by Liz Bradbury
“I’ve never been in this type of relationship before, but... um... I’m game.” Then I realized that what I’d just said was pretty insensitive and an understatement. I was more than game. I was just kind of nervous about admitting it.
Kathryn’s face held consternation and I felt like crap for putting it there. It was time for me to do something outside of my comfort zone.
“I’m uh... May I tell you a story?” I asked softly.
Kathryn nodded, seeing my serious expression. She reached for my hand and held it in her lap.
“OK, but I have to preface it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Jessie was hit so hard when she found out about Suzanne. It reminded me that there can be all sorts of reasons a person leaves the ones they love, and they don’t always do it by choice. But the problem is that that feeling of abandonment happens regardless of why, especially for kids. Um... I told you before that I’m not issue free. That’s my issue. Well, one of them. I haven’t really told anyone this before... not even Sara or Farrel... See, I’m really laying myself wide open, and its scares me.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Oh Kathryn, I just want you to understand that this is the one thing you cannot tease me about. You can tease me about many things, but this is where I draw the line,” I rambled.
“Maggie, I understand,” said Kathryn in a gentle whisper. “You’re about to tell me something very personal and you don’t want me to use it as ammunition in the occasional disagreements we might have.”
I turned toward her and laughed. “I’m certainly making this dramatic.”
“Trust me...”
“OK, yes. Well, it’s about my mother. She died when I was eight years old and it was pretty painful.”
“I can imagine.”
“Maybe you can, but probably not,” I said honestly.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, go on.”
“I loved my mother. She was smart and fun and spent a lot of time with me, helping me learn new things and to see the world as a wonderful place. She was a painter. She traveled a lot. She was always going away to have shows of her work in faraway places. I only have one painting she did. The rest were sold in shows and galleries.”
“The abstract of Mexico?” Kathryn nodded toward the big abstract of a Taxco cafe. The colors subtly carved out the forms of the street, buildings, and trees. “It’s very good.”
“Yes, I love looking at it. Here’s my story:
One day my mother was getting ready to go on a trip to New England. I remember it so well. She was packing her big suitcase with her clothes. She already had her painting gear in the car. I had to go to school, so I went into her bedroom to say goodbye.
My mother was wearing jeans and a sweater like always. She hugged me hard, and I remember her looking sad, but I may just be projecting that. That’s what the child psychologist said to me for the few visits I had with her after this happened.
Anyway, I kissed her goodbye and went off to third grade, and then after lunchtime the teacher got a call and left the room to get a teacher’s aide to watch the class. I walked through the empty hall with my teacher.
One of our neighbors was there. She tried to smile but her reddened eyes and crying sniffle probably frightened me more than if she’d just told me what was wrong. She drove me home.
My father met me at the door and hugged me and took me into the kitchen to explain that a car accident in a faraway place had taken my mother away forever and that she wouldn’t ever be coming home. There was a bluebird sitting on the bird feeder outside the kitchen window. We hardly ever had bluebirds there. I wanted to tell my mother it was out there, but she wasn’t there, so I couldn’t.
After that, for what seemed like weeks, I’d come home from school expecting to find her there. When someone came in the door, I’d absently expect to see her.
Then one day I was alone in the house and I saw a bluebird on the bird feeder, and I cried for two days. And then I idled for about three years just trying to get through each day.
“Three years? Oh Maggie,” said Kathryn with a soft sigh.
I don’t really remember much about those years except that I drew pictures and I watched cartoons every day.
At night I’d dream that my teddy bear had disappeared and I’d spend hours looking for it in places that were impossible to get to. Images jumbled together. There was always at least one scene of my mother leaving with her canvases. It usually happened when a bluebird appeared. It was like one big Dali dream sequence.
In many of those dreams, my mother would talk to me. And sometimes she’d help me look for my toys, but we could never find them. As I got older, I would realize in the dream that she was dead, and she couldn’t really be there. Then I’d know it was a dream, and I’d even tell her so.
And... and she’d say, ‘Well if it’s a dream then maybe you can fly!’ So I’d step back and jump in the air and fly.”
Kathryn said, “You could fly on demand? That’s a pretty exciting thing. Do you know when you’re dreaming now? Can you still fly on demand?”
“Sometimes, and sometimes I just go and kiss some random girl.”
“In your dream...”
“Yes, Kathryn, in the dream, not in real life. I don’t fly in real life either.”
Kathryn laughed, but then said seriously, “That’s how you felt for three years... and then?”
And then my father married Juana. And Sara and Rosa saved me from a life that was out of my control.
Sara was a riot right from the first day. Rosa was only two years old, but she was very funny too. Sara was eight, and she looked up to me and challenged me at the same time. I taught her things an eleven-year-old knew. I started doing martial arts then too. Pretty soon I was speaking Spanish like a native, and I had someone to play with, and a new mother who’d listen to me and hug me and tuck me in.
But I was pretty slow to trust that they wouldn’t disappear. I finally got over that. It helped a lot that there were three of them and my father. Better odds.
“Did you have a hard time when your father died?”
“It was just a few years ago. He’d been sick for a long time and he kind of prepared me for it, but yes, I miss him very much...” I paused and then said, “So....” And then I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“So, this is the baggage you were talking about?” asked Kathryn.
I gave a slight nod.
Without a word Kathryn took me in her arms. She said, “I’m not going anywhere.” She held me close until I felt the warmth of her body and relaxed into the strength and message of her embrace and felt safe.
*******
I woke up with a start to a dark room and a digital clock that glowed 3:30. Kathryn wasn’t beside me. I got up and went into the big room. Kathryn was sitting in an easy chair by the wall of windows, gazing out at the moon over the Mews.
She turned when she heard my footsteps.
“Did I wake you?” she asked. “I’m sorry.”
“Is there anything wrong? Would you rather be alone?”
Kathryn shook her head. “I’m glad you’re here, but I don’t want to keep you from resting.”
“Come and sit with me on the couch in the bedroom. It’s warmer in there.” I drew her by the hand to the bedroom couch. Kathryn curled up and I spread a soft quilt over us both.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked, putting my arm around her.
She shook her head. Kathryn had told me early in our relationship that she’d had occasional bouts of insomnia all her life.
“It’s so frustrating. It’s not as though I’m not tired.” She stifled a yawn. “But I think I’ve figured out something rather significant by reading more of Victoria’s journal. It’s really full of interesting things. When I write the book, I’ll have to research every part of it, but I like doing that.”
She yawned again. “After she lost Evangeline, Victoria frequently traveled to South America. Ev
en when she was quite an old woman. Early in the century she spent time in Chile, in the capital. She would have been in her late sixties by then. There was significant political unrest. She met a young woman. She was Chilean, but of German descent. Did you know there was a large German population in Chile in the early 1900s?”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t either. Here, I’ll read it to you.”
May 12th, 1914
This morning one of the Rothmeyers introduced me to a charming 20-year-old girl named “Gisa.” It’s a shortened version of Gisella. Her family was part of the old regime and, I gather from other sources, not particularly well regarded. Some sort of allegation of fraud attached to her grandfather.
Her mother is no longer living, and had no people, her father disappeared years ago, so Gisa is at sea. She is quite well educated and capable. She speaks a number of languages, far better than I, and is talented in art as well. She drew a picture of me with which I was quite impressed. And frankly, it takes a great deal to impress me in that area. She can draw perfectly, but she has the boldness to go beyond.
Gisa’s drawings reminded me of some of the drawings in Etta’s collection. I saw them in Paris the last time I was there. Etta bought them from Gertrude for a song. Gertrude is clearly growing bored with Etta now that Gertrude lives in Paris full time. Yet Etta is still young enough to attract someone and she is certainly rich enough to do so.
I honestly think Gisa’s drawings are much more striking than the drawings I saw in Etta and Claribel’s collection the last time I was in Baltimore.
Gisa has asked me to hire her as an assistant and apprentice, and I’m seriously thinking of doing so.
“Wow... She’s talking about the Cone sisters and Gertrude Stein!”
“I know, and the drawings Etta bought from Gertrude Stein. I wonder whose they were... Picasso? Matisse?”
“All those famous artists really did all know each other, didn’t they.”
“Yes, that’s not the least of it though. You see, she brings this young woman home with her, to Fenchester.”
“Really, hmmm. A June-December romance? Twenty?”
“Gisa was twenty-one by the time they came back to Fenchester. She seems to have lived with Victoria for the rest of her life, but, though Victoria mentions her often and fondly, she never says anything...”
“Romantic about her?”
“Exactly. Yes. They were not lovers. Gisa was more like a daughter. It’s so funny Maggie, but now that Victoria is writing in the 20th century her written voice is much more contemporary. She does say something else very important; wait until you hear this. It’s five years later.”
August 15, 1919
Gisa says she wants to have a child. I feared at first she was telling me she was preparing to leave with some man. Men certainly do find her attractive. However she assures me she means nothing of the kind and has no intention of leaving. She wants to bear a child to complete our unconventional family.
She has planned this rather carefully and seems to know the steps she must take to... make it happen. She was willing to explain what they were but I confess I didn’t have the stomach for it. This proves I suppose, that I am a woman of the era that bears my name. Though, of course, I have had experiences beyond those of the average Victorian woman.
I prefer to think of it akin to Ruth in the benefit of Naomi. Whither thou goest... Though I’ve always suspected those two to be more than adopted mother and daughter. The latter describes our relationship more precisely than that of the two women in Ruth.
Gisa will “put her plan into action” on the sea voyage we shall take to Europe in a few days. In that way, we shall not have to worry that the... father... as it were... might become an albatross. She has explained to me that if she can find a young lad without “experience” she is assured that disease cannot be a problem.
My anxiety with her decision underscores my love for her, my dear child, whom I could not bear to lose. Ah well, I suppose the medical practices of today are much advanced to those in my younger days when women regularly died in childbirth, and Gisa is young and strong. And of course, her mind is made up, so I have no hope of changing it. I fear for her nonetheless.
And perhaps I fear for myself, having to share our small home with a crying infant now that I have nearly reached my three score and ten.
“There is a great deal of other information in here about a show of Victoria’s work in Philadelphia and then the preparations for their trip. After the trip there are references to Gisa’s condition. And then, this is the last entry in this journal.”
Date June 17th, 1920
After a frightening night which hosted a midwife and nurse, we have a baby! Gisa insisted that she did not need to go to the hospital. In fact, I suspect the lack of a physical father may have prejudiced the staff against her. But we conferred with the midwife a number of times preceding the blessed event and she posed no protest.
Gisa has now appended a new surname for convention’s sake. I suggested Fen, but she chose the name of the city of her birth in Chile. Probably just as well.
I am surprised to find a roaring fondness in my heart for this newborn babe. It’s rather shocking I feel this way, but there it is. Interesting, is it not, that my maternal instincts have lain dormant for decades until the waning years of my life. They now present themselves with the ferocious attitude of a lioness... Fancy!
The connection of the birthday of this child and the day Evangeline and I first shared ourselves in the spring-fed pool touches my heart all the more.
The baby is quite beautiful and remarkably tiny. Gisa insists that we shall name this lovely child after beauty itself. I see now, more than ever that these are my daughter and granddaughter. And they are, indeed, beauty itself; they have replaced the perfect beauty from which I was parted so long ago. When I pass on to reunite with my perfect Angel, I will leave these beautiful beings behind to fill her void and make a difference in the world in their own way.
I stared at Kathryn as she lay the journal on the table and pulled off her gloves.
“That’s all there is in the journal? That’s the end?”
“It’s the last page. She had to squeeze the writing in. I suppose there might be another book somewhere in the world, but we don’t have it now. So, they had a baby. It’s so remarkable. I wonder what happened to her?”
“Kathryn, I think we know what happened to her... think about it.”
“Hmmm?”
“Think about it! Her last name is the name of the city of Gisa’s birth! Victoria met her in the Capital of Chile! Santiago... And they named her after beauty.”
“Bella? Isabella Santiago?” Kathryn sat back with her mouth open. “I didn’t think of... Maggie... she’d be...”
“Very old. But the question is, is she alive or is she a ghost? I didn’t tell you that when you saw Isabella in the archives, I saw, well, I saw a ghost, and it wasn’t Isabella. In fact it was two ghosts.” I told Kathryn who I’d seen in the doorway.
“Maybe you were lightheaded and the stress and bright light made you see something that wasn’t there.”
“Well, maybe. I have considered that, but I think Piper saw them too. Because when she saw that Samson was alive, she asked me if Suzanne was alive too.”
Kathryn shook her head a little bit. We sat together looking at each other, then finally she said, “Is this something you’re going to investigate?”
“I’m not sure, but either way, I’m glad we’re sharing it.”
She smiled and kissed me and said, “I may never sleep.”
We both laughed.
“Here,” I said turning to the side and putting a pillow between us.
She leaned into the pillow and I put my arms around her. I touched her cheek, feeling the warmth of it with my palm.
She turned and looked deeply into my eyes. I suddenly knew what she wanted, what had been keeping her awake, and what I needed to do.
“I should
sing you a lullaby, but I’m not very good at singing, so I could recite something.” She nodded, still searching my eyes.
I thought for a minute, took two giant steps and then a flying leap.
I recited:
I love your lips when they’re wet with wine
And red with a wild desire;
I love your eyes when the lovelight lies
Lit with a passionate fire.
I love your arms when the warm white flesh
Touches mine in a fond embrace;
I love your hair when the strands enmesh
Your kisses against my face.
Not for me the cold calm kiss
Of a virgin’s bloodless love;
Not for me the saint’s white bliss,
Nor the heart of a spotless dove.
But give me the love that so freely gives
And laughs at the whole world’s blame,
With your body so young and warm in my arms,
It sets my poor heart aflame.
So kiss me sweet with your warm wet mouth,
Still fragrant with ruby wine,
