Sweet Karoline

by Catherine Astolfo

  Miriam and I look at each other, stunned.

  "That's what Chief Brant fought with the government about. Finally, in 1798 he received permission to sell off a number of tracts. We think this is around the time that he negotiated the Vryheid acreage. There is a theory that the gift was attached to the land he sold to John Morey, who was reportedly a runaway slave himself but who had married into the Brant clan."

  That theory is correct I want to say, thinking back to the passage at the beginning of the Book of Vryheid.

  "Why would Brant sell off all his land?" I ask instead.

  "He wanted an income for the people," Mary Lou responds. "Land had become a great commodity and source of wealth, similar to the present. He thought it was unfair that natives did not have complete control over their own land. The Chief must be rolling in his grave these days."

  I ignore her political declarations because I have no idea how to respond. I'm not well informed and I'm not sure I want to be. Even Miriam, a self-confessed left-winger, is silent.

  "To whom was the Vryheid land given?" I ask.

  "We think it was given to a group…sort of an ancient condo corporation."

  Mary Lou pauses. In the silence, Dembi begins to fidget. I can see the struggle in the young woman's face. Should she say this out loud or not? With a feeling of dread, I am pretty sure I know what's coming.

  "You're wondering why two sisters have the name Anne."

  She flushes with embarrassment, caught having a non-objective thought.

  "Well, yes. Plus I'm wondering why she hasn't told you about the research she's already done."

  Miriam takes over, her desire for privacy flaring up.

  "Many of us were adopted out. So ending up with the same name was a huge possibility." My sister doesn't quite lie. "I had no idea that the other Anne spent time here, too."

  "She spent lots of hours here about two years ago. Sometimes with Dembi. I haven't seen her in quite a while, however."

  "Our other Anne unfortunately passed away recently."

  "Oh I'm so sorry." Mary Lou's voice displays genuine shock and sympathy. "She was a very nice person."

  "Other Anne," Dembi says, mournfully placing his head on Miriam's shoulder.

  "I'm sorry for your loss, Dembi. She helped us a lot with the history, didn't she?"

  Oddly, since this is his obsession, our brother looks bored and restless. He closes his eyes as though he's napping and doesn't respond. Miriam and I exchange worried looks. Has our interest in the history usurped his feeling of importance? Or dredged up too many memories of Karoline? Perhaps he's merely got a stomachache.

  Mary Lou converts back into the curator, the one in the professional suit.

  "I hadn't the time to trace the Vryheid ownership, but Anne did. On one of her visits, she went to the country offices and looked up the deeds. She gave the copies to me for posterity."

  Posterior is more like it, I think.

  The documents are sharp, so we're able to read every word, though we mostly skim. In 1920, as we already knew from the deed tucked into the Book of Vryheid, Cornwall Johnston was officially listed as owner of the land. How he'd achieved that proprietary coup was not mentioned or has not been traced. In any case, I don't think it matters.

  By December of 1954, the deed had been signed over to Elizabeth Johnston. Memé owns everything.

  Cornwall Junior Junior disappeared.

  Dear Diary,

  Whenever I disappeared for an hour or a day—or more, no one really asked me any questions. They totally, thoroughly, accepted my version of events. They never checked the details. As I often say, they were not only too trusting but brainless, as well.

  Chapter 22

  My hallway leads along the kitchen to a wing at the side of the house where my suite takes up most of the space. That night, the little courtyard outside my windows is black, hidden from the moon and stars by a wall on one side and a fence on the other.

  I flick on the light, check the sliding glass doors, and pull the heavy drapes across the windows. On the other side of the bed I check the locks on all the windows and the door.

  In the yard I can see the fierce tree line. Every bump in the bark looks like a totem face. Every branch is a skeletal arm pointing my way, pencil thin against the vast black sky. There is no light, no moon or stars this night. I cover everything with the curtains.

  I check the bathroom. It's empty. I gaze inside the closet, with its sliding door into a hidden shelving unit. I am reassured that no one is concealed in the blank recess, although they'd have to be very tiny to be able to do so. I wonder what on earth they used it for. To hide bottles of scotch?

  Under the duvet, I shiver for a long while, both from the cool of the sheets and the depths of my imagination. I wish for that first night again, before the house crept into me. When I felt safe and warm in this lovely bed. When I didn't know this place—or had forgotten its menace.

  The wind has returned with unusual fury, blowing in a cold that feels damp and distressed. I listen to it rattle at the frames, tug on the shingles, skirt around the fence. I haven't paid any attention to the weather, only subliminally aware that the day was hot and humid. Now I wonder about tornadoes. Do they have a lot of those here? Is this like mid-west US, with its tantrum-prone climate?

  I toss, turn, wiggle, and punch the pillow into submissiveness. I read the book that Miriam has lent me. I stare at the line of the curtain where the night peers in at me. At last I am on the edge of sleep when I hear the noise. It's at the end of my hallway, past the long country kitchen, past the stiff parlor with its biblical secrets. That same door yawns out into the cool dark night, gateway for hellish things to come in after us.

  Ice Queen Anne calls me a fool and forces me to put my toes on the drafty floor. The wind has pushed the door open again, idiot, she says. The damn retard probably left it ajar. Don't call him that, I say, but I shove my feet into slippers. Once again, my little flashlight illuminates the long hallway a foot or two in front of me.

  The air shoves its way down the corridor seeking more space. Tinged with rain, it dampens my face with wet fingers. I am astonished at its strength and have to push myself forward. I hope two things: that Rolly is still wrapped safely in Dembi's arms and that this is not a tornado. With my shoulder against the wood, I am able to brace my legs and push the door shut. The big lock slides into place and it's quiet in the hall once again. I tiptoe across the wet floor. Flashlight helps me find the pantry. All I can hear now is the swish of the mop head on the linoleum as I force it to slurp water.

  A slight dizziness floods through my eyes. He is there behind me, his breath foul and hot on my neck. His hands are huge as they encircle my waist.

  "Come here, cutie-pie, and sit on yer old Uncle's lap." His voice is grizzly, loud in my ear.

  I straighten up, whirl around with the mop as a weapon, but there is no one here. Only the wind as it searches each room. Seeps back outside under the doorways with a moan or a whistle.

  Trembling from inside to out, I replace the mop. Quietly I slide up the hallway toward the back of the house. Past the pantry and the parlor, along the other wing, up to Miriam's door. It slides open without a whisper of sound. Perhaps she is nervous too, for Miriam is asleep with a small bedside lamp still on. It casts a soft light over her milk chocolate skin, her long lashes closed gently against her cheeks. One arm is tucked under her head. The other is flung out beside her as though she clutches an invisible lover. I want to wake her, climb in beside her, but I don't. She doesn't deserve to be dragged into my nightmare.

  Across the hall is Memé's room. I haven't been inside since I hissed my vitriol in her ear. If she sees me, will she scream? Or are her nighttime drugs enough to keep her silent? Once the door is open I am suddenly aware of an odd sound emanating from the room. I slowly advance toward her, holding my breath. My heart flutters. Memé thrashes on the bed.

  When I am beside her, I realize that the oxygen tent has been pulled away
. It no longer covers her shoulders nor her head. In fact, the apparatus, with its normally vociferous tubes and machine, is silent. I am unsure how to fix it, but I quickly follow the lines, discover the on switch, and have everything going in a few seconds. The struggle occurs when I try to reassemble the tent over her. She gags for air. Her body twists with the effort of trying to breathe. Once it's in place, Memé gulps and gasps until the oxygen fills her lungs once more.

  I sit on the edge of the bed. Hold her thin cold hand as she settles. It might have been kinder to let her go, Ice Queen Anne says, but I'm not sure if she's being sarcastic or serious. At that moment, Memé's eyes open and she stares at me.

  I am terrified that she will scream again. That her horror will spill over once more when she sees the one she calls Diable. The child Memé gave away after raising her for four years. How much hatred must such an act contain?

  She doesn't scream, though. She blinks at me. Somehow she knows that I just saved her. I can see the gratitude from inside her as her breath slowly becomes steady. I begin to rise, but Memé clutches my hand. Shakes her head very slightly. Don't go.

  I stand anyway, but signal that I am going to the other side of the bed that's clear of the accouterments of dying. Some instinct leads me to lie down beside her. I draw up a spare blanket and cuddle along her emaciated body. Feel my warmth flow to her ice-cold skin.

  Memé sighs, a long shudder. The expelling of air sounds like relief. Feels like acceptance. Her hand flaps in the air, seeking me, so I wrap myself around her.

  Her lips move and my name whistles from her mouth. The withered brown teeth allow her tongue to lash her chin.

  "Anne," she says, the word drawn from some tortured area of her mind. Not Diable, not the devil, this Anne is different.

  "I'm so sorry," I whisper. "I shouldn't have been nasty to you. I hated you for giving me away."

  A single tear drifts down her sunken cheek. "Baby." She draws out the word, an endearment, and pats my hand.

  I remember Miriam and Dee's descriptions of Memé. A woman destined to always be a little girl, innocent and sunny. A beautiful simplicity taken and used. They twisted her innate search for love into selfish grunts of physical pleasure. When superstition, cruelty and fear drove her inside herself, how could I blame her for sending me away? Maybe she thought her sister would be kind and loving. Perhaps, in her own way or in the beginning, Vera did have the best intentions. Perhaps my own little fearful self pushed her away instead of the reverse.

  I squirm a little closer. Listen to the rhythm of my mother's breath. Wonder how the oxygen turned off. Imagine Memé's terror as the life-saving tent became a death trap.

  I think of the brief memories that have floated up in the last day or two. The man, my 'old Uncle'. Was I about to take my mother's path when Memé lifted me out of danger? Had she sent Miriam away for the same reason? We were baby girls. Perhaps Dembi was safe because of his gender. Maybe the question is why she waited so long to give me away.

  Suddenly I feel a shudder worm its way through my body. It's a frisson of understanding. I consider how earthquakes change the landscape. How Los Angeles could, at any moment, become sea where land and concrete stood before. I listen to my mother's sighs, the puff of her breath as she exhales, and I am transformed.

  Her thin cool fingers are soft on mine. A rush of memory soars through my body as I recognize this hand. Reach for it in laughter or tears. Feel its strong comfort on my cheek. I see my mother's face, her eyes guileless and joyful, grinning down at me. She laughs as we play. Whirls me around until I am dizzy.

  Mama, I say, and she picks me up in her arms.

  Mama, I cry, wet and confused with fever, and her hand cools my forehead.

  Mama, I'm afraid, and her arms encircle me with safety.

  I open a gift of warmth and surprise and Ice Queen melts. My mother loved me. She loves me. I was, I am, lovable.

  I fall into a deep, reassured sleep, exhausted by the storm of emotions, curled at my mother's side.

  First I hear the drumming then I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. I twitch and raise my head too rapidly for my eyes to catch up. The figure dances across my vision. Her face is round, her eyes soft. A slight smile on her thick lips.

  "Dee," I finally manage.

  I am sweaty and crunchy. My bones creak as I untangle myself from Memé's side. My mother continues to breathe in sleep, her eyes shut in the dimness of the room.

  I recognize the drumming at last. Rain pounds on the roof, shatters against the windows. Thunder booms above the rafters. Once in a while a flash lights up the grey air.

  Melody helps me sit up. I swing my legs to awaken them.

  "What are you doing in here?" Curiosity tinges her question.

  "The oxygen shut down last night. I heard Memé thrashing around. I reattached everything and then…I just stayed."

  The woman thunders to the other side of the bed. "That's impossible." She fiddles with some of the gadgets, rearranges unnecessarily.

  "Well obviously it's not impossible," I say, more than a little irritated.

  I feel as though I have slept for a week. Or been on a huge bender. If I didn't know better I'd think I was still drunk.

  Unsteadily I walk over to Dee's side. She fusses with Memé's blanket. That's when I notice that Memé has opened her eyes.

  "Good morning," the caregiver says cheerfully to her patient. "I hear you had an adventure last night. I'll call the home oxygen company and find out what on earth could have caused a shut down."

  Memé looks up and gives a crooked smile that makes her face look twisted. But her eyes are lit up.

  "She's so much better," Dee says to me. "I can't believe it's the same woman."

  I sit down beside Memé and give her a brief hug.

  "Anne," she sighs.

  "You are amazing, Dee. You've made such a difference in Memé in only a week. You don't know what a gift you've given me. I don't care how long or short it lasts. I just…thank you."

  As I stand, Dee wraps me in a bear hug. "I'm very happy for you. I think this reconciliation has done her more good than I have. Now, out you get while I change Memé and get her freshened up for some breakfast. Miriam and Dembi are in the kitchen."

  Their twin heads look up at me as I stumble to a chair. They both grin and Miriam hands me a coffee. I feel a stream of love in my chest, nourishing me. I smile back.

  "Triplet Anne is up early," Dembi comments.

  Miriam and I laugh.

  "I am up early. Memé's oxygen shut down last night. Fortunately I couldn't sleep, so I heard her."

  Once again, Miriam takes the responsibility. "Oh, shit, I didn't even hear her! We need an alarm or something."

  "You swore, Miriam," Dembi says.

  "An alarm is a good idea," I say.

  "You swore, Miriam. Say sorry."

  "Sorry," Miriam responds, distracted and worried.

  "Dee is going to investigate with the home oxygen company and find out how the machines could have shut down. She's less than impressed." I sip the hot, rich coffee.

  "How was Memé with…?"

  I know what she means and this time, tears that fill my eyes unprompted accompany my smile.

  "I think she knew I saved her. I slept beside her all night."

  Miriam immediately connects. She is instantly a part of the longing, the answer to a primal question. I realize that of course she has been through this, too. Her reunion was, presumably, not quite the rocky path that mine has been, but no less difficult. Her hand on my arm transmits joy, understanding and excitement.

  "I remember some things, too," I tell her, placing my hand on hers. "I still haven't worked out everything, but Dee told me a lot. Maybe visiting Mary Lou West unlocked some stuff."

  "Mrs. West likes my history," Dembi says as he reaches for another slice of toast to mop up the egg on his plate. "She's coming to the powwow."

  "Maybe we can have some more time with her," Miriam says, eagerness in her
voice.

  There must be gaps in my sister's memories, too. So much has changed for her. A birth mother replaced the two people she thought were her parents. A farmhouse that she occasionally visited turned out to be her birthplace. A brother and mother who desperately need her suddenly became her responsibility. A duplicate self, strange, angry, clingy in turns, replaced the generous, gregarious and loving 'sister' she thought she knew.

  Spontaneously, I kiss her hand.

  "Miriam, I know these few days have been filled with turmoil. I've been going through so much that I forgot what it's been like for you. I'm sorry. I've been used to a selfish life."

  Miriam squeezed me back. Her eyes brim with tears now, too.

  "It's okay. I did have more time than you did to adjust to a lot of this. We'll get through the rest together."

  Dembi gets up and encircles both of us, arms over shoulders. We touch our heads together. If only we could resolve everything the way our brother does.

  All the rainy morning we play games in the parlor, clean the house and sing. After lunch finds us in Memé's room. Dee is off somewhere else, giving us private time. We laugh. Read. Feed our mother with both the sound of our voices and the occasional bite of something nutritious.

  Dembi is still not himself. He continues to look tired. He's agitated and nervous as his enhanced flapping and humming indicate. Miriam and I try to placate him with games and joyful stories. He touches Memé continually. Lolls his head against us whenever we sit. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was afraid.

  Against the fingers of rain drumming in time with our fun, a crash and a knock announce that the home oxygen company has arrived.

  Two hefty white men with enormous boxes of equipment appear at the front door. Along the hallway they seem determined to knock everything over. Miriam and Dembi return to the kitchen to wash cups while Dee and I crowd into Memé's room with the two giants.

  At first Memé is frightened, but I sit on my side of the bed again and draw her to me while they work. She breathes from a small hand-held apparatus that the men hook up to a portable tank.