Sweet Karoline (13 page)

Chapter
15

On my map, Vryheid is a tiny dot perched on the Grand River next to the village of Burford. The nearest city is Brantford. Compared to the sprawl of L.A. it's a postage stamp. As I approach the area, nothing seems to match the lines on the map. I am submerged among trees and fencing. Surrounded by trucks and other cars, signs flying by too fast to read, I am suddenly frustrated and lost.

The
berms in the middle and on each side of the highway are lush with wild grass and every kind of tree you can imagine. Pointed evergreens and fat spreading deciduous make every road look the same. When I take one exit, I get lost several times amongst sterile city streets, a boxy mall and circular overpasses.

Once
I retrace my steps, discover the right exit, I am, as I should've been, surrounded by flat countryside. Yellow fields of hay and wheat whisper and sigh when I roll down my windows to the cooling breeze. It's a hot summer day, the kind that feels as though you've put your head into an oven. But I am tired of the air conditioning and I love the scents of the country. Acrid manure mingled with sweet pine and dampened dirt. A fragrance that can only be green and growth.

A
little town with yawning verandas and multiple church steeples lazes in the sun. A few people sit with cold drinks in the shade while some, large hats as umbrellas from the heat, dig in their gardens. This is Burford, a place I'd like to visit if I had time. Instead, I drive past the town out into wilderness again, surrounded by the long hairy leaves of cornfields. Even the birds are silent in the heat, though the cicadas violin madly.

When
I reach the outskirts, heralded by the pioneer cemetery, I know I have gone too far. Once again, frustrated and hot, I turn around. Vryheid should be tucked like a small pinky finger alongside the river, just north of Burford, but there is no hint of its existence whatsoever.

Half
hidden among drooping cedar trees, their long spindly arms nearly reaching one another across the road, I suddenly spy the sign I hadn't noticed before. 'Vryheid' in white on green. 'Est. in 1784' written underneath. It's no surprise that I missed it. The sign is nearly covered by vines and leaves, not to mention the faded condition of the printing.

The
road is perhaps a lane and a half wide, bracketed on both sides by old bushy trees, lined with wild grass and shiny white Queen Anne's Lace. A tunnel of hushed tones. Birds are encouraged by the cool shade to sing softly, while squirrels chat and click the branches when they jump. Grasshoppers and cicadas play their instruments. Since humans are nowhere to be seen, nature can be heard. Until I plow my car into their midst that is. I leave behind a wake of frightened silence and dust.

There
is absolutely no sign of a town, a village, or even a crossroad. The growth on both sides obscures most of the view, but there are no laneways. No buildings peer through the forest.

It
's obviously been a dry couple of weeks in hot sun, because the grasses are brittle and the roadway is scattered with sand. My wheels catch a couple of times as the pavement turns to dirt. The trees are even older and more bent over, their long needled limbs weighted with age and abundance. Then quite suddenly the tree line ends.

I
burst out of the shady tunnel into yellow light and green fields. Broad-leafed little plants huddle together, resembling dark cabbages in a grocery store bin. I think these are ginseng. To my right, up a slight incline and across a low fence, I can see a paved road, which has clearly been built to skirt around this deserted area.

On
my left, a little island of trees surrounds a lone farmhouse. Green and red maples, weeping willows, oak and evergreen, anything that provides a shield for the lonely home standing amidst a vast field. Sentinels against the wind that runs rampant across the flat land. A mailbox lurches drunkenly at the end of the long narrow driveway. The number from my crude map, #49857, is stamped on a spindly emergency flag atop a firm fat post. The house can only squint out from among the greenery.

Does
Vryheid consist of one single farmhouse?

Although
I drive slowly, the wheels churn up stones and bits of gravel, making my entry noisy and intrusive. I am astounded that the yard, once I torpedo through the clusters of branches, is still empty. How has no one heard my approach? Perhaps, despite the presence of a small red car, there's nobody home. Maybe they're out working in a field far from the house. I almost use this as an excuse to turn around. Faced with the reality of this place I am tempted to give in to cowardice. I force myself to put the car in park, turn off the engine and open my door.

The
house is a squat structure that seems to have sprouted thick legs in every direction. It's not a typical farmhouse, although the original red cedar shingle exterior is common. Over the years someone has obviously added to the small cottage it once was, with no regard for outer beauty. Some of the additions are white cedar, some red siding, some natural stone. A hodgepodge that has even encroached upon the surrounding trees, forcing them to embrace the rooftops, it resembles a motel built by different owners. It doesn't look particularly poverty stricken or cheap, just ill planned.

This
does explain why no one heard my car. If they are in a back room, they are probably shielded from any noise from the roadway.

The
initial front entry remains. A huge porch all across the front looks new, relative to the rest of the house. Painted brown, it matches the window frames on the center cottage. Twin willows weep over the roof of the veranda, covering the entire front with cool dark shade.
See a weeping willow, crying on his pillow, maybe he's crying for me…

Surrounded
by giant purple clover, wild grass and geraniums, the effect is a lack of inhibition rather than carelessness. The thick oak door is firmly shut, shaded by a matching screen. Lace curtains frame the small shuttered windows at the front. The place looks deserted, calm and silent. An artificial cake baking in the sun.

My
footsteps echo on the wood as I mount the steps. I am nervous, hot and thirsty and doubtful. It's all I can do to reach up and ring the bell. My hand trembles and I feel faint. When the door is yanked open a couple of minutes later, the only reason I stay on my feet is because I have recently experienced an even greater shock looking over my own balcony.

The
woman standing in the dim hallway is my mirror image. She has my height, my coloring, my build—my face. We stare for a long universe of a moment. Then I stagger backward just as she pitches forward, so I almost miss catching her in my arms.

My
purse tumbles to the porch, scattering papers and lipstick and coins, but I ignore it in favor of bringing us both gently to the surface of the wood, where I sit awkwardly, panting. She lays half on top of me. Her face turns upward. Her eyes roll back.

I
hold her head up, wait for her breathing to settle. Study her face with a fascination that's unbecoming under the circumstance. But I can't help myself. The contours of her cheekbones, her lashes, her eyebrows, mouth, nose, neck…every part of her is identical to mine.

Her
eyelids flutter and her chest heaves as she regains consciousness. When she does, she sits straight up, an arrow aimed in disbelief. Her eyes are wide with shock. She pushes herself around to face me and we end up in a kiss position.

"
Who are you?" she demands.

Other
than the rounded-vowel-accent that I lost long ago, even her voice is mine. For a moment, I think I won't know the answer, then I recover slightly.

"
I'm Anne Williams."

"
You are not Anne Williams, that's for sure."

We
scramble awkwardly to our feet where I proceed to gather the contents of my purse, including my passport. She stands frowning at me, hands on her hips.

"
You're my twin. Or my ghost. Or…what the hell is this?"

She
spits the words at me, angrily, as though I committed the crime of stealing her face. Her skin is red with the blush of emotion, probably mimicking my own precisely.

I
gulp and try to recover, but all I can say is, "Can I please have a drink of water? I think this time I might be the one to faint."

There
's a bench running all around the porch, attached to its railings. I sit abruptly, grateful that the willows keep the sun off my head. Sweat pours from my hairline and I am parched. The Other Me says nothing, but disappears into the house. She returns quickly with a huge pitcher of ice water and two glasses. We both sit and pour the cold liquid down our throats. It has the earthy tinge of a spring well, full-bodied and delicious.

When
my throat feels able, I start to tell her my story.

"
I found some papers…" I don't bother to explain when or where "…which revealed that I was adopted. I didn't know before…" I pause, not sure which 'before' I am thinking of. "This address was listed as my birth mother's. So I came here…"

It
sounds lame and stilted, but my brain isn't back to full capacity yet.

"
You must be my twin. I mean really, you have to be. Were you…did you grow up here?"

She
shakes her head, her lovely me head and puts her glass down.

"
I was adopted, too. I found out two years ago."

She
glances behind her, as though to indicate the entire household.

"
Obviously I know about Dembi, but you…"

"
Dembi?"

"
He's our brother. Our triplet. We're triplets."

She
says the word slowly, as though tasting it on her lips and tongue.

I
don't know what I am feeling. I sit as though I haven't heard her. I breathe in the scent of clover and something else sweet. Listen to the birds flutter and chirp overhead. I am afraid that if I move, this will all be real. Or else it's a dream and I am going crazy again.

"
What's your real name?"

I
blink at her. "What's yours?" I snap back, in the same snooty tone.

"
Miriam. Miriam Hunter, though our birth surname was Johnston, in case you didn't know. But I know you can't be Anne Williams."

Wordlessly,
my hands shaking even more than they had previously, I hand my passport over to her.

Her
own hands tremble now. Miriam looks it over carefully, then stares back at me.

"
I don't understand. I just don't know how…"

We
are interrupted by the sound of the front door. A tall young man bounces out onto the porch, his face alight with a huge grin. Except for the off-kilter set of his mouth, he is identical to Miriam and me. In fact he's even more beautiful. His skin is a slight shade darker, resulting in a face that's youthful and smooth. Though he is obviously thirty-three years old, he appears much younger. Angelic. His eyes are innocent. His hair is also slightly darker than his sisters', but perhaps the brush cut only makes it look that way.

His
clothes are twisted as though he pulled them on in the dark. The t-shirt reflects a Disney character and the shorts are baggy on his gangly frame. His hands, curled and fluttery, seem to probe the air before he passes through it. When he finally becomes aware of the two-ness of us, he stops dead. The smile disappears. His eyes dart from me to Miriam and back again.

I
feel as though he is scanning me, a machine-like brain tapping into my pores with a million antennae. He is clearly mentally handicapped, disabled, differently wired, whatever language I should be using. If I had not been shocked and uncomfortable before, I certainly am now. I have no idea how to respond. I realize that I have never, in my pampered and cosseted life, been this close to a handicapped person other than someone begging on the street.

I
hear Karoline's voice, silent for so long, suddenly lecturing me should I make a move for my wallet. "He's probably got his Mercedes parked down the street. These people are usually frauds and if not, you don't want to get too close, they have lice."

This
man is well dressed and clean, though. He's not on a street begging. Karoline's advice doesn't seem to apply and I flounder. I stay rooted to my spot. Miriam leaps to her feet to hold his hands until his gaze meets hers directly.

"
Dembi, this is…our triplet."

She
can't bring herself to say my name, unconvinced even by my official identification.

"
You know what I mean by triplet?"

He
nods his head eagerly, tears himself from Miriam's hold. Abruptly he's in my space before I can move or think. His soft hands unfurl and glide over my face, tickle my cheeks, feather my neck.

"
Triplet is the same."

His
words are thick as though his tongue is several times too big.