Sweet Karoline (15 page)

"
Well, she was always slow, but this is what I wanted to tell you before you see her. She's dying of cancer. She was diagnosed nearly a year ago. Around the time Karoline stopped coming. Memé was doing pretty well at first. Didn't seem to have much trouble with the radiation and even the chemo. Then about three months ago everything seemed to catch up to her. That's when I came to stay here full time. She needs round-the-clock care and she really can't afford it."

"
My sister—our cousin Elizabeth, I should say—she was under the impression they were pretty well off and that the farm was still producing."

"
It is. They very wisely switched to ginseng around here when tobacco started to be taboo. But most of this land no longer belongs to the Johnston family. Memé's parents sold it off bit by bit. All except this parcel where the house stands."

"
Are you a nurse, Miriam?"

"
No, I'm actually a massage therapist." She smiles in a self-deprecating way. "The Victorian Order of Nurses drops by three times a week and the local doctor comes once in a while. The rest of the time we've been coping."

Miriam
leads me down the front steps, where she points in every direction.

"
The fields on either side of us are leased to a couple of farmers who grow the ginseng. Other than that, it's all been sold off. The abandoned area behind the house used to be Vryheid…"

"
Yes, I took the Vryheid road to get here."

Miriam
laughs. "I'm amazed you found it."

I
can barely see the laneway on which I'd driven. It quickly disappears into the clump of trees that form a tunnel over the road. The little forest actually hugs the sides of the ridge.

Miriam
waves toward the road above us.

"
You probably noticed all the homes they've built around the area. That road is the access for them, but you can get to the farmhouse, too. You have to go past it, then circle back for a bit on the dirt road."

I
gaze around the small plot of land on which the house stands and remember the black and white pictures of drunken carelessness. We walk toward the back of the house. Off in the distance I can see where the land slopes downward toward a river.

"
That's the Grand River," Miriam says.

It
's a wide, tumultuous river that curves out of sight and is bounded on both sides by the short cliffs. I wonder how much erosion will be necessary before the farmhouse is threatened.

"
Behind those trees on the other side of the river is Vryheid. It was a little settlement of black and native people. I have no idea who owns it now."

All
I can see is a dense forest, deciduous and evergreens entwined with bushes and vines.

"
Karoline did a lot of research on our family. Which of course she passed off as her own history. Our mother grew up here. Had her babies here. And now she's going to die here."

"
I'm finding this story so bizarre, Miriam. Sad, weird…I just have no idea how to react."

Finally
she looks at me.

"
You and me both. When Anne first…when Karoline contacted me and I came out here I couldn't believe any of it. But there was Dembi, whom I obviously could not deny, though at first I did think he could be a doppelganger. Of course Memé greeted me with such love and enthusiasm I couldn't turn away. You are the icing on the cake."

I
can't help myself, I laugh.

"
No wonder you fainted. This is spectacularly odd. We'll have to write a book."

Then
I realize I skipped over the part where our mother is dying.

"
I'm sorry about Memé. No one deserves that."

"
You're right. I have to admit that I wasn't sure I could ever love her as a mother—she's too childlike for that—but since I began taking care of her I've come to admire her strength and courage. Which is a kind of love."

"
Definitely. Do you think it will be too much for her if she sees me?"

"
No, I think it'll be okay. I'm surprised she didn't mention you. She's been telling me all kinds of things that I wonder about."

"
Is it okay if I ask what things?"

Miriam
pauses. "I'll tell you everything later. Let's go see Memé before Dembi wonders what's going on."

We
head back to the farmhouse and Miriam opens the door into an enormous country kitchen. The house is as rambling on the inside as it appears from the outside. Several connecting hallways lead to more rooms, an old-fashioned parlor, another living area, lots of bedrooms and bathrooms. A hodgepodge of nooks and crannies, both large and small, appear everywhere.

It
's as though our grandparents constructed a room for every whim. Company came and stayed. They built a bedroom. The well was deep and strong, another bathroom. A significant birthday approached, a large open space was called for.

I
wonder how Miriam can live here. It's large and spooky, with dozens of doors that lead into open fields or wooded enclosures or forest.

I
am reluctant to enter the room of a sick woman. I've never had the experience of seeing someone who is dying of cancer. What if I can't handle it?

Miriam,
bless her kind soul, sees my hesitation and gives me a reassuring squeeze.

"
It won't be easy, Anne, but you can do it. I'll be right there with you and if you have to leave quickly, that's okay. The first time is the shock, then you'll get used to it."

She
's right about the first time being a shock. My initial reaction is to the smell. The air in the room is sour, musty, like wet blankets and sweaty clothing. Underlying that is an odor of decay. A pungent assault on my nostrils as though I am absorbing the dying cells of my birth mother. I only prevent gagging by putting my sleeve to my nose as I stand in the doorway. I stare around with bulging eyes, unable to dredge up any compassion. Instead I feel a visceral fear tingle along my spine, a terror of ever dying this way.

The
bedroom is fairly large with a greasy window shuttered by a grey blind. No one has changed the wallpaper since the 1970's by the look of the faded flowers trailing up to the ceiling. There's no overhead light and, despite the sunshine outside, it's dim and dingy. An old four-poster bed stands in the middle of the room.
Oak
, I think.
Very old. Probably worth a fortune
.

Surely
the thing that lies here cannot be human, or at least not alive. Her skeleton is visible through the opacity of skin that has shrunk to adhere directly to her bones. She is so tiny that she appears to be a grotesque doll. Even her breathing is so shallow and ragged that it emits a mechanical, inhuman sound. Her emaciated chest rises minutely every now and then.

Her
eyes flutter behind closed lids, darting back and forth. Thoughts? Nightmares? Her lips are a bluish color despite the oxygen mask obscuring much of her face. Long skeletal fingers lie across her breast in a coffin pose.

The
smell is fierce as Miriam leads me closer. I keep my arm across my nose, breathing in the cottony fragrance of my blouse.

Memé
is uncovered. Her spindly legs poke through a flimsy nightgown, which is pulled up around her stomach to expose her diaper. Suddenly another smell mingles with the sourness of death. I have to bite down on my sleeve to keep from vomiting or crying out. This is awful.

Just
as we shuffle alongside the bed, Miriam pulling me forward because I am glued to her arm, Memé opens her eyes.

Her
reaction reminds me of that picture of a wide-open skeletal figure. The Scream, I think it's called. Except in this case, a ragged dry sound shudders from behind the mask. The mouth opens and closes. A fish gasping for water.

Miriam
is clearly confused about what to do. I, on the other hand, do not hesitate. I turn and run out of the room.

Dear Diary,

Giulio
always said she was a lot smarter than we gave her credit for. Somehow I doubt that. She might be as smart as a monkey, since she's always copying whatever I say or do.

Chapter
16

We walk along the river in a bright yellow sun that broils our heads whenever we saunter out from under the trees. Huge bushy oaks and maples spread their thick limbs toward the sky and over the water, casting shadows over weeds and waves.

Although
the noise is different it's just as deafening as the traffic outside my Los Angeles office. The birds screech in rage, hundreds of them it seems, clinging to the branches yet poised for flight. Squirrels and chipmunks scatter as we tramp along, ranting messages of alarm. And above all, the sound of rapids roars in our ears.

The
river is wide, dark and ferocious. It races past, knocks over displaced branches. Pries rocks loose from the bank. Just ahead the water splashes over a small concrete dam, tumbles once, twice, in two mini waterfalls. The sound of the stream smashing against the bottom is a rush of wind in my eardrums.

Dembi
leads the way. He pokes through the fallen branches and weeds with his enormous shepherd's walking stick. He's as tall as I am, so his dark head is easily visible through the leaves as I follow confidently in his footsteps. He leads me from the farmhouse down a steep path to the riverside.

"
The Grand," he says proudly, as though he discovered it.

Where
the river narrows, just before it careens off in another direction, a sturdy little wooden bridge connects farmhouse land to the other side. We are on our way to the former village of Vryheid.

The
night before, I gave in to Miriam's insistence that I stay with them overnight. Memé did settle down without a sedative. The disturbance of my presence hadn't lasted.

"
You don't have to see her," Miriam said, "nor she you. I was wrong. Obviously seeing two of us was a shock. Maybe she'll get over it. But the house is big enough that you don't have to go near her. We have lots of bedrooms. I'll show you."

As
much as the place makes me shiver I acquiesced to her desire to have me stay with them for a night or two. It's the only way to get to know one another, she said. And I suppose she is right.

Miriam
chose a beautiful room for me that's obviously been redecorated in the last century. It's painted a light soothing green, adorned with white crown molding and baseboards. Devoid of any wall hangings it is nevertheless well furnished. A canopy bed, an ornate dresser with brass knobs, an old-fashioned washstand with an original bowl and pitcher still sitting in the sink. Situated in the L of the wing closest to the kitchen, my room is surrounded by huge windows that have not been updated. They slide open and shut without a creak, and, to my relief, the latches still work.

There
are two thick wooden doors with enormous brass knobs. One door leads out to a private little courtyard surrounded by walls but softened with greenery, bushes and little evergreens. The other appears to be an outlet into the side yard. There is a clump of trees very close by. The locks on the doors work, too. There are no deadbolts or sliding chain door locks. I'd have felt much better with chains. But there
is
that ensuite bathroom and the huge closet beside it. Pretty much makes up for the isolation, I suppose.

Before
she went to bed Miriam directed me to the telephone in the parlor room. The instrument was an outdated style, thick and black, but it was located beside a chair big enough to curl up in. The rest of the room was filled with antiques. Furniture, heavy old statues of religious figures and musty books. I can't help but wonder what all of these pieces are worth.

Poor
Ethan didn't get much airtime because of my torrent of words in his ear. Maybe it was the talk with my lover, or the fresh air, silky sheets, feathery comforter, or just plain exhaustion from the emotional roller coasters, but I slept like a baby afterward. Despite the strange bed and the yawning openness to the countryside I didn't awaken once.

By
the time I washed, dressed and wound my way along the hall to the kitchen that morning, Miriam and Dembi had made breakfast.

"
I guess I shouldn't be surprised," I said to them, smiling at the faces-from-the-mirror, the me's-but-not-me's who turned to grin at me. "You cooked up all my favorites. Pancakes, bacon…"

"
And real maple syrup," Dembi chirped. "It's Other Anne's favorite, too. She is from the United States. They don't have it there."

Miriam
filled my plate and poured me a coffee. "I tried to correct him, but it hasn't registered," she said so quietly and directly that I almost had to lip read.

Triplet
Anne tried to keep the smile genuine. I sat in the chair opposite my siblings, wondering if Karoline sat here, too.

I
have almost gotten used to feeling strange. Nothing is the same. Once again I am on stage before rehearsing my lines.

As
we ate breakfast, Dembi astonished me with his continued chatter. Though he speaks slowly, with odd blips and slurs, he really is quite articulate. His vocabulary is fairly simple, but the thoughts that drive the words are not. When he relates the history of Vryheid he sounds like an encyclopedia written for children.

"
Vryheid was founded in 1784," he said formally this morning. "You can still see the cornerstone at the church, but you can't read the names any more. Other Anne said the writing had been worn away by time."

Karoline
had been privy to my ancestry before I was, I thought with a flash of anger and jealousy. I wanted Dembi's revelations to be mine alone. On the other hand, the history of Vryheid was probably public knowledge. Something I could look up in the library. I tuned into his recitations once more.

"
The black people didn't want to go with Chief Brant to the other city. They decided to move here and he let them even though they were his slaves."

"
Joseph Brant had slaves?"

I
couldn't help myself. The Six Nations Chief is a hero to my mother, my adopted mother that is. Surely Brant was not someone who kept human beings to do his bidding. Vera, particularly in her Native phase, spent hours lecturing about his life, waxing eloquent about his accomplishments. Like her, Joseph Brant had straddled two homelands, though only Upper and Lower Canada officially existed then. In my California classrooms the famous Chief was a citizen of the northern United States of America. In Brantford and Burlington, Ontario, he was Canadian. Revered and admired. Surely not a common slave owner.

Miriam
smiled over at both of us. Dembi stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence, clearly derailed by my outburst.

"
Dembi's right. It's part of recorded history. The only debate is whether or not Chief Brant brought the blacks to Canada to protect them or use them. From some accounts, they were pretty free. Even married into Brant's own family. A couple of eye witness statements, however, claim that they were treated as servants, if not strictly as slaves."

The
button on Dembi's recorded history was immediately reset.

"
Slaves were people who were owned by other people. They didn't even have last names. They used their master's name. They changed all the names like Dembi to other ones. Like they might have called me Donald."

Miriam
and I smiled at each other.

"
Vryheid means free. When Chief Joseph Brant went to settle in the city of Burlington, he let the black people come up here. They built their own village. He made them free. They even got last names. They made their own school."

"
Where did the black children go to school before that, Dembi?" Miriam asked as if she were testing him.

"
They didn't go to school before that. They just had to work, even though they were children. But in Vryheid they could learn about other things. I will show you today, Triplet Anne. I am the keeper of the secrets."

"
Dembi's one of very few people who has shown an interest in Vryheid," Miriam said to me, a touch of pride in her tone. "Recently a couple of historians came around. Dembi has uncovered the history from the headstones and cornerstones of the village. He and the new Burford museum curator have begun to connect the threads. It's very exciting. The curator thinks they could end up with a new history book. If we get someone to write it, that is."

Dembi
nodded his head. "Mrs. West said that I have turned up some very interesting facts that other people might like. But she doesn't know the secret of the gold. Just Other Anne and Miriam and me. And now Triplet Anne."

"
Mrs. West? Gold?"

Miriam
laughed. "Mary Lou West is the curator of the new museum in Burford. She's young but very knowledgeable. She's really encouraged Dembi. As for the gold there's a legend that Chief Brant sent some with the group who were given this land. The theory is that he wanted the funds as insurance against warmongers. He continually warned that there were roving bands of Americans determined to take over Upper Canada and the Grand River tracts. But apparently he was notorious for encouraging or even spreading rumors, so the story about the gold is a little suspect to say the least."

Dembi
reacted to Miriam's speech by continuously shaking his head in disagreement.

"
I know where the gold is," he said.

Miriam
gave me the kind of indulgent smile that parents might when their child says something cute but clearly erroneous. I smiled back.

"
I will show you, Triplet Anne. Let's go on a field trip."

Thus
I find myself traipsing through the bush a couple of hours later. Miriam stayed behind just in case Memé needed her. I wonder how she can do it. The thought of that emaciated half-dead creature and that dark fusty room makes my skin crawl. My sister is a saint.

For
the hundredth time, I nearly trip on a twisted clump of grass and weed under my feet. Vryheid must have been buried for a long time. I recall what Miriam said about our birth mother's life of abuse and neglect. No one paid much attention to what happened in Vryheid. Prejudice, I wonder? Or simply years of isolation and separation? Maybe both.

I
am beginning to be interested in my roots at last. Won't Vera be proud? I feel a rush of anger toward my parents. At thirty-three years old, I ought to have known about my background. I should've had the right to visit my birth mother, especially now that she is dying. Does my mother/aunt know that her sister is on her deathbed? Has she enjoyed updates from Karoline? Am I the only one kept entirely in the dark? I trip again, this time nearly stumbling to my knees. I have to pay attention. I spend the rest of our walk with my head down, watching my feet.

A
few minutes later Dembi indicates a small footbridge. A relatively newer structure, it was constructed over a section of the river that narrows to only about ten feet across. Possibly built by Johnstons in the 50's or perhaps by Larue. The way my brother bounces over it, the little overpass was obviously very well built.

We
follow the Grand on the other side for what feels like hours before I see the first indication of past human habitation. Rocks that are no longer haphazard appear alongside the roots and weeds that have grown up and around them. These stones are hand squared and placed, the foundations of a home or church or even a fortress wall.

Dembi
stops and points back across the river. In the distance I see the rambling rooftops of his home. The farmhouse is very close to Vryheid, just over the river. It only feels like miles away without a bridge at this point to traverse the rapids and the wide expanse of water. We had to go quite a long way to reach the narrows and then back again.

We
step out from the curtain of maples and evergreens to a comparatively clear space. Now I see the shape of the former village. A small center street forms a circle with several pathways leading out from it, like the spokes of a bicycle wheel. The ruins are mostly indistinct. Piles of rubble, brick, rock and rotted wood that nature is using for planters.

As
we trudge along in the heat I notice the rustle of other feet frightened by our advance. Small animals have taken over where humans left off.

When
I finally look up, released from the tentacles of untended land and tree trunks, I don't know how I could have missed the structure. It's almost as much a shock as the library in Ephesus when Karoline and I traveled to Turkey. Perched on one of the pathways that rises slightly into a small hillock, the building would once have been quite imposing as it looked down upon the village.

The
pointed spire is still erect, although a great number of stones are missing. The old church was built with local rock, sculpted and evened, cemented together with some kind of mortar. Grey, white, black, even reddish stones give the walls an artistic appearance. Although the sizes of the rudimentary bricks are not precisely the same every time, the lines of larger to smaller follow the building upward in neat little rows.

Small
wooden wheelbarrows would have gathered rock from every path of ground hereabouts. I imagine the hands picking out the right size, scraping and shaping them to fit, layering the church higher and higher. How had they completed the steeple, I wonder? With ropes and scaffolds and ladders? It's impressive even in its ruination. A former beauty queen with the last vestiges of her glorious stature still visible.