by Lisa Tucker
Lila knew full well that the only thing this proved was that she’d lived here for a year and a few months as a teenager. The much more important question was whether she’d actually grown up in Grayten. She’d always believed that she had—until the past week, when her psychologist, Dr. Kutchins, had worked hard to convince Lila that the vivid “memories” she’d been having in the hospital were at least reflective of reality, even if some of the details were off. But if those memories were in any sense real, then the place where she’d grown up was definitely north of here, with winters more like New York’s or Pennsylvania’s than like North Carolina’s. She’d come up with the idea for this trip hoping to find out for sure, though she was reluctant to find out, too, for fear her life would make even less sense than it did now.
Still, she was more relaxed, just driving through this town that was exactly as she remembered. Her husband also seemed more relaxed, but maybe he was simply relieved to be able to stop driving and have breakfast. The old diner at the entrance to the highway was gone, replaced by a Denny’s, but as Patrick pointed out, at least the place was open. He said the streets were as deserted as if the whole town was still asleep, but Lila said that everybody was probably getting ready for Sunday morning church.
“There’s a big church only a mile or so from where we lived,” Lila said. The waitress had seated them and handed them large plastic menus that felt a little sticky. “Billy and I could hear the bells on Sunday morning, and we always headed outside, to what he called God’s church, to pray to the trees and the flowers and the sky.”
“Your parents never made you go to church?”
“I think my mother did. I remembered something in the hospital about being Catholic before she married my stepfather.”
“It’s a Catholic church then?”
“I’m not sure,” Lila said.
“This town seems too small to have two churches,” he said. The waitress returned, ready to take their order. They both chose pancakes, and after the waitress left, Patrick joked that the stickiness of the menu must have subliminally predisposed them to think of syrup.
They ate quickly, because they were starving, but also because Lila had told Patrick she was anxious to go out on Route 6 and see the house. She was hoping whoever lived there now would let them in, but worst case, they would be able to examine the property. She didn’t remember ever going beyond the backyard with Billy when the two of them lived there alone, but she wanted to confirm that all the other things from childhood she’d “dreamed” in the hospital had not happened here. That there wasn’t a woods backing up against the lawn, or a steep hill she and her brother had liked to roll down, or especially that tree house their father had made for them: the one thing she knew had to be real, as she’d always remembered sitting in it with Billy, reading that children’s book about heroes and ice cream.
She knew exactly how to get to the place from the grocery store, so they went back to Main and then Patrick followed her directions until they reached Route 6. Everything looked vaguely familiar until they got to the spot where the house should have been—where the house had been, Lila was sure, because she recognized the farmhouse on the other side of the road, set about an acre back, surrounded by tobacco fields. She remembered sitting in the rocking chair Maria had moved into her bedroom and looking at that farm from her window, though she and Billy had never met the family who’d lived there. Not during the year she could remember, anyway.
“It used to be right there,” she whispered, pointing at a large rectangular space bounded by trees. Patrick insisted on driving a little farther, but she knew it wouldn’t make a difference. The house of her happiest memories with Billy was gone, disappeared from the face of the earth, just like her brother.
She felt like crying, but she asked her husband to double back and pull over on the road. She was determined to walk to the line of tall trees at the far edge of the empty field, to see what was on the other side. She was overwhelmed by a sudden, desperate hope that she really had grown up here. If only she could stand in the woods where she and her twin had spent so much of their time as children, then maybe she would experience a flood of memories that could comfort her by bringing her brother close again, even if it was only in the past.
As she got out of the car, she heard the church bells ringing, which she took to be a good sign. But when she rushed across the field and through the trees, she found nothing but another farm. No hill, no woods, nothing that even resembled what she’d imagined in the hospital. Of course, it had been twenty years, but she knew instinctively that this was not the same place, and she was so disheartened that she slumped onto the ground.
“What’s wrong?” Patrick said, kneeling beside her.
“This isn’t the right town.”
“It has to be. You knew the strip mall, knew the way to get here, knew about—”
“I did live here, but only for a year or so, when I was sixteen.”
“But both of your high school transcripts list this as your home.”
She looked at him, surprised he knew this. Then she said that her brother must have forged those transcripts, the same way he’d forged her parents’ death certificates. She only meant that Billy had changed the address on the transcripts, but she was immediately gripped by the possibility that he’d forged it all: both of her transcripts and even the recommendation letters she’d used to get into college. Her brother was good enough to pull it off, and he would have done it without hesitating if he’d decided she needed fake records, but why would she have needed them? Was the real situation closer to what she’d imagined in the hospital: that her mother hadn’t ever let her go to school, and the only train trip she and Billy had taken “home” was when he’d freed her from Westwood Psychiatric Hospital?
“But if your brother did that, you would know.” Patrick swatted a fly off his jeans. He sounded as confused as she felt. “This doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t understand it, either.” She paused. “Will you just hold me for a while?”
He sat down and stretched his legs out; then he pulled her to him, so her head was leaning against his chest. She listened to the reassuring sound of her husband’s heartbeat as she tried to think about what all this could mean. If the memory of Billy freeing her from Westwood was real—and she’d been wide awake when she’d remembered that, as Dr. Kutchins had repeatedly emphasized—then her brother had let her enter college and spend her adult life with no conscious knowledge of ever having been in a psychiatric hospital. He’d never mentioned a word about it, though this didn’t explain why she herself hadn’t known. Even Dr. Kutchins hadn’t come up with an answer for that, though she said they’d continue to explore it on an outpatient basis—after Lila’s insurance company had refused the psychologist’s petition to keep Lila in the hospital for at least another week.
Billy always said Lila’s lack of memories wasn’t that abnormal, given what they’d gone through with Harold, and she’d believed him. She’d believed what he’d told her about her formal schooling, too, especially as he’d told the same stories a hundred times. He said she’d cried through most of the year at prep school, because she didn’t like being away from home. She’d never made many friends, because she was too shy. She’d gotten all As. She’d been a perfect rule follower, a Gallant, while he was busy getting into trouble like the Goofus he’d always been.
She told Dr. Kutchins that Billy probably came up with the Goofus/Gallant comparison to keep Lila from remembering that her parents seemed to view her and her twin precisely the opposite. It was an innocent story, Lila insisted—and she was still holding on to that. Even if Billy had made up their entire lives, his only motive had been to protect her; of this she was positive. This was why he’d rehearsed the past with her constantly and told her she was losing the plot whenever she forgot any of the details. He was trying to protect her from something, just like when they were children. She missed him more for this, even as she felt determined to
discover, finally, what that something was.
Lila looked up at Patrick. “I want to go to church.”
“Now?”
“The service has to be still going on. The bells didn’t ring that long ago.”
He didn’t ask why, for which she was grateful. They stood up and she squeezed his hand as they walked back to her Subaru. “I’m glad you’re with me,” she said, and it was true. Though there was so much she couldn’t find words to express, simply having her husband there made all this doable. Dr. Kutchins had told her that it might help to train herself to think of the past as over and unable to hurt her now, but she knew this instinctively as long as Patrick was at her side.
She wanted to go to church to talk to the minister. She knew it was a long shot that he would have information that could help her, but it was Sunday and the county records office was obviously closed. The minister would know more people in town than anybody else, so at least he might know whose house she and Billy had lived in when they were sixteen. The house had to have belonged to somebody.
When she walked into church though, her face fell. The minister was way too young, maybe right out of seminary; it was very unlikely that he would know what the town was like twenty years ago. She thought about leaving, but everybody was already staring at her and Patrick because the door had banged shut behind them, and she felt so worn out that she relished the idea of sitting quietly while she figured out what to do next. She guided her husband to the last pew.
The service was over and the congregation was filing out; Patrick had just whispered, “What now?” when an old woman stopped in the aisle next to them. She was leaning on a cane; at first Lila thought she was only pausing to get her bearings, but then she realized the woman was openly staring at her. The possibility that this woman recognized her only crossed her mind a moment before the woman said, “I thought you was somebody else.”
“My name is Lila. My brother’s name was Billy.” She thought about using a last name, but wasn’t sure which one they would have used in town and didn’t want to confuse the woman. “Are you sure you don’t know me? We lived here in the late eighties for about—”
“Naw, the person I was thinking of hasn’t lived here since the seventies. And she’d be a heck of a lot older than you.” The woman shrugged. “My eyes ain’t as good as they used to be.”
“Oh,” Lila said. “Sorry to bother you.”
Lila must have sounded disappointed, because the old woman’s voice became kinder. “Maybe you’re kin, though? Her name’s Beth Andrew.”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Well, have a blessed day,” the woman said. “Praise God.”
“Praise God,” Lila repeated.
After the old woman walked on, Patrick whispered, “Praise God?”
The shock on his face made her suddenly feel like laughing, and she kissed him on the nose. “I was only being friendly,” she said. “But thanks for cheering me up. Now I can face the minister. Should I ask him to marry us? We’ve never been married in a church. Maybe it’s time.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“No, but you’re so cute when you look stunned that I couldn’t resist.”
He smirked, but he took her hand. She felt glad again that he was with her. Even if the minister was no help, she could handle this. She led her husband to the door, where everyone had disappeared except the minister and the last of the congregation: the same old lady with the cane, who was probably waiting for her ride.
They were only talking about whether it would rain; still, Lila didn’t want to interrupt. But the old woman saw her hovering a few feet away and gestured with her free hand to come near. After the woman introduced the minister as “Reverend Tom,” Lila introduced herself and Patrick, and they both shook his hand.
The woman was staring again. “What did you say your last name was?”
“Cole,” Lila said. “Though my stepfather’s last name was—”
“Oh my goodness, seem like you are kin to Beth Andrew. Her name before she got married was Cole. Ain’t that funny?”
Lila felt her heart in her throat, though she still thought it had to be an odd coincidence. Even as the old lady asked who her father was, Lila was preparing for the woman to say she’d been wrong. And she did, but she added something that took Lila’s breath away. “Beth’s brother’s name was William, but he didn’t have no kids. Died too young, I guess.” She shook her head. “It was written up in the papers here. He was a policeman. Shot in a robbery up north a long time ago.” She frowned. “Too bad he didn’t stay put. Too much crime up north.”
Reverend Tom looked at Patrick. “Are y’all new to the area?”
Patrick must have sensed something was wrong because he’d put his arm around Lila and he kept glancing at her face. But he sounded calm. “No, my wife lived here a long time ago. Out on Route 6. Apparently, the house isn’t there anymore.”
“Now this here is getting downright spooky,” the old lady said. “ ‘Cause you know what? Beth Andrew’s mama lived on Route 6.” She looked down at the concrete steps. “What in the world was her name? Something Italian-sounding.”
“Maria?” Lila said, though her voice came out so strangled and strange she barely recognized it.
“That’s it! After she died, I guess some relatives sold the place. I didn’t hear much about that, but I know the house was leveled way back when Reagan was still president.” She adjusted her weight on her cane. “Last good president, if you ask me.”
The woman went on about politics for a while until finally Lila managed, “Could you tell me who might know the family?” She looked back and forth from the minister to the old woman. “Anybody?”
“No,” the old lady said. “Beth moved away, too, years ago. She was younger than you when she worked at the Kroger. That’s how I knew her. We used to gab while she rang up my groceries.”
Reverend Tom looked closely at Lila. “I might be able to find out for you.”
Patrick said, “We would really appreciate it.”
“Hold on a minute. I’ll call my father. He was the preacher here for thirty-five years.”
“Best darned preacher, too,” the woman said. “Why he retired last Christmas I’ll never know ‘cause he was still a spring chicken if you ask me.” She laughed a hoarse laugh. “ ‘Course, everybody under seventy’s a spring chicken to me.”
Reverend Tom disappeared into the church. While he was gone, Patrick attempted to make small talk with the woman, which Lila appreciated, knowing how much her husband hated small talk, especially when it was about politics and even worse when it was peppered with the old lady’s praise of people like Jesse Helms. Lila would have helped him out if she hadn’t been struck dumb by two completely opposed thoughts: that William Cole had not been their father or that Maria Cole, the “housekeeper,” had really been her grandmother. And that Billy had obviously known the truth, whatever it was, or he would not have brought her to this town.
The reverend handed Patrick a piece of paper with a name, phone number, and address. He said this woman had been Maria’s friend, but he couldn’t say how close they were. “My father said the Coles were Catholic, so he doesn’t know as much about them as most families in town. I’m sorry. Hope this helps.”
“Who is it?” the old woman asked. “I might know her or her kin.”
“Eunice Lewis,” the preacher said.
“Naw, don’t know any of them. She lives in the colored part of Grayten, east side of Johnson. Never even been there myself, but it ain’t far.”
When they got back in the Subaru, Patrick talked about the old lady as though she’d just admitted she was the founder of the KKK. Lila listened, but she couldn’t really drum up any outrage; she was too nervous.
It only took about fifteen minutes to get to the address the minister had written on the piece of paper. The house was a small green ranch with a carport and a garden of roses surrounding a dogwood tree right in front.
“Maybe we should have called first,” Patrick said when they were getting out of the car.
“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Lila whispered. The problem was she still didn’t as Patrick rang the doorbell.
Eunice Lewis was an old woman, too, at least seventy, more likely eighty or more, and she came to the door pushing a walker. Her face was friendly, though, and she gave a large grin when Lila got out the name Maria Cole and explained that she wanted some information because she might be Mrs. Cole’s relative. Mrs. Lewis invited them in and insisted on giving them lemonade, despite the effort it took for her to bring the glasses and hold on to her walker. But it was only when Lila said her own name, after she and Patrick had sat down on the bright yellow sofa and Mrs. Lewis had settled herself into an old checkered recliner, that the old woman said, “Well, glory be, I knew it was you!”
Lila didn’t want to be rude and admit that she didn’t recognize Mrs. Lewis, but luckily, Mrs. Lewis seemed eager to talk about how she knew Lila. They’d met several times, apparently, at Maria Cole’s house, before Maria died. Mrs. Lewis went on for a while about what a great friend Maria had been before Lila finally took advantage of a pause to mention that she was confused about something.
