After nearly two hours. I was about to give up when I separated an article on paranoid-schizophrenia from an article about the side effects of some new mood-enhancing drug and saw an envelope yellowed by time. It had no return address and had been sent to Daddy at the clinic. On the bottom of the envelope, however, was the word Personal.
I sat on the floor in front of the file cabinet and stared at the envelope, my heart suddenly tripping. Footsteps outside the office door made me hesitate a moment. Then there was a knock,
"Yes?"
"I'm going to sleep now," Aunt Agnes said. "Is there anything you would like to know about tomorrow?"
"No," I said sharply, probably too sharply, She was silent.
If you think of something, you can ask me in the morning, I'll be up early."
"Thank you," I said.
Once again, there was a pause, and then I heard her footsteps trail away down the corridor.
How I hated to have to be so secretive in my own home. but I had painfully discovered that this was a house in which shadows hovered in corners like small creatures embracing those secrets and keeping them in the dark for as long as they could. The walls were like sponges. soaking up the whispers. burying the sadness as deep down in the very foundation as possible. I felt as if I were peeling away one deception after another and drawing closer and closer to the truth. Would it free me, or would it chain me to an identity that was so heavy with trouble that I would be dragged under as well?
My trembling fingers opened the envelope and pulled out the tissue-thin letter within it. I opened it gently, afraid it would suddenly, through some magical curse, crumble into dust in my palms. The writing was nearly faded and gone. I had to move closer to the light to read,
Dear Claude,
I know we agreed I would not write or call you, but I had to thank you for the pictures of Willow and the letter you wrote describing her.
You were right. She is so beautiful.
Of course, I was worried about her, aboutwhat she would be like. You know my fears better than anyone, but fromwhat you tell me about her, I feel confident I can put those fears aside. And thiswoman you described, this Isabella (or, as Willow calls her, Amou), sounds wonderful. I'm so happy you have her.
Of course, I have the pictures hidden where only I can see them.
How insane it sounds for me to tell you how much I miss the Willows. I suppose you and I turned it into a fantasyland, and I know how you feel about not facing reality.
I want to assure you I am doing fine.
I have my ocean to comfort and inspire me.
And I have our memories.
I am truly a wealthy woman again.
Love always,
Grace
.
I read and reread the letter four times. When you read things written by people you know, you can hear their voices. It's as if they are speaking to you. However. I had no idea what my real mother sounded like. I thought if I kept reading. if I studied each and every word. I might get some hint, some indication, some inflection. I was that desperate to know every detail about her.
Frustrated but fascinated. I put the letter in with my father's diary, taking great care to keep it as hidden as it was before, and then I went up to bed, growing increasingly anxious with every step I took that would bring me closer to morning and the funeral,
.
The funeral was even bigger than I had anticipated. Daddy's large obituary in the newspapers alerted not only his associates and businesspeople who had known him for years but also many of the families of his patients. I don't think I truly
appreciated just how loved and respected he had been. It was quite overwhelming to see the seemingly endless line of cars, the crowd of mourners that spilled out of the church. Arrangements had to be made to put speakers on the doors so the mourners who couldn't get in could listen to the minister and to the eulogy delivered by Dr. Price.
After Daddy was laid to rest next to my adoptive mother, members of our family returned to the house for what would be their final expressions of sympathy and their goodbyes. The way my adoptive mother's brothers, sisters, nieces, and nephews talked about the funeral, someone would have thought it had been a theatrical event. It was as if they had to offer their reviews, from the flowers to the church service-- even to how well the cars were organized along the funeral procession.
Later in the afternoon. after I had said goodbye to people I really didn't know, despite their relationship to us. Mr. Bassinger, Aunt Agnes, Margaret Selby, and I gathered in the living room, and he, went through the main provisions of the will. He explained how Daddy had wisely set up trusts and protected the estate. I had inherited more money and property than I had anticipated, every added number widening Aunt Agnes's eves until she looked as if her eyeballs would pop out and roll into her lap. Margaret Selby, on the other hand, was so bored she actually excused herself to make a phone call.