by Dan Kolbet
"I already looked, I can't find her," she said.
"But where? Where did you let her out? Where did you look?" I asked.
"In the park," she said. And we continued to sit there as she stared at me, not making any effort to move the car.
"Can you drive us back over there so we can look again?" I said. I was getting agitated by then.
"Oh, yeah, sure," she said.
We parked by the Manito pond and began searching on foot.
"This is where you let her out?" I asked as we crossed the park.
"Well, by that hill over there," she said.
"Then why did you park down here?" I asked, my voice rising with frustration. "That's 200 yards away. She could be long gone by now."
"I thought she'd come down by the pond to drink or something," Jane had offered, sounding defeated.
I jogged through the park looking for Willie and asking passersby if they had seen the little Golden Retriever puppy anywhere. Nobody had seen her, until I asked a guy flying a remote-control helicopter.
"I saw a lady and a little dog by the pond, a while back," he said, not looking down at me, but focusing his attention on his helicopter flying.
"When?"
"It was a while ago. I don't know."
"Are you sure it was my dog?"
"Dude, how would I know? You gotta keep those things on a leash, you know? They bite people and stuff."
"It's a little Golden Retriever puppy," I said, "She's not biting anyone."
"Whatever."
I had immediately discounted the man's comments, as he wasn't really paying attention anyway. He never looked at me once. How could he have really noticed Jane and Willie anyway, with his eyes cast toward the sky watching his helicopter?
Yet for the briefest of moments I wondered if he had seen Jane and Willie by the water. Why would Jane tell me that she let her out by the hill if she let her out by the pond? Why were they at the edge of the pond anyway?
We scoured the park. No signs of her. Hours passed and I started going over the same path again and again. I remember I kept checking my phone to see if anyone had found her and called the phone number I had engraved on her dog tag, but my phone didn't ring.
"It's no use," Jane said. "She's gone. I'm sorry. I know you loved that dog."
I sat back down in the car, exhausted. When I looked back toward the crate, I remember seeing Willie's leash and collar sitting on the seat. I had forgotten that I'd removed the collar while she was riding in the crate. I didn't want her to accidentally get it stuck on something and choke. Yet Jane hadn't put it back on her when she let her out?
And then she said something completely out of left field—at least I thought it was at the time.
"I guess our big weekend is cancelled now, huh?" she had said, but she didn't look upset at all. She actually looked relieved.
* * *
In the grand scheme of things this dramatic day was only a blip on the radar. I was mad at Jane for being careless. She felt guilty and tried to make it up to me by offering to get us a new dog to replace Willie, who we never did find. I did not think she did it intentionally. But I do now. How exactly had it occurred? I have no idea, but the real possibility that she drowned Willie in the pond sickens me.
She knew that the dog meant a long-term, lasting relationship—I even told her that Willie was practice for us having children. She also knew that I was going to propose to her that weekend. I'd hinted around the subject enough that I know she was expecting it anytime. I'd been looking for an opportunity. Losing Willie meant cancelling the trip to the lake and my proposal. No long-term dog to worry about. No more proposal around the corner and no commitment to me.
Does this make sense? Not at all. But I'm not concerned about what makes sense anymore, because it's all a sticky mess of lies. I just want answers and there is only one person who can give them to me. Aunt, no . . . Grandma Ella.
Chapter 45
It's morning now. Ella hands me a cup of coffee at the vintage red and gray Formica kitchen table. I don't even care that it's that cheap blonde roast that older people drink. I just need coffee because I'm running on fumes. I hadn't slept a wink last night. Before going to bed Libby and I went through every photo album and every paper we could find in the house that wasn't behind a locked door, trying to discover more information about Jane. This did nothing to ease my sleep that night. It only raised more questions.
Last night, I noticed the house didn't look like it had changed one bit since the 1970s or early 80s. Orange curtains and wood paneling. Large mirrors with ornate brass frames. Glass coffee tables. And those were the updated areas. The kitchen looked like a scene from the 1960s. Straight out of Mad Men. The house was like a time capsule.
"My girl was a sweet girl, you know," Ella says sitting down at the table next to Libby and myself. "Just confused sometimes. Been that way since the beginning. Confused I mean. Well, sweet too."
I don't hesitate to start the interrogation. I've waited long enough and been fooled too many times.
"I have no desire to play games with you and I know you're not Libby's aunt. You're her grandmother. Let's just get that piece of news out of the way up front," I say. "So, I'm going to be very direct and ask you specific questions about Jane because her daughter and I are more confused than ever about her."
"Jane was it?" Ella says, but she's not surprised. And she didn't deny she is Libby's grandmother.
"She told me her name was Lisa," Libby chimes in.
Ella nods her head and blows into her hot coffee.
"She picked those names, not me. They weren't her God-given names, that's for sure. You're talking about Esther. Esther Mae. That was my momma's name and I gave it to my oldest. But if she's Jane or Lisa or Esther or whatever else, that's my girl."
Esther Mae Mackey. I can hardly believe it. It was Jane who crossed out our initials at the Carving Shelter. She just signed it with her real initials—EMM. But why?
Ella looks at Libby.
"You, my dear, are the spitting image of your mother. Prettiest thing," she says. "And I dare say you look like your daddy too."
She pauses and glances at me.
"I knew someday one of you, or both of you, would come knocking at my door. I did not expect it last night, not one bit. I thought you were the plumber I called," she says.
Something about that doesn't sit well with me. No plumber ever showed up and Ella didn't call to cancel one.
"How did you know we'd come here?" I ask.
"Because Esther Mae said you would. I just thought it'd be sooner. When Libby and Esther Mae left, I thought it'd be no time at all before they'd pop up somewhere and you'd find them, Bill."
"I didn't know I was supposed to be looking," I say.
But I also know that I spent 12 years alone in Montana, avoiding everyone I knew and if there was something to be found, I hadn't see it.
"Why did you come to see us in Port Orchard?" Libby asks her grandmother.
"Because your mother asked me to," Ella replies. "Surprised the hell out of me getting that call after so long. I was thankful she was still with us, but surprised. She wanted me to spend some time with her fella, Frank. But I told her that man was no good. I could tell with that one. The way he looked at her, I could tell."
Libby shakes her head.
"Frank was OK," Libby says.
"He's the one who told me about Libby," I say.
"Well, he done right by you then," she says. "Good thing. I just didn't get a right sense about him and I told her as much."
"Why did Jane do this? Why did she fake her death in that fire in New York? Why did she come here?" I ask.
"A daughter should come here," Ella says. "It's home. I've always kept it just the way she remembered it."
"Did Jane live here before? Was she raised here?" I ask.
"Of course. Where else would it be?"
This explains why the house looks like a 1960s period drama.
"I tho
ught she was from Colorado," I say.
"Me too," Libby says.
"No, she wasn't," Ella says.
"And you keep your house decorated this way because this was how she remembered it? Why?" I ask.
"They said it would be good for her," Ella says.
"Who?" Libby asks.
"The doctors . . . but that's her business. I don't want to talk about this anymore," Ella says. "I've said more than I want to."
"You haven't told us anything. And it's our business too. Our lives," Libby says, her voice rising in frustration. "Why did you pretend to be my aunt?"
Ella pauses and straightens out the sleeves of her white blouse. She takes in a big breath and continues.
"I didn't decide to be your aunt, dear," Ella says. "Your mother decided that for me. I played my part and you should be grateful for it. She loved you with all her heart. When she showed up here with you, when you were just a little one, I hadn't seen her in a very long time. I didn't know where she had been or why she suddenly needed me, but my baby was back home and I had a granddaughter—you—and your mom said she needed me to be Aunt Ella. So I was. No questions asked."
"No questions asked? That's ridiculous. Did you know she faked her death to get here?" I press further.
"Not at first. Only later on when she started talking about leaving again."
"Did you also know that I was alive and well and that Jane took my daughter away from me?" I ask.
She nods her head and looks ashamed.
"Later, yes. She told me. But I just wanted my baby back home. She'd been gone for so long," she said. "I didn't want her to leave. I know that's not right. What she did wasn't right, but a daughter needs her momma and I did what I could to take care of her. She needed me so much. It was her condition that did it."
"What condition?" I ask.
"Oh, my, Bill, you really didn't know, did you? I thought that maybe you might, but she was so good at hiding it, even from me when she was younger. That was a symptom that she tried to fight it, you know."
She takes a sip of her coffee and fiddles with the paper napkin it's sitting on.
"When she was little, maybe 12, she locked herself in her bedroom," Ella says. "No eating. No talking. All day. She just shut off the rest of the world and stayed in bed for a few weeks. I'd try to get her to talk to me. Tried to get her to go to school, but it didn't make a difference. She'd just stare at the wall, you see. I'd never seen that before in a child. Either of my children. She just went dark. I asked the doctors, even had one come to the house here, and they didn't have any right explanation for it. Said it was something inside her. In her head. Mental. Then one day she snapped out of it. Her brother—"
"So, I have an uncle?" Libby interrupts.
"Yes, dear, you do. Let me finish. Her little brother Alex—he was maybe 9 then—was outside climbing that tree," she points outside to a large oak tree. "He fell, you see and busted up his arm and shoulder real bad. He was wailing like the dickens, he was. But I wasn't here to help. I'd gone down the road to the Avery's house to return the lawn mower I'd borrowed. For whatever reason, her brother's screaming knocked something loose in her head and she came down to help him. She got him cleaned up and inside, then ran and got me. Then she was better for a long while."
"It happened again?" I ask.
"Occasionally she'd go dark again. That's what I called it. Going dark. All through her school time it happened maybe four or five more times. Then she'd be right again, like nothing had happened, until the last time she left here and I didn't hear from her again till she came back with Lib and I became Aunt Ella."
She pauses and looks to Libby.
"I don't want you to think badly of your momma," she says. "She only wanted the best for you. Always. She tried. There was just something that she had that made it hard for her and she needed something to change. She didn't like sticking too long in one place."
"What was it?" Libby asks. "What did she have?"
"They called it bipolar disorder, but back then people didn't really understand it. Not like they do today," she said, confirming my suspicion. "Some people get really depressed and then they have serious episodes. They call them manic episodes and they do really odd things and they don't act like themselves. It can be treated with medication."
"The pills," Libby says.
I nod my agreement.
"She was a good woman," Ella says. "She was just sick and she hid it."
"If she was so good, then why did she do all this? And why did you let her?" Libby says, her face turning red.
"She left when she was 18 years old and I didn't hear from her again for 20 years. What was I supposed to do? Get her locked up some place? No, I wouldn't do that. I thought that if she stayed here then I could watch her. She could take her medicine and be all right. And she was. Don't you see that? She just went dark sometimes . . ."
Going dark. It's painful to admit that the signs of her having a condition—or going dark—were there for me to see. She did take time to herself. She did stay locked in our bedroom, but I didn't know that it was part of a larger issue. She never told me. And I was preoccupied myself. When she was dark, I was writing, locked in a little room in the attic. I'm not making an excuse for her, but I was probably the worst person for her to be with when this happened. I mirrored her actions and locked myself away.
Maybe she pushed me away to save me from her illness. Maybe that's why I started my relationship with Monique. But that's making an excuse for me too and that's not right.
"But why did she hide it?" I ask. "Why didn't she tell me? I could have helped. I would have understood. This happens to people."
"I can't dare to know the answer to that," Ella says. "I agree with you. Fighting this alone . . . maybe that's why. If she didn't discuss it with you, it wasn't real. Other than me, she never talked about it with anyone. But I really don't know. It's not right no matter what; I know that for sure."
I let this news soak in. She had something wrong with her all along and I didn't know it.
"So, I have an uncle?" Libby says.
"Yes. Alex. Lives in Colorado—maybe that's why she said she was from there. He's got a nice wife and two boys. Alex and I aren't on the best of terms you see, so it's his wife who keeps me updated on my grandsons."
"I have cousins too?" Libby says, excited.
"Yes," Ella says. "They're both in elementary school. I'll show you a picture.
She pulls a box from a drawer in the kitchen. She removes a stack of photos, which are wedged between several silver envelopes. Ella scoops up the envelopes and tosses them back into the drawer before returning to the table.
"They went on a vacation to Disney World and sent me these pictures. I don't do that Facebook. I like the real thing," she says, holding up a picture to Libby. "This here's Alex and his wife Brenda and the boys, John and Robert."
Libby nods and takes the picture for a closer look. She smiles at me.
"I think the boys look like me," Libby says.
"They are family after all," I say, without looking at the picture.
"Look," she says, handing me the photo.
A family of four stands in front of Sleeping Beauty's Castle. Parents and two kids. They're wearing rain slickers and the sky behind them is dark gray. Puddles have formed at their feet. The boys are still smiling though.
I do not see a resemblance to Libby, but I won't tell her that. The woman in the picture is not familiar at all. But it's the man—Alex—who stands out to me. He's chubby and short with a gray goatee. It doesn't matter that he's wearing Mickey Mouse ears, a blue polo shirt and tan shorts under his slicker. Or that his arm is affectionately wrapped around his wife. I see those things, but they don't register with me.
Because I already met the man in this photo—Alex. He's the man who attended my dad's funeral, told me Libby was in jail in Seattle and called himself Frank. But based on Libby's non-reaction—this isn't the Frank she knows.
I've been l
ied to. Again.
Chapter 46
I don't hide my reaction well. The sip of coffee that had just entered my mouth goes down the wrong pipe and I choke, spiting coffee all over the table. My involuntary response must be my body's way of dealing with this strange turn of events, but it forces me to rush into the bathroom where I vomit into the toilet like a high school kid who drank too much of his parents booze.
"You OK in there?" Libby says through the door.
"I'm fine," I spit out. "Just need a second."
"Alright," she says. "If you're OK, we're going downstairs to look at the flood damage. Come down when you're cleaned up."
I say a silent prayer when she goes away. I need time to process what I just saw and to figure out who this Alex person is and why he told me he was Frank. I'm getting damn sick and tired of being lied to. I look at the sink and wonder to myself if I could rip it off its foundation and throw it against the wall. Maybe that would make me feel better. I give it a little tug, but it's in there pretty good so I refrain.
I think back to what I know about "Frank." He went to my father's funeral. He called me and we met at a diner. He showed me a picture of himself and my Jane by a semi-truck. Then he told me about Libby, so I could get her out of jail. And I believed everything he told me. Up until this point it had all been true.
But what I can't figure out is if he is really Alex—Libby's uncle and Jane's brother why didn't he just say that? Why would Jane's brother pretend to be her boyfriend? It's creepy and weird. Couldn't he have just told me what he needed to tell me without making up some elaborate story? His goal was to get me to help Libby. That was it. What is it with this family that they need to lie and create fantasies to dupe people?
Frank said I'd never see him again and I never really questioned it. I thought that he just didn't want to deal with it anymore. If he wasn't the guy who lived in Port Orchard, wouldn't I see that the two men were different people at some point? If Libby decided she wanted to stay in Port Orchard, I would have met the real Frank—the one she knew. Again, a lie for no apparent reason. Now, I'm even more curious about the real Frank—the guy who lived with my wife.
