WSITM 3: Rectification
Rectification
Death ends a life, not a relationship.” - Mitch Albom
I woke cranky, tired, and tangled in sweaty sheets from dreams of being forced to choose between unmarked trails that led nowhere - or into patches of poison ivy - only to discover I couldn’t find my way home. It didn’t take a genius to know what that was all about. “All right already,” I muttered, kicking the sheets aside and disturbing Zelda in the process.
Zelda, my fluffy black-and-tan Chimera kitty with pale green eyes, loves a good dream. She’s been known to sleep by my head and knead my scalp if I’m having an especially pleasant one. But last night she moved to the foot of the bed, as far from my dreams as possible. “Meeeroooow,” she complained now, jumping to the floor and giving me her, what the fuck stare.
“I know, I know,” I apologized. “I promise I’ll get it done today.” It was the conversation I needed to have with D’s younger sister Faith before I could move forward with plans for the Light House. Faith lived with her husband and 16-year-old son Casey in a pricey, upscale neighborhood known as The Meadows. It would take me the better part of an hour to drive there, but this was not a conversation that should be held over the phone. I dragged myself out of bed, fed Zelda, and started the coffee maker.
When all my morning chores were complete, including a shower that lasted much longer than necessary, I packed my sling bag and headed out the door. Once on the freeway, I steered my tired Toyota Corolla into the right hand lane, popped open a can of Fresca, and let the memories I’d been avoiding come.
Faith and I first met at D’s retirement dinner where she accused me of convincing her brother to quit his tenured university position to campaign for AIDS. “So you’re the one,” said a petite, red-haired woman when she cornered me by the dessert table.
“Excuse me?” I said. “Have we met?” Though 11 years younger than her brother, the resemblance to D was unmistakable. She had the same pale skin, high cheekbones, and long aquiline nose set between startling blue-gray eyes that made his face so memorable.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know who I am,” she said, taking a step closer. “It’s bad enough he’s gay. Now he’s got to write a book about it and campaign for AIDS? How could you do that to him?”
Fortunately, D had seen the exchange and hurried over to steer his sister away. Later, as the room was beginning to clear and most of the press had left, Faith approached me again. “I’m sorry I said those things,” she said. “I know the book wasn’t your idea. D told me he had to practically twist your arm to get you to agree to do it.”
“It’s okay,” I said, marveling at how tired and deflated she looked now that her anger had subsided. There were purple-blue circles under her eyes and her skin looked almost translucent. “This must be hard for you and your family,” I said.
“You have no idea,” she replied. “Ever since Richard died D’s been…” she paused looking for words.
“Preoccupied?” I suggested.
“More like obsessed,” she said. “He can’t talk about anything but this damn book.”
“You know he tested positive, right?” I asked.
“Yes, he told me,” she replied. “But he said he’s taking some drug for it.”
“AZT,” I replied. “But it’s not a cure, Faith. Eventually it’ll stop working when the virus becomes resistant.” I didn’t want to mention the debilitating side effects D was struggling with.
“Oh,” Faith sighed. “That’s not good.”
“No,” I agreed. “But new and better drugs are in the pipeline, so there’s hope.”
“D tells me you are a photographer too,” she said, abruptly changing the subject.
“Yes, I’ve been taking photos since my dad gave me my first Kodak Brownie when I was eight.”
“My son Casey loves taking pictures, too. Maybe you could show him a trick or two.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to.”
“Great,” Faith said with a faint smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll be touch.”
True to her word, Faith arranged a time for Casey and me to meet a few weeks later. Casey, who was thirteen at the time, was just getting interested in photography. We bonded instantly over cameras and bugs. “Did you know,” Casey said seconds after we met, “that all bugs are insects, but not all insects are bugs?”
“Why yes, I did,” I said, delighted that he did too. “Do you know what an arachnid is?”
“Naturally,” Casey replied. “They have eight legs, not six, and they are car-niv-o-rous,” he added, taking his time with the difficult four-syllable word. “Spiders and scorpions are arachnids. They’re cool.”
“Agreed,” I replied, “But ticks are arachnids too, and they’re not cool.”
“Yeah,” Casey agreed. “They’re real bloodsuckers. Hey, do you want to know how to take a close-up of a spider?”
“Sure,” I replied. “Why don’t you show me?”
Knowing I’d be seeing Casey today, I added my Nikon 35Ti and a couple of extra rolls of film to my bag. Faith, on the other hand, had me worried. Despite our ongoing interactions through Casey, she’d remained distant and unresponsive. I could only imagine how D’s passing had affected her.
It was well past noon when I turned into the absurdly long driveway and pulled up to the three-story Edwardian house Faith and Casey called home. To be fair, Faith inherited the family home when her parents died and only moved in after her second marriage to Rolland Rochester (heir to a family fortune of his own) insisted. It was Faith’s second marriage, and D used to call it “a step in the wrong direction.” He worried about the effect Rolland would have on Casey and made me promise to keep an eye on his nephew. The place reeked of pretentiousness and made me uncomfortable every time I visited.
As soon as I stopped, the door flew open and Casey sauntered out with a big smile on his face. “Aunt Maddy!” he exclaimed, clearly happy to see me. Every time I saw him he looked less like a kid and more like a self-assured young man. Today was no exception.
“When did you start looking like Captain America?” I asked, rumpling his curly, red-blonde hair.
“It’s the power pills I’m taking,” he grinned.
That’s when I noticed Faith watching us from the doorway. She was wearing a bulky cable knit sweater and dark sunglasses. “Grab my bag from the front seat and lock up will you, Casey?” I asked, handing him the keys. “Faith,” I said walking up the three steps and opening my arms. “How are you?”
Though she didn’t return my embrace, Faith didn’t pull away. Beneath the sweater I could feel her shoulder blades protruding and noticed that her hair - normally clean and coiffed - was streaked with gray and greasy.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. The dark glasses hid her eyes, but her voice was flat and emotionless.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call. I was worried you wouldn’t answer. I think we need to talk.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Madison. My brother’s dead.”
“Yes, I’m so so sorry, Faith,” I said. “I would’ve come sooner but I didn’t know.”
“Nobody knew,” Faith said.
“How did you find out?”
“Manuel.”
I was afraid to ask how Manuel heard the news but the question hung in the air between us. “Did Manuel tell you about the will?”
“He sent me a copy if that’s what you mean.”
“So you know about the Light House?”
“Yes,” she said. “I can’t believe my brother gave it away. That property’s been in our family for over a century. He had no right.”
I didn’t want to contradict her by pointing out that D had every right. While we were working on his story for the book, he showed me the title and deed to the land and told me how his family got it. “The property was originally Cherokee land,” he said. “Then gold was discovered and the government got greedy. It passed the Indian Removal Act and had them forcibly removed.”
“The Trail of Tears?” I asked, beginning to put two and two together.
“Yes,” D replied, sounding grim. “More than 4,000 people died along the way. So you see,” he continued, “the land isn’t really mine. I like to think I’ve been holding it in trust until I can make things right.”
“He wrote me a letter, you know,” Faith said, interrupting my thoughts. “A fucking letter.” Before I could reply, she walked back into the house and returned carrying an envelope addressed in D’s spidery hand. “Here, read it,” she said, thrusting it at me with a look of distaste.
I took the envelope, slid out and unfolded the single sheet, and began to read.
Dear Faith,
I hope you won’t be too disappointed in me. I know we always promised to be there for one another no matter what. The trouble is I can’t bear the thought of seeing your face when you realize how far past living I’ve gone. Of all the things we’ve shared, pity has never entered into it. I’d hate for it to start now.
To answer all the questions I’m sure you have. Yes, it’s bad. More importantly, I am forgetting and misplacing things. My balance isn’t good, and when I wake up from one of my many naps it’s to disappointment. “Oh, that’s right,” my tired mind says, “this is what it’s like now.”
Please don’t hate me for the will, Faith. I’m trying to right an old wrong. This is the best I can do for everyone involved. And of course you and Casey will be completely taken care of.
Never forget that you were always and will always be the very best sister ever.
Love,
D
“He loved you very much,” I said, folding the paper and returning it to the envelope.
“I thought he did until I read that will,” Faith said. “I mean really, what the fuck was he thinking leaving the Light House to you?” Abruptly she pulled the glasses from her face revealing bloodshot, puffy eyes narrowed with anger.
“I was as surprised as you were,” I said. “That’s why I wanted to talk. Maybe we can work something out.”
“Maybe you can leave us alone,” Faith said with real fury in her voice. I knew the rage was masking unbearable grief. But it was disconcerting to have it directed at me. “I’m sick of hearing about death and dying and that damn book about AIDS,” she growled, taking a menacing step closer. “I want it all out of my life, including you.”
“I understand,” I said turning to go. Casey, who’d watched the whole exchange with wide-eyed shock, was waiting by the car. He handed me my keys and bag and opened the door. “It’ll be okay, kiddo,” I said, giving him a quick hug.
“Promise?” he asked.
“I promise,” I said, squeezing his arm. “Call me if you need to talk.”
Copyright 2024 by Jena Ball. All Rights Reserved.
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Why am I holding my breath... ? 🌹
I love D so much. Thanks for creating this moving story, Jena.