giulio under the tree in the backyard. When the time came, he wanted to be placed beside him. Paolo's family has obviously thwarted that wish."

"
We didn't know what to do," Alison confessed. "So we kept Giulio…the urn…hoping some day we'd get a message from Paolo or Karoline about what to do with the ashes."

I
reached out and took the urn from Phil, cradling it as though I had after all been allowed to embrace Giulio in life.

"
Thank you," I whispered. "You don't know how much this means to me. I loved Giulio very much."

I
forced my thoughts away from the well of Karoline's deceit and those final words from Giulio's pen. Instead, I focused on the urn, the moment. This unexpected, exquisite gift.

"
Are you still prepared to have Giulio's ashes in your backyard?"

"
Of course…absolutely…" They answered at exactly the same moment, expressing the sentiment in different words but with the same eager posture.

"
We really loved those guys," Phil said. "We are honored to have their house. We figure that, even if for some reason we have to leave here…"

"
Or we never have kids or if we do, they don't want it…"

"
…Giulio would still be here. Even though Paolo probably won't ever be buried beside him, if he comes back to visit, he'll see the tree they planted together. Seems perfect to us."

"
We actually prepared the plot as soon as the ground warmed up, but we were still waiting."

"
I know I'm just a substitute for Paolo, but I promise you, I loved Giulio. Would you allow me to witness the burial?"

Though
I knew intuitively that they continued to be uncertain about me, they consented. They took a chance that I was telling the truth about not being the author of those letters. I think they did it for Giulio's sake. I was there. Hopefully I had been a friend. There was no one else.

The
backyard was exquisite. Lined with evergreen bushes, dotted with flowers of all shapes and sizes, a neat plot of garden along the back fence. Over to one side stood a hearty little maple tree flourishing in the rich soil.

Alison
and Phil allowed me to carry the urn as our little procession approached the tarp they'd thrown over the hole near the tree trunk. Standing over the resting place, I clutched the beautiful vase that contained Giulio's ashes. I wasn't sure I could let him go.

Alison
surprised me by pulling out a sheet of paper. The kind of diaphanous blue-tinted paper that had lain in a bundle in Karoline's closet. The flourishes of a creative hand were visible through the single leaf as she held it aloft in the sun.

"
This is a poem that Giulio loved," she explained to me. "I thought he would've approved having it read at his burial."

Here
with a little bread beneath the Bough,

A
Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou

Beside
me singing in the Wilderness—

Oh,
Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Really
? I thought.
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
? Ice Queen Anne would have laughed out loud. I pushed her aside and bowed my head respectfully instead.

We
stood hushed for a moment, the neighborhood devoid of human sounds on a workday so the songs of birds and the complaints of insects could be heard. Then the three of us knelt. Carefully opening the lid, I shook the urn's contents into the ground.

There
were many things I liked about Alison and Phil Kwan. One of them was that they didn't attempt to extract empty promises about returning to Giulio's grave. I don't think they had entirely changed their minds about my claims or me.

Before
my trip to Cleveland I was hurt, shocked and confused by Karoline's actions. Now I was furious. I allowed the anger to gather in my chest as I flew back to L.A. That night I entered our apartment in a seething rage.

"I decided I had to confront Karoline," is what I tell Ethan. "I rehearsed what I was going to say all the way home. But when I got here, she was…she was in such a state that I couldn't say anything. That was the night she died."

Ethan
sits quietly holding my hand. I know from experience that he is thinking. He doesn't speak without planning ahead.

"
I am so sorry this happened to you, my love," he finally says. "I don't know if I can make you understand that all of this was indicative of Karoline's mental health problems. She was clearly disturbed."

"
I spent my whole life with her. I loved her." I say it as a lament, a sigh. A question. Who am I that I could live happily with someone who would do this to me?

"
Maybe her mind began to break down slowly, just a few years ago. Maybe everything started out as a lark—let's see if I can sneak this one past Anne. Or maybe at first she thought she was protecting you. Then she didn't know how to untangle everything. We might never have all the answers. Sometimes people like Karoline are simply irrational. Their thought processes are skewed, so we can't really follow the patterns. Maybe there are no patterns."

I
sit up straighter, try to show him that I am strong again. I am not Ice Queen Anne. I am not Crazy, Falling Apart Anne. I am someone altogether different.

"
I know what I have to do, though, Ethan," I say. "I do have to follow Karoline's trail. I have to find my birth mother."

After
a pause, he nods his head. "Yes, I know you do. I think you're ready to do this. And when you come back…"

He
tilts my chin toward him so that his wide blue eyes, his wisdom and love, overflow into mine.

"
…we'll talk about the word love and what it means."

Dear Diary,

Isn
't it funny how one small thing can trigger all the madness? How one minute you can be sitting there talking and the next you are screaming at each other? What odd creatures people are. Especially the people in my life. They're weird, unnatural and foolish. I have no idea how I got stuck with them. Except they need me. I am the one who holds them all together.

Chapter
14

I make the preparations and tell Parris and my bosses. I want Parris to describe the flaws in my thinking. She offers a few bits of advice, but reluctantly acknowledges that this is something I have to do.

Her
intense blue eyes search my face with affection and concern.

"
Just don't have your expectations too high," she says. "This kind of journey can be transforming, but sometimes…well, it's simply disappointing instead."

I
meet with Joseph and Vicki, talk about my future with Grace Productions. Speak of my slow recovery. They too agree that I am probably taking the right steps, though they still miss me. I get the sense that they want me back as my old self and are suspicious that I might already be someone different, but they are supportive nevertheless.

The
night before I am to leave, Ethan takes me out to a new restaurant. Spago has just opened on the Sunset Strip. The area of West Hollywood is filled with clubs and bars and billboards. We love it because it's the center for introducing new bands. This section of Sunset Blvd is alive at night. Music permeates the air. People walk up and down talking loudly or humming to themselves. All dressed up. Wild and free and exotic.

We
arrive in a limousine. I wear a turquoise dress that's very low cut and Ethan wears a dark blue suit that reflects his wonderful eyes. We grin at each other. Stepping out like this gives off a decadent and delicious feeling.

The
chef who opened Spago is becoming well known. His reputation for creative food and superb service has spread rapidly through the young well-to-do crowd and the film stars. Ethan and I are led to a gorgeous half shell booth. We're immediately surrounded by waiters, busboys, the hostess, and of course Mr. Puck the owner and chef. I should have known that the Byrne name would be popular.

We
cuddle up in the soft leather seat and take a long time to order and eat. As though we're not in the center of a bustling restaurant in the middle of a gigantic metropolis, but in a different dimension of no worry, no external influences, no ruined lives.

We
wait for coffee and liqueurs to talk about my journey.

"
I wish I could come with you," Ethan says, his voice thick with a mixture of apprehension and understanding. "But this case I'm on…"

Then
he shakes his head, preventing me from having to say it.

"
And I know, of course I know, that you have to do this on your own."

That
night, our lovemaking is intense, tender and passionate, as though I am going off to war. In a sense, perhaps it is a war. A fight to know the real me. A struggle to the death in a sense. For would I be fatally wounded or would I return whole and strong?

I
promise to call every night. I promise to tell him everything.

Despite
the fear that courses through me, one moment I tell myself that I'll confess everything to him. Then uncertain I'll have the courage, I change my mind the next minute.

I
close the door on that decision for now.

When
I have packed my suitcase, I look around the apartment that has been my home for so many years. I have a feeling that I may never live here again. I close that door for now, too.

I
fly from Los Angeles to Toronto, prevented the entire way from seeing the world I am leaving and the one I am about to enter by a huge persistent cloud cover. Perhaps that is just as well.

I
drive away from the airport feeling odd. Dizzy, overwhelmed and uncertain. Suddenly I am completely alone. I don't have Ethan. I don't have Parris. I have only myself and I'm not even sure who that person is. My heart begins to hammer. After a while, I have difficulty breathing. I finally admit that I can't keep driving in this condition.

At
the first decent-looking motel, I pull into the parking lot and pay for a room for the night. Though I feel like flopping down onto the bed into oblivion, I sit at the desk instead. I brought a notebook with me from home and now I feel the need to use it. The action reminds me of Karoline and her nightly scratching, but I ignore the thought.

I
fill page after page as evening turns into night. Details, emotions, questions about Karoline that mostly begin with why. Questions for Mom/Vera and my birth mother whoever she might be. Accusations and longings. I put them all down in blue and white. I curse and apologize. I reflect on the person I am now, who I was before Ethan, who I could become. Ponderings that I probably should have considered in my teens the way most people did.

When
I am finished, or at least too exhausted to continue, I wander out into the world and buy myself a huge submarine sandwich, filled with meat and veggies, with a side of potato chips and two donuts. Then I call Ethan.

As
soon as I hear his voice, I don't even try to stop the sobs from erupting once more. How do I know this man, whom I met just a little more than a year ago, will understand? This isn't one of the questions I had to write down, because I have the answer. It echoes deep within me, a part of me that I only recently excavated but which I pray is real. For whatever reason I am suddenly blessed with love. And although I am a novice at it, I feel confident that I can grow into it with first-class honors under his non-judgmental devoted tutelage.

If
I decide to finally tell him about the night that Karoline died, I am pretty certain that he will help me through the aftermath. But I haven't firmly decided that my conscience is developed well enough to feel the need to confess. For now, I vow to bask in our relationship. Grow stronger. Understand more deeply. I've never shed so many tears, but nor have I ever felt such all-consuming joy.

I
tell Ethan about the mad scrawls in the hotel, my terrible calorie-laden dinner.

"
How do you feel now?" His voice is tender and concerned.

I
hesitate. Force the tears to come to an end. For now.

"
I actually think I'm okay. I feel pretty tired, but I got a lot of shit out today. I might even be less angry."

"
Are you sure you want to keep going? On this journey, I mean. I'm assuming you'll wait until tomorrow, but do you think it's too much to tackle? Or are you all right to go on to Vryheid?"

This
time there is no hesitation.

"
Yup, I'll wait 'til tomorrow, but I'm good to go. In fact, I think I'll be able to handle whatever comes much better now. If I feel overwhelmed, I know what to do. Pull over into a motel and start writing."

He
laughs. "Sounds like a pretty healthy choice."

We
talk about his parents, briefly about his case and what he did today. For a while, we make verbal love on the telephone, getting as close through words as it is possible to get. When we finally hang up, I give in to the exhaustion and sleep for twelve hours.

Dear Diary,

I
read somewhere—I'm pretty sure it was Nietzsche—that "it is impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge." Interesting, huh?