by Dawn Gardner
“Ellen Darnell,” one of the officers said.
“Yes, what’s going on?”
“I am Officer Johnson, we have a search warrant. We need to come in and get started.”
“Okay, but I’m sorry I don’t understand? What are you searching for?”
“Ma’am, we can’t talk about that now. Excuse me.” The officer came into the house and the group of officers followed him. “Ma’am, I’m going to ask that you sit down and stay put. We’ll try to be as quick as possible.”
For three hours, Ellen sat on the couch in the sunroom listening to the sounds of drawers being opened and closed, things being moved and people milling about the house. She didn’t even understand what they could be looking for much less, why they were here. A female officer came into the sunroom.
“Excuse me, there are three boxes in the bedroom with locks. I wanted to see if you had keys for those before I force them open.”
“Yes, I do.” Ellen went to her purse. “Can I please come back with you? Those boxes contain very special items.”
“No, please wait here.” The officer took the keys.
“There is a fourth key. I don’t know what that is to. Please take care of the items inside those boxes, please.”
The female officer walked away. It was another hour before Officer Johnson came into the sunroom.
“Ma’am, we are almost done here. But I did want to ask you a couple of questions about your mother. Let’s move to the living room, so they can search this room please.”
“Okay.” Ellen got up and walked with the officer. Ellen sat on the couch and Officer Johnson sat into the armchair near the window.
“You said your mother had Alzheimer’s, correct? Was she coherent?”
“Yes, she did. I’m not sure what you mean. I have been staying with her for the past three and a half weeks. She had her good days and bad days. Sometimes she was all there, sometimes she was in the past or checked out, like empty, and at the end I think she might have been hallucinating. Her mind was not like it was before the disease.”
“Do you think she was capable of building an explosive device?”
“No way. Absolutely, no way. Oh my god, you think my mother built the bomb. No. She was not tech savvy before the Alzheimer’s, so no.”
“Has there been anyone else here with your mother?”
“Yes. My sister Kim Jones before me. And then the home health aides.”
“Okay. Could you provide me the name of that company and your mother’s doctor’s name. You don’t have to do it right this minute. Just send me an email with the information.”
“I will.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss. Here is my card, feel free to call me if you think of something or want to know about the case. And my email is right there on the bottom.”
The female officer who had taken the keys came back into the living room. She motioned for Officer Johnson to come with her. Officer Johnson came back into the room.
“Ma’am, just a couple more questions. Do you think your mom would’ve committed suicide?”
Ellen cried. The female officer went and grabbed a tissue box and handed it to Ellen. “No. Oh my god, I don’t think so. Why would you say that?”
“We’ve found some items. We have taken photos of everything, so we are going to leave the items with you. How long ago was your mom diagnosed with Alzheimer’s?”
“It’s been about four years. But, recently, she’s been going downhill.”
The female officer said, “Ma’am, we found what the fourth key opened up. We’d like for you to come see.”
Ellen looked at Officer Johnson to make sure they were done. He nodded his approval for her to go. As Ellen walked by the front door, she saw two cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other. She wondered what was inside of them. The female officer led Ellen to the lower level into the basement. A single light hung from the ceiling. Ellen and Kim rarely came down to the basement as kids, they always joked it was haunted. A clothesline was stretched down the middle of the basement with her father’s uniforms, her mother’s coats and other clothing, it was like a timeline of their lives. The clothesline bowed in middle from the weight and the clothes themselves blocked almost all of the light from the bulb that hung from the ceiling, making the other half of the basement darker.
The female officer motioned for Ellen to move over closer to her. She shined her flashlight into the darkness, “The chest was buried behind a bunch of boxes.” The female officer handed Ellen the flashlight.
Ellen slowly walked over to the box. She shined the light into the box. On top was a watercolor painting of beautiful pink peonies and the most mesmerizing butterfly. The female officer came over and held the light for Ellen. Ellen squatted close to the side of the chest. There were hundreds of watercolor paintings on the most delicate paper.
“I never knew she did this,” Ellen looked up at the officer. Tears streamed down her face. Ellen wiped her face before leaning over the chest again. “Do you think you could help me carry this upstairs?”
“Sure.” The officer closed the chest. “Please allow us to carry this up the stairs for you.” The female officer and Officer Johnson carried the chest up to the living room and sat it in the middle of the floor. Ellen thanked them and then they were gone. Ellen sat down on the couch facing the chest, feeling numb. She checked her phone again to see if Kim had answered her messages. Nothing. Ellen’s mind flashed to her mother holding the backpack in the entryway. Her face was so peaceful, then the smoke, the sound, the sirens and then the sequence started again. Ellen clutched her knees and rocked back and forth.
The sun tickled Ellen’s eyes open. She was disoriented; it was a dream. As she became fully awake, she sat up on the white sofa and there in the middle of the floor sat the chest. Oh my god, she thought, it did happen. She quickly searched for her phone. The battery was at one percent. She found her charger and brought it back to living room. She took a deep breath and opened the chest.
The beautiful pink peonies greeted Ellen. She teared up and took another deep breath, forcing herself not to cry. This time she allowed herself to look at the other items in the chest. Ellen pulled out a roll of fabric that was tied with strings. She undid the ties and rolled the fabric out, inside were pockets that contained brushes. She pulled a large brush out and looked at the Chinese writing across the handle. Ellen ran her fingers over the bristles and placed it back into its fabric pocket. Ellen pulled out something that looked like a drink coaster. It was a dark grey, almost black square that had a deep circle cut into the middle of it. Ellen ran her fingers over the writing that she guessed was Chinese and placed it to the side. There was a stack of books, The Art of Chinese Brush Painting, The Mustard Seed Garden, The Book of the Plum, The Book of the Orchid, The Book of the Bamboo, The Book of the Chrysanthemum. Ellen flipped through the pages seeing her mother’s handwriting on the pages along with dates and notes about her practicing the techniques that were illustrated in the books. Ellen stopped at a page with a longer entry. It was as if her mother was speaking to herself. The handwritten note on the page was dated, August 1970 “Remember Joni, a stroke is a stroke. Once you made it, it is what it is. Don’t try to go back over it and fix it or fill it in, love it for what it is.”
There were ceramic bowls of various sizes. That was everything on the side opposite of the paintings. Ellen then gently lifted the stack of paintings out of the chest. Easily there could be at least one hundred paintings. She placed the stack carefully on the sofa. Underneath the paintings was a beautiful leather journal. Its leather straps were tied around itself. Ellen untied the straps and unwrapped them from the journal. Tucked on the inside pocket were three small paintings made on cards, a turtle, a tiger and a butterfly with a peony and two envelopes. One envelope had Ellen’s name on it and the other had Kim written on the front. A journal page was torn out and folded in half. The words read first was written in her mother’s hand. Ellen flipped the paper
open.
Girls,
I’m not sure who is finding this or if you are together. But you have found my work. I created this. It gave me life like nothing could. No one knew that I was a painter. I take that back, one person knew. I knew before the diagnosis there was something wrong with me. I kept forgetting things, and as time moved on I couldn’t do what I loved the most, paint. I locked it all away, so that it wouldn’t make me sad. I started painting the walls of the house instead, it was the closest thing I had to my art.
I never shared this with you because being your mother was the most important thing to me in this world. All I can hope for is that you had a wonderful childhood and felt loved and cared for.
I have written you each letters. They are tucked in the side pocket of the journal. Ellen yours has the contact information for the funeral home and they know how I want everything done. This journal belonged to someone dear to me. I gave it to him before he left for Vietnam. It came back to me with these three cards when he was killed in the war. I made these cards for him. I was thankful to have this small piece of him. He wrote a couple of entries and I have a couple of the letters he sent tucked in the back of this journal. I decided after my diagnosis to tell you the story of my Jack. I loved your father, but Jack has always had my whole heart. I share this now with you because I would have never done anything to dishonor your father. But I believe you should know all of me.
Chapter 21
Ellen’s phone vibrated with a text. It was from Ted. She didn’t even read it. The guilt was building inside her. Ellen tried Kim’s number again. The call went straight to voicemail. Ellen ended the call, she couldn’t leave this in a voicemail. Was there an emergency number for Kim? Ellen made her way to the sunroom and flipped through all of the paperwork Kim had put together. She found a number of someone that was the contact at Nikon. She called the number and left a voicemail for a call back.
Miss Morris meowed at the door to be let in. Ellen opened the door and fell into the papasan chair and the cat joined her. As Ellen ran her hand across Miss Morris’s back, she thought this must be a dream. What were they looking for last night and what did they take away in those boxes? Ellen was afraid, and she didn’t know why. She missed her mother. She was thankful for the last four weeks with her. But Ellen wasn’t sure if she wanted to know it all. Her eyelids burned from exhaustion and crying, she closed them.
Ellen startled awake looking for the direction of the glass tapping. She looked toward the sunroom door. There was Ted. She motioned for him to come in.
“Ellen, are you okay? You haven’t answered any of my calls or texts.”
“Ted I just can’t, right now. I can’t do anything. And most of all I can’t do this,” Ellen pointed to herself and Ted. “This is why my mother is dead. I’m a horrible person, I’m a horrible daughter and I wish I could take back yesterday, take it back, oh god, please I want to take it back.” Ellen sobbed.
“I thought this might be happening. Ellen you are not to blame. What happened was…I don’t even know what it was. But you’re not at fault. They are going to find out what happened.”
“Sure, do you know the ATF were here last night searching the house. They think my mother built the fucking bomb? She couldn’t even use her smart phone properly, and that was before her Alzheimer’s. God dammit what happened yesterday?”
“Ellen, I’m really sorry. Can you let me help you?” Ted touched Ellen’s hand.
Ellen pulled her hand away. “No, I can’t. Get out. Leave. I can’t do this.”
Ted placed a bag on the table. “I brought you some bagels. And when you’re ready, you should look at one of those text messages I sent you. My sister came up with something on Jack Andrews. I know the timing is off. But, Ellen, I want to help you.”
Ellen didn’t say anything, she got up out of the chair and went into her mother’s bedroom and fell onto the bed. She buried her head into the pillow and yanked the sheets and blankets over her head. Her mother’s scent was all around her. Something hard pinged Ellen on the head. Ellen sat up, pushed the covers away and searched to find what had hit her. Embedded in the blanket was a gold chain. Her fingers followed the tangle of metal until they reached her mother’s jade butterfly pendant. Ellen clutched it in her hands and ran into the living room. She opened the chest and pulled out her letter.
Dear Ellen,
Your Dad has passed away about two months ago. I think it is what prompted me to do this. I knew when I was pregnant with you that being a mother was going to be the most important thing to me. I missed my mother so terribly throughout my whole life.
What you may not realize Ellen is that we live many lives. You and Kim are your own people, but I see bits of my life in each of you. Ellen you are the most like me. You may not believe me, and it may have felt like we fought all the time, but you are so much like me. Kim is steady like your father and she goes for what she wants. You are passionate, but you bury that desire for the good of others. And maybe to avoid living. Maybe I did that too. I wanted for as long as I could remember to be an artist. I studied painting, I practiced. Oh did I practice. But I never felt my work was good enough. Never good enough to share. And certainly not good enough to claim myself as an artist. But, when I painted it gave me such joy and life. My wish is that you find something that does that for you.
You have lived your life for your son, staying in a life that you were not happy in. You need to live now. I feel like my time with Jack was when I truly lived, I was painting and loving with all my heart even though it was for a very short time. I loved your father, he was a good man and a good father. But Jack had my heart in a way no other man could. It was a once in a lifetime love that I will cherish forever. I want you to have this kind of love at least once in your life.
I’m losing my mind, literally. There are things I wished I had done differently, but being your mother has always been the best part of my life.
I thought my painting would be what my life was about, but it turned out to only be for a season.
One last thing, the painting with the peonies and the butterfly, it’s the top painting on the stack. I want that one handled specially. I don’t care what you do with the others. My Jack died in Vietnam, but I want this painting to honor him in some way. I am going to leave the details to you. I trust you will do it right, but please read the journal first, and then make the plans. I’m not sure if Jack’s father is still alive, because I don’t know when you are reading this. His name was/is Frank Andrews, he owned a garage, called Andrew’s Body Shop in Lynchburg, about a mile away from the newspaper plant.
I love you so much and I was honored to be your mother.
Ellen picked up the journal next and walked back into her mother’s bedroom. She still held the jade pendant. She placed it on top of the pillow beside her and began reading the journal. There were three entries from Jack in the journal. Mostly about the weather, the foxholes and VC. The last entry made Ellen’s stomach sink.
One of the guys from Eleven Bravo fell into a pungi trap yesterday. Shit, I wished I had never looked down. The bamboo spikes were sticking out of every part of his body. But the worst part was his face, so much pain, I don’t have the right words. But I wish to hell it would stop flashing in my mind. Yesterday, I did get to work on a deuce and a half from the convoy, I guess they didn’t realize I had mechanic skills. Tomorrow, we are on another search and destroy.
That was the last entry. There were two empty pages and then her mother’s handwriting took over. Joni told of her later childhood years, spending most of it alone. She wrote about her love for Chinese painting and taking classes in Lexington, Virginia. Ellen thought of the trip to Washington and Lee with Ted. Did Joni in fact know that artist, was he the teacher? In her writing, she never mentioned his name. She wrote about finding Jack because of the newspaper article. And she wrote about their love story from May to December. The details of his face, the smell of his skin, the way his touch made her melt, the color of h
is eyes, the way his body moved and the way her body ached for him. Ellen could feel the passion that her mother had for this man come through the pages. They only had the summer together. She cried for her mother and she cried for herself. Ellen had never known love and passion that deep.
Ellen’s phone buzzed. Hoping for a response from Kim, Ellen checked her phone. It was a message from Ted, Please eat something, bagels are on the table. And here is the information about Jack in case you deleted the previous text. I would be happy to go with you, just let me know. Ellen walked into the kitchen, made a cup of coffee and then forced herself to eat half a bagel. As she was finishing, a second text came through from Ted. The text stated that his sister had found a Jack Andrews in the right age bracket and she was confident that he was on the American Ping Pong team. The address was in Amherst.
Running her fingers across the etchings of the jade butterfly pendant, Ellen thought about all the hikes on Sharp Top, year after year. The memory of her mother kissing the pendant made sense, he had given it to her. She got out of bed, placed the pendant into the side pocket of her purse. From the bookshelf Ellen pulled down one of the oversized books, she placed the peony painting inside to protect it and then grabbed a large canvas bag from the closet. She placed the book, the journal and the three painted cards into the bag and set it down by the front door. Frigid air flowed in underneath the front door, for a day in late October it was bitterly cold.
Ellen showered and blew her hair dry just enough to keep it from dripping water. As she was getting dressed, she wondered if this trip to Amherst was crazy. The urgency to find out if this was her mother’s Jack surprised her. It probably wasn’t the same Jack, because her mother’s Jack was dead in the war. But she had to know.
