Chapter
20, More Answers Questions
Black…
Flickering
of bright light…
Black…
Brings to mind a flashlight’s battery
nearing death, but determination of the holder knocks it upside the head with
hand, relentlessly.
Full
blown brightness…
Startling
success…
Everywhere…
The
brightness dims, settling to a soft light, shadows rise in corners.
POP!
POP!
POP! POP!
Lamps
burst bright, followed by a shrinking sizzle.
Lines,
shapes, forms…Dimension comes to life, pushed forward from the background, hard
at first, then softened.
“Ivy,
Ava’s here!” The voice is distant, trailing off at the end, as if being pulled
away. Little feet pitter-patter, accompanied by laughter and shrieking. It,
too, has a haunting detachment.
A
gust of wind, air displaced, rushes by. I seek out the form that caused the
movement, but nothing is there.
Vision
begins to clear, crisp edges to objects. I am in a hall, wall to my right,
kitchen to my left. Soft pallet consumes the space in gentle greens, blues, and
gray: a wonderful soft, but deep and sophisticated, gray. Before me, the living
room opens to the right, the dining room beyond the kitchen to the left.
I
hear a crackling, pop, then sizzle. Heat expands.
My
eyes are drawn to the erratic flames, captured in a stone fireplace anchoring
the living room, the back of the sofa our only separation. A wall of shelves
spans the entire length of wall running from the dining room through the living
room, broken up only by the fireplace.
“Ivy!
Ava’s here! Will you get the door for Mommie?”
I
spin on my heel, following the pitter-patter from before.
I
gasp!
A
girl! Brown braided pigtails bouncing, eagerness exudes.
The switch is flipped: light erased.
In the blackness, I see the afterglow of
the shapes and movement that just were.
I blink repeatedly, involuntarily,
trying to adjust to the new lighting conditions. I take a deep breath, eyes
closed, coughing on dust. Opening my eyes, I see the dining room to my right, an
office corner on my left, previously nonvisible, closet doors in front to the
left of the front hall. I back up, bumping into something solid, scraping it
against the floor. After my initial ridiculous reaction of being startled, I
realize it was just the sofa table behind the sofa from my memory. Now facing
the fireplace, I notice where the main illumination from the vision came: to
the right of the living room is an entire wall of windows, with a door barely
visible hidden in its center.
Then it hit me, smack in the face: while
this apartment is being used for storage, all of the furniture from when I
lived here still resides within. There are boxes scattered about, pushed up
into corners, but it is quite easy to make out everything that I just recalled.
I am remembering, piece by piece, my
life as a child. It is excruciating and hard. I still feel lost and scared. I
still don’t have any way to string these memories together. I wish my brain
were like an embroidery machine, pumping out the pattern of my life in clean
neat stitches revealing a beautiful composition of what was.
I feel weak, faint almost. This is too
much. As I begin to sway, I walk around the couch, hands never leaving the
furniture, and sit down. I bend at the waist, resting my head between my knees.
Ava
and I are sitting on the floor in the living room, having pushed the coffee
table up against the couch. Mom had just gotten off the phone in the kitchen.
“Ivy,
honey, I have to run down to the store real quick. Grandma needs help. There
are cookies on the counter. Love you!”
With
the click of the door, she was gone. A mischievous look was exchanged between
us girls. We had mere moments to accomplish our task. I got up and ran to the
right side of the fireplace.
Placing
my hand on a stone about four feet from the floor, I gently pulled it out,
shifting it from side to side to help it give way…
“How
did you find this?” Ava asked incredulously.
I
didn’t answer, I just moved.
I am floating. I remember lifting my
head, but somehow I walked to the fireplace, stone already in my hand.
Reaching
my hand into the cold dark space, my fingers wrapped around a wad of paper, I
am still grinning. My goal is to shock Ava…
One
wad is a stack of envelopes…the other…a stack of money…
My jaw drops. In my hands are the
letters, blanketed with dust, edges yellowed and curled. I sneeze. I look back
in and see a couple of bundles of cash, though I do not touch. I am stunned…I continue
to waft in and out of my memory…
We
are sitting on my bed, quilt covered in orange and pink flowers, connected by
bright green foliage set against a white background. I begin reading aloud:
My dearest Rosemarie,
I am not sure how to start.
I love you. I need you. I miss you.
Father has forbidden me from having any contact with you. I cannot
stand this. But, as we have agreed, neither of our families can handle a scandal.
I wish to write to our daughter. Somehow I will always find a way to let you
know I carry both of you in my heart - Forever and always.
Please let her know how I love her, and that my absence is for what
is in her best interest.
Eternally yours,
Ch
“So,
you see, Ava? My father does love me! He never wanted to leave me!” I was
beyond ecstatic. And Ava was stunned.
“Wow….”
I had left Ava speechless…but not for long, “Why is it typed?”
“Probably
for anonymity; if he was concerned at being found out that he was
communicating, maybe he typed it up in case someone found it…”
“Too
bad his name is worn away; otherwise you could search for him.”
“I
do know his name: Chet…that is how he has signed his name on many of the
letters and post cards.” I sobered up pretty quickly, thought, “But, I wonder
why my mom lied to me about him…”
Tears streamed down my face, rivulets of
pain, wonder, and confusion. Sitting on my old bed, reading letters from someone
I had at one time believed was my father, but at that time aware my mother had
lied to me about the biggest thing a parent can lie to their children about.
So many questions circling and colliding,
not sure where to go in search of answers. Why did she lie? What scandal would
have erupted from my parents staying together? Why was I such a secret? No
wonder everything is locked in my mind, even from me: I grew up in a family
that held its secrets close to the heart, and far away from other members of
family.
Then I remembered the money…where did
that money come from? And why was it hidden?
Who
was my mother? Is this why I can’t remember her? Because she buried herself under so many
secrets?
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