by Tena Frank
“I’m so sorry, Leland. I didn’t want to tell you. Cally is gone. Her mother took her away.”
Aghast at the news and the sudden prospect of not keeping his word to Ellie, Leland took a step backward, clipping his heel on the chair leg. He tumbled to the flagstone landing, hitting his head on a huge earthenware planter on the way down, and passed out. When he finally regained consciousness, he found himself lying on a small bed in a ward in the state hospital.
Years accumulated into decades. Leland Howard played little part in his own life, if one could call it a life, signing over the right to make all decisions on his behalf to his friend, Richard Price, who recognized with the help of the doctors that Leland would remain at risk of suicide if left on his own.
Leland never returned to the house he built for Ellie, visited the gravesites of his family nor reestablished an active existence. For those in the community he had once called home, he seemed to simply disappear, leaving behind ever-mutating stories about the dramatic events of March 15, 1962. Even they eventually faded into oblivion. He also left behind an unassuming house with a grand door and a workshop full of beautiful, one-of-a-kind works of art, demand for which sent their value skyrocketing. Fortunately, he had a dear friend who managed his estate and his care with dedicated devotion, flawless integrity and financial acuity.
As for Leland, he spent the years sequestered, first in the mental hospital where he underwent treatment for severe depression, including electric shock treatment, and then Forest Glen where he eventually settled into a quiet life. Over time and with great effort, he successfully sealed up his memories and buried them deeply in his subconscious, allowing him to live around the edges of the overwhelming emotions they contained.
But today, as he sat working small pieces of basswood into intricate ornaments ready for hand-painting and sale at the upcoming Christmas Bazaar, the veils between those two worlds—one carefully constructed over the ruins of the other—fell away with a few words uttered by a stranger.
“Gampa, it’s me. It’s Cally.”
THIRTY-FIVE
2004
It had been the most eventful three weeks in Cally’s life. She had let Lauren go, left Los Angeles and her career, driven herself across the continent, searched for her roots, not found them, then met Tate and found not only her roots but so much more. She had found her grandfather. She had found home.
It is often said in Asheville, by those who leave and then return, that once you live in Asheville, you always come back. The city affects people that way—captivates them, draws them in, makes them its own. Asheville chose Cally as much as she chose it.
Though she loved the little city, she had nearly forgotten about it during those long years in California. Her grief over leaving her grandparents had eventually faded, and with its passing, the peaceful days of her childhood spent with them retreated to a dusty corner of her mind. She had left them locked away there to appease her mother, who refused to talk about anything related to their old life in the mountains.
Of the few memories Cally retained from her childhood, the night they left Asheville remained the most vivid. Rita packed only those belongings that would fit into the back of their beat up VW Beetle, secured Cally in the passenger seat and headed west.
“Where are we going?” Cally asked.
Rita gave no response. She stared into the night and drove silently for several minutes while her daughter waited. When she spoke, her voice sounded different. Had Rita been willing to name it, she would have said terror, bewilderment, disbelief—maybe all of them—had taken hold of her. But she would not name the pandemonium raging inside her, not to her child, not even to herself. “We’re never going to talk about this place again, do you hear me?”
That night, the mother Cally had known all her life vanished, and Rita would never seem the same to Cally again.
Cally attempted the next day, as they continued west, to get Rita to take them back home. “Momma, I want to see Gamma . . .”
Rita glared at her. “I told you we were never going to talk about it again, Cally.”
“But, Momma, I want to see her so bad my heart hurts!” She broke into ragged sobs.
“I said NO!” Then the new mother lifted her hand off the steering wheel, swooshing the back of it menacingly close to Cally’s face as if to strike the little girl who instinctively crouched against the car door.
“You listen to me, Cally,” Rita hissed. “I told you last night we are never going to talk about any of those people back there again. I just can’t bear to do it.” Her voice softened as she saw the fear and misery in her child’s eyes. “Cally, we can’t . . . I just can’t talk about them no more, please . . .”
“I miss them, Momma. I miss them so bad.” Cally finally acquiesced and stopped asking to go home. Even at 7 years old a child can understand when something changes forever. She may not know what, she may not know why. But she can know something special is gone and will never return.
“I know,” said Rita. Then she turned her attention back to the road stretching out before her—dry, dusty and barren—hoping with each mile she and her child would survive what laid behind and what lay ahead.
By the time they reached Los Angeles, Rita had tucked all her feelings about what had happened in Asheville away in a chamber buried somewhere deep inside herself. She spent the rest of her life keeping the door to that chamber tightly closed, using alcohol, mind-numbing work and a series of irrelevant men as guardians to her secrets. In the process, she would also close out her child, who nonetheless held as closely to her as Rita would allow.
Rita’s untimely death at age 54 shocked everyone but surprised no one. Her decades of heavy drinking resulted in cirrhosis of the liver which buddied up with diabetes and heart disease to create a direct path to an early demise. Cally had begun preparing herself to deal with a sickly and aging mother while still in high school many years earlier. It never occurred to her Rita might go suddenly rather than lingering on to suffer the indignities of a deteriorating body and mind. Being hit by a bus after stumbling half-drunk into the street proved a much better way to go, really, and Cally felt only a bit guilty for being relieved when her mother died in exactly that way.
In the days and weeks following Rita’s death, Cally did her best to take care of tying up the remaining aspects of her mother’s broken life. She arranged for the funeral and notified the few people who called Rita “friend,” all the while dealing with the cleaving pain of having no relatives to call with the news.
Much of what she found in her mother’s cramped and cluttered studio apartment went directly into the trash. Anything with value she packed up and carted off to Goodwill. There are no memories for me here. Nothing to keep. Nothing to cherish. Those thoughts predominated, leaving Cally in despair as she moved methodically through her mother’s house, cleaning out all remnants of a barren life.
She worked in spits and spurts, knowing she need not rush. She could afford to pay the rent on the place until she got it emptied out. After devoting her life to keeping her mother as close as possible, refusing to let Rita drift away, it never occurred to Cally she could hire someone to clear out the apartment rather than doing it herself. This chore, awful though it was, represented her last physical connection to Rita. So she dragged herself through the task with no expectation other than eventually finishing it.
Cally loaded the last box for the thrift store into her car and then felt compelled to do one more walk-through before locking the door for the final time. She peeked into the medicine cabinet, checked out all the cupboards and opened the closet door to take another look. Strong, late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the picture window illuminating the usually dark space, and light bounced off something stuck far back in the corner.
Cally stooped down and pulled a battered wooden cigar box from a depression in the back wall. A flood of memories rushed over her as she pulled it close to her chest and began sobbing uncontrollably.
; She clutched the box and savored the thought of what she knew she would find inside. The earthy, musty fragrance of old tobacco would be there along with the rough finish and the yellowed inscription:
Lewis’ Single Binder 5 Cent Cigar
spelled out in fading letters. And it would have treasures in it. It would hold memories. This old box had always contained her mother’s most cherished possessions. Cally instinctively knew it still did.
She cried herself to sleep there on the floor of her mother’s vacant apartment. She woke to an incredible sunset, the sky streaked with clouds tinted purple, pink, orange and gold, and Jacob’s Ladders glinting off the distant ocean. Her arms remained tightly wrapped around her unexpected prize.
Cally stood and opened the west-facing windows, letting in the cooling evening air, then sat leaning against the wall, cradling the cigar box. After several minutes, she lifted the lid with shaking hands and began sorting through the items one by one, taking her time with each.
Some of them she remembered. A tiny bracelet given to her mother as a child, which she herself had been allowed to wear on very special occasions; some old greeting cards from Rita’s boyfriends; a decrepit rabbit’s foot on a thin ball chain; a report card with an “A” in Reading and scrawled beside it in Rita’s hand “my first A!” She remembered her mother showing her the report card and admonishing Cally to “do good in school, like I never did.”
She did not expect what she found next. She pulled out a picture she had never seen before—a barely recognizable Ellie as a happy and vibrant girl, her face aglow with a huge smile. Her frothy hair stood atop her head, secured there with a fancy scarf tied rakishly over her right ear. She wore a simple cotton dress with a fitted bodice and pleated skirt.
As she stared at the picture, Cally reached back in time trying to connect with her grandmother. She did not know this exuberant young woman, the teenaged Ellie in the photo. She had known only the matronly Ellie, the subdued woman who smiled but never laughed out loud, the one who rocked a tiny Cally to sleep at naptime, and who later taught her to crochet doilies and bake brownies.
The next item surprised Cally even more. Tucked behind the picture she found an aged, folded note with her name penciled on the front. A strange sensation flooded over her as she reached for it. She felt spacey, her breath quickened, and her heart began pounding. The corner of the room seemed to fill with a misty, white light with no obvious source. It’s so fragile. This thought rolled through Cally’s head as she opened the note carefully so as not to damage it. It read:
There is always something waiting for you
where the home fire burns.
I love you dearly and forever.
Gamma
Emotions engulfed Cally in huge waves—grief, joy, rage, disbelief, confusion. Where did this come from? Why didn’t Gamma give it to me herself? Why did Mom hide it away all these years? I’m so glad I found it. It’s a miracle I didn’t leave it behind . . .
And then, gratitude and love surfaced, filling every cell in Cally’s body. Her heart overflowing with thoughts of her mother, who, for reasons Cally could not comprehend, had both hidden and preserved this precious gift from her grandmother, she spoke aloud through her wracking sobs: “Thank you, Mom. Thank you so much for keeping this for me.” The light in the corner glimmered brightly before receding. Rita’s final gift had been found. Cally waited until her crying subsided, then gathered up the box along with all its treasures and left the little apartment for the last time.
THIRTY-SIX
2004
Family had always defined Leland Howard’s life. First his parents and grandparents when they lived on the homestead in the mountains, then Ellie and Clayton, and later Cally—all of them made Leland Howard the person he was. Rather, the person he had once been. In the wake of the loss of his entire family in a matter of days, nothing could have persuaded Leland to continue participating in his daily life, so the accident in the courtyard that led to his brief coma and subsequent hospitalization proved to be a blessing. The injury, coupled with his unremitting depression, provided a reason no one could question for him to slip out of reality and never return.
It proved less of a blessing that his mind remained sharp and his memories kept trying to claw their way back into the light of day. He kept them caged by focusing only on his daily activities—making the little boxes from wood supplied by his dear friend, Richard Price; bantering with the staff at Forest Glen; and occasionally sharing some of his carefully selected memories such as he had done with Tate Marlowe recently.
Of course, rummaging through his mind for recollections of happy events threatened to pull him deep into the abyss of grief awaiting him, so he rarely ventured into that territory. The presence of this young woman claiming to be his granddaughter created a critical decision point for Leland Howard. Keep her out, and he could remain in the relatively comfortable world he had constructed. Let her in, and he would . . . what? What stood on the other side of that possibility?
Leland Howard did not know what he would find if he chose to acknowledge the woman. He knew only that he had searched her face and found his sweet, little granddaughter with tears in her eyes and in need of comforting. He had searched his heart and unearthed the anguished aching, long in need of healing that only family could provide. She called me Gampa.
He reached his hand out into the past, into the present, and gently touched Cally’s cheek. He chose family, willing to face whatever horror that choice might unleash.
He felt a bit dizzy and put his hand on the table to steady himself as if he were about to rise out of his chair. Then he sat back and took a deep breath.
“It’s me, Gampa. Do you remember me?”
He sat quietly with eyes closed, mind racing, slipping in and out of coherent thought. It couldn’t be Cally. Cally is gone. They’re all gone. The woman squeezed his hand and pulled it gently to her cheek again. He felt her tears on his fingers.
“Cally is gone,” he muttered. “They all went away and left me alone.”
“I’m right here, Gampa. I came back. I thought you had died, and I came back and found out you were still here. It’s me. It’s Cally, all grown up.”
Leland shook his head, trying to unscramble his thoughts. He looked again into the woman’s eyes. And there she was—little Cally. He heard the faint echo of her laugh, saw her dancing around the living room of the old house in her princess dress, eyes twinkling as she waved her magic wand.
“Are you a princess or a fairy?”
Cally puzzled over this question. She looked to Tate for help.
“I think he’s confused, Cally. This is probably pretty shocking for him.”
Dorothy joined them at Leland’s side and placed two fingers on his wrist to check his pulse. She noted his shallow breathing. “His pulse is racing. This is very stressful for him.”
“I should leave . . .” Cally said, hesitantly, looking to Tate and Dorothy for confirmation.
“Are you a princess or a fairy?” Leland smiled as he stared intently into Cally’s eyes.
“I don’t understand, Gampa . . .”
“You have a princess dress and a fairy’s magic wand. Which are you?”
The shared memory flashed into Cally’s awareness, and she gasped as she remember that day in the living room at the old house. She responded just as she had so very long ago: “I’m a magic princess, Gampa!”
“Indeed you are, Cally. Indeed you are!”
They wrapped their arms around each other and began sobbing. Tate and Dorothy retreated to the edge of the room, leaving them to find their way back to family.
THIRTY-SEVEN
1942
Valentine’s Day approached, and Ellie had agreed to help stage the annual party for the teen group at church. She hoped Clayton would attend. He showed no signs of outgrowing his wildness, and she sought any means possible to turn him in a positive direction.
Constance Ryland arrived at the same time. She and Elli
e fell into a familiar banter as they began pulling decorations out of storage and catching up with each other. Their friendship, which began in grade school, remained solid through years of volunteering together even though they now lived very different lives.
Connie—Ellie was one of few still to call her that name—had married a wealthy man, but she came from working-class roots. Although it took a long time, she had eventually secured acceptance in her husband’s social circle. With that acceptance came a challenge. Abandon her past or embrace it? She struggled to do both and eventually found balance. She remained involved at the church of her childhood through her volunteer work but now attended services with her husband at his place of worship. What many people interpreted as haughtiness, Ellie saw for what it was—Connie’s way of straddling two worlds and remaining true to herself. Sure, she wore fancy clothes and expensive jewelry, but she never acted superior, at least not to Ellie.
“It’s so good to see you, Ellie! I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you, too, Connie. You’ve been out of town, haven’t you?”
“Yes, we went to Palm Beach right after New Year’s. We intended to return in March, but Phillip had a business meeting in Washington, so we came back early. I would have preferred to stay longer. You know I don’t like the cold weather much.”
“You never have, Connie. This winter has been pretty mild, though. No major storms so far and we’ve had some spring-like days already. Of course, it could turn bad again with little notice. We’ve all seen five or six inches of snow arrive in a single day in April or May.”
“Well, it’s good to be home, even this early in the season. And I’ve always loved this Valentine’s dance. Remember? We’d come every year hoping to meet Prince Charming and end up being wall flowers all night!”
