By Spiritual Echo
If asked, most of the townsfolk would tell you Elizabeth Harris Brown brought her troubles upon herself. But, they wouldn't know the whole story. Lizzie moved to Bridgewater three years ago, and in that short time has acquired a reputation as a mean-spirited witch, though depending on who you're talking to, 'witch' might not be the word they use. It's hard to imagine Lizzie's fate was decided on her first day in town, and maybe it wasn't, but within the first day, people had made up their minds about the damn Yankee who bought the Brolin house.
Bridgewater's a sleepy little town, a satellite community forty miles outside the city. Half the folks living here are retired, born and raised right here, and likely as not will be buried in this town. The other half of the population of eighteen thousand residents are commuters; young couples who can't afford real estate in the city. They can buy a detached house at a reasonable price and raise their kids in a community where the crime rate is non-existent. We don't have a lot of middle-aged residents, which is why, among other things, when Lizzie rolled into town, everybody noticed.
Even if we don't know everybody's name in town, we sure do recognize who is a local and who is not. Needless to say, nobody in Bridgewater owned a Cadillac, and when Lizzie pulled up in front of the diner in a cherry-red 1959 Cadillac convertible, her arrival became an event. People stopped in their tracks to watch the driver park, some expecting Elvis himself to emerge from the classic car.
A little kid, a boy no more than eight or nine, rushed up to take a closer look at the fins, shark-like, they were part of a design people back in the fifties either loved or hated.
"Wow, Dad. Come look at this," the child yelled,running his hand over the trunk.
From what I've been able to piece together from that firsy day, that's when Lizzie made her first mistake, in front of a captivated audience.
***
"Get your filthy hands off the car, kid."
The boy jumped back, acting like the paint had burned his fingers. A few observers gasped. To a Southerner, her tone and snappy rebuke was just plain rude. After Lizzie disappeared inside the diner, a few men boldly examined the Cadillac.
"New York plates," a man commented to the others.
"Yup." The men nodded at each other as if their simple observations said it all.
Mary-Jo was working her afternoon shift when Lizzie walked through the front door of the diner. The waitress hadn't seen the flurry of activity on the street, too busy with the lunch crowd.
"Will you look at her," she whispered to the cook. "Do you think she's a movie star?"
"Too old," he replied with a grunt.
Mary-Jo scurried toward the table with the coffee pot in hand, anxious to get a closer look at the woman in dark glasses, wearing a leopard-patterned coat. She handed Lizzie a menu, automatically turning over one of the mugs on the Formica table and poured coffee. She chirped a friendly greeting and tried to engage the woman in a conversation about the weather.
Lizzie pushed the cup back towards the waitress. "I'll have hot tea with lemon."
"Sure thing," she said, her tone losing its sparkle. "We don't have fresh lemons, but I can bring you some lemon juice cook uses in recipes."
Lizzie slowly removed her glasses and stared up at Mary-Jo. "You've got to be kidding. I passed citrus groves on the highway, and you don't have a damn lemon? Never mind; I'll take it black."
"You're right," Mary-Jo told the cook when she placed Lizzie's order. "She is old, rude and miserable. She couldn't even be bothered to say howdy-do, and she swore at me."
By the time Lizzie got back in her vehicle, Mary-Jo had already informed every customer in the diner about the nasty woman in the leopard-print coat. The gossip began when Mary-Jo told them the woman had asked for directions to a real-estate office.
***
Sam's a typical salesman--full of himself. As you can imagine, not a lot of property changes hands in Bridgewater, but that doesn't stop him from strutting around town in his three-piece suit, acting like a big shot. When the Cadillac pulled up in front of his office, I imagine he almost fell off his chair. Seems he told Jenny, his girlfriend, all about his encounter and words spread pretty quick after that.
***
Sam thought his ship had come in. He figured the tall woman was rich--she had to be. He reckoned the car, a collector's item, might sell for over $100K or more at auction.
"That's a mighty pretty car you have there, Miss? Sam turned on his charm, and phrased his salutation in the form of a question, expecting his potential client to offer up her name. "You don't see many of these beauties around these parts."
"Or anywhere," she replied. Not lured into a conversation, she immediately stated her business. "I'm looking to buy a house, something private. I passed one coming into town that I'm particularly interested in."
"Oh, so you're thinking of living in Bridgewater. May I ask you why you're relocating to our little town?"
"No, you can't. My reasons are personal."
***
Now, with so much time on his hands, Sam has always had a serious relationship with small talk. Lizzie's abrupt manner and resistance to the preamble Sam considered good business set him back, and pushed Lizzie down a peg or two in his assessment of his potential customer.
"Miss Harris is the most disrespectful woman I've ever met. She treated me like dirt, and didn't even have the decency to introduce herself. Can you imagine doing business with someone and not even know her name?"
Of course, Jenny stored this comment, and the very next day she cheerfully reported all the details about Sam's meeting to her customers at the hair salon.
***
"She bought the Brolin house?"
The salon customers gawked at Jenny in astonishment.
"In town for a few hours and she's already bought a house?" the librarian asked.
"She sure did, and she paid cash. Her name's Elizabeth Harris Brown. I'm not even sure she'd have told Sam that much except he needed the information for the paperwork." Though there was no reason to whispering, Jenny's conspiratorial tone had every customer in the shop leaning forward, entranced by the bits of information they were hearing.
"Who would want that old house? Especially...given what happened there."
Jenny continued applying the permanent-wave solution on Molly Biggs's's hair, all the while enjoying the attention from the women.
"I guess you'll find out soon enough when you register the property, Molly," Jenny said, referring to her client's position in the municipal office. "Sam told me Miss Brown paid cash, just pulled a suitcase from the trunk of her car and laid stacks of money on his desk."
Jenny turned her report into high drama, decribing how Sam walked into the bank with a garbage bag filled with cash. "The teller, who'd never seen so much real money, enlisted help from other employees to count it."
***
For certain the bank employees went home with a story to tell their families and friends. The stories grew, of course, and by the time the gossip reached me, folks were spreading rumour the Brolin house was sold for millions. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Southern folks don't like to be rushed. They appreciate the niceties. Maybe there's just a touch of residual hostility towards the north, or it could just be there's not a lot of excitement around these parts. For all their outward cordiality, Southerners can be a vicious lot. Within a few days, everybody in Bridgewater had a story to tell about the infamous Elizabeth Harris Brown, but most had never laid eyes on the soon-to-be new resident of Bridgewater.
The trouble with rampant gossip is that it needs fuel, and after buying the house, making a grand entrance, Lizzie vanished--just drove out of town like she'd never been here at all.
Folks, bewildered by the mystery woman, took to driving past the Brolin house, trying to understand how anybody in their right mind could buy the place. Now, that old elephant had been boarded up for years. Overgrown with vines, it became part of the landscape. No one could imagine anybody actually living in the house. Lordy, the front yard looked like a jungle. Sam would have needed a machete to get to the front door if Lizzie wanted a tour--but she didn't. She never left the real estate office--bought it sight unseen.
Steeped in secrets, the house and its occupants remains a mystery. Rumours abounded, but I reckon most of the stories have grown over the years. Built by Thomas Brolin, a rich man whose source of wealth remains blurred by history, the house seemed destined for a century of strange tenants. A magnificent home, I'm told, with no expense spared, but I've never met anyone who has actually been inside the house. Brolin, a recluse, disappeared--just up and vanished--but somehow the taxes were paid for another twenty years. It was only when foreclosure put the property in the hands of the county that folks got to hear about the underground rooms. There was evidence the house was a transit point for the Underground Railroad; a place where slaves heading north found refuge. Truth or fiction? Maybe just some legends people like to kick around.
It was an orphanage for a spell, a state-sponsored facility; nothing the locals wanted in their town. If they'd been a more compassionate lot, they might have learned about the graveyard behind the house. Back then black children had little chance of adoption, and some never lived for even that small chance at life. Yup, the folks in Bridgewater resented black children living in what they perceived as luxury. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Eventually, somebody discovered the truth, and once again, the Brolin house was boarded up. The county couldn't sell the place for a song. Nobody wanted a 'nigger house'.
For a time, the house became a home for unwed mothers. Back in the sixties, it was still shameful to be unmarried and pregnent, but even more disgraceful--a white girl copulating with a Negro. Families paid big money to Brolin House to erase their daughters' sins. A small percentage returned home, but most of the girls had no one who cared and nowhere to go.
If people knew what was happening in Brolin House, nobody paid much attention or gave a damn. If the pregnent girls wandered into town, they were treated like white trash. Sure as shootin', townsfolk didn't give a damn about no coloured babies growing in their bellies.
Yes, Brolin House had a sorrowful history. The stories might have stayed buried behind the thickets and spread of Spanish moss had it not been for Lizzie. She didn't come back to Bridgewater for almost three months,after she bought the property, but that didn't stop tongues wagging. Lizzie hired a contractor that pulled into town with his crew, a decision that sent Sam into a tailspin.
"Why did she have to bring in outside workers? That damn Yank, she should be supporting the local economy."
Sam complained to anyone who would listen. It was an irritant that gained momentum with the local tradesmen as the weeks went by, but especially to Sam who collected a kickback from his real estate referrals.
The construction crew frequented the diner, and before long, Mary-Jo hooked up with an electrician. She enjoyed a smug superiority, serving up renovation progress reports as she topped up her customers' coffee. Molly issued all the permits and took great delight at sharing tidbits of information during her visits to the hair salon.
The house became a regular tourist attraction. People drove by just to take a gander at the old place. As the house began to regain its original glory, a flurry of new remodelling projects kept the hardware store hopping. Bridgewater's 'high society' couldn't stand the fact the abandoned property looked better than their homes.
The town sure went through a beautification project in those few months before Lizzie returned. Folks competed with a phantom neighbour, paying a lot of attention to what Sam referred to as 'curb appeal'. Yup, Bridgewater sure looked like an inviting little town to a casual visitor.
I couldn't muster up the courage to take a look at the house for myself. I tried to let the gossip slide over me, pay no attention to the chatter in the aisles of the grocery store where I worked. The constant gossip began to peel away scar tissue, making me bleed all over again. No one noticed. I was invisible, a black man people got used to overlooking..
It's been almost forty years since I crawled into Bridgewater looking for my girl.
"She's gone. Haven't you done enough damage? Get away." The matron swatted at me like I was a mosquito about to infect her with malaria. "Get off the property and take your sorry ass back to wherever you came from."
I stood on the steps, slack-jawed, paralyzed. I'd found her--she must have stood on the same steps--but I arrived too late. My girl...my love...was gone.
The matron pushed me. I stumbled and fell, landing on the stone pathway. Unable to move, I continued to stare at the door as it slammed closed.
I'd found my way to Bridgewater. It took weeks, and yet, I'd never know--did I miss her by days or hours? It was so long ago. Forty years... The loss... a burning dagger...a searing loss that never healed. Chased out of my home town, it was love that tied me to a girl...my girl. Bella...I called her Bella...my beautiful angel. We were just seventeen.
It took awhile for me to discover the truth about that ole house. Sometimes the girls arrived by car, but they almost always left empty-handed by train, heading in the opposite direction, running from their sin, the disgrace of birthin' a black child.
I took to visiting the train station. The train to New York left Bridgewater each Friday afternoon at three PM sharp. Once or twice I saw a girl crying I'd try to talk with her, but every story was the same. 'My baby died.'
I was left wondering, did my baby die? Did Bella take our sweet child with her on the train? But I didn't hold out a lot of hope. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I snuck onto the property, leaving a little bouquet of wildflowers where the earth was fresh. Until they shut down and boarded up the place, there were always fresh graves. I stopped visiting after that; tried to put it all out of my mind. It's hard to forget--still haven't.
The gossip about Brolin House continued, especially when trucks rolled through town, deliveries from fancy furniture stores. Folks kept their eye out for a red Cadillac, but when Lizzie slipped back into town, no one noticed.
"Joe, you've got a delivery to make." The grocery store manager interrupted my reverie. "It looks like the owner has moved into Brolin House; order called in this morning."
I put my broom away and loaded up the delivery van. Trying not to dwell on where I was going, I headed down the road. Stopping to admire the clean-up, I looked around for the fancy car folks were still talking about, but the only vehicle in the driveway was a run-of-the-mill Buick with a U-Haul trailer attached. I began to unload the cardboard boxes, lining them up on the verandah, but when I knocked on the door, there was no answer. A shiver ran down my spine. I tried pushing away the memory from the despair I felt the last time I'd stood on the verandah. I wanted to run, run as fast as the wind could carry me, but I knocked again. No answer.
Halfway back to the van, I heard a noise, an eerie shriek like an animal suddenly snared in a leg-hold trap. Stopping to listen, a series of unintelligible screams followed. I found Lizzie in the backyard, manically ripping weeds out of the ground. .
In the shadow of the house, I remained hidden. I fought a battle between the embarrassment of interfering in an intimate moment and impotence, not knowing the right thing to do for the woman. Falling to her knees, moaning in a personal agony I could not understand, but somehow felt, adopted as my own. Had the discovery of a graveyard behind her new home upset her so badly? If I stepped forward and told her all I knew about the buried angels, would she appreciate the sacred earth, the abandoned graves of children who never asked to be born, but were denied life? The tears, my own loss, overwhelmed me. I reached blindly for my handkerchief.
"Joey?"
The sound of her voice, the empathy and unworldly connection between two strangers added no comfort to my grieving, and yet, she'd called me...Joey. How would she know my name?
I felt her hand on my face, brushing away my tears.
"Joey...how did you find me?"
I suppose if I'd been a weaker man, someone who'd had the luxury of drink and rich food, I might have succumbed to a heart attack, for surely my heart stopped when I opened my eyes and looked into Bella's eyes. I'd have been mighty happy to die right there with Lizzie's hand on my weathered face.
Even after all the years, it wasn't comfortable to reach out to a white woman. I thought I'd learned my lesson. I surely had the scars to prove it. Every muscle in my body quivered, the ache to embrace the only one I'd ever loved, but I couldn't. It was Lizzie who reached out to me, just has she had so many years ago.
"Joey, you came back," she repeated. "You found me."
Silence. As the scent of magnolias electrified our memories, we slid to the ground as if surrendering the years and losses.
"I followed you, best I could do, until, I lost...thought you were gone forever. I needed to be close to you... never left,"" I finally said. "I... the last place..."
It took me a long time to recognize I was still breathing, alive and holding Bella in my arms. By the time we recovered from our unimaginable reunion, words no longer mattered. We began to clean the graves, hoping to find, to know which one belonged to our son.
"I named him Jessie," Lizzie said.
We stared at the rocks nameless, with nothing more than chiselled granite, a collection of anonymous years, lost souls; a field of regrets, and began to grieve--together.
.
.
.
| Author Notes |
This novella will be a collection of stand-alone stories with overlapping characters and story lines, their lives of people living in Bridgewater, a fictional town in the southern USA.
Human flaws and courage against the backdrop of a perfect little town. As I am working on several projects at the same time, it may be some time before I return to Lizzie's and Joey's story, but I expect this to be a 5-6 chapter novella--yes, I've said that before--but a short book is my intent. |
By Spiritual Echo
"The story continues...
Bridgewater, a pretty southern town, is shaken by a visitor who arrives in a vintage Cadillac convertible. Elizabeth Harris Brown stops long enough to buy Brolin House--sight unseen--then disappears as quickly as she arrived.
The nefarious history of the property and the secrets of the townspeople begin to surface. The story is told in chapters changing perspective as a collective deceit is revealed.
Each time the door of the municipal offices swung open, Molly felt a rush of anticipation. She'd spent days admonishing herself for her reaction to Gino Silvestri, the general contractor in charge of the Brolin house renovations. Despite her self-discipline, she couldn't help her physical response to the burly Italian who'd teased her with a wicked smile. Lying in her bed late at night, Molly's swirling thoughts settled on a single adjective to describe the man who'd rocked her world--swarthy, but in the most delicious way.
Built like a bull, Gino swaggered, a barrel of a man with the grace of a dancer. He'd made his introductions on his first visit to the office. Dressed in a white cotton tank top saturated with sweat and hiding none of his furry chest hair, his charming manner gave Molly goose-bumps.
She stared, caught off guard by Gino's oozing masculinity as he pushed his applications across the counter. Trying to regain her composure, she attempted to calculate the cost of the permits, but found herself mentally immobilized, unable to add up the simple fees. Two plus two equals four, she told herself, trying to shake the sexual response Gino had awakened.
A random thought made her giggle. Two and two might become twenty-two. It doesn't have to make sense--none of it.
"You laugh like an angel, but I hope my angel is not laughing at me," Gino said. "I need these permits approved to begin working on the septic system."
My angel: The words floated through Molly's thoughts like plucked chords from a symphony.
"Septic system?" Molly returned to reality, and taking a closer look at the proposed property plans, she felt her throat tighten. "You can't excavate behind the house."
"Of course I can. It is the best location." Gino blustered, and eventually left the office agreeing to resubmit his application, but not before he took Molly's hand in his over-sized paw and placed a gentle kiss on her palm.
On my palm... Molly was smitten. She'd seen the Mediterranean gesture in the movies, but always on the back of the hand. On my palm... Distracted by carnal thoughts, for the rest of the day she wondered why she hadn't given Gino any reason for the application rejection, and later she asked herself why she'd treated the graveyard as a secret. Everyone who grew up in Bridgewater knew of its existence, but no one talked about it, and certainly not to an outside who might ask a lot of questions.
***
A practical woman, Molly Biggs had few illusions about her unimportant and beige existence. Yet, after work, she made an impulsive decision; she needed a make-over. The unofficial town spinster felt leashed to Bridgewater by circumstance and family obligations. Gino's attention made her conscious of her greying hair and dowdy appearance. After Gino's third visit to the office, equally flirtatious, Molly headed off to the salon, determined to do something about her looks--something Gino might consider attractive.
Ladies came to Jenny's salon just as much for the gossip as a haircut. Molly's new colour, a group decision favouring blonde highlights, had been debated and applied. With the timer set, the conversation took a turned into a whimsical chatter about past-life experiences. Molly, empowered by the attention, declared with absolute certainty she'd probably been nothing more than a scullery maid in a previous life. "It seems that's all I do; clean up after my mother."
"That's not how reincarnation works," Doris said. "If you were a servant in one life, you return as the master to experience both sides of the coin. The entire premise of reincarnation is to reach enlightenment."
The librarian was the unofficial expert on everything and nothing, Molly thought, but the rest of the regulars at the salon seemed to accept Doris's intellectual superiority. Molly thought she was a snob, flaunting her book knowledge around, and always wanting the final word.
"So then, Doris, do you believe you came back as a librarian because you were once a writer, brought into this life to protect your manuscripts?" Molly silently congratulated herself for her witty contribution to the conversation.
Usually she had very little to offer, but she felt light-hearted. Until Gino began to appear at the municipal office, Molly had little to add to the conversation, and spent her weekly appointment absorbing the stories other women shared. She wouldn't call them friends, but they were the closest thing she had to confidents. From them, she'd learned many intimate secrets about men and marriage, a lifestyle she'd never experienced. Her one and only kiss occurred in middle school, a hard memory to savour as she'd later found out, the awkward, pimply-faced boy had no true affection for Molly. He'd kissed her on a dare .
"What's the latest news about the Brolin house?" Molly asked, abruptly changing the subject. She hoped someone might bring up Gino's name so she could ease her questions into the conversation without suspicion. Though she felt foolish, she yearned for more information about the man who made her blush and gush, prattling like a school girl whenever he spoke to her.
Molly's thoughts drifted as the ladies began to speculate about the damn Yankee, the infamous Elizabeth Harris Brown. She couldn't care less about the new owner. It was only when she overheard Jenny mention ghosts that Molly snapped to attention.
"Did you say the house is haunted?"
"That's what Mary-Jo claims. Her new boyfriend gave her a tour of the place and she heard a baby crying. There was no baby there--no one but the two of them wandering around an empty house. "
A thick, intense silence filled the room as the women bathed in the ominous possibility of a local ghost. Prone to believing in conspiracy theories, Jenny's clients had a special taste for the paranormal. A dozen seconds elapsed before everyone began to talk at once.
"Maybe all the graveyard babies have come back to avenge their death. " Doris's dramatic whisper stopped the chatter as the group considered the librarian's explanation.
"What dead babies?"
The regulars turned toward Sarah, the newest customer, a recent city transplant who'd bought one of the cookie-cutter homes sprouting up in Bridgewater. They began to regale the young woman with stories about Brolin House. Molly knew half the things they told Sarah were not true, but some of the things said scared her; the idea of a serial killer whose victims were infants sent chills down her spine.
Molly didn't want to participate any longer. At the mention of a baby's cry, her fingers rolled into her palms; fists, white-knuckled weapons poised for defence. She fought the surge of nausea and tried to concentrate on breathing. Taking deep breaths, she hoped no one noticed the anxiety attack ignited by the conversation.
The memory of a crying baby carved through years of denial. Molly's mother worked at Brolin House until it closed. As a child, the shame of having a working mother added to her feelings of alienation from the other children. Up north, women might have been marching for equality and burning their bras, but time stood still in Bridgewater. In the south, the only reason a woman sought employment outside the home meant a man had failed to provide for his family. Children were vicious, taunting Molly, calling her white trash.
Molly tried to ingratiate herself, find acceptance among her peers. She painted her father as a war hero, but, neither survivors nor victims of the Viet Nam War were treated with honour. Not able to deal with abandonment issues, she created an elaborate story about her father's death, struck down by the enemy. The truth and the aftermath of an absent father fueled her lies. Molly was only ten years old when John Biggs, a draft dodger, headed for Canada. He'd simply walked out without saying goodbye.
She spent her childhood waiting for his return, lonely and longing for an intact family until anger replaced hope. She blamed her father for leaving without her--making her a slave to her mother's bitterness.
Molly never knew what her mother did for a living, guessing she was a housekeeper; she just couldn't bear the thought of calling her mother a maid. The maids who worked for townsfolk who could afford hired help wore black, shiny dresses and starched aprons. Once or twice Molly had caught a glimpse shopping in town. No, she'd convinced herself, her mother could not be a maid. Now could she be? Not possible; her mother was white.
The day Patricia Biggs dragged Molly to Brolin House due to an unexpected emergency. Molly's fears disappeared. Only important folks were summoned to work on their day off she reasoned, and obediently remained seated on the parlour sofa, her allocated perch, while her mother disappeared up the stairs.
Such a long time ago... All around her the ladies in the salon chattered, witching topics, but Molly couldn't follow the conversation. Her thoughts were fixated on a crying baby. A baby had cried the day she sat on the horsehair sofa in Brolin House--just for a moment--and then silence.
"Can I see the baby?" Molly had asked her mother when she reappeared.
"No. He's gone to live with his father."
"Why can't I go see my father?" The wave of anger and a jealousy pushed her mother's warnings aside. It was forbidden to talk about her father. Her impudence was rewarded with a sharp slap across the side of her head.
"Molly, are you with us?"
Molly blinked and sat up, correcting her posture from her slumped down position in the chair.
"I must have dozed off," she said as Jenny motioned her towards the wash-out sinks.
"You probably needed a nap. Looking after your mother can't be easy. Is she any better these days?"
Molly had no interest in discussing her mother. Although she'd spent most of her visits to the salon dumping her complaints on anyone who was foolish enough to enquire about Patricia, her mind whirled and the nausea threatened an embarrassment.
When Molly didn't pick up the usual conversation thread, Jenny continued. "Such a horrible disease.Losing one's memory seems so tragic."
Jenny's sympathy rubbed Molly the wrong way. "Oh, she remembers what she wants to, when it's convenient." Impatient, Molly urged Jenny to speed up. "I've got to get home."
Feeling foolish, she ignored Jenny's compliments when the hairdresser turned off the blow-dryer. She'd opted to get rid of the grey, hoping to appear more attractive to Gino, but she could hardly recognize the image on the mirror.
A bubble burst. An uncertain truth from her past mingled and erased her romantic notions. Without ever having met the new owner of Brolin House, she hated the damn Yankee for stirring up old stories. A gnawing anxiety sent her racing out of the salon.
As she did every day when she got home, Molly sat in the car for a few minutes. Taking deep breaths, she tried to prepare herself for another long evening of servitude. Patricia Biggs, never a warm maternal parent, had become more and more demanding as her dementia deepened. Molly never knew what she would face when she returned home. Some days Patricia seemed totally normal, but infrequent. Guilt partnered with financial obstacles to keep Molly a prisoner in Bridgewater. She simply could not afford the cost of a nursing home.
For a fleeting moment, Molly remembered how exciting it was to go off to college. She'd had a chance to start over, make new friends and better herself, but that dream dissolved in her first semester. Brolin House was closed down her mother lost her job, broke her hip and summoned Molly to return home. The promise her mother made Molly, 'you'll go back just as soon as I heal and find a new job', never happened. Patricia Biggs settled into her role as an invalid with the ease of slipping into a familiar pair of slippers. Her mother's broken bones were replaced by depression and leaked into an Alzheimer diagnosis. Molly didn't want to believe the doctors.
"I'm home." Molly dropped her keys on the hallway table. "Where are you, Mother?" Silence--no sign of Patricia.
Molly continued to call out while checking the kitchen and racing up the stairs. Expecting to find her mother in bed taking a nap, she began to panic when her search of the upstairs did not reveal her mother's whereabouts. There was no sign of Patricia in the backyard. Deciding her mother must have gone for a walk and perhaps become confused, she ran back inside to grab her car keys.
Halfway across the kitchen, she noticed the basement door ajar. What would she be doing in the basement? But, that's where she discovered her mother, sitting on the cement floor, her stretch-pants saturated, a pool of urine seeping across the floor
"Stop your screaming. The babies are sleeping." Patricia growled in response to Molly's shocked gasp. Cradling a doll, she rocked back and forth, lost in a world of her own. .
"What are you doing down here in the dark?"
As she pulled the cord from the single ceiling light fixture, the smell of ammonia reached her nostrils."Oh, my God, Mother, what have you done? Why didn't you turn the light on? You shouldn't be down here."
"Babies sleeping."
The contents from cardboard boxes pulled off storage shelves littered the floor. Ripped open, books, clothing and toys were strewn across the basement seemed evidence of a manic frenzy. Exasperated, Molly surveyed the mess. She picked up a discarded doll, its head twisted off; blue plastic eyes staring at nothing. A sense of despair enveloped her as she looked at the toys; mementoes of her lost innocence.
"What were you looking for?"
Patricia, startled by the question, seemed to reconnect, peering up at her daughter as if she'd appeared out of thin air.
"What were you looking for?"
Suddenly indignant, Patricia hauled herself to her feet, the doll now dangling from her hand like a forgotten appendage. The reality of her incontinence and her surroundings made her turn away from Molly as if ashamed. She flung the doll against the wall and tried to push past her, but Molly grabbed her by the shoulders.
"What were you looking for down here? Look at the mess you've made."
"I need my book."
Molly glanced around the dingy cellar. Her Nancy Drew and old comic books were everywhere, some with torn covers as if Patricia had attacked the boxes with rage.
Defeated by a conversation making no sense, she stood back and let her mother pass. "All your books are in your room."
"Not my baby book. I hid it down here," Patricia climbed the stairs without a backward glance..
"Have a shower before you put on your nightgown," Molly yelled, but Patricia disappeared out of sight, closing the basement door behind her without responding.
Molly sat down on the bottom step and buried her face in her hands. People told her she was lucky her mother could still look after her personal needs. Molly didn't bother arguing the point. Every day Patricia produced high drama. The thought of her mother's continuing deterioration burdened her mind.
It'll never be my turn.
"Out of nothing... This whole mess for a damn book!" She dropped her hands into her lap and briefly gazed at her palms. She'd woken up with a glimmer of hope, thinking that Gino might be legitimately interested in her. She'd dared to dream, thinking a new hairdo might make her look more attractive to the contractor.
The basement door opened.
"I'm hungry," Patricia yelled down the stairs.
"You'll have to wait," Molly snapped back. "Go have a shower."
The door slammed shut.
Resigned to the chore, Molly stood up and began to gather up the toys. As she threw books back into the cardboard box she noticed a burgundy notebook she couldn't remember. Opening the cover, she immediately recognized her mother's writing.
"Your damn book."
Molly hated herself for the bitterness consuming her life. Even as she placed the book on the washing machine, she felt a stab of disappointment. "What was I expecting? Baby pictures?" Gino had awakened something she thought she'd buried--hope. Molly had never felt cherished.
Casting off her self-pity, she began to restore order to the basement. It took almost an hour for Molly to repack the cartons and mop the floor before she went back upstairs. Relieved to find her mother showered and sitting at the kitchen table eating crackers, she tossed the notebook in front of her and busied herself making supper.
During the fifteen minutes it took to fry ham and scramble eggs, Patricia kept her face buried in the notebook. Molly brewed tea, counted out her mother's pills and sat down at the table with a weary sigh.
"Put the book away, Mother. It's time to eat." Molly had to repeat herself two more times before Patricia complied.
"What's so interesting in that book that you destroyed the basement looking for it? Is it your journal?"
"It's my book of emergencies. I thought I'd forgotten their names, but I remember them now."
"Emergencies? What kind of emergencies?"
Patricia picked up her teacup and took a sip. For a moment, Molly thought her mother had drifted off into her own world again, but when she set the cup back on the saucer, she seemed anxious to talk.
"It's just a word we used--not a real emergency--but when one of the girls went into labour, it was my job to look after things. We called the baby an emergency."
"You were a midwife?" Molly asked in astonishment. She'd stopped wondering what her mother did at Brolin House decades ago. Water under the bridge--times long past,--but the local gossip since the purchase of the property and the conversation at the salon spurred her on to ask more questions.
"No, dear, I was an angel. I sent those babies straight back to Heaven. Half-breeds... God's only mistake, but I made it right."
Molly sat, paralysed by her mother's narrative. she tried to process what she was hearing. Patricia's sense of pride repulsed Molly. Her mother calmly described how newborns were categorized. Children born at Brolin House--caramel, chocolate and charcoal--were allowed to live or die, all based on skin colour.
"Go to bed."
Patricia reared back at the force of Molly's command.
"Go to bed now!"
Molly's voice verged on hysteria, but Patricia obeyed. She left the table and stumbled towards the stairs. "Why can't you tell me how proud you are. I was a good mother," she whimpered as she left the kitchen.
The darkness of the kitchen eventually roused Molly from her stupor. She got up, turned the light on, and then returned to sit at the table. She opened the notebook and began to read.
The tears flowed freely as she read the names of the girls; their babies identified by gender, weight and skin colour. Molly choked--time of birth--time of death--life measured in minutes.
A name on the third page jumped out--Elizabeth Harris. Molly's remaining composure crumbled. Could it be the same woman? Elizabeth Harris Brown--the new owner of Brolin Housse?
Minutes passed before Molly turned back to the book. Elizabeth had borne twins, a girl and a boy, but by some miracle of nature, the male was 'chocolate' while the girl...white! Molly's breath came in short spurts as she tried to read the rest of the entry. The boy, born first, lived three minutes. There was no time of death listed for the girl.
It was after midnight before Molly stirred. She cleared the table, rinsed the plates and rifled through the pantry looking for the stashed bottle of brandy. Pouring a generous serving into her teacup, she leaned against the counter sipping the liquor and wondered what to do with the information she'd discovered.. One thing was certain. She hated her mother--the executioner.
She could hear her mother snoring when she went upstairs, briefly paused, thinking how easy it would be to go into Patricia's room and cover her face with a pillow. Didn't she deserve the same death? Didn't she merit the same end?
Molly brushed her teeth and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror. She didn't recognize herself, almost having forgotten being in the salon. As she studied the brunette looking back at her, a seed of hope seemed to germinate. She could hand over the evidence to the sheriff. He would have to do something--charge Patricia Biggs with murder--take her away.
It would cause such a scandal, Molly thought as she crawled into bed. Yes, such a delicious scandal!
Molly pulled the covers up to her chin and smiled.
By Spiritual Echo
| Author Notes |
List of Characters
Elizabeth Harris Brown--new owner of Btolin House Joey--Elizabeth's one-time boyfriend (teenage years) Mary-Jo--waitress at local diner Jenny--owner of hair salon and Sam's girlfriend Sam--real-estate agent Rich Coleman--current Bridgewater sheriff Jason Coleman--retired sheriff and Rich's father Doris--librarian |
|
You've read it - now go back to FanStory.com to comment on each chapter and show your thanks to the author! |
| © Copyright 2015 Spiritual Echo All rights reserved. Spiritual Echo has granted FanStory.com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work. |
© 2015 FanStory.com, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Terms under which this service is provided to you. Privacy Statement