"Clearly Karoline is mentally ill. The person we knew never demonstrated a mean bone in her body," Alison said. "If she ever does reach out, and wants to get better, as vacuous as this might sound, we would totally be there for her."
"I'm not sure I will be." Phil doesn't disappoint me in his bluntness. "This response is dated very close to his death. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the cause of his suicide."
I agreed thoroughly with Phil. I would never forgive Karoline. I wanted to go home and rip her face in half. The rage was massive. A startling, crippling fury that blurred my vision and made my head ache. She will pay. Mentally ill was just a nice word for psychopath in Karoline's case.
"Paolo must not have read these letters. At least, not that last one. He would have dealt with Karoline."
Ripped her face in half?
"Maybe it wasn't part of the bunch Karoline asked Paolo to return," I suggested. "Maybe she took the correspondence between Giulio and me when she came for the funeral. The fact that I found them all together in her closet doesn't really mean they were put there at the same time."
They were silent in the wake of my theory. Perhaps they were in shock, just as I was when I first read these letters. My horror was deepened now that I knew the result of Karoline's treachery. Giulio was dead.
"We have another little shock for you," Phil eventually said.
I smiled, a fairly weak spark amid my swollen eyes and tear tracks.
"I'm ready. I think."
"Among Paolo's possessions…well, let me show you."
Once again, Phil disappeared. This time he returned with a beautiful deep blue urn, a bird in flight painted across the ceramic sky. I gasped.
"Paolo wanted to bury Giulio under the tree in the backyard. When the time came, he wanted to be placed beside him. Paolo's family has obviously thwarted that wish."
"We didn't know what to do," Alison confessed. "So we kept Giulio…the urn…hoping some day we'd get a message from Paolo or Karoline about what to do with the ashes."
I reached out and took the urn from Phil, cradling it as though I had after all been allowed to embrace Giulio in life.
"Thank you," I whispered. "You don't know how much this means to me. I loved Giulio very much."
I forced my thoughts away from the well of Karoline's deceit and those final words from Giulio's pen. Instead, I focused on the urn, the moment. This unexpected, exquisite gift.
"Are you still prepared to have Giulio's ashes in your backyard?"
"Of course…absolutely…" They answered at exactly the same moment, expressing the sentiment in different words but with the same eager posture.
"We really loved those guys," Phil said. "We are honored to have their house. We figure that, even if for some reason we have to leave here…"
"Or we never have kids or if we do, they don't want it…"
"…Giulio would still be here. Even though Paolo probably won't ever be buried beside him, if he comes back to visit, he'll see the tree they planted together. Seems perfect to us."
"We actually prepared the plot as soon as the ground warmed up, but we were still waiting."
"I know I'm just a substitute for Paolo, but I promise you, I loved Giulio. Would you allow me to witness the burial?"
Though I knew intuitively that they continued to be uncertain about me, they consented. They took a chance that I was telling the truth about not being the author of those letters. I think they did it for Giulio's sake. I was there. Hopefully I had been a friend. There was no one else.
The backyard was exquisite. Lined with evergreen bushes, dotted with flowers of all shapes and sizes, a neat plot of garden along the back fence. Over to one side stood a hearty little maple tree flourishing in the rich soil.
Alison and Phil allowed me to carry the urn as our little procession approached the tarp they'd thrown over the hole near the tree trunk. Standing over the resting place, I clutched the beautiful vase that contained Giulio's ashes. I wasn't sure I could let him go.
Alison surprised me by pulling out a sheet of paper. The kind of diaphanous blue-tinted paper that had lain in a bundle in Karoline's closet. The flourishes of a creative hand were visible through the single leaf as she held it aloft in the sun.
"This is a poem that Giulio loved," she explained to me. "I thought he would've approved having it read at his burial."
Here with a little bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
Really? I thought. The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam? Ice Queen Anne would have laughed out loud. I pushed her aside and bowed my head respectfully instead.
We stood hushed for a moment, the neighborhood devoid of human sounds on a workday so the songs of birds and the complaints of insects could be heard. Then the three of us knelt. Carefully opening the lid, I shook the urn's contents into the ground.
There were many things I liked about Alison and Phil Kwan. One of them was that they didn't attempt to extract empty promises about returning to Giulio's grave. I don't think they had entirely changed their minds about my claims or me.
Before my trip to Cleveland I was hurt, shocked and confused by Karoline's actions. Now I was furious. I allowed the anger to gather in my chest as I flew back to L.A. That night I entered our apartment in a seething rage.
"I decided I had to confront Karoline," is what I tell Ethan. "I rehearsed what I was going to say all the way home. But when I got here, she was…she was in such a state that I couldn't say anything. That was the night she died."
Ethan sits quietly holding my hand. I know from experience that he is thinking. He doesn't speak without planning ahead.
"I am so sorry this happened to you, my love," he finally says. "I don't know if I can make you understand that all of this was indicative of Karoline's mental health problems. She was clearly disturbed."
"I spent my whole life with her. I loved her." I say it as a lament, a sigh. A question. Who am I that I could live happily with someone who would do this to me?
"Maybe her mind began to break down slowly, just a few years ago. Maybe everything started out as a lark—let's see if I can sneak this one past Anne. Or maybe at first she thought she was protecting you. Then she didn't know how to untangle everything. We might never have all the answers. Sometimes people like Karoline are simply irrational. Their thought processes are skewed, so we can't really follow the patterns. Maybe there are no patterns."
I sit up straighter, try to show him that I am strong again. I am not Ice Queen Anne. I am not Crazy, Falling Apart Anne. I am someone altogether different.
"I know what I have to do, though, Ethan," I say. "I do have to follow Karoline's trail. I have to find my birth mother."
After a pause, he nods his head. "Yes, I know you do. I think you're ready to do this. And when you come back…"
He tilts my chin toward him so that his wide blue eyes, his wisdom and love, overflow into mine.
"…we'll talk about the word love and what it means."
Dear Diary,
Isn't it funny how one small thing can trigger all the madness? How one minute you can be sitting there talking and the next you are screaming at each other? What odd creatures people are. Especially the people in my life. They're weird, unnatural and foolish. I have no idea how I got stuck with them. Except they need me. I am the one who holds them all together.
Chapter 14
I make the preparations and tell Parris and my bosses. I want Parris to describe the flaws in my thinking. She offers a few bits of advice, but reluctantly acknowledges that this is something I have to do.
Her intense blue eyes search my face with affection and concern.
"Just don't have your expectations too high," she says. "This kind of journey can be transforming, but sometimes…well, it's simply disappointing instead."
I meet with Joseph and Vicki, talk about my future with G
race Productions. Speak of my slow recovery. They too agree that I am probably taking the right steps, though they still miss me. I get the sense that they want me back as my old self and are suspicious that I might already be someone different, but they are supportive nevertheless.
The night before I am to leave, Ethan takes me out to a new restaurant. Spago has just opened on the Sunset Strip. The area of West Hollywood is filled with clubs and bars and billboards. We love it because it's the center for introducing new bands. This section of Sunset Blvd is alive at night. Music permeates the air. People walk up and down talking loudly or humming to themselves. All dressed up. Wild and free and exotic.
We arrive in a limousine. I wear a turquoise dress that's very low cut and Ethan wears a dark blue suit that reflects his wonderful eyes. We grin at each other. Stepping out like this gives off a decadent and delicious feeling.
The chef who opened Spago is becoming well known. His reputation for creative food and superb service has spread rapidly through the young well-to-do crowd and the film stars. Ethan and I are led to a gorgeous half shell booth. We're immediately surrounded by waiters, busboys, the hostess, and of course Mr. Puck the owner and chef. I should have known that the Byrne name would be popular.
We cuddle up in the soft leather seat and take a long time to order and eat. As though we're not in the center of a bustling restaurant in the middle of a gigantic metropolis, but in a different dimension of no worry, no external influences, no ruined lives.
We wait for coffee and liqueurs to talk about my journey.
"I wish I could come with you," Ethan says, his voice thick with a mixture of apprehension and understanding. "But this case I'm on…"
Then he shakes his head, preventing me from having to say it.
"And I know, of course I know, that you have to do this on your own."
That night, our lovemaking is intense, tender and passionate, as though I am going off to war. In a sense, perhaps it is a war. A fight to know the real me. A struggle to the death in a sense. For would I be fatally wounded or would I return whole and strong?
I promise to call every night. I promise to tell him everything.
Despite the fear that courses through me, one moment I tell myself that I'll confess everything to him. Then uncertain I'll have the courage, I change my mind the next minute.
I close the door on that decision for now.
When I have packed my suitcase, I look around the apartment that has been my home for so many years. I have a feeling that I may never live here again. I close that door for now, too.
I fly from Los Angeles to Toronto, prevented the entire way from seeing the world I am leaving and the one I am about to enter by a huge persistent cloud cover. Perhaps that is just as well.
I drive away from the airport feeling odd. Dizzy, overwhelmed and uncertain. Suddenly I am completely alone. I don't have Ethan. I don't have Parris. I have only myself and I'm not even sure who that person is. My heart begins to hammer. After a while, I have difficulty breathing. I finally admit that I can't keep driving in this condition.
At the first decent-looking motel, I pull into the parking lot and pay for a room for the night. Though I feel like flopping down onto the bed into oblivion, I sit at the desk instead. I brought a notebook with me from home and now I feel the need to use it. The action reminds me of Karoline and her nightly scratching, but I ignore the thought.
I fill page after page as evening turns into night. Details, emotions, questions about Karoline that mostly begin with why. Questions for Mom/Vera and my birth mother whoever she might be. Accusations and longings. I put them all down in blue and white. I curse and apologize. I reflect on the person I am now, who I was before Ethan, who I could become. Ponderings that I probably should have considered in my teens the way most people did.
When I am finished, or at least too exhausted to continue, I wander out into the world and buy myself a huge submarine sandwich, filled with meat and veggies, with a side of potato chips and two donuts. Then I call Ethan.
As soon as I hear his voice, I don't even try to stop the sobs from erupting once more. How do I know this man, whom I met just a little more than a year ago, will understand? This isn't one of the questions I had to write down, because I have the answer. It echoes deep within me, a part of me that I only recently excavated but which I pray is real. For whatever reason I am suddenly blessed with love. And although I am a novice at it, I feel confident that I can grow into it with first-class honors under his non-judgmental devoted tutelage.
If I decide to finally tell him about the night that Karoline died, I am pretty certain that he will help me through the aftermath. But I haven't firmly decided that my conscience is developed well enough to feel the need to confess. For now, I vow to bask in our relationship. Grow stronger. Understand more deeply. I've never shed so many tears, but nor have I ever felt such all-consuming joy.
I tell Ethan about the mad scrawls in the hotel, my terrible calorie-laden dinner.
"How do you feel now?" His voice is tender and concerned.
I hesitate. Force the tears to come to an end. For now.
"I actually think I'm okay. I feel pretty tired, but I got a lot of shit out today. I might even be less angry."
"Are you sure you want to keep going? On this journey, I mean. I'm assuming you'll wait until tomorrow, but do you think it's too much to tackle? Or are you all right to go on to Vryheid?"
This time there is no hesitation.
"Yup, I'll wait 'til tomorrow, but I'm good to go. In fact, I think I'll be able to handle whatever comes much better now. If I feel overwhelmed, I know what to do. Pull over into a motel and start writing."
He laughs. "Sounds like a pretty healthy choice."
We talk about his parents, briefly about his case and what he did today. For a while, we make verbal love on the telephone, getting as close through words as it is possible to get. When we finally hang up, I give in to the exhaustion and sleep for twelve hours.
Dear Diary,
I read somewhere—I'm pretty sure it was Nietzsche—that "it is impossible to suffer without making someone pay for it; every complaint already contains revenge." Interesting, huh?
Chapter 15
On my map, Vryheid is a tiny dot perched on the Grand River next to the village of Burford. The nearest city is Brantford. Compared to the sprawl of L.A. it's a postage stamp. As I approach the area, nothing seems to match the lines on the map. I am submerged among trees and fencing. Surrounded by trucks and other cars, signs flying by too fast to read, I am suddenly frustrated and lost.
The berms in the middle and on each side of the highway are lush with wild grass and every kind of tree you can imagine. Pointed evergreens and fat spreading deciduous make every road look the same. When I take one exit, I get lost several times amongst sterile city streets, a boxy mall and circular overpasses.
Once I retrace my steps, discover the right exit, I am, as I should've been, surrounded by flat countryside. Yellow fields of hay and wheat whisper and sigh when I roll down my windows to the cooling breeze. It's a hot summer day, the kind that feels as though you've put your head into an oven. But I am tired of the air conditioning and I love the scents of the country. Acrid manure mingled with sweet pine and dampened dirt. A fragrance that can only be green and growth.
A little town with yawning verandas and multiple church steeples lazes in the sun. A few people sit with cold drinks in the shade while some, large hats as umbrellas from the heat, dig in their gardens. This is Burford, a place I'd like to visit if I had time. Instead, I drive past the town out into wilderness again, surrounded by the long hairy leaves of cornfields. Even the birds are silent in the heat, though the cicadas violin madly.
When I reach the outskirts, heralded by the pioneer cemetery, I know I have gone too far. Once again, frustrated and hot, I turn around. Vryheid should be tucked like a small pinky finger alongside the river, just north of Burford, but there is no hint of its existence whatsoever.
Half hidden among drooping cedar trees, their long spindly arms nearly reaching one another across the road, I suddenly spy the sign I hadn't noticed before. 'Vryheid' in white on green. 'Est. in 1784' written underneath. It's no surprise that I missed it. The sign is nearly covered by vines and leaves, not to mention the faded condition of the printing.
The road is perhaps a lane and a half wide, bracketed on both sides by old bushy trees, lined with wild grass and shiny white Queen Anne's Lace. A tunnel of hushed tones. Birds are encouraged by the cool shade to sing softly, while squirrels chat and click the branches when they jump. Grasshoppers and cicadas play their instruments. Since humans are nowhere to be seen, nature can be heard. Until I plow my car into their midst that is. I leave behind a wake of frightened silence and dust.
There is absolutely no sign of a town, a village, or even a crossroad. The growth on both sides obscures most of the view, but there are no laneways. No buildings peer through the forest.
It's obviously been a dry couple of weeks in hot sun, because the grasses are brittle and the roadway is scattered with sand. My wheels catch a couple of times as the pavement turns to dirt. The trees are even older and more bent over, their long needled limbs weighted with age and abundance. Then quite suddenly the tree line ends.
I burst out of the shady tunnel into yellow light and green fields. Broad-leafed little plants huddle together, resembling dark cabbages in a grocery store bin. I think these are ginseng. To my right, up a slight incline and across a low fence, I can see a paved road, which has clearly been built to skirt around this deserted area.
On my left, a little island of trees surrounds a lone farmhouse. Green and red maples, weeping willows, oak and evergreen, anything that provides a shield for the lonely home standing amidst a vast field. Sentinels against the wind that runs rampant across the flat land. A mailbox lurches drunkenly at the end of the long narrow driveway. The number from my crude map, #49857, is stamped on a spindly emergency flag atop a firm fat post. The house can only squint out from among the greenery.
Sweet Karoline Page 11
