Sweet Karoline (22 page)

"
Did you want to keep watching, Anne?" Miriam asks.

I
stand up. "Nope, I'm right behind you. Even though I've hunted for a couple of days, I am still not in shape. Not like you, Dembi. You are so strong."

He
curls himself into me. His tall frame c-shapes the way a very large dog would try to sit on its owner's lap. I instinctively reach around and pull him close. His head lolls on my shoulder. We stand side by side, child-man and childish woman, neither of us quite fit for this world.

Miriam
joins us. Wraps us in her firm, responsible, generous embrace. For a moment there is no sound but Dembi's contented sigh, until Rolly begins a loud purr at our feet. My brother automatically breaks the huddle, reaches down and sets the cat on his shoulder. We all toddle off toward our rooms.

Dear Diary,

I
had some friends who were Catholic and I think they have the right attitude. Sin, sin, sin all week, then off you go to confession and get forgiven. I like that.

Chapter
20

From Friday to Wednesday, our days become something of a routine, though not in any usual sense. We arise, have breakfast and go hunting for gold. On hot days we swim in an inlet of the river that's deep and cold and protected from the rapids. Every afternoon we're back at the farmhouse.

Melody
comes to work every single day, including the weekend. Her husband, she informs us, is off on a course. Her own children have gone on vacation with the grandkids in tow. She insists that she's bored and lonely, that Libby needs her.

We
certainly don't object.

Dembi
and Miriam visit Memé to bring her up to date on the treasure adventures. By the fourth day, I stand in the doorway watching, but I am still reluctant to enter. Although our mother is clearly dying, her color has improved. She is able to speak a few intelligible words. She doesn't react badly to my presence, though I'm not sure she really sees me.

I
send a post card to Parris and call her once. She's supportive and kind. I realize that I haven't really been gone that long. Yet it feels as though I have been away forever. I am not the person who left L.A. such a short time ago. Despite the occasional resurgence of the Ice Queen, I am different. It's reassuring to know that the separation hasn't altered my friendship with Parris or my love for Ethan.

I
used to be terrified that everything would change once I left. That I would lose what I'd gained. Now I am cautiously satisfied that those who really care about me will not abandon me in my absence. I must be on the right track. I hope.

On
three separate occasions we venture out into Brantford to shop, consciously avoiding Burford. We decide that it's too small to provide the groceries and toiletries we need. But I know we're really postponing the three-ness of us and the inevitable scrutiny. The powwow becomes our target for the unveiling, though surely by now Dee has spread the word about my presence.

In
the evening we play board games, watch television or work on Dembi's puzzle. Rolly curls around at our feet or hops onto the table to mess up a few checker pieces or roll a marble off the edge. I begin to feel quite fond of the little scamp.

Miriam
and I talk every night about everything. She becomes closer to me than Karoline or Parris ever did or could. Gently she encourages me to be honest about my struggles with who I am. Ice Queen Anne slowly splinters, only rearing her ugly head now and then. Miriam teaches me that there are good and bad sides to everyone, though I'm aware that her definition of bad doesn't cover at least two of my sins.

"
Miriam, I was so self-absorbed and entitled. You wouldn't believe it. I was the kind of person who took her own olives to the bar, so I'd have the right blend for my martini."

My
sister gives me the laughter I was aiming for. I can tell her about my superficiality, my snobbishness, my shameful treatment of the men and women who lived on the periphery of my life. I can tell her about Giulio and try to figure out the why of Karoline's treacherous letters. I am able to speak of my breakdown after Karoline's death. I can talk about Ethan and how his love has helped transform me.

I
cannot tell her about the night Karoline died. Or about the memories that began to surface when I set foot in this house.

Miriam
speaks of her failed relationships. She too has been stalked, stared at, mistreated, but somehow she never saw her beauty as a handicap. One man broke her heart three years ago and she's been unable to reach out to anyone since. Of course much of her time lately has been taken up with family history and Dembi and Memé.

She
talks about Karoline, too. I try hard to listen. We both continue to feel a depth of betrayal that may never disappear. I tell Miriam something about Karoline's disintegration. I confess my inaction and the consequent guilt. I attempt to follow Karoline's trail backwards, but I haven't got all the information. I vow to solve the puzzle of her actions eventually, but right now I am focused on the present. On the developing relationships, not the past disappointments.

We
become almost as obsessed with our family history as Dembi is. We call Elizabeth. She and Miriam talk for a long time. I avoid Vera and Ian for now. I tell myself that I'm already dealing with too much.

We
decide that we have to make an appointment with the Burford museum curator. Thus far we have avoided the village and the inevitable scrutiny. We shopped in Brantford or Miriam went alone. Even in the larger town we've been objects of interest, but who could blame them? Three identical beauties stroll through the mall in the middle of the day. I am used to the attention. However, it's far better when it's shared.

Our
curiosity eventually overcomes the fear of gossip. Miriam makes an appointment with Mary Lou West. We don't even attempt to convince Dembi that we should show her the Vryheid book. We plan to soak in information, not provide it.

I
also talk to Ethan every night. Although I am tempted to ask him to come up here, I resist. I am a little more self-assured but there are still so many questions. How can I say, "I love you", when I can't say that to myself? When I'm not sure if the deep-seated rage has disappeared or is simply hiding? When I can't forgive myself?

On
Wednesday, a blistering sultry day that feels as though we are walking through a hot shower, Miriam, Dembi and I visit the Burford Museum.

Dembi
is in a strange mood. He's fidgety and doesn't eat much. Although he says he's feeling all right and wants to come to the museum, he looks tired and cross. He brightens a little as we near the museum. His beloved history beckons.

Dear Diary,

Do
you find nice people boring? I know I do. I like edgy, mean characters with some intelligence. I love that comedian, Rodney Dangerfield. "My psychiatrist told me I was crazy and I said I want a second opinion. He said okay, you're ugly, too." Honestly, that's hilarious. Especially if you say it to someone who's really crazy.

Chapter
21

"Hi, Dembi, hi, Miriam," the curator says as she gazes with unabashed curiosity at the three of us.

"
This is Anne, our missing third," Miriam tells her.

Mary
Lou West is a young, slim woman dressed in a professional blue skirt and jacket that look incongruous with the earring in her nose. Her straight black hair, deep brown eyes and dark skin hint at a heritage similar to ours. She is friendly, enthusiastic. Her handshake is cool and firm. Though a look of bewilderment crosses her face, she doesn't miss a beat in her greeting.

The
museum is located in an old red-bricked, two-story house with a wide porch painted grey and a welcoming green door. I don't generally like old houses, but this one doesn't have that customary moldy scent. Its rooms have been opened up and are lined with display cases and bookshelves. In the middle, tables are piled with papers, books, and files. They look orderly, however. Mary Lou leads us to the chairs around one of them.

"
I've pulled some files for you," she says. "Our collection is the result of several years of hard work and grants. Plus, there are volunteers like yourselves who have brought us a lot of information. Especially you, Dembi."

He
grins, flaps his hands happily and returns her hello in an overly loud voice. He looks funny in a red shirt suspiciously spotted with something yellow. I wanted to help Dembi with his outfits but Miriam reminded me that this is a harmless way of honoring his independence. So I try not to be embarrassed.

"
We're very proud of our museum and I'm thrilled that you've come. The history of Vryheid doesn't have much documentation, so Dembi's interest and insights have been invaluable."

You
have no idea just how detailed the documentation is, I wish to say.

Mary
Lou can't wait to give us her historical lecture. She uses some of the papers and books to prove her points.

"
As you know, Joseph Brant lived in this area in the 1780's and he brought slaves with him from the United States. We think they came voluntarily and were more like employees than slaves."

The
Book of Vryheid is certainly split on that theory.

"
Lots of runaway slaves came up through the underground railway during those years. Some of them joined the native bands, married into the families and settled in this area. Others travelled to more distant parts of Ontario."

"
They used the Grand River," Dembi says.

"
Yes." Mary Lou smiles at him. She's not at all condescending. Her fondness for Dembi is obvious. "Most travelers used the river to move around. And that's where most of the native settlements were built. All up the river, so they could fish and hunt and travel."

"
Joseph Brant had a lot of land."

"
He certainly did, Dembi. But he used it so our native inhabitants could live and work there. He gave a lot of it away and sold some of it, too. Though he had to fight for permission to make those sales."

"
Didn't he
own
it?" I ask.

"
Sure, but not in the way the white man did. Indians had to get permission from the government to lease or sell the land. In fact, it's still much the same today on the reservations."

Miriam
and I look at each other, stunned.

"
That's what Chief Brant fought with the government about. Finally, in 1798 he received permission to sell off a number of tracts. We think this is around the time that he negotiated the Vryheid acreage. There is a theory that the gift was attached to the land he sold to John Morey, who was reportedly a runaway slave himself but who had married into the Brant clan."

That
theory is correct I want to say, thinking back to the passage at the beginning of the Book of Vryheid.

"
Why would Brant sell off all his land?" I ask instead.

"
He wanted an income for the people," Mary Lou responds. "Land had become a great commodity and source of wealth, similar to the present. He thought it was unfair that natives did not have complete control over their own land. The Chief must be rolling in his grave these days."

I
ignore her political declarations because I have no idea how to respond. I'm not well informed and I'm not sure I want to be. Even Miriam, a self-confessed left-winger, is silent.

"
To whom was the Vryheid land given?" I ask.

"
We think it was given to a group…sort of an ancient condo corporation."

Mary
Lou pauses. In the silence, Dembi begins to fidget. I can see the struggle in the young woman's face. Should she say this out loud or not? With a feeling of dread, I am pretty sure I know what's coming.

"
You're wondering why two sisters have the name Anne."

She
flushes with embarrassment, caught having a non-objective thought.

"
Well, yes. Plus I'm wondering why she hasn't told you about the research she's already done."

Miriam
takes over, her desire for privacy flaring up.

"
Many of us were adopted out. So ending up with the same name was a huge possibility." My sister doesn't quite lie. "I had no idea that the other Anne spent time here, too."

"
She spent lots of hours here about two years ago. Sometimes with Dembi. I haven't seen her in quite a while, however."

"
Our other Anne unfortunately passed away recently."

"
Oh I'm so sorry." Mary Lou's voice displays genuine shock and sympathy. "She was a very nice person."

"
Other Anne," Dembi says, mournfully placing his head on Miriam's shoulder.

"
I'm sorry for your loss, Dembi. She helped us a lot with the history, didn't she?"

Oddly,
since this is his obsession, our brother looks bored and restless. He closes his eyes as though he's napping and doesn't respond. Miriam and I exchange worried looks. Has our interest in the history usurped his feeling of importance? Or dredged up too many memories of Karoline? Perhaps he's merely got a stomachache.

Mary
Lou converts back into the curator, the one in the professional suit.

"
I hadn't the time to trace the Vryheid ownership, but Anne did. On one of her visits, she went to the country offices and looked up the deeds. She gave the copies to me for posterity."

Posterior
is more like it
, I think.

The
documents are sharp, so we're able to read every word, though we mostly skim. In 1920, as we already knew from the deed tucked into the Book of Vryheid, Cornwall Johnston was officially listed as owner of the land. How he'd achieved that proprietary coup was not mentioned or has not been traced. In any case, I don't think it matters.

By
December of 1954, the deed had been signed over to Elizabeth Johnston. Memé owns everything.

Cornwall
Junior Junior disappeared.

Dear Diary,

Whenever
I disappeared for an hour or a day—or more, no one really asked me any questions. They totally, thoroughly, accepted my version of events. They never checked the details. As I often say, they were not only too trusting but brainless, as well.